It wasn't the Master that hurt you - punish us instead. . .


Any abuse earned by this column is often gravely misdirected – it’s not Kilian’s fault, writes KILIAN DOYLE

HELLO THERE, and welcome to another jolly missive from my erudite corner of glee. It’s more fun than sheep-dipping boyracers. This week I’ll be. . .

Hold on. Let’s stop right there. Enough of this charade. It’s time to come clean: the person writing this is not Kilian Doyle at all. My name is Satrap Von Claptrap, and I’m one of the coterie of craven lickspittles that the Master – as He insists on being called – holds hostage in Emissions Towers.

There are currently 42 of us, in various states of decrepitude. Each has been cajoled, coerced or conned with promises of fame, fortune and Ferraris. He locks us up in cramped cages fashioned from rusted Cortina panels and leaking shock absorbers.

We are tied to the walls with ignition leads and fed nothing but axle grease and worn out bushings that have been dipped in Castrol GTX.

Some of us have been here years, ever since the Master was an avowed cyclist and thought all cars were evil. Others are newer additions, drafted in since He discovered the rabid petrolhead hidden deep within His psyche. Among our number are experts in mechanics, motor-racing, criminology and psychology. A few are even highly skilled in international diplomacy.

And why does He want us? So He can pick our brains for ideas, which He then makes us bash into semi-literate 650-word ramblings for you to enjoy. We are forced to suffer in silence while the Master rolls around chortling in the piles of filthy lucre he has amassed thanks to our efforts.

If we don’t come up with the goods, the Master wallops us with timing chains and threatens to sell us to Jeremy Clarkson. Sometimes, the whippings are so bad He even hurts Himself. You may remember Him whinging about back-knack a few weeks ago. While He blamed it on His cars, the reality is He twanged it while administering us with a particularly savage beating with a load of ragged fanbelts twisted into a cat o’ nine tails.

Now, you’d think we all hate Him as a result of this treatment. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

While it may be that we’re suffering from a collective case of severe Stockholm Syndrome, we actually worship the Master, sadistic sleaze-pig though He may be. We understand Him.

It hurts us to see the pain in His eyes when He gets deluged with snide emails and angry letters, and bitched about by anonymous tough guys on internet forums as a result of our work. Believe it or not, He genuinely deeply, passionately cares if He has upset anyone. Who, in His position, wouldn’t take it out on the architects of their distress? What’s more, the engine in His beloved Duchess is banjaxed and His son Turbo shoved a handful of coins into the CD player in the Millstone. Unsurprisingly, He’s very stressed, poor lamb.

Thankfully, the Master is otherwise engaged today. He went to observe the Dublin Bus Gate in operation last week. And liked what he saw. “Smoother than a trout’s crotch,” declared He, with a spring in his step. Suitably inspired, He’s gone to battle his way through the masses in Ikea to buy the wherewithal to build His own Beemer Gate. He’s planning to cordon off 14 square miles of north Kildare, from which He’ll ban whomever takes his fancy. As you can imagine, few vehicles will be allowed entry.

I’ve therefore taken advantage of His absence to hack into his laptop. Because I need to set the record straight.

Remember those recent rants about lobotomising Donegal’s imbecile doughnuteers and convertibles making you look camper than a Scout jamboree that saw Him bombarded with bile-ridden abuse from every corner of the globe? Well, they were down to us. It wasn’t his fault. He doesn’t mean a word of it. He’s lovely, really. Honest.