Emissions Kilian DoyleThis merry tale begins with me in west Dublin, trying to work out a way of getting home without braving the Red Cow roundabout.
Not that I had anything against it per se, but its reputation was playing havoc with my pessimism. "It's hell!" screamed one headline. "It's destroying our lives!" exclaimed another.
I was tortured by the image of a hundred trucks coming at me from fifty directions, like a scene out of Bladerunner.
Look, I eventually said to myself, you'll never get anywhere in life by running away from probable death. I bit the bullet and chugged off towards my Waterloo.
It wasn't actually that bad. Traffic aplenty, but nothing I couldn't handle.
The 15 chaps standing around in Urban Chic ensembles of fluorescent jackets and plastic hats brought a gentle, unhurried atmosphere to the proceedings. The nonchalant leaning-on-shovels element of their modelling performance was a subtle, if slightly decadent, touch.
I was enjoying toying with my mortality, so I decided not to bolt for the exit, but to take the tour. Bad move. For 'twas chaos around the other side. Traffic was at a standstill, with scores of motorists out of their cars, transfixed by a dumpy little man in a Red Army cap and tattered leather jacket prancing about atop a prefab office.
"What's going on?" I asked an irate trucker.
"It's bleedin' Bono liberatin' traffic again. The Ego has landed, wha'?" he said, his breakfast roll dripping greasy detritus onto his fag. "Jaysus, has he nuttin' better to be doin'? Is there not some planet really feckin' far away he could be savin'?" My sentiments exactly.
Still, I was intrigued, so I edged closer. "There's been a lot of talk about this next roundabout!" our Messianic hero was bellowing, his chubby face bulging with conviction. "Maybe, maybe too much talk. But this is not a rebel roundabout . . . this is Red Cow, Bloody Red Cow!"
"Oh, fer Chrissakes, what is that clown up to?" a polyester-suited salesman in a Ford Mondeo inquired loudly of nobody in particular. "I've got shower curtains coming out of my ears, what do have to say about that, you fat twit?"
The Bombasticon was undeterred. "Yeah, man, nobody likes the truth, man, uhhh! Commuters of Ireland are being burned, baby! The Man is taking ovahh! He's strangling the little people!"
(What have leprechauns got to do with this? I thought to myself. Do they not get enough hassle from American tourists without this eejit sticking his oar in?)
"Yeah, Dubbelinn, can you hear me!!! Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine, Walkinstown! What ya gonna dooo-ooo-aahh?"
"Sweet merciful hour, will someone put him out of our misery?" shouted the salesman, again at nobody in particular. I shuffled away. He might have a dangerous power shower in the back of his motor, you never know.
"Would Nelsooohhnn Mandelelela let this happen?" Bono continued, writhing like a slug in salt. I worried for the survival of his pants. They were fit to burst with the exertion of it all. "What would, uhhh, Gandhi do? Or Andrea Corr-orr? Uuhh, yeah, can you hear me George Bush? Can you hear me, Seamus Brennan? Eehhh, yeah, man, baby, uhhh!"
The mood was turning ugly. I couldn't be sure, but I thought I overheard a small group of taxi-drivers discussing suitable spots for shallow graves in the Wicklow Mountains. Bono, like, felt the bad vibes, man.
"Hey, uhh, Bono don't have to be here, baby!" he whined, peeved at the lack of adulation. At that exact moment, his mobile phone rang. "What's that you say, Kofi? There's a child with a broken shoelace in Uzbekistan? There could be a Nobel in it for me? Yeahh, Bono's there, uhh!!" And he disappeared in a waiting helicopter (which had been parked on the southbound slip road of the M50, causing tailbacks as far as Inchicore) dropping copies of his new CD as he left. At least four ears were sliced off. A small price to pay, you'll agree.
I smiled to myself, putting away my phone. It's amazing what you can achieve with a bit of detective work and a talent for impersonating the UN Secretary General.