Walking the streets of Dublin last night, I felt an emptiness about town. Though surrounded by people, I could not help feeling a lack of soul, an absence of some vital energy. It wasn't until I took a turn down one of the less crowded streets that it hit me. In the sudden, short-lived silence, on a faint, distant wind, I could have sworn I heard a ghostly voice calling someone a bollocks. I then remembered that it had been two weeks since Jimmy Nugent dramatically parted from this world. After being pursued for half an hour by an Garda Síochána that faithful night, James Carthage Nugent MEP drove his vehicle off the promenade at Bull Island, Dollymount, sinking into Dublin Bay upon impact with the water. The body of the legendary man has yet to be recovered.
We have witnessed nothing but strange days since he left us. The government have taken an enormously long time arranging a state funeral, the cost of which is estimated at €25 million, most of which has been spent on consultancy fees for public/private deal. A spokesperson for the government said that the arrangement will keep the large bill off the government's debt and also something vague and evasive about putting the contract up for tender. An Taoiseach Leo Varadkar said something pedantic and platitudinal that may have been an unprovoked sleight at working-class people.
Much confusion and contradiction surrounds his death. The discrepancy between certain details of his death and the official account has already given rise to many questions and a handful of conspiracy theories on the internet. Why were the Gardaí chasing him? Where is his body? What actually happened that night? Some claim that this saintly man performed his final miracle — a vanishing act — beseeching help from the Virgin Mary at the end of the Bull Island promenade as his flight from the authorities reached a dead end. Others say the car chase was a myth and that he died from heart failure at the wheel, while taking a tourist on a circuitous journey from the airport to their city centre hotel via Dublin Bay.
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| The site of Jimmy Nugent's last stand. |
One of the more sinister claims suggests that the Gardaí murdered him. It has been rumoured that they saw him as a threat, a man who called for martial law every time a major crime was in the media. He was always a controversial figure, but never more so than the final year of his life. His election campaign for the European Parliament was fraught with daily controversies, mainly pertaining to any one of his many radical policies. The fliers and posters for his campaign were jammed full of small print, listing all the ambitious plans he wished to accomplish as an elected representative: Irexit; pro coal ("Coal is proven. Coal's your only man."); pro gun ownership; indiscriminately hacking off the top tier of every public organisation to combat corruption; nationalisation of the banks; conscription; pledge allegiance to the flag (which he clarified was not metonymy); a restrictive immigration policy; anti-vaccination; establishment of new capital on the Hill of Tara; highly restrictive clothing regulations; detention centres; a revision of the history curriculum in schools; an investigation into chemtrails; an annual day of observance for how shite things are and who is to blame; a labour camp for those players on the Republic of Ireland football team who fail to get results; a space programme to determine if the Earth is round or flat; Irish Sakoku; a seat in the Seanad Éireann for his dog; a directive for the media to report more frequently on the crimes of Travellers and immigrants.
The confusion about his death and the lack of a corpse has led some to believe he is still alive. Many of his followers refuse to believe he died. A man of his legendary caliber could have easily master-minded a cunning escape plan. He may have wanted to avoid answering questions to the ongoing tribunal into his finances and decide to fake his own death. Elaborate conspiracy theories tell stories of him fleeing to foreign lands. Cheating death like Rasputin, he rendezvoused with a Russian submarine and is now an honoured guest in the court of Vladimir Putin. Some claim he was spotted in Sydney, telling Asian people at the airport that Australia is full already. A photograph that emerged during the week supposedly placed him in the hermit nation of North Korea, apparently on an ideas exchange with Kim Jong Un. A more plausible theory claims he was picked up by local fishermen in Dublin Bay. Embarrassed by whole ordeal and still a fugitive of the law, he informed the captain that he was a resident of Lambay Island, and requested to be taken home. I think this last idea is the most compelling. With such a small population, the tiny island would be perfectly suited for Jimmy Nugent's dream of a closed, restrictive society.
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| Is this Jimmy Nugent on the far right? |
Having heard those words on the wind last night, half in a dream perhaps, I slowly resumed walking home, somewhat disconcerted. But soon I felt better and picked up the pace, as it occurred to me that he was not really gone. I cannot speak for the veracity of all the claims above, but I will tell you this much: he will never truly leave us. When you walk this city, you will find him everywhere. Walk down by Dublin port, and you will find the wreckage of the prototype giant radiator which fell out of the sky and landed where the Liffey meets the sea. Cross the Ha'penny Bridge and you will meet the beggars Jimmy would frequently scold for not having a job. Walk down Kildare Street and you will see his monument giving the finger to Dáil Éireann. Wander out to Clondalkin and you find ample evidence of the economic progress his closed economy brought. Pass Burger King and reminisce about the stand he made against the slow service. And when you walk by the GPO, look at the anxiety in the religious preachers faces as they fear that he will return to savagely remonstrate with them.
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| Jimmy Nugent's 'Finger of the People', telling "all the muppets" to "fuck off." |
I know, in some sense, he will forever be with us. He will be with us wherever men vent their belligerent opinions angrily in public; wherever the high blood-pressure of men produces thoughts free of content and abstract reasoning; wherever there are those who thirst for the freedom to express one's opinion without the oppressive toil that thinking long and hard forces upon people. You will find him in the pub, in the polling booth, in the comments section, on the bus having an argument with the driver. You will find him behind the wheel of a car that honks too often, as a caller on the Joe Duffy show; in a taxi making you wish the topic of the conversation would change. The enduring champion of those who cannot be sold by reasoning, or deterred by compassion or understanding, will live on. I say to the disgruntled people of this country: fear not, he will always be near. He will never leave us alone.
