Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
WAIT A MINUTE...!
The last time we left gallant Mr(s). Henderson we had just been confronted with the shock revelation that s/he was actually Jeremy, the long-lost lover of the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy). Confused? I wouldn't blame you.
So in true sonata-allegro style, let us have a brief recapitulation, which I promise will be nothing more than a condensed and tonally modified repeat of the exposition.
Somewhere along the way we learned of Mr(s). Henderson's roots. She was the bastard child of a prostitute who worked in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe and who was killed in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion of Mary exacted holy retribution on the poor little child by cutting off his (yes, his) mickey with the Holy Knife of Padre Pio and sending him/her into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. S/he eventually discovered how she was different when one of the evil nuns waz just abou' to wash her gee an' seen she hadn't even go' wan, an' it looked like she used to have a mickey.
So there we are. We do not know what happened between this incident somewhere around 1930 and the present day, which is somewhere in time between 1970 and 1998 (we just haven't decided yet).
We were first told that Mr(s). Henderson was a manwoman, but not a womanman. Therefore we can assume that s/he is more of a man, even though s/he appears to consider him/herself as a woman. S/he starred in that terrible adaptation of Roger Rabbit which flopped on Broadway, and then moved to Ballymena and worked as a tailor(ess) for J. Asha's sweatshop. S/he tried to get married to Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair City, but it didn't work because the Nordy laws wouldn't allow it for all sorts of complicated reasons.
When this failed to work out, Mr(s). Henderson began roaming the plains of North America searching for something called Love, with the help of his/her beaver friend Anne Gyna. Somehow whilst floating along the Miss'hippy Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna came upon a luminous pink castle which just so happened to be inhabited by Rufus Wainwright, who took a rather homosexual shine to our hero(ine) Mr(s). Henderson. As the painful memories of his/her time with the Magdalene Sisters flooded back to his/her (and the river flooded thanks to that dam beaver Anne Gyna) s/he made a dash for the nearest wormhole which transported him/her straight back to Howth Castle.
Once in Howth s/he decided to visit Gay Byrne but realized he had defected to Ballsbridge, the bastard. Instead, s/he got a DART into Connolly Station and went to visit the Pro-Cathedral where, without realising, s/he came across the very baptismal font that had been used to break down the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe in 1925 where his/her poor mother had been killed. Does s/he know his/her true heritage? We're not sure just yet. Anyway, after almost coming close to finding out thanks to the old sacristan, s/he fled the Pro on the sacristan's death to buy some knickers in Boyers and curtains in Guineys like a true aul'fella/one, though we would be hoping aul'fellas wouldn't be buying knickers, or curtains for that matter.
After that, his/her attention was grabbed by the ad for gee transplants on the side of the bus that knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. In search of information on gee transplants, s/he came to the Mater Hospital where s/he was referred to the bumbling Dr More, who after much coaxing gave him/her an information leaflet on gee transplants. When this information proved unsatisfactory, s/he ran to Knobs & Knockers of Nassau Street only to discover that they couldn't help either. Once again that gallant homosexual Rufus came to his/her rescue with the help of a gay pride parade and some ridiculously camp choreography. Among Rufus's legion of gay dancers s/he discovered none other than the gay guy (from gay guy & straight, etc.) who addressed him/her as his long-lost love Jeremy with whom he had lived in Papua New Guinea before he was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. We also don't know how he got from Chicago to Nassau Street, and neither do we know how Mr(s). Henderson got from the Magdalene witches to Broadway to Ballymena to North America and to Papua New Guinea somewhere in between. We did know that s/he went Down Under at some stage, but we thought that was just a euphemism.
What will happen to our heros and hero(ine)s? Get the fuck down the stairs and we'll tell you later. Mickey!
TO BE CONTINUED.
So in true sonata-allegro style, let us have a brief recapitulation, which I promise will be nothing more than a condensed and tonally modified repeat of the exposition.
Somewhere along the way we learned of Mr(s). Henderson's roots. She was the bastard child of a prostitute who worked in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe and who was killed in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion of Mary exacted holy retribution on the poor little child by cutting off his (yes, his) mickey with the Holy Knife of Padre Pio and sending him/her into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. S/he eventually discovered how she was different when one of the evil nuns waz just abou' to wash her gee an' seen she hadn't even go' wan, an' it looked like she used to have a mickey.
So there we are. We do not know what happened between this incident somewhere around 1930 and the present day, which is somewhere in time between 1970 and 1998 (we just haven't decided yet).
