Tumescently macho as all this was, it was still not ultra-violent and triumphant enough for the (throbbing) members of the "Fine Gael Digital Task Force". On the occasion of a certain jolly plumber’s 30th birthday they’ve channelled their pulsating and infantile power fantasies into the creation of "Go Ireland".

Its gurning hero is Nint-Enda. He runs. He jumps.¹

He mercilessly fucks FG shurikens into the face of Joan Burton until she dies and her corpse turns into a pile of ashes. Really. “Tax This!”, he (really) yells as he does so. Die you fucking commie bitch!!

Fine Gael fetishists the land over are gleefully playing this as I type. Drooling as they lay brutal waste to their enemies.

Speeding Nint-Enda ever closer to his coronation at Hyrule Castle. Finger of the right hand feverishly pushing the “Throw Star” button. Fingers of the left hand frantically bringing themselves to climactic release. Cum and death and ashes and murder. And George Hook’s raging boner.²

Yesterday. It was one of those days for sicking oneself in the mouth.

1. Honestly. Dynamism not done justice by action-less screen grab. [back]
2. Always stiffened by exposure to “powerful men”. [back]

To celebrate these imminent and delicious horrors, I'm cranking up the old "Campaign Poster Debaffler" and taking a critical squint at the images that will soon surround and suffocate us. What are they saying? What are they…meaning? Who told that guy that a paisley tie was a good idea with a pinstripe suit? Answers will be found here. And nowhere else.

First up is this pre-emptive (and illegal?) beauty from a dynamic, Waterford-ian, FG tag-team.¹.

Bland and yawn-inducing at first glance, but look deeper. Look deeper. Firstly, we have a classical dark/fair, good/evil, fairytale dyad. Voters lap up archetypal shit like this. The fusion of opposites. The (badly-needed) lolz of a buddy movie.

Secondly, behold the romantic and evocative image of the open road. Or, upon closer inspection, the somewhat less romantic and less evocative image of the open bypass or dual-carriageway. Still, it runs off into the future: hinting at a pristine, Autobahnish, EU-topia perhaps. Or, more problematically, suggesting a bullish, M3-lovin', "Fuck you" attitude toward (Lia Fáil-humping) Hill of Tara whingers.

Fine Gael – they'll take a big, stinking shit on our ancient national heritage(s), but (on the totes plus side) we'll get to our work-stations 20 minutes earlier. While listening to a Kraftwerk/Planxty mash-up remix on our Bang & Olufsen car stereos (a poignant throwback to the ostentatious, big salad days of odious Celtic Tiger cuntitude).

More soon.

1. Courtesy of the bould Derek Troy [back]

Fitting somewhere between a cheap-shot and a spot of po-faced analysis lies this blog's "Campaign Poster Debaffler" – a (very) half-baked, critical attempt to expose the layers of meaning buried in the propagandic images that currently surround us.

First up, Fine Gael – and the bould Cllr. Cormac Hurley.

Ok, so what this (and other identical FG posters) seems to be driving at is that the party will lead the country out of its present (penurious) muck, mire and misery and on into a brave prosperous dawn. Just look at that deep blue sky with its dash of white fluffy clouds if you don't believe me. Nothing could be lovelier.

Not only that, but the good people of Ireland stand square behind both Cllr. Hurley and the party he nobly represents. They're young(ish). They're confident. They're smug (albeit with smugness somewhat chastened by global financial collapse). They're ready to put their shoulders to the wheel. They shelter beneath Cllr. Hurley's giant ears waiting for a chance to turn this country around. They look like this (or at least the ones under his left ear do).

So much for the intended effect. An alternative reading was offered by Jess as we strolled past it at the weekend. The heavenly sky of optimism in the background might be just that: heavenly. Cllr. Hurley may, in fact, be dead. He's lived a rich, full life but his time (as it must with all men) has come. There to meet him at the pearly gates are an eclectic bunch of loved ones who've gone before him. Forms are mutable in the afterlife, so Cllr. Hurley may soon (if he so chooses) "look" like that confident successful guy with the blonde hair and blue shirt. Anything's possible. He could even have boobs.

Now there's a campaign slogan for ya. Forget "A Fairer Ireland" (snore, boring). This is the kind of radical alternative the gloomy, cynical public wants:

Fine Gael – You Could have Boobs.

They'd have my vote.