I thought about writing some stuff today.
I thought about writing about the saga of the new National Maternity Hospital and how they announced that the cost has risen to €800 million before announcing that they haven’t even decided where to build it yet. I could also have written how our National Children’s Hospital was also supposed to cost around €800 million but is now running at around €2 billion and it’s not even finished yet.
I thought about writing about how with the easing of restrictions, pubs were now allowed serve outdoors only and how councils had given permission for extra tables on the streets, only for the Gardaí to announce that drinking outside pubs is illegal.
I thought about writing about Varadkar [our deputy leader] and how he has announced that he wants 70% of the population to own their own homes by the end of the decade, ignoring the fact that it would require about 340,000 new houses to be built and that if the Plebs could afford them then so could the vulture funds who would just buy the housing en masse to rent back at exorbitant rates.
I was going to write about these topics as an illustration of just how insane life has become here in Ireland with everything just apparently running out of control.
But I decided I wouldn’t bother. What is the point? Ireland has become a story written by Flann O’Brien. We have become the very definition of Murphy’s Law – anything and everything that is proposed will inevitably be fucked up royally.
We are living in a parody.