The Nordies come down the N1 on their Proddy tanks, painting the roadsigns green as they go. Craigavon, this way, 109 miles.
When they arrive in Swords, they immediately occupy the Castle. That wasn't too difficult for them, as they only had to roll over Declan the warden and they were in. As soon as they have a chance, they level the Catholic church, killing Fr Mackey in the process as they mow him down on his mower.
Next stop was the drinking establishments of the town. The Pound was so shit they just hit it with an orange pipe and it blew up. After that they moved on to the Star, which was particularly revolting because of the Polish disco. That didn't take much knocking down; in fact, they just pissed on the side wall and it began to melt, their piss being so acidic. Lamb was quite tricky as it was defended by an army of holegetters, but a quick spray of Lynx down the Jacko led them all away, leaving the Nordies to mow down the two Poles, which they did with pleasure.
The Lord Mayors is a bit shit, though it's grand really, but the Nordies knocked it down with a few poofs of acidic shite which scorched the hole off all the punters. Now, the only place that they had trouble in destroying was Cock, as the regulars of Cock with the help of gallant Martin and hot youngfella put up the bravest defence ever seen in the history of Swords.
"Harr harr, wee'll bloo up yar Cock!"
"O no you won't!" bellowed the gallant drinkers of Cock. Being those that drink in Cock, of course.
"WE'LL BLOO UP YAR FLUTHER IN THE NEEM OF MARTIN LUTHER!"
The Nordies tried everything, even flinging rosary beads at that. They had exhausted all their resources and were left with no choice but to use the secret weapon: Ian Paisley.
"HARR HARR, PEEPIST BAWSTURDS! COME OYT COME OYT OR I'LL BLOO YOOR COCK UP!"
But it didn't work. Martin boxed Ian...in the face! And he died, God love him. Sure isn't everyone dying? And so the Nordies realized that the people of Cock were too good for them, and so they all committed hari-kari at once, and everyone in Swords laughed. Some ladies puked delicately into hankies when they saw the bowels, but everyone else laughed heartily.
Swords 1, Nordies nil. Well done.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Breakfast juice recipe.
You will need:
Orange juice,
Aquafresh,
A glass,
A mickey.
1. Put toothpaste all over yer mickey and make sure it's nicely rubbed in.
2. Put orange juice in a glass.
3. Dip yer mickey in the glass of orange juice.
4. Drink and enjoy.
Orange juice,
Aquafresh,
A glass,
A mickey.
1. Put toothpaste all over yer mickey and make sure it's nicely rubbed in.
2. Put orange juice in a glass.
3. Dip yer mickey in the glass of orange juice.
4. Drink and enjoy.
Overheard in Made-Up Dublin.
Laced bras with gel pads for five-year-olds, or big people with little tits.
—Are ya a paedo or what?
—No, I just work here. It's my job to pick up kids' knickers.
On the radio with John Kelly:
—And this is the sound of a Korean woman giving birth to a chicken.
—HARAAAAA! RRAAAA! HAAAHAA! Bwowk bwowk. HA HA HOWDEFOCK DID SHE MAKE BIRTH WITH CHIKKEN?
Huang-Hon was expecting an heir, but instead he got a lovely dinner.
And meanwhile in the poshbastard holiday palace in Lancashire, Mrs Thatcher and Cherie Blair were playing with plastic mickeys they got in Sainsbury's, thanks to Jamie Oliver. Try something new every day he says, so instead of prime asparagus, they got prime plastic mickey instead.
I love a bit of tomfoolery in the jacks and a bit of rumpy-pumpy-upon-me-cock.
Popcorn is amazing. It's nature's way of telling you to go to the cinema.
The hindus hate the muslims and everybody hates the jews.
But juring National BrotherHood Wake, Naaashional Brotherhood wake, say Cassius Clay and Mrs Wallace dancing chake to chake with his hand in her gee. O! O! O! he cried and it was O! O! O! all over me cock!
Ffffwtoooom.
Bding.
Ouch!
Angry farmer wipes his eye.
"Thank Jaysus lesbians don't fly."
—Are ya a paedo or what?
—No, I just work here. It's my job to pick up kids' knickers.
On the radio with John Kelly:
—And this is the sound of a Korean woman giving birth to a chicken.
—HARAAAAA! RRAAAA! HAAAHAA! Bwowk bwowk. HA HA HOWDEFOCK DID SHE MAKE BIRTH WITH CHIKKEN?
Huang-Hon was expecting an heir, but instead he got a lovely dinner.
And meanwhile in the poshbastard holiday palace in Lancashire, Mrs Thatcher and Cherie Blair were playing with plastic mickeys they got in Sainsbury's, thanks to Jamie Oliver. Try something new every day he says, so instead of prime asparagus, they got prime plastic mickey instead.
I love a bit of tomfoolery in the jacks and a bit of rumpy-pumpy-upon-me-cock.
Popcorn is amazing. It's nature's way of telling you to go to the cinema.
The hindus hate the muslims and everybody hates the jews.
But juring National BrotherHood Wake, Naaashional Brotherhood wake, say Cassius Clay and Mrs Wallace dancing chake to chake with his hand in her gee. O! O! O! he cried and it was O! O! O! all over me cock!
Ffffwtoooom.
Bding.
Ouch!
Angry farmer wipes his eye.
"Thank Jaysus lesbians don't fly."
Friday, June 27, 2008
Lamb, 2am.
—LADS, GETHEFUCKOUT OF THE BAR PLEASE, LADIES AND GENTS, MOVE TO THE FUCKING DOOR.
Stephanie and Brian had just met that evening for the first time, and they both really fancied each other. In fact, they fancied the hole off each other. Stephanie was from Drynam and Brian was from Kinsealy, so they were a match made in Feltrim. Or rather, in Lamb.
—BRING YOUR DRINKS AND FUCK OFF OUT THE DOOR PLEASE, THANK YOU.
Not wanting to part just yet, Brian and Stephanie looked around at each other.
"I know, Steph," said Brian, "let's go down to Margaret in the cloakroom and get our hole."
"But what do you mean Brian? Who's this Margaret woman?"
"It's deadly, actually. You give Margaret a tenner and she lets you in to the cloakroom to roide. Once you're done you just leave, and we never even have to see each other again if it's not that good."
"Oh, Brian, that's a great idea. Have you any money?"
"Actually, no, I'm broke, I gave all my change to the black in the jacks after I bought those two mojitos for us. Have you a tenner?"
"Well, I do, but I was going to use that for the taxi home."
"Ah, sure, you can walk home. Sure let's get our hole."
—FUCK OFF OUT OF THE BAR, LADIES AND GENTS, NOW.
"Well...okay."
So Stephanie and Brian got their hole, and it was grand fun until he came in her eye and she couldn't see. She washed it out, and thankfully she hadn't gone blind, but she was upset that Brian didn't really give a shite, and so she burst into tears and ran off up the general direction of Drynam. Meanwhile Brian got in a fight with some other holegetters and died, God love him.
And so the moral of the story is, never get your hole in Lamb. It'll just end in tears.
