Not even two months have passed since the white smoke emerged from Arklow Municipal District offices signifying that a fresh troop of Homo sapiens have been elected to the Grand Council of Apes. The cynical youth-who are clearly illiterate about such political matters-could be forgiven for thinking that absolutely fuck all will change. The bloodsucking cancerous slumlords, feasting on human misery as their nectar, will continue to feed off the shattered dreams of the proletariat. The pristine blue Leinstuuuuuuuurrrrrrrr rogby flags will continue to ripple in the wind of the Marina Village yachts they so proudly adorn whilst the bookies will continue selling broken dreams to broken men. The infamous “Monday Club” of the Brook will continue to belt out the karaoke serenading within earshot of the very Social Welfare Office that belches its pitiful crumbs to enjoy even the briefest of sojourns from a crippling cost of living crisis. Crucially, the generational wealth divide will continue to grow as mainly establishment candidates of a certain vintage return to local office. A sad reflection of a once thriving town, the general elections will no doubt also witness a repeat of the property/rentier class voting their mirror image into office.
“Filling potholes and keepin’ de foreigners out me constituents back yard is my sworn oath of duty,” a jubilant Cllr Fitzbollocks proclaimed after narrowly returning to office for his 149th consecutive council term in a row. “My typical voter, and those of the Fine in Failure coalition both locally and nationally, loves things just the way they are thank you very much. Sunday carveries, the GAA after Mass, watching my properties appreciate in value by the week and collecting rents during the week. I survived this time by the skin of dentures, but in all my years I never recall such a vitriolic campaign against myself and my establishment colleagues. It is almost as if-thanks to social media, increasing secularism and such platforms as The Ditch-the shafted youth of Ireland have finally peeled back the festering scab that is Irish politics to reveal an endless pus of cronyism, nepotism, ineptitude and corruption. The youth whinging about the property availability should just fuck off to Oz-where rents are even worse-and boomerang back (pun intended) like the little ungrateful bastards they are. Like we all had it tough, nothing was ever handed to us bar permanent, unqualified and pensionable jobs, obtained with no more than a failed Intercert whilst possessing the reading and writing skills of a dyslexic baboon. We did learn how to take savage beatings from the Christian Brothers and sure didn’t it toughen us up for the real world? Today, my professional skills would no doubt be snapped up on the job market,” proclaimed Fitzbollocks.
“I started in the local factory back in the 70s’ and I only got the job cos my sister’s aunt’s cousin was in charge and he was Fianna Fail and sure didn’t I vote and canvas the right way and got the job and that’s how I joined de party and haven’t looked back since. I hear de youth givin out about rents and housing but sure we didn’t have it any better! I bought mine for a few grand and there’s nuthin I love more than objecting to any new housing which may affect my property value. Not in my fuckin backyard ever I can tell ya!” roared an entitled Fitzbollocks
I was just about to interject about the relative value of houses to the average industrial wage/worker productivity back then before Fitzbollock’s head melted and exploded as he screamed: “17777777777%%%%%%%%% mortgage interest rate!!!!! Which we secured on one low-skilled income as my darling brood mare wife stayed at home to pop out our 16 children. Times were tight then as Id be in the pub for the infamous Arklow four-day weekend, show up at the factory half-cut in the morning and shit pure stout on company time for the first half of each day. Kids now want everything for nothin, and I must say it was difficult to pretend I gave a single shite about the spoilt little bastard’s concerns on the doorstep this time around. An honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay,” Fitztbollocks cheerily exclaimed as he cursed the CE Scheme worker in council offices who had put too much milk in his tea. “For fucks sake, pay peanuts and get monkeys. Siobhan? Get rid of that cunt, plenty more of them out there who can make a better cup of tea, hoover the offices, wash the windows, fix my phone, open my pdfs and back up my photos for twenty quid on their dole.”
“My rental properties are packed to the rafters with Ukrainians, druggie scum and an assortment of other ne’er-do-wells. I don’t even have an official headcount meself, but sure as soon as one dies they go straight into my mobile app-operated, custom-built incinerator. Kind of like that Charlton Heston film Soylent Green, they are replace that very day with even more of a churn of the disadvantaged. It’s quite a good system I’ve got going cos I get guaranteed multiple income streams from the precious ratepayer, my councillor salary (plus those beautiful expenses baby) and the HAP from my pathetic tenants. Being a slumlord is tough, but I’m providing an invaluable state service! Putting the servant in public service since the 70’s!” stated Fitzbollocks.
Asked about his future plans at his Biden-esque condition/age and perhaps even considering stepping down to allow a youth candidate represent the disaffected youth, Fitzbollocks was bullish: “The Fine in Failure coalition aint going nowhere and we had enough silver voters this time around anyway to squeeze in a majority. I have already implored my party leaders in headquarters to call this national election sooner rather than later as half our base could be annihilated in the next bad COVID wave! You’ll have to carry me out in a fuckin box!” cheered Fitzbollocks.
