I was all set.

Hot coffee in front of me at my desk. Duties more or less finished. MSWord open and in the middle of a document so that I could AltTab my way out of a pickle if the general manager happened to sideswipe by in aberrant nosiness. Suzy and Co’s live blog open and warming up with gentle updates. Black candle smouldering under my effigy of Brian Lenihan. It was BUDGET TIME YEEAH!

Recess over. 3:45pm arrived, and I adjusted my blood pressure medication, leaned closer to the monitor, licked my lips… and the financial director arrived at my desk in a cloud of red smoke.

“Sweary! We need your PC! Outsourced database dudes need to access it remotely and fiddle its diddles for half an hour.”

“Excuse me? You can’t! You can’t! I’ve just started tw…yping this very important angry letter to a huuuuuge debtor.”
He wasn’t moved.

“HUUUUGE!” I bellowed, flailing like the octopus who played Catherine in the Pacific Ocean’s high-brow production of Wuthering Heights.

“I am unmoved” he confirmed. “Go on. Up you go. Make tea or bleach your lashes or file your elbows or whatever it is you receptionists do.”

I was heartbroken. I’m still mourning the loss of those exhilirating 30 minutes where the Emergency Budget caused a unified blogosphere to wet its kecks and then moan the damp ill effects in one glorious orgasm of righteous petulance. I was not part of it. I was…

Jesus. Look at me. Complaining about missing the budget. And all those times in the 1980s I sat in tears as my mam switched from my favourite cartoon (Dogtanian, obviously) to RTE1 to check how the State was shafting her entire life. I’ll never be like that, I declared, packing my Scooby Doo lunchbox with running-away essentials… a rope, a map of Ireland, a spoon and a copy of Bunty. I’ll never pay heed to drab old BOSSYBOOTS in suits stuttering at each other over taxaterates or whatever it is, I’m gonna be so cool when I grow up. And yet, here I am at the grand old age of 27…



I’ve become my fucking mother.

What? What did I think of the Budget? What do you think? We live in a State run by Orwell’s pigs, unimaginative arseholes with no concept of what it means to be innovative in times of crisis, and without a dictionary between them to look up the term. Arseholes who tell us that everyone must make a contribution whilst getting glinty-eyed at those vulnerable people who hadn’t the dosh at the time to contribute to the mistakes made that fucked their country in the first fucking place. No help with childcare? Pot shots taken at young jobseekers? Cutting rent allowance? Very fucking brave, Fianna Fail, very fucking brave. Don’t you worry about all those guns we’ve got in the Council Estates?

Empty fucking ballsacs. That’s what they are. And Fine Gael are no fucking better, bolstering bad news, echoing the people in reedy smugness, sure that they’re on the side of virtue. Present a viable, intelligent alternative, or fuck right off. There you go now, Enda. And me from the same side of the Shannon as you and all.

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