Stephanie and Brian had just met that evening for the first time, and they both really fancied each other. In fact, they fancied the hole off each other. Stephanie was from Drynam and Brian was from Kinsealy, so they were a match made in Feltrim. Or rather, in Lamb.
—BRING YOUR DRINKS AND FUCK OFF OUT THE DOOR PLEASE, THANK YOU.
Not wanting to part just yet, Brian and Stephanie looked around at each other.
"I know, Steph," said Brian, "let's go down to Margaret in the cloakroom and get our hole."
"But what do you mean Brian? Who's this Margaret woman?"
"It's deadly, actually. You give Margaret a tenner and she lets you in to the cloakroom to roide. Once you're done you just leave, and we never even have to see each other again if it's not that good."
"Oh, Brian, that's a great idea. Have you any money?"
"Actually, no, I'm broke, I gave all my change to the black in the jacks after I bought those two mojitos for us. Have you a tenner?"
"Well, I do, but I was going to use that for the taxi home."
"Ah, sure, you can walk home. Sure let's get our hole."
—FUCK OFF OUT OF THE BAR, LADIES AND GENTS, NOW.
"Well...okay."
So Stephanie and Brian got their hole, and it was grand fun until he came in her eye and she couldn't see. She washed it out, and thankfully she hadn't gone blind, but she was upset that Brian didn't really give a shite, and so she burst into tears and ran off up the general direction of Drynam. Meanwhile Brian got in a fight with some other holegetters and died, God love him.
And so the moral of the story is, never get your hole in Lamb. It'll just end in tears.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
GERRY RYAN AND VIAGRA FOR THE LIPS
NEWSFLASH: Today in RTÉ, famed radio presenter and fat Gerry Ryan pioneered the newest medical treatment for men's health, Viagra for the Lips.
"Mrs. Ryan left me because she said my lips weren't sexy enough, so I decided to launch my own brand of male health products so that men can have the best rides possible. I just thought it would be great if you could have lips as hard as your cock for a bit of an aul' shag."
The Legion of Mary protested outside RTÉ holding banners which read "Jesus and Mary hate the Gerry Ryan Show", but nobody cares about them because they're nothing but a bunch of holy aul'ones.
Well done Gerry.
"Mrs. Ryan left me because she said my lips weren't sexy enough, so I decided to launch my own brand of male health products so that men can have the best rides possible. I just thought it would be great if you could have lips as hard as your cock for a bit of an aul' shag."
The Legion of Mary protested outside RTÉ holding banners which read "Jesus and Mary hate the Gerry Ryan Show", but nobody cares about them because they're nothing but a bunch of holy aul'ones.
Well done Gerry.
Mary and the Contraception Train
Mary had been up in Belfast to visit her sister Elizabeth who had just had a baby. She was a right auld one so they were overwhelmed that she had managed to squeeze the little shit out of herself without her dying in the process. Poor little mite, thought Mary, being born at this time.You see it was 1970 and the civil right movement in Northern Ireland was turning nasty. What will become of him, Lizzy's new-born baby boy? Maybe he'll be a minister or a parliamentarian. Mary stayed in Lizzy's house for a week before having to return to her job in Jacob's factory in Dublin.
The train station was unusually busy for the day with women gathering around the kiosks and shouting and laughing hysterically. It must be the Nordies' communal time of the month, thought Mary. She shrugged it off and bought her ticket back to Connolly station.
Unfortunately for Mary, all the noisy women that had been in the station appeared to be going to Dublin too. Well, damn that for the price of a cupcake. She took out her "Alive!" paper and tried to ignore the seemingly mad women.
Mary fell asleep soon after opening the cover of "Alive!". It's not the most interest of reads. But she was abruptly awoken from her dream about Bing Crosby by loud shouts, rushing feet and almighty banging. She sat up in seat and realised that she was back in Connolly station. But, there was something going on outside on the platform. Lines of Gardaí blocked the exits to the street and women were lunging at the broad-shouldered members of the Garda Síochana, emptying their bags out and flinging objects at the barricade.
Mary slowly alighted from the train cautiously. It was mayhem on the platform. She overheard an exchange between one of the female passengers that she had seen in Belfast and a Customs official.
"Miss, have you anything to declare?" asked the Garda with stern lips.
"Yeah, I bought some contraceptives," replied the woman in a firm voice.
"Well then, where are they?" His lips may have stayed firm but his cheeks were slightly crimson.
"I'm wearin' them," she said as she thrust her vaginal region forward in the direction of the Garda who had now diverted his eyes to the ground.
"Oh, right then...well yeah. Eh, well, go on then." he stammered as he moved out of her way.
"I'd like to see you confiscated these!" said another woman as she swallowed a handful of pills that she had dropped into her mouth in front of the Custom Officers.
Oh Lord save us, Mary thought. She was still walking slowly through the crowds of women as they waved flags branded with "I JUST WANNA GET ME HOLE NOT GET PREGGERS. SO, WHY CAN'T I BUY CONDOMS FOR ME FELLA?". Mary faced forward again and nearly walked straight into a big culchie of a Garda.
"Evenin', madame. Would you be havin' anything to declare? Any inappropriate devices on your person, say?" said the big culchie Garda.
"Oh, Lord, no. I was only up in my sister Elizabeth's house for the week. She had a baby, you see." answered Mary in a nervous manner, much like a child with a crayon in front of a newly painted wall with blue and red Crayola squiggles all over it. Or so it seemed to the big culchie Garda.
"Is that right? Look, we know what your kind are trying to pull. We happen to know that this is the Contraception Train. We, eh, read so in The Irish Times. So, for the last time, have you any illegal implements and/or devices that would stop impregnation during the act that is sexual intercourse?"
Mary was, at that stage, fingering her rosary bead that were perpetually in her left coat pocket.
"You must believe me, sir. I don't have any of these devices. I'm a good Catholic, I swear! Look, I've got rosary bead in my pocket."
"Yeah, you show them Catholic bastards where they can shove their bloody feudal teachings! Good woman, you!" interjected a young woman as she was being lead away by another Garda.
"I don't know that woman. I'm just a simple holy auld one trying to get by with my rosary bead and reading Alive!. I've...I've never even had sexual relations. While my husband was alive I used to use jam doughnuts to protect my purity. The Legion of Mary suggested it. It worked well until Peter got suspicious about the sugar all over his, well y'know... sheets."
Mary was hyperventilating and the Garda was standing dumbstruck in front of her.
"You used jam doughnuts?!" inquired the Garda a perplexed tone that even surpried himself.
"I did, sir," she managed to say.
In all the hub-bub and crazed activity around the station, all Srg. McCormack could do was shake his head slowly at Mary and let her pass him. The thought of shagging a jam doughnut stayed with him until he died in the Garda Retirement Home in Dublin.
Mary returned home to her house just off Gardiner Street. She said the rosary three times for the mad women that purchased the inplements of depravity. She prayed that they'd all settle down, get married, have children (obviously without the occurence of the female orgasm) and live happily without those comcoms, or whatever they were called.
