These are dangerous times. Every time we venture out, we risk death from above. I refer, of course, to the election posters strapped to every pole in the country, writes Kilian Doyle
Sharp things, those posters. They'd take a mighty chunk out of you should they hit you. Add to that the fact that they were put up so hastily - many were up even before the ink had dried in the Áras and Charlie Bird had untwisted his knickers - and you've a potential humanitarian disaster on your hands.
Seriously, if one of those yokes fell on you as you ambled past, 'tis guillotined you'd be. You'd be running to the election booth like a headless chicken. Cyclists are in a slightly better position - at least many of them have handlebar-mounted baskets in which to catch their heads as they fall.
Motorists needn't be so smug. We are far from untouchable. Just imagine, there you are in your car, stopped in traffic, arm out the window, when . . . kaboom . . . clip ties break, and plastic board hurtles ground-ward, slicing your limb off at the shoulder as it passes. To make it worse, when you see what has mutilated you in such an indiscriminate fashion, what'll you see but Michael McDowell glaring at you, beseeching you not to "throw it all away". The irony, eh?
Sunroofs, convertibles, same scenario. There you are, tootling along happily when up comes a gust of wind, dislodges a nearby poster and Enda Kenny and his Westlife haircut comes flying down, cleaving your skull clean in two. I imagine you'd be in two minds who to vote for after that.
All right, so perhaps I am exaggerating the risk of decapitation. I lost the head a bit there. What is much more likely is that they could cause you to crash as a result of them blocking traffic signs. The Road Safety Authority is already up in arms, warning candidates of their responsibilities to protect road users.
Personally, I'm more concerned about the potential for distraction. Some of the posters are, to put it mildly, grotesque. Enough to drive even the most mild-mannered motorist into a fit of rage. If you are anything like me, which, for humanity's sake I hope you aren't, the sight of hundreds of Berties is more than sufficient to tip you over the edge and make you hijack a truck with the intention of driving it into every lamppost you see.
In truth, I feel a bit sorry for politicians. If, as the old adage goes, politics is showbiz for ugly people, then elections are beauty contests. And what beauties we have.
Some might say their beauty comes from within. They are lying. The very fact someone is deviant or devious enough to want to be a TD in the first place should be grounds enough to bar them from ever holding public office, I reckon. No amount of airbrushing can hide the fact we are to be run by gombeens, no matter who gets elected.
As ever, I am on hand to turn adversity into advantage. Once the beauty contest is over, rather than chuck the posters, I propose they should be put to good use by the National Roads Authority and used as traffic signs. Fianna Fail posters could signify a one-way street, or a roundabout, or something else altogether. Labour Party and Fine Gael posters could be stuck together to signify a dual carriageway that's trying to go in two different directions at the same time, while a Sinn Féin poster would mean you are approaching a dark alleyway with no way out. Socialist Party ones would mean there is no right turn and the PDs' would mean the precise opposite.
Unfortunately, there would be no Green Party posters left. They will all have been diligently recycled and turned into steering wheels for shiny new SUVs.