*bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Twenty, it’s me. Dave”.

“What’s up, Dave?”

“I need the name of a good lawyer”.

“Johnny Cochran”.

“No, seriously. I need a hard as nails, tough as you like, take no shit, hotshot lawyer”.

“For what?”

“So I can sue Dublin City Council”.

“Sue the council? Did you slip on a loose paving stone and break your arm?”

“No. I split my head open”.

“Fucking hell”.

“Yeah. 38 stitches and a concussion”.

“Sounds bad”.

“Yeah, there was blood everywhere”.

“I can imagine. Where did it happen? I bet it was around Clanbrassil Street, there’s loads of dodgy paving slabs there”.

“In my bog”.

“Your toilet?”

“Yeah. See, with the water being cut off I knew I only had a limited time to go for a poo so I went in, sat down and nothing. There was the slightest twang but it wasn’t ready, Twenty. It just wasn’t cooked yet”.

“I see”.

“So I had to force it. I held on to the sides of the toilet seat and I squeezed and strained and pushed like a foaling horse to get what was there out so I could just flush it. All I wanted to do was to flush. It’s not too much to ask, is it? Just the right to be able to flush away ones own poos”.

“And?”

“Well I must have pushed too hard because I think all the blood in my body went to my head, I passed out, fell forward and smashed my head off the corner of the shower unit. I woke up with the floor covered in blood and two rock hard, golf ball sized turds on the floor beside me. If Dublin City Council hadn’t restricted the water supply then this would never have happened so I’m going to take legal action”.

“You should probably keep those droppings as evidence you know”.

“Really?”

“Yeah, stick ‘em in your freezer”.

“Will do! Thanks, Twenty”.

“Good luck, Dave. Anyway, must dash. I’ve got to-”

*click*

“You know”, said Dirty Dave, “I got an email the other day asking me if I’d join Libertas”.

“Is that right?”

“Sure is. And I’m thinking of doing it”.

“Really? Never had you down as a political animal”, I said.

“Yeah, but now’s the time, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Sure it is. The whole of Europe is in a state of chassis, so it is, and unless the ordinary man gets involved then there’s no hope for us”.

“And you are a very ordinary man. No doubt about it”.

“I mean, they’re obviously pretty desperate for people to run as candidates if they’re just mass emailing a load of people. I feel sorry for them so I’m going to help out”.

“And what’s your stance on the various issues?”

“Such as?”

“Abortion”.

“Everyone should be able to have one. And for free. Except catholics. They’ll have to pay €9.99″.

“Lisbon?”

“I’ll vote yes but campaign no, just to keep that baldy fella happy”.

“Europe in general?”

“I’m very much for it”.

“Should there be an EU President?”

“That’s a good question and one that can only be answered by taking into account all the various factors that would allow one to make such a decision in an informed and clinical way. Basically, what I’m saying is that an EU President would be something which Libertas,  and when I say Libertas I mean ‘me’, could certainly see happening but it would all have to be done within a very strict framework and ultimately the decision of the people of Europe”.

“Impressive”.

“Thank you”.

“What about a European army and Ireland’s neutrality?”

“Let’s face it, neutrality is for pussies. I mean who wants to be like the Swiss or the French? And with unemployment rising what better way to tackle the problem than have an army for people to join?”

“Taxes controlled from Europe?”

“They could put Jean-Claude Mongbert or Fritz Spastikz in charge and they wouldn’t make as much of a bollix of it as that cunt Lenihan”.

“I have to say you’re a very convincing candidate”.

“I feel like I’ve finally found my calling Twenty”.

“Of course you’ll have to tell them you’re a right wing, ultra-liberal, neo-capitalist, radical crypto-fascist”.

“Oh they already know, Twenty. They already know”.

Dirty Dave went away for a few days this week. He said it was to get away from the relentless depression of the recession. He went to Kerry somewhere. Checked into a B&B and unwound.

He read books, he took long walks, ate well, drank well. He avoided all newspapers, TV reports, radio bulletins and anything which would remind him of the perilous state of our finances.

He had time to think, to reassess what was important in his life. He came to conclusion that his life was worthless. That he was no good for anyone or anything. The crushing loneliness, which he was able to repress when in Dublin and surrounded by his friends, was overpowering.

Alone in Kerry, alone in a B&B with floral curtains and a cheap MFI Wardrobe, with a chipped sink and wonky shower, a small portable TV and a teasmaid, he realised that living was pointless. Drink only hid the problems, it didn’t make them better.

I got the call at around 7pm last evening. His checkout time was 12 noon. There was no sign of him. The lady in the B&B became worried and knocked on the door. There was no answer. At first she thought he was out and had been delayed but eventually she decided to use her master-key and try the room.

And that’s where they found him.

His attempts to seal up orifices had failed and somehow he had managed to superglue his face to the headboard. It took them 3 hours in Tralee General Hospital to remove it.

Stinking Pete is on his way down to pick him up.

“Look Dirty Dave”, I said in Ron’s last night, “you might think that Tánaiste Mary Coughlan is a ‘horny slut’ but I can assure you that is one place you do not want to go”.

“I’ll go where I want. And anyway, you can’t call me Dirty Dave anymore”

“Why not? That’s your name. I’ll wear it out if I so choose”.

“Well it just so happens that’s not my name any more”.

“Whaddyamean? Whaddyamean, Dave?”, said Stinking Pete.

“I’ve changed my name. By deed poll”.

“Why would you do something like that?”, I asked.

“I’m just tired of being called dirty all the time”.

“But you are dirty”.

“I fail to see how the two things are related”.

“So what have you changed your name to?”, asked Jimmy the Bollix.

“The first name is taken from one of my favourite recording artists – Mousse T. He’s a lyrical genius, which explains my interest in horniness!”

“Save me”, I said. “And your new surname?”

“My mother’s maiden name … Cox”.

“Mousse T Cox?”

“Correct”.

“Musty cocks?!”

“Oh fuck”, he said. “I wonder if I can get my money back”.