The train station was unusually busy for the day with women gathering around the kiosks and shouting and laughing hysterically. It must be the Nordies' communal time of the month, thought Mary. She shrugged it off and bought her ticket back to Connolly station.
Unfortunately for Mary, all the noisy women that had been in the station appeared to be going to Dublin too. Well, damn that for the price of a cupcake. She took out her "Alive!" paper and tried to ignore the seemingly mad women.
Mary fell asleep soon after opening the cover of "Alive!". It's not the most interest of reads. But she was abruptly awoken from her dream about Bing Crosby by loud shouts, rushing feet and almighty banging. She sat up in seat and realised that she was back in Connolly station. But, there was something going on outside on the platform. Lines of Gardaí blocked the exits to the street and women were lunging at the broad-shouldered members of the Garda Síochana, emptying their bags out and flinging objects at the barricade.
Mary slowly alighted from the train cautiously. It was mayhem on the platform. She overheard an exchange between one of the female passengers that she had seen in Belfast and a Customs official.
"Miss, have you anything to declare?" asked the Garda with stern lips.
"Yeah, I bought some contraceptives," replied the woman in a firm voice.
"Well then, where are they?" His lips may have stayed firm but his cheeks were slightly crimson.
"I'm wearin' them," she said as she thrust her vaginal region forward in the direction of the Garda who had now diverted his eyes to the ground.
"Oh, right then...well yeah. Eh, well, go on then." he stammered as he moved out of her way.
"I'd like to see you confiscated these!" said another woman as she swallowed a handful of pills that she had dropped into her mouth in front of the Custom Officers.
Oh Lord save us, Mary thought. She was still walking slowly through the crowds of women as they waved flags branded with "I JUST WANNA GET ME HOLE NOT GET PREGGERS. SO, WHY CAN'T I BUY CONDOMS FOR ME FELLA?". Mary faced forward again and nearly walked straight into a big culchie of a Garda.
"Evenin', madame. Would you be havin' anything to declare? Any inappropriate devices on your person, say?" said the big culchie Garda.
"Oh, Lord, no. I was only up in my sister Elizabeth's house for the week. She had a baby, you see." answered Mary in a nervous manner, much like a child with a crayon in front of a newly painted wall with blue and red Crayola squiggles all over it. Or so it seemed to the big culchie Garda.
"Is that right? Look, we know what your kind are trying to pull. We happen to know that this is the Contraception Train. We, eh, read so in The Irish Times. So, for the last time, have you any illegal implements and/or devices that would stop impregnation during the act that is sexual intercourse?"
Mary was, at that stage, fingering her rosary bead that were perpetually in her left coat pocket.
"You must believe me, sir. I don't have any of these devices. I'm a good Catholic, I swear! Look, I've got rosary bead in my pocket."
"Yeah, you show them Catholic bastards where they can shove their bloody feudal teachings! Good woman, you!" interjected a young woman as she was being lead away by another Garda.
"I don't know that woman. I'm just a simple holy auld one trying to get by with my rosary bead and reading Alive!. I've...I've never even had sexual relations. While my husband was alive I used to use jam doughnuts to protect my purity. The Legion of Mary suggested it. It worked well until Peter got suspicious about the sugar all over his, well y'know... sheets."
Mary was hyperventilating and the Garda was standing dumbstruck in front of her.
"You used jam doughnuts?!" inquired the Garda a perplexed tone that even surpried himself.
"I did, sir," she managed to say.
In all the hub-bub and crazed activity around the station, all Srg. McCormack could do was shake his head slowly at Mary and let her pass him. The thought of shagging a jam doughnut stayed with him until he died in the Garda Retirement Home in Dublin.
Mary returned home to her house just off Gardiner Street. She said the rosary three times for the mad women that purchased the inplements of depravity. She prayed that they'd all settle down, get married, have children (obviously without the occurence of the female orgasm) and live happily without those comcoms, or whatever they were called.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Gee Beauty
Come in to Gee Beauty and get your gee made lovely. God knows, your gee doesn't look lovely now!
"Hello and welcome to Gee Beauty. What procedure would you like us to carry out on your gee today? We have a special deal on the Pat Kenny Nose Beauty Treatment this week."
"I care about my gee, what does that involve?"
"Well, we heat up your gee to a nice tepid temperature about the suggested temperature of a nice bowl of Ready-Brek. Then using the most sensitive and most beautiful manipulative tools, we mould your gee lovingly into the general shape of Pat Kenny's nose."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. I used to love Kenny Live. I'd love for my gee to look like Pat's nose."
"Yes. It's popular this month what with him turning sixty and all. The advertisement in Alive! got us a lot of new customers. Margaret, put on the kettle. Brenda, heat up the gee tongs."
"Hello and welcome to Gee Beauty. What procedure would you like us to carry out on your gee today? We have a special deal on the Pat Kenny Nose Beauty Treatment this week."
"I care about my gee, what does that involve?"
"Well, we heat up your gee to a nice tepid temperature about the suggested temperature of a nice bowl of Ready-Brek. Then using the most sensitive and most beautiful manipulative tools, we mould your gee lovingly into the general shape of Pat Kenny's nose."
"Oh, that sounds lovely. I used to love Kenny Live. I'd love for my gee to look like Pat's nose."
"Yes. It's popular this month what with him turning sixty and all. The advertisement in Alive! got us a lot of new customers. Margaret, put on the kettle. Brenda, heat up the gee tongs."
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Poshbastard Cockhole Mickey.
Anne Devitt's sex tape. I believe it features Mr Cian Bailey, showing off his enormous farmer's appendage (also known as combine harvester). O Anne Devitt, you are so perfect in my hole. We love thee dearly. HOLE. You and your horses, and your face just like a gee. Charming Anne darling, marry me forever. With love, Cianycakes.
And in other news, cock. And a hole lot of other things. MICKEY. Sure fair play to all those people that do be doing things with themselves, and their mickeys owe cock.
No, indeed. Jemma's ma, your mickey, and my lez bean. El owe el. Puking isn't the best, and the government don't speak for us. So when you're not feeling very well at all at all you'd be better off puking right up in a large spiral.
Puking and puking in a widening gyre,
The vomit cannot hear the vomitor.
Take that Willie, you bloody cockfiddler. That's what you get for drumming all over your cliff-upon-cock, for it's always the way. You didn't even need a Hitler haircut to make you look like a Nazi GEEEEEEEEBAAG FLANGE-IN-A-POT.
No, not at all. Lawl, says he. No surprises, please. Well done. COCK!
And in further news, it's recently been discovered that you can actually get pregnant by sticking an ear in your gee. Ask Lola Sleevend about that one, as she's well used to it. O LOLA!
Yes, yes. COCK and hole, and all sorts of other tiring things. Lawl.
Asleep yes, and cock it is for hole. Poshbastard things. Where are you going at a thousand miles a second?
And in other news, cock. And a hole lot of other things. MICKEY. Sure fair play to all those people that do be doing things with themselves, and their mickeys owe cock.
