There is court case in progress here in Ireland.
The ex-leader of the [hopefully ex-] Labour party is giving evidence in a case where a group were charged with her “false imprisonment”.
To give a brief drop of background, The Screecher [she has a horrible voice] and her party has just broken every election promise and had backed the gubmint in their proposals for water charges. Needless to say, people were somewhat upset by this, in particular those who had voted her mob into power.
The stupid bitch then decided to attend some ceremony in the heartland of the protesters in Tallaght and, surprise surprise, the locals weren’t happy with this and protested. I should point out that there was a heavy police presence there, so if there was any illegalities, they should have stepped in, but they didn’t. And now the cunt is whinging in court that “she feared for her life”. Aw, diddums!
In a previous life I worked in a cable television company. Part of my job was to visit a newly cabled area and set up all the electronics and fix any faults before the connections were made to the houses. This involved regular visits to some of Dublin’s glory hot-spots where quite frankly the residents eat their young and Alsatians walk in pairs for protection. Tallaght was one of those areas.
One day I was in [coincidentally] the same area where the “false imprisonment” took place. It was days before some World Cup or something and people were a tad anxious to get their telly fixed up so they could watch the matches. I was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of baying women all demanding that I connect them all before their darling husbands got home from the pub, betting shop or dole office. Apparently their better halves would beat them all up if they came home and found no football on the telly. No surprises there, it being Tallaght.
Now there was fuck all I could do for them. None of them had paid [surprise!] and I didn’t have the equipment, not that I would have connected them anyway. It wasn’t my job. I retreated to my van and locked the doors.
Instantly the van was surrounded by this pack of knuckle dragging females [I use the gender in its broadest context]. They hurled abuse and rocked the van from side to side – not a difficult job as it was a tin can Renault 4. It was noisy and messy.
Did I call the cops? No. Was I scared? No. Did I consider prosecuting them? No. I quietly called up the office on the radio [no mobile phones in those days] and told them I would be late back as I was hemmed in by a rabid pack baying for my blood. There was no need to elaborate as the office could clearly hear the racket over the radio. I then took out a book and read for a while. The women soon got bored and fucked off as I knew they would.
The moral of the story is simple.
Don’t go into the Land of the Great Unwashed unless you absolutely have to.
And bring a book, just in case.