It’s the day before the most important general election in my lifetime, and I haven’t seen a single candidate at my door. The only people who called were a pair of neighbours canvassing for Labour, a timid little man in a yellow jacket who tried to hand me a Peter Power leaflet, but who scurried away when I called FF a crowd of thieves and swindlers. Oh, and a heavy-set gentleman with dyed blond hair who wanted to know if my car was sale. He wanted it for for scrap, I presume, considering the state of it but I wasn’t in the mood for listening to wandering scrap-merchants, even if they call me Boss. After asking him what his interest in my house was, I told him to go away, perhaps a bit abruptly . His shouted insults as he drove off were lost in the gentle breeze. I’d say he was there for Willie O Dea.
The National Interview seems to have been a monumental failure, since none of the candidates has had the gumption to turn up at people’s houses in person. Little Willie is scuttling around suburban estates shoving pre-printed leaflets through letter-boxes: Sorry I missed you.
You didn’t miss me Willie. I was at home. You just didn’t bother to knock, you cowardly little reptile.
Here’s the deal. You’re about to vote out the party that bankrupted Ireland by borrowing money to pay off the gambling debts of the bankers, and you’re about to elect a government that plans to do the very same thing.
I don’t advocate violence, but I’d like to draw the comparison with Greece and Portugal where they went out on the streets throwing petrol bombs in protest at their governments doing the very same thing.
Where did Paddy go? Out on the piss.
Tomorrow, you and I have no credible option to vote for, apart from People Before Profit, who have no hope of being in government, and the Shinners, who were never noted for putting money INTO banks. At least they’re consistent.
That’s it. You’re going to replace Fianna Failure with Fianna Fake.
Bend over and enjoy it.