We were first told that Mr(s). Henderson was a manwoman, but not a womanman. Therefore we can assume that s/he is more of a man, even though s/he appears to consider him/herself as a woman. S/he starred in that terrible adaptation of Roger Rabbit which flopped on Broadway, and then moved to Ballymena and worked as a tailor(ess) for J. Asha's sweatshop. S/he tried to get married to Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair City, but it didn't work because the Nordy laws wouldn't allow it for all sorts of complicated reasons.
When this failed to work out, Mr(s). Henderson began roaming the plains of North America searching for something called Love, with the help of his/her beaver friend Anne Gyna. Somehow whilst floating along the Miss'hippy Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna came upon a luminous pink castle which just so happened to be inhabited by Rufus Wainwright, who took a rather homosexual shine to our hero(ine) Mr(s). Henderson. As the painful memories of his/her time with the Magdalene Sisters flooded back to his/her (and the river flooded thanks to that dam beaver Anne Gyna) s/he made a dash for the nearest wormhole which transported him/her straight back to Howth Castle.
Once in Howth s/he decided to visit Gay Byrne but realized he had defected to Ballsbridge, the bastard. Instead, s/he got a DART into Connolly Station and went to visit the Pro-Cathedral where, without realising, s/he came across the very baptismal font that had been used to break down the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe in 1925 where his/her poor mother had been killed. Does s/he know his/her true heritage? We're not sure just yet. Anyway, after almost coming close to finding out thanks to the old sacristan, s/he fled the Pro on the sacristan's death to buy some knickers in Boyers and curtains in Guineys like a true aul'fella/one, though we would be hoping aul'fellas wouldn't be buying knickers, or curtains for that matter.
After that, his/her attention was grabbed by the ad for gee transplants on the side of the bus that knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. In search of information on gee transplants, s/he came to the Mater Hospital where s/he was referred to the bumbling Dr More, who after much coaxing gave him/her an information leaflet on gee transplants. When this information proved unsatisfactory, s/he ran to Knobs & Knockers of Nassau Street only to discover that they couldn't help either. Once again that gallant homosexual Rufus came to his/her rescue with the help of a gay pride parade and some ridiculously camp choreography. Among Rufus's legion of gay dancers s/he discovered none other than the gay guy (from gay guy & straight, etc.) who addressed him/her as his long-lost love Jeremy with whom he had lived in Papua New Guinea before he was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. We also don't know how he got from Chicago to Nassau Street, and neither do we know how Mr(s). Henderson got from the Magdalene witches to Broadway to Ballymena to North America and to Papua New Guinea somewhere in between. We did know that s/he went Down Under at some stage, but we thought that was just a euphemism.
What will happen to our heros and hero(ine)s? Get the fuck down the stairs and we'll tell you later. Mickey!
TO BE CONTINUED.
SO LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR GEE TRANSPLANT
1. WHAT IS A GEE TRANSPLANT?
A gee transplant is a simple operation in which a lady's gee is replaced with another lady's gee (or alternatively an artificial gee). It's virtually painless and can be performed under local anaesthetic in about ten minutes.
2. WHY ON EARTH WOULD I WANT TO BUY AN OSTRICH?
Reasons for having gee transplants vary. Many ladies find that with age their gee works less and less. In some cases gees may be worn out due to wear and tear. In other cases gees are inconvenient in size and shape. Whatever your reasons for having a gee transplant, be confident that your doctor will be with you all the way.
But what about me? wondered Mr(s). Henderson as s/he desperately scanned the pages searching for an answer to his/her desperate question. There was no mention of mickeys at all. Clearly gee transplants were only for ladies who already had gees...
How on earth could s/he have a gee transplant if s/he never had a gee in the first place? Poor Mr(s). Henderson. Perhaps s/he'd never have a gee after all...
In a last ditch attempt to find the answer to his/her question, Mr(s). Henderson lifted up his/her skirt and made a dash straight for Nassau Street. Once there, s/he ran straight into that well-named shop, Knobs & Knockers. The old man behind the counter wearing the cheeky t-shirt was startled at Mr(s). Henderson's sudden appearance and gazed at him/her with surprise.
"Yes dear?" he said eventually.
"I want a gee," said Mr(s). Henderson flatly and slightly out of breath.
"Excuse me?" replied the man, startled.
"A gee."
"Gee...I'm sorry dear, but this is Knobs & Knockers. You're looking for Gees & Gooters, which is in Fizbra."
"What? You mean I ran all the way here for nothing?" said Mr(s). Henderson, clearly frustrated. "Well, well,...that's a load of mickey!"
"Excuse me, madam," said the old man gesturing to an old lady who had collapsed on the other side of the shop, "but you're disturbing our other customers."
"...MICKEY!" shouted Mr(s). Henderson suddenly.
