Illustration: Aisling McGuire
Haven’t written one of these for a while. There hasn’t been much reason to in the past while. But I heard today that Colin Farrell was once proved innocent in a murder case because his friend wrote down that they were doing ecstasy on the other side of town that day, so better safe than sorry. You never know when one of Aodhán Ó Ríordáin’s parties may come in handy.
Elections are coming up soon enough, and I’ve been looking for ways to spice up my campaign. I tried to take a page out of that one fella in America’s book by dyeing my hair blond and hosting The Apprentice, but Fionnuala just laughed at me and thought my idea of “getting the Protestants to build a wall along the coast and then kicking them out” was ridiculous. I tried auld Hilary’s style as well, but until someone notices the hundreds of secret emails I’ve been sending, that won’t work either (they’re not even that scandalous, just some pictures of Brian Cowen at last year’s Christmas party I found on my computer).
On the plus side, found out about this lovely fella from London, Jeremy Corbyn. He refuses to sing “God Save the Queen” and he’s going to yell a bit at the Chinese delegation when they come over to the UK, but he won the Labour vote by a landslide. I was thinking of just inviting him over to ask him how he does it.
Irish Water has been in full swing for a while now. I know on paper it makes us look rather bad, but really we’re doing them a favour. All that wasted water could’ve gone to a much better cause, like filling some poor TD’s heated swimming pool in Tenerife. In all honesty, they should be thanking us. Who knows when we might need that spare water for a sudden drought? They’ll appreciate it when Croagh Patrick is melting and the Liffey is nothing but yesterday’s trash.
Which reminds me, I really need to see if I can’t borrow one of those Viking Tour boats-cars I keep seeing around the place. Would be awfully handy to have to pop down to the shops with after a day out on the lake.
I’ve decided to give up on my annual tradition of going as a character from Sesame Street after Mary Lou McDonald stitched me up in my costume and I had to give a tax reform speech in the Dáil dressed as Elmo.
So this book came out recently by one of those Tories across the pond, Lord Something-Or-Other, Mycroft I think it was. Anyways, he must have had some falling out with his Prime Minister, because he wrote this book about Dear-old-David from when he was just a wee university student in Oxford. Apparently, he was a part of this secret boys club that all this mad banter at parties and the like, and once, after getting stoned out of their minds, they got David to stick his you-know-what in a pig’s head! Imagine! Not a fear of swine flu or anything about him.
It’s fantastic really though, when you think about it. While everyone is yelling about Cameron sticking his pork sausage in some pork sausage, no one’s been paying attention to the fact he might’ve taken drugs, or even what he’s been doing in parliament since. It’s got me thinking maybe I could get rid of the government-paid tuition fees or something ridiculous and then go visit Mr. Coveney, see if he has any livestock floating around. Last I heard we made him Defence Minister as well as Agriculture though, so he better not send me a missile, or one of them new-fangled drones, otherwise we’ll really be thrown into the meat grinder.
I can’t believe Ireland are out of the rugby! After all that effort I spent calling President Hollande to taunt him over the thrashing we gave France, Johnny Sexton sprains his groin (of all the places ‘Sexton’ could sprain… the jokes just write themselves) and then we lose to Argentina? They couldn’t even hold the Faulklands, never mind a rugby ball. Christina has been blowing up my phone jeering at me in Spanish. I wonder how much these long distance calls from Argentina are costing her.
Still, brings me back to my glory days in Galway University, out on the rugby pitch. “Kenny the Killer” they called me, no one would go near me. Once, I tried to get a game going in Leinster house after Seán Barrett had left (he’s a rubbish referee anyway), but no one was interested. Oh sure, if Higgins wants to go BMX-ing in town everyone stops what they’re doing to go have a look, but I try to get one little game of rugby going and everyone calls me “unprofessional”. At least I got to have a kick about with Paschal Donohoe in the car park after I agreed to hear his idea about putting giant googly eyes on the Cliffs of Moher to appeal to kids.
Still, brings me back to my glory days in Galway University, out on the rugby pitch. “Kenny the Killer” they called me, no one would go near me
Halloween is this week! I’ve decided to give up on my annual tradition of going as a character from Sesame Street after Mary Lou McDonald stitched me up in my costume and I had to give a tax reform speech in the Dáil dressed as Elmo. Gerry did think I had gone as Prince Harry though which was a bit awkward to explain.
Poor Gerry “1916 Was An Inside Job” Adams has a tough couple of months. Tempers have been pretty hot up north (they don’t call it “Storm”ont for nothing). Everybody’s up in arms because some poor lad was shot and everybody’s worried THEY are still around. Tried to cheer him up a little by throwing one of Fionnuala’s bottles (they’re more like vases) of perfume with a rag in it near him, but he didn’t seem very pleased. We can’t even take him to see our yearly showing of Star Wars in because whenever that bit where Han gets in a shootout with that alien fella and someone asks “Who shot first?” he goes on this big long rant about ‘provocation’ and ‘nationalist pride’. Completely ruins the mood. Besides, everyone knows Han shot first.