There’s nothing like a bit of local politics to heat the blood. And nothing, simply nothing, heats the blood more than local politics with a self-serving tinge to them.

Back in the day when Betty Coffey was a Fianna Fáil Councillor for Dun Laoghaire, a set of traffic lights appeared on Corrig Road. Said lights had the effect of backing up traffic for a long way down the road, with a ridiculously long right flick going in one direction – the direction of Betty Coffey’s house, as it happens.

And two weeks ago, when a local resident dropped a leaflet into my letterbox, a flag was raised. It related to a plan for eight speed bumps on my road, and a further nine on Killiney Road. That’s 17 speed bumps (and a few mini-roundabouts) along a stretch of road maybe 0.8 of a mile long.

I got angry, and fired off a ranting email to the local councillors, fully expecting to be ignored. For good measure, I asked Maria Bailey (FG) and comrade Eamon Gilmore (Lab) to STOP SPAMMING my bloody letterboxes. (I have two, so I get double the spam).

Kudos to Gareth Crowe and Barry Andrews (FF) and Cllr Carrie Smyth (Lab) for their measured responses to said ranting email. A whopping DOUBLE FAIL to Maria Bailey (FG) for trying to defend the traffic plan, and for then promising to stop spamming me, and breaking that promise a week later, dropping junk mail in my letterbox again early this week.

Incidentally, Maria Bailey lives on the road where the traffic plan is being implemented. Are we noticing a pattern? *Cough* *Coffey*

Email tennis continues below the fold.

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It’s not just procrastination that’s kept this website silent recently. It’s insecurity, it’s not knowing what is the proper tone of voice to use online. Since the end my first foray into online writing, The Big Drought, I’ve become hesitant to ‘be myself’ online. Sometimes it’s fine to be yourself, to unshackle the id from the super-ego. But other times it’s not. If I was myself in during my driving test (cursing, stereo up to 11, one hand on the wheel and the other on the trackball of my Blackberry) the chances are good I’d spend a lot more time on public transport. If I was myself, fully, in a job interview, I’d be a lot more familiar with the interior of the Monkstown job centre than I am now. Or back in Golden Discs, Dun Laoghaire, dealing with Westlife-fan junkies and the old lady who used to pee herself at the counter and smile.

If I was myself in print, however, I’d be in court. A lot. And if I was myself in court….

In career mode, I am perfectly capable of writing restrained and measured articles for publication, where readerships, advertisers and media law have to be taken into account. But this blog ain’t the New York Times. Bitch.

Yet, I find that I restrain myself when writing online for some reason. Out of fear that a sweary outburst or two will mean a lost job somewhere down the line, I hold back.  I am spiritually and emotionally constipated as a result. The truth is that I write best when I’m either positively animated about a topic, or spitting acid with anger. The pic to the right has been my Bebo/Facebook/Twitter avatar for a long time now, and probably best represents my preferred tone of voice. Angry, with a touch of bitter sarcasm. I lobbed off an email to the local councillors last week, dripping with sarcasm and spite, and a friend said to me ‘You may have to interview them some day, you know’. It put the shits up me, until I realised that they were the ones who’ll have to be worried if I’m interviewing them. (I’ll post it later). I don’t like politicians, as a rule. And I don’t particularly care which among them like me.

I find that the most compelling blogs are the most ascerbic ones. Twenty Major was good in his time, Mr Mulley is at his best when ranting and carries that persona over into his professional life.  Sabrina Dent routinely makes me spit food onto my keyboard with her tweets, and Graham Linehan’s recent dissection of the Irish Times profile on him made me cackle (check out the url, it differs ever-so-slightly from the headline..) . If you haven’t read the blog of Ian Carter, editor of the Croydon Advertiser, you should. He has no problem ripping into his reporters and readers when they step out of line, or try to interview a mannequin because they forgot their glasses. There are others in the same vein. Andrew Sullivan, the CJR, the list goes on.

On the other hand, the blogs that are mere repositories for work, a floating online CV, are at best bland and at worst, embarrassing.

So, fuck it. I’m unleashing the id. It’s a risk, but I reckon it’s worth it. There’ll still be the re-posts from my alter-ego, the sensible, creative journalist type, when I’m working along those lines, but there will be swearing and ranting.  It’s best to be honest (although let’s not go nuts). I’m a nice guy, but I’m an angry motherfucker a lot of the time too, and with reason.

Let’s rock.