The barring order on Bertie? Sure that's been common knowledge for yoinks. There's one on Mary O'Rourke too - she clocked her hubby with a nine iron after he fluffed an easy putt for a birdie on the eighth. Suited her grand, of course, meant she could move in with her girlfriend Maude, from Rwanda. A pygmy, you know, bone through her nose, all that class of caper. Hushed up of course, but then what do you expect?
I say Mary O'Rourke, but of course it's not Mary. It's Seamus. Not a Lenihan at all. That's all cod. She, or rather, he was a lorry driver from Dundalk who had a sex-change operation from the proceeds of Band-Aid. Embezzled the lot. But that's the way of these people. Didn't Mr Nobel Peace Prize himself, John Hume, make a fortune out of the Troubles - a fortune, now - selling smuggled pigs to British army canteens?
All hushed up
They don't tell you that, do they? And not a word either about Gerry Adams being Ian Paisley's love-child. Apparently a bit of knee-trembling behind Clonard monastery with a Sister of Mercy got a wee bit out of hand, so to speak. And Gerry only joined the Shinners after he was turned down for the RUC. All hushed up, as was that business between Garret FitzGerald and Twink in the bath-house in New York. Did it there and then on the floor, surrounded by 200 cheering gays. Sure wasn't Tony O'Reilly there, him and Robin Eames - they're an item these days. The bish was in his purple leather thong and looked very. . what's the word? . . episcopal. And what about the chairman of the Bank of Ireland running a money laundering operation for the Mafia? Well, they were blackmailing him, weren't they, after he was found in that club where they do, you know. What? You haven't heard? The things they get up to there, why, I wouldn't even name them. I'll give you a clue. Water sports.
And as for the President. Aras an Uachtarain? Knocking shop an Uachtarain more like. I have it on good authority, every evening a hire-coach drops off a dozen young men, with a sprinkling of women - apparently she likes a bit of variety - and first thing in the morning, a Corpo waste-removal truck collects their shrivelled husks, and dumps them off at Dunsink tiphead. Meanwhile, back at the Aras, herself is on the roof and only howling for more. Sad, really. All hushed up, of course.
But I'm not surprised about her, mind. Got that gamey look in her eye. A right goer. Same with Dev. Insatiable. The nuns at a particular school - I won't mention which one - used to treat him to the Leaving Cert year every second Friday in the month. First Fridays, in those days, were for Mass, of course; second Fridays, as I say, were for the the young lassies. Third Friday it was the lads from Castleknock - Dev always had a soft spot for the First Fifteen. A tasty bunch in the First Fifteen, he always said.
Public life
Fourth Friday, he and John Charles would jointly have the Simon Community hostel up for a bit of how's-your-father; lashings of communion wine all round to get things going, and then yoicks, tally-ho! Fifth Friday, when there was one, it was the turn of the Little Sisters of the Poor and the rubber fetish.
But that's the way with public life. The amount of carry-on, you wouldn't believe. See your man Dermot Desmond, with the Battle of Britain whiskers - "watch out chaps, bandits five o'clock high, my wing man's just copped a packet and my engine's on fire" - you know who I mean? More like a lounge lizard, you think? Possibly, possibly. Well you know how he made his money? What? Financial services? Financial services my arse, excuse my French. Born yesterday, you were. No, no, he made his pile selling crack-cocaine to Brazilian orphanages, and then of course the kids all had to go on the game.
You know who's another one? Sister Stan. Oh yes, I know, very plausible, very sweet-seeming, our Stan, and all a cod. Tough as steel, she is, tough as steel. Owns an arms factory and three banks in Switzerland outright, the ones that didn't cough up the stolen Jewish riches. Got a gold jacuzzi and an impi of Zulu warriors on call, oompah oompah, round the clock. But you'd never guess. Never read about that in the newspapers, of course. Powers that be, got it all sewn up.
Worst of them
Of course, that's because they've got the press where they want them, either by buying them or blackmailing them. Those who weren't on the take are perverts. Leather masks, oranges in the gob, you take my drift. Make Bob Maxwell seem like Mother Teresa, the press, though I could tell you a thing or two about her.
You know who the worst of them is? That fellow with the funny accent, writes an Irishman's thingummy in The Irish Times. Irishman's thingummy, my Nat King Cole. Sure it's well known he works for MI5, but that's not the half of it. Has a taste for frogs. No, not French people, frogs. Grawnwee. Can't leave him for a minute with even a bowl of tadpoles without him leaping in for a bit of leg-over.
Speaking about leg-over, did I ever tell you. . .