Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

The news that Brian Lenihan Jr may have cancer does not cause me to shed many tears. I sense how the righteous will bristle with indignation at my anger which proves to their perverted minds that I really should be in a mental hospital – a bit difficult as most have been closed.

 Brian Lenihan Jr was born with a silver cock in his mouth. As the son of a senior Fianna Fail politician he wanted for nothing. He was showered with academic honours, by amongst other my own alma Mater and thereby gained entry to the ranks of the Irish Bar, while others less blessed had to scratch around looking for briefs and not infrequently had to seek employment far from the Law.

 But I hear my detractors retort as they munch their bacon butties: “But pray look at the pig. Can it be blamed throughout its life for being born in a sty?” Perhaps not, but it can have sympathy for those who have not had such accidents of birth. And then he becomes Minister for Finance and seeks to cover himself with glory for a budget the like of which had not been seen since 1930, which penalised the poor and the vulnerable for the excesses of the rich and the incompetence of his own administration. There are many people whose Christmases have been rendered even grimmer by his wish to appear macho and take “tough” decisions.

 The blueshirt Blythe dragged out his miserable, pathetic existence for over four decades more, though a marginal figure in Irish life, disowned – rightfully – by many of his former allies, without any influence except in very limited theatrical circles. Providence may provide that Lenihan Jr won’t have to tarry so long upon life’s stage.

 I knew Brian Lenihan Jr in Trinity College. He used to sit not far from me at meetings of the Erskine Childers cumann there. He was an arrogant sot, whose every piece of verbal flatulence was imbued with the colour of wisdom and sagacity by his numerous hangers’ on. I also knew he was destined for stardom, and while I might have had my eyes similarly stellar-bound I was wise enough to sense that I was far more likely to spend my days in the gutter. Had I known that he would be instrumental in robbing me of the small amount I received as compensation for being blind and partially-sighted, (as well as insisting that I must pay a prescription charge for the medicine that is slowing down the inevitable course of my Multiple Sclerosis) I would have gone over to him and put my hands tightly around his miserable, fat neck until such time as I had choked him. But then, nature seems about to do that anyway.

 Brian Lenihan Jr should recall that not long ago in a previous post on my blog I placed a curse on him for his budget. I’m amazed, though pleased, that it has come to pass so quickly,

 … Ah God knows Ciaran, there’s no call for that type of carry on, you’ve gone OTT on this one. I sense there will be those who will say: “Ciaran, you wouldn’t like it if someone put a curse on you, would ya” to which I would shrug my shoulders and reply “You get used to if after a while.”

 But I believe in justice and it would be unjust for Brian Jr to suffer alone so I place an equal if not greater curse on his colleagues Taoiseach Brian Cowen, Minister for Social and Family Affairs Mary Hanafin and Minister for Health Mary Harney, as well as their economic guru Colm McCarthy. As for the rest of that miserable crowd at the cabinet table I can do no more than quote Pope Innocent III. “God will know his own.” To be honest, to put curses on all the bastards and bitches in this country would be tiring. I’m reminded of the joke: “What do you call a group of lawyers lined up against a wall in front of a firing squad? A start.”