First port of call was the National Portrait Collection of Ireland, Bourn Vincent Gallery (UL). On its stark white walls I stuck my Cowen/Gravely-ill Badger postcard. Like Martin Luther's 95 theses – only with more dotted lines of piss.

And a close up:

The total absence of FF-sponsored, brutally repressive, security guard goons was a disappointment – but the CCTV cameras that watched my every move no doubt wired their signal straight back to party headquarters. I'll be found face down in a dumpster with a plastic bag over my head before the week's out.

With this job done I flung open the doors and headed out into the wilds (i.e a grassy courtyard): there to share my love of freedom with the myriad spirits of nature. There can be no greater act of communion with Mother Earth than Blu-Tacking a rude postcard to a tree. Behold:

And behold again:

This is a softer, almost (dare I say) touching, Cowen nude. There he is for all the world to see. Stripped of his bullish facade. Stripped of his aura of power. Stripped of his jocks. I could just pick him up, kiss him on his tiny little head, and pop him in my breast pocket. If I didn't hate him for pissing on that poor sick badger. Boo!

Update, 25/03/09, 23.48:
Ok. I hereby want to encourage every single person reading this to send me (via post) a nude Brian Cowen postcard (ask for my address and it will be given). If we gather enough together I'll find a way to exhibit them publicly. If some fail to arrive then we'll also have "postalgate" to concern ourselves with. This is not a joke. I genuinely want to do it.