It looks like Bertie Ahern is going to remain Taoiseach, a notion which for me holds more dreads than a voodoo hairdresser. At least Fianna Fail didn’t get an overall fuckyouall majority, though. This means that there will be someone in government with them to temper them and such, which in itself is a notion Mary Hanifin isn’t too fond of.
“Other parties should not come to us with shopping lists,” she said, looking over her glasses at the populace like the suspicious Scooby Doo librarian she seems to be channelling. “They must remember that the supermarket is not open 24/7 and as such is not in direct competition with Tesco anyway.” I think that’s what she said. It was at least something equally murky. Having Mary Hanifin as Minister For Education is like showing a Dali painting to a deaf person and making “hurry up” gestures, that it is.
So, what are the choices Mr. Ahern faces?
Fianna Fail and The Progressive Democrats: Seems like the most likely option. After all, they’ve made sweet music together before. The PDs took the shit jobs, protected their FF colleagues from attack (at least, I think that’s what they meant with the watchdog analogy), and sponged up voter dissatisfaction like the unlikeable cunts they are. Yes, such a partnership has been very good to Fianna Fail. Why change horses in mid stream/rapids/current/sultana? Conclusion: There’s no better option than Fianna Fail and the PDs.
Fianna Fail and The Green Party: Fianna Fail care about the environment; sure, there’s loads of it in Galway and horses run over it. The environment is a great yoke to have just a helicopter ride away. And what better way to quell the cries of the young and environmentally conscious than to bring the Greens into government? Who’d complain? Certainly it’s hard to take the Greens seriously, and they’re really naff and your mum pretends to support them when she’s trying to “get down” with you and your mates because she doesn’t realise liking the Greens went out with mutton chop beards. Still, it’s hard to hate them. But is that enough? Christ, who wants a government you can only be proud of when high? Conclusion: Too close to Fianna Fail and the Bee Gees.
Fianna Fail and Labour: Pat Rabbitte, now, truly is down with the kids. He waggles his fingers about whilst delivering snappy comebacks and once told the Taoiseach his momma sooo fat, she got stuck in the Blackwater valley. And Labour are, like, so left wing. So, so left wing. The left wing is great. It’s especially great for other people; Pat Rabbitte may be droppin’ it like it’s hot, but his kids certainly ain’t going to a state school. Am I dissing him? Is it because he is black? Hmm. Fianna Fail might be best keeping their distance, because some day people are going to realise that the nearest Labour ever came to the homies was when the Gay Pride parade passed in the next street. Conclusion: Nah. It’s like Fianna Fail and the Fugees.
Fianna Fail and Sinn Fein: Sinn Fein are a party of yappy women and the battle-scarred from Louth. Such a mix would not sit well with anyone, let alone His Conservative Ruddiness, Bertie Ahern. Are the Shinners sexy and flexi, or a load of old codgers with Glocks? Do you have to speak to them in a Norn Iron accent? Would they want to change the national anthem back to A Nation Once Again? Where would you sit them at your daughter’s wedding? No, too many questions, and if they’re not answered correctly in three goes you’re likely to find your kneecaps embedded into the wall behind you. Conclusion: Brrr! Fianna Fail and The Heebie Jeebies.
Fianna Fail and Like-Minded Independents: Oh, come on. Beverly Cooper Flynn could do with Bertie’s creative accounting lessons, but she’s too much of a liability in the cut-throat world of politics. There’s only so many times you can hear, “You know I’m good for it, boss! 24 hours, that’s all I ask!” before you wonder if Mary-Lou McDonald knows any Columbian hitmen. As for Tony Gregory, he won’t even wear a tie, and that Finian McGrath keeps going in for You’re A Star and embarrassing his constituents. Jackie Healy Rae might not last the night, let alone the term. Conclusion: You must be joking. Fianna Fail and the Needies, Seedies, Reedies and DTs.
Fianna Fail and Fine G… Oh, forget it.
