how corrupt is the irish police force

Night fall on Grafton Street, Dublin.
The quickening of September coldness in the air.
I love this.
Even though the city has an atmosphere of vaguely repressed threat.
I love this Autumn coldness, the glistening shopfronts and the early dark.
A police car noses its way gently among the passers by.
This is a pedestrianised street.
Normally no traffic is allowed.
I glance at the cops.
Two young fellows.
They look bored.
The one in the passenger seat is manfully engaged in picking his nose.
He is going at it with gusto.
Completely oblvious and indifferent to the many witnesses.
I stare.
In Ireland, there is a strong cultural taboo against picking one's nose in front of fellow citizens.
I shake my head.
If the cops no longer care if we see them running down snots on Main Street, what other transgressions will they not be capable of?
If they're yanking detritus from their honkers in plain view, what limit can there be to their evil?
Still I watch.
The police officer continues probing his proboscis for percies.
He is like Sherlock Holmes desperately hunting for a particularly elusive clue.
The cop driving the car is apparently unconcerned that his partner is now up to his wrist in his own sron.
Yes indeed.
If the cops are openly flaunting their schnoz violations with closed circuit television cameras recording every contortion, we really are in a lot of trouble.
At last I glimpse the putrescent depths of their corruption.
"My God," I breathe aghast. "It's unholy. They're completely and utterly out of control."
If you had been on Grafton Street this evening you might have seen me.
A strikingly handsome man walking towards Stephens Green muttering to himself:
"The horror, the horror."