Jesus, they breed their criminals tough in Dublin.
There’s Martin Foley, now, a violent thug and well-known underworld figure. (Isn’t it amazing how they’re all called figures?)
Anyway, Martin gets riddled with fucking bullets AGAIN! Again, I tell you, at 55 years of age. For fucksake, is nothing sacred? Wouldn’t you think, now that Martin is getting to a respectable age, they’d let him alone to get on with his criminal activities in peace? Wouldn’t you?
A charming character, is Martin, up to his neck in all manner of thuggery, crookery and criminality, and rather limply nicknamed the Viper a few years back by the media, when you couldn’t name these bastards publicly. Do you remember that? There was the Penguin, and the General (Martin Cahill, a complete arsehole, subsequently blown away by another crowd of arseholes, who I think might have been IRA or something. He was probably encroaching on their drug-dealing path of peace).
I could never take that Viper thing seriously because it reminded me of an old joke from a Christmas cracker.
I am ze Viper.
I have come to vipe your vindows.
But it wasn’t only that. It was the ridiculous parade of romantic names for scumbags like Foley who were no more than basic lowlife dirt.
I was driving to Galway not so long ago when I noticed a sign: Welcome to Clarinbridge. Home of the Oyster.
Wait a minute, I said.
Wasn’t that another one of those Dublin criminals, like the Monk, the Penguin, the General? I was nearly sure of it, but which one was he? Was the Oyster the one who had a shoot-out with the Gobshite on the roof of a dog-food factory? Or the one who murdered the Wanker in a drive-by stabbing? Maybe he was the one who nailed the Doughnut’s scrotum to a washing machine? No. That was the Gnu and the Ape. I remember now: the Oyster set fire to the Fool, for eating the Arsehole’s entire family. That’s right, I remember.
Anyway, it looks like he now lives in Clarinbridge.
The problem with glorifying these gobshites with fancy names is that they believe it, which is a problem, but anyway, back to Martin Foley.
Martin, it seems, was shot seven times yesterday as he left a gym in Dublin, but he’s going to be all right. What’s more, he’s been shot before. In fact he was the recipient of a hail of bullets not once, but twice in the past, and before yesterday had already taken 11 bullets.
Now, apart from the obvious questions regarding the standard of hitmen available these days, you’d have to wonder, wouldn’t you? How does a guy manage to get shot eighteen times over his lifetime and still walk around?
There was a clue to this on the lunchtime news, where it was revealed that one of the bullets had bounced off his skull.
Oh right. I see.
Do you know something? If I was a consultant to criminal gangs, which I’m not, I’d be advising them to try a different approach as this one is clearly not working. Going forward.