Showing newest posts with label Sinn Fein. Show older posts
Showing newest posts with label Sinn Fein. Show older posts
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Monday, May 28, 2007
Lekky Meter
I hate BT Ireland. I hate Bus Eireann. I hate having to arrange a house inspection with the Galway County Council. I hate having to travel 110 miles to vote. I hate that I effectively missed this general election in that I wasn’t around my Blogger account to analyse and rant and nitpick in the manner I’ve become accustomed to and I hate that there’s not going to be another general election til I’m fucking thirty. Imagine my writing skills then! I will have improved in my eloquence and all that bollocks, but what are the chances I’ll have turned into a slavering, right-wing economy freak? Oh, rebellious youth! You were my greatest weapon, and that economy that required my relocation and subsequent removal from the broadband grid has cobbled you.
Anyway, here are the votes from the Arsian jury.
Fianna Failure has come through fighting or whatever, which I’m not at all surprised by, because Ireland has the highest percentage of fuckwits per capita. Why would anyone want to vote for a bunch of decrepit carbuncles? Oh, right. Because we didn’t want to “change horses in mid-stream”, as Pat Rabbitte commented, which I don’t really understand, unless they were seahorses or said stream was one you’d use for a urine sample. And Labour wonder how they lost out? Fine Gael have done rather well and all, but not well enough to run the country, like anyone thinks they’d have made a blind bit of difference. Maybe in that their TDs are more likely to have been born in the last three millennia, but other than that, I don’t know. And it’s barely worth mentioning the PDs, whose members have all embraced the nickname “Lightning Rod” for some reason.
Sinn Fein didn’t do terribly well either, unsurshockingly. In fairness, a vote for Sinn Fein is a wasted vote; no one will go into government with them except notable nice-guy, Ian Paisley, and they simply don’t have the resources to lead anyone anywhere apart from up the garden path, which in this case means the wee cleft on Gerry’s chin and into his beard, from which no adventurer has returned. See? Not even sharp political commentators like me can stay on target when Sinn Fein’s mentioned! And what was Mary-Lou thinking, going up against Bertie and Tony Gregory? She doesn’t have the accent to compete! She just doesn’t have the inflection! The Greens wilted in the background, although we grudgingly choked down what was good for us in some constituencies, and the Other/Non-Party camp might as well have stayed singing rebel songs and toasting marshmallows for what good venturing into the light did them. My mother and I did stay up late on Friday night, laughing at Jackie Healy Rae, who did very well. I wonder if his cap is like Samson’s hair?
Many high-profile politicians lost their seats, of course. Joe Higgins for one, and all joking aside, I was well sorry to see him go. Paddy McHugh in my own Galway East. Dan Boyle. Liz O’Donnell. Tom Parlon, last time I checked. In fact, most of the PDs, apart from Mary Harney, and I have it on good authority that the only reason she didn’t lose her seat is that it was wedged round her arse.
And Mickey-Do. Oh, where did it all go wrong?
Oh he could hide
Neath the right-wing
Duck when accusations fling
Let voters go to Harney’s neck to wring
But he couldn’t let it lie
His egotism had to fly
And his waxy face took dissatisfaction’s sting
Cheer up Mickey D!
Oh what can it mean
To an
Aging Nazi stuffshirt
And his shite right-wing team
That redfaced shit Ahern!
Oh, if Ireland didn’t learn
Then why should the PDs get the Chinese burn?
He was crooked
He was bent
His fucking landlord paid his rent
But for a cheeky chappy’s what the voter’s yearn
Cheer up Mickey D!
Oh what can it mean
Your personality’s a doozy
All conceited splee-ee-ee-een!
Cheer up Mickey D!
Letting all the villains free
The judges couldn’t stand you
Nor the Gardaí…
Somewhere around the second verse, I think.
Anyway, here are the votes from the Arsian jury.