No, indeed. Jemma's ma, your mickey, and my lez bean. El owe el. Puking isn't the best, and the government don't speak for us. So when you're not feeling very well at all at all you'd be better off puking right up in a large spiral.
Puking and puking in a widening gyre,
The vomit cannot hear the vomitor.
Take that Willie, you bloody cockfiddler. That's what you get for drumming all over your cliff-upon-cock, for it's always the way. You didn't even need a Hitler haircut to make you look like a Nazi GEEEEEEEEBAAG FLANGE-IN-A-POT.
No, not at all. Lawl, says he. No surprises, please. Well done. COCK!
And in further news, it's recently been discovered that you can actually get pregnant by sticking an ear in your gee. Ask Lola Sleevend about that one, as she's well used to it. O LOLA!
Yes, yes. COCK and hole, and all sorts of other tiring things. Lawl.
Asleep yes, and cock it is for hole. Poshbastard things. Where are you going at a thousand miles a second?
Friday, June 20, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
THE TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY.
I write this testament so that one day you, Jeremy Henderson, and the world, will know the truth. I write as I am barricaded into the crypts of Christchurch Cathedral, the only place I know that I am truly safe from that damned Legion of Mary and Catholics at large ever since the Archbishop named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic".
I was born along the tramline somewhere between Windy Arbour and Cowper in 1867 to a respectable Protestant family. My father was a house-wife and my mother was an Admiral in the British Navy. I was an only child, and I was reared by my father and our maid. I left home at sixteen to marry my sweetheart, David Kelly. I never saw my parents again. Shortly afterwards I heard that my father had killed himself with an iron, and my mother was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar. After all this tumult, our now unemployed maid was often seen drunk talking to Bang Bang and puking on Charles Stewart Parnell as he went for his morning stroll on Parnell Street.
My husband David was from a well-to-do Protestant family from Rathmines, and so his parents paid for our foreign honeymoon. We went to Brighton where we met Kitty O'Shea-Parnell. Kitty, like me, had an overwhelming passion for lovely jam jars and until the day she died we corresponded and often swapped lovely jam jams with each other. At Christmas 1891 just after Charlie died, Kitty came over to visit to have a romp in my Olde Knockin' Shoppe, and during that week we held exhibitions of our favourite jam jars on Kingstown pier on a daintly table that I bought on Capel Street, just beside the mashed bananas.
I opened my Olde Knockin' Shoppe in Monto in 1888, after the premises was purchased for me by David's mammy Joqueena Kelly for my 21st birthday. I made sure that I found all the nicest looking girls in Dublin. I even imported some from Kinnegad and Tipperary, both of whom turned out to be my best hoors. The gentlemen of Dublin quickly flocked to my genial hooring establishment for all sorts of fun and frolicks, and soon I was the most famous Madam in all of Ireland. My best clients included Parnell, James Joyce, Brendan Behan's father, Bang Bang (before he was mad, when he like a bang bang every now and again), the Lord Lieutenant, the Chief Secretary, and all the gentleman British. We even had the honour of being visited by Queen Victoria who'd heard all about it from Albert, and who particularly liked the fireplace. Even Pope Leo XIII paid us a visit after we won Best Brothel in the 1896 Vatican Awards.
My husband David was very supportive of my profession and he regularly availed of the services of my hoors. Life and work for me were very successful until my spate of misfortunes began in 1916, after my beloved husband David was shot by the IRA up in the Hellfire Club for stealing picnic baskets. All I had left was my young son David Jr and my beloved Knockin' Shoppe. However, David went to fight in the Great War and I was left alone with nobody to defend me and the Knockin' Shoppe. The only protection we had were the tougher hoors and a few bottles of stout.
Times became more difficult during the War of Independence when my young clients became less interested in shagging and more interested in flying columns (their own columns). The greatest catastrophe happened after one of my hoors was killed when riding a Black and Tan when his rifle went off in his trousers and shot her straight up the gee. Some more of my hoors caught syphillis from the Black and Tans and eventually the HSE removed my Knockin' Shoppe's hooring licence and from then on we had to deal in secret.
Shortly after my hooring licence was removed I got a visit from a cloaked young man one night who handed me a ten-shilling note and asked me for my best hoor for the evening. I showed him to Susan "The Lips", my hoor who back in 1918 had won the under 21s category for hooring in the 24th Feis Gee, and I left them to it. As they were riding in the back room, suddenly I heard Susan scream. I ran in to the room only to find that the man's face had been revealed and it was none other than Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I didn't know what to say to him, as Susan cowered in the corner, covering her gee with clingfilm. McQuaid told me that if I told anybody about the fact that he had visited the Knockin' Shoppe that he'd have me excommunicated, but I told him that it didn't matter anyway because I was a Protestant, at which point he puked all over his mickey. He told me then that if I didn't keep quiet he'd have the Legion of Mary come and burn down my Knockin' Shoppe and kill me and all my hoors. I told him that if he let us live in peace that he could have free romps twice weekly, and so he agreed.
This arrangement worked out rather nicely for a couple of years until McQuaid somehow discovered the truth, that Susan had given birth to you, Jeremy, his child and heir-bastard. Somewhere in history the situation arose that gave rise to the writing of a Catholic ecclesiastical law that states that the bastard son (and his descendents thereof) of an archbishop is entitled to all the property and temporal powers held by that archbishop during his tenure once he is deceased, whether or not he dies as archbishop. When McQuaid discovered that his brief romp with Susan had caused her to become pregnant and bear a son, he immediately instructed the Legion of Mary and their commander General Frank Duff to begin the Battle of Monto.
What looked like a Catholic crusade against vice was nothing more than a smokescreen for McQuaid to kill all those who knew about his bloodline and to make sure than he had no heir-bastard who could upscuttle the church in the future. The Legion attacked my Knockin' Shoppe and burned it to the ground, killing all my hoors including your poor mother Susan. They were allowed by their religious mandate to kill only sinners (the hoors) but could not kill you or I, you as you were an innocent child and I because I was not a hoor. However, they tried their best to scorch me with holy water and Marian paraphernalia (since I was a Protestant), but this did not work, and so they burned off my hair instead. They made sure to cut off your mickey and took you to the Magdalene sisters where you would be brought up as a girl who would never know the truth about your father and your entitlement to all the riches and power of the church in the archdiocese of Dublin. When they had taken you, I retrieved your little severed mickey and preserved it in one of my last surviving jam jars in some malt vinegar from Beshoff's chipper, adding some Miracle-Gro in the hope that by the time you find it some miracle of medicine would be available in order to have it reattached.
I tell you all this, Jeremy, so that you may know the truth and that you may avenge your mother's death and that of her hoor friends by claiming your rightful inheritence from the Catholic Church, which has made all our lives so miserable. I fear also that you may need to avenge my death too, as only this morning McQuaid named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic" and I am free game to be killed by any Catholic for the reward of a plenary indulgence. I am here in Christchurch as I know it is the only place I am safe from Catholics, but now I have heard rumours that my own kind have turned against me also, and that Douglas Hyde has ordered my assassination by the IRA for giving Protestants a bad name. I shall leave this testament in the care of my son David to bring to the Hellfire Club, where my husband and I had our first romp back in 1883 and which remained our favourite hideout until he was tragically killed there in 1916. Somehow I hope that he will be able to find you and lead you there to discover the truths that you seek.
