Enda in the driver’s seat at expensive Coalition Cabs

IS Enda Kenny driving you to despair? Well, it could be worse, you could be stuck in a taxi with our leader — like Norwegian voters were when that country’s unpopular prime minister Jens Stoltenberg posed as a cabbie for a re-election stunt.

However, the wheels soon started to come off the “listen to the people” wheeze when it emerged many of the “customers” had been paid for their participation.

But imagine what you might hear from the front seat if the Taoiseach borrowed the idea.....

As Enda pulled away from the kerb he turned to the unsuspecting passenger behind and said: “Thanks for choosing Coalition Cabs. Now, I’ll just explain the charges for the journey. There’s the water charges, the property charges, and the charges for paying new charges.

“But, we are also imposing a back-seat tax, a looking-out-the-window levy and a getting-in-the-car-door duty — just to be on the safe side.

“Like most taxi drivers, I hate to moan, but I shouldn’t have had to do this shift at all — as usual the Labour drivers are not pulling their weight, not that they have a clue which direction they are going in even when they do show up for work.

“Being the super smoothy I am, I never normally like to ask a lady her age, but I can see you might be, shall we say, a silver senior? So, in that case hand over your purse right now so I can snatch a tenner out of it, because you may not have enough left to afford this little luxury — or anything else — by the time we get to the Budget Bypass up ahead. What did you say? Oh, yes, I’m sorry we couldn’t put your shopping in the boot, madam, but I’ve got quite a lot of baggage of my own, what with all the broken election promises — we needed to dump them somewhere. And, also, that’s where I had to stuff Big Phil Hogan once he started fecking everything up.

“That’s why you don’t see him hanging around the rank touting for trade anymore. James Reilly — or as we like to call him, Dr Feel Bad — gave me something to knock him out with, and then we just slung him in the trunk for the foreseeable.

“Feck-it-up Phil doesn’t seem to mind it in there too much, keeps him out of trouble, s’pose. Alan Shatter’s been sniffing around like a miniature Miss Marple, but ever since that curious business when he couldn’t give a breath test due to the asthma he said had hardly ever bothered him before; well, Shat’s been a bit wary of roadside inspections — if you know what I mean.

“Still, no one seems to have noticed Phil’s missing yet. Maybe I got it wrong when I said ‘Paddy likes to know what’s going on.’ I mean, I don’t know what’s going on half the time — the control centre in Frankfurt bark their orders at me down the line every three months, and I just obey — I’m happy enough.”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t turn on the Sat Nav, that Joan Burton one got at it and now all it blares out — in her voice mind — is: Turn left! Turn left! Turn left! Labour leadership challenge at next junction. Recalculating. Recalculating the welfare budget to push all the cuts onto some other bozo... She’s wrecking my head, I don’t know how poor Eamon stands it — no wonder he fecks off out of the country every chance he gets. We were going to replace her on the social protection shift with John Perry, but that’s turning into a bit of a slow-motion political car crash all on its own, what with him being in charge of the small business side of things and having just a couple of weeks left to pay back loans of €2.3m, that is.

“Still, we have a right giggle down at the depot trying to say with a straight face that, of course, he can keep his job as he has such a great understanding of dealing with the banks now after all this bother.”

“Yeah, you’re right, madam, maybe I should make Ming Drugs Czar by that logic, and put tax cheat Mick Wallace in charge of the Revenue as he has such experience of their actions — I’ll bear it mind for the reshuffle. That’s if we ever get there, of course, that Lucinda Creighton is threatening to set up a rival firm to take our customers. Can’t see it lasting though as she doesn’t like to give women a choice on certain journeys.”

“Oh, sorry, I’ve just got to take this call on the mobile, it’s my Castlebar buddy at Anglo. I’ll slip on the auld hands free — or as I like to call it whenever I’m dealing with these city slicker finance guys, the “hands off” — ’cos I always keep my hands off them at all times as they clearly know more about what they are doing than I do and don’t need an old country fuss-pot like me trying to stop them repossessing the homes of struggling families stuck in mortgage misery, refusing to give out the loans we have already stumped-up for, and generally laughing at the taxpayer all the way back to their bailed-out banks.”

“But, on second thoughts, I think I’ll ring him when I get back to base — we wouldn’t want anyone overhearing that sort of conversation, would we now? (laughs).”

“And here we are, madam, our destination — right back where we started on Austerity Avenue, via the Lost Decade ghost estate, the Emigration Centre and the Cul-de-Sac of Despair.”

“No, I’m not paying you for listening to me like that Norwegian chump was caught out doing. This is Ireland — you pay for the lot, and you pay all the time. The fare comes to everything you earn, and an ever uncertain future for your children and grandchildren, please madam. Oh, no, don’t even think about a tip — despite the Oireachtas wage cuts I’m always banging on about, I still pay myself more than the prime minister of Britain or the president of France gets — and all for running a country the size of Manchester!

“So, thanks again for choosing to be taken for a ride by Coalition Cabs....”