I was going to say what a miserable creeping jesus Bertie Ahern is.
I was going to ask you how such a ridiculous, illiterate fucking lumpenprole could get elected to lead the government of this country.
I was going to plead with you to open your eyes and look. Just look at the thing you’ve elected: the thing that will suck at your bone marrow when all the flesh and muscle has been eaten away by him and the jar of leeches he calls his political Party.
I was going to beg you: please open your eyes and see what sweaty hands now grasp your birthright and calculate its pawned value.
But I’m not going to do that.
I’ve done enough of that, God knows.
Stuff like this: What Dirt Have the Nuns Got On Bertie Ahern?
Or this: The Manchester Monkeys.
But not tonight. No. This evening, instead, I’m going to set aside the usual petty, juvenile slagging and acknowledge that our colleague, Mr Twenty Major, a common visitor to this site, has put it every bit as well as I would have myself. Why reinvent the rant?