Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A view of the world from an Irish hole

Category: Ireland

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Cavan councillors reject circumcision

Male members of Cavan County Council have angrily rejected planned circumcision. This action was to be taken in the light of rising levels of verbal diarrhoea. Studies undertaken in local authorities where circumcision occurred have shown that infection rates have fallen by as much as 60%.

The action, which has the backing of the HSE and the local authority#s executive, has so far only secured the  support of one councillor (who always backed the executive anyway). However, even he stated that he would not go ahead unilaterally with the operation unless it had the backing of the whole council.

One councillor, speaking anonymously,  reacted angrily: “Lookad, my lad’s small enough as it is. If any more was taken off it’d be invisible.” A colleague, once again speaking anonymously, said “We don’t see the big lads in the executive being expected to have a bit taken off the top.”

These accusations of double standards were flatly rejected by a spokesman for the County Manager. “Most members of the execdutive are too old to be stilol sexually active. What’s more they’re all too busy.”  Heexpressed his disappointment at the councillors’ intransigence. While reiterating the health benefits of the procedure, he added that people engaging in frequent foreign travel, such as county councillors, had a moral duty to safeguard themselves against infection. He also urged the members of the local authority to think again, adding that he was sure they would come round to the idea, given sufficient persuasion. They were urged to consult with colleagues who had successfully been circumcised. “Most people undergoing the operation, which lasts only a few minutes, say they don’t feel a thing, though to be honest, most of them haven’t felt anything there for a while.” The spokesman refused to comment on claims that a county councillor in Kerry who had initially agreed to undergo circumcision, pulled out at the last minute when he heard that he’d only be given a local anaesthetic. “That’s typical o’ de HSE always tryin’ to cut corners. Fuck it I want an imported anaestetic.”                   

 The councillors’ actions mark a rare example of discord between the authority#s elected members and the executive. The former usually accept blindly and without discussion every policy put forward by the executive. Those believing that this marks a new departure may be disappointed however, as one of the most vociferous opponents of circumcision was at pains to point out that this was a once off.

 

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The Cult of Personality in Cavan

Cults of personality are usually associated with despotic regimes. The freedom and wealth of the people usually stand in inversed proportion to the ego of their leader…The cult of Personality can take bizarre forms, as in Turkmenistan under the rule of the Turkmenbashi himself, Saparmarad Niyazov who had a statue erected of himself atop a plinth which moved full circle every twenty-four hours; one of the three television stations actually carried an image of the Turkmenbashi in the far right-hand corner. Less extreme, but still ridiculous manifestations of the egos of the political establishment involved the naming of airports after the president, as in Kenya during the rule of Daniel arap Moi, or the plastering of the leader’s portrait on every available wallspace..  I remember Alexei Sayles going on a televised visit to Syria during the reign of Hafez al-Assad, where he noted with his unique sense of irony, that the President’s image was to be seen on each corner and shop window. This reminded him of the publicity that might attend a performance by an artist or comedian when the ticket sales  had gone really badly and the promoters sought to boost the eventual crowds by a barrage of advertising in the hope of fending off a flop

It is usual in most parts of the democratic world to wait until someone is dead a decent time before they are commemorated by having a building, a road, or a fountain named after them. Cavan town is an exception where it is accepted that egotistical nobodies can be commemorated before they have gone the way of all flesh. I refer to an area near Drumalee Cross which I pass on my daily “fun run” which proudly bears the moniker Cullivan Court. As the building is partly owned by one Gabriel Cullivan, formerly a town clerk of the town, I assume that it has been named in his honour, and not that of the well-known and much-loved architect , the late Phil Cullivan. This is like an annex of Wall Street being renamed Boesky Boulevard or Madoff Parade. While such dreadful and unseemly self-promotion may appear tasteless, it must be remembered that Mr Cullivan, as a former employee of that shower of vindictive cowards Cavan County Council, can do what he likes – he has done it in the past – and should anyone demur, one of the sycophantic elected members of the council would propose a motion of “tanks to Mr Cullivan for his sterlin’ work” on behalf of himself and the people of Cavan over the years.

