Jason OMahony - Irish political blogger, Irish politics, EU politics
 
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An Occasional Guide to Irish Politics: The Scandal.

Posted by Jason O on Mar 20, 2019 in Irish Politics, Not quite serious.
Our elite legal system swings into action!

Our elite legal system swings into action!

A regular re-post, originally written in 2009…

Given the moral failings of the Irish as a race, it is hardly surprising that there is a clear and tested timeline to every scandal which besets Irish society, whether it is moral, political, social or financial. The timeline is as such:

1. Issue emerges. Country particularly mortified at how the British media cover it.

2. Public gasps at details. Sunday papers revel in particularly gory details. Fintan O’Toole writes a pithy piece which explains the cogent details very succinctly, and then drizzles it in extra-virgin head shaking like a nice salad.

3. Opposition call for unspecified action (“Something must be done! We need action!”) or specific action outside the power of the government. (“Bishops must resign! The effect on water of gravity must be reversed!”)

4. Government shakes heads, and promises that said event (Clerical child abuse/flooding/banking corruption/asteroid crashing into the Earth) must never be permitted to happen again, and calls for commission to investigate report of commission which investigated incident.

5. Media, political establishment, voters, realising that they actually play golf/went to school/are second cousin of individuals named in report, start calling for “due process” to be observed, and instead focus on details of events as if they were some abstract natural disaster.

6. The lawyers get involved. People’s right to “their good name”, passing of time, death of witnesses, gums up process of pursuit of actual criminals, drags investigations, trials, etc, in and out of high court for years.

7. Government takes money off people who did not commit these crimes (Taxes), and gives it to victims. The perpetrators contribution is eaten up in legal fees.

8. Some public officials take early retirement, on full pension. Which is pretty much the equivalent of a modest win in the National Lottery. Nobody goes to jail, except maybe a journalist who reveals how this thing is panning out, and is done for contempt of court.

9. In general election, Irish people vote for same people who allowed scandal to occur, on basis that although he/she failed to act to prevent sexual assault of children/building houses underwater, etc, he/she was always “very good for the area.”

10. In 10 years, another commission reports on poor handling of this scandal. Reset to step 1.

 
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The Immigration Police

blakes sevenRepost.

England, 2023. Five years after Brexit.

The roaring and shouting after England and Wales left the EU was loud and colourful. A generation of politicians who had supported British membership found themselves demonised as Quislings and traitors, and quietly retired from public life, and every ministerial speech was peppered with Eurosceptic hyperbole as the new regime took office.

Over time, however, the EUphoria died away, as the government and the tabloids turned to the issue that had carried the Brexiteers over the line: Immigration.

The new government moved quickly to deliver on the issue. Tough new visa requirements were in place, and whilst existing legal residents were permitted to stay, they could not be joined by relatives, and so as many returned to their home countries they were not replaced. The teary-eyed right-wingers who had choked back stories of Commonwealth citizens (“our kith and kin”), every one of whom seemed to be related to a spitfire pilot, being put behind queues of stony faced Poles, suddenly and bizarrely seemed to go cool on Pakistani and Indian and African immigrants having easier access. The number of people legally entering the UK dropped significantly.

The tabloids, robbed of the EU pinata to mercilessly beat, but knowing that immigration was still the story that stirred the loins, turned their attention to the government. the new line was that the government was full of mealy-mouthed liberals letting people sneakily in. That and the EU was actively conspiring to flood England with immigrants through Ireland, Scotland and Calais, of course.

The government, like all populist governments, was as concerned about how to be seen to be doing something as actually doing something. The truth was that the immigration controls were not delivering the rewards the tabloids had promised. Housing was not cheaper, as fewer immigrants had only freed up the very lowest in housing quality, which in turn had forced landlords to improve the quality but raise rents to pay for it. The vast numbers of manual workers needed to fund large scale building of houses didn’t exist, resulting in builders struggling to find the skilled labourers to do the job. The Irish workers that they could source, due to a common deal with Ireland, expected top dollar, and all that contributed to higher costs and thus higher prices. The NHS and other public services were struggling under staff shortages as it emerged that many of the hard-pressed English white working class didn’t actually have the skills to fill the jobs. But the government was too scared to issue too many working visas to fill those jobs, as the tabloids, bereft of the EU to blame, had now doubled down on ANY immigrant “depriving” Brits of a job. Politically, it was better to leave those jobs empty.

