Get the Beers in

The Get the Beers In Party Is Born! — Stg. Salty Has Had Enough!

Ireland has a new political movement, a questionable leader, and absolutely no chance of a quiet life.

There comes a moment in every nation's history when ordinary people look at the state of things and ask themselves one simple question.

Can it honestly get any worse?

Stg. Salty had been asking that question for years. Unfortunately, he had finally decided to do something about it.

It all began on an otherwise peaceful afternoon at Misfits HQ, where the gang had gathered to discuss the usual important matters: who had eaten the last packet of crisps, why the kettle was making a noise like a dying tractor, and whether anybody had seen Captain Morgan's missing bottle opener.

Then the television news came on.

Within thirty seconds, Salty was standing in front of the screen, pointing at it as though the newsreader had personally insulted his mother.

"Look at this lot!" he roared. "Another debate, another committee, another promise, and another five people explaining why nothing is their fault. If talking solved everything, Ireland would be the most perfectly organised country on the planet!"

Quags looked up from his phone.

"What's your alternative, Salty? You going to fix the country yourself?"

Salty slowly turned towards him.

"That's an excellent question, Quags. And the answer is yes."

The room fell silent.

McFinleyyy stopped eating his sandwich. Ye Olde Large Lad lowered his newspaper. The Govna looked up from a set of DIY instructions he had been studying for reasons nobody fully understood.

Even Squalshyyy paused halfway through opening a packet of biscuits.

"You can't just decide to run the country," Lucy said.

"Can't I?" replied Salty. "Watch me."

He marched over to the whiteboard, grabbed a marker, and wrote three enormous words across the top.

THE GET THE BEERS IN PARTY

Underneath, he added a slogan.

LESS TALK. MORE COMMON SENSE. AND NO MEETING WITHOUT BISCUITS.

The Govna studied the writing carefully.

"I like it," he said. "It's clear, it's direct, and it has a practical foundation."

"What's the practical foundation?" asked Susan.

"Biscuits," said the Govna.

Nobody could argue with that.

The first party meeting

Within an hour, Misfits HQ had been transformed into an unofficial political headquarters. A table had been dragged into the middle of the room, chairs had been borrowed from three different corners, and somebody had placed a large bowl of crisps in the centre as though it were a sacred national treasure.

Salty stood at the front wearing his best jacket, which was only slightly stained with coffee.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Misfits and assorted troublemakers, I welcome you to the founding meeting of Ireland's newest political party!"

"Have we registered it?" asked Dinkz.

"No."

"Have we checked whether the name is available?"

"No."

"Have we got a website?"

"No."

"Have we got any policies?"

Salty paused.

"We're getting dangerously close to negativity here, Dinkz."

Whizzley raised a hand.

"Will the party be introducing free flights?"

"No," Salty replied.

"Then I'm not sure I can support this."

"You haven't even heard the manifesto!"

"Does it include free flights?"

"No!"

Whizzley sat back with the expression of a man who had just watched his holiday plans disappear into a black hole.

Meanwhile, Big Al had taken it upon himself to investigate the party's finances. He returned with a notebook, a calculator, and the grim expression of someone who had discovered that the crisps were not tax-deductible.

"Right," he announced. "We have a starting fund of €47.60, two unopened packets of biscuits, and a suspicious collection of coins in a jam jar."

"Excellent," said Salty. "We're already doing better than some organisations I could mention."

Big Al frowned.

"We haven't paid for the room."

"We own the room."

"We're renting the building."

"Details, Big Al. Politics is about vision."

"Vision won't pay the electricity bill."

"Then put electricity in the manifesto!"

Big Al closed his notebook. He was beginning to understand why nobody had ever asked him to organise a children's birthday party.

A leader emerges — unfortunately

Sarah and Susan arrived carrying tea, coffee, and a plate of sandwiches. They surveyed the scene with the careful expressions of people who had walked into a situation that might require professional assistance.

"What's happening here?" Sarah asked.

"We're forming a political party," said Lucy.

Susan looked at the whiteboard.

"The Get the Beers In Party?"

"That's right," said Salty proudly.

"And who's in charge?"

Every Misfit in the room pointed at Salty.

He straightened his jacket.

"Thank you. I accept this responsibility with humility, dignity, and a firm commitment to never let a good sandwich go to waste."

"You're not exactly known for humility," Sarah said.

"That's fake news."

"Or dignity," Susan added.

"Character assassination!"

"Or sharing sandwiches," said Lucy.

Salty looked genuinely wounded.

"Right. First policy: anyone making personal remarks about the party leader must bring their own lunch."

The motion passed unanimously, largely because everyone wanted to get back to the sandwiches.

Ye Olde Large Lad rose to his feet.

"If we're serious about this, we'll need organisation. We need people who can deal with foreign affairs, housing, transport, defence, finance, education, and all the other jobs involved in running a country."

"Absolutely," said Salty. "And we will deal with every single one of them."

"Have you got people in mind?" asked Ye Olde Large Lad.

