Nazis R Us!
Enough Space for All the Books a Fascist Could Read!!
Being very sensible, over the past fourtnight (which is only actually two weeks: I will never get the stupid English!) I have been very busy organizing my return to my spiritual home, lovely holy pissing Ireland, having heeded the call from End O’Kenny (see last week’s post) telling all ageing Nazis, fascists, Falangists, and cetera, that it is safe, just like in that film the Marathon Man (which was recently remade as the Snickers Man; not as good, but with the same strong message: you can’t eat a lot of chocolate and espect to get off lightly at the dentist). Safetiness is not my main reason for coming back to Ireland, however. Not at all. No. Is instead because of the new climate that O’Kenny is promising the Irish people of austerity, suffering, poverty, inequality, joblessness, empty shelves, civil war, grazed elbows, holes in pullovers, rubbish haircuts, fly-tipping, water charges, no schools, weak beers, alcoholism, marital strife, and penile servitude. What decent Christian in his own mind could resist the lure of such a scenario?!
There will be much work to be done bringing the Irish peoples back to the proper austere Roman Catholic life to which they have traditionally been devoted until the Celtic Tiger turn their heads, but the circumstances are now propitious (whatever that means) and I am sure that the church hierarchy in Ireland is rubbing its hands and thighs in delight at the opportunity that the financial and social crisises will provide for them to insert themselves back into the lives of the men, women and children across the land. In much the same way that the Big Society idea in the Great Britain really means hoovering up the crumbs traditionally scattered before the proles and instead letting the charities take the strain of separating out the “deserving” from the “undeserving” poor (in my view they all deserve to be poor), so the crisises in Ireland will mean cutting back all the communist features of the state (education, hospitals, care of the elderly, infrastructure) and encouraging instead the major civil institutions, such as the Holy Roman Catholic Church and Hezbollah, to demonstrate their magnaminity and that they don’t not bear any grudges against the idiot Irish people who turned their back on God in favour of Mammon during the boom times. The Church knows it full well from history that this is a regular occurrence, and it also knows full well the Parable of the Prodigal Son, which is in the Bible, so I am confident that the Church will happily and selflessly welcome home with open arms all repentant sinners on their hands and knees.
An austere lifestyle is not just good for the soul but also good for the body, of course, and we Falangists pride ourselfs on our self-discipline, our self-denial, our Spartan bearing, our love of suffering (both our own and that of others), and our capacity to endure deprivation. I have, however, deprived myself long enough of the delights of lovely pissing Ireland, stuck as I was in my retirement villa in the Canarias, idly sipping Cardenal Mendoza and watching the topless volleyball on the beach through my binoculars. What kind of life is that for a man? It is shallow, meaningless, and empty. What pleasure there was to be had came thanks to my neighbours the Mengeles, but they now are getting old and withered and are unable to parade or hold a whip as well as they once could. Is therefore good fortune for me that the tide has turn in Ireland. Finally once again this is a place where an ascetic despiser of all things superfluous and luxurious such as I can feel at home.
I have therefore rented out a nice house in Dun Laoghaire, where I was previously once about to move in with my good friends Jane Bondage and Miss Whipcream, two ladies of high breeding what I was use to work with when I was stationed in Ireland with the Spanish intelligence. They was always giving me good-quality details about all the judges and politicians and businessmen visiting their premises. I will be able to renew my close acquaintance with them, and they have been very decent enough to find for me this new bachelor pad
where I am in the process of moving all my comestibles, domestics, cosmetics, and comics. It is not the biggest and most pre-possessing of houses, I know, but it does have a certain je ne sais quoi, a spirit, a geist, if you will. Miss Whipcream tells me that it could do with a larger living room, and Jane says there are some slates missing, but she knows a local chap, Lenny Roofinstall, who will make it look just fabulous. “It will be a triumph,” were her precise words.
So I am all boyant and enthused about this return. I have it on good authority that some of my old comrades have already arrived in Dublin and are acclimating very well. I have been already into IKEA to stock up on basics: a chair, a spoon, a hunting knife, a silencer, night-vision goggles, some salmiak, a bottle of schnapps, a bookshelf (see main picture), hiking books, plimsolls, pantyhose, a tourniquet, and an iPad 2. I have downloaded the Bible.
I shall now look forward to reacquainting myself with all my old Irish friends and also resurrecting my old network from the Gladio days. Some of them must still be alive or on the outside. A covert network of ageing fascists will be just the ticket to get the country going again. Or at least to accelerate its headlong charge back to the 1930s. My fervid hope is that once we pick up speed I can push Ireland right back to the 16th century before anyone can put the brakes on. Feudalism might be asking a bit much, escept in Carlow, perhaps, but with a bit of luck we can at least get back to the days of burros and buboes.
If the economists are all correct, and they never are, Ireland is now esperienceing the clam before the storm. They do not mean Jean van Damn Clam, the mussels from Brussells. Rarther, it is a metaphor meaning that everything is locked tight shut like a shell but with the hurricane on the way about to batter it. Like scampi. I shall therefore make haste and reach Ireland by next week. Miss Whipcream says she still has my Wellington boots and long brown mackintosh. I don’t think I shall need them, however. I AM the coming storm!
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