VICTORIA GALLAGHER-O'HOULIHAN finds a brave new world
WHAT A relief. Finally it feels like our small nation has come to its senses and turned a corner. I knew we could be counted on to vote Lucinda in spite of those heterophobe spoilsports. Lucinda – who had the nicest posters, the shiniest hair and a first name that works like Cher or Madonna – clearly deserved her victory.
I myself have no problem with the gays; many of my favourite designers favour Turkish Delight and sweat gyms. But the gays already have the best clothes, the best parties, the best couches and the best men. They can’t have weddings as well.
Marriage is a sacred institution and must be reserved exclusively for the procreation of a honeymoon trousseau. It cannot be handed over to people who already own wardrobes full of fabulousness. Make the best of your modest civil services and enough already, you greedy same-sexers!
Of course, Lucinda didn’t win that election all on her own. She owes a great deal to that Grandpa Ken doll guy, Herman Munster, the one that looks like Eli Roth and, most importantly, to the empty chair that runs the party.
For me, the chair’s appearance at the electoral debates was a key moment in the election. The other parties were all “We owe the IVF so much freaking dosh” but Fine Gael were all like, “Hey, we’re so effing crazy we’re putting a chair in charge of the country. How do you like them apples?” Short of a rival party hitting back with a beanbag or couch, Fine Gael always looked like winners.
Even though all those scary, beardy Sinn Féin people are now watching over us, it really does feel like a Chaise New World. I knew we had made a good call when I overheard some skangers near the taxi rank saying “Peelers be up in your business the whole time now”. With any luck these sorts of undesirables and their freaky lingo will be a thing of the past. The chair’s five-point plan, if I heard the clean, unfashionable man on my doorstep correctly, makes specific reference to the cutting of wastrels.
And it’s about damned time!
By Sunday night, it felt as if the whole world was bathed in Fine Gael’s warm blue glow of reason. Even the Oscars, a once fine occasion lately ruined by indie- schmindie misery guts and too many rubbishy Coen Brothers movies, finally got something right.
We don’t want some “satirical” malcontent making cracks about George Bush all night; we want talented movie star presenters like Anne Hathaway and James Franco smiling at us. We don’t want edgy films and directors to win: we want the dull, gentle choice starring Mr Darcy to take home all the statuettes. So what if The King’s Speech wasn’t as “artistically impressive” as Black Swan’s hefty ballerinas or True Grit or any of the other films it was nominated with?
People like nice. People like safe. People like The King's Speech. And people like the chair. Say it loud and say it proud: two legs bad, four legs good.
