Share 0 SHARES

WHILE there was a huge and visible media presence at Fine Gael’s annual ard fheis, no one got closer to the action behind the scenes as WWN’s reporter, who exposed what really went on at the City West Hotel:

The majority partner in the coalition government did an excellent job of maintaining a pristine sheen on everything that transpired out in the City West during the hours they knew the media was present, but the veil was soon lifted when I infiltrated the true heart of the Fine Gael party.

As my peers in the fourth estate were ushered out of the venue, I stayed back using my exceptional skills of making no distinguishable impression on anyone, fading into the background almost completely unnoticed.

One member of Young Fine Gael approached me, thinking I looked out of place, he was all teeth, smiles and undiagnosed psychopathy, but it was easy to fool him as I simply screamed the word ‘recovery’ in his face until he left out of an obligation to no longer feel incredibly awkward.

Here I was with the Fine Gael elite, and they had no idea that a journalist lurked among their number.

I dragged my feet across the carpeted floors for hours on end exploring each function and conference room, finding one astonishing sight after the next. James Reilly challenging Leo Varadkar to a trolley race down the hallway, check. Frances Fitzgerald downing IRA car bomb shots, check.

The rumours are true, once the cameras were packed away and Fine Gael thought the media had left, large Nazi flags were unfurled and draped across all the walls, my German is basic at best but Fine Gael delegates certainly mentioned Eugenics an awful lot.

Bewildered, and increasingly scared for my own safety, I sought refuge in a dark, seemingly empty room some distance from the main hall, but suddenly someone switched on the lights revealing endless horrors.

A sweating, baying mass of naked Fine Gael members convulsed together in a horrid orgy, each individual wearing the same mask which seemed to closely resemble businessman Denis O’Brien, and although I couldn’t be sure – so shaken by the shock, but it appeared that a latex clad figure was whiping them all in the most convincing and life like Denis O’Brien mask I’d ever seen. The figure also appeared to be breastfeeding prominent government ministers.

It wasn’t all fun and orgies for every delegate as at a nearby Beacon Clinic branded first aid tent many men and women were being treated for bruising and abrasions on their backs, some even had bruised and broken ribs. I asked the attending doctor just what had happened. “Some of them got a bit too into patting themselves on the back for the last 5 years of work, and injured themselves,” was his response.

Everywhere I looked chaos reigned supreme, my attention was soon grabbed by the hurried running and excited laughter of delegates heading in the direction of the main hall, there were disturbing cries emanating from the now packed room. I regret letting my curiosity get the better of me, for I was not prepared for what followed.

Hoisted upon a makeshift collection of kindling, a member of the working class wearing a Celtic jersey, no older than 20, was tied to a stake and from the side of the stage emerged the Taoiseach carrying a freshly lit torch, the fire burning brightly, illuminating his manic expression.

The cries of ‘jobs, jobs, jobs, jobs’ from the crowd echoed through the vast venue as Enda Kenny lit a fire underneath the poor person, “this is our sacrifice to our Saviour” Kenny bellowed as he looked skyward to a 50 foot portrait of Angela Merkel.

While it is true the horrors I saw will haunt me for the rest of my life, it is also true that this year’s ard fheis was almost identical in nature to last year’s one.

I made my escape before being subjected to DJ Leo Varadkar’s all night rave.