I can't help but notice that I have singularly failed to weigh in on any matters social or political since my steaming great comeback of September The Fourth. Unless you consider Macnas to be sociable or children's birthday parties to be political. Which you don't. Because all eleven of my readers are bright, savvy people who know stuff. That's right, I'm up to eleven. I do it for your love.
So politics, huh? The Presidential election, what?
What is right. What a load of shit, in fact. The pointlessness of the position. The fuckwittery that is the electoral process. The horrific list of candidates. Who shall serve as our Head of State? Who would best represent our country abroad? A mass murdering fuckhead? A crazy bigot? A powerless old man lacking the guts to quit a morally bankrupt party? Or David Norris?
Norris was my guy, you see. I was happy to overlook his pomposity, his smugness, even his two-tone bearded toddler pageant grin. Liberal, literate, loquacious. All my favourite Ls. But if a member of Fianna Fáil had misused their office in the way that Davy did, I would be howling for time in the stocks, and even I cannot stretch my bungee of hypocrisy to the point that I can see myself voting for the guy, however much I might wish that I was gay. It's all moot as fuck of course, he's not going to get the nomination. True, nobody would have been trawling through his every letter had he been a super-hetero, bog trotting Fine Gael anonymatron, but thems the big gay breaks.
So where does this leave us? Predictably bereft, with little but the transferable hope that the literal or metaphorical sky falls before October 27th, saving us from the further international ridicule which will doubtless be occasioned by our election of a straight man who chooses to call himself Gay.