Fianna Failure has come through fighting or whatever, which I’m not at all surprised by, because Ireland has the highest percentage of fuckwits per capita. Why would anyone want to vote for a bunch of decrepit carbuncles? Oh, right. Because we didn’t want to “change horses in mid-stream”, as Pat Rabbitte commented, which I don’t really understand, unless they were seahorses or said stream was one you’d use for a urine sample. And Labour wonder how they lost out? Fine Gael have done rather well and all, but not well enough to run the country, like anyone thinks they’d have made a blind bit of difference. Maybe in that their TDs are more likely to have been born in the last three millennia, but other than that, I don’t know. And it’s barely worth mentioning the PDs, whose members have all embraced the nickname “Lightning Rod” for some reason.
Sinn Fein didn’t do terribly well either, unsurshockingly. In fairness, a vote for Sinn Fein is a wasted vote; no one will go into government with them except notable nice-guy, Ian Paisley, and they simply don’t have the resources to lead anyone anywhere apart from up the garden path, which in this case means the wee cleft on Gerry’s chin and into his beard, from which no adventurer has returned. See? Not even sharp political commentators like me can stay on target when Sinn Fein’s mentioned! And what was Mary-Lou thinking, going up against Bertie and Tony Gregory? She doesn’t have the accent to compete! She just doesn’t have the inflection! The Greens wilted in the background, although we grudgingly choked down what was good for us in some constituencies, and the Other/Non-Party camp might as well have stayed singing rebel songs and toasting marshmallows for what good venturing into the light did them. My mother and I did stay up late on Friday night, laughing at Jackie Healy Rae, who did very well. I wonder if his cap is like Samson’s hair?
Many high-profile politicians lost their seats, of course. Joe Higgins for one, and all joking aside, I was well sorry to see him go. Paddy McHugh in my own Galway East. Dan Boyle. Liz O’Donnell. Tom Parlon, last time I checked. In fact, most of the PDs, apart from Mary Harney, and I have it on good authority that the only reason she didn’t lose her seat is that it was wedged round her arse.
And Mickey-Do. Oh, where did it all go wrong?
Oh he could hide
Neath the right-wing
Duck when accusations fling
Let voters go to Harney’s neck to wring
But he couldn’t let it lie
His egotism had to fly
And his waxy face took dissatisfaction’s sting
Cheer up Mickey D!
Oh what can it mean
To an
Aging Nazi stuffshirt
And his shite right-wing team
That redfaced shit Ahern!
Oh, if Ireland didn’t learn
Then why should the PDs get the Chinese burn?
He was crooked
He was bent
His fucking landlord paid his rent
But for a cheeky chappy’s what the voter’s yearn
Cheer up Mickey D!
Oh what can it mean
Your personality’s a doozy
All conceited splee-ee-ee-een!
Cheer up Mickey D!
Letting all the villains free
The judges couldn’t stand you
Nor the Gardaí…
Somewhere around the second verse, I think.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Themselves Alone
I dreamt about the election last night; more specifically, I dreamt about Sinn Fein’s performance in it. I know, I know. In service to you lot, I’m even blogging in my sleep. Not even your mothers love you as much as I do.
It may have come from the chat I had with Articulately Subversive Brother last night (I have an Excitably Subversive brother too, whom I tend to dub Nearest Brother, because he’s a mere ten years older than me. Someone once thought he was my dad. The larfs!). We, like the conscientious little fuckers we are, turned to talk of the Big E, the decider of our country’s not-too-distant-future, and we went through the various party options like the dismissive, opinionated whingebags we also are.
We got to Sinn Fein eventually. We were chomping at the bit to do so, seeing as they’re the only interesting party.
“It moulds up my sandwiches and soils my breeches,” says Articulately Subversive Brother, “that we’ve spent the last twenty years trying to get Sinn Fein into government in the North, only for our representatives down here to turn around and reject any notion of joining them in government down here.”
And y’know, he’s hit the nail into the hangover, there. It’s true. What was Bertie Ahern whispering to Ian Paisley when we eventually got Dr. No to sit down at the same table as Grizzly Adams? Rather you than me, old chap?
