That’s it. I’m not going through another fourteen years of presidents called Mary. It’s about time somebody with a different name was elected to the Park.
And, nice enough man though Michael D Higgins might be, I’m afraid his voice makes me want to chew my ankles off. I’m not listening to his neglected-poet keening for fourteen years either. It’s bad enough putting up with pretentious tossers in the local pubs calling themselves poets without our president doing it. As I always say to self-proclaimed poets, Listen, I’ll decide if you’re a poet, OK?
Who does that leave? Gay Mitchell? Oh for God’s sake, the man who pamphleted all of Dublin South Central for 25 years. There isn’t a dog-box in Crumlin that Gay Mitchell hasn’t shoved some leaflet into.
No, that’s it. I don’t want to do it, but duty calls. I must serve my country by keeping this crowd out of the Park.
Now to see about getting those nominations. Should be no problem.
After a consultation with my consultants in their consulting rooms, I’ve decided we should have a platform, a policy, a stance, a position and a ticket. Also some views and an attitude.
I think the presidency should have some Tourettes characteristics, so that, when I’m introduced, for example, to President Sarkozy, I can say things like fuck off back to Hungary you fucking midget, I’d love to shag your missus!! And everyone will ignore what I said because I have a Syndrome, but secretly I’ll mean it.
I’ll introduce some badly-needed elements to the Presidency. Drink. All-night parties. Latvian hookers and brown acid.
Who couldn’t vote for that?
All I need now is to persuade the county councillors to give me their vote.