Blowing A Whistle Of My Own
Whistleblowers are all the rage. Of course everyone loves the sound of a whistle being blown, except when it's on themselves. This
poem is inspired by a corrupt and abusive Community Employment scheme I once
worked on. My wife Susan also worked there. The scheme was partly run by the
Irish Congress of Trade Unions. No joke. Our then 'manager' has for the past
nine years, since the collapse of that scheme, been employed on one of FAS's back to work schemes. Yes, nine years.
To this day, he very actively campaigns
against us, though he has little enough effect. There's loads of lefties and
literati in Galway who love jabbering on about Bradley Manning, Edward Snowden
and the like (and I'm with them on that) but when the whistle I'm blowing here
gets blown, they cover their ears. For these people I have two words, which I
borrow from the late Christopher Hitchens: fuck you.