I need hardly mention that one of Cullivan Court’s biggest tenants is none other than the HSE – another crowd of arrogant, incompetent  anda superannuated shites. All that is needed there is the erection of a pillar surmounted by a statue of Mr Cullivan, maybe sporting the green leprechaun suit he wore  at the opening of the County Museum fifteen years’ ago and which was commented upon with so much mirth and derision by the then County Arts Officer, Ms Catriona O’Reilly. (I know that the present County Arts Officer is also  called Ms Catriona O’Reilly but she is altogether a different person from the one I referred to.

I expect these comments will meet with a frisson of disapproval, maybe even a threat of legal action, but my response is Bring it on baby! Some of them may even say that I shouldn’t be going so far on my fun run. Am I not confined to a wheelchair, and should I not come to terms with my disability like other cripples in the county by accepting my permanent inferiority to Cavan County Council, its employee and their families (more or less the same thing) by awaiting the grant of a council house?

 

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Ya said wha’ Gay?

I know that we’re in the Silly Season but the idea of putting up Gay Byrne for president is just pushing the joke too far, For a start he’s passed it. I hear people bristling with indignation and the murmur of “ageism” coming from their skinny lips. I believe that the term refers to the incorrect belief that an older person cannot do the job of a younger person, or at least not with the speed or ability of a younger person. It is therefore wicked and immoral to say that a man or a woman of 60 or 70 cannot carry out the same tasks as someone aged 20, What is the requisite skillset of a president? Cutting ribbons, unveiling plaques and signing your name to legislation. As for sending it to the Supreme Court if it is “repugnant to the constitution” fuck that; it’s a waste of time as they always give it the thumbs up unless it’s about something like employment rights for cripples.  True there are also official visits to places like Kazakhstant but that’s not obligatory. You may also have to accept the credentials of ambassadors but that just takes a shake of the hand so there’s no hassle. These are tasks that could be carried out by a three- or four-year old child, as well as someone aged a hubndred-and-seven.

 You need balls to be President?

The framers of our constitution, in their urge to re-create a system as close to that of England as possible, did not want to imbue the office with any powers. In fact, they ensured that the holder of the presidency would be politically castrated. It might be said that old people are time’s eunuch, castrated by its unstoppable flow (Who said that? er me actually), so an older person fits the bill. The constitution stipulates that the president must be 35 or older and such a clause has long existed in the United States, which has a real executive president and not a wimp as head of state. Sadly there is no upper age limit.

Sin a Fianna Fail

Fianna Fail support for Gaybo is reasonable as they understand the essential impotence of the office. An old person, perhaps growing in infirmity, is castrated by time.  They may be able to rise to the occasion if their pension allows frequent access to the little blue tablets but otherwise they’re fucked – metaphorically. As a result the FFers have always seen the office as a comfortable and gilded old folks’ home, to be given as a reward to elevated party members as a reward for their service, or as a compensation payment for being shafted.

The roll of (dis)honour

  • Sean O Ceallaigh had every reason to expect that he would be named Minister for External Affairs by De Valera, but Dev kept the job and the kudos for himself throughout “The Emergency”, The pay-off came in 1945 when he was nominated for and elected president.
  • When he had served his two terms, what better way was there to reward the 77-year-old long fella than with the presidency?
  •  At the expiration of his term the presidency was thought a fittingly harmless role for the intellectually far too well-equipped Erskine Childers Jr. Poor Dr Childers was not a well man.
  • On his untimely departure from life’s stage he was succeeded by the learned Cearbhall O Dalaigh without an election. President O Dalaigh withstood the petty restrictions of the office, as well as the insults of the political cornerboys of the Fine Gael / Labour coalition until the publican of Monasterboice in a moment of sherry-trifle inspired tiredness and emotion called him a “thundering disgrace”, and he resigned.
  • The coalition, reading correctly that its days were numbered, did not oppose the nomination of Dr Patrick Hillery by Fianna Fail, who was thus being rewarded for his services to the party by a sentence of fourteen years in Aras an Uachtaran from which he was lucky to come out alive.

