the dead

Wandered into Hodges Figgis bookshop on Dawson Street.
And lo!
What pseuds through yonder window break.
It is the east and the launch of a newly published compendium featuring work by a bunch of Ireland's best known cosmically unreadable Trotskyite conformist left wing fembo commie pinko writers is the Irish Times reading conformist sun.
They're all sitting around.
Extracts are being read.
The usual anti Catholic drivel.
This bunch think abortions are the answer to everything.
Cure for cancer?
More abortions.
World hunger?
Abortions.
Boredom in the late afternoon from being a bunch of anti Catholic atheistic Irish Times reading conformist abortionist shites?
Abortions, abortions, abortions.
Their work is as dead as their souls.
The sheer insufferability of it all notwithstanding, I linger for an hour ogling a writer called Deirdre Sullivan sitting at the front.
Occasionally I at least pretend to listen to some of the tosh being recited with a thoughtful look on my face.
The thoughtful look is not entirely a lie.
There are thoughts there.
I am thinking: What a shower of ----s.
During a lull in the dross, and while Deirdre Sullivan's legs are crossed, a momentary madness seizes me.
I could leap to the front, grab the microphone and scream:
"It's all over ass holes. In the name of the workers and of the oppressed masses crying out in desolation, I am striking a blow at the racist police state."
John Carpenter would have got the joke but where is he now.
And I had a feeling the hippy pony tailed guy doing security would have been really annoyed.
Better to smile at Deirdre Sullivan's magnificent silken clad thighs and show, there is a comfortable kind of old scarecrow.
(Ruggedly handsome last knight of Europe doing a false modesty routine? - Ed note)
(One of mine surely? - WB Yeats note)
(Who the hell are you? - Mr Burns note)
(It's the future of the human race Heelers, something you don't give a shit about. - Snake Plisskan note)
(Homage, homage, homage, homage and homage to myself - Heelers note)
Sigh.