Got to tell you, I'm not impressed with Minister Cullen's latest vote scam. I was at the press conference where his zero alcohol limit for newly-qualified drivers proposal was "announced".
I say "announced" because it wasn't accompanied by an all-singing, all-dancing media circus as these coups normally are. If anything, it just kind of slipped out.
I'm open to correction here - it would actually be nice to be wrong once in a while - but the whole thing smacks of opportunism.
A journalist - whether or not he was fed the question, I know not - asked Cullen if he thought a zero tolerance policy was an option. Cullen jumped on the suggestion like a starving bulldog on a ham, and gleefully proceeded to appropriate the idea as his own.
Not that it's a bad idea, per se. It's fine. Except for one thing. Once the two or three-year probationary period is up, they are allowed a drink before driving. It's dangled in front of them like a reward.
What message does that send?
That it's fine to drive after a few scoops once you're experienced enough to handle it?
Cullen and his road safety chums constantly bang on about changing driver attitude. But attitude stems from experience. And the experience of most people is that if they drink and drive, they'll get away with it.
Some people never do it. Some people do it once, scare themselves sober and never do it again. Some people do it rarely. And tens of thousands more do it every week, all too aware they're more likely to be abducted by aliens in Harney-masks than be nicked.
Even you, dear readers, may do it. For all I know, you may be drunk now, reading this as you drive.
Here's a little scéal for you.
A Garda squad car was parked outside a pub in Tipperary recently, scoping motorists. One chap stumbled out like an amoeba on rollerskates, fell flat on his nose, and lay there floundering like, well, like a flounder.
Picked himself up, rummaged in his pockets and pulled out his car keys. After spending half an hour trying to open the door of five different vehicles and a phone box, he found his car, got it open and flopped into the driver's seat, head resting on the horn.
The noise seemed to awaken him, and he proceeded to start it up, turning on his windscreen wipers, lights and indicators randomly. Then he tried to drive off, but stalled twice before reversing into a bush, narrowly avoiding the stream of other cars cruising out of the car park.
Malachy and Pat have seen enough. They extricate themselves from their car's cosy confines, dust off the crumbs from their hang sangwidges and stroll over to our pal, who is warbling Ronan Keating songs at the top of his lungs.
"Excuse me, sorr. Could you blow into this for me?" says Malachy, breathalyser in hand.
"SureenoenuffIwilll," says he, puffing away.
Malachy's face scrunches up, perplexed. "Sorr, I'm going to have to ask you to accompany us to de stayshun. Dis breathalyser yoke appears to be broke."
"That's where you're wrong," says our pal, suddenly as sober as the day he was born. "I think you'll find I'm the designated decoy."
Malachy and Pat look around the empty car park. They've been had.
Shocking, isn't it? Well, it would be, if it were true.
But it had you convinced, didn't it? Some of you may have laughed, may have admired this cheeky chappie and his mates for their cute hoorism. Some of you may even have decided to try it yourself.
Whatever your reaction, you could easily visualise that exact scenario in any pub car park across this great land, couldn't you?
And what does that say about us? It says Cullen and his attitude-adjustment team have a lot of work to do.
