Kevin Myers At Large: The Fellowship of Promisoholics Anonymous was called to order by the outgoing secretary, Albert. His face resembled a terrapin's, and his reptilian eyes, black and beady, scanned his audience. "You," he said.
A man rose. He had the turnip features of a baby who, instead of maturing, had simply aged. "My name is Michael," he said in a low voice. "I . . I . . I," he stuttered. "I am a Promisoholic." He choked back a sob.
"I had this bout of binge-promising, after I found an old bottle of promises I'd hidden in the airing cupboard. I just meant to have a sip, maybe promising a penny off tax, but instead I drank the whole bottle. Do you know what I did? I promised to compensate Eircom investors for any fall in share price."
A murmur passed through the room. "Hush," he whimpered. "It gets worse. Then I found another bottle of promises under the kitchen sink. In no time at all I'd promised to refund taxi-drivers for any losses they'd suffered. Jesus Christ. Taxi-drivers. But it's not me talking. It's my craving."
Michael began to weep. "But I thought I was in recovery, I really did. Then the election came, and I went on a bender. Dear God, what did I not promise. I even promised double mortgage relief for first-time buyers, even though everyone knows that subsidising demand only pushes prices up. And, of course, I promised more medical cards, home help grants, Jesus Christ, I promised the works."
He slumped down in tears. Another man rose. His appearance was curiously unconvincing, like a robot whose extraterrestrial makers had inadvertently abducted a Clerys mannikin for inspiration.
"My name is Bertie, and I'm a Promisoholic." He even spoke with the slight hesitancy of a cyborg. "I've been living in a saloon of promises for four years, helping myself non-stop. I even promised not to make any promises, and then promptly made more promises. I'm filthy, vile, unworthy, in other words, a Promisoloholic."
"So am I," said a woman, who looked as if she had succeeded in keeping her promises to doughnut manufacturers.
"My name's Mary. I, too, am a Promisoholic who promised not to make promises, but then I promised to shut Sellafield. I have these wild urges to promise the really impossible." She lowered her voice. "I get these nightmares in which I promise to redirect the Gulf Stream."
"My name's Ruairí," intoned a neatly bearded dome. Its face bore the slightly startled look of a man who, just as he rises to address a conference of Mother Superiors, realises that he is sharing his underpants with a ferret. The dome raised a solemn finger in the air. "Ladies and gentlemen, I promise you here and now . . ."