Free Download by clicking here: The Life and Times of Paddy Pylon
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Jaysus, I knew it. I been sayin this for feckin ages but all the lads say ‘Ah youre pissed Paddy’ or ‘Yer cracked Paddy’ or suchlike. Now maybe you boyos will feckin listen to me – the oil industry owns the feckin’ wind farms and the pylons I bet.
Makes sense dunnit? If you need more power stations to back up the dodgy windmills, then if you build more windmills you need to build more power stations. Scratch my arse an I’ll scratch yours.
So what does that mean? The oil boyos buy the feckin wind industry, convince the government (who couldn’t find their own arse in the jacks) that they need to build all these wind farms or else they will have to pay the EU zillions in fines, and they make money selling windfarms, making a fortune in subsidies, and selling more oil and gas to run all the new power stations to keep the lights on when the wind doesn’t blow.
You couldn’t make this shit up.
Still don’t believe me? Well read the feckin report yourself.
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.)