Just then from nowhere, Rufus Wainwright appeared kitted out with fairy wings and feathers stuck up his arse, followed by an entire gay pride parade marching down the street. Rufus pranced into Knobs & Knockers admiring the knobs as he went and put his arm around Mr(s). Henderson.
"Darling, don't get in such a tizzy. Come to Berlen with me and my happy homos."
"Queers! Queers! Reverse! Reverse!" shouted the old man behind the counter suddenly, as he morphed into Father Jack.
"Oh, do behave," said Rufus calmly as he waved his magic wand (!) and made the aul'fella disappear in a poof of smoke, if you'll pardon the pun. With another flick of his wrist the shop was suddenly transformed into a stage lit by dimmed pink lights and the entire parade began to dance around Rufus and Mr(s). Henderson in circles. This can't be happening, thought Mr(s). Henderson to him/herself. Then for some reason, s/he recognized the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy) amongst all the dancing queers. Slow motion and crossed looks.
"O, Jeremy!" he shouted to him/her. "It really is you!"
A gee transplant is a simple operation in which a lady's gee is replaced with another lady's gee (or alternatively an artificial gee). It's virtually painless and can be performed under local anaesthetic in about ten minutes.
2. WHY ON EARTH WOULD I WANT TO BUY AN OSTRICH?
Reasons for having gee transplants vary. Many ladies find that with age their gee works less and less. In some cases gees may be worn out due to wear and tear. In other cases gees are inconvenient in size and shape. Whatever your reasons for having a gee transplant, be confident that your doctor will be with you all the way.
But what about me? wondered Mr(s). Henderson as s/he desperately scanned the pages searching for an answer to his/her desperate question. There was no mention of mickeys at all. Clearly gee transplants were only for ladies who already had gees...
How on earth could s/he have a gee transplant if s/he never had a gee in the first place? Poor Mr(s). Henderson. Perhaps s/he'd never have a gee after all...
In a last ditch attempt to find the answer to his/her question, Mr(s). Henderson lifted up his/her skirt and made a dash straight for Nassau Street. Once there, s/he ran straight into that well-named shop, Knobs & Knockers. The old man behind the counter wearing the cheeky t-shirt was startled at Mr(s). Henderson's sudden appearance and gazed at him/her with surprise.
"Yes dear?" he said eventually.
"I want a gee," said Mr(s). Henderson flatly and slightly out of breath.
"Excuse me?" replied the man, startled.
"A gee."
"Gee...I'm sorry dear, but this is Knobs & Knockers. You're looking for Gees & Gooters, which is in Fizbra."
"What? You mean I ran all the way here for nothing?" said Mr(s). Henderson, clearly frustrated. "Well, well,...that's a load of mickey!"
"Excuse me, madam," said the old man gesturing to an old lady who had collapsed on the other side of the shop, "but you're disturbing our other customers."
"...MICKEY!" shouted Mr(s). Henderson suddenly.
Just then from nowhere, Rufus Wainwright appeared kitted out with fairy wings and feathers stuck up his arse, followed by an entire gay pride parade marching down the street. Rufus pranced into Knobs & Knockers admiring the knobs as he went and put his arm around Mr(s). Henderson.
"Darling, don't get in such a tizzy. Come to Berlen with me and my happy homos."
"Queers! Queers! Reverse! Reverse!" shouted the old man behind the counter suddenly, as he morphed into Father Jack.
"Oh, do behave," said Rufus calmly as he waved his magic wand (!) and made the aul'fella disappear in a poof of smoke, if you'll pardon the pun. With another flick of his wrist the shop was suddenly transformed into a stage lit by dimmed pink lights and the entire parade began to dance around Rufus and Mr(s). Henderson in circles. This can't be happening, thought Mr(s). Henderson to him/herself. Then for some reason, s/he recognized the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy) amongst all the dancing queers. Slow motion and crossed looks.
"O, Jeremy!" he shouted to him/her. "It really is you!"
Monday, February 11, 2008
Dr More's Almanac
Last time we met the hero(ine) of Bramblog, the courageous Mr(s). Henderson, s/he was fleeing the Pro-Cathedral after the then dead 115-year-old sacristan's face began to melt and she was slapped...in the face!...with a ghostly bishop's mitre. S/he was a bit self-absorbed and decided to forget all about the poor sacristan and think about him/herself. S/he went into Boyers to buy a few pairs of knickers and Guiney's to buy a few pairs of curtains.
Turning up right onto O'Connell Street, Mr(s). Henderson spotted a green bus drive past (as they did) bearing an advertisment which read, "Have you ever considered the priesthood?" Seconds later another bus passed which Mr(s). Henderson could have sworn read, "Have you ever considered a gee transplant?" Just as s/he was taking in this suggestion, another bus passed, which read, "I've had enough." In the daze of bus ads, the bus which read "Have you ever coinsidered a gee transplant?" reversed down O'Connell Street and knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. The gobshite shouldn't have been on the road anyway, harr harr.
