People are like horses. Some get going early. Others just stand there in the gate pissing off their owners like a wildcat. Some are right behind the ones with early go. The rest, they try and get going late. Only the best motherfuckers get their photographs taken.
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At the finish line maybe.
But what about at the starting gate?
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If I was not so bombed I would try and draw out the horse/human parallel.
In the last several months, since the Irish economy has spiralled down the toilet, some 20,000 thoroughbreds have been turned loose to slowly starve to death. In these dire times, it seems, not even smack peddlers can afford to finance an equine habit.
The outskirts of Dublin, I hear, are teeming with emaciated nags. You can buy one at source for a mobile phone, somebody said.
A phone that takes pictures. Of snidey fuckers sporting fulsome grins. Surrounded by toothless acolytes.
I do not like to have my photograph taken. Not in these uncertain times.
To draw out the parallel between horses and humans just a little - we are treated very much the same when that evil motherfucking two-headed god Economy's tits run dry.
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