George Lee teaches us something that we had assumed he knew

February 8, 2010

So George. Eight months eh? That difficult third trimester just proved too much, did it? “…virtually no influence or input into shaping Fine Gael’s economic policies” was it? What did you think would happen? That you’d swan in on the shoulders of Dublin South, profit and loss accounts in one hand and the other hand firmly grasping the loins of the nation’s respect as you planned to economically squeeze every cent wasted by Fianna Fail and then throw these cents to us peasants.

I suppose you thought that your good friend Enda Kenny would grab Richard Bruton (Current Deputy Leader of Fine Gael, spokesperson on Finance and a TD since 1982) by his finely tailored lapels and toss him out, maybe doing a few circumferences of the Dail first like something out of a Carry On Hammer Throwing film. It could of been done during the budget speeches; as ol’ Dicky spirals towards the press box, screams of malice in his mouth yet to even form, you’d spring out like a grouch in a can and start to soak the Dail in one cent coins with your heavily modified Super-Soaker. Enda could press the release for the multitude of fivers to gently rain down from above. And it could all be done to the tune of Money for Nothing by Dire Straits.

And yes, rightly so! That could have been organized in the 6 months or so between your election and the Budget. Actually, if you were given the resources of Fine Gael and the attitude of a real go-getter politician you might of got it done in less: say about 5 months, 27 days or so. Hell, it would take that long to organize some sort of golden handshake for Dicky Bruton.
The money wouldn’t even have been a problem. I’m sure a quick whip round the office could have provided you with 500 to 1000 fivers you’d need. If not, stick it on expenses. Not so sure on the music, you might have to pay for broadcast rights if you want it to make the news.

Honestly though, eight months, and no giant fanfare? No screaming babies to kiss, no Aras to call your own, no topless Cowan to wave palm fronds at you as your decrees are listened to with open awe and tears of joy from the population, as we whisper to each other, “Yes, this is the Golden Child. This is the One we have been waiting for. This is our Saviour.”

But at least you tried. You did indeed “get off the fence and try to make matters better”. Eight months off the fence is a long time, it’s a damn comfy fence after all; an almost inviting fence it must be said. Better then the cold brown leather of the Front Bench. And there is that old adage, that oft quoted proverb: “If something takes longer then eight months to do, then it’s time to get back on the fence old friend.” I think saw that on the back of a packet of Cara matches. Or maybe it was a Penguin Bar.

Sixteen percent (ish) into your term is definitely a good time to try a change of tact. And assuming you where not lying about your “great deal of reflection” over the matter (which I’m assuming must of eaten into that sixteen percent), then at least it can’t be said that you ever made an important decision in haste. It can never be said that you quit when quitting was easy, or that you didn’t give it your best shot over a sustained period of time.

And at least we know now that, surprise surprise, it may take longer then eight months for shit to not remain the same.

Gob Bluth?
But where did the lighter fluid come from?

Some childish, stupid debate on John Terry:

February 5, 2010

Now John Terry is at it. Was at it. I dunno, he could be riding someone that’s not his wife right now. The night is still young after all. Tiger has probably already had a few in tonight already. Or morning. What time-zone is golf in again?

Now, there’s worse things then sex with people who are not yours to have sex with. For example, sex with animals or knot holes. Both would be more difficult to explain to your doctor or spouse.
Well, spouse I’m not sure. How violated would a spouse feel if you were secretly creeping out back every night, tub of butter in one hand and rodent repellent in the other as you make your merry way down to the local forest for a spot of Hi-Ho with the local skanky beech?
Would they feel more or less betrayed then if you had used your buttery spread with a female human? I imagine less.

But it would make for an altogether better front page picture in The Star.

Terry having it off with a beech

Warning: Recycled joke from previous paragraph.

Anyway, I digress.

Sex with people who are not yours to have sex with. And the fact that we care. Those are our problems. Those are our two, topical problems that we all care about. For some reason.
I’ve talked about the fact that we care before. So I’ll talk about the other one now.

…Uh, don’t?