A man of 25 years or so stares into the mirror. His face, the fervent amalgamation of wonder and denial that only a heartfelt pill binge can mould. Enamel scrapes off enamel, dragging with it chunks of ambition, dreams long since dormant. The soul ground into oblivion. Consumed by a temporary and enjoyable intensity that will soon be replaced by callous emptiness. Nothing shall remain in the morning... He rushes outside to dance to James Brown. Get up offa that thing...
Last night as The New(ish) Journalism waited in the awkward societal limbo that is the gents toilets in a pub when all the urinals and cubicles are in use, reverberations began to coarse. Reverberations regarding consequences. Consequences regarding elections... Surrounded by piss-stained Levis, sweat-pitted Ben Sherman, designer stubble, the occasional foreigner and full on scumbags, he momentarily glimpsed the true future of Ireland. And it frightened him.
Come back McDowell! All is forgiven! Not for me this Ireland of youthful revelry, integration and sporadic over indulgence... Come back McDowell and we shall both embrace an Ireland free of grafitti, free of niteclubs, free of immigration, free of the proletariat... Come back McDowell and we shall frolic together through perfectly regimented meadows, and return to Dublin South East to fumble through our greasy tills. Let us gape and guffaw as they overflow, funding our glorious police state. I love Ireland too!
Good riddance. Tosser.