What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, my mother might say, and while I don’t know what she’s on about because I’ve never been served goose in my life, unless chicken leftovers are a viable substitute, I must say that we are a bunch of hypocritical arses. When it comes to the North, we cry, “Let them eat crow!” while we down here feast on brown envelopes in a mock-socialist soup (incidentally, I firmly believe that Bertie Ahern got his words mangled – it runs in the family – and said he was a socialist when he clearly meant socialite. Have I said that to you before?). The other parties ask us to say no to Sinn Fein; “We’re the real republicans” say Fianna Fail, while the PDs are reduced to a very thick consistency and a cry of “Why would you want to vote for gun-toting hippies, anyway? Fucking provisional branch of the flower children, they are. Social housing my arse!”. But… and here comes the genuine brow-furrowing from your political corr(d)espondent…
Sinn Fein are a young party, and a growing party, and while they’re not ready for government yet, they very well may be in a decade or so. So when, if ever, should we accept their background as a party of violent protest? When should we move on? A sizeable portion of the population has done so already, if Sinn Fein’s opinion poll results are to be believed. And not all of them are rebel song singing freaks from rural Cork, either.
It may have come from the chat I had with Articulately Subversive Brother last night (I have an Excitably Subversive brother too, whom I tend to dub Nearest Brother, because he’s a mere ten years older than me. Someone once thought he was my dad. The larfs!). We, like the conscientious little fuckers we are, turned to talk of the Big E, the decider of our country’s not-too-distant-future, and we went through the various party options like the dismissive, opinionated whingebags we also are.
We got to Sinn Fein eventually. We were chomping at the bit to do so, seeing as they’re the only interesting party.
“It moulds up my sandwiches and soils my breeches,” says Articulately Subversive Brother, “that we’ve spent the last twenty years trying to get Sinn Fein into government in the North, only for our representatives down here to turn around and reject any notion of joining them in government down here.”
And y’know, he’s hit the nail into the hangover, there. It’s true. What was Bertie Ahern whispering to Ian Paisley when we eventually got Dr. No to sit down at the same table as Grizzly Adams? Rather you than me, old chap?
What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, my mother might say, and while I don’t know what she’s on about because I’ve never been served goose in my life, unless chicken leftovers are a viable substitute, I must say that we are a bunch of hypocritical arses. When it comes to the North, we cry, “Let them eat crow!” while we down here feast on brown envelopes in a mock-socialist soup (incidentally, I firmly believe that Bertie Ahern got his words mangled – it runs in the family – and said he was a socialist when he clearly meant socialite. Have I said that to you before?). The other parties ask us to say no to Sinn Fein; “We’re the real republicans” say Fianna Fail, while the PDs are reduced to a very thick consistency and a cry of “Why would you want to vote for gun-toting hippies, anyway? Fucking provisional branch of the flower children, they are. Social housing my arse!”. But… and here comes the genuine brow-furrowing from your political corr(d)espondent…
Sinn Fein are a young party, and a growing party, and while they’re not ready for government yet, they very well may be in a decade or so. So when, if ever, should we accept their background as a party of violent protest? When should we move on? A sizeable portion of the population has done so already, if Sinn Fein’s opinion poll results are to be believed. And not all of them are rebel song singing freaks from rural Cork, either.
Monday, April 23, 2007
A Plague Be On Your Housing Sector!
Sinn Fein, when they're not driving the boreens erratically, like to go on about social housing. They seem to be the only party that does, really; the biggest issue this coming election seems to be that of stamp duty or whether Pat Rabbitte looks best on Bertie or Enda. Oh, and whether anyone would go into government with Sinn Fein at all - as if, if the Sinners managed to slither into such a position, it would be entirely down to their dastardly terrorising ways and nothing to do with their being voted there by the peoples at all.
