Kevin Myers: The hand-picked unit of dedicated Garda volunteers fell silent as the senior officer entered the briefing room."Right, gentlemen, ladies," he announced.
"Tonight's the big one. We have not just one big operation for you, but two."
There was a loud gasp, and a few curses. "Christ, we're for it now," said one. Hard-bitten, yes, but they were only human. They had flown in low formation into the Northside for that raid on the Las Vegas Lovelies Nite Spot. At the Fairview Bare View Club, they had done a sneak attack, going in one by one. For The unStillorgan, they had gone in very high, using precision-guided sleuthing. But these were all one-a-night missions, after which they would return exhausted on a wing and a prayer to HQ for much needed ham and eggs.
But two? This was asking a lot of them. "I've asked one of the leading members of Woman Against Nude Quadrilles in the Irish Republic to address you." One of the New Nuns stepped forward. She belonged to the Little Sisters of the Media. "We WANQIRS don't expect much of the Government - merely that it impose our moral order on society, and enforce our moral standards. And I'm delighted to see that the Garda agrees. We'll start the evening proceedings with a decade of the New Rosary.
"Hail Betty, armed with Mace, The power is with thee, blessed are thou amongst women, and blessed be the fruit of thy brain, Feminism." They all bowed their heads at the holy name. "Holy Betty, Mother of Dogma, pray for us sisters, until all states do our bidding. Awomen." She paused. "I want you to remember what's going on here. In many of these clubs, women have come over from England in order to be nightly degraded by men ogling their bodies and, we fear, touching them." A cry of horror erupted through the room.
One Garda officer got sick. Two fainted. "Many of their clients" - she spat the word - "are English also. We must protect these women from themselves. We must pursue those who allow them to degrade themselves so. That's all. Good luck. Éire go brách."
The Garda officer took over. "All right men. Check your gear. Make sure you have your anti-arousal underwear on nice and tight." (This was a thong specially designed by the special Wanqir Unit of An Garda Síochána. It was not unlike Victoria Beckham's thong, except it was made entirely of barbed wire tipped with Tabasco, paprika and rabies. Any untoward movement would cause instant unspeakable agony followed by a hideous and lingering death).
"Remember lads, our advice is to avert your eyes when you enter these evil places. You're young, and are easily influenced by the sight of female flesh. But you know what to expect if the worst occurs. As for our Sister Officers, you have your electrically-operated protection system built into your riot helmets. The moment you think you might be exposed to a male member, activate it, and you will be instantly enshrouded head to toe in a black burka. You won't be able to see anything, but that's far better than witnessing the shocking things you might otherwise see." "Nude men?" came a small voice.
Unable to speak, the officer nodded his head in assent. There was a little cry, and a body hit the floor.
The survivors of this gruelling briefing filed into their vehicles, while their commander got a sitrep from around the country. Shannon airport was on fire. So it seemed that his foolproof idea of putting an elderly night watchman with his little hut and a brazier and his dog Spot to mind the USAF aircraft there hadn't worked after all. Curses! Another two dead and five injured in faction fights in Limerick. In Drogheda, one man stabbed to death. In Dundalk, the RIRA had declared a republic and executed several pro-British elements. In Dublin, men with iron bars were mugging bus and taxi queues. Gangs of youths in Grafton Street were smashing shop windows. Drunken crowds were brawling in O'Connell Street.
All in all, another quiet night, thank God.
They were to raid two establishments where women danced naked for men. The first was a pole-dancing club in one of the shadier little streets off Parnell Square. Outside the premises, the gardaí checked their equipment: Mace, Uzis, CS gas, cattle-prods, burkas, thongs. They could hear depraved music within. The enemy was near. They exchanged the gaunt looks of all warriors going into action.
Their officer nodded, and then they sledge-hammered their way through the doors, into this den of iniquity and vice. A group of men and women in traditional Carpathian dress suddenly ceased to caper across the floor. The accordionist ceased to accordion.
"I arrest you in the name of the law," bawled the officer, before falling silent. He looked around him. "This is the Parnell Square pole-dancing club, yes?" "Nie. It is the Parnell Square Pole Dancing Club," said a small mustachioed Carpathian.
The Garda officer slapped his hand to the forehead. "All is not wasted. The really big one is the Swedish club where naked women nightly writhe on men's groins. On to the next target!"
They charged into the club next door, cattle prongs and Uzis at the ready. A group of rather flat-faced men and women holding reindeer antlers promptly ceased to dance. "This is the Swedish Lap Dancing Club, isn't it?" bleated the officer.
The proprietor shook his head. "Lapp," he said.