Electric Cars — Putting the Pollution Where It Belongs

I see they’ve set up some recharging points in Dublin for electric cars.

They call them Juice Points, and Eamon Ryan, minister for slurred speech, is very proud of them.  Eamon is absuley cvince abou thr efficien.

His rigorous training as a travel agent allows the minister to understand hard technical details that escape some of us.  For instance, Eamon unrstan why it’s much more efficient to burn fossil fuel in a Clare or Kerry power station, convert the heat to electricity and transmit the power to Dublin, instead of burning fossil fuel directly in a car’s engine.

He also unrstan why these four Juice Points are going to roll back the tide of job losses in the country.

And of course, Eamon knows exactly why it’s better  to pump the smoke from electricity generation into the air of County Clare than to allow exhaust fumes into the atmosphere in Dublin.


I bet none of the other cabinet members would have such a grasp of fine technical detail. That’s why, in addition to the eight teachers, three lawyers, one social worker and one political adviser, we needed a travel agent.

They unrstan things like heat engine efficiency and lots more besides: for example how to supply a broadband service using two bean tins and some wet string.


Affidavits, Damned Affidavits and Statistics

What an awful curse amnesia is, and how doubly-cursed Fianna Fáil is to suffer from so much of it.

Brian Lenihan Snr had a severe attack of it.  In May 1990,  he admitted to a researcher that he had tried improperly to influence the President’s decision on dissolving the Dáil.

Later that year, when he himself was a Presidential candidate, on “mature recollection” he remembered that what he had said in a taped interview was wrong.  He denied trying to influence the President, Patrick Hillery and tried unsuccessfully to meet Hillery and persuade him to back up the story.

In the resulting furore, under pressure from the small lapdog coalition party, the PDs, Charlie Haughey sacked his “friend of 30 years” from his ministerial post, and Lenihan’s presidential challenge was scuppered.

Lenihan and Haughey had little respect for the democratic workings of the country.  Lenihan once boasted on national television that he had offered a policeman a choice when he intruded in a pub serving drink after hours: have a pint or a transfer.  And everybody, including the Late Late Show host yukked.  What a hoot you are, Brian One law for Fianna Fáil and another for the rest of us.

During all this chicanery, Lenihan’s election agent was Bertie Ahern, a man who is no stranger to amnesia himself.  Ahern suffered from many bouts of amnesia during the Tribunal investigations, preventing him from answering crucial questions about his sources of money.

And now we have Willie O’Dea, whose case bears an eerie similiarity to the Lenihan affair of twenty years earlier.

There’s the affidavit, denying that he ever said anything defamatory.

There’s the inappropriate dealings with an institution of the State: the High Court.

There’s the sudden horrified retraction and improved recollection when confronted with the reality of journalist  Mike Dwane’s recording.

There’s the contempt for democracy displayed by O’Dea, his boss Cowen and his colleague, the minister for justice.  Anyone else swearing a false oath to the High Court would be facing charges, but Willie was able to claim that he made a mistake.

Not everybody yukked this time, but his friends and party colleagues did. What a hoot you are, Willie One law for Fianna Fáil and another for the rest of us.

In a final symmetry, it seems that Cowen will be forced to shaft his political buddy at  the insistence of the small lapdog coalition partner, the Greens.

What a pity the Green Party — now a party with no direction, no principles and no strategy — couldn’t manage one final act of redemption before it inevitably tears itself apart.  What a pity the Greens couldn’t grow a pair of organic balls and tear down this dreadful criminal conspiracy of a government that has destroyed our country.

Willie O’Dea is no doubt a cynic, a blusterer and a bully, but he’s only a symptom of the underlying infection.

Fianna Fáil is the abscess.  Willie is only the pimple.


Falling to Pieces

Where would we be without all these resignations to brighten up our day?

I’ve had it, says Deirdre de Búrca.  Gormley can shove his party up his fucking arse.

