A chairde, a dhaoine uaisle, a mhuintir na hÉireann; after consultation with my family, long hours walking the land of Erin lost in my thoughts, channeling the spirit of Seán T. O'Kelly (who, of course, was exactly the man to look for when you needed spirits, as the naggin never left the frock coat pocket when he was out on Presidential business I believe), and looking into my heart, I, An Spailpín Fánach, of no fixed abode, have decided to put myself forward for the post of Ninth President of Ireland.
This is not a decision that I take lightly. In fact, I'm taking it with a pinch of salt. I have surveyed the field that are curently interested in the position, using a magnifying glass to catch Mr Ryan of An Comórtas Glás of course, political pygmy that he is, and I've decided that the competition is a lot less stiff than that it is to make it as a Grade 3 Civil Servant or to Upper Deck Hogan, both battles in which An Spailpín has flown his colours in the past.
My qualifications for the post of President are impeccable, and open to full public scrutiny. As a former resident of Dublin 7, the People's Park was like my front lawn at that time, where oft I gambolled of a evening in spring. I shall open factories and féiseanna cheoil with the same sense of style with which I opened cans of cider in my youth - held close to the ear, for that satisfying psssffft! sound.
I have lived the life of the citizen of Ireland, knowing full well the life of the emigrant, the computer whizzkid, the man of letters, the owner of a copy of Ulysses and a U2 album on tape, and most of all, the life of a dole bunny back in the days when we believed in things. I have drawn the Government wage often in the past, and I can spend your tax dollars once more, con brio, the way your money should be spent.
You will say that spending money on an election is a waste; you will say that it could be spent on our hospitals, our schools, on some sneaky scheme to bring back corporal punishment to welt the living Jesus out of the hooligans who infest our streets without the Irish Times getting wind of it before it's too late. To this I say: boo sucks. The cash is there and I could do with the laugh.
Tabhair don Spailpín é! An Spailpín for the Park! Put the Arsing About back in Áras an Uachtarán! But for God's sake, don't risk your sanity listening to what passes for intelligent political debate in this country. You'll be old before your time.
