Official Radio One, a poem by Kevin Higgins.
That time of the week when bachelor farmers decide, on balance, not to string themselves up in the outhouse, bravely switch on the wireless instead;
on Official Radio Marion the defunct feminist-to-a-moderate-extent has a few old pals around for two thrilling hours of cream tea and general consensus. Last month one critic unfairly hissed
that the show increasingly sounds like the occupants of a mortuary in one of the more horrible parts of Donnybrook, each in turn rising up in ecstasy to second what the last speaker said.
Today the no longer discredited ex-Minister for Fish rushes to agree with thoughts the deceased Professor of Social Work borrowed from Conor Cruise O’Brien’s Old English Sheepdog.
A former environmentalist called Tarquin, with a new special interest in ecologically unsustainable coffins, mutters in violent acquiescence with everything said
by the old dear you’d thought long cremated – her accent still rich with Rathgar – who these days, it turns out, mostly gets flown around Africa asking people of the browner variety
what to do with her vast and flatulent concern for their plight.