‘I’m Harney, Mary Mary Harney,’ blared the deafening speakers
alongside McDowell’s Happy Ring House, O’Connell Street Upper, Dublin 1, as a
fork-lift lorry carrying an enormous woman draped in a St-Patrick’s-blue gown
trundled slowly towards the GPO, orange lights flashing and warning sirens
beeping.
Mary was being wheeled out at last minute to represent One
of Ireland’s Worst Governments in place of Brian Cowen, who was still too
pissed from the night before. A few years out of public life meant that none of
the young people had any idea who she was. Having forgotten the PDs were ever a
thing, she was to them no more than a much jollier and more attractive Ann
Widdecombe.
The gathered crowd cheered eagerly as the fork-lift came to
the podium whereupon Her Ladyship was to be unloaded. ‘WIDE LOAD’, read the fluorescent
orange sign at the back of the fork-lift. With a flick of a switch, she was
upturned and upended in a most undignified manner onto the podium. A swarm of
journalists gathered.
‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of the health
service?’
‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of what you’re
wearing?’
‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of your face?’
‘Minister, can you please comment on the absolute state of yourself?’
Mary brushed them away with an irritated flick of the wrist,
accidentally knocking off Fintan O’Toole’s glasses in the process.
‘Minister, can you please comment on the rumour that you
have a tattoo on your arse that says “WIDE LOAD”?’ asked Pascal Sheehy, RTÉ
News.
‘I didn’t authorise the tattoo,’ began Mary, ‘but in the interest
of public safety...’
Well-wishers threw hamburgers from the viewing stands nearby,
and Mary gratefully received them in her gob. When three o’clock came a number
of extremely elderly FCA men walked past the front of the GPO in a laughable
attempt at military formation. Mary reviewed the troops from a recumbent
position, sipping a can of Coke Zero through a straw, and declared herself
amused with the proceedings. Everybody had a lovely time and the five confused Italian
tourists who were left standing at the barricade beside Henry Street applauded,
even though they didn’t really know why.
Following the review, Mary was delivered back into obscurity
where she belongs, and now spends her days watching reruns of ‘That’s Life’
with Esther Rantzen from circa 1987 to 1989. Geraldine Kennedy occasionally
calls over for tea, but finds it very difficult to make eye contact with Mary
when she is lying on the floor.
***
We interrupt this programme to make the following
announcement:
Researchers at the University of Cambridge have traced the
genesis of bigoted political opinions to the eating of chips wrapped in
newspaper. The over-educated boffins have discovered that sheer vitriolic bile
and pure shite written in some of our finest rags had an effect on the perception
of normal people when consumed in the newsprint which adhered to vinegary chips
wrapped in newspaper. The wrapping of chips in newspaper was outlawed in 1985,
and this explains why there are very few complete nutters under the age of 35.
However, total nutcases in older age groups sadly prevail.
One particular example is failed Eurosong competition entrant John Waters, who
for many years wrote for the moderate liberal Irish Times (previously ‘Geraldine’s
Gossip Rag’), but always ate his chips wrapped in the pages of the Daily
Telegraph. Recently he has founded a campaign called Fist Families First, the
purpose of which is to oppose the introduction of same-sex marriage by all
means necessary. When questioned about why he is so opposed to same-sex couples
marrying, Waters gave the following eloquent answer:
‘We don’t want men touching each other’s mickeys. That is
disgusting and wrong. This referendum is about enshrining in our Constitution a
man’s right to touch another man’s mickey. I have campaigned for years for a
man’s right to touch his own mickey, but for it not to be touched by another man.
Only women should touch mickeys, like Sinéad O’Connor touched mine. Except for
doctors, who can touch men’s mickeys, but only when strictly necessary. Bum bum
arse willies.’
Rumour has it that some right-wing Catholic parents feed
their children chips wrapped in the pages of that august publication ‘Alive!’.
In another example of nannystateism, the government, led by Dr Noel Browne
beyant-the-grave, has recently introduced legislation which criminalises the
feeding of newsprint-stained chips to children as child abuse, unless of course
the newsprint is from the Cork Examiner, because nobody cares about that.
