If you want a vision of hell, go to the Stillorgan Luas
station on a windy Wednesday morning. It’s not even in Stillorgan. It’s lawless
out there. The wolves walk around the place wearing those blue stripey shirts
with white collars that Sean Fitzpatrick et al wore during the Celtic Tiger.
Some people have pink hair. Some people eat chicken-fillet wraps wrapped in a
further layer of cling-film. Think of the children Joe. They don’t even have
velcro here, Joe. How’s the childerints supposed to be fastening thezzir
shoe-laces Joe? It’s cridiminal, so it is.
You can smell the poor people a mile away. They pretend they’re
going to work at Vodaphone [sic.], but no real job starts at ten in the
morning. Narrow windows. Nothing else but to curtain-twitch.
Gallop your gee to Fanny. Make a clock with your cock, and
dwell forever in detached suburban grimness, occasionally driving your
Volkswagen Beetle down to Centra for a plastic-packed tikka masala. It’s like
being in America, only with less nuclear power and more heroin. Happy children
playing together in school. They’ll be dead eventually, like ourselves. Sinné Fianna Fáil, atá ag dul go bás.