So with this new bee in his/her bonnet, Mr(s). Henderson made his/her way straight up to the Mater. Arriving in the foyer s/he asked the nice blonde woman behind the counter what a gee transplant was. The nice woman turned red immediately, smiled and pointed him/her in the direction of Dr More's office.
Entering Dr More's office, Mr(s). Henderson was struck immediately by the seventeen food pyramid charts on the back wall, pictures of organs and odd-looking holy sorts of people with guitars and bodhráns. In pictures, of course. Dr More himself was sitting absent-mindedly behind a desk, reading the Beano, pausing every few moments to shift his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. When he noticed Mr(s). Henderson standing there, he suddenly jumped to his feet and grabbed his stethoscope.
"Eh, hello. I'm Dr More, or something. But that's not really important. How are you? Big breh."
Taken aback by the doctor's odd manner, Mr(s). Henderson stood back for a moment and eyed Dr More with suspicion.
"Hello...my name is, erm, Henderson, and I was told you could tell me about gee transplants?"
"Oh," began Dr More, "I think that's a new one. Have you heard Art of Fugue on organ? I can play it you know. On my CD player, of course."
"Oh," said Mr(s). Henderson, "right. But what can you tell me about gee transplants?"
"Well, I think that Masterson woman might be able to tell you more, after all, she's well up on that sort of thing. Though I am Dr More, and they don't call me Dr More for nothing. Well, actually, I'm not quite sure why they call me Dr More. Maybe it's because my name is Neil. That has something to do with More, I think. Sorry, what did you ask me?"
"Gee transplant?"
"Oh, that one. Yes, I think Susan had one of those once upon a time, but I can't remember what it was. Would you like an apple lollipop? I have cola ones too. But I prefer to keep those for after blood tests."
"Please, Dr More, tell me about gee transplants."
"Okay, gee. Well, that's in your ear, isn't it? I'm not quite sure if I have one or not, I think I got it out when I had my tonsils removed. I love ice-cream. I wish I could get my tonsils out again just to get a bit of ice-cream. We never eat ice-cream at home, because Susan's afraid it'll make her fat, but I told her it couldn't possibly make her any fatter, and she slapped me...in the face! And maybe that's why we never had any more children, though I think the two we had were enough. I prefer playing the organ anyway. I mean in the church. No, I mean, the organ in the church. The musical one. Not the flute. Speaking of flutes, is that the time? Lunch. I might just go and get myself a Golly Bar. I haven't had one of those since they had free stethoscopes with them back in the 70s, there about three years ago. Oh, that reminds me, big breh."
"Dr More, please, please, can you tell me about gee transplants?"
"Right so, let's have a look then. Gee. I think I'll have to refer you to a specialist. If you get the 41C into Dorset Street and get off there about halfway up, turn right and you'll find the Mater. I'm sure someone there will help you. In fact, I was there just this morning, I had a bit of contact stuck to my eyebrow. Actually, where are we? Is this the Mater? Ah, I see now. So you want a gee transplant?"
"Eh, well, could you tell me what it involves?"
"Well, basically it's like a blood transfusion, but they transplant gee instead. It's painless as far as I know. Put a bit of ice-cream on your gee, and a nice sup of soup, and you'll be right as rain. Susan used to make me soup whenever I was under the weather. A bit of soup and Senokot, nothing better."
"Dr More, I still don't know what a gee transplant is, and my patience is running out."
"Okay, big breh. Ah, it seems like what you need is a nice bit of Augmentin. I'll prescribe you a few courses just in case you need it. And here's an information pack. I must go off now and get a Golly Bar. Good luck with the transplant. Oooh, an organ!"
Dr More proceeded to lick the glass of one of his framed organ posters in a slightly disturbing manner, and so Mr(s). Henderson wisely saw that this was the moment to leave him alone. S/he looked down at the booklet he had given him/her which read, in those magnetic fridge-letters, "SO YOU'RE HAVING A GEE TRANSPLANT! Let's talk about it." As s/he walked out to the main road, s/he perused the booklet intently, discovering along the way the intricacies of gee transplantation...
Turning up right onto O'Connell Street, Mr(s). Henderson spotted a green bus drive past (as they did) bearing an advertisment which read, "Have you ever considered the priesthood?" Seconds later another bus passed which Mr(s). Henderson could have sworn read, "Have you ever considered a gee transplant?" Just as s/he was taking in this suggestion, another bus passed, which read, "I've had enough." In the daze of bus ads, the bus which read "Have you ever coinsidered a gee transplant?" reversed down O'Connell Street and knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. The gobshite shouldn't have been on the road anyway, harr harr.
