No, me! Me! Me! Vote for me! No me! Me!
Ok, elections 2016, quick recap.
Maria: I just need to double-check one thing, the make-up artist fee, for the photo shoot, it’s a flat rate, isn’t it?
Photographer: That’s right Maria, it’s not based on quantity, it’s a flat rate
Maria: LASH IT ON GIRL! The what? The cracks? When I smile? No worries. Get ready, I’m going to hold it there. Get your trowel. No. 4. Get ready to fill the cracks. I think we all agreed on the Mandarin Marvel plaster
Photographer: A symphony Carrie, let’s go for a symphony. In white and red. Like a vanilla ice cream with a cherry coulis.
Carrie: Are… are… you sure?
Photographer: Are you kidding?! The electorate will lap it up. A vanilla/cherry symphonic ice cream.
Photographer: Shirt and tie? So what’s the occasion Shane? Marriage, confirmation or court appearance?
Shane: Stop taking the piss, will ya. It’s for the electoral posters. I don’t look like a gurrier in a suit trying to buy instant respectability, do I?
Photographer: Not at all Shane. You don’t look like a gurrier. You look like a trainee investment banker. Or an insurance broker.
Shane: And the difference is? Oh shite…
In spite of the disappointment of failing the Aer Lingus Air Hostess exam back in 1982, Mary always knew that she would find another use for the outfit at some stage.
Photographer: Smile Frank, give me your best winner’s smile. Ooze confidence, for fuck sake.
Frank: I just can’t do it, Joe. I know we don’t stand a shaggin’ chance. Can we settle for the half-arsed grin and I can go back to bed?
Photographer: So Joan, have you thought about how you want to approach this election? What image do you want to project? Bright, confident smile? Or serious, “I’m not in politics for the craic” straight face?
Joan: Well, Brendan, I thought that this time, I’d go for the Grimace.
Brendan: The Grimace?
Joan: Yes, the Grimace. The rictus is so last decade. I want the Grimace. Show teeth, but without smiling, and hemorrhoidal pain etched on my face.
Ok, guys, take him out of the sarcophagus. Slowly. Slowly. Very slowly. He may be wooden, he is delicate nonetheless. Very delicate. Ok, apply a bit more Death Warmed Up make-up. Gentle strokes, with the soft brush.
The other yoke whose name I have forgotten
The Yoke: How much to make me look like an energetic, smiley, approachable, cat-who-got-the-cream, born leader, at the elm of an Ireland for All?
The photographer: 2.3 million. We’ll shoot it in the studio, and outside, before and after sessions on the sun bed, with and without make-up, with a dark suit, and a light coloured suit, with and without tie, we’ll take 27,000 shots, over 7 months, in the hope of bagging one where you look like a half-palatable individual.
In natural light, without a screed of make-up. No trace of chemical enhancement in the hair. Quite sure of who he is, and what he is about. No toothy grin. A guy. Just a guy. With his feet on the ground.
Ah bollix, I’m just beginning to wonder if I am not just a touch biased here.
It’s a good thing I don’t give a rat’s arse about politics…