I only hope that this testament will give you the answers for which you have no doubt long searched.
—MRS. JOAN KELLY.
Hendy read the last words aloud wistfully. S/he now knew all the answers. What was next? Claim his/her inheritence? Reattach his/her mickey? His/her mind was in a daze.
Just then, before any of them could speak, they saw a fourth figure emerge from the shadows, carrying what appeared to be a bag of organic onions and a pitchfork.
"I heard it all. Now stand against the wall."
It was Trevor Sargent.
I was born along the tramline somewhere between Windy Arbour and Cowper in 1867 to a respectable Protestant family. My father was a house-wife and my mother was an Admiral in the British Navy. I was an only child, and I was reared by my father and our maid. I left home at sixteen to marry my sweetheart, David Kelly. I never saw my parents again. Shortly afterwards I heard that my father had killed himself with an iron, and my mother was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar. After all this tumult, our now unemployed maid was often seen drunk talking to Bang Bang and puking on Charles Stewart Parnell as he went for his morning stroll on Parnell Street.
My husband David was from a well-to-do Protestant family from Rathmines, and so his parents paid for our foreign honeymoon. We went to Brighton where we met Kitty O'Shea-Parnell. Kitty, like me, had an overwhelming passion for lovely jam jars and until the day she died we corresponded and often swapped lovely jam jams with each other. At Christmas 1891 just after Charlie died, Kitty came over to visit to have a romp in my Olde Knockin' Shoppe, and during that week we held exhibitions of our favourite jam jars on Kingstown pier on a daintly table that I bought on Capel Street, just beside the mashed bananas.
I opened my Olde Knockin' Shoppe in Monto in 1888, after the premises was purchased for me by David's mammy Joqueena Kelly for my 21st birthday. I made sure that I found all the nicest looking girls in Dublin. I even imported some from Kinnegad and Tipperary, both of whom turned out to be my best hoors. The gentlemen of Dublin quickly flocked to my genial hooring establishment for all sorts of fun and frolicks, and soon I was the most famous Madam in all of Ireland. My best clients included Parnell, James Joyce, Brendan Behan's father, Bang Bang (before he was mad, when he like a bang bang every now and again), the Lord Lieutenant, the Chief Secretary, and all the gentleman British. We even had the honour of being visited by Queen Victoria who'd heard all about it from Albert, and who particularly liked the fireplace. Even Pope Leo XIII paid us a visit after we won Best Brothel in the 1896 Vatican Awards.
My husband David was very supportive of my profession and he regularly availed of the services of my hoors. Life and work for me were very successful until my spate of misfortunes began in 1916, after my beloved husband David was shot by the IRA up in the Hellfire Club for stealing picnic baskets. All I had left was my young son David Jr and my beloved Knockin' Shoppe. However, David went to fight in the Great War and I was left alone with nobody to defend me and the Knockin' Shoppe. The only protection we had were the tougher hoors and a few bottles of stout.
Times became more difficult during the War of Independence when my young clients became less interested in shagging and more interested in flying columns (their own columns). The greatest catastrophe happened after one of my hoors was killed when riding a Black and Tan when his rifle went off in his trousers and shot her straight up the gee. Some more of my hoors caught syphillis from the Black and Tans and eventually the HSE removed my Knockin' Shoppe's hooring licence and from then on we had to deal in secret.
Shortly after my hooring licence was removed I got a visit from a cloaked young man one night who handed me a ten-shilling note and asked me for my best hoor for the evening. I showed him to Susan "The Lips", my hoor who back in 1918 had won the under 21s category for hooring in the 24th Feis Gee, and I left them to it. As they were riding in the back room, suddenly I heard Susan scream. I ran in to the room only to find that the man's face had been revealed and it was none other than Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I didn't know what to say to him, as Susan cowered in the corner, covering her gee with clingfilm. McQuaid told me that if I told anybody about the fact that he had visited the Knockin' Shoppe that he'd have me excommunicated, but I told him that it didn't matter anyway because I was a Protestant, at which point he puked all over his mickey. He told me then that if I didn't keep quiet he'd have the Legion of Mary come and burn down my Knockin' Shoppe and kill me and all my hoors. I told him that if he let us live in peace that he could have free romps twice weekly, and so he agreed.
This arrangement worked out rather nicely for a couple of years until McQuaid somehow discovered the truth, that Susan had given birth to you, Jeremy, his child and heir-bastard. Somewhere in history the situation arose that gave rise to the writing of a Catholic ecclesiastical law that states that the bastard son (and his descendents thereof) of an archbishop is entitled to all the property and temporal powers held by that archbishop during his tenure once he is deceased, whether or not he dies as archbishop. When McQuaid discovered that his brief romp with Susan had caused her to become pregnant and bear a son, he immediately instructed the Legion of Mary and their commander General Frank Duff to begin the Battle of Monto.
What looked like a Catholic crusade against vice was nothing more than a smokescreen for McQuaid to kill all those who knew about his bloodline and to make sure than he had no heir-bastard who could upscuttle the church in the future. The Legion attacked my Knockin' Shoppe and burned it to the ground, killing all my hoors including your poor mother Susan. They were allowed by their religious mandate to kill only sinners (the hoors) but could not kill you or I, you as you were an innocent child and I because I was not a hoor. However, they tried their best to scorch me with holy water and Marian paraphernalia (since I was a Protestant), but this did not work, and so they burned off my hair instead. They made sure to cut off your mickey and took you to the Magdalene sisters where you would be brought up as a girl who would never know the truth about your father and your entitlement to all the riches and power of the church in the archdiocese of Dublin. When they had taken you, I retrieved your little severed mickey and preserved it in one of my last surviving jam jars in some malt vinegar from Beshoff's chipper, adding some Miracle-Gro in the hope that by the time you find it some miracle of medicine would be available in order to have it reattached.
I tell you all this, Jeremy, so that you may know the truth and that you may avenge your mother's death and that of her hoor friends by claiming your rightful inheritence from the Catholic Church, which has made all our lives so miserable. I fear also that you may need to avenge my death too, as only this morning McQuaid named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic" and I am free game to be killed by any Catholic for the reward of a plenary indulgence. I am here in Christchurch as I know it is the only place I am safe from Catholics, but now I have heard rumours that my own kind have turned against me also, and that Douglas Hyde has ordered my assassination by the IRA for giving Protestants a bad name. I shall leave this testament in the care of my son David to bring to the Hellfire Club, where my husband and I had our first romp back in 1883 and which remained our favourite hideout until he was tragically killed there in 1916. Somehow I hope that he will be able to find you and lead you there to discover the truths that you seek.
I only hope that this testament will give you the answers for which you have no doubt long searched.
