March on the Big Smoke

Molly Malone

It was Tuesday the 15th, the day of The March on Leinster House. I was up to Dublin the night before as I knew tings would kick off early and I needed to be up front in the crowd and close to the speakers like. Hiding in plain sight they call it in those spy fillims. I knew the CCTV cameras around Leinster House would be working overtime scanning the crowd and the place would be sick with peelers. So I was in front of the crowd, with the stage hiding me from the cameras, and I had on the disguise that Peig and Saoirse made up for me – great craic the girls had in putting it together. I’m not going to tell yees or else it wouldn’t be a disguise now, wuddit?

Why the paranoia Paddy, you ask? The reason for that was that one of my mates in the guards was tellin me to watch my step as I was now on the wanted list. Not the official list like wanted dead or alive or anything like that cos I haven’t committed any crimes, not since I was a youngfella anyways. No, I was on that unofficial list sent around to each barracks cos I was pissing certain people off like, according to me auld segotia, anyways. To be honest we’re not that close anymore since he said no to putting a bug in Pat’s office – I mean, WTF I sez? If you can bug the Cabinet meetings, why not stick one in that gombeen’s office, I asks. Then we can find out which pylon corridor he’s chosen in Waterford. We could make some serious money at Paddy Power. But he wasn’t interested – Dublin coppers obviously do OK already.

Anyways, I came up on the train from Mullingar the night before, and checked into my hotel close to Leinster House, and kept low in my room – room service burgers, beer, and saucy movies, heaven I tell yees. The next morning I had to put on the disguise before I checked out. You should see your wan’s face at reception, but I paid cash and was out the door in the shake of a tail.

The people were everywhere, and it was grand altogether. Lots of smiley faces, and people shaking hands and asking “Where you up from?”. It was like a big family, and I mean big. I laughed at the RTE News later that night when they said ‘about 2000’, but sure that’s to be expected when Rabbitte is their boss – the Minister of MisCommunication – I stood next to a Gard with a head on him like your man Gleeson in the fillim and asked him about the numbers. He spoke into his radio, listened and told me, “there’s easy over ten thousand, close to eleven”.

I was moved up close to the stage. Another fellow next to the stage, Michael, told me he was a chef from a castle. Probably Malahide, but he didn’t say. Your man had a rucksack on his back and the guards were watching him, thinking of the Boston Marathon I’d wager. I whispered this in his ear and went over to tell the guards as well that it was all grand, your man was a chef just carrying fresh produce, and they relaxed. It’s amazing what a cuddly disguise can do to relax people. I’m going to suggest to Peig that maybe we try this outfit in the bedroom.

I was standing next to your man from the Pylon Alternative Alliance – Duggan? – who was busy telling me how he was organising everybody into a structure. I guess he wanted to be at the head of that structure, but then I wouldn’t know for sure. I asked him how could he be saying that pylons were the alternative? I said he should come and see my bungalow with the pylon in the back – pylons are the problem I sez, not the alternative. He didn’t seem to take me seriously, it might have been the disguise. My friend, you seem a straight-up bloke, I sez, so a word of advice. We have a common enemy – EirGrid and Fat Pat. The strength of the movement is the community – the People – listen to them, don’t tell them what to do, we have the cute hoors doing that already and God forbid you turn out to be another cute hoor. We are all singing from the same hymn sheet – let the people find their own voice, don’t tell them which song to sing, especially if it just happens to be your favourite song. This is a people’s movement, let the people rule. Like they do today, and those gombeens in Leinster house are sweatin cos of it.

I even know what its called now, I saw it on the letter to those Arbitration lawyers of EirGrid – participatory democracy. A mouthful sure, but delicious to the discerning palate, so my chef friend told me. I am sure thats how the Waterford groups are so strong, and leading the rest of the country by example – the people speak and the people govern – the leaders follow.

Jeanie Mac – it was like a who’s who of anti-pylon people – Tom McGurk, who is tall enough to step over the feckin pylon and a top man – he must be to speak over that Right Hook. Gerry Adams – with his own sign that he made in his office – ‘SF Against Wind’ – no mention of the undergrounding, but just connect the dots, Gerry. I spoke to a lovely lady from Mayo who had never been to a protest before but this was important she said – good woman yourself.