Anyway, social housing. This is housing provided for the benefit of society; a section of society, at least, who are finding it difficult paying astronomical rents or wrangling mortgages off the free-and-easy banks. You know; young parents. Recently separated people. People too ill to work, or people with such responsibilities that taking a full-time job would be counter-productive. People in low paid jobs. People with no jobs at all! Ah, the criteria aren't short and strict; you get a lot of people in Ireland who find the rungs of the property ladder a little too well greased.
Yet that seems to be an ignored and inconvenient fact. Celtic Tiger Ireland! W00t! Everyone is building a house out the country, everyone can spell investment, and everyone, when you look at them sideways, will be quick to point out their propensity for decking... their gardens! T.V is smathered with programmes like Desperate Houses, Househunters In The Sun, Duncan Stewart Says You're Doing That All Wrong, and Eddie Hobbs Does Finglas. There are 100% mortgages, interest-only mortgages, tracker mortgages (which I think involve bounty hunters for defaulters). There are builders' bums everywhere! And occasionally, a little head will pop up (though not from the builders' bums) and say something like, "But, are you flush?" and we might shuffle our feet and wonder if we can afford any of this and think about whether we'd be eligible for Affordable Housing.
Which is a fucking joke, by the way.
I refuse to believe that no one wants or needs Affordable Housing Schemes - we're constantly reminded by exasperated Dubliners that their need for it spills into an irregular lottery - yet in Galway the Affordable Houses are either bought as investments by landlords or lying idle. Or... y'know, bought by eligible people, but surely the entire pool of such houses should be occupied by deserving sorts, people who might shoot themselves in the foot if they wander anywhere near the sinisterly humming pull of a Permanent TSB? Not as sporadically allocated as they are? And then there's the waiting list for a Council House; 3-7 years, depending on the area, although I know someone who only had to wait about a month (hmm...) and I'm not even going to venture a guess at the waiting list in Dublin. Bit of a disparity there, don't you think? Now, either the hordes waiting years and years for the privilege of renting in some sink estate are all such wasters to render them unable to get a small mortgage, even from their Councils, or there's something amiss on the abacus, which will coincidentally be the name of my first rap album, I think.
We've got a Council house, as makes you all nauseous, yet The Swearing Gent has been offered a very good job about 120 miles away from it. There is no system in place for offering people alternative accommodation elsewhere, even if there's a damn good reason for it, because the Irish Councils are like your aunts that never grew up, in that even though they're crusty and smell funny, they still refuse to talk to one another. A house in Cork? Even a place a little up the waiting list in Cork? Nope, mate. Start from scratch. Which is entirely fair on one level, because there are people above you on that waiting list... but entirely unfair on another level, because even though you're some unwashed scumbag, the theory "beggars can't be choosers" shouldn't apply to a citizen of any first-world nation. Want to better yourself by changing your life and following a good career? DOES NOT COMPUTE.
We're taking the only alternative to sticking ourselves on a seven-year waiting list, and trying to organise a straight swap with a Corpo tenant in or around the city. But... seven years? Seven years? Isn't that a bit mental for this affluent, wondrously booming country? How could there be so many people unable to dive into the murky waters of housebound equity that the second biggest, and constantly growing, city in Ireland could have a waiting list of seven fucking years to house them? Quick quiz, ArseHeads!
1 - People in Ireland aren't all that bloody rich after all.
2- The Councils don't bother their holes providing new houses for those who need them, replacing the mature estates which are full now of owner occupiers (which, trust me, is a great thing and one of the few things I don't need to whinge about).
So... hmm. Perhaps it makes a good deterant for young, horny teenagers; don't bother thinking you'll get a house, coz yis won't. Maybe it's something you're not allowed mention, because no one wants to stick up for those whose lack of material wealth is dragging the myth into the gutters. Maybe it's as cynical as Sinn Fein only trying to muscle in the last place they could; with the impoverished. I don't know. I've never been much good at mental arithmetic, which is probably the reason I'm so nice to drug dealers on this blog. There. I've said it.
