It's 5.30am, cold and raining outside. A horn sounds and yours truly - who is not his usual effervescent, vivacious self - trudges reluctantly through the front door and into the waiting taxi.
Ah, 'tis yerself. Howareyeh?
Fine. And you?
Dandy, bleedin' dandy. Irish Times, isn't it? Going to work, are ye?
Err, yes. Yes I am.
I see dey're building over dere. Apartments, is it?
I think so.
Ye know wharr'll happened, dontcheh? Dey'll knock up loads of flahs and fill de kip with refugees. Shower of Nigerians and gyppos . . . sorry, not gyppos, dat's not PQ, is it? What's dis dey like to be called . . . Romanians, isn't it? Dat's the ones. Bleedin' gyppo Romanians.
(Off we go. I don't need this. But it's cold and wet and too far to walk. I'm a great man for standing up for my beliefs, but in this case I'll have to sit down for someone else's prejudices. Bite my tongue.)
Place'll be filled with them, getting €1,500 a week in rent while we're all starvin' in the streets. (He bashes the steering wheel of his '04 Merc for emphasis.) And who'll be paying for dat shower to be livin' in de bleedin' lap of luxury?
Err, let me guess . . . we will?
Too poxy right. Our taxes goin' to pay for dem to be swannin' around all day doin' feck all. If I went to Nigerialand, d'ye tink dey'd give me a bleedin' penthouse to live in?
Possibly not. Maybe they'd just chuck you in a prison cell with some dude who likes eating bitter little Irish men, save us all a lot of bother. (That last sentence sounds only in my head. And echoes away, mocking my lack of backbone.)
Course dey wouldn't, dem Nigerians aren't stupah like dis Government. Dey chuck out all the wasters and freeloaders and send dem over here so we've to pay for dem not to work.
I think you've got it mixed up. It's not that asylum-seekers don't want to work, it's the way the system works. They aren't allowed to work while they're waiting for their applications to clear. The Government forces them to live on tiny handouts, robs them of freedom and dignity. Some welcome that is, wouldn't you say?
Jaysus, I never knew dat. Never knew dat at all. Well, dat's a tick way of doin' it.
I agree. (Maybe I've misjudged this chap.)
Tick, so it is. Dey should be forced to bleedin' work. Waste of money havin' dem udderwise.
Pardon? (My brief feeling of empathy dissolves. I know what's coming.)
Yeh, if dey want to come over here, dey should be forced to work, should be doin' all de crap jobs no one wants.
You mean like slavery? (My poor tongue is almost chewed through.)
No, not slaves, Jaysus, whad'ye tink I am? But don't tell me I shouldn't be allowed tell dem what to do if it's my tax money dey're gettin'. Sure aren't I employing them, when you think about it? Dey should be grateful if I give dem a few bits o' work on me motor, shouldn't dey?
Because you pay taxes, you think you should be allowed tell foreigners on State benefits what to do? What about unemployed people, single mothers, pensioners? Should they be at your beck and call?
Don't be stupah. They're Irish, aren't dey?
But what you're saying is you want your own personal asylum-seeker, someone to wash and wax your car whenever you like?
Sounds good to me. This you here now, is it? Grand so, have a nice day, bud, and remember, we have to stick together, we're the same blood, so we are.
(The only blood I'm concerned with is dripping down my chin. I've bitten clean through my tongue.)
Note: It was a struggle, a masterclass in self-restraint, but no taxi-drivers were harmed in the production of this article.
