A MEMBER of Dáil Éireann is flattened by a lorry on Kildare Street. He arrives in Heaven and is met at the gates by St Peter.
“Welcome!” says St Peter. “Before you settle in, it appears there is a problem. You see, we seldom see politicians around these parts, so we’re not sure what to do with you.”
“No bother, just let me in,” says the TD.
“Well, I’d like to, but I have orders from on high. You’ll have to experience one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity.”
“Really, I’ve made up my mind. I want to be in heaven,” insists the TD.
“I’m sorry, but we have our rules.” And with that, St Peter escorts him to the lift and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a beautiful golf course. In the distance is the clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and many of his former colleagues.
They are resplendent in evening dress and in high spirits. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people.
They play a friendly round of golf and then dine on lobster, chips and pints of stout.
Among the company is the devil, who is a very friendly and nice chap, always dancing and telling jokes. The TD is having such fun that, before he knows it, it’s time to go.
Everyone bids him a hearty farewell as they wave him away.
The lift goes up, up, up and when the door opens, St Peter is waiting for him again.
“Now, it’s time to visit heaven.”
So 24 hours pass with the TD joining a group of contented souls wafting from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a lovely time and before he knows it, St Peter is back.
“Now then, you’ve spent a day in hell and a day in heaven. Choose your eternity.”
The TD reflects for a minute, then he answers: “Don’t get me wrong, heaven has been great, but I think I would be better off in hell.”
So off he goes – down, down, down to hell.
This time, the doors open and he’s in the middle of a desolate wasteland covered in rubbish. He sees his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the filth and putting it in black bags as more falls from above.
The devil comes over and puts his arm around his shoulder.
“I don’t understand,” stammers the TD. “When I was here yesterday there was a golf course and clubhouse and we ate lobster and chips, drank pints, danced and had a great time. Now there’s just a stinking rubbish tip and my friends are utterly miserable. What happened?”
The devil smiles, flashes his teeth and drips: “Yesterday we were campaigning. You voted today.”
This timely little story was e-mailed this week by our correspondent in India. Apparently, it’s been doing the rounds in Mumbai.
In the original version, the dead politician is a member of the Indian parliament. We just wanted to see if the yarn works just as well when the central character is a TD.
You can make up your own mind . . .