So with this new bee in his/her bonnet, Mr(s). Henderson made his/her way straight up to the Mater. Arriving in the foyer s/he asked the nice blonde woman behind the counter what a gee transplant was. The nice woman turned red immediately, smiled and pointed him/her in the direction of Dr More's office.
Entering Dr More's office, Mr(s). Henderson was struck immediately by the seventeen food pyramid charts on the back wall, pictures of organs and odd-looking holy sorts of people with guitars and bodhráns. In pictures, of course. Dr More himself was sitting absent-mindedly behind a desk, reading the Beano, pausing every few moments to shift his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. When he noticed Mr(s). Henderson standing there, he suddenly jumped to his feet and grabbed his stethoscope.
"Eh, hello. I'm Dr More, or something. But that's not really important. How are you? Big breh."
Taken aback by the doctor's odd manner, Mr(s). Henderson stood back for a moment and eyed Dr More with suspicion.
"Hello...my name is, erm, Henderson, and I was told you could tell me about gee transplants?"
"Oh," began Dr More, "I think that's a new one. Have you heard Art of Fugue on organ? I can play it you know. On my CD player, of course."
"Oh," said Mr(s). Henderson, "right. But what can you tell me about gee transplants?"
"Well, I think that Masterson woman might be able to tell you more, after all, she's well up on that sort of thing. Though I am Dr More, and they don't call me Dr More for nothing. Well, actually, I'm not quite sure why they call me Dr More. Maybe it's because my name is Neil. That has something to do with More, I think. Sorry, what did you ask me?"
"Gee transplant?"
"Oh, that one. Yes, I think Susan had one of those once upon a time, but I can't remember what it was. Would you like an apple lollipop? I have cola ones too. But I prefer to keep those for after blood tests."
"Please, Dr More, tell me about gee transplants."
"Okay, gee. Well, that's in your ear, isn't it? I'm not quite sure if I have one or not, I think I got it out when I had my tonsils removed. I love ice-cream. I wish I could get my tonsils out again just to get a bit of ice-cream. We never eat ice-cream at home, because Susan's afraid it'll make her fat, but I told her it couldn't possibly make her any fatter, and she slapped me...in the face! And maybe that's why we never had any more children, though I think the two we had were enough. I prefer playing the organ anyway. I mean in the church. No, I mean, the organ in the church. The musical one. Not the flute. Speaking of flutes, is that the time? Lunch. I might just go and get myself a Golly Bar. I haven't had one of those since they had free stethoscopes with them back in the 70s, there about three years ago. Oh, that reminds me, big breh."
"Dr More, please, please, can you tell me about gee transplants?"
"Right so, let's have a look then. Gee. I think I'll have to refer you to a specialist. If you get the 41C into Dorset Street and get off there about halfway up, turn right and you'll find the Mater. I'm sure someone there will help you. In fact, I was there just this morning, I had a bit of contact stuck to my eyebrow. Actually, where are we? Is this the Mater? Ah, I see now. So you want a gee transplant?"
"Eh, well, could you tell me what it involves?"
"Well, basically it's like a blood transfusion, but they transplant gee instead. It's painless as far as I know. Put a bit of ice-cream on your gee, and a nice sup of soup, and you'll be right as rain. Susan used to make me soup whenever I was under the weather. A bit of soup and Senokot, nothing better."
"Dr More, I still don't know what a gee transplant is, and my patience is running out."
"Okay, big breh. Ah, it seems like what you need is a nice bit of Augmentin. I'll prescribe you a few courses just in case you need it. And here's an information pack. I must go off now and get a Golly Bar. Good luck with the transplant. Oooh, an organ!"
Dr More proceeded to lick the glass of one of his framed organ posters in a slightly disturbing manner, and so Mr(s). Henderson wisely saw that this was the moment to leave him alone. S/he looked down at the booklet he had given him/her which read, in those magnetic fridge-letters, "SO YOU'RE HAVING A GEE TRANSPLANT! Let's talk about it." As s/he walked out to the main road, s/he perused the booklet intently, discovering along the way the intricacies of gee transplantation...
Sunday, February 10, 2008
The Monologue of the Sacristan
The last time we left Mr(s). Henderson, s/he had arrived at Howth Castle and Environs through the magical tunnel that s/he found after running away from Rufus at the Yellow lounge. S/he decided to visit old Gaybo while s/he was in the area. But, upon knocking on his door and with its new Polish occupants telling her to go and fuck, s/he remembered that he had moved to the little Ballsbridge, the bastard. Hello there, well done.
