I always hoped I’d be Taoiseach one day. There was so much I wanted to do.
I would, for example, have installed a new system in the Dáil which, apart from anything else, would let us know to the second, how long each of our public representatives spent in the chamber.
It would have been a simple electronic device which each TD would clip onto their wrists when they arrived letting us know they were there.
If they tried to cover for a colleague by wearing TWO of the devices, it would immediately emit a strong, but obviously non-fatal, electric current.
It would also be designed to sense bullshit and emit a slightly weaker current when a TD began waffling.
The scheme would have been funded by cutting TD expenses from their ridiculous current levels – if a TD lives next door to Leinster House they can currently claim around €2,500 a month tax free expenses. I would have proposed cutting that to something more realistic and closer to what we all get for turning up work. It would be a figure close to €0,000. Well, a salary of €90,000 a year is enough, isn’t it.
Anyway, it’s not going to happen.
And that’s down to something I did, or rather said, in my past of which I am utterly ashamed.
It was about sixty years ago but that, as we all know, makes no difference.
And what happened was – this is hard for me – I called one of the boys from the next road to us (please don’t let children see this) “Fatty fat arse.”
I know I shouldn’t have said it.
And the fact that it was a long time ago doesn’t make what I said right.
Apologising doesn’t make it go away.
And so, my dream of high office is over.
I blame myself.
And of course, the fecker who’s been going around recently telling everyone what I said back then.
Who’s doing that, you ask.
Fatty Fat Arse himself of course.