A Political Manifesto

A Political Manifesto

Satire

Major Farquhar St. John

I can’t begin to tell you what fun we’ve had on the hustings in this, our first campaign. My faith has been restored by those most affected by this current recession. It must be simply ghastly for all involved. Such stoicism in the face of impending doom is heart-rending. For that, I commend you all. Because of my status as a tax exile I don’t get to venture out among the good citizenry of Royal County Meath as much I should like to. My work as a Currency Trader similarly, compels one to stay abroad. Consequently, any sojourns into Eire are conducted by stealth. Still, I keep my oar in—with the occasional meet at Fairyhouse, riding out with the chaps from the Ward Union and, of course, Ladies Night at the Blue Jean Country Queen festival. Alas, this visit—on the canvas—was cut short due to a recurring bout of xenophobia. A malady I have endured since birth, it has progressed—to include Tourette’s. Moreover, this latest bout was prompted by an altercation with an unsightly young knave in Moynalty. The offence? He pointedly refused to doff his cap upon my instruction. Such an impertinence, is yet another indication of the growing malaise that permeates the lower orders. Naturally, I thrashed him to within an inch of his life—and would gladly heed the call to do so again. A fact, he would do well to reflect upon in the course of his recovery.
That day on the hustings did yield its own rewards. I learned of the savage nature of miserablism, which has seen many of you forego the pleasures of outrageous ostentation in favour of hedonistic displays of raucous revelry. I feel your pain. Though the plague of emigration has seen off a lot of the dross which passes for welfare state victim-hood here, the news hasn’t been all good. A great many of our finest fillies have been similarly discommoded. I share your frustration. If elected, I shall moot my proposal to ban emigration henceforth and replace it with an exchange program allowing for the immigration of Eastern European lovelies only. As an addendum to this, I shall move a writ ensuring the immediate repatriation to Dublin of all skangers to the enclaves from whence they came. This process can be extended to include any other persons of working-class origin prone to speaking audibly on subjects of which they know naught and/or acting suspiciously.

Those of you who live lives of quiet contemplation and—of necessity—modest frugality, have been heartened somewhat by the on-going spectacle of seeing yet another Celtic Tiger “cub” come a cropper. Bless the cockles of your black hearts, for I have too! There is nothing quite so vulgar as watching “new-money” stake their claim with cheques not even their own egos can match. Aspirations towards social elevation notwithstanding, there was a time when it was commensurate with even a token nod towards altruism. The conspiratorial patronage which aided and abetted the “boom” was but a poor substitute. The Celtic Tiger was feral beast indeed. Though Karma, like economics, is cyclical in nature we shall never set eyes on that beast again—“it’s with O’Leary in the grave!”. That being said, there are many yet, living beyond their means in properties they can ill-afford who require your assistance as taxpayers. Responding to their plight with cries of “All fur coat and no knickers!”—is just not cricket!

My friends in the world of finance are amenable to the notion of despairing clients settling accounts—with valuable blood donations—in the absence of any other viable alternative. High-grade, disease-free, Irish blood and internal organs remain valuable commodities in the trans-global world of medical commerce—not to mention the murky world of food processing. Such an innovation should be seized upon with great fervour, as I fear this great generosity of spirit may have a limited time-span.

I doubt if any of you will be in a position to write-off property tax contributions against charitable donations to my trust fund—Billionaires For Africa. Never fear. If elected, I promise to siphon off a tiny fraction—(say 5%)—of the One Billion Euro of Irish taxpayers money allocated to prop up military juntas in darkest Africa—towards enterprise development and poverty alleviation at home. I know there is little kudos in it, but my conscience and a creeping sense of moral justification, wouldn’t have it any other way.

To those of you who take the time to exercise your franchise, I know I can count on your vote. After all, we are all in this ghastly mess together what? To those of you too high-minded to be arsed—steady as she goes with the busy work of social implosion. In maintaining the status quo—rampant illiteracy apart—your consent is invaluable. To you all I say: “live horse and you’ll get grass!”

Yours Sincerely,

Major Farquhar St. John-Smythe,

Gawstlee Manors, De Boyce Square, Atha Bui, i gContae na Mhi.

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