With the labour shortage feeding into wage rises, inflation, public service waiting lists and rental rises, the Government decided to go fully for immigrants as the problem.

The launch of the Immigration Police was a huge media managed affair. The logo of the new force, a union flag in the shape of a shield, was emblazoned on the fleet of shiny new vehicles and officers unveiled by Prime Minister Johnson. The helmeted, combat trousered police, who vaguely resembled the baddies from “Blake’s Seven” but with huge union flags on their shoulders, grinned at the prime minister’s jokes about them “scaring the hell out of him”.

As with everything in post-Thatcher Britain, the Immigration Police was a private for-profit tendered service, the contract held by a huge security company with a very mixed record.

Within months of commencing operations, the IP was the new source of fury for the right-wing tabloids. The fact that a significant number of IP officers were themselves illegal immigrants who had gotten through the cut-price vetting process resulted in the resignation of the Home Secretary, and the tender holder announcing that it could no longer fulfill the contract under such arduous “red tape”. The subsequent taking of the company to court by the Home Office resulted in even more embarrassing revelations including the fact that some immigrant IP officers from some countries seemed to be using their very considerable IP powers to pursue vendettas against people from other tribal areas or religious groups.

The Government was forced to introduce emergency legislation to nationalise the whole IP organisation, making it a state agency. This, as it always seems to do, then sent costs through the roof as the new IP management, made up of Home Office staff, were more than happy to spend millions on vetting.

Three years after its initial launch the IP had been “purged” of illegal immigrants. It was also running hugely over-budget, requiring cuts elsewhere to feed its huge fiscal maw, and led by a very media savvy chief executive who fended off any attempt to trim the rapidly expanding budget with tales of hordes of terrorists and illegal workers sweeping towards virginal England. The IP’s media budget was very substantial.

Aside from its internal chaos, the daily operations of the IP became problematic. Although initially popular, with black cab drivers beeping their horns at speeding IP vehicles, sirens flashing, off to defend England, the reality of the organisation’s nebulous task began to take the shine off rapidly. The new Home Secretary, of Asian extraction and from the hard-right of the party, was adamant that the IP must be visibly active which led to huge poster campaigns asking the public to cooperate. One stand-up comedian likened the posters to the “Be Pure! Be Vigilant! Behave!” posters of the 200oAD comic character Thomas De Torquemada. The IP also started setting up random street checkpoints, which began to jar even with the most right-wing of blazer-wearing golf club Mosleys. Camera footage of IP officers singling out dark-skinned pedestrians alone caused a row, and in one case a riot where a number of black and East Asian youths proceeded to beat up the aggressive IP officers. This resulted in the local police having to intervene.

Indeed, relations between the IP and the regular police were strained at best. In London, where the Metropolitan Police had made a serious effort to diversify its membership, the jarring approach of the IP did not go down well. The commissioner complained that the IP was stirring up racial tension in areas where painstaking work by community police officers had finally started to show results. One incident in particular, where two Metropolitan Police officers challenged an overly aggressive IP checkpoint resulted in the IP officer in charge demanding that one of the officers, who was black, prove his legal status in the country and then attempted to arrest him. The situation, again all over the web, was only contained when the Met officers called in an armed SO19 unit and arrested the entire IP patrol to loud cheering and applause from local youths of mixed races.

The Home Secretary was furious. The commissioner backed her men, and when the Home Secretary threatened to fire the commissioner, the commissioner revealed that she had a special investigation unit looking into penetration by the far-right of the IP. She revealed taped footage from an undercover officer of IP officers, who were revealed to be members of various white supremacist organisations, joking and laughing at how they were paid “by one **** to fit up other ****** and ****”.

The Home Secretary was gone by teatime.