—MRS. JOAN KELLY.
Hendy read the last words aloud wistfully. S/he now knew all the answers. What was next? Claim his/her inheritence? Reattach his/her mickey? His/her mind was in a daze.
Just then, before any of them could speak, they saw a fourth figure emerge from the shadows, carrying what appeared to be a bag of organic onions and a pitchfork.
"I heard it all. Now stand against the wall."
It was Trevor Sargent.
Monday, June 16, 2008
LEGIO MARIAE ET INCENDIUS PORNAGRAPHICUM.
(Scene: Westmoreland Street, Dublin, just over O’Connell Bridge on the corner of Aston Quay, outside the now-closed Londis shop. A group of drably clad individuals holding crucifixes and statuettes of the Virgin Mary process past an eccentric-looking old man in a hat selling books: they are THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION; he is PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY.)
YOUNG MAN:
You’re going to hell.
PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Fuck off.
YOUNG MAN:
I’m going to say a novena that you’ll go to hell for that.
PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Go an’ ask me arse.
(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION lines up outside the Londis shop, and an elderly lady wearing a red coat and enormous milkbottle glasses comes to the front to address them: she is SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE.)
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
May our mission of sanitation to this polluted city be pleasing to the Holy Mother of God, Amen.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
I nominate Lieutenant Cormac to go forth to lead us in our task.
(A very tall young man wearing a worn jumper and thick-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding in his hand a wooden crucifix, the same young man who spoke previously with PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY. He speaks with a slight lisp, though it is barely noticeable because of his drawling voice. He is LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON.)
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Yes Sister. Let’s go then.
(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON shuffles into the Londis shop and is followed by THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. He points the end of his crucifix threateningly at the Indian man behind the counter.)
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
This is a stick up. Where are your top-shelf magazines?
SHOPKEEPER:
Eh, on the top shelf.
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Oh right.
(A middle-aged man walks to the counter with a copy of FHM magazine in his hand. He looks shiftily at the floor and does not notice THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. When he does look up, he is startled by their presence and reveals his clerical shirt and collar.)
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Father!
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Is that a pornographic publication in the hands of a holy priest of God!?
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Surely not!
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I...no...it’s not...I'm not...I’m a Protestant!
(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION gasps collectively and they all hold up their crucifixes to FATHER DICK FIDDLER to shield themselves.)
SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You’re a what?
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I’m not a priest, I’m a Protestant minister!
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
You scumbag.
SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You don’t need pornography to get yourself into hell.
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I’m sorry, I’ll just leave and let you get on with your business.
SHOPKEEPER:
Are you going to pay for that?
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
Oh, er, well...it’s okay, you can keep it.
SHOPKEEPER:
I don’t want it.
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
See? Even he doesn’t want it. You Protestants are scum. And you think you’ll get into heaven just for thinking you’re right? Well you won’t. At least Hindu man over there knows he won’t get into heaven, even if he doesn’t pretend to believe in the Lord.
SHOPKEEPER:
Excuse me?
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I can’t take this anymore. I lied. I’m not a Protestant. I really am a Catholic priest.
SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
A liar too!
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Scurrilous.
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
No holy priest of God would ever touch filth like that! Get out of here and go back to the Protestant hell-hole you came from.
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
As you wish.
(FATHER DICK FIDDLER leaves quickly.)
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Now Cormac, do your business.
(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON walks over to the magazine rack and begins to throw the top-shelf magazines to the ground, while SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER points the end of a crucifix-shaped letter-opener threateningly at the SHOPKEEPER. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON pauses a moment as he throws the magazines down to ogle the cover of the “Gay Times”, before coming to his senses and throwing it down also. When all the magazines have been thrown to the ground, a sour-faced elderly man named HOLY JOE MacMURCHU helps LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON to carry the piles of magazines out into the street where they are heaped together in a large bundle. SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE sprinkles them with some petrol contained in a Virgin Mary-shaped holy water bottle before HOLY JOE MacMURCHU sets them alight with a match.)
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
May the burning of these pornographic publications be acceptable to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and his Holy Mother, Amen.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
AND SO ON AND SO FORTH, AD NAUSEAM AD INFINITUM,
IN SAECULA SAECULORUM,
AAAAA-MEEEEENNNNNNNN!
(THE END.)
YOUNG MAN:
You’re going to hell.
PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Fuck off.
YOUNG MAN:
I’m going to say a novena that you’ll go to hell for that.
PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Go an’ ask me arse.
(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION lines up outside the Londis shop, and an elderly lady wearing a red coat and enormous milkbottle glasses comes to the front to address them: she is SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE.)
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
May our mission of sanitation to this polluted city be pleasing to the Holy Mother of God, Amen.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
I nominate Lieutenant Cormac to go forth to lead us in our task.
(A very tall young man wearing a worn jumper and thick-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding in his hand a wooden crucifix, the same young man who spoke previously with PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY. He speaks with a slight lisp, though it is barely noticeable because of his drawling voice. He is LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON.)
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Yes Sister. Let’s go then.
(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON shuffles into the Londis shop and is followed by THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. He points the end of his crucifix threateningly at the Indian man behind the counter.)
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
This is a stick up. Where are your top-shelf magazines?
SHOPKEEPER:
Eh, on the top shelf.
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Oh right.
(A middle-aged man walks to the counter with a copy of FHM magazine in his hand. He looks shiftily at the floor and does not notice THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. When he does look up, he is startled by their presence and reveals his clerical shirt and collar.)
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Father!
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Is that a pornographic publication in the hands of a holy priest of God!?
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Surely not!
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I...no...it’s not...I'm not...I’m a Protestant!
(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION gasps collectively and they all hold up their crucifixes to FATHER DICK FIDDLER to shield themselves.)
SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You’re a what?
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I’m not a priest, I’m a Protestant minister!
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
You scumbag.
SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You don’t need pornography to get yourself into hell.
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I’m sorry, I’ll just leave and let you get on with your business.
SHOPKEEPER:
Are you going to pay for that?
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
Oh, er, well...it’s okay, you can keep it.
SHOPKEEPER:
I don’t want it.
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
See? Even he doesn’t want it. You Protestants are scum. And you think you’ll get into heaven just for thinking you’re right? Well you won’t. At least Hindu man over there knows he won’t get into heaven, even if he doesn’t pretend to believe in the Lord.
SHOPKEEPER:
Excuse me?
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I can’t take this anymore. I lied. I’m not a Protestant. I really am a Catholic priest.
SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
A liar too!
SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Scurrilous.
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
No holy priest of God would ever touch filth like that! Get out of here and go back to the Protestant hell-hole you came from.
FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
As you wish.
(FATHER DICK FIDDLER leaves quickly.)
SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Now Cormac, do your business.