Of course there were loads of cute hoors looking for all the votes on offer – sure everyone is suddenly anti-pylon. Before you cast your vote just remember who was there from the beginning, fighting in the trenches. Your man Kieran Hartley will get my vote for sure – he was there from the start with the heroes from Comeragh Against Pylons in Kilmacthomas. I remember in the early days when Kieran travelled all the way up to Mullingar to speak to us, when we didn’t have a clue – well I did, having taken the thirty pieces of silver, but the people there didn’t have a notion what was going on and Kieran spoke to us and answered all our questions. Gas Man – he gets my vote for Europe.

A fellow in front was making a lot of noise and trying to stir things up – I saw the Carlow colours and thought he was a Hogan supporter – a Phil-istine – trying to start a fight maybe. The guards were watching him for a while as your man was foaming at the mouth and roarin fit to bust. When I got close and saw the Rasta colours I realised your man was there to support the hemp / biomass option and he was singing ‘Stir It Up ’, rather than just acting the eejit.

The speaker that impressed me the most was himself, Sean Cullinan. A bear of a man – he would be playing flank for Munster if your man Stander wasn’t so brilliant – but with the intellect of Einstein (and youse thought I was too thick to know these things. Remember I was two years in Maynooth, so I know all about Albert and his Theory of Serendipity). Sean was telling us how important it was for us to vote for the pylon candidates in the elections on 23 May. Forget party politics, vote for your anti-pylon candidates cos that is how we will kick Leinster House in the arse. Get our people into the European parliament to shout back at the wind lobby, get people onto your local Council to stop planning applications for more turbines. That is the way forward. People power.

And then I saw Midi. She was carrying an As Gaeilge sign COSC AR PYLONS. My fluffy disguise got me around the mountain men, but when I got to her my tongue was frozen and I sputtered out some jibber-jabber about elections. And how did she reply in that gorgeous voice of hers? She told me that her full name is Midi de Paor Walsh, it sounded like music when she said it, and she be standing in the Waterford Council elections. I told her that if I lived in Waterford I would vote for her, and maybe I could come down and live in her spare room? I wanted to speak forever but Midi was on a mission to save us, and next thing she was gone in a beautiful blur.

At that stage I was sweatin fit to melt. I needed scoops, loads of them. With one last look at my big happy family, I was gone, out of the disguise and away, back to Mullingar.

rabbit at march

Reflections on Erections

I was laughin at this Canadian video on the pylons ( which was on the CAP FB page, when your wan said the words that would send a shiver down a polar bear’s spine: ‘pylons cause erectile dysfunction’.

Kids might be readin dis, so witout goin into da small print, but since The Pylon came into me life, let’s just say when the Party Whip says in me head, “Let’s all be Upstanding for the Honourable Member Pylon”, I’m left in Alan Shatters, with a landslide Vote of No Confidence. Peig is very understanding, and holds me tight, but I know that she pretends to fall asleep.

I’m a blocklayer from Mullingar, how could this be happening to me, the Valentino of Viewmount?

And now watching this video, it all made sense – The Pylon would not be satisfied until it was the only thing left standing.

Is this what the Grid25 Project is really about with its male breast cancer and its limpdickness – to render the men of Ireland impotent? Did this explain why Pat Rabbitte was sounding more like me mammy every day, because he was becoming a mammy, along with the rest of us poor yokes?

I run outside, whipping out the jolly roger, not that it even fluttered in the breeze, and piss on The Pylon. Piss with all me might, spreading the feet wide so my patetick stream dont land on me shoes. “You won’t get me, yer giant metal hard-on, I’ll be baytin you, we’ll see who dysfunctions who, ye …, ye …, ye cockcrusher”.

A warm tongue slides across me neck, gently licking me ear. I freeze. The Pylon was seducing me, calling me over to The Dark Side. I felt meself letting go, strains of Michael Buble filled the air, I feel me mortified mickey starting to …Wha? The music stopped as the needle screeches over the vinyl. Wha? How can a pylon …?

T’was the auld horse – I be screamin at the top of me voice, and the aul dear did come up behind me and tried to comfort me. I hang onto her neck until me body stops shakin.

Ah sure, tis hard sometimes.

April Fool’s Award

April Fool Award

This blog has almost 35000 readers (EirGrid deny this) and I want you to use all those votes to decide who will be the biggest fool this April. You can choose from those groups and individuals who are already winners in their respective categories.
There are two categories – Group and Individual. You have two votes: One for Group and One for Individual.