Salty surveyed the room.

He looked at Quags, who had been attempting to explain international relations to a houseplant.

He looked at McFinleyyy, who was drawing what appeared to be a motorway through the middle of a kitchen.

He looked at Ye Olde Large Lad himself, who had somehow managed to turn a discussion about party organisation into a military briefing.

Then he glanced at the Govna, who was trying to fix the kettle with a screwdriver.

"Yes," Salty said. "I have the finest team of highly qualified individuals ever assembled in one room."

The kettle made a loud bang.

The Govna put down the screwdriver.

"That wasn't me."

Nobody believed him.

The campaign begins before anyone is ready

By teatime, the party had acquired its first campaign poster, thanks to Dinkz and a printer that had been threatening to retire for several months.

It featured a photograph of Salty standing beside a pint glass, looking towards the horizon as if he were contemplating the future of Western civilisation.

Across the top were the words:

THE GET THE BEERS IN PARTY

Underneath, in slightly smaller letters:

WE MAY NOT HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS, BUT AT LEAST WE'LL ADMIT WHEN WE'RE THIRSTY.

Salty loved it.

"That's the one! It shows leadership, honesty, and a clear understanding of the people's priorities."

The Stig examined the poster.

"Why are you standing beside a pint glass?"

"Symbolism."

"Why is there a packet of crisps in your pocket?"

"National security."

"Why does the photograph have a date stamp from three years ago?"

Salty snatched the poster away.

"That's called experience!"

Captain Morgan immediately suggested that the party launch its campaign in a pub. John Daniels proposed visiting local businesses. Baz wanted to discuss employment. Purty suggested that they should at least consider the health implications of a national diet based entirely on crisps and sandwiches.

"Excellent contributions," Salty declared. "We'll discuss them at our next meeting."

"When's that?" asked Sarah.

"Whenever something goes wrong."

"So tomorrow, then?" Susan replied.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Salty. "We have a printer to fix first."

At the back of the room, McFinleyyy had already started sketching a proposed national transport network on the reverse of the campaign poster. The plan included three new motorways, a bridge that seemed to lead nowhere, and a roundabout with seventeen exits.

"What's that bit?" Quags asked, pointing at a large circle.

"Improved traffic flow."

"That's a roundabout."

"It's a strategic traffic management circle."

Ye Olde Large Lad studied the design.

"Where does the road go after the bridge?"

McFinleyyy looked at him.

"That's a future phase."

Big Al stared at the drawing.

"How much will it cost?"

McFinleyyy folded the poster in half.

"We'll get back to you."

For the first time that afternoon, Salty looked genuinely concerned. Not because the transport plan was impossible, or because the party had no money, or even because the kettle was now making a strange whistling noise.

He was concerned because he had begun to realise that he might actually have to work with these people.

Still, there was no turning back.

He climbed onto a chair, raised his mug, and addressed the assembled Misfits.

"Today, we begin a movement! A movement for common sense, straight talking, decent value, and a country where ordinary people can get on with their lives without needing a committee to explain how to boil an egg!"

The room erupted in cheers.

The Govna raised his mug.

"To the party!"

"To Ireland!" shouted Quags.

"To better roads!" yelled McFinleyyy.

"To secure borders and proper planning!" added Ye Olde Large Lad.

"To a balanced budget!" called Big Al.

"To free flights!" shouted Whizzley.

"No free flights!" Salty roared.

Whizzley sat down again.

Salty waited for the noise to settle, then delivered the final line of his speech.

"Remember this day, lads and ladies. The old political order has had its chance. The Misfits are coming, and we're going to do things differently!"

At that exact moment, the printer burst into life, spat out twenty-seven copies of the same campaign poster, and jammed so violently that the lights flickered.

The Govna examined it.

"I think it needs a new fuse."

Big Al looked at the electricity meter.

"We can't afford one."

Salty stared at the smoking printer, then at his new party, then at the campaign posters scattered across the floor.

He took a slow breath.

"Right," he announced. "First official party decision: nobody tells the newspapers about this meeting."

Dinkz raised his phone.

"Too late. I've already posted the photograph online."

Salty's face went pale.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Dinkz turned the screen around.

The post had already attracted hundreds of comments.

One read: Finally, a party that sounds like it understands the country.

Another said: Who are these people, and why is one of them holding a screwdriver?

A third simply asked: Is the pint included?

Salty stared at the screen. Then a slow grin spread across his face.

"Well, lads," he said, straightening his jacket. "It looks like we're in business."

And so, with €47.60 in the bank, a broken printer, a transport plan that appeared to require its own postcode, and a leader who considered crisps a matter of national importance, the Get the Beers In Party was officially born.

Ireland had survived plenty of political surprises over the years.

But it had never been prepared for Stg. Salty.

Next time: Salty unveils the party manifesto, and the Misfits discover that putting promises on paper is easy. Agreeing on what the promises actually mean is an entirely different disaster.

Get the beers in! 🍻