Anyway, social housing. This is housing provided for the benefit of society; a section of society, at least, who are finding it difficult paying astronomical rents or wrangling mortgages off the free-and-easy banks. You know; young parents. Recently separated people. People too ill to work, or people with such responsibilities that taking a full-time job would be counter-productive. People in low paid jobs. People with no jobs at all! Ah, the criteria aren't short and strict; you get a lot of people in Ireland who find the rungs of the property ladder a little too well greased.
Yet that seems to be an ignored and inconvenient fact. Celtic Tiger Ireland! W00t! Everyone is building a house out the country, everyone can spell investment, and everyone, when you look at them sideways, will be quick to point out their propensity for decking... their gardens! T.V is smathered with programmes like Desperate Houses, Househunters In The Sun, Duncan Stewart Says You're Doing That All Wrong, and Eddie Hobbs Does Finglas. There are 100% mortgages, interest-only mortgages, tracker mortgages (which I think involve bounty hunters for defaulters). There are builders' bums everywhere! And occasionally, a little head will pop up (though not from the builders' bums) and say something like, "But, are you flush?" and we might shuffle our feet and wonder if we can afford any of this and think about whether we'd be eligible for Affordable Housing.
Which is a fucking joke, by the way.
I refuse to believe that no one wants or needs Affordable Housing Schemes - we're constantly reminded by exasperated Dubliners that their need for it spills into an irregular lottery - yet in Galway the Affordable Houses are either bought as investments by landlords or lying idle. Or... y'know, bought by eligible people, but surely the entire pool of such houses should be occupied by deserving sorts, people who might shoot themselves in the foot if they wander anywhere near the sinisterly humming pull of a Permanent TSB? Not as sporadically allocated as they are? And then there's the waiting list for a Council House; 3-7 years, depending on the area, although I know someone who only had to wait about a month (hmm...) and I'm not even going to venture a guess at the waiting list in Dublin. Bit of a disparity there, don't you think? Now, either the hordes waiting years and years for the privilege of renting in some sink estate are all such wasters to render them unable to get a small mortgage, even from their Councils, or there's something amiss on the abacus, which will coincidentally be the name of my first rap album, I think.
We've got a Council house, as makes you all nauseous, yet The Swearing Gent has been offered a very good job about 120 miles away from it. There is no system in place for offering people alternative accommodation elsewhere, even if there's a damn good reason for it, because the Irish Councils are like your aunts that never grew up, in that even though they're crusty and smell funny, they still refuse to talk to one another. A house in Cork? Even a place a little up the waiting list in Cork? Nope, mate. Start from scratch. Which is entirely fair on one level, because there are people above you on that waiting list... but entirely unfair on another level, because even though you're some unwashed scumbag, the theory "beggars can't be choosers" shouldn't apply to a citizen of any first-world nation. Want to better yourself by changing your life and following a good career? DOES NOT COMPUTE.
We're taking the only alternative to sticking ourselves on a seven-year waiting list, and trying to organise a straight swap with a Corpo tenant in or around the city. But... seven years? Seven years? Isn't that a bit mental for this affluent, wondrously booming country? How could there be so many people unable to dive into the murky waters of housebound equity that the second biggest, and constantly growing, city in Ireland could have a waiting list of seven fucking years to house them? Quick quiz, ArseHeads!
1 - People in Ireland aren't all that bloody rich after all.
2- The Councils don't bother their holes providing new houses for those who need them, replacing the mature estates which are full now of owner occupiers (which, trust me, is a great thing and one of the few things I don't need to whinge about).
So... hmm. Perhaps it makes a good deterant for young, horny teenagers; don't bother thinking you'll get a house, coz yis won't. Maybe it's something you're not allowed mention, because no one wants to stick up for those whose lack of material wealth is dragging the myth into the gutters. Maybe it's as cynical as Sinn Fein only trying to muscle in the last place they could; with the impoverished. I don't know. I've never been much good at mental arithmetic, which is probably the reason I'm so nice to drug dealers on this blog. There. I've said it.