The Eoin O’Duffy award:
To Fine Gael, for reintroducing authoritarian rule into Ireland, and for closely following the Seven Principles of Fascism, as espoused by Benito Mussolini.

The JCB Award:
To Sinn Fein, for supporting all underground activity.

The Mike Tyson Award:
To Green Party, for having the neck to show their face again.

The Bertie’s Bowl Cute Hoor Award:
To Fianna Fail, for promising to call for a moratorium on Grid25, but never getting around to doing it.

The Anglo-Irish Bank Award:
To Labour, for being the biggest sell-outs for ill-gotten gain.

The St. Judas Iscariot Community Award
To EirGrid, for getting neighbours and communities talking again, even if it was about how much they feckin hate pylons.


The Cunning Linguist Award:
To Pat Rabbitte, for talking out of both sides of his mouth and still being able to say ‘behave yourself’ at the same time.

The Diaspora Award:
To Enda Kenny, for chasing more Irish people from our shores than Cromwell and Thatcher combined.

The Dr Mengele Award:
To Finton Slye, for his contribution to medical science with his assertion that pylons are ‘completely safe’.

The Jenson Button Award:
To Eamon Ryan, for making the fastest U-turn in Irish political history.

The Eamonn Quinn Award:
To Brendan Halligan, for being able to run two businesses at the same time.

The ISPCA Award:
To Paudie Coffey, who needs love and a ‘forever home’ after taking a kicking on Friday night.


To vote send your e-mail to
For Group – write ‘WTF’ and then the group’s name
For Individual – write ‘WTF’ and then the individual’s name.
Eirgrid will count the votes and never get back to you.
But vote anyway:

Friday Night at Lawlor’s

On Friday I travelled all the way down from Mullingar to Dungarvan in County Waterford. Peig was looking after Saoirse so couldn’t go. Herself has banned me from driving the car, so I took the train and the bus, which was grand as I got in a few scoops on the journey down.

It is plain as the spots on my backside why EirGrid is losing the fight. It is because of these people in Waterford. As Saoirse would say, they are awesome. They were brave when EirGrid tried to bully them. They were clever when Eirgrid lied to them. They stood firm when Rabbitte told them to ‘behave’. And look who is still standing, Pat, but you should be losing your job soon, although if Shatter is anything to go by, the only way to lose your job in this government is to go into the ground. I know youse is never dismissed from the civil service, but these goings-on with this government is mental. Enough about the gangsters, I want to talk about the good people of the Comeraghs.

When the whole country was being conned, they supported each other and stood firm. True patriots. Real Irish. The rest of us should hang our heads like the snivelling wretches we are, especially me with my thirty pieces of EirGrid silver.

It was all happening at Lawlor’s Hotel in Dungarvan, and with my hand on my heart I can say it was the best time of my life. Who would have thought I would see heroism and know love at first sight, when I came down to hear about fighting pylons?

The place was jammed with good people. There was a short skirmish at the beginning with some politicians demanding the right to speak – and the place clearly marked a no-litter zone. Politicians belong in the grey bin – no chance of recycling there. In the end the cute hoors were given some time after the proper speakers and before question time. I could tell you what they said, but I couldn’t be arsed. Because that is when it happened. I saw Midi.

Midi, I still don’t know your second name because everytime I tried to speak to you, youse was surrounded by these big Comeragh Mountain Men. You don’t mess with those boyos.

Midi is magnificent. Like an Irish Mammy with pizzazz. When the cute hoors were trying to hijack the show, like they did on that march, Midi stopped them. She has a quiet don’t-feck-with-me voice and byjaysus, the politicians shut up and sat down like the bold children they are. My tips tingled when she spoke. It was like my first Valentines all over again. I was smitten, and I tell yees, if I was dirty years younger … ah never you mind, it won’t ever happen.

The first speaker was John McCusker of Comeraghs Against Pylons (CAP). A man’s man, a true hero. John showed EirGrid the finger, and then jammed it so far up their arse that they’re having nosebleeds in Dublin.

John told us about the long struggle against EirGrid, back to the days when a small group of people from Kilmacthomas started CAP after hearing the shocking news of what EirGrid planned. John spoke about the importance of community, of standing up for your family and friends, of keeping the country beautiful for our children and our children’s children. It was beautiful, and I was weeping into my pint.

