heelers defies the swastika

Driving into Naas.
A knot of striking office workers are marching up and down outside Naas police station.
They are carrying signs with slogans about the hardship they face from government cutbacks.
"Tax the fatcats Minister," advises one of their more poignant signs.
Ah yes.
Everyone thinks someone else is going to pay.
The present bunch seem a happy well fed crew.
There are no visible signs of hardship beyond the signs they are carrying which make claims to hardship that would seem embarrassing to a 1930s Rhonda valley miner.
These present day Irish office workers receive over a thousand quid a week.
They don't earn it.
They receive it just for showing up.
They also receive undisclosed bonuses which the Irish government does not publish.
Ah, it's tough down t' mines.
In fact no one outside of official circles knows the exact total which Irish government office workers are paid.
Let me put it this way.
Today's protestors and their fellows in the State Sector are responsible for running up a national debt that will impoverish our children.
Our corrupt thieving incompetent criminal mafiosi Irish banks did not run up the national debt.
Our currupt thieving incompetent criminal mafiosi Irish banks are just petty criminals compared to today's striking office workers.
These nice middle class people who have allowed conflict theory Marxists to be their trade union representatives because, well, conflict theory Marxists get results don't they.
Ireland is dying before our very eyes.
But they get results.
And here come the wooooooorkers.
On strike.
With their little signs proclaiming: "We Won't Pay."
That famous vein on my temple which some of you know and love so well, gives a little throb.
I mulled the options.
A man would want to be some kind of an idiot to start challenging police station employees at the doorway of a police station.
I bring my car to a halt.
Wind down the window.
The strikers approach me and form a semi circle around the driver's side of my car.
About twenty of them.
They have expectant pleasant relaxed well fed faces.
I haven't seen such comfortable relaxed well fed faces since the last CNN footage of poor impoverished Arab protestors in the Gaza Strip demanding the right to bomb Israel with impunity while being fed by the United Nations.
But I digress.
Today's protestors at the police station are certain I am about to impart some anodyne message of support.
I shout.
Good and loud.
But every word distinct.
"Get... back... to... work... you... overpaid... bastards!"
There is a moment's stunned silence.
Two of the strikers.
Just two.
Raise a ragged cheer.
It is very ragged.
They're all still a little shocked.
"Yaaaaayyyyy," the two manage.
The others just stare.
I drive away.
This is getting to be quite a habit.
I wonder did they sing Cwym Rhonda after I left.