Of course we stand for something! We stand for the Squeezed Middle
‘Ireland has not been at such a critical juncture,” the old man goes, “certainly not since independence. We are about to witness a seismic shift in Irish politics, the emergence of a new force, a quote-unquote party of the people, to challenge the inverted commas big three. New Republic! God, I love that beautiful juxtaposition of words. Helen will tell you – for the past month I’ve been waking up saying them.”
I switch on the shredder, portly because I’ve got, like, 15 bags of documents to dispose of, but mainly to try to drown out his voice. It’s no good, though. The focker could shout down a 747 engine. He just raises his voice a couple of hundred decibels and the Magico High Security Cross Cutter is suddenly fighting a losing battle.
“We’re hoping to field a candidate in every constituency,” he goes. “We have have 30 names thus far! Thirty, Ross! And, well, naturally, I shall be running in my beloved Dún Laoghaire. Might even give Herr Gilmore a bloody well dusting – that’s if he has the courage to face the electorate again!”
I go, “I don’t know why you’re even bothering your hole,” which is genuinely meant as a conversation ender.
You know my old man, though. His face is suddenly lit up and he’s going, “Oh, this is good! This is just what I need! A devil’s advocate, as it were! I’m going to need to be sharp for my grilling by, no doubt, Vincent Browne!” I’m there, “Yeah, I actually meant what I said? You’re whatever age you are now. Why are you even bothering?” He actually laughs at that. Then he goes, “We’re living in desperate, desperate times, Ross. Now, I know you’re an avid student of history.”
I got an NG in history, just to put the record straight.
“So you’ll appreciate better than anyone how, in desperate times, people get dangerous ideas. That’s how we ended up with communism. And fascism. And TDs who turn up to the Dáil in the bloody well clothes they slept in.
“A man with your unerring political nose must smell it, Ross. There’s a whiff of revolution in the air. People are angry. They’re liable to vote for just anyone. Well, I want New Republic to be that ‘just anyone’.” I laugh. I’m there, “So you don’t actually stand for anything?”
He reacts like he’s just been shot. “Of course we stand for something! We stand for the Squeezed Middle – quote-unquote! The dispossessed professional classes. People like your godfather and I, who’ve paid our taxes – well, our arrears plus penalties and interest, in my case – and who are now saying, ‘No more! No bloody well more!’ ”
I switch off the machine, but he continues on at the same volume.
“People who were encouraged to invest everything they had in property and are now being taxed on investments that are as good as worthless. Business people who’ve been driven to the wall by the very banks that they were forced to bail out.
“People who are tired of the sight of thirtysomething-year-old mittel Europeans with designer glasses and leather shoulder bags cutting an arrogant swathe from the Merrion Hotel to the Department of Finance to tell our democratically elected leaders how to run the country. People who are generally fed up of feeling Europe’s hands in their pockets. Property tax. Water tax. This tax. That tax.
“To those people, I say, ‘There is hope.’ Fine Gael have let you down. So-called Labour broke every promise they made to you. Fianna Fáil – well, we know what they’re about. Crooks, secondary school teachers, and the idiot child of the family keeping the family seat warm – that’s what Irish politics has always been about. But New Republic is here to show you that there is a better way!”
After a few seconds of silence, he goes, “Well, what do you think?”
I’m there, “Is this the bit where I’m supposed to, like, clap?”
He’s like, “Well, clap if you’re moved to, Ross. You’re going to be hearing a lot more pretty speeches like that from me over the coming months – especially if this so-called coalition falls. We’re going to be ready, Ross. A candidate in every constituency – that’s our intention.”
It’s at that exact moment that there’s, like, a light knock on the back door of the old Shred Focking Everything van, then who steps in only Sorcha.
“I was driving past,” she goes, “and I saw the van!” I’m porked on the Milltown Road, by the way. She’s all, “Hi, Charles! Oh my God, I actually loved what you were saying just there.”
“That’s reinforced metal,” I go, “two-and-a-half inches thick – and she could still focking hear you from outside,” except the old man just ignores me. A lot of my insults just bounce off him, which is one of the things I’ve always hated about him.
Sorcha goes, “Speaking as someone with first-hand experience of losing a business because of the – oh my God – gross mishandling of the whole economic thing, I can tell you for a fact that you already have, like, my vote?”
This look suddenly crosses the old man’s face. It’s the same look as when he sticks his knife into one of John Shanahan’s Certified Anguses and the plate suddenly looks like a murder scene. Big focking crocodile smile on him.
“Why the hell don’t you stand?” he goes. “I could see you giving Lucinda Creighton a bloody good run for her money in Dublin South East!”
She’s like, “Do you really think so?” and in that moment I realise there will be no talking her out of this.
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE
