Saturday, February 26, 2011

The lie of the Land

It's happening up and down the country: Fianna Fail TDs are fighting like beavers for their seats, and they're losing. Meanwhile journalists are abandoning impartiality and integrity in favour of dancing small jigs on our former Goverment Party's grave. It's comical. Here's a list of words being used: Slaughtered. Annihilated. Massacred. Butchered. Mangled. It'll be a wonder if any of them live to tell the tale. Those who do will have to hide their faces or go into exile. Or worse. Move to Cork. Michael Martin will put them all up in his gaff. They can hide out in his attic.

I can smell the smug from King Inda from here.

Fine Gael are marching on though. What's even worse than outright smuggery is the kind of veiled, patronising smugness that you know is just going to be reeking from Leo Varadker tomorrow morning. Eugh. I can smell it from her.

In the Batcave (Liberty Hall, it's where the Unions live) Eamonn Gilmore is coverign his ears and squeezing his eyes shut trying to repress the memory of those ddddddreadful "Gilmore for Taoiseach" posters. Honestly, what was he thinking of??

There's a good chance that the Shinners are going to be the biggest party in Opposition. Would you really want to be in opposition against them? Remember the last guys they were in Opposition against... I know, brings a whole new meaning to the term "sweating bullets".

As for here in North Tipp... it's quiet. The returning officer has called for lunch, as even Democracy must eat. And so must I. Corned beef sandwich, here I come.

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