Emissions/Kilian Doyle blows a weekly gasket
THE SCENE: Dublin's Clanbrassil Street on a cold, wet October morning in 2005.
Dublin, ever the lackey, has followed the London example, and introduced a cordon between the canals.
All private motorists are being asked to pay €8 a day to drive into the city centre. Two old friends, one an avowed motorist, one an enthusiastic pedestrian, happen upon each other as they walk into work.
JACK: Howya Clive, grand day for a stroll, eh?
CLIVE: Ah Jack, 'tis yerself. What has you here? I'm surprised to see you walking anywhere, I've never seen you up on two feet, apart from when yer getting fags out of the machine in the pub.
J: Sure haven't they gone and introduced a "cordon", charging decent, hard-working folks like meself money to drive into our own bleedin' city! The nerve of them!
C: Oh, yeah, forgot about that. It wouldn't affect me anyway, Jack, I've been walking in from Harold's Cross for years.
J: I know you have, Clive, ye big greeny. Haven't you been boring the pants off us in the boozer for years about it?
C: (Visibly hurt) I wouldn't say "boring" Jack, I'm just trying to get you to see the errors of yer ways.
A bit of exercise never hurt anyone. I don't want to be sitting on my own at the age of 60 crying into my pint 'cos all my mates have died of heart attacks.
J: Don't you worry about that, Clive, ya hippy. Anyway, I'll tell ya, no poxy bureaucrat is gonna get one over on Jack Doherty. They won't get a bleedin' penny out of me. I'm leaving me car outside their precious cordon and walking the rest of the way. That'll show them, so it will.
(Clive considers pointing out the irony of his companion's argument, but thinks better of it.)
C: Yer a smart man, so you are. So where's your car?
J: I've left it in the carpark of Mount Jerome Cemetery, with a pair of black gloves and a plastic wreath on the front seat so they'll think I'm inside, mourning. And, to complete the picture, I also left a photo of you from that time you drank the bottle of tequila and we put you in the coffin. That was gas, wasn't it?
C: (Again, visibly hurt) Gas? What are you on about? I thought I was dead when I woke up, ye feckers. I still get nightmares.
J: (Oblivious to his friend's pain) Everyone has their own tequila horror story, eh? So what do you think of my crafty parking, No-one, not even a clamper, would be sick enough to ticket a mourner. Class, isn't it?
C: Erm, well, apart from it being completely immoral, I'll grant you it's pretty clever. But surely they'll twig it within a few days? What'll you do then?
J: Never, fear, I've thought of that. See, I've applied for a taxi licence.
C: What for? Yer not seriously considering selling your soul to become a minion of the Great Taxi Satan, are ya?
J: Jesus, no. But they're allowed into the city for free, and I worked it out that at five grand, it'll pay for itself in two years. And the cops will let me away with anything and I can park wherever I feel like.
C: Cunning, I'll give ya that.
J: Yeah, and I'm looking forward to driving past people stranded in the rain, lights flashing and middle finger vertical.
(Clive is beginning to think his friend is not so dim after all. He turns to him with new-found respect.)
C: Christ, Jack, that's a great plan.
J: Yeah, I thought so meself. But shush, don't tell anyone, or there'll be a run on them. You know yerself, stingiest race on earth, us Irish.Jaysus, this walking's a doddle.
Who do the council think they're fooling? I'll never drive me car again. That'll show 'em.
(Clive nods, smiles, walks off, shuddering. He'll never forget that coffin.)