John also told us about EirGrid and the lies they told us, and the lies they keep telling us. How Rabbitte refused to look at photos of our lovely countryside and what it would look like covered in pylons. John told us that Rabbitte was invited to this meeting but couldn’t be arsed to even reply to the invitation. The same with John Deasy, who has never shown support for this fight and did not reply to the invite. The people growled.

The next speaker was Thomas Kemp. A quiet, gentle man. I thought at the time that Thomas was a rocket scientist, but I see now that he is a nuclear physicist, a right clever bloke. Thomas spoke to us, not at us or down to us, like those ‘experts’ from EirGrid. And when Thomas spoke I understood – it all became clear to me. The cancer is caused by static electricity.

I remember as a chiseller at junior school when we would rub the plastic ruler against our socks and pick up pieces of paper and the hems of girl’s dresses. The teacher explained in science class that the ruler was electrically charged by the rubbing and so attracted stuff.

The way that Thomas explained it was the same thing. The particles coming off the pylons and the cables are charged and their static picks up all the pollution and pesticides, and so it turns into this sticky ball of poison which is carried by the wind straight to your house and onto your skin and into your lungs. Thomas told us this happens not when you are up and walking around, but when you are in your bed asleep cos then you are not earthed.

This was scary stuff, and you could have heard a pin drop as Thomas spoke in his quiet voice.

The third speaker was the man of the moment, Malcolm Brown, co-author of the Brown and White Report, Parts 1 and 2. They are on the Rethink Pylons website if you want a good read.

I was proud to hear that Malcolm had taken up my idea of burning hash in MoneyPoint. He didn’t say that, but sure, he used my idea. I didn’t care, it was enough to know that he read my blog, but perhaps you could have called me up and introduced me to the crowd, eh Malcolm?

Anyways, Malcolm explained that we can convert MoneyPoint to burn biomass, and that would cost a tenth of the cost of Grid 25, and would need no upgrade and NO PYLONS. Jaysus, you could have knocked me down with a baby’s headbutt. Why was this not being talked about in government? So simple, so much cheaper, lots of jobs, and no damage to the countryside. And also no rich wind industry, and perhaps there’s your answer – we should be looking at whose been promised jobs on the board of directors of the wind farms.

There were lots of good questions asked, with people showing that they knew much more about the lies than EirGrid and Rabbitte would like us to know, and both politicians, David from the Shinners and Paudie from the Blueshirts, admitting that they would not live next to pylons. Paudie kept telling us to follow procedures, and that the interconnector with the UK and France was a grand idea, but he was beaten, and he knew it.

Too be sure, twas a grand doo altogether. Afterwards in the bar having a few scoops with some mountain men, I was asking why would the Shinners be sticking with undergrounding when you would expect them to throw the Grid25 thing out altogether? A wag standing at the bar, and I say standing but he was swaying like a banshee on steroids, shouted out that the Shinners were not that keen on digging things up, usually the opposite, but this was all about laundering the bank robbery money through the wind farms in the North. Your man fell asleep in his pint, so I could not ask him where he got his info.

Twas such a grand party with such grand people that I was still in the pub on Saturday night. Jaysus, those people can drink. But here I am on the train, on a Sunday, back to Mullingar, thinking about biomass and Midi, but not in that order.

Projects of Common Interest


My family have been around for a long time, and can be traced back to the founding Cistercian monks in Ireland under Clairvaux, with a mention again later of my great (x10) granda in Melifont Abbey: St. Pyloniuous of Uisneach.

But hang on Paddy, I hear ye say, how can you have a monk for a grand-da? The truth of the matter is that back then they drank and sang like the rest of us, then they shagged like the rest of us, and so had families like the rest of us. It is only the modern church that brought in these desperate rules about chastity – and look whats happened to them. Its not rocket science – if you don’t shag, you don’t produce.

Anyways, I stray off my intended topic, the family motto. One of the things you get when belonging to a very old family like the Pylons is a very old family crest and motto, and mine is: Si autem perseveraverit Patricius noster, et bene habebunt.

My ma and da didn’t have a clue what it said, and they couldn’t be arsed anyways. So when I was studying at Maynooth, I asked an old Humanities Professor to translate it for me, and I still have what he wrote: “If Paddy perseveres, he will find success”. You could have knocked me over with a shot glass when he told me that – it was all about me!

Not that it helped, as I dropped out of college about four months later.