(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON walks over to the magazine rack and begins to throw the top-shelf magazines to the ground, while SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER points the end of a crucifix-shaped letter-opener threateningly at the SHOPKEEPER. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON pauses a moment as he throws the magazines down to ogle the cover of the “Gay Times”, before coming to his senses and throwing it down also. When all the magazines have been thrown to the ground, a sour-faced elderly man named HOLY JOE MacMURCHU helps LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON to carry the piles of magazines out into the street where they are heaped together in a large bundle. SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE sprinkles them with some petrol contained in a Virgin Mary-shaped holy water bottle before HOLY JOE MacMURCHU sets them alight with a match.)
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
May the burning of these pornographic publications be acceptable to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and his Holy Mother, Amen.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
AND SO ON AND SO FORTH, AD NAUSEAM AD INFINITUM,
IN SAECULA SAECULORUM,
AAAAA-MEEEEENNNNNNNN!
(THE END.)
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Lola Sleevend and Lisbon.
SCENE: A school hall somewhere in the Bow-mont area. LOLA SLEEVEND approaches a desk attended by two old ladies and produces her polling card and her passport.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.
OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.
OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.
OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.
OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?
OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?
OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!
OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!
LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.
GEE!
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.
OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.
OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.
OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.
OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?
OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?
OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!
OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!
LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.
GEE!
Monday, June 9, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
THE SECOND LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.
"You know him?" said Mr(s). Henderson, utterly flabbergasted.
"Of course I know him, but not in the biblical sense darling!" Rufus replied, laughing like a hyena and scaring all Mr. Jackson's second year students going by on Nassau Street on the way to Leinster House with their iced cappuccinos, little cosmopolitan fuckers.
"Okay, so, where do we start then?" asked John.
"Well," said Hendy, "let's start at the start—the Pro-Cathedral!"
So off they went on their merry little gay ways, first stopping to pick up a lovely coffee from Insomnia on Nassau Street. Along the way they sang "YMCA", annoying Dubs with fuck-the-gays mentalities.
Just as they came to the Kylemore Café, they saw some lower-ranking Green Party members (like Ciaran Sleevend, Lola's brother) picking their beloved ex-leader Trevor Sargeant off the ground, as only recently he had been mashed into the street by the Geebus. Then, suddenly, posing beside the James Joyce statue with his cane and bow-tie was none other than David Kelly.
"It's him!" exclaimed Rufus. "It's Mrs. Kelly's son from the Yellow Lounge, looking as faaabulous as ever may I say!"
Pushing out of his/her way a group of Japanese tourists who were taking photographs and making peace signs, Hendy caught a glimpse of David Kelly. He was his/her key to finding the truth.
"Oh, David?!" squealed Rufus, in his most alluringly gay voice.
"Ah, Rufus, howya?" replied David, just before Rufus jumped on him and gave him a randy hug. This unfortunately was too much for the poor old man who wasn't used to all this homosexual activity. He fell immediately to the ground, clutching his chest and shouting, "Me heart, me heart!"
"Mr. Kelly!" interjected Hendy suddenly, knowing that time was running out, "do you know anything about a young child called Henderson?"
Clearly in breathing difficulty, Mr. Kelly said nothing but removed a yellowed envelope from his breast pocket and pointed it at Mr(s). Henderson. In a fashion that would imply death in a Hollywood film, Mr. Kelly breathed his last and died. Walking away towards Nelson's Pillar and ignoring the crowd that was gathering to gaze upon the dead David Kelly, Hendy examined the envelope and read the print on the front:
FOR THE SOLE ATTENTION OF JEREMY M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. HENDERSON.
"Jeremy M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson? Could it possibly be for me?"
"What a fucking kick ass name! Open it anyway, you HAVE to open it!" said Rufus.
"Okay then. Here it goes!"
Tearing open the envelope, Hendy found inside a single sticky post-it note bearing one word: Hellfire.
"Hellfire?" said John.
"Yeah, whatever that's supposed to mean."
Mr(s). Henderson's mind was racing. David Kelly? Joyce? Hellfire? What would Dan Brown do?
"Hellfire..." says John. "Hellfire...Club? It's up in the Dublin Mountains. I went there with the YMCA on a cruising expedition. I really enjoyed myself. It was much better than the toilets in Eason's which is where we went the previous year."
"Hellfire Club?" said Hendy. "Do you reckon we should go there? Perhaps there'll be a clue."
"Oh, adventure. I love it!" said Rufus, rubbing his crotch against Joyce's stick.
In the background, the Greens were hoisting Trevor Sargent onto their shoulders as he listened with interest to the gays' conversation.
"But how will we get there?" said John, puzzled, as in the distance somewhere "Leaving for Paris No. 2" played.
"We can ride on my fabulous bus," said Rufus, "and there's plenty of dress-up and dress-down material on it!"
"Bus?" said John, always one step behind Rufus (just as Rufus likes it, I might add).
And then, as if by fairy magic (or by Bram), a pink, fluffy bus appeared from nowhere, driven by an unnamed sexy German.
"Hi," he said, "you get on de bus?"
"Sure," said Rufus, with a twinkle in his eye and a glimmer in his cock.
"1.70 please," said Hendy to the driver.
"Ladies on free to de bus," he replied.
"But I'm a not a lady," said Hendy. "I'm a man."
"That's vot dey all say in Germany. Did you never vonder vy old German vomen are so fucking ugly?"
"Actually, no, but thanks for that anyway."
So they all had great fun on the Gaybus (as opposed to the Geebus) all the way to the Dublin mountains. When they alighted, the bus suddenly disappeared in a poof of pink smoke, and there they were, all three gays alone in front of the Hellfire Club.
"Wow, it's so...phallic," said Rufus.
"It looks so familiar," said Hendy. "It must be the right place."
The three gays made their ways through the doors of the desolate building and up the winding stairs. Staring around for a few moments, eventually something caught Hendy's eye. In a far corner of a darkened room, s/he caught a glimpse of a well-hidden picnic basket.
"Look gays!"
"Wow, cool," says Rufus. "I always wanted a picnic basket...they had a really nice one in the antiques shop that I want to go back and visit when it's open...IIIIIN TULSAAAA...!"
"Be quiet, Rufus, this is not the time for silliness. Can't you see this an important narrative moment?"
"Sorry darling, I didn't want to ruin the moment. I just can't help myself. I will never bay as cute as you."
Crouching down together (oooh!), the three gays went to open the box (Lol!).
"You know, gays," said John, "I've never been so close to a box in my life, apart from that time I did the macarena with Shirley Temple Bar."
"Quiet John," said Rufus, "you're ruining the moment!"
"Shut up both of you!" screamed Hendy. "I'm opening it."
"Ooooooooh!" said John and Rufus at once, creating an atmosphere of tense homosexual expectation.
Hendy winced as s/he opened the picnic basket, but soon discovered that it contained nothing more than three jam jars.
"Jam jars?!" exclaimed John. "Is that all? This is a shit adventure."
"Wait a second, John," said an irritated Hendy.
Hendy lifted up the first jar in the row, which appeared to contain thick black liquid. Opening it carefully, suddenly the air was filled with the strong stench of malt vinegar.
"Vinegar? What...?"