 The worm turns

 In 1990 Fianna Fail attempted the old strategy by nominating the visibly frail Brian Lenihan Sr. as presidential candidate. By this time Ireland had grown up and realised the Soldiers of Destiny’s cynical ploy. And now they’re at it again. At the Magill Summer School Micheal Martin tried to present himself as a forward-looking politician who had realised that the Irish people had meted out a just and long-deserved punishment on his party. By courting the likes of Gay Byrne as a candidate he shows that this was all bullshit and that he is deeply dded to the Fianna Fail past.

Name recognition

Apart from Gay Byrne’s age, there is also the fact that Fianna Fail has been rattled by the candidacy of my friend and fellow Cavanman Sean Gallagher who has gained public recognition through his appearance on the Dragon’s Den programme. The simpleton from Connemara, Eamon [O] Cuiv is not liked by the electorate – I wonder why? – so they needed someone with name recognition, but Gaybo is yesterday’s man. Gay Byrne has gone down in my estimation by even giving them the time of day, and all his assurances about his campaign being “autonomous” are about as sincere as a debutante’s commitment to her virginity.

 If Gay says no…

 ll is not lost for Fianna Fail if Gay refuses to play ball. I am assured that there are plenty of other broadcasting hasbeens out there who would jump at the chance to come out of senility for one last gig with the added bonus of a plushy pad and, let’s not forget it, the state funeral, so  Tom Carter could stick his funeral expenses policy and the charming carriage clock up his arse. Names that come to mind are:

  • Bunny Carr who charmed generations of Irish people with his quiz show for the intellectually bollixed Quicksilver and who then serenaded those same folk into a calm state before they popped their clogs along with Anne O’Dwyer in everyone’s favourite Going Off; How about
  •  Sonny Knowles? (age 78). He can’t sing any more (could he ever?) but he’d be able to take on most presidential tasks with ,, er … aplomb? 
    Q. What is thirty feet long, has ten teeth and reeks of piss?
    A. The front row at a Sonny Knowles concert. 
    How about
  •  Sean og O Ceallachain (age 88 – now we’re cookin’ baby); all the right cred with the Gah. a familiar voice associated with tranquillity on a Sunday night before the rigours of the week began afresh…  I’ve got it
  • Liam O fuckin’ Murchu (age 82), Bualladh bas agus pog mo hol agus … suck me dick etc.
  • Arthur Murphy (age 80 ish?) who must find life really sucks since they pulled Mailbox on RTE and he no longer had to read out badly spelled missives from irate clerico-fascists from sheets smeared with semen,
  • Donncha O Dulaing (age anyone, must be hitting 80). Very fir for his age. Who can forget his memorable walks in the footseps of O’Sullivan Beare or Eamon De Valera? What’s more, he’s politically safe
  • Brendan Balfe (age 65, not really old enough). According to contacts he’s really pissed off since he got the elbow from RTE. What’s more, he doesn’t seem to have a pension either.
  • Andy O’Mahony. Remember programmes like Dialogue? He’d be just the man in our troubled times. We’d forget we were up shit creek because he’d put us all to sleep.
  • Hal Roach (age 83). Swallow me I’ll be right behind you but … er…no.

Other names crying out to go forward are

  • Podge and Rodge, or their alter ego Fester and Alien
  • Dustin the Turkey
  • Bosco

Don’t be silly I hear you scowl, they’re puppets. So? That’s exactly what the president is.

One final name that springs into the fetid sewers of my memory is

  • Liam Nolan. I recall with nostalgia how, as an undergraduate in Trinity I used to listen to a then pirate radio station in Dublin. First would come Fr Michael Cleary who would give it between the eyes to all the shifty lefties and liberals, and then would give it between the legs to his housekeeper. I recall with fondness his attempts to spur his listeners to go to Knock on pilgrimages. “It’d be a great day out on the train. Ya could go with a flask o’ tea and a couple o’ sanbos, an’ after ya’d done with the prayin’ ya’d be back in De Citty before nightfall.”I recall how he was once telephoned by a distraught parent asking for assistance in tracking down her son’s skate bird. The next morning I met my friend Marc coming out of the Common Room. “I say Marc. A chap has lost his skate board and I was wondering where he might start searching.” “I’m awfully sorry old man but I haven’t the foggiest” he replied. Father Cleary  was followed by Liam Nolan with his mix of “easy listenin’” including Dianna Durban’s Greatest Hits such as “It’s foolish but it’s fun”. He would read from correspondence and it seemed to me that, while those listening to Fr Cleary had real-life problems, those who listened to Liam Nolan had fought the good fight and failed, after which they’d gone into homes for the bewildered. Ni fhecfimid a laethaid ann aris go dteo