In one of the letters sent by readers – and I must thank ye with tears in my eyes – the hundreds of letters written to me and Peig and Saoirse has made this whole struggle with EirGrid that much easier to bear. Theres even been letters to the aul horse and that feckin kitten! Thank ye truly. In one of these letters your wan said I should be gettin a job. I reckon it was wrote by me mam, but she denies it. Now let me just tell you missus that I’ve been for a job interview every day for the last four months but the bartender keeps saying that he don’t need an assistant, so what can I do?

Anyways, I was sitting and looking at the few pieces of silver that was left from the EirGrid payment and I knew that I needed a plan, and then it hit me – a fair for Paddy’s Day, in the back yard with The Pylon.

Sure enough, on Paddy’s Day I stuck out the poster over the old Sherry FitzG. sign that still stands outside the house – Paddy’s Pylon-the-Fun – and for five euros a head the kids could play their all day whilst their ma and da get peizheined with the drink.

Jaysus, the pylon looked grand. I covered it with all the small trees and branches blown off during the storm, and called it the Jungle Bunny Bash with the gossoons climbing all over the thing. I was wicked afraid of the leukaemia so I got the young ones to wear lead jackets from my mate at the refinery – told them they were astro-jackets from the space shuttle and they were delighted to wear them. It was brass monkeys up there so it kept them warm as well. I tied a long rope to the other side of the pylon so the chisellers could shimmer down that, and the old slide that Saoirse used to play with rested nicely on the struts. T’was grand altogether and the young ones had a fine old time and I made a few spandulix.

Later, after a few jars, I was watching your man Pat Shortt and laughin me head off and thinking how grand it would be if he could have Pat Rabbitte as a guest. We know that old Pat is always up for a laugh and he could be the guest in a comedy sketch about PCIs, which are Projects of Common Interest (when two or more EU countries get together and do projects stretching over national boundaries).

Now Pat and the EU Commission were supposed to tell us about these PCIs when they were still on the drawing board. Did they tell us? In me hole they told us! There are a shitload of them planned for all over Ireland which will make the countryside look like an industrial estate.

Pat doesn’t want us to know that. And nor does the EU Commission want us to know that, specially as it is controlled by the wind industry and possibly the Mafia.—italian-mafia-turning-green

Anyways, better late than never. So I thought that Pat Rabbitte could tell the nation about all these PCIs on the Pat Shortt show. My sketch would be along the lines of your young wan with giant knobs sitting in a pub and Pat would wobble up to her and say: “Come back to my place and checkout my PCI”. And your wan would wrinkle her nose and say: “Whats a PCI?”. And Pat would say: “A Project of Common Interest, har har shlurp”. And your wan would slap him and then Pat could rub his cheek and explain into the camera what a PCI is and just how many there are planned for the Irish countryside. See – a bit of comedy with your education.

Brussels need to start some straight dealing when they make these plans to build monster wind-farms in Ireland, and the government needs to start telling us about all these deals it is doing on the sly, otherwise we might get to know another family motto: Lepus Fugax Veritati.

Up In Smoke

elephant pylon with hemp

Lately when I’ve got off the jacks, Peig would give out about the whiff and ask if I’d be eating elephant grass again. What are you on about woman, I’d say, this is feckin Ireland, why would we be needing grass to feed the elephants – is that shite circus back in town?

Herself: ‘Not elephants ye feckwit, power stations. The farmers were growing that, and hemp, to burn as fuel, it’s called biomass’.

Feeding elephants and growing dope – what would the IFA say about that? Probably like most of us when we get caught with the joint in the pocket – sure officer, that’s not what it looks like, it’s just straw for the horse.

Peig’s brother is a farmer in Limerick, and he be mad for the hemp – sure, your man can throw a party – but he was also using some of his bad land to grow this elephant grass, which apparently came out all watery and shite, not fit to run the Wonderly Wagon, nevermind a feckin powerstation. I remember saying to him at the time – to be sure, would not shite land give you shite grass? Your man mumbled something about using the good land to grow food and the feckin elephant could look after himself, but that was the hemp speaking. Did you ever see a Limerick farmer do the two-step to Bob Marley? Not a pretty sight, but in Limerick I would rather they be singin “We’re Jammin’”, then ‘we’re stabbin’’. To be sure, wouldn’t Limerick be the centre of the hemp industry anyhows?

The elephant grass industry is up and running in Limerick now, but the wheels are coming off. The government is so keen to give all the money to the wind farms that the elephant grass farmer is getting nowt.

