So, despite the best efforts of assorted political fantasists, craw-thumpers and straightforward homophobes, David Norris has managed to secure a place on the ballot sheet for the presidential election.
Good. That’ll give the holy joes something to think about as they gnaw at the feet of their statues.
Imagine what Archbishop McQuaid would be saying if he could only see the state Ireland has got itself into, saints preserve us. But wait. Of course he can see. Didn’t he pass into everlasting life when he cast off these mortal bonds and doesn’t he now sit beside the Mayor of Heaven at all important meetings and dinners?
Of course he does. There’s only one JC who matters up there and it isn’t that hippie guy.
It’ll give Dana something to think about too as she wanders around Knock with Susan Boyle. Did you see that? The presidential candidate whose major achievement in life was to win a very dodgy song contest 41 years ago with a decidedly dodgy song, was photographed blundering around the heart of all Irish religious fakery with poor old Susan Boyle, the new face of Gillette.
What the hell could they have been talking about together as they stared at the sun and tried to make out the Virgin Mary in the clouds and the tree-stumps?
Isn’t that a grand wee wall over there Susan, right enough?
Why does the sun go on shining?
So we can stare at it Susan.
Cry me a river.
Look, Susan. That’s where the visionaries saw the wee lamb and St John and Our Lady. Right there on that wall. There.
I dreamed a dream.
What’s that you say Susan?
It’s a perfect day. Don’t say it’s the end of the world.
What on earth are we talking about here? What exactly is the list of people who think they should be president of Ireland?
Dana, an ultra-right evangelical whose main fan-base is in the American bible belt. Dana hopes to be President in order to be a President before her close friend Sarah Palin.
Sean Gallagher, a mythical fire-breathing TV lizard. Sean’s main purpose in the election is to promote his deeply-held belief in Sean.
Mary whose name I can never remember, the Quango Queen. Fianna Fáil’s professional chairwoman.
Michael D, the man with no surname, who recites Poetry as long as it has a capital P.
Gay Mitchell, the Willie O Dea of West Dublin, but with extra Miraculous Medals, whips and possibly some painful leg-chains. In a world of comb-overs, Mitchell created a new hair look: the Mitchell swipe-aside.
Martin McGuinness, a man who never, ever headed the IRA, but who still refuses to discuss what he didn’t do.
And finally, of course, the dreaded arse-bandit Norris, whose campaign threatens to destroy civilisation as we know it. A man who once wrote a letter.