I picked up the newspaper today. The newspaper, you know? That thing you used to read one time, and it was full of information called news?
So anyway, I picked up the Opinionsheet, and there’s Bertie Ahern on the front page, wearing a pair of 3D glasses, and staring upwards vacantly with his big ignorant, uneducated potato head. Our future president, and former prime minister, the illiterate gobshite. A man who has never managed to read a book, except perhaps that magnificent work of 20th century literature, PS I Love You.
There he is, staring into space with his Avatar glasses on him, and you wonder what he’s watching, as the only thing he could ever claim for a success disintegrates around him. The North.
Whatever about the collapse of our economy under his stewardship, Bertie could always point to the North and tell the world he created the Agreement. This was what enabled the stumbling, unlettered clod to address the American houses of congress on our behalf. I must admit, on that day, I hid under a dustbin until he was finished embarrassing the Irish nation. I’d have been happier to send my dog to address the houses of congress.
But in any case, it was open to Bertie Ahern, the corner-boy, who learned his trade in the back-alleys of Drumcondra cutting inconsequential deals with even more limited political gobshites, to claim the Good Friday agreement as his own. And so he did. So indeed did Bertie, by duplicity, two-facedness and glad-handing, somehow mesmerise the hardened Northern politicians, the Sammies and the Wesleys, the Willies and the Billies and the Bobbies, into believing that not all politicians from Mexico were crooked.
Some men I keel for money, but joo my fren’, I keel you for notheen.
The Nordies had never met such a barefaced liar as Bertie Ahern, and it worked for a while.
But you see, though Bertie might be stupid and ignorant in the classic sense that you or I would understand it, he’s far from stupid in other ways. Though Bertie Ahern might well be a man you wouldn’t waste three minutes on if you met him in a pub, because his conversation is so limited and because he hasn’t two ideas to rub together, Bertie’s reptilean proto-brain never stops scheming.
Bertie knew full well that the Northern agreement would go tits up, because it involved two polar opposites, the Provos and the fundamental Prods, but that didn’t matter as long as Bertie got the short-term credit.
Bertie doesn’t have a goldfish memory, but he has the ethics of a carp.
Likewise, any fool could see that Bertie, by his greed and cronyism, was driving the Irish economy over a cliff, and even Bertie himself, the ignorant fool, knew it full well. But Bertie the cynic knew that he’d be clear and free before the truth really hammered home to the Irish people.
There truly is no limit to this man’s lack of shame, and he will present himself for the Presidency.
If we vote him in, this buffoon, this clown, this no-account snake-oil merchant, than we truly deserve whatever he’s done to us.
I wonder what he was watching with his 3D glasses? Chavatar?