KETTLING

I was doing a bit of kettling at the Occupy Dame Street protest there on Saturday. The law weren’t doing it so I thought I’d have a bash myself. I headed out to the Central Bank and ran at the marchers with my arms outstretched. I managed to kettle about three of them, which isn’t bad considering I was alone. I kettled them into the doorway of a Spar. They took out camera phones and started roaring ‘the whole world is watching, the whole world is watching!’ Like I gave a shite. Fuckin social media video upload nonsense. I just kept kettling the fuckers. The 99 percent my arse. The 99 percent are wandering around Dundrum shopping centre or watching the match. More like the zero point something percent. I kettled the shite out of them alright. It was marvellous. Oh yeah, there was marvellous kettling to be had on Saturday.

You really can’t beat a bit of kettling. The cousin is into fishing. I’ve been fishing with him and it’s OK but kettling is more my game. It makes you feel kind of powerful. I don’t get to feel powerful too often in life, what with my job in the brush factory and Mr. Boyle never missing an opportunity to remind me that I’m a, quote: ‘useless geebag who wouldn’t know a decent long handle industrial floor sweep from a kick in the bollox’.

Work can leave me feeling demoralised at times but a bit of kettling gets it all out of the system. I don’t know why an garda síochána aren’t seizing the opportunity to get stuck in themselves. The Brit cops would be straight in there with the kettling. It must be great being paid to kettle. That’d be my dream. I do it for nothing. I’d have loved to have kettled that Teresa Treacy one who was causing hassle for the ESB. She’d have been easy pickings. I’d have kettled that biddy into the middle of next week and no mistake. I could’ve kettled her into the corner of her garden while the lads felled the trees. That would’ve been great altogether. I might’ve got a reward. The lads might’ve given me some of the wood from the trees and I could’ve brought it to work and given it to Mr. Boyle for the new patio and deck scrubs we’re working on. Maybe that’d get him off my back for a while. Maybe he’d give me a raise. I could do with the money. Things are a bit tight what with me being the 99 percent and all that.

OCCUPY DAME STREET: THE FUGGER REPORT

Dropped in on the Occupy Dame Street crowd. I wasn’t sure what was up so I thought I’d check it out and make up my own mind. I was wondering about the demographics and beliefs of the people staying there so I asked a few questions. ‘Do you have a job do you, do you though, do you even work?’ I asked in a friendly manner. Then I asked another question before they could reply to that one because, let’s face it, we all know what the answer would be. My second question was ‘what do you want?’ but I could kind of guess the answer to that one too so as they opened their mouths and drew breath to speak, I roared ‘Oh that’s absolutely ridiculous!’

They were all fairly young. ‘Does your mammy know you’re here?’ I asked one girl in a concerned manner. She just walked off. Walked off! I mean it would be great to see young people engage politically but don’t we have Young Fine Gael for that?

My next question was ‘who’s your leader?’ ‘We don’t have a leader’, one managed to say. Imagine that? They forgot to get a leader. Bit of an oversight eh? I mean, could you imagine if armies went to war without leaders? They’d be running around all over the place, firing guns at the wrong people and behaving like lunatics. What kind of war would that be? No, you need a leader. That’s what I said to them. I said: ‘you need a leader for God’s sake!’

Then I asked them if they had any celebrity endorsements. I thought this was a good question. It’s not really a runner unless someone like Amy Huberman pops around and has a bang on the old bongos is it? They kind of sniggered at my suggestion but I reminded them that celebrities ended world poverty a couple of years ago. Bono and Annie Lennox and all that. Do you remember? It was a fantastic bit of telly. Annie giving it socks. Peter Sutherland on the tambourine. I asked them why no one famous had shown up. ‘Where’s Huberman?’ I asked. ‘Where’s Barry Egan?’ I requested. ‘You lack any credibility’, I pointed out. ‘You could at least contact Blackie off Glenroe’, I helpfully suggested.

Well, they got a bit aggressive then. One of them comes up to me and says ‘would you like some vegetarian quiche?’ which is more or less accusing me of being an animal killer. But who’s the real killer here? Is it me, because I like the odd sausage sandwich, or is it them, because they are KILLING Ireland’s competitiveness, KILLING Ireland’s international reputation, and KILLING Ireland’s hopes of recovery? Think about it. I’ve been down there. I’ve listened to these people and I know. I said as much to them. I said ‘you’re killers, all of you, KILLERS!’ but they didn’t want to listen. They all went off and pretended to be interested in a pot of lentils someone was stirring.

I was a bit disgusted. I went home. I made my dinner and watched the Six One News. Back to reality. Dobson was broadcasting live from Plato’s Cave.