Mr. Hewson, I write to answer your remarks in The Observer, lauding Ireland’s piddling corporate tax rate as a general boon to the populace achieving, amongst a host of purported miracles, the presence of nurses, firemen and teachers within our ranks, presumably on a scale we couldn’t match should the global aristocracy be taxed at the same level as those self-same nurses, fireman and teachers. Note firstly that I do not call you ‘dear Mr. Hewson,’ nor do I use the familiar ‘Bono’; to do either would imply a degree of affection I frankly don’t feel, and the latter title, being a form of trademark, is one I expect to see copyrighted in due course, the better to screw a shilling with! Not that this coolness should be read as a wish for any bodily harm to come to you. On the contrary, it is precisely your physical safety which motivates this message. Though I understand how you must normally feel impervious to danger, living as you do in a bubble of self-regard, ventilated only by your own flatulence, which doubtless smells to you, if no one else, of lavender and rosewater, but have you seen The Walking Dead? Worlds can change overnight Mr. Hewson, leaving us dealing with a whole new reality! Granted, the odds of any of us waking to a zombie nightmare are thankfully slight, and should it happen you would be uniquely equipped to cope with that environment, as your social circle, encompassing Davos, various corporate boardrooms and sundry neo-liberal shindigs, teems with the greatest bloodsuckers on the planet, the type who routinely extract pounds of flesh from the working poor. In fact, the more I think about it the more convinced I am that you would actually thrive, and that Sheriff Rick would end up sulkily deferring to your leadership qualities. I strongly suspect you believe so too, every time you watch this show, or any other featuring a rough-cut hero! But I’m drifting here, into the realms of gore and melodrama, as I often do when you cross my mind. The point is, things can and do alter, and sometimes in catastrophic ways.
Consider if you will the likely impact of a few large but rash investments, or a dodgy book-keeper (Adam’s your go-to man on this.) Before you know it, you might not be a sawn-off wanker, living on an income to rival the GDP of a mid-sized African nation (you’ll remember them from photo opportunities and ego trips of yore) but a sawn-off wanker struggling on something like the average wage, along with the rest of us! If that doesn’t make you quake in your well-heeled snakeskins Mr. Hewson, it should do, for down here among the masses bitter folk abound. Heaven forbid you should, in your new, reduced, circumstances, come across one of these, such as an actual nurse, fireman or teacher. Because they harbour grudges, especially when they consider the real and actual decrepitude of Irish social services, and how that dreadful condition relates inextricably to the way your buddies in the corporate sector have been favoured by your other buddies in the political elite, all with your blessing! They might take matters into their own hands, or worse still, feet. For some of these people wear heavy safety-boots you know, though in the case of teachers it’s more likely to be a sturdy type of brogue, recommended more by affordability than anyone’s sense of fashion. And as for nurses, forget the image of soft-shod femininity; these are true daughters of the Irish soil, raised via full-blooded field games of a gaelic stripe, in which the art of picking out a soft spot is honed to such a degree a target would end up begging for a steel toecap! I can picture the inevitable outcome of such an encounter Mr. Hewson (I’m tempted to call you PH for short, as I like the caustic connotation,) and I tremble for you, for in this image you are bent-double, in shocked contemplation of your own footwear, freshly vomit-splattered and no longer the handiwork of Milanese artisans fed on caviar and honey, but just a pair of Penny’s finest! Even when the pain has passed you would be left with the long term impact on your musical career, as no longer could you pose as a passable imitation of a rock ‘n roller, seeing as your range would henceforth never dip below that typified by Gladys Knight’s back catalogue. (p.s. Regarding your recent releases might I suggest U2’s next one IS a collection of Gladys Knight covers?!)
As you can see, my concern for your health and safety outweighs my contempt for your persona, such that I can well imagine how you may have drifted unwittingly towards dangerous waters. I mean, if my day job involved looking down on thousands as they bay for my vocal output I too might be convinced millions more breathlessly await my every word while figuratively stretching for my immaculately-distressed hem. Indeed, we might say the God-complex is an occupational hazard for all in your rightly-celebrated field, though in your own particular case it meshes with an unfortunate set of personal traits. So please look on this as a wake-up call, an intervention, if you will. We Ordinary Folk, or The Great Unwashed as we are surely called in your soirees, off-mic, will be more than happy if we never hear from you again, either in a professional capacity or as self-appointed philosopher, wit and social commentator! It’s a bitter pill to swallow I know, but luckily I have developed a re-enforcement which should help. It involves a good old fashioned record player, which I’m sure you have in your possession, as I cannot think of you as anything other than the type of individual who masturbates to his own music, played on every format known to man. Do you have such an item, nestled perhaps beside the life-size replica of your own genitalia, fashioned from a pair of malteasers and a chocolate finger and covered in beaten gold? You do! Excellent, then you may proceed with the re-enforcement; it involves you taking the orifice through which you addressed The Observer, and countless periodicals before it, and placing it firmly on the centre pillar of said device, the one which usually engages the hole in a record. I cannot overstate the importance of pressure in this manoeuver, there’s no point faffing about, you need to make like a fan of ‘60s funk, and break out the Blood Sweat & Tears! At this juncture I would paraphrase The Black Panthers who, like you, built a public platform solely on the basis of Looking Really Cool In Shades, and tell you to turn, baby, turn!
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