end corruption,stroke politics, & incompetent administration

The "Hound of Waterford",another story from the legend...


July 2006,The Great Martin Cullen Voting Machine Fiasco steams on.The Commission on Electronic Voting reported (second one) this month.

Found 41 necessary changes to the system before considering it's use at all.!

"Since the system does not have a paper ballot it is not possible to independently audit it's vote recording function."

"The voter cannot verify that what appears on the display is what is recorded electronically on the ballot module within the machine"

"The software was developed by a single individual in a home office environment in Holland,it was complex,had inconsistent behaviour, and had no documentation

Security for the system was found to be totally inadequate.Unauthorised access to the system was easy.Tests indicated that votes transmitted on CD's could be altered without detection and no special hardware would be required to carry out such an attack.

A group of concerned professional citizens, members of the Irish Computer Society, conducted the grassroots campaign which created the investigation into Martin Cullen's machines and spent 4000 Euros to access the necessary details under the Freedom of Information Act.

Martin Cullen speaking in the Dail accused the society of being anti-globilization activists and inexpert in the field.He subsequently was forced to withdraw his comments.

Bertie Ahern then lied barefacedly in the Dail,claiming they had "been validated beyond question by an international commission".

The commission was Irish.

The commission,far from "validating" them opened a Pandora's Box of new failings with the whole system.The enquiry cost 2 million euros.Good money after bad.

A pity the Irish Computer Society poked their noses in this matter in the first place.

They were in reality the perfect re-election machines for Martin and the Soldiers of destiny.

And now, a short story.

Martin Cullen , Minister for the Heritage Destruction and the Environment has inspired mixed feelings among Irelands environmentalist,during his unimpressive reign in this department.One T.D.,under Dail privilege of course,called him a a hoodlum- or words to that effect.The etiquette of Leinster House preclude describing one’s fellow T.D.with such pith and aptness..and he was asked to apologise....

‘Cu’Cullen was the inspiration for the very first poem,and short story I ever wrote;-I have titled the story;

OF HORSES CARS AND COMPUTERS’; A day in the life of Martin Cullen ,Minister for the Environment.’

(The poem , is in our'section relates to Martin,s close relationship with one of his loyal camp followers,who is eventually rewarded for her undying devotion to the "cause" of this unusual and controversial Soldier/Warrior of Destiny...)

Read on, if you will;-

‘The self-styled ‘ Hound of Waterford’ and Soldier of Destiny ,Martin‘Cu’ Cullen . ‘ Minister for the Environment’.. implacable foe of environmentalists everywhere,…wanted dead or alive by ‘An Taisce.’.for numerous crimes of Heritage Destruction.. ( His war cry;-Death to Duchas! etc) and holder of other battle titles too numerous to delineate here;- was driving his ministerial mercedes down his newly opened Super-Highway through the Knockmealdown Mountains,enroute to his Waterford homeland yesterday when a calamity occurred…

His car broke down.

His mood was already not so good,as he inhaled deeply on the last draw from the untipped butt- end of his twentieth untipped cigarette, that afternoon.

His constituents were pressing him to install a cancer treatment machine in Tramore for months now.He wondered if,when it was eventually installed , he would end up being one of the first recipients of its deadly rays himself. ‘ Bo**ics I’ll light up anyway’he said to himself as he opened the packet yet again in preparation for another soothing drawl of satisfying smoke.

He was returning home from the un-official opening of an illegal Dump,near Baltinglass in the scenic Wicklow mountains. One of the party faithful-a very generous contributor to the Soldiers election fund-and his own election expenses,at times of need -was finalizing plans to dispose of all of the domestic rubbish collected from the disgruntled householders of the city Baile Atha Cliath,who wanted to avoid the new Corporation ‘stealth tax’ on rubbish bin collection.

There was no chance of a lucrative incinerator being built on Sandymount Strand as long as Bertie needed the P.D’s in coalition.Michael McDowell, the Minister for Justice would have lost his reason-and his seat, in that constituency.

In fact there was nowhere to build it because nobody would countenance it anywhere, and the General Elections were looming ever closer on the horizon. Bertie had told the Cabinet the previous week that nobody-but nobody, was to be offended in any way until they were safely back in power.If muscles really had to be flexed they could put Joe Higgins back in jail under some pretext-to manifest their firmness and control over malfeasants from the wretched classes.

That tight –fisted bastard McCreevy had been exiled to mainland Europe for refusing to play the lead role of ‘Santa Claus in a new big budget Christmas pantomime that Bertie was planning to direct and produce himself to entertain all of the electorate before the next elections.

‘Nobody wants one of these fancy incinerators anyhow’ his old pal Tom Jersey had said to Martin while they were discussing the vigorous ‘not in my backyard’ campaigns in Dublin and Cork.

Martin recalled his parting advice to his old schoolmate Tom, who had made his fortune from illegal quarrying and also building ‘one off rural houses’to order,for rich Germans looking for a retirement home in a beautiful rural setting.The wild landscape of Kerry was especially popular,with the French,and planning permission to build in choice spots such as hilltops or mountainsides,was a mere formality,given that Fianna Fail had a majority on the local council.

‘Any place, any time, any hillock’had been his famous catch phrase, in the construction business.

Soon Martin would be in personal control of all planning matters and direct operations from the Custom House,until he could re-locate those tardy and ungrateful Civil Servants back to Waterford.