Monday, January 08, 2007
If Only I Can Come Up With One That Stands For Young, Disillusioned, Nihilistic Voter
God knows what possessed me to go listening to NewsTalk first thing in the morning, before my tea (which is way too strong again. Shame on you, Swearing Gent. SHAME). There's always the chance with NewsTalk that they might bring Enda Kenny on for a natter before a decent hour, which was exactly what happened this morning.
He was on about Michael McDowell's earlier comments that the PDs would/would never go into government with/without whatever other party; Enda countered by saying Fine Gael would/would never have anything to do with this/that party in a bid to form/not form a government. And then he likened MickeyDo to Joseph Goebbels.
DON'T DO IT, ENDA! You're on a slippery slope to the drabbest and most uninspired jokes in Ireland. I should know; I fell to MickeyDo's nasty Nazi thing months back. And you're better than that, Enda! You're ginger!
...
Anyway, if nihilists made New Year's Resolutions, I'd have vowed to make up even more quirky, annoying pseudo-words this year. Apparently, new expressions on the block include mero, a mum who is a size zero (how fucking American of you, Sunday Times Style Section! An American zero is a British size four or something, isn't it? Still, I suppose calling someone a more doesn't work so well) and meenager, a mum who acts like a teenager. That's how middle-class the Style Section is. It totally excludes skinny teenage mums. Elitist, low-carb WANKSHAFTS!
I reckon we could start a movement on the Irish bog o'sphere just in time for the 2007 election. We could flood the country with compact little terms of phrase that label our stroppy politicians and their stroppy little policies into easily digestable and not-so-meaty chunks. Like.... oh, I don't know...
spoilsparty - a politician who has a weak but attention-grabbing go at his party leader in the year of a general election. Stand up, John Deasy.
Shunners - parties who refuse to go into hypothetical government with the Shinners, missing the point that they have to go into government with whoever we bloody well tell them to.
Exo-terrorists - the aforementioned Sinn Fein.
Sexo-terrorists - Sinn Fein's provisional totty wing. Like Mary Lou. Oh, Mary Lou.
and last but by no means unthrottleable, Poor Weeseach - Bertie Ahern and his tear ducts deserve a whole new term, surely. JUST NOT ONE IN OFFICE.
He was on about Michael McDowell's earlier comments that the PDs would/would never go into government with/without whatever other party; Enda countered by saying Fine Gael would/would never have anything to do with this/that party in a bid to form/not form a government. And then he likened MickeyDo to Joseph Goebbels.
DON'T DO IT, ENDA! You're on a slippery slope to the drabbest and most uninspired jokes in Ireland. I should know; I fell to MickeyDo's nasty Nazi thing months back. And you're better than that, Enda! You're ginger!
...
Anyway, if nihilists made New Year's Resolutions, I'd have vowed to make up even more quirky, annoying pseudo-words this year. Apparently, new expressions on the block include mero, a mum who is a size zero (how fucking American of you, Sunday Times Style Section! An American zero is a British size four or something, isn't it? Still, I suppose calling someone a more doesn't work so well) and meenager, a mum who acts like a teenager. That's how middle-class the Style Section is. It totally excludes skinny teenage mums. Elitist, low-carb WANKSHAFTS!
I reckon we could start a movement on the Irish bog o'sphere just in time for the 2007 election. We could flood the country with compact little terms of phrase that label our stroppy politicians and their stroppy little policies into easily digestable and not-so-meaty chunks. Like.... oh, I don't know...
spoilsparty - a politician who has a weak but attention-grabbing go at his party leader in the year of a general election. Stand up, John Deasy.
Shunners - parties who refuse to go into hypothetical government with the Shinners, missing the point that they have to go into government with whoever we bloody well tell them to.
Exo-terrorists - the aforementioned Sinn Fein.
Sexo-terrorists - Sinn Fein's provisional totty wing. Like Mary Lou. Oh, Mary Lou.
and last but by no means unthrottleable, Poor Weeseach - Bertie Ahern and his tear ducts deserve a whole new term, surely. JUST NOT ONE IN OFFICE.
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