Another source of problems for the new Home Secretary was how to verify someone was legally resident in the UK. His officials excitedly dusted off an old file: a National Identity Card. Not surprisingly, he balked at the idea, but the issue was unavoidable. In order to avoid charges of racial profiling, IP checkpoints were now stopping and demanding identification from every person, regardless of age, colour or gender. Many people were now carrying their passports with them everywhere, and the grumbling was beginning. In time honoured fashion, The Daily Mail and The Daily Express, having demanded a “get tough crackdown” on immigration, now did a u-turn and started banging on daily about the IP being a version of the Gestapo harassing ordinary Brits going about their business.

The Home Secretary stared blankly at his officials. Polls showed that middle England was vehemently against having to carry “papers”. Is this what we fought a war for? On the other hand, without some form of verified state backed ID, his officials said, there was no way for the IP to check on-the-spot. Unless, we created a national biometric database, one junior official mused. Then we wouldn’t have to carry ID, just be scanned. Of course, we’d have to scan the entire population.

The Home Secretary died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. The coroner said it was a massive heart attack.

The huge camp near Dover (christened Camp Boris by the media) was also the problem of the new Home Secretary. Since Brexit, the EU had decided that illegal immigration into the UK was not its concern, and so turned a blind eye to migrants making their way across the channel. France had announced that the UK could do its own border control in Dover, and closed its facilities in Calais, the infamous “jungle”. French, Belgian and Dutch police and coastguards were told that preventing “outflows” were not a priority, to the extent that many boat owners on the continent were taking a few quid for carrying illegals to the edge of the UK’s territorial waters and letting their passengers take their chance in a rubber dinghy. All to huge protests from the British ambassador to the EU who was embarrassingly filmed being kept back by security personnel as he tried to lobby ministers attending an EU council meeting.

Huge resources were being deployed along beaches in the south east to capture illegals, and send them to the camp, which now had over 9,000 residents. The decision as to who should run the camp had turned into one of the finest games of bureaucratic pass-the-parcel in years. The Prison Service had said that they were a criminal rehabilitation service, and weren’t suited. The NHS said they weren’t a prison service. The local police said they would have to take “Bobbies off the beat”, and the chief of staff of the army had threatened to publicly resign if the army were told to run the camp. So, it had ended up with the Immigration Police, whose CEO had happily accepted the task then submitted a huge budget supplement request which took the IP’s annual funding clear of the Metropolitan Police’s £3.7 billion.

With scandals within the IP, the ongoing battle to secure the coast (most of the Royal Navy, including the UK’s two new aircraft carriers, were on coastal patrol), the growing unhappiness with the overt and hostile street presence of IP officers demanding “papers” on street corners, the outbreak of riots in Camp Boris was not welcomed by the Government. The IP officers, even with riot gear, struggled to maintain order in two days of rioting. On the third day a large group of young Syrian refugees charged the perimeter, panicking a member of one of the IP armed response units. Without authorisation he emptied his full clip into the crowd, killing nine refugees and wounding another four. Three children were killed in the stampede from the fence. The image went worldwide, and resulted in massive demonstrations against UK embassies.

The Home Secretary, who had only authorised the creation of armed units of the IP three months earlier, in response to stories of some refugees being armed with knives, handed in his resignation to the Prime Minister later that day. The PM was harangued in the house, and in a fit of pique that was typical but would come to haunt him, announced that he would be his own home secretary.

He arrived down to the camp bearing his name just as another riot was getting into its own. Outside the camp, hundreds of young and middle-aged white men, members of the self-appointed United Kingdom Defence Force gathered with baseball bats and crowbars, telling the gathered media they were there to back up the IP and “back Boris”. Another crowd, larger than the UKDF, were made up of anti-fascist protesters who roared abuse at the first crowd.

When the PM arrived, the UKDF cheered and chanted his name, prompting him to wave just as another surge broke through the IP line and charged towards the main gates. The UKDF surged forward before breaking into a Braveheart-style run at the main gate of the camp. The two groups met. The UKDF, unlike the refugees, were armed with a variety of weapons and ploughed into the refugees.

The PM’s bodyguards shoved him into his car, screaming at the driver to get them out of there, all live on TV as a huge fight broke out around them. The IP commander, totally overwhelmed, ordered the use of rubber bullets and water cannon, all aimed at securing the main gate. Some of the baton rounds hit UKDF members, who, seeing the IP firing at them, were overcome with the fury that can only come from experiencing treachery, and attacked the IP vehicles.