A farmer was askin’ me in the pub t’other night when we were talking about hemp with its anti-cancer properties – with the money to be made with meat and dairy, why would ye bother if there’s no subsidy? The short answer to that question, I said, is that there will be no meat and dairy, or racehorses for Cheltenham, if there be pylons all over the countryside. Sure, with pylons around even the elephants will feck off back to India – they’d have more feckin brains than Enda and Pat combined, but Pat would still have the bigger arse.

Now I might only have two years in the college in Maynooth, and that was a while back, but this is banjax-logic: So its grand to pay the wind farms millions in subsidies, and pay them even more to turn off at night, when they cause an increase in CO2 emissions, catch fire, banjax the Grid, and make people go mad with the noise and the flicker? But where a farmer wants to grow an environmentally friendly crop like elephant grass, and a party-friendly crop like hemp, not to mention that lovely-lookin yellow of rape seed – all of which would run the power-stations and keep the locals happy with the smoke comin off it – imagine the smiles at MoneyPoint – you give him feck all? And when the wind farms are providing feckall jobs and importing the yokes and all the spare parts, you’d still not support your local farmer and those looking for jobs in the agri-industry?

Just how is that right, my fine blueshirted friends, with your shares and directorships in the wind industry?

Me on the jacks is nothing compared to the stink that comes off ye.

Proper Doctors

There’s two types of medicine – medicine that works, and medicine that don’t work. Just like there’s two types of doctors – the medical doctors, and the others.

When I fell off the pylon trying to rescue the cat, I landed on my back, but shoulder first, with an awful clatter. The shaggin pain was brutal altogether.  So I went to the hospital to see one of these chiropractors, I think it was. I waited in the sitting room for over two hours, with your wan in the other chair moanin about her neck and giving me the eye, and me getting water in them little plastic cups, splashin all over her dress like. When it wasn’t her the other old wan was dropping her cane, and me with the back having to pick it up. The other fella in there was texting fit to bust, probably to himself, just to keep his head down and ignore all around him. That left me to act the eejit to your two’s every wish.

Finally I was called into the Palace of Pain, with a hundred certificates on the wall, probably from the University of Lower Mississippi or just printed off Google Images – how would you know? Your man hummed and hawed for five minutes, made me take my shirt off and put it on again, and showed me a picture of a skeleton with scary eyeballs. That was it. He sent me on my way with a prescription for painkillers with a price so dear I said feck that and got three bottles of Paddy for the same money. Best feckin painkiller I know. If youre gonna cover the pain rather than fix the problem, at least make it taste good.

But of course when the Paddy ran dry, the pain was back, and I was dying, no two ways about it.

Peig is wicked into this ‘alternative medicine’, which is funny given her time at med school. I don’t go in for the crystals and the fairies at the bottom of the garden, but I was desperate with the pain. She’d heard about this fella all the way over there in Dungarvan. Fair play to her, she drove me all the way there, with me lying in the back seat, moaning like a rescue dog. 

His name was Patrick, just like that online bookie, in fact I tried to lay a bet but he’d have none of it. This fella is called an osteopath, and he laid me on the couch and twisted and turned and massaged me until I felt like one of those rubber bands. Jaysus, what a difference. Without a single drug and just a coupla scoops I’m now moving around again. I wouldn’t be able for the blocks, but I’m on my feet, ready to two-step to Garth Brooks at Crokers.

And that got me thinking about the different types of doctors, the ones with the PhDs and the medical ones. Sure what would your man with the PhD know about people getting sick from the pylon dust?  Peig scares the shite outta me with her talk of breast cancer and stuff, but she always gives me the links, even showing that men can get breast cancer from pylons. What?

Now, I’ve been a Fianna Failure all my life, but walked away from the party when Biffo took over cos it was getting like the Sopranos with all these heavies walkin around doing dodgy deals. And then of course The Crash came and we blamed everybody we could point at, forgetting it was us who took out the credit card and bought all that useless shite we didn’t need, in between the holidays to Majorca. I wanted the FF boys to do something to restore my confidence because sure, even if you don’t like the cute hoors, they be the only ones strong enough to stand up to the Blueshirts. To be sure, the independent TDs do feck all, just claiming every allowance they can get their grubby paws on.