Now if that far right birdbrain Dana Rosemary Scallon is thinking of runnng again, what is there to stop Johnny Logan (who won Eurovision one time more than Dana, back when it was worth winning) or Charlie McGettigan?

But honestly, Gay Byrne for President? Stop the shaggin’ lights Bunny.

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The yanks are coming

Rural Ireland was a place where few unexpected events occurred to break the predictable flow of time. People had sex infrequently yet babies dropped from the sky or were found under bushes or pots. However, the news that a family were to receive a visit from relatives who had spent many decades in the United States, or (worse still) from those who were related but had been born there and were returning to Ireland to see the ancestral homestead, would put the proverbial feline amongst the poultry.

 Both sets of visitors were referred to either as “the yanks” or “the yankees”. They were viewed as richer, though not every Christmas card contained a token of their wealth. They were also much more sophisticated, enjoying a level of culture far higher than available in Ireland. So all members of the family had to engage in an act of collective effort, referred to by their unsympathetic neighbours as “putting our their egg bag.”

 The paterfamilias or “oul’ lad” had to take regular baths, whereas beforehand a bath was a rare luxury, occurring at most once a year, and not always then. He would rationalise his aversion to water by saying: “Once I’m dead they can clane me, and once I’m in the ground no one’ll see whether I’m clane or clatty.” Such contrariness was a matter of real concern to the  “woman of the house”, and so plans were put in place to lessen contacts between him and the Yankees to a minimum.

 If time and finances allowed there might be structural adjustments to the house. One of these was the addition of an inside lavatory.  This might replace a “lean-to” structure referred to euphemistically as The Sugarhouse, though any disruption in the facilities dealing with bodily function was bound to be resisted by the “man of the house” who would express bewilderment at why the “hole in the yard” wouldn’t be good enough.  Everyone’s hair would be washed almost daily, and the children would have to undergo the torture of their locks being trawled by a heavy comb in the search for nits. The children would undergo a “no frills” crash course in manners and correct behaviour with the males being physically chastised each time they attempted to pick their noses. The man of the house was also told to leave his proboscis undisturbed, to refrain from using coarse or vulgar language, and to not break wind, especially at meal times. A toothbrush, with toothpaste might even be bought. Any miscellaneous expenses might be defrayed by the man of the house avoiding the pub. What’s more unsightly displays of over-indulgence in alcohol would no doubt disgust the yanks.

 The hen house, sometimes located in an old Volkswagen Beetle, would be towed out of sight or given on loan to a distant neighbour, while any other unsightly visions, such as piles of rubbish or excreta, would be removed.

 The visitors’ arrival was often anti-climatic. If they were native Yankees they might exhale delightedly at the quaintness of it all. The visit would end with the formulaic “You must come and visit us in the States” but it was seldom accompanied by the proffering of an airline ticket or displays of largesse. Once their (rental) car had staggered down the rutted lane there would be a collective sigh of relief, usually initiated by the man of the house stating: “Well thank fuck the hoors are gone. These new pants are cuttin’ the balls off me” followed up with “What’s for tae?” The “oul’ lad might be let back in, smelling strongly of urine, while the woman of the house would start scolding her husband, “Me mother always said I was makin’ the biggesht mistake o’ me life marryin’ you ya lazy, good-for-nuttin’ hape o’ shite, an’ she was right the Lord have mercy on her.” Little Seamus would then attempt to stem her wrath by asking: “Mammy, can I pick me nose now?”