The news of the surge at the gate of the camp swept through the camp, encouraging thousands more to rush the entrance, overwhelming the IP officers at the door.

On his way back to Downing street, the PM gave the order for the army to be sent in with more baton rounds.

By evening, order had been restored, but half of the residents of the camp had fled. 39 people were dead, a mixture of refugees, children, IP officers and UKDF members.

In Munich that night a far-right group held a rally, holding aloft images of the British prime minister as they sieg heiled in support.

Watching this on TV, the PM had the good grace to vomit.

 
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A President for Europe: The Boardgame.

Posted by Jason O on Sep 19, 2018 in Boardgame A President for Europe, European Union, Not quite serious.

APFE BoardV2When I’m not writing columns and shaking my fist at the sky (same thing, some say) I’ve been designing a boardgame.

“A President for Europe” is a slightly tongue-in-cheek game where players are party leaders in a future European Union battling it out to be elected President of Europe.

Who will win, and can they stay in power? Or will the Russians rig the whole thing? This is a game of high politics and low tactics, doing deals, carving up votes and trying to stop the other leaders stabbing you in the back…if it wasn’t illegal, I’d insist it be played in a smoke-filled backroom.

APFE vote cards sampleDesign and testing is still going on, with a provisional plan for it to go on sale at the end of the year. Watch this space.

Drop me an email (see link above) if you want to be kept informed.

 
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An Occasional Guide to Irish Politics: The Curse of the Shoo-In Candidate.

pol books2It’s a uniquely Irish concept. In other countries, parties brag about how well their candidate is doing. Not in Ireland. In Ireland, candidates, especially ones defending a seat, play up how desperate things are, how bad the campaign is going, how “the seat is gone”. There is nothing a candidate hates more than people saying she’s a dead cert, because in Ireland that’s political death. More people have gone into an election as the dead cert and come out with less votes than Gary Glitter at a National Association of Creches AGM.

It’s all to do with the second guessing poker nature of the Single Transferable Vote system. STV is a logical, rational and fair voting system which gives voters a wider choice than almost any voting system in the world. It asks voters to select their candidates in order of preference. As a result, there’s little chance of wasting one’s vote on an unelectable candidate.

But it never expected that it would have to deal with the Irish psyche, and voters who don’t just consider who they’d like to elect, but who they think other people are going to elect too, and so discount their own vote and transfer their vote to their second choice in the hope of getting a second bite of the cherry. It’s hardly surprising, as this is exactly the same way Irish people choose their third level educational future through the Central Applications Office. They’re asked to pick what course they really want, and instead enter what course they think they’ll get, and are then disappointed when they miss the course they actually wanted in the first place. They then vote the same way.

As a result, you have party voters who decide that Party X’s candidate A is a definite, and so instead gives their first preference to candidate A’s running mate, to give her a chance at taking a second seat for the party. The problem is that large numbers of candidate A’s loyal voters are all thinking the same thing, and so the running mate gets elected and candidate A is surprisingly defeated to the shock of all, with voters looking blankly at each other with a “Jaysus, if I’d only known. Sure everybody I know said they wanted him in!”

How do you prevent it? Vote for your favourite candidate first. It really is that simple. Really.

 
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Why America needs President Jay Pritchett.

Posted by Jason O on Jul 2, 2018 in Not quite serious., Politics, US Politics

Jay PritchettFans of the hugely successful ABC sitcom “Modern Family” will be no strangers to family patriarch Jay Pritchett.

Jay is your All-American red-blooded male. He likes sports, beer, movies where women are called dames, and is a successful and wealthy businessman. He’s a pretty traditional guy. You could well believe he voted for Trump.

Except, well, here’s the thing about Jay Pritchett. His wife is Columbian, as is his stepson. His son is gay, and married. His daughter is married to A Modern Man in touch with his feelings.

Has all this made him a liberal? Not really. But it has made him very tolerant. He rolls his eyes at his wife’s culture and his son’s gay lifestyle. But he doesn’t judge them, doesn’t interfere, just leaves them alone and hopes they leave him alone with one of his war books. Nor is he rigidly opposed to change: he tried to learn Spanish to make his wife less self-conscious about her accent, and was a big hit with his son’s gay friends.