I heard on the FF grapevine (stupid feckin expression, sure, Marvin Gaye was no Irishman, that’s clear) that they will be callin for a moratorium on the pylons. That sounds like cute election spin to me and I’ll believe it when I see it cos I wouldn’t be buying a donkey from your man Me-Haul. I also see on their website that they be asking for Dr. Graham Roberts, who is a proper doctor, to be included on the Panel with your wan the Judge. Now to that I give the thumbs-up:

We need a proper doctor to be on the Panel. Not someone with a PhD in rat’s bollocks, but someone who knows loads about Leukaemia and Pylonaemia and all those other horrible cancers, especially breast cancer in men, for fecks sake.. Eirgrid didn’t have any proper doctors when they thought up the Plan, so sure, what would they know? And the way your man Rabbitte is looking at the moment, he’d be needing a proper doctor too. If you can’t take the heat Pat, get the feck outta the kitchen.

Paddy Pylon – The Movie

Scene 1

The camera flies in around The Pylon and zooms in on a small bungalow beneath the pylon. There is a trickle of smoke coming out of the chimney, the back garden is flooded, and a bony, sick-looking horse stands in the field behind the garden, with water up to its knees.

The camera pans back to the front door of the bungalow, which is banging in the screaming wind. The camera zooms through the door, and alights on a harassed looking man who is peering slit-eyed at his computer screen.

The man is gaunt, even painfully thin, his clothes are worn, and he wears dirty stubble on his chin. The viewer can hear, but not see, what is obviously a young girl with a wracking cough in the background.

The computer screen comes into view, and the viewer can see that the man is reading an article on the Italian Mafia controlling wind farms and raking off the huge profits to be made from subsidies.

Paddy:            “Ah Jaysus, the feckn cat is be goin up the pylon again. Would thy come down from there, ye furry fecker ye, I’ve enough on me plate without your shaggin about.”

(Loud knock on the door)

Paddy:            “Who would that be? There’s been no visitors here since the pylon was put up, what with the cancer dust flyin’ about.”

Stranger 1:    “Mr Pylon?”

Paddy:            “Aye, would ye have a cup of tea?

Stranger 2:    “We won’t be long, Mr Pylon, we just wanted a word?”

Paddy:            “Ah gowaan, big fellas like yees, would ye not have some tea? Aah gowaan. Jeez, look at ye’s dressed to the nines, and its only Friday. Are ye planning on taking the bird for some scoops and Valentine action?

Stranger 1:    “Shut yer hole and listen, yer skinny gobshite. Weez is here to deliver a message. Stop with the ‘pylon this’ and the ‘pylon that’ shite. Enough of this whining and ranting on the internet, and phoning people at all hours. You’ve upset some important people with your lies about pylons, and trying to get people to believe that they make you sick. There’s a load of cash to be made here, and you wont be banjaxing nowt, so zip it!”

Paddy:            “What cash are youse on about?”

Stranger 2:    “You’d be too thick to understand about subsidies and the like, yer dense culchie. It’s big business, and its legit. The stuff you go on about in this house, even when youse with herself in bed, would be enough to drive anyone mental.”

Paddy:            “How would you know what’s been said in this house, and on the phone?”

Stranger 2:    “Do you not read the news? Sure, we can listen to you scratchin your arse on the jacks. Tis not only the shades that have bugs”.

Paddy:            “But Haughey’s dead!”

Stranger 2:    (Sneeringly) “We’d be working for people that would make auld Charlie look like a pocket peeler, yer manky clem. Do you remember the likes of Eoin O’Duffy? Now, you’re not deaf? Watch my lips – Shut It, now, or youse might be findin’ that horse’s head in your bed, or maybe your daughter’s bed.”


(Camera zooms onto Paddy’s terrified face, and fades to black.)

Prof. Dennis Henshaw

My head is so wrecked with these dreams that I clean forgot to tell you about your man Dennis Henshaw and his speech at Trim last night.

The man was brilliant, and makes that dodgy research carried out by the Commission and WHO not worthy of wiping my arse.


I know those good folks at are also putting up a full report on the talk and there is even talk of the whole thing being recorded and put on their website, so go and check it out.

