Every party has them. If they weren’t members of the party, they’d almost certainly be members of a cult, parroting out phrases about the need “to ascend to the third echelon of the mystical giraffe” as opposed to supporting “a democratic socialist 32 county republic” or ” to roll back the strangehold of the state which is the single greatest challenge facing the Irish people.”
You can then watch their lips actually dry as they stare unblinkly at you, waiting for your response, any response, to permit them to trot out another memorised slogan. Parties are like that, not too sniffy about who they let in with all the entry requirements of a Bangladesh brothel.
Of course, the saddest thing is that one of these guys is far more useful to you than ten fellas who have memorised every episode of “The West Wing” and want to help you with “Strategy” and “Spin”. You can send him out, safe in the knowledge that he’ll deliver to 500 houses diligently as long as you buy him a Club Orange and a packet of Tayto in the pub later, and listen to him repeat, word for word, your own sentences back to you. Hey, that’s what wins elections. Just don’t let him talk to any voters, for the love of Jesus. If the mindless prattle doesn’t turn them off you, the snot caught in his eyebrow will.