He is, in short, an old fashioned moderate Republican. He does roll his eyes at gay marriage and the rest but he doesn’t oppose them. They’re not for him, but he doesn’t care what some other guy does. That’s his business.

Jay Pritchett is the bridge that could heal America. Comfortable with the beer and bbq working joes, respectful of non-traditional lifestyles.

Jay Pritchett for President 2020

 
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Imagine if The West Wing had been written from a conservative, right-wing perspective.

Posted by Jason O on Apr 14, 2018 in Cult TV, Movies/TV/DVDs, Not quite serious.

The West WingOn tonight’s episode of “The West Wing”, President Bartlet becomes greatly concerned that poor people have too much access to healthcare, and worries that not being terrified of one of your children getting sick might weaken their moral fibre.

Toby and Leo have a blazing row over the administration’s policy on Israeli settlements, with Toby worried that Palestinian homes aren’t being bulldozed fast enough. The meeting breaks up in acrimony as Leo objects to being in the same room as “one of those people”.

Sam is spurned into action after meeting a lonely old billionaire whose heart is broken when he discovers that he pays more tax than his gardener.

The episode ends with a touching scene where a sobbing orphan thanks President Bartlet for making sure her mother didn’t get the treatment she needed, because if she had she might have thought life was fair and would have become a socialist. Or even worse, French.

Hilarious hi-jinks ensue when Fox News reveals that CJ isn’t blonde.

The White House is put on lock down after a young black man is seen.

 
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Kate O’Hara, Taoiseach.

SEnta Berger Kate O HaraI’ve recently started writing a collection of short stories about a fictional female Taoiseach, Kate O’Hara, leader of the Centre Party and deputy for Dublin East. I’ll post them here as I complete them:

Kate O’Hara I: A Bear in the Air.

Kate O’Hara II: A Scandal in Ranelagh.

 

 

 
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News from the Future: President Gonzalez survives assassination attempt by Secret Service Drone: Hackers suspected.

Posted by Jason O on Jul 17, 2017 in Fiction, News from The Future!, Not quite serious.

News Future logoDateline: Washington DC, 2042.

A gun battle between US Secret Service drones and another USSS drone believed hacked by as yet unknown sources narrowly avoided the assassination of President Gonzalez as he spoke in the Rose Garden in the White House earlier this morning. The president had been making remarks to a delegation from the European Parliament when a protocol detected an attempted hack of one of his BodyGuard, and ordered other drones to secure the president. Seconds later, the rogue drone drew its sub-machine gun but was hit dozens of times by other drones as two human Secret Service offices rushed the president away from the scene and into the secure bunker in the building.

The rogue drone was completely incapacitated by gunfire. The Secret Service moved quickly to reassure both the public and elected leaders that the service’s firewall had worked exactly as planned, detecting the hacking attempt and on determining it could not block it, delaying it long enough to mobilize other drones to eliminate the threat. The USSS also pointed out that the BodyGuard, built by McDonnell-Douglas Robotics, are designed specifically to prevent a mass hacking.

Secret serviceThe director of the FBI, the Comey-Mueller 3000 AI Entity, has announced a full investigation. This is the second time a protective drone has been hacked to attack its principal. In 2035 former President George W. Bush was attacked by his own drone on his ranch in Midland, Texas. The drone was neutralized with a chainsaw by the president after been beaten with a frying pan by Mrs Bush. The FBI later arrested a neo-Nazi cell angry with the former president over his condemnation on racial attacks.

 
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Short Fiction: This is Earth One.

Posted by Jason O on Jun 3, 2017 in eNovels & Writing, Fiction, News from The Future!, Not quite serious.

News Future logo

A short story.

When a tiny nation permits a giant software company to take over the running of the country with its new Artificial Intelligence system, there are global consequences.

Not all are predictable, either.

Download: https://issuu.com/omahonyjason/docs/this_is_earth_one_

 
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A midlife crisis.

HarleyPreviously published in The Times Ireland Edition.

