major cause of your exit, you employ physical force to ensure that they all sit on a nationally designated ‘naughty step’, while you partake of Guinness and oysters to help the dead economy. Welcome to the Seafood and Blame Festival.
Steal a bag of food, get caught and you’ll be looking at a stint in the slammer. But suck up € 30 billion from the nation state under false pretences... and nothing. And then there was Enda in the Dáil, giving out about the implications of the tapes, with all the indignation of a ranting punter in a pub. And you think, ‘Hang on, you’re the flipping leader here; we don’t need
Exactly two years ago today I was diagnosed with cancer. I thought I was dead. Patently I’m not. I’m still here
platitudes of anger from you — we need action, baby. Surely nothing revealed on those tapes was a surprise to you, an insider in the machinations of how this sick state operates?’
Otherwise, to put it in angry kindergarten speak: It not fair! No one held to account. Oh, it’s too complicated to pinpoint the wrongdoing, legally. Oh, it’ll take years — — before anyone ends up inside for maybe five minutes. Oh, you can only conclude, in moments of sheer raging anger at all that has happened, we’re living in not just a monetarily but morally bankrupt cesspit, and the only way to not sink is to learn to pull whatever strokes you can yourself. It’s time to rewrite the anthem: ‘Mé féin amháin, atá ag gáire faoi Éirinn...’.
And then, what about this: no comeuppances for the above — but regard Section 22 of the proposed new ‘abortion bill’, to ‘intentionally destroy unborn human life’, even in the very early stages of pregnancy, is an offence for which a woman is liable to imprisonment for ‘a term not exceeding 14 years’. Because while punishing the main players in the country’s collapse may be essential, it’s embarrassing, so let’s focus instead on State involvement in the intimate bodies of the female population. And on the personal consciences of a minority in this country who must be assuaged with a sense that the reach of Irish law goes right into the individual wombs of every single fecund woman in this country.
Oh, I suppose since this state can no longer countenance the existence of the likes of the Magdalene Laundries to control the fertility of the Irish female, the ould threat of a heavy prison sentence is almost as good a stick to beat the Irish woman when she’s facing that most traumatic personal dilemma a private individual may have — a crisis pregnancy.
By genie, the ‘God knows we’re right’ brigade want a say in her private life, and she’ll be having that baby for Ireland, to be raised for emigration, in this broke state where the main children’s hospital in Crumlin is like something out of Dickens, and if you’re talking crèche care or special needs, you also need to be thinking ‘ha, ha, ha’. And God forbid that issues such as autism come into play because ha, ha, ha again, there’s no money for so esoteric a problem.
And then… no, stop. Here’s a positive thing. Exactly two years ago today I was diagnosed with cancer. I thought I was dead; patently I’m not. Nope. Lucky me, still here, and still raging. OM.