Sportsquilt jackets, shoulder bags, super series hi top trainers, Estee Lauder products. They all float by me as I tearfully wade through an aquatic version of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. I am wondering what happened to the dream. I am wondering what we did to anger God. Was it the arrogance of the temple? Was it the bravado of this cathedral of boots, bags and credit card cognitive dissonance?
Must bubbles always burst? I remember when we started blowing ours. Inflating it to a size we could be proud of. 1994. Riverdance. Do you remember? We came hoofing out on stage, loudly stamping our feet and letting the world know we were here. Gerry was compare. Gerry was compare through all the good years that followed. His loquacity beamed from Montrose (a.k.a. party central). The bubble ballooned and so did Gerry. The bubble burst and so did Gerry.
PoP!
Kaput!
Those who had escape pods launched them. Some brave souls stayed, trying to make something new from what remained. But less than nothing remained. The equity was negative and so was the mood of the people. They crucified Seán Gallagher on live TV last night. Did you see it? An IRA man placed a crown of thorns upon his head and a pederast sympathiser nailed down his limbs. Why do they hate him so? Do they fear the challenge set by his vision? Do they envy his endeavour? God’s furious dark shadow spills across this nation, devouring our dreams of a bright future and angrily shitting back out the past. 'That'll learn yiz', says God. 'That'll learn yiz', he roars like a demented Irish teacher waving his bata.
Dole queues. One way tickets to Oz. Fingerless gloves and PLO scarves. I’ve reformed the band. Do you remember us at all? We got to number 32 in 1987. We were called Live Register. Butter Voucher of Love, that was our hit. We’re back now. We’re doing a residency with An Emotional Fish at The Bridge Hotel Waterford.
This party's over
I can’t stay home
Emigrate
I guess the signs were always there. We just couldn’t read them. We can now, in retrospect. Do you recall the streetlights reflected as rings in the pools of English stag party piss? Yeah, Anglo Golden Circles. Oh, God warned us alright but are we guilty for not being able to heed those warnings? Do we really deserve to be punished like this? God has sent his flood. What next? Fire? A fire in Priory Hall? Or maybe pestilence? Should we expect a plague of locusts? A plague of locusts gobbling up the less than nothing we have left? A plague of locusts sent by God to teach us a lesson in austerity? Perhaps the locusts are already here.
Well fuck it. Let’s not talk ourselves down. Let’s take some comfort in the memory of what went before and what, one day, one distant day, may come again.
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