Zeal

She’ll be roaring and shouting for another hour at least. I don’t know why anyone listens to this shite. I’ve heard a lot of this shite in fairness, but not because I really wanted to.

I’m looking at the box that contains all the trip switches. I don’t know the name for it. I’m looking for the one that put out all the lights, if such a thing is possible. And would that be enough? Do you need to see someone spouting hate speech to hear them? Maybe it’s not enough.

It’s rotting their already feeble brains, listening to that dyed blonde woman ranting. She just picks a group, immigrants say, and goes on about how they’re awful altogether and next thing they’re all clapping and cheering and saying she’s great. Textbook. 

They don’t actually hate immigrants and neither does she. But it’s someone to blame for all the ways their lives turned out mediocre. My parents are in there. They’re American. I’m not. I’m Irish. I have the accent, and the way of speaking. Hiberno-English. A far superior dialect to all other varieties of English, in my not so humble opinion. They moved here due to some evangelical zeal. They’ve tried to thwart every good decision this country has made, like allowing gay people to marry, and allowing women have access to safe abortions. They have failed however, in their diabolical schemes, them and the wannabe Aryan. They are all huddled together, in the last hall in Dublin that’ll have them, and they’re walking on a knife’s edge. It’s mortifying. 

No offense if you are one and all, but Americans are a bit mental. If you were happy in what you thought yourself, why would you need other people to think it? Ah the English are as bad these days. I swear it’s the lack of a robust education system. People specialise in obscure, faffy jobs and they can’t tell their elbow from their…you know where. It’s not so bad here, you learn a lot before you leave the Irish school system, and the people have little tolerance for shite and untoward theatrics. It’s depressing standing outside this hall, looking at the electrical box I don’t know the name of. I’m only here ‘cos I check the tickets at the door. It’s a few bob like. I should be at a pub or something.

And why is everything always about them? You turn on the news and it’s all to do with things happening in the US or the UK. There are other countries. Maybe I would like to know what happening in Guatemala or the Ivory Coast, please and thank you.

Not all Americans are mental now in fairness. I once met a group of young Mormon fellas on my college campus and they asked me if I had time to talk about God and I said no I didn’t and they said that’s fine, have a nice day. Wasn’t that lovely and civilised? They just have to do it though don’t they? A kind of rite of passage. They’re not super evangelical. Thank Christ, or I’d have been there all day.

It was in college mainly that I de-Americanised myself. Moved out of home, joined societies, made new friends, read books. Lots of books. And maybe I go hard on the Irish accent, to compensate, to throw off the scent, like.

I could’ve given them a run for their money, the Mormon lads, if I did stop to talk about God. I went to the Sunday schools and all that tedious jazz. Not that I’m an atheist, God no, they’re the most boring of all. I’m probably some sort of Agnostic, with strands of paganism woven through it, but I’m seriously considering defecting to Catholicism. They know how to have a bit of craic like, with their incense and candles and metaphorical bread. Anyway, once I was talking to another girl with American parents and she asked me what do I think happens when we die? And I said I don’t know, and it’s unlikely that anyone does and she said ‘somebody must know.’ And honestly a chill went through me, because she was so scared of God, and so scared of death, and that’s no way to live. She was a great conversationalist though, I’ll give her that. It beat talking about hair extensions and other things I don’t understand nor wish to. God I really should be at a pub or something.

But no, I’m still looking at the dusty, incomprehensible electrical box. I need to pull a lever soon like some jumped up war general.

Don’t talk to me about jumped up. The maniac inside in the hall is melting the ears off everyone. They want their ears melted is the mad thing. They’ve actually paid money to sit in a damp hall on a dreary Thursday, when they could be at home with the fire on. That’s zeal for you. My parents are inside there.

The maniac inside in the hall tried to run in the general election, got about ten votes I’d say. But she will not give up. Even the social media sites have thrown her off, but she keeps on going. Spouting incoherent paranoia. You’d nearly admire the tenacity. Nearly. Today she’s telling the eager how they shouldn’t wear face masks because the virus is a conspiracy and I’m just not here for it. Maybe due to the robust education I received when ma and pa put me into the Irish education system.

Feck it, I’ll have to make a decision soon before someone finds me looking at the electrical box. There must be a word for it. They can keep their few bob, it isn’t worth this shite. I’ll find it somewhere else. Would the nuns have me, do you think? Once I defected like?

I was talking to her once. She called to the house. My mother served her coffee and digestive biscuits. She had a nice smile, but there was nothing in her eyes, no warmth, no feeling. Pure empty. And she was talking and talking but there was nothing there, except perhaps, an unnecessary anger. There is nothing in her life to warrant it. Pure empty eyes, empty words, a woman possessed.

I hear clapping, Christ they’re due a tea break soon.

I trip all the switches, and run like the hell I don’t believe in.