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Senator David Norris

I do not wish to give an opinion as to whether Senator David Norris was right or wrong to write the letter to the Israeli authorities; neither do I wish to say whether the language he used was appropriate or not After all there are those who are far less morally competent and who are paui far better to be judges. The most relevant judge of his behaviour should be the people of Ireland, though they won’t be allowed a say.

There are a number of questions raised by this whole affair which need answering.

 Who amongst our politicians, when faced with the incarceration of a friend, would not try to help them? The answer is sadly, it depends. I know of numerous TDs and senators who have remained immobile and aloof when friends of theirs are targeted, attacked, their personal affairs rifled through, not because they have committed any crime or pose a threat to the security of the State, but merely because they have been unfortunate enough to come to the attention of some group of public servants such as the Chekists in the Department of Social Victimisation. Such friends will look in vain for any assistance, no matter how innocent they may be. They are told that “The Law must take its course”. The most they can hope for is that the politician will send a pro-forma representation on their behalf to the relevant department, where it is probably sewn at the end of all the other representations and moulded into a roll form prior to deposition in the departmental lavatory. (I am probably mistaken, as most employees of the Department of Social Victimisation are incapable of such a simple action as sewing. They certainly have difficulty dressing themselves.)

 The letter at the heart of this controversy was written in 1997 – fourteen years’ ago. Was it known about earlier, and if so why is it only coming to light now? We often hear about the Americanisation of Irish politics. This is not confined to slick (and sickening) advertisements, carefully choreographed photo opportunities and image building. In the United States political campaigns for elected office are made up of the strategists, the foot soldiers, and those tasked with “getting out” the vote. But another, less public, indeed often invisible element of any campaign is the small yet highly rewarded array of dirt diggers who are committed to trawling through the opponent candidate’s past, whether it be their speeches or their private lives. If insufficient “dirt” can be found on the candidate, the motto “No man (or woman) is an island” comes into play, so the searchlight turns to acquaintances. This is not an inexpensive process, so while some of the sums donated go to the more public face of the campaign (advertising, printing etc.) even larger sums go to these “below the line” (or below the belt) expenses.

 Maybe part of the outrage was that official senate stationery. It has long been accepted that such paper can be used for all sorts of sordid ends, while “Oireachtas envelopes” have been used for distributing “Pro Life” literature and other rubbish from the so-called “religious” right in Ireland. It is also an open secret that they are used by those seeking election to the senate as one of the common currencies for buying votes.

 Vapid and formulaic representations, which are never full of sound or fury but which nevertheless signify nothing, have never been the style of Senator Norris. I have heard Fergus Finlay say that he has been “ architect of his own misfortunes”. So are we now supposed to join hands in jumping on him, and, once satisfied he no longer presents a threat, to dance on his grave? I’ve never viewed David as a politician; he is too earnest and intelligent to be numbere4d amongst that discredited herd.  I am proud to count David Norris as a friend.

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The role of the Presidency in Ireland

I believe we should have a debate about the role of the president. We should have had this debate long ago, and coming up to a presidential election is hardly opportune. It’s like the soul-searching that accompanies senate elections and which crops up the regularity of the story about Red Ken’s vasectomy.

 

The role of the president is enshrined in our constitution, a d0cument written in 1937. Admittedly it provided for a democratic form of government (sort of), no little achievement given that at the time of writing there were many amongst Ireland’s elite, both lay and clerical, who were more sympathetic to the ideals of Mussolini and Hitler. At the time the latter was drawing up his plans for world domination, the former was safely ensconced in the sovereign territory of Ethiopia, and General Franco’s forces were engaged on their campaign of rapine and pillage in Spain.

 But the constitution only provides for quasi democracy. This is clearly evident in the case of nominations for the president. To get on the ballot paper requires the support of twenty members of the Oireachtas OR four county councils. These are mostly elected by the people, but hardly ever at a time near to the presidential election. It is at best an indirect form of democracy. Furthermore, some members of the Seanad are appointed by the Prime Minister, not elected by the restricted Seanad electorate, while others may owe their membership to the death or resignation of a colleague. This holds true of County Councils, where such co-options are made by the party or parties in control, not according to the party background of the person in whose room the co-option in being made.  The will of the electorate may be openly flouted, as those appointed or co-opted have already been given the thumbs-down at the most recent elections.