Sweet dreams are made of this

For the past week or so I been havin this nightmare. I’m on the highway and my feet are jammed. Bertie is flying towards me on the Wonderly Wagon with his face covered in talc and lips smeared with tart-red lipstick screaming, “more wind, more wind”. I can’t move and he crashes into me. I’m lying on the tarmacadam feelin like I took a brutal clatter from Godzilla, and I look up to see the little beady eyes on top of the pudge nose and behind the pebble glasses, the triple chin, and the bunny-kins voice with carroty breath saying ‘believe me, believe me’. I wake up shattered, with the sweat comin off me like foam out of a lager tap.

My neighbour, he’s a gas man who collects crystals and reads palms, tells me that the pylon is changing my brain electricity and causing these dreams. He gives me a gorgeous yellow crystal to put under the mattress, and I remember that story as a chiseler and I wonder if the lump in the mattress will keep me awake, same as your wan with that pea. My neighbour also goes to Mass on Sunday, so he might be worth listening to as he has all bases covered.

At the moment there is no wind, it’s lashing fit to bust and theres a small lake at the back from the floods. The Plyon is moaning like a hobo with sore nuts.

This dream has me thinkin about your man Rabbitte for a while now. That’s unhealthy, I hear you say, dreamin about that. What’s more unhealthy than living under a feck’n pylon? How much worse can it get? Paddy, I sez to meself, this might be a message that you can’t be calling your man a langer when he might be doin his best.

I know he’s a politician and a Minister, but he seems to be serious when he says the GridLink has nothing to do with exporting electricity to the Frenchies and the Brits. You’d almost want to believe him. I like to think theres a bit of goodness in every one of us. And he also seems dead serious when he speaks about creating jobs. So I thought I would give Twitchy Nose a fair shake like, and have a proper look. Dreams are messages from beyond. They need to be taken seriously, no messin about, brain electricity or no.

Now, your gonna scream at me for listening to bankers, being the scum of the earth an all, but the World Bank[1] tells us that Ireland reached its highest level of electricity consumption in 2008, but we’ve bin dropping ever since.

This makes sense as 2008 was the height of the Tiger, when everybody was using their credit card like a sixgun and shooting from the hip. The banks were giving us as many silver bullets as we could fire, like there was no tomorrow. We had to fill up our new 8-bedroom houses with all sorts of shite: big screen TVs, game consoles, new electric cookers and other kitchen gadgets, and more laptops than you could take a dump on. Those big houses needed to be lit up like Hugh Hefner’s Bunny Mansion, and all those big screens sucked up the juice as quick as fresh bread in gravy. What you need to remember is that, in that peak year, the grid handled it with ease. Can anybody remember a blackout in 2008? No – cos there were none. So why do we need a billion euro upgrade? Paid for by a loan we can’t afford. Sounds like a recession-recipe to me.

Since then our consumption has dropped every year, and we are now back to 2005 levels, and probably going to drop further.

As their answer to this decreasing domestic consumption, the Government took what we had already and increased by ten times the amount of wind-generated electricity we produced in that peak consumption year of 2008.[2] And they want to double that again.

Now, I might be a thick unemployed blocklayer from Mullingar, but why would ye need to increase our wind-electricity by twenty times (probably more) than the levels that existed at our peak consumption, when we need less electricity, not more? And why would ye want to do it with wind turbines, which make the system jump all over the place, liable to explode faster than Biffo could swallow a can of Harp?

As for jobs. Well, the turbines are bought over from Sweden and Germany, with technicians from those places, not here. They don’t need big crews to maintain them, being made out of galvanised steel. They can even be operated by a computer back in Sweden, they don’t need people at all. Siemens have said they wont be making spare parts here, they will make them at home.

When you think about it, ‘green’ technology produces very few jobs.[3] That’s not its fault, it was never about creating jobs, it was about reducing emissions. But insulating walls and attics, taking gas off slurry pits, even making electric cars, that’s what creates jobs and reduces emissions – a win-win. How about it, Enda, you whose so keen to stop the young ones going away? Do they still make those cars that run off chip oil?

Ye must also remember that because they are paid for by our tax money, the pylons job goes out to tender across the whole of the EU and most of the Western world. Sure, what’s the chance of Paddy in Mullingar getting the job?

When they first put the pylon at the bottom of my patch, I thought I could get a job tightening the nuts and polishing the yoke at Christmas for Santy, maybe as a nixer. Not a hope – your man Sven came twice in the first year, now I never see him. The pylon looks the same as when it was first put in. When the maintenance crew does come one day, I guarantee they’re not from Mullingar. This place will be like ‘The Bridge’ on TV without subtitles.