For a country that gets so annoyed when foreigners (mainly Americans, let’s start by pointing fingers) claim to be from here when they’re from the place where they’re from, Irish people tend to love claiming anyone with a barely tangential historical relationship with Ireland.

I experienced Barack Obama Plaza for the first time yesterday evening. For foreigners who are not from here, Barack Obama Plaza is a motorway service area in the middle of nowhere, mainly consisting of a petrol station, a fast food joint and a convenience shop. It’s named after your current president for no better reason than it gives a concrete craphole an aura of worth. Oh, there’s an exhibition upstairs, which I didn’t get to see as it closes when it gets dark. I assume it contains utterly useless crap like the pint glass Barack Obama drank out of when he visited here, a toenail clippng, a few pictures and a copy of someone’s birth cert. Even though I’ve just listed the most boring rubbish you could possibly have in an exhibition, I bet it has everything I mentioned except the toenail clipping.

They advertise the place on buses so I assumed it would have a funfair or a circus or at the very least some sort of statue in an actual plaza. It has none of these. I am comparatively confident that it is the most overstated spot on the planet and I’ve been to most of the locations mentioned in the unofficial guide to Britain’s worst theme parks.

Barack Obama Plaza on Ireland’s M7 motorway. It’s not Camelot. Picture via Killeen Civil Engineering.

It’s the beginning of Dante’s Divine Comedy, where Dante finds himself falling into a deep place with a silent sun, unable to see the path to salvation. It’s the story within a story in Poe’s ‘A Descent into the Maelström’, a vortex which swallows soul and sanity until nothing of consequence survives. It’s the mythological Lethe, the river that upon entry wipes away your past, leaving you as a blank slate to be rewritten or discarded.

In the awful TV version of this non-tale, part of my soul never gets to leave that non-place and remains there, staring out the window for all of eternity.

There’s a moral here. Oh yes: stop advertising petrol stations on buses. I thought Barack Obama Plaza would be some sort of modern-day Camelot, a place of justice, chivalry and affordable health care. It is not. Don’t be fooled. Oh and the service in the Supermacs is really fecking slow too as staff get confused by more than one order. That’s because all reason and rationality have been sucked into the hellmouth of pitiless storm, rounded by houseless head and and unfed sides, bereft of all but ragged madness.

The point, which we’ve taken some time to reach, is that I suggest that you will get to your destination sooner if you just zip past. Especially tourists. Just keep going.

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