Wednesday, May 13

All this account needs is a video game spin-off

By Paul Kennedy




And so the four sat, waiting, anticipation. The debate to end all debates. Politics argued, issues dissected, points thrown out into the air like confetti for the poor church stewards to pluck from grass. How would it all pan out? How could one's young mind, putty for sculpting, be ready to hold all the waiting information? How could a pen, this mere object created by mere mortal hands, mere mortal, trembling, hands, be able to pluck this information from the air, this sticky, carpet heavy air? How could the page, held in wait, be able to hold all this information? This vast, waiting cavalcade of data, on the lips of Gods, the lips of the chosen few, the ready few. The few who are willing to stand up and ask for our votes?

Trocaire, that lofty ideal, lays it on the table for them. I hold my breath. Surely this will be the metaphorical boxing match to end all metaphorical boxing matches? Six million children, kids, dying a year they inform us. Aid declining by 22% in Ireland. The political will is gone we hear. How will these four souls give answer to such claims? I closed my eyes for fear of complete mind implosion. Optic nerves were not created to deconstruct such cataclysmic political scenes.


Kathy Sinnott, Independent, born in Chicago, has the floor. This carpeted floor, this floor that may or may not be able to hold the combined weight of such minds. I try to maintain calm. It would do no good to think of plunging to our deaths now.


She maintains to focus on “what one has done’, and throws, tosses, flings out an anecdote about a maternity hospital she visited in Sierra Leone, paid for, funded by the EU, but in disuse due to poor management and next to no consultation with the locals. Dan Boyle fiddles with his PDA, Toireasa Ferris fiddles with her pen.

Kathy has her left hook anecdotes; do they have right hooked ideals?
The crowd inhales.


Toireasa storms in, Sinn Féin views in effect, Kerry voice a lilt: “We will be judged on our actions.” “Social justice”, “Fairness”, “Equality”. Words to put fire in our veins, words to incite us to action. I look for my pitchfork among my bag of pens and paper. I am ill-equipped, I fear. Debt must be canceled for these countries she feels. She knows.

The air is positively damp with politics.

Luckily, before the mob rules, Colm Burke, Fine Gael, opens with a joke that jolts us like static electricity, which is no doubt in abundance enough here to power this city of Cork. He speaks as a former mayor of this city, and casually drops in his experiences in Kenya and Gaza. 50% of aid is European, and he wants to keep it that way. His yellow tie shines like aid relief. This man understands politics.

Ireland is one of only three countries that cut foreign aid this year. Terrifying. A veiled attack at the current government? Fianna Fail has no man present to answer. The jab goes unblocked.

Dan Boyle sits forward and speaks, microphone a whistle, like a wine glass musician rendered senseless by too much damnation over his charity records. “Ireland will continue to remain one of the prosperous countries.” This Green party candidate knows we will survive. But will the poorer nations be able to pull a Gloria Gaynor? Not without aid is the consensus.

Thanks are given, the creaking floor is open to us. Questions waiting, questions given, questions answered. I fear these keys need a break from my politically charged fingers…