With a lack of proper imagination endemic in certain parts of Kildare, journalistic bollocks is the great global king. Give them a minute and they’re off, spouting shite about Chinese bullfighting flower arrangers, or whatever they can think of before the deadline arrives.

And I loathe reading the bollocks that some journalists spew out, without wit or humour or an ounce of research. Only an abject terror of being “judgmental” prevents people discussing this issue with the frankness it deserves.

So for once, let’s be honest. A journalist that is gratuitously talking through his arsehole is needlessly burdened with many handicaps: for ugly writing and imminent dismissiveness in themselves lead to social isolation, emotional and sexual frustration, pontifical infirmity and often premature bed-wetting.

Some journalists are so lazy that they physically cannot be bothered to think about what they are writing. So either they improvise, using tinfoil helmets, or a towel wrapped tightly around their heads, or they get a chum to sit on it. So now do you wonder why the very, very crap also have very, very few friends? (It may also have something to do with bad insect puns).

The conjoined trinity of women’s lib, bra burning and bad mammies lie at the heart of the bollocks epidemic. The mammies of the 1970’s started listening to that Greer wan and all hell broke loose. Everything has consequences you know.

The Sun was a great thing to discover, but we never imagined it would give us sunburn and the purple dots in your eyes if you stare at it too long. Oxygen was great too when it was invented but it created flatulence and yawning. And the feckin’ Greeks! Who invented those?

Moreover, merely to state the next obvious truth — that mothers are largely responsible for people talking through their arseholes — is to court hysterical denunciations from the virally infected. But we all know that most men are now dead, given that their wives stopped feeding them in the 1970’s and once hyper-busy women with careers started watching rugby and farting at inopportune moments — then their children started talking the most unbelievable shite.

Do you know why a shite-talker wheezes? It’s because their huge arsehole is preventing light from escaping, whereby it crushes the brain. The ultimate humiliation comes when you have to ask your one remaining friend to accompany you to the loo, so you can collect up the contents of the bowl to write your next Indo column.

And most lethal of all is the mental virus that accompanies scatological verbiage. This not merely acquits parents of their own personal responsibility for having made their children into shite-talkers, but it also causes them to hallucinate. When they gaze at the revolting column-inches their children have spewed up, their poor diseased brains only register a future Poet Laureate or Pulitzer Prizewinner.

So the key to the cure of the bollocks-talking illness is the neutralisation of mothers especially. This will almost certainly require a kitchen, a large ball and chain, inflammable corsets and lack of access to cigarette lighters — and needless to say, the author of such a solution can only be a woman, as the men are, after all, dead. Until her hour comes, shite, blather and rambunctious nonsense will always rule.

Inspired by this.