Is End O’Kenny. Our Very Own Tracey Ireland!!
Do you remember growing up the very amazing clever animated television program show The Thrunderbirds Are Go!? No. Me neither. I am too old. In Spain, when I was grow up, all we had was comic magazines about the Crusades and oranges on a stick. But a few years ago, the Thrunderbirds was come back in fashion for the young children these days when the presenters on The Blue Peter Show make a cheapskate version of the program set, featuring the Thrunderbirds’ home base, Tracey Ireland, named after the head of the family, Tracey Ireland. It was composed with cheap nasty disposable items that children could easily find such as plastic bags, Stanley knives, Parazone bottles, used toilet paper, coat hangars, some leaves, and a rocket ship. Children all over the world made their own Tracey Irelands and played at being one of the Thrunderbird pilots, such as Alan, Scott, Gordon, Brians, The Hood, Tintin, and Bitch. Very few of the children wanted to be Tracy Ireland himself, since he was a kind of father figure who overseed everything with a benign indifference and was too busy anyway playing golf, reading the papers, and shooting boatpeople.
The show was brung to mind for me only his week by the uncanny parallels between Thrunderbirds the show and Ireland the country, which is this week facing the dismal prospect of a democratic election. As you are already know by now, I am violently opposed, in principle and also in practice, to democratic elections, but this one in lovely pissing holy Ireland is different because it is not really a proper democratic election anyway: all the parties who are being allowed to win have the same policies. Also besides, the election is already a foregone conclusion, since the winners and losers are already decided. End O’Kenny will be the winner, and everyone else will be the losers.
The Fine Gaels have been keeping End O’Kenny under raps, which I was thought was because they were embarrassed by him. But now I realize that he is their secret weapon. Like Thrunderbird One. At the bottom of the swimming pool. Escept he would not sink, because he is so wooden.
This was what was strike me when I watched O’Kenny in one of the tougher interviews he has done this election, on The Den. For the viewer, the esperience was like the end of the book Animal Farm, where the animals look from pig to farmer and back again and cannot tell them apart. This time, my eyes was switch from End O’Kenny to Dustin the Turkey (the interviewer) and from Dustin the Turkey (the interviewer) back to End O’Kenny, and it was impossible for me to tell which one was the politician and which one was the puppet. And then, when O’Kenny kept going on about the International Rescue and taking care of the corporations but otherwise cow-towing to Ireland’s European masters, it hit me that he is not just any puppet running just any puppet government. No! He is Tracey Ireland from Thrunderbirds, the father of all the Ireland people, and like they did on The Blue Peter Show, he is going to transform the country into a model economy, composed of cheap nasty items and used toilet paper. But without the rocket ship.
The wondrous thing about lovely pissing holy Ireland is that most of the Ireland family (Scott, Gordon, Alan, Bitch etc.) are not only willing to trust Tracey, they are lending him active support by voting for him in their drives. The only dissenters seems to be Brians, the twins, who have cut the apron strings, and also the puppet strings, and fled the nest to Australia, a large, warm, sunny Ireland with jobs. The rest of the family, brought up on obedience and father nose best, are ready to put their shoulders to the grindstone and their ears to the wheel, even though they will have no jobs, no homes to go to, and not even a suitcase to hide in and shout “let me out.” Like Cuddles the monkey. On the contrary and neverthenonetheless, they have taken up the Fine Gaels campaign slogans as their own: Vote for Emigration! Vote for Homelessness! Vote for Famine! And they are all singing the Fine Gaels’ campaign song, Prince’s “Tonight We’re Going to Party Like It’s 1845.”
All this, of course, on the proviso that it is the public sector workers and trade unions which suffer the most. “You must never underestimate the power of spite, Señor Estímulo” Herr Mengele was point out to me as we watched O’Kenny struggle with short words and lose to Dustin at Jenga. “So long as he promises vicious vengeance against anyone with a cheerful, positive, or compassionate outlook on life-nurses, carers, firemen, charity workers-there will always be plenty of pinch-faced misanthropic church-going rural folk-our kind of people-ready to support him, keen to punish anyone who exhibits such naivety and arrogance. You must see, of course, that it isn’t self-hatred that motivates people to vote for Kenny. Nein. It is hatred of other Irish people. For being uppity. The Brians realized this, and they have already left the country, because they could. Those who remain behind in Ireland either have a vested interest in the system and too much to lose by emigrating, so they will vote O’Kenny, or else they have no choice but to stay. And those, the ones who are stuck, they are the ones O’Kenny will punish. The sitting ducks.”
“I have to say, Herr Mengele,” I was reply. “I do like his style. He really does sound like one of us, doesn’t he? Do you think we should invite him to join our Fascist International?”
Herr Mengele just winked at me and was tap the side of his nose.
“I don’t think he needs an invitation, Señor Estímulo,” was all he said.