I was wondering why there were so many cops around the market this morning, including an exceptionally well-turned-out senior-looking guy. The leather gloves are the giveaway.
What the fuck? I thought. Times must be hard when a chief superintendent has to walk the beat in the market on a Saturday morning.
But no. It turns out that Biffo was in town, with his entourage of baggy-suited fixers, like a crowd of drunken uncles at a country funeral.
Desperation is a terrible thing, and I suppose Biffo was trying to raise his satisfaction ratings from minus ten million to about zero by pressing the flesh of market traders and the ordinary people.
You know: the people his party has robbed, cheated, embezzled and landed in a state of complete economic disaster.
Yes. Those ordinary people.
Cowen was out of luck. Nobody was interested in talking to a sweaty old troll as he led his bunch of mumbling gobshites from stall to stall, trying to look like living human beings but managing only to look like terrified Fianna Fail hacks without an adult thought between them.
Cowen paused at a fruit and vegetable stall, nodding to Peter Power, who obligingly bought a bunch of bananas and handed them out to the Lads as they moved away.
Well, said a woman buying fruit at the stall. That’s about right for a banana republic.