I awoke this morning with La Marseillaise trumpeting in my ears. I shook the violent anthem from my porcelaine pumpkin only to find that sounds of an angry mob still railled in the heating system of my soft suburban abode.
Curious indeed, I thought to myself as I scrolled through last night’s recovered doc in search of traces of Absinthe or other such head-soupers.
Gradually the bawdy cries became clear, and as they did, so dawned my panic. They weren’t in fact the cries of hungry French peasants weilding syphilitic pitchforks, but salt of the earth Irishmen. And though I don’t speak their particular dialect of Hiberno-English, I gathetred from their accents and their braying that they wanted middle-class blood. I remember their rioting in O'Connell Street...that was just an amuse bouche.
I dived under my bed, shivering in my Peter Panesque nightgown and cap, cluthing my David MacWilliams action figure, petrified quite out of my wits...
Helas, it’s finally happened, I thought, tired of their staple of batch bread and brown sauce, they’ve risen up against their cruel bourgeois masters to take back what The Celtic Tiger has denied them for so long. They’ve most likely stormed Mount Joy Prison and are at present pillaging and burning The Southside assunder.
With taximen and bus drivers at the eye of their rage, surely no graduate will be spared. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I peed myself a little when their roaringing machinery of murderous revolution started up. Terrible sounds–God, they must’ve enlisted the help of Polish builders and are going to bulldoze my stucco-clad walls. They’ll drag me from my Egyptian cotton bed, pour Linden Village on me and eat me alive. Oh the humanity–Bertie, Bertie! What have you done? What have we done? Fools, fools, debonaire fools every man Jack of us!
Then a drill started up; it seemed to be on the other side of the street. Are they going to ravish my neighbours first? Oh joy! My chance to escape...to some bastion of middle-classdom. Surely they’ll have walled off Killiney and Dalkey, possibly Fox Rock. And from there I can escape to Denmark where they have no working classes. I could become an abstract artist and have boring smug children.
I crawled to the window and peeked out...
To my surprise I was faced with a small group of burly men in yellow reflector jackets standing around watching one other of their kind drill the road. They were just laying cable for the ESB.
Yet another CRISIS IN FOPTOWN.
Tune in tomorrow for another of Party Jack’s Crises in Foptown