Back home (Ireland) again, s/he got the DART from Howth into Connolly Station, for the laugh. S/he wanted to visit the Pro-Cathedral to offer up a few prayers for the Pope's intentions like that the good people at the Look Ten Years Younger show on TV3 would accept his request to be on the telly and to remove the black rings under his eyes which age him terrible.
-----Papal Intermission----
Just as a matter of interest, in Poland when Pope John Paul II died, the government couldn't face the consequences, considering the results of the opinion Pole from The Polish Times saying that 90% of Polish people would convert to Judaism if the there was no longer a Polish Pope. The other 10% would become Muslims for some odd reason. This would result in increased usury, circumcision and would decimate the flourishing Polish pork industry. To prevent such a national catastrophe, the government put a ban on any foreign media and pretended that John Paul II hadn't died and acted as if he hadn't. In the interest of public morality and safety, the national broadcaster ran stock footage of the late Pontiff everyday.
------Return to Main Feature---------
After praying for the Pope's intentions, s/he decided to have a look around the Pro-Cathedral in all its splendour. S/he stood by the pews wondering if McQuaid had ever been there. He/she spotted a "Have You Ever Considered The Priesthood" poster on the notice board and thought mmm, well maybe when I had a mickey. Throwing his/her eyes back into the church, he/she found a very interesting baptismal font that had once been broken in two pieces but was now sellotaped and Pritt-Stuck back together courtesy of Reads of Nassau Street. He/she sensed he/she was not alone. Within seconds of drama, a very old man stood near him/her with a warm smile.
-There are no Confessions being heard today.
-O, I'm not here for Confession. I'm just in for a little bit of an auld pray.
-What? In all my 105 years here, I've not yet once come across one genuine soul praying. Catholics don't pray anyway. They just recite shite. Not that I believe any of it. I'm only in it for the money. But, I've seen through it all. I'm a bit of an agnostic myself. That McQuaid, he was a bastard. He used to be slappin' the kids that came in for Confirmation...in the face!
---Dilly-dally sideline----
McQuaid standing up on his high altar. All the little young ones in their dresses kneeling down.
-What is the third Commandment!? boomed McQuaid.
-Eh, eh, thou shall not commit adultery?
-Wrong. SLAP! And how dare you say such a filthy word in MY Pro-Cathedral! I bet you're off committing adultery every night with anyone that'll have you! I'll tell you what'll happen to you. You'll end up like those hoors around in the Monto!
-I'm nine!...(cries).
----End of dilly-dally-------
-They only come in looking for Confession and/or sanctuary. Just like after the Battle of Monto. I remember all those hoors coming down here 'fessin' up after their sins and looking for sanctuary too. The Legion were looking to kill them. The Legion stole that baptismal font to break in the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, stupid pack of holy gobshites. Mrs. Kelly was a grand woman. I had to pretend to hate her for the simple reason that she was a Protestant or I would have lost me job. Sure I remember de Valera praying in here for the soul of Douglas Hyde that he wouldn't go to hell for being a Protestant while his funeral was going on up in St. Pat's until McQuaid came in and slapped him with his bishop's mitre...in the face!...and told him that it was blaphemous to pray for the damned. Fuckin' eejit. And sure all the time he was off fiddlin' young fellas' mickeys.
By now, Mr(s). Henderson was dead. Well, no, but her brain was melting out of her ear. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the auld fella just died. Mr(s). Henderson had witnessed the death of the oldest living servant of the Church on earth and also the oldest man in Ireland. He was 115 after all, fair play to him. Didn't stop him going to hell for being a blasphemer though. Mr(s). Henderson considered lighting a candle for him, but from nowhere a ghostly bishop’s mitre flew towards her and slapped her...in the face! She then remembered the words of wisdom of McQuaid and just left. She noticed the sacristan’s face was going purple and beginning to melt and fall apart. This was his punishment for thinking he was atheist. Stupid auld fella.
To be continued…!
Back home (Ireland) again, s/he got the DART from Howth into Connolly Station, for the laugh. S/he wanted to visit the Pro-Cathedral to offer up a few prayers for the Pope's intentions like that the good people at the Look Ten Years Younger show on TV3 would accept his request to be on the telly and to remove the black rings under his eyes which age him terrible.
-----Papal Intermission----
Just as a matter of interest, in Poland when Pope John Paul II died, the government couldn't face the consequences, considering the results of the opinion Pole from The Polish Times saying that 90% of Polish people would convert to Judaism if the there was no longer a Polish Pope. The other 10% would become Muslims for some odd reason. This would result in increased usury, circumcision and would decimate the flourishing Polish pork industry. To prevent such a national catastrophe, the government put a ban on any foreign media and pretended that John Paul II hadn't died and acted as if he hadn't. In the interest of public morality and safety, the national broadcaster ran stock footage of the late Pontiff everyday.
