Poundshop Stormtroopers

Pádraig Drummond ✊ Listening to that was like being trapped in a lock-in with a drunk Nazi priest shouting at the walls, convinced the plaster was plotting against him.

The man bellows “Ireland for the Irish” like it’s a holy scripture, when in truth it’s the same old fascist dirge reheated from Berlin ‘33 and Belfast ‘69, just with less talent and more spit on the microphone.

He rants about immigrants like a dog barking at shadows, dragging the names of murdered women into his hate speech as if their tragedies were written just to feed his grubby little cosplay Reich. That’s the real obscenity, turning grief into propaganda, turning lives into excuses for why a gaggle of fascist eejits can’t walk through Dublin without having their uniforms ripped off and their pride shoved down the drain.

The thing he’ll never admit, no matter how many times he bangs his podium and calls women “lesbians” like it’s a curse word, is that Dublin already answered him. His great nationalist army came dressed like Poundshop stormtroopers, posed for a few photos, and then legged it the second the locals reminded them where they were. That’s not a struggle. That’s not destiny. That’s a failed panto performance in St. Patrick’s Park, followed by a sprint to the car park with the jackboots flapping.

And spare us the “Great Replacement” mythology, another imported American hallucination, just the Klan’s bedtime story in a tricolour dust-jacket. Dublin is working-class, immigrant, queer, socialist, anti-fascist, republican, and proud. We don’t need lectures from a Nazi who can’t hold a rally longer than the length of a Snapchat.

So here’s the news, pal: you can scream “Ireland for the Irish” ‘til your throat tears, but you’ll never own the streets. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. Ireland belongs to its people, all of them, and the only extinction on the cards is the slow, humiliating demise of your sad little cosplay army.

⏩Pádraig Drummond is an anti-racism activist.