There’s a small retail development in Ballymount, in south west Dublin that always strikes me as “Mid-Life Crisis Central”. At one end is a store that sells expensive electric guitars. At the other end there’s a Harley-Davidson motorcycle dealership. Every time I pass it, I have visions of mid-fifties south Dublin solicitors pulling out onto the road, their shiny new ax on their backs, their new hogs roaring under them, their bellies straining at the Harley jacket, squeaking in its leathery newness.

You know what? Why not? Why wouldn’t you? From a distance, it looks like a desperate attempt to reverse the aging process, and it often is, but not always. Sometimes a man always wanted a Porsche and has reached a point in life when he can afford it and thinks “why not?” Leave the money for his spoiled kids to squander?

He’s not the fellow to worry about. It’s the other guy, who is trying to reverse the clock. The motorbike is just a thing. It’s when lust rears its ugly head that you have a problem.

Straight men go through a cycle in life. As a teenager, it’s very simple. Your hormones dictate that you what to touch, kiss, seduce the most beautiful women you can. Personality doesn’t really matter. It’s all flesh viewed through a haze of hormones.

As you get older, you wise up. You realise that sex, great and all as it is, doesn’t work on its own. You actually have to like the person too. That’s a big moment of realisation, and many men never reach it. It matters: a marriage can just as easily be destroyed by a partner’s blood slowly simmering as they watch their other half fluting around in Ikea. Irritation is as damaging to a marriage as adultery, if not more. Making someone laugh is the gold standard.

The problem is that the male mid-life crisis, in its lustiest form, can throw all that on its head. It’s a big deal when a man realises that not only are young women now out of his league, but that they can’t even see him. They see someone’s dad, some aul fella, or worse still, some dirty aul fella leering at them. You cannot underestimate the impact that has on that gossamer fragile thing that is the Irish male ego.

The sensible thing to do is to accept it as nature’s unending Ferris wheel and remember that you had your fun when it was your turn. Or, failing that, at least stick to women your own age. Irish women in the forties and beyond are actually one of the nation’s great untapped resources, primarily because they’re a match for Irish men. They have their measure, and in a country where men were raised under the rule of the mammy, that matters.

For some men, surrender is not an option. You see them in Dundrum, dressed three decades too young, often with a surreal belief in the youth-enhancing power of suede.

Then you see her. Not quite young enough to be his daughter, but certainly his daughter’s best friend’s older sister. Occasionally, what we used to call in Old Dublinese, “bet into her jeans”. The hair long and often blonde, the cheekbones chiselled.

Of course, even with the help of that revolutionary blue pill, the mist of lust eventually clears for most men, and he discovers he’s in a nightclub at 2am, his ears throbbing with what is allegedly music wondering if he having a stroke?

His brain starts to reboot, and reminds him of reality.

That he actually likes being in bed by ten with Antony Beevor’s “Stalingrad” and a mug of tea and two chocolate digestives.

That he stops seeing her wandering around the apartment in her high heels and underwear as a source of arousal but instead feels tired, and terrified when she talks about babies.

That his kids, older by a year than his girlfriend, roll their eyes every time they see him wearing something she bought him.

Then his mates start talking about the prostate exams and statins and are able to reel off consultant names as if they’re talking about racehorses or Premiership footballers. “You want to see Haggerty in the Mater Private about that. He’s the best waterworks man in the country.”

The girlfriend doesn’t know who Peter Sellers or Robert Mitchum was, and he doesn’t know what a Ryan Gosling is. He finally accepts that he’s not a young man anymore when, as people recommend boxsets to him, the length of them is a deciding factor. He’s not sure how much of rest of the rest of his life he’s willing to give over to “The Wire” or “The Good Wife”.

What seals the deal is news of an acquaintance, one younger than him, dropping dead from the proverbial Irish “massive heart attack”. Sitting in the church with the girlfriend, her dolled up like she’s the baddy’s girlfriend in a James Bond, her Melania scowl permanently in place, he looks around. He sees his wife, his friends, the sea of silver, grey and shiny domes. These, he realises, are his people. They get his references, his stories, and don’t know what a Ryan Gosling is either.

If he has any sense, he’ll go home. Although he might still keep the Harley for weekends.

Copyright © 2019 Jason O Mahony All rights reserved. Email: Jason@JasonOMahony.ie.