Tuesday, May 19, 2020

Tramore: My Laptop

 

I’VE been doing a bit of research on the net. Did you know that you can get fake IDs for a modest 25 blaahs? Sure we lie to ourselves about everything; why not age? Now there are problems and it would take a fair amount of Instagram airbrushing. Normally fake ID punters are looking for IDs to make them older so that they can buy drink or get into nightclubs.

But what about the septuagenarians that just want to be ‘let out’ more often from their ‘cuckooning’ as the government puts it. Hey! Nanny Harris might even allow us talk to strangers. For a short while, anyway, in a ‘careful now Ted’ sort-of-way. In a Covid world, our lot have become voices off-stage; spear-carriers in a world of flame-throwers.

 

‘Who exactly decided that 8am on a Saturday was the perfect time for over 70s shopping? Eight o’clock in the bloody morning when everyone else is asleep and the drinks section is closed!’

 

Think of the advantages. Faking your ID so that you’re only 67 would allow you walk the streets or get into supermarkets at normal times without being stared at by the deliberately angry. And while I’m on the subject, who exactly decided that 8am on a Saturday was the perfect time for over 70s shopping? I mean eight o’clock in the bloody morning when everyone else is asleep and the drinks section is closed!

The cuckoo’s chicks and chaps target these times for shopping themselves, you know, realising full well that the supermarket will be least busy at this time. Tannoy warnings about overshopping and supply chains really make for the perfect early morning retail experience. Supermarket shopping has become more theatrical than a circus; more melodramatic than a Hammer horror movie. Did you ever think you would hear supermarket announcements telling you to ‘only buy what you need’. Honest to God, you can’t wait to get out of the place.

I would probably end up with an ID and a moniker that reads Flat Pack Evoy.

But with a fake ID? Well now… that would be an entirely different kettle of sardines. I could throw caution to the wind, swan in and hit the shelves around the 10.30 of the AM when the drink section would not be shrouded in that funereal black that greets this cuckoo on his dawn flight. I’m like Moses looking in at the Promised Land. In theatre-land low lighting internalises decision making with the focus on the inner person man. That’s when the angst sets in. Do I really need all those tinnies? And the Bordeaux that costs thirty-four blaahs? Grim thoughts for tipplers that should never have to be entertained as the dawn chorus joins in disapproving unison.

Still, I wouldn’t be the object of pity that sees the really not-so-young shopper wondering about how close I am to the median age of mortality announced until recently by RTE with the cheery implication that, sure, the newly-dead had already one leg in the cemetery. I’m glad to see that particular thread was abandoned.

And spare me the self-help advice on coping with ‘cuckooning’ that surfaces in cheery Dáithí & Daisy programmes, like learning a new language or taking up the cello or writing that Ph. D thesis on quantum physics you’ve always wanted to pen. Honest to God if the advice were any cheesier, it would be on a stick!

But there’s always a fly in the ointment. Some of these fake IDs come from China. Or as The Donald might intone with those clipped-chopped wide-mouthed consonants of his: ‘Choinnna.’ I would probably end up with an ID and a moniker that reads Flat Pack Evoy. Imagine showing that to one of those shiny-new Templemore graduates that man/woman the road blocks asking you who you are and where you’re off to. And why!

I imagine Minister for Education Joe McHugh would fancy a new ID; one that might deny that it was he who announced a July 29 date for the commencement of Leaving Cert exams that everyone knew couldn’t happen.

Pat McEvoy

Poor old Joe hasn’t stopped apologising and explaining since. And when you’re explaining, you’re always losing. If only he had announced a wait-and-see strategy, he might have just winged it. Still with a new ID, Joe could say it wasn’t him that threw the stone but the guy around the corner that ran off.

Still, it would be a first: someone looking for an ID that makes you younger and not older with a box that reads ‘do not resuscitate’. Dead right.

Comments are closed.

By Pat McEvoy, Arts Correspondent
Contact Newsdesk: 051 874951

More Views

Time out with Timmy: Zoom me up Scotty

More by this Journalist