We Are Where We Are: Ireland 2011
1
Julius Cowells’ centurions set up the annual royal marquee near the racecourse, just as their ancestors had always done, tradition being alive and well. Like in the time of the Coliseum, God be with the good old days. They order in big feeds of hogs, cows, veal and gallons of wine. The patricians loll around in Hospitality, hollering their heads off, too drunk to register fully the true import of the collapsing economy.
“Crisis? What crisis?” yells invited guest Berticus, Julius’ predecessor, above the noise, “Them naysayers should all go off and top themselves.”
He gives the two-finger salute to Seánie the Fitzpatricus, affectionately named, who has just burst into the marquee on wheels, laughing like a lunatic and racing about the place, in danger of toppling the tent in the process, “Up ya boy ya!”
“Let them tighten their belts anyway, to be on the safe side,” roars Julius Cowell, in his cups and oblivious to everything outside the feast.
“They’re living beyond their means,” snorts Tiberius Hockney, who has made a ghost appearance, always good for a recital of his State-of-the-Nation party piece. Then, showing a deep knowledge of Joyce, recites, “Shite and onions!” as Julius rushes off to the vomitorium.
“Where’s me bonus?” bawls the Fitzpatricus, the man destined to achieve the breathtaking feat of slicing a country off at its knees.
“Wait’ll after the budget, you greedy fucker,” shouts the drunken Julius on his way back from a quick gag, “only jokin’, you oul eejit, you’ll get your bonus.” He breaks into song,
“Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen…”
“Who’s robbin who?” asks the wily Willicus.
And so on and so forth.
11
The banks and developers have all lost their bearings, their balls, and everything else in a casino. The mighty O’Quinn on his soapbox, lamenting: “Only one billion left for to feed my poor unfortunate family.” The leader, Julius Cowell, throwing his toga over his shoulder in a special public appearance, orders the spread of pain. “We must spread the pain,” he says magisterially. Bryanius, tribune for agony, takes to the job with gusto, out and about selecting citizens at random, drilling into root canals without anesthetic. Howls are heard as far away as Iceland where they have more than enough of their own howling going on. Everywhere you go, folk at kitchen tables, staring at blots on oilcloths, free men throwing themselves off tall buildings. The country is in flitters.
111
When at last he sees the writing on the wall, Julius Cowell steps down, but not before rewarding his trusty henchmen, both public and private, for their loyalty and support. This he does out of the cartload of bucks borrowed from the heathen Maximus Lucretius from far away beyond the Rubicon. Julius is no sooner off into the sunset than Maximus, wouldn’t you know, arrives at Hibernia’s door to demand his pound of flesh in terms of interest and debt repayments. Maximus Lucretius means business.
“I got none of that money,” cries Hibernia, pregnant again and destitute, “ I don’t have anything to give.”
Maximus looks around, taking everything in. Fingers the pearl handle of his dagger.
“You have assets.”
“Assets?” shrieks Hibernia, alarmed, “What assets?”
Maximus nods in the direction of an old fork and hoe resting against the gable end of the thatch.
“But without our tools how will we grow food?” Hibernia wails, shivering, pulling her thin shawl around herself, “What are we to eat?”
Maximus calmly eyes the infants in the sandpit.
“You have babies, don’t you?”
© Prizewinner in the Jonathan Swift Satire Award 2011.