‘I will lose some of my mileage allowance’…he thought to himself, ‘however I can make it up with courtesy calls to some of the other departments scatteredaround the Four Provinces…’

‘Tom’ he had said, "For God’s sake keep a low profile and don’t be getting’ your name in the papers all the time.The Press are gunnin’ for us big time.I think that Taisce crowd want my head on a silver platter,since that campaign of vilification we initiated against them last year,to distract the public from the real villains..ourselves."

. "Almost one third of our housing stock is in a rural location and has to rely on those septic tanks for sewage treatment,and many people don’t even bother to maintain or service them ,once they are up and running." he continued.

"Y’er appearance in that CorruptionTribunal was bad publicity for Bertie.That Gilmartin f****r will be the ruin of us all yet" he declared, to the now worried looking Tom.

Martin was now running late for an appointment to open a new ‘ state of the art’ regional cancer treatment hospital in the seaside village of Tramore.

His pet project.

His pride and joy..

His ailing electorate and cancer patients there, had refused to ‘take the train to Dublin’ anymore,for their radium rays ,and he was also in trouble with both Michael Martin the Minister for Long Waiting Lists, for spending so much of the ‘ Soldiers’tax booty on his own backyard hospital.

Charlie ‘Jockeyboy’McCreevy also suspected Martin of leaking the story of his generousity to the Kildare ‘Horsey Set’with a huge dollop of taxpayers money- as a distraction from his own pet projects which had ended up costing three times the original estimates-The new highways, and hospitals.

Charlie had built his local pals a new racecourse,of course at public expense,and

The worst of it was that whole world already knew that the beneficiaries of his largesse don’t even have to pay taxes of any kind on their untold wealth from stallion fees etc.

‘I’m glad to see the back of him’he thought to himself, ‘good riddance and bad cess’ as Martin’s grandmother used to quaintly remark, ‘God rest her…’.

Martin tried the starter motor one last time…and bingo! The car jerked back into life. He was on his way again.He coughed ,a cloud of blue smoke emerged from his lungs,the same colour as the exhaust gas from his Mercedes.Maybe the nicotine patches would help,he thought to himself,as he regained his composure.

He still could not get the latest scandal out of his head. 50 million euros down the drain on useless computer equipment. He knew it was his fault for sure.He swore he would never deal with that particular ‘expert’again,-no matter how much money he contributed to the Party Coffers every year.Must tell the Board of Works,or whatever they call themselves nowadays,to strike his company off the ‘favoured suppliers list’,he remarked thinking aloud.

.It just wasn’t worth it in the end.Best to get impartial advice and forget the ‘Circle of Friends of Fianna Fail’particularly when buying such new fangled technology.

That evening after the Waterford Hospital opening, his spirits had lifted somewhat .

Sippin’ a pint of Guinness and drawing on yet another(forbidden)fag, he regaled his supporters in the local pub with a little story,to lighten the proceedings.

‘Boys’he began, ‘I was drivin’ down from Dublin this mornin’when me car broke down a few miles from Waterford.I pulled in to the roadside,not knowin’ what to do –and just as I peered under the bonnet in hopes of spottin the problem-I hears a voice from the hedge behind me.’

The voice said ‘that spark plug cable is loose’. ‘I tightened the cable and turned around to thank my benefactor and what was standing there peering over at me-but a white horse! Can you imagine that? His head was leaning over the hedge. What a surprise I got! A talking horse!’

Not to be outdone,one of the locals,who heard Martin joking with the pals turned round and says; ‘Well Martin, I know that stretch of road well-,and that very same horse that you speak of!’

‘You do?’ says Martin,not expecting this reply.

‘Yes I do’ says y’er man , … ‘ and furthermore, Martin ,I don’t believe your story’.

‘Why not’?chuckles Martin. " Because",replied the speaker, "that horse that you speak of knows F**k all about cars –..he’s a computer expert!!"




Under the freedom of information act(recently interfered with by Fianna Fail)we have at great expense and effort unearthed an E-mail sent by minister Martin Cullen to his personal press attache,Monica Leech;Another scoop for; first with the new shit to hit the fan.!

Please send a copy of our Xmas poem to all your friends;

Monica Leech you are truly a peech,

lovely Soldier of Destiny:

You spin and you win,

and new votes you bring in;

and your loyalty is only to me.


Thee, I must surely reward,

so your tender, put forward,

as I have many coins to disburse;

accompany me, over land and sea,

and together we will empty the citizen,s purse.!


Some people speculate,

if we both sleep in late;

on some junket in far off lands.

What they do not realise,

A cigarette is my prize,

and all of the gossip is lies.


We have travelled afar

and seen many a star;

In the heavens of far off lands.

Soul mates we may be,

in our Destiny,

In truth we have never held hands.


Roughshod I may ride,

crush Heritage with Pride;

For my highways traverse Erin,s land.

Royal Tara may disappear,

neath my tyrannous sneer;

as I mix new cement with the sand.


But my love affair,

when I leave my lair;

is a lady named ,"Waterford"

And a highway or two,

plus a local hospital new,

To this end all my schemings are toward.!


Monica Leech,

you I beseech;-

to be always by my side.

You cost twice as much,

as other some sutch;-

but Carr is a faithless spin-bride.


For Monica Lewinsky

I don't give a shinsky.!

Only voters suck up to me.

My Monica Leech

is a precious peech;

A true Soldier of Destiny.!


Merry Christmas dear mugs,

from all of us thugs,-

I'm off to the Fianna Fail bash.!

And a happy Yuletide,

From my new P.R. bride,

whose banked all your hard earned cash.!