------Return to Main Feature---------
After praying for the Pope's intentions, s/he decided to have a look around the Pro-Cathedral in all its splendour. S/he stood by the pews wondering if McQuaid had ever been there. He/she spotted a "Have You Ever Considered The Priesthood" poster on the notice board and thought mmm, well maybe when I had a mickey. Throwing his/her eyes back into the church, he/she found a very interesting baptismal font that had once been broken in two pieces but was now sellotaped and Pritt-Stuck back together courtesy of Reads of Nassau Street. He/she sensed he/she was not alone. Within seconds of drama, a very old man stood near him/her with a warm smile.
-There are no Confessions being heard today.
-O, I'm not here for Confession. I'm just in for a little bit of an auld pray.
-What? In all my 105 years here, I've not yet once come across one genuine soul praying. Catholics don't pray anyway. They just recite shite. Not that I believe any of it. I'm only in it for the money. But, I've seen through it all. I'm a bit of an agnostic myself. That McQuaid, he was a bastard. He used to be slappin' the kids that came in for Confirmation...in the face!
---Dilly-dally sideline----
McQuaid standing up on his high altar. All the little young ones in their dresses kneeling down.
-What is the third Commandment!? boomed McQuaid.
-Eh, eh, thou shall not commit adultery?
-Wrong. SLAP! And how dare you say such a filthy word in MY Pro-Cathedral! I bet you're off committing adultery every night with anyone that'll have you! I'll tell you what'll happen to you. You'll end up like those hoors around in the Monto!
-I'm nine!...(cries).
----End of dilly-dally-------
-They only come in looking for Confession and/or sanctuary. Just like after the Battle of Monto. I remember all those hoors coming down here 'fessin' up after their sins and looking for sanctuary too. The Legion were looking to kill them. The Legion stole that baptismal font to break in the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, stupid pack of holy gobshites. Mrs. Kelly was a grand woman. I had to pretend to hate her for the simple reason that she was a Protestant or I would have lost me job. Sure I remember de Valera praying in here for the soul of Douglas Hyde that he wouldn't go to hell for being a Protestant while his funeral was going on up in St. Pat's until McQuaid came in and slapped him with his bishop's mitre...in the face!...and told him that it was blaphemous to pray for the damned. Fuckin' eejit. And sure all the time he was off fiddlin' young fellas' mickeys.
By now, Mr(s). Henderson was dead. Well, no, but her brain was melting out of her ear. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the auld fella just died. Mr(s). Henderson had witnessed the death of the oldest living servant of the Church on earth and also the oldest man in Ireland. He was 115 after all, fair play to him. Didn't stop him going to hell for being a blasphemer though. Mr(s). Henderson considered lighting a candle for him, but from nowhere a ghostly bishop’s mitre flew towards her and slapped her...in the face! She then remembered the words of wisdom of McQuaid and just left. She noticed the sacristan’s face was going purple and beginning to melt and fall apart. This was his punishment for thinking he was atheist. Stupid auld fella.
To be continued…!
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Mickey O'Cock!
Cock up your beaver laddy, and I'll cock up your beaver for you. Fiddle your mickey O Johnny, fiddle your mickey do, O Johnny don't you leave me, or I'll rip off your fuckin mickey with a mint leaf for Cockflavor-upon-Tyne. Mickeymickeymickeymickeymickeymickey. What a masturbatepiece that was.
Grace, you is my Cockflavor now!
Grace, you is my Cockflavor now!
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Beaverial Transfiguration
Those of you who are familiar with good old Mr(s). Henderson will be aware that in the course of his/her travels she/he came into contact with a mysterious beaver known by the name Anne Gyna. Now you all thought that angina was something aul'ones take tablets for, but you've got another thing coming, because it's actually a beaver. So there.
However, the story of Anne Gyna is, just like all the other tangential characters on this Homeric odyssee of a blog, filled with intrigue and heartbreak. Well, not quite, but you get the drift regardless. In the days when Lyinda McCartney was still alive and kicking she was very clever and decided to use a little bit of the GMO in her very intelligent vegetatian food, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with W.E. Gladstone. But that's beside the point, and so is that. Anyway, Lyinda got into terrible trouble for using all them bold things and had to revert to good old vegetables. When I became a vegetarian first she was all the rage, but she's dead now so nobody cares about her. So much for all that healthy eating bollocks.
