President for the decadent
There are now more presidential candidates than voters. But my people have asked -- nay, begged! -- that I forthwith place my name on the ticket as it would be handy for the lads to have a place to stay in Dublin.
There are more bones in my cupboard than in the skip in the English Market. I could hardly pass the skeletons off as the Kerry 'hide and go seek' champions of 1934, now could I? It would be as ridiculous as the London looters claiming they were only window shopping.
We must put the people first and take the flak. I have decided, after due consultations with my closest advisors, the bank manager and the accountant, to allow my name to be placed on the ballot paper, in the national interest.
Sorry Gaybo. Respect. But the people love me and I love the people.
Ah but I would make a lovely president. Shaking hands with the visiting teams in the Aviva, telling Martin Johnson to wipe his feet before he steps on the red carpet, stopping to have a private word with a few of our own lads.
"Go on BOD," I'd say, "give it to dem Tans."
He invites me to link arm-in-arm with the lads for all the anthems. And when I exit the pitch, the band strikes up 'Lovely Listowel' as I playfully pat Princess Pippa of Middleton on the bottom.
There would be no begging for tickets off lads in the club you fell out with years ago because you dropped their young lad from the U-14s when he refused to go off the drink on the night before big games.
No more standing high up in the stands of Croker watching crows in oxygen debt begging the vet for stronger vertigo pills. No more jealousy of guests in corporate boxes who never kicked a ball asking the waiter to switch the TV over to the Grand Prix.
Ah but do you know the first thing I plan to do when I get in? I'd bring in the death penalty for umpires. That's Kildare and Louth sewn up.
In my role as commander-in-chief of the army, the generals would be summoned to the Phoenix Park. We will study the Donegal and Dublin defensive formations. Military and GAA historians will call it the golden age of trench warfare. GAA theory will be used on the battlefields.
Ireland will be safe from invasion by our new World Cup enemies, the dreaded Faroe Islands. War with the Faroes over mackerel or cod would make me very popular. No point in picking a scrap with group rivals such as Germany, as they might jack up the interest rates. There would be more populist policies. No way am I going to the Vatican Embassy Christmas party.
But that's about all I'll miss. The London Olympics will be one big lash. We'll bring three or four of the lads for the bit of company. They can be passed off as body guards, although in truth it gives my drinking companions all they can do to mind themselves.
The civil service will requisition the government jet on my say-so. We'll fly it over to Listowel first, so the mother can see how well I've done and the lads can wave at the wives.
Our cousin Dodie will be the presidential aide-de-camp. He's the one with the sinuses like drain pipes. People think he's permanently crying. Dodie will be handy for going to State funerals of dead kings and prime ministers on days that clash with Cheltenham, the Autumn Internationals and the Ireland-Aussie series.
Definitely His Excellency, me, will travel to Oz. I'll call for a pardon for Ned Kelly and Graham Geraghty. That promise will surely tie up the Meath vote.
The Aras candles will be removed from the windows on my first day in office. The foreign leaders who visit must think the ESB cut the lights off for non-payment of the bill.
Up will go a big neon sign that blinks as often as a politician being interviewed by Vincent Browne. The residency in the presidency. Rooms from €39.99.
President McAleese was too honest. She could have made a fortune. My only worries now are the power might change me as a person and Enda Kenny could kick up.
I might just threaten to invite the Pope to Ireland and bring back Darragh O Se for next week's semi-final against Mayo. That will quieten him.
We can always close down our next door neighbours, the Dublin Zoo, if money gets tight. Sure don't the children see the animals on the TV every day? And I'm petrified the lions could escape and gobble me up.
Although a State funeral might be nice, we'd much prefer to live it up for Ireland. (Notice the causal way we drop in the royal 'we'). And what about the killer slogan for the poster?
'It's a Hoor to be Poor'. 'No Kleenex in The Phoenix'. 'The President for The Decadent'.
Ah but can you imagine the lark in the Park on the nights before big games.
Bunga bunga will be dismissed as a Rice Krispy bun party. Berlusconi weeps.