Sunday Independent (Ireland) - Living - - FRONT PAGE -


IN times like these it’s easy to feel hope­less. My gen­er­a­tion work long hours, yet many of us, me in­cluded, will never af­ford our own home. As long as Fatty is in the White House the only peo­ple who can rest easy are other white wealthy fat­ties.

Closer to home, Theresa May keeps recit­ing her in­can­ta­tion, hop­ing some­one will be­lieve this is the best deal, the best thing for the UK — I think in the po­lit­i­cal world this is what they call the ‘piss on my leg and tell me it’s rain­ing’ tac­tic.

So yeah, it’s easy to feel hope­less, un­less we choose not to. And amid the daily doom, that’s what I’m try­ing to do. Soon I be­lieve, Trump will do some­thing that is the last straw for most Amer­i­cans, and the camel’s back will break. With the Brexit mess, there’s the (slim) pos­si­bil­ity of a se­cond ref­er­en­dum, or a gen­eral elec­tion which I hope would be the end of the Tories for a while.

I’m not hard­core Labour by the way. Cor­byn is no Obama, I some­times think he’d be hap­pier pot­ting plants in his shed than run­ning the coun­try. But he’s a peace-lov­ing, in­tel­li­gent man, and for Ire­land, he would be the best English PM ever — be­cause un­like most other Bri­tish politi­cians, and I mean most, he ac­tu­ally un­der­stands North­ern Ire­land.

I know for a fact we can change things if we use our voice. The Turk­ish man who runs my lo­cal shop (and never judges my Fri­day night shop — two bot­tles of Prosecco, a pack of Ben­son & Hedges and a pack of Chili Heat­wave Dori­tos) looked at me like a lu­natic when I asked him to stop sell­ing bat­tery farm eggs. But he gave in, not be­cause he gives a toss about the hens, but be­cause he couldn’t bear to lis­ten to me any more.

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