Which brings us back by a commodius &c. to Anne Gyna. Now, Anne Gyna was in her day known as Mary-Teresa McNulty, a nice Nordy Catholic woman who in her younger days was a good old hippy and was into Greenpeace and all that shite. Yes, keep with us for a moment. Mary-Teresa was such a good vegetarian that she decided to go off and join Lyinda McCartney's band of veggie pirates sailing the North Sea in search of oil. Sorry, wait a second. Mary-Teresa went and worked in Lyinda's veggie food factory, which was great.
However, one day she realized that they were using the bold GMO things, and so phoned Lyinda to confront her. Lyinda, however, was busy picking her nose ("eating her greens" like a good veggie), and so put her on hold, after which poor Mary-Teresa went insane from listening to five seconds of the Wings recording of "Mull of Kintyre". They brought her to Room 101 where she was confronted with her worst fear, beavers. When faced with the big-toothed furry things (beavers, not Cilla Black) she confessed to a multitude of things, that she was the one who put the GMO into the sausages (mickeys*) and that it was she who caused the Beatles to break up, not that bloody Japanese woman who sat in the corner while Elton John played his pee-pee-peeanoe. After sending poor Mary-Teresa completely insane, Lyinda and Paul's evil henchmen left her on her own with the beavers. In an effort to put herself out of this torture she reached for a box of pills left cleverly on the table and took seventeen of them. It turned out that they were Paul's angina tablets, considering he's an aul'one and all. For some inexplicable reason, this severe overdose of glycerol tri-nitrate (GTN, which has nothing to do with GNT or GMO or GOM, amazingly) caused Mary-Teresa to immediately take on a beaver-like form. See, exquisite style once more. Just for a laugh, the other beavers christened her Anne Gyna because she became one of them due to her overdose of angina tablets. How original. However, it wasn't all bad, as Anne (as we now call her) soon forgot her previous beaverophobia and quickly became an expert at building dams. And best of all she lost that fucking Nordy accent. Harr harr.
So there you have it, Anne Gyna in a nutshell, if you'll excuse the pun.
(*Obligatory mickey-mention.)
However, the story of Anne Gyna is, just like all the other tangential characters on this Homeric odyssee of a blog, filled with intrigue and heartbreak. Well, not quite, but you get the drift regardless. In the days when Lyinda McCartney was still alive and kicking she was very clever and decided to use a little bit of the GMO in her very intelligent vegetatian food, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with W.E. Gladstone. But that's beside the point, and so is that. Anyway, Lyinda got into terrible trouble for using all them bold things and had to revert to good old vegetables. When I became a vegetarian first she was all the rage, but she's dead now so nobody cares about her. So much for all that healthy eating bollocks.
Which brings us back by a commodius &c. to Anne Gyna. Now, Anne Gyna was in her day known as Mary-Teresa McNulty, a nice Nordy Catholic woman who in her younger days was a good old hippy and was into Greenpeace and all that shite. Yes, keep with us for a moment. Mary-Teresa was such a good vegetarian that she decided to go off and join Lyinda McCartney's band of veggie pirates sailing the North Sea in search of oil. Sorry, wait a second. Mary-Teresa went and worked in Lyinda's veggie food factory, which was great.
However, one day she realized that they were using the bold GMO things, and so phoned Lyinda to confront her. Lyinda, however, was busy picking her nose ("eating her greens" like a good veggie), and so put her on hold, after which poor Mary-Teresa went insane from listening to five seconds of the Wings recording of "Mull of Kintyre". They brought her to Room 101 where she was confronted with her worst fear, beavers. When faced with the big-toothed furry things (beavers, not Cilla Black) she confessed to a multitude of things, that she was the one who put the GMO into the sausages (mickeys*) and that it was she who caused the Beatles to break up, not that bloody Japanese woman who sat in the corner while Elton John played his pee-pee-peeanoe. After sending poor Mary-Teresa completely insane, Lyinda and Paul's evil henchmen left her on her own with the beavers. In an effort to put herself out of this torture she reached for a box of pills left cleverly on the table and took seventeen of them. It turned out that they were Paul's angina tablets, considering he's an aul'one and all. For some inexplicable reason, this severe overdose of glycerol tri-nitrate (GTN, which has nothing to do with GNT or GMO or GOM, amazingly) caused Mary-Teresa to immediately take on a beaver-like form. See, exquisite style once more. Just for a laugh, the other beavers christened her Anne Gyna because she became one of them due to her overdose of angina tablets. How original. However, it wasn't all bad, as Anne (as we now call her) soon forgot her previous beaverophobia and quickly became an expert at building dams. And best of all she lost that fucking Nordy accent. Harr harr.
So there you have it, Anne Gyna in a nutshell, if you'll excuse the pun.
(*Obligatory mickey-mention.)
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