I’m not going to say very much about these *vile* posters that were on the inside of the toilet door in my local pub in Glasnevin, except to say they are utterly bizarre. Fetal arm that looks a tad photoshopped (reaching up for a latte in Cafe Sol or even the plastic property of a Sindy doll), the kooky ‘fridge magnet’ lettering, and perhaps most disturbingly, the text of the main poster which intimates if baby-in-the-making is saved from hideous pointless abortion, s/he will play for Ireland one day! Really! What does it say about the notion of ‘traditional values’ according to the pro-life sect? Will it be cuddly-toy anti-abortion embryo key-rings in branches of Carroll’s Gifts and Souvenirs next to remind us what is and isn’t fundamentally Irish?
So, I’m sitting there pissing some Guinness & Jägerbombs into the bog of this traditional conservative Fine Gael type bacon/carvery kip. Having been recently impregnated by a Denny-eating GAA red-pubed boyo, I’m pondering a quickie Nilfisking or what the pro-lifers are now calling a ‘social abortion’. Obviously I’m a selfish whore and don’t want the hassle of having a kid, what other explanation is there? I see this poster and start re-imagining the future. Tadhg in some Éire Óg prefab jobby on the outskirts of a sprawling housing estate training five times a week or perhaps it’s even Caoimhe (with her gentle graceful beauty, yet mysteriously able to knock the living shite out of any Buachaill on the field) and the day arrives for the All Ireland Final, when the joblot of worry and ire pays off. My precious non-aborted torso scoring a magic game-clinching goal, zoomed around the world by Setanta Sports (available on multiple platforms including Foxtel and Austar). Everything in the Universe making sudden peculiar sense, a cosmic arrow right out of God-licking supernovae. How lucky was that stray Christmas night in 2012 when I paid close attention to the poster on the toilet door! Proud father now spilling his giant bag of limited-edition Tayto all over the stands. He’ll be looking for a celebratory ride [no doubt] when we get home. It’s 2032 and still no male pill on the market and Ireland the only Catholic country in the world without female bishops or gender equality in the workplace or even in the government, where sentences for rape and sexual abuse are on a par with stolen designer jeans. But sure where else would ye be living and what kind of roguish craic would you be having and isn’t it grand altogether we did away with that silly notion of the individual a long time ago? Begorrah!