 We have a form of controlled democracy, where the big political parties have an automatic “by” into the nomination process, and where it is difficult, though not impossible, for an independent to enter. Various opinion polls (not the same as an election granted) have found that the electorate’s preferred candidate for president was Senator David Norris. Even prior to the most recent controversy, he was having difficulty in gaining a nomination. Whatever he did or didn’t do should have been judged by the electorate, not by The Sunday Independent or a couple of independent TDs who obviously got cold feet about backing an openly gay candidate.

 If we want to make the office of president more relevant to the Irish people we should change the constitution to allow for nomination by certain approved bodies like professional and sporting organisations, trades unions and charities to name a few. (but not political parties). Alternatively a person could gain entry onto the ballot paper by collecting a set number of signatures.

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Travel advisory update: roll your own

I wish to advice motorists that the dangerous road conditions on the R212 outside Ballyhaise have now been brought to an end, as the rough  and flying stones have now been rolled, thus allowing drivers a smooth entry. Ah. The power of the Internet! No wonder they want to ban it in China.

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Back on the register

It gives me great pleasure to say that my name and that of my father have been re-entered on the electoral register, therefore allowing us both to participate in the forthcoming presidential elections by means of our postal votes. I want to offer my deep and sincere gratitude to Ms Annas Cartlin of Cavan County Council for helping to bring this about and for putting to an end a truly absurd situation which was not of her doing.

 The farcical situation by which our postal votes were removed was brought about by the entire3ly unreasonable actions of the Department of the Environment. In 2010 they issued new regulations requiring that those who had postal votes must re-apply for them, together with a medical certificate testifying to their disability or infirmity. It is quite possible that some overpaid and demented mandarin actually believed that there were people who had postal votes on the grounds of disability who were as fit as fiddles, maybe dancing jigs at crossroads or auditioning for the Irish version of Nnja Warrior. Miracles may happen but the sad fact is that once you get some condition that limits your mobility you’re stuck with it, the only way is down, and it’s up to you to come to terms with it. So the idea that you had to then prove you were a cripple to a group of lazy bureaucrats who get stressed out if they have to walk too far down to the underground car park below their plush offices, is rather insulting, not to say insensitive.

 I sometimes wonder why these civil servants in the ministries are so misanthropic, Are they born like that and only recruited once they are able to offer signed testimony of pulling off butterflies’ wings or torturing kittens? Or do they undergo a special period of “training” where they are brainwashed into seeing that “The General Public” as “the enemy”, to be frustrated at all costs? This might include subliminal psychological manipulation, where each time the simple greeting “Hallo” or “Good Morning” is uttered in their direction they receive an electric shock. I think the answer may be simpler. Most of the senior civil servants’ arses are ravaged by chronic piles, the sad though inevitable result of sitting on their derrieres for decades. Now we are talking about mega haemorrhoids which reflect their status within their departments. They are there for life and no amount of Preparation H, Tucks, or sitting over steaming colanders of boiling salt water can help. Their daily existences are filled with excruciating agony which can only be assuaged by issuing silly directives targeting imagined enemies and fraudsters. Now I may seem to be talking the piss here, but I know what I’m talking about. Trust me, I’m a doctor! Senior civil servants don’t like coming out of the shadows, but occasionally some pesky Dail committee requires their presence; next time you see a secretary general watch and observe how he sits stock still. Any movement, to left or right would only set off old Nobby.

 It is rumoured that members of some of those kinky right-wing Catholic lay organisations with Latin names are behind a recent decision of the Vatican’s  Sacred Congregation of Rites to name St Norbert of Xanten as the patron saint of Irish Civil Servants.

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Lead kindly light

So FAS has now become Solus. I remember when FAS was launched; people said that what ANCO used to be called before it went bust. Before we all became green and environmentally aware we used to use Solus bulbs. This is relevant for the new organisation which I fear will inherit the culture of the old. How many Solus employees will it take to change a light bulb? At least a thousand; one to hold the bulb and 999 Solus officials to turn the room around, but we mustn’t forget the special, highly-paid consultants brought in at enormous cost from abroad to give their opinions on office lighting, as well as the cost of printing their report on the glossiest of paper. By this time though the money will have run out and so there won’t be any left for changing the bulb.