Come back, Charlie.  Come back George.  We’re not finished yet.  One more resignation and we have enough moaners for a barber-shop quartet.  Oh lonesome me.

Really, now.  Isn’t it beyond ridiculous?

There’s Charlie Bird in Washington.  In a country stuffed with all sorts of vibrant cultural stimuli, things that informed all our development growing up, Charlie has no friends and nothing to do.

Wait a minute now.  Let me think.

I suppose a month in Manhattan wouldn’t go astray, followed by another month in Chicago.  Then he could buy a motorcycle and take Route 66 to St Louis, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, oh so pretty.  He could stop off in Amarillo.  Don’t forget Winona, Charlie, and San Bernardino.

Oh wait a minute.  he can’t.  Charlie can’t do this shit, because Charlie is sitting at his window in Washington,

This is Charlie Bird speaking to you from his window in Washington

looking out into an empty street

This is Charlie Bird looking out on an empty street

Thinking about how he has no friends in a country of 300 million people

This is Charlie Bird feeling fucking sorry for himself for having no friends because he’s a fucking gowl.

What else could Charlie do?  I don’t know, but if I had a gig like his, I’d be down in New Orleans.  I’d be schmoozing around Graceland, buying little bobble-head Elvises for the folks back home.  I’d go to Disneyland.

What the fuck am I talking about?  If I had a posting in America whhere I could write about whatever I wanted, I’d already be in Disneyland!

But no.  This is Charlie Bird reporting from inside his own arse.

Meanwhile, back on the farm, here’s George Lee,  the best boy in the class.   All in a snit because they didn’t see how clean his shoes were.  George Lee looks like the sort of fucker you hated at school.  The sort of gobshite who used to get 93% in every exam and probably put his hand over his homework when you came in with nothing done so you couldn’t copy it, even though there was a big sweaty Christian Brother waiting to fucking rape you if he found out your copybook was blank.

Smirky little George with his hair combed by his mammy as he went out the door with his sandwiches in a nice little box, all in a fucking row, and his  nice neat v-necked pullover that he’d never get dirty by playing football in the car-park, and you’d like to shove it down his smug fucking throat when school is over, and you probably will too.

That’s the sort of guy George strikes me as.

The sort of guy you meet years later and he wants you to see how well he did.   Look how I got onThey’re paying me to talk shite on the telly, because I know everything. Mammy told me so.

That’s when you jump on him, even though you’re a grown man, and you try to shove his Pringle sweater down his fucking throat, but people in the street are staring, so you stop.  But then, even though George is also a grown man, you notice he’s crying. Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy. Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy. Can’t do that. Georgie best boy.  Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy.

And now people really are staring in the street as George walks around in a ciircle shouting and crying.

Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy. Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy.

I wonder is that what he told Indakinny when he wouldn’t put him in one of the desks at the front of the class?

Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy. Can’t do that.  Georgie best boy.

Home to Mammy for huggikins and jam sambos.

There, there, there, Georgie.

Charlie will be back soon and you can both have a good long cry.

Favourites Politics

Green Lite

Our badgers, mink and stags are safe.

Thank God.

The Greens are staying in government, having hammered out a series of concessions on things that were going to happen anyway, things that might happen if there was any money, things that are completely irrelevant and things that can’t happen.

The feared super-tax on kaftan-weaving won’t now happen and the yoga levy is to be scrapped.

All around our coasts, the Ego Worriers are going to build a vast array of wave-powered dreamcatchers to harvest our most valuable natural resource: self-delusion. To operate this mighty complex of machinery, workers who lost their jobs in the downturn will be intensively reskilled in Transcendental Meditation.

Once this vital infrastructure is in place, Ireland will be in a position to deliver on the key Green commitment: to make everything a lot better very quickly.

This will be achieved by magic thinking and circular breathing.

The Greens have promised to provide 100% broadband by 2012,  starting from today when we only have fraudband.

