Comic Bill Hicks was presciently funny, but he never could have predicted our current batch of elected representatives, writes KILIAN DOYLE
BILL HICKS was one of the most scathing men who ever lived. An astute social commentator rather than a mere comedian, Hicks held a mirror up to society and rejoiced as it recoiled in horror at what it saw. He reserved particular scorn for religious and politicians hyprocrites. He died of pancreatic cancer in 1994 at the age of 33.
Anyway, the following is an unashamed adaptation of a Hicks sketch.
Noel Dempsey sits at a large, leather-covered desk in Leinster House, sharpening his gnashers on one of the Celtic Tiger’s thigh bones. He occasionally absent-mindedly chucks the odd scrap to Gaybo and Bottler, cowering in a filthy corner. In walks The Devil.
Lucifer: Looking well, Noel. How are you enjoying your worldly success?
Dempsey: Ah, Louie, tis yerself. I’m doing grand. And you?
Lucifer: Not bad. This global recession is great. I’m getting more followers by the day.
Dempsey: Wish I could say the same myself. Anyway, what can I do for you?
Lucifer: I’ve come for your soul.
Dempsey (laughing): Have you now? You can flip off back into the hole you came from.
Lucifer: What? We had a deal. I gave you dominion over all you survey, all the money you asked for to build roads, let you dig up all the priceless pagan artifacts you could wish for and even gelded those craven curs in the media and Opposition to give you free passage. You owe me.
Dempsey: Never a truer word said. But I can’t help you. You should have done your research first. Fact is, very few Irish politicians have souls.
Lucifer recoils in horror as Dempsey throws his head back, cackling like a fish wife, his pointed teeth glistening with tiger blood.
As if on cue, the door bursts open. Ceann Comhairle Don O’Donoghue, Capo di Tutti Capi of the Kerry Mafia, is carried into the room by six Amazons in a gold-plated sedan chair. As he dismounts, he hands each Amazon a crisp €500 note from a fat bankroll.
Lucifer: Ah, the very man. I’m here to collect Noel’s debt. Might as well pick yours up while I’m here, eh?
DO’D: Ah, dere’s a slight problem wit dat. Suren, I haven’t got a soul either.
Lucifer: But we had a deal!
DO’D: I’m sorry that that impression was given. However, I feel that it would be entirely inappropriate to my office to be entering in such controversy and I don’t propose to engage in further debate on the matter.
Lucifer: That’s a no then?
DO’D sneers contemptuously. Dempsey motions to the hessian sack DO’D is dragging.
DO’D: What’s dis? ‘Tis the head of dat nag that lost me a bundle at Cheltenham. De useless donkey left me penniless.
I had ta call de lads in Baldoyle – reverse charges of course – to come get me. I was tinkin’ of stickin’ it in George Lee’s bed. Far too big for his pointy little boots, so he is.
The door opens. John Gormley pedals in on one of the Dublin bikes.
Lucifer: At last. Someone I know who has a soul. Help me out here, John, would you?
Gormley shuffles uncomfortably, stares down at his trouser clips. He can’t look Lucifer in the eye. Dempsey and DO’D start sniggering. They finally dissolve into uncontrollable fits of laughter when Martin Cullen struts in.
Lucifer gets the message.
He turns and walks out, tail between his legs, realising he is out of a job. A cold wind blows in the hearts of Man.