 FAS was charged with providing training that was supposed to lead to jobs. Unfortunately there was a mismatch between the courses and employment trends, so the courses were often irrelevant and useless. Certificates were sometimes not issued to those who had pursued the courses and the only people who seemed to secure jobs as a result of FAS’ activity were those employed already by FAS. And perhaps it is best to forget the way in which FAS was used as a private holiday club by a group of former directors, offering only first class flights and accommodation in five-star resorts.  FAS / Solus (whatever it is called) is big on intentions, but I somehow think the delivery will fall short of expectation.

 I was looking for an alternative name for the organisation. The closest I could come to was fearradh, which de Bhaldraithe’s dictionary says is the Irish for faeces.

 

 

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Lie to me

A few months’ ago Enda Kenny and Eamon Gilmore promised that there would be no further cuts in social welfare payments in the forthcoming budget, and unfortunately many people believed them. As for Kenny the only people who believe anything that comes out of that joker’s mouth is The Vatican, and we all know what a shower of pricks they are. As for Eamon Gilmore (yawn) he’s making me feel very old. I remember when he was a sticky.

 Minister for Social Victimisation Joan Burton has commitment issues, as she can’t make a commitment that there will not be cuts in benefits. She is talking some gibberish about getting greater value for money. What does she mean? One way would be to make the unemployed work for their dole by taking part in road gangs, or maybe cleaning out ministers’ gardens. Her department has long believed in the criminalisation of poverty and the first step towards this will be mandatory fingerprinting of all dole recipients, ostensibly in the interests of stamping out on that great evil Social Welfare Fraud. Done away with will be the nonsense that people are entitled to welfare benefits. It will be spelled out in no uncertain terms, that ALL welfare benefits are discretionary and are only to be made at the discretion of an employee of the Department. (Legislation to this effect already exists, having been passed by the last government but no one seems to have noticed it.) As for special benefits like the blind pension they may be made only to those people who prove unambiguously that they are totally blind by attempting to cross a busy road or street in the face of on-coming traffic, while unmarried mothers will be offered a choice between sterilization or having their children forcibly adopted and brought up by known abusers. This may sound tough, but it is only by tough decisions that our budget deficit will be reduced and our nation made safe for spivs to live in.

 The minister is being insincere, as any attempt to introduce greater value for money will be conducted by her own departmental officials who are part of the Civil Service, where work is an unwelcome activity that occasionally breaks out between coffee breaks or maternity leave, not to mention Flexitime – the phenomenon whereby nobody need be at their desks at any particular time. If the minister were sincere about introducing greater value for money in her department she’d downsize her staff. Who would employ those who would lose their jobs? There is only a limited demand in Ireland for lion tamers and snake charmers.

 The funny thing is that Joan Burton showed no such commitment issues when she got into bed with the blueshirts; she must have been aware that she was going to get fucked. She may not have realised that she was going to get fucked up the ass, not only by Kenny’s gang, but by her own party. She felt miffed at only getting the portfolio of Social Victimisation – widely seen as a poisoned chalice. I believe that it should be seen as an important ministry, not like the Cinderella portfolio of say Defence. Joan Burton is a clever and articulate person, and such a person is needed to face down the neo-fascists in that department. Yet I hope that she is prepared to fight to defend the rights of those who, like myself, are dependant on benefit payments. I fear that an Italian proverb is coming true. Chi va con lo zoppo impara zoppicare, Whoever walks with the lame learns to limp, or in the case under discussion is returned to, if your work involves dealing with a pack of inveterate liars you soon develop an elastic attitude towards the truth.

 If the Blind Pension is reduced for yet a third tune many blind people will be reduced to selling lottery tickets in the street as in Spain, or maybe begging at corners. The response of the voluntary organisations would no doubt be to urge the blind to relocate to special hostels where they would be fed on a diet of scraps and food donated by the public. My response would be to take to the streets and I would not be the only one.

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