There’s a firm commitment that someone from IT will take our Minister for Communications aside and explain to him the difference between real broadband and mobile broadband, and also if there’s time, to explain to him what the internet is.

Third level fees won’t be reintroduced, which is possibly the one thing that was most feared by pensioners and poor people, but registration fees will quietly double instead.

The Greens also promise that there will be 6,000 more electric vehicles on the streets over the next three years, thus ensuring that exhaust fumes are removed from Dublin and shifted down the country where the power stations are located  and where there are no real people —  just actors to make the place look authentic when the Green party visit their sustainable holiday homes.

Almost everything will be Smart in the new Green Ireland.  We’ll have a Smart Economy, Smart Food, Smart Forestry, Smart Fish, Smart Tourism and Smart Money.  There will be Smart Dogs and Smart Cats.

Smart Mountains, Smart Rivers.  Smart Scenery.

This will be an extraordinary transformation from the current stupidity, and all achieved by unleashing the limitless powers of magic thinking.

Smarties will be the new unit of currency.

We won’t have Smart Clothes though, because they’re made by child slave labour in Burma.

Public transport, which is mainly for people in Dublin, will be revolutionised.  There will be fewer trains and buses but you’ll have a better idea of how badly the system is working.  By 2011, all towns and cities will have RTPI systems in place.  This stands for Real-time Passenger Information, which is a way of letting you know that your bus is late, cancelled or gone too early.  The RTPI will be beamed directly to your brain by a dedicated team of reskilled psychics.

A new nuclear energy detector will be installed at the interconnector with Britain to make sure they don’t send us any of that filthy atomic electricity because we’re Irish, and our Greens are even greener than the German Greens, who think nuclear power is good.

Tarot-card printing and hair-braiding have been identified as core industries to be promoted, but most vitally for the nation’s survival, the Greens have negotiated a cast-iron commitment from Fianna Fáil to perhaps at least consider looking at the possibility of maybe turning Dublin’s GPO into a theatre at some stage if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.

And of course, there’s NAMA, but that’s a small price to pay now that the badgers are safe.


Programme for Government

Humour Politics

Green Party Says “No!” to Romance

That’s it, says the Green Party. No more with the light bulbs.

What? shout the Plain People of Ireland. But that’s the end of dimmed lights. What’ll we do for ambience?

You can the thousands of little LEDs in your ceiling put, says the Green Party. They just as good are with the light making.

No they’re not. They’re a horrible greeny blue colour and they make my face look all blotchy and that’s not the sort of thing you need over a smoochy dinner with subdued lighting and cheesy old mood music.

Silence! says the Green Party. We know what’s best. We know all, for we are earnest young men with bicycles. And of course the clipboards which cannot be avoided, but with the mass rounding-ups of dissidents are the needful but regrettable tool. Now the information: you can use CFLs instead. We have romance-calibrated them. We have a sample of 563 romances carefully studied and observe that 95% of them were unaffected by our lighting recommendations.

But I can’t dim these lights.

Keep a range of them in your pocket, and if a romantic moment seems to be on the point of happening, simply jump up quickly and replace the light with a weaker one. What could be easier?

Aren’t those CFLs made from poisonous mercury? And don’t they come all the way from China?

Silence! You are questioning established Green Theology and this is not, in the New Ireland, permitted.

But I have lots of lights.

You have more than one light in your house? More?? Than one???

Eh, yes.

There will a visit come from our highly-trained band of earnest and sincere young greenness auditors. They will inspect you.

You mean inspect my house.

No. They will inspect you for the correct thinking and readjust you if necessary. In the Green Camp with the others who are not the Greenthink agreeing with, for their own good. You seem to have wandered off the true green path, my friend, but we have ways of making your mind right. Don’t worry. We know what’s best for you. And your family and your friends and your neighbours and their families and their friends and their friends’ neighbours …

Maman Poulet

Global Warming Politics