In the heat of the election campaign, you probably didn't notice that An Garda Síochána's blitzkrieg against massage parlours registered yet another stunning victory. On April 25th, Tonja Marshall, an American - and God bless America - was fined €500 by Judge James McNulty for keeping a brothel. Since other judges have been sentencing brothel-keepers to be hung by their tongues from barbed wire until dead, his modest sentence suggests he is an uncommonly wise fellow, Kevin Myers
Tonja's trial resulted from a garda surveillance operation, followed by an utterly spiffing derring-do raid on her Dublin massage parlour, where gardaí found two naked men, and three women at, ah, work, on November 5th last: fireworks galore, no doubt.
Surveillance operation
Since Tonja pleaded guilty to the charge of keeping a brothel from October 11th to that day, are we to conclude that these are the dates of the surveillance operation? So were gardaí sitting in dustbins with fish-heads in their hair and binoculars glued to their eyes, or ostentatiously reading newspapers with holes in them, or repairing letter-boxes with long screwdrivers, oh so very slowly, glancing furtively at the knocking-shop customers scurrying backwards and forth, for all that time?
Excellent news! Deploying vastly expensive State resources to stop adults having sex with other adults in private: that's exactly what Dublin needs at this time in its crisis. No matter that much of the capital after nightfall resembles Beirut, circa 1978. No matter that all over Ireland, small towns are full of violent drunks. What the hell?
For the real relief comes from knowing that our beloved police have the brothel situation well in hand - if, that is, I may use the terms relief and hand in the same sentence, without risking surveillance and raids from the vice squad. And certainly, the Garda Commissioner and the Minister for Justice deserve our heartiest congratulations on this campaign to shut down knocking-shops.
"Good morning, Commissioner. And what do the latest crime figures show?"
"Street violence up everywhere Minister. Serious assaults on the increase, right across the country. Many towns are no-go areas from midnight on. Murders, up. Rapes, up. Aggravated assaults, up. Knife attacks, up. Drunk and disorderly cases, up. Random violence, up."
The Minister looked shocked. "Dear me. That sounds very serious. Have you no good news?"
The Commissioner beamed and performed a small tap-dance of joy. "Fortunately yes, Sir. Our campaign against massage parlours is proceeding admirably. Half-a-dozen convictions already, and more in the pipeline."
The Minister brooded a while. "You'll have to forgive me, Commissioner, but I'm a simple Tipperary boy. What are massage parlours?"
The Commissioner cleared his throat, and then, bending down, whispered into the Minister's ear. The Minister paled as the words sank in. "And they do this out of wedlock?"
Fainted dead away
The Commissioner nodded haggardly. "Good God Almighty," murmured the Minister, and fainted dead away. The thump of his body hitting the floor brought his secretary rushing in. "Oh Minister, oh Minister!" she cried. She turned on the Commissioner, pointing accusingly. "YOU FIEND! What have you done to our Minister?"
"Me? Nothing ma'am. I merely told him what happens in massage parlours."
"And what, pray, is that?" He whispered some words into he ear. Her eyes widened, she trilled a shrill little shriek, and she too swooned, neatly - and indeed loyally - flopping alongside the Minister.
In a single, manly stride, the Commissioner reached the phone and rang the switchboard. "We need an ambulance here immediately."
"Why?" asked the girl on the switchboard, and as the Commissioner began his explanation, he heard the clatter of the telephonist sliding off her seat in comatose horror, so disconnecting her headset.
"Hello! Now what's all this?" cried a voice behind him, aquiver with suspicion. The Minister of State for Justice had entered the office.
"Nothing!" yelped the Commissioner, wheeling. "I was merely telling them. . ." And within moments, the Minister of State was prostrate and quivering on the parquet also.
Terrible nightmare
Some hours later, the Minister regained consciousness, as smelling salts were wafted under his nose. He looked around him and saw a floor carpeted with many bodies. "Dead, are they?" he cried in joy. "Thank God! So it was only a terrorist attack after all! I had this terrible nightmare, where, here in holy Ireland, there were houses where grown adults were engaging in consensual. . .No. no, the nightmare was too beastly for words."
But then he saw the Commissioner's eyes, which were gazing greyly towards the horizon with the inner wisdom of a man who has glimpsed the jaws of death. It had been no nightmare. He vomited briefly, then slowly composed himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "Out of wedlock, did you say?" The Commissioner nodded.
"Very well," declared the Minister. "You want tanks? You got them. Strike aircraft? They're yours. Napalm? Go get it! Cruise missiles? No problem! We'll disband the Rangers and the Emergency Response Unit and deploy them all in a total offensive against - what do you call them? - these, these, massive parlours."
The Garda Commissioner sobbed in humble gratitude. "You are a noble, noble man, sir. But what about street crime?"
"First things first, Commissioner."
"Yes, Minister."