Don’t believe a word!

The ones with most to lose the ones who run the show, run the media, pay the policy fatboys on the stained brown benches, are shaking in their boots. Their long grey coats are looking older and not by fashionable choice but because the petty cash just won’t let them, it’s obvious that they have few ideas and more bark than bite – you can sense the desperate envelopes with less money in them and to hide this fact they storm out, they shout out and say nothing in the noisy process. “Shut your mouth – if you have nothing worth talking about then say fucking nothing” I did hear a legend say to me about being in a tight situation “I wonder what would Phil Lynott do?” and I thought how sad now he’s gone, how unfortunate we don’t seem to have a hero like him walking around the city like he used to, like that classic footage on Grafton street, not a statue but a living legend, flawed and brash but worthy of love and respect, he was a rocker, and then it stood for something and not a flash fashion clique outside the plaza on Dame street disaffected youth with no rebellion only passive pizza eating tension. We can’t even ask Bob Geldof now he’s disappeared up his own arse lost the lustre for swearing and change, he’s another long grey coat.
Phil might have held a press conference outside Dail hairin’ and swore through fifteen minutes of calling all young people to think of Egypt and Libya, rise to arms under the sound of “Don’t believe a word” and thrash the place with bare hands under the batons of numberless civil servants, either that or play it cool- smoke a rolled up Virginia Flake and utter “Don’t let the bastards grind you down” -Old Town.

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