When Brian Cowen took over as our glorious leader he was touted from all quarters as an intellectual powerhouse. I took this to mean that under his stewardship we would soon see, all over the country, smoke filled bistros and cafes heaving with beret wearing militants chain smoking Gauloise, sipping absinth, talking revolution and discussing the later works of Baudelaire.
And none of this has happened.
What has happened is that Cowen has officially opened several unnecessary stretches of very wide tarmacadam, been photographed in a tractor at the National Ploughing Championships, fucked off to New York for a week to discuss the weather with Angela Merkel's wardrobe consultant and generally come as close to resembling an intellectual powerhouse as Dizzie Rascal has to resembling the next Prime Minister of Great Britain.
Ah well, it’s a good thing he’s so easy on the eye. I’d never forgive him otherwise.