In the darkened room Hendy could barely make out the outline of something small and rather cucumberish protruding from the vinegar. Placing that jar on the ground, Hendy opened the second jar, which contained a rolled, yellowed piece of paper. Unrolling it, s/he and the other two read it open-mouthed.
BIRTH CERTIFICATE issued in pursuance of Births and Deaths Registration Act 1863
Number:
32.
Date and Place of Birth:
6th December 1922,
Monto.
Name:
Jeremy Michael O'Cock John Charles McQuaid Henderson.
—"What the...?" whispered Hendy.
—"Kick ass," whispered Rufus.
Sex:
N/A.
Name and Surname and Dwelling Place of Father:
John Charles McQuaid,
Archbishop's Palace, Drumcondra.
Name and Maiden Surname of Mother:
Susan "The Lips" Henderson.
—"Wow, I wish my mom had such a kick-ass name."
—"Shut up, Rufus."
Rank or Profession of Father:
Archbishop.
Signature of Registrar:
Michael James John-Joe O'Cock.
TO ALTER THIS DOCUMENT OR TO UTTER IT SO ALTERED IS A SERIOUS OFFENCE.
Stunned, the gays could only stare blankly at the third and final jam jar and wonder what shocking revelations it might contain.
"OH MY GOD WE'RE MISSING DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!"
The shock of Rufus's sudden exclamation caused Hendy to knock over the vinegar jar, spilling its murky contents all over the floor. From the jar had come a small, shrivelled object about the size of a Macaroon bar. After a couple of seconds, they all realized what it was and suddenly shouted together:
"IT'S A PICKLED MICKEY!"
Hendy was sure his/her life could get no stranger. In silence, all s/he could do was open the third jam jar and unroll the large manuscript paper in it. S/he slowly read the hastily scrawled title:
TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY, 8TH MAY 1925.
...
"Of course I know him, but not in the biblical sense darling!" Rufus replied, laughing like a hyena and scaring all Mr. Jackson's second year students going by on Nassau Street on the way to Leinster House with their iced cappuccinos, little cosmopolitan fuckers.
"Okay, so, where do we start then?" asked John.
"Well," said Hendy, "let's start at the start—the Pro-Cathedral!"
So off they went on their merry little gay ways, first stopping to pick up a lovely coffee from Insomnia on Nassau Street. Along the way they sang "YMCA", annoying Dubs with fuck-the-gays mentalities.
Just as they came to the Kylemore Café, they saw some lower-ranking Green Party members (like Ciaran Sleevend, Lola's brother) picking their beloved ex-leader Trevor Sargeant off the ground, as only recently he had been mashed into the street by the Geebus. Then, suddenly, posing beside the James Joyce statue with his cane and bow-tie was none other than David Kelly.
"It's him!" exclaimed Rufus. "It's Mrs. Kelly's son from the Yellow Lounge, looking as faaabulous as ever may I say!"
Pushing out of his/her way a group of Japanese tourists who were taking photographs and making peace signs, Hendy caught a glimpse of David Kelly. He was his/her key to finding the truth.
"Oh, David?!" squealed Rufus, in his most alluringly gay voice.
"Ah, Rufus, howya?" replied David, just before Rufus jumped on him and gave him a randy hug. This unfortunately was too much for the poor old man who wasn't used to all this homosexual activity. He fell immediately to the ground, clutching his chest and shouting, "Me heart, me heart!"
"Mr. Kelly!" interjected Hendy suddenly, knowing that time was running out, "do you know anything about a young child called Henderson?"
Clearly in breathing difficulty, Mr. Kelly said nothing but removed a yellowed envelope from his breast pocket and pointed it at Mr(s). Henderson. In a fashion that would imply death in a Hollywood film, Mr. Kelly breathed his last and died. Walking away towards Nelson's Pillar and ignoring the crowd that was gathering to gaze upon the dead David Kelly, Hendy examined the envelope and read the print on the front:
FOR THE SOLE ATTENTION OF JEREMY M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. HENDERSON.
"Jeremy M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson? Could it possibly be for me?"
"What a fucking kick ass name! Open it anyway, you HAVE to open it!" said Rufus.
"Okay then. Here it goes!"
Tearing open the envelope, Hendy found inside a single sticky post-it note bearing one word: Hellfire.
"Hellfire?" said John.
"Yeah, whatever that's supposed to mean."
Mr(s). Henderson's mind was racing. David Kelly? Joyce? Hellfire? What would Dan Brown do?
"Hellfire..." says John. "Hellfire...Club? It's up in the Dublin Mountains. I went there with the YMCA on a cruising expedition. I really enjoyed myself. It was much better than the toilets in Eason's which is where we went the previous year."
"Hellfire Club?" said Hendy. "Do you reckon we should go there? Perhaps there'll be a clue."
"Oh, adventure. I love it!" said Rufus, rubbing his crotch against Joyce's stick.
In the background, the Greens were hoisting Trevor Sargent onto their shoulders as he listened with interest to the gays' conversation.
"But how will we get there?" said John, puzzled, as in the distance somewhere "Leaving for Paris No. 2" played.
"We can ride on my fabulous bus," said Rufus, "and there's plenty of dress-up and dress-down material on it!"
"Bus?" said John, always one step behind Rufus (just as Rufus likes it, I might add).
And then, as if by fairy magic (or by Bram), a pink, fluffy bus appeared from nowhere, driven by an unnamed sexy German.
"Hi," he said, "you get on de bus?"
"Sure," said Rufus, with a twinkle in his eye and a glimmer in his cock.
"1.70 please," said Hendy to the driver.
"Ladies on free to de bus," he replied.
"But I'm a not a lady," said Hendy. "I'm a man."
"That's vot dey all say in Germany. Did you never vonder vy old German vomen are so fucking ugly?"
"Actually, no, but thanks for that anyway."
So they all had great fun on the Gaybus (as opposed to the Geebus) all the way to the Dublin mountains. When they alighted, the bus suddenly disappeared in a poof of pink smoke, and there they were, all three gays alone in front of the Hellfire Club.
"Wow, it's so...phallic," said Rufus.
"It looks so familiar," said Hendy. "It must be the right place."
The three gays made their ways through the doors of the desolate building and up the winding stairs. Staring around for a few moments, eventually something caught Hendy's eye. In a far corner of a darkened room, s/he caught a glimpse of a well-hidden picnic basket.
"Look gays!"
"Wow, cool," says Rufus. "I always wanted a picnic basket...they had a really nice one in the antiques shop that I want to go back and visit when it's open...IIIIIN TULSAAAA...!"
"Be quiet, Rufus, this is not the time for silliness. Can't you see this an important narrative moment?"
"Sorry darling, I didn't want to ruin the moment. I just can't help myself. I will never bay as cute as you."
Crouching down together (oooh!), the three gays went to open the box (Lol!).
"You know, gays," said John, "I've never been so close to a box in my life, apart from that time I did the macarena with Shirley Temple Bar."
"Quiet John," said Rufus, "you're ruining the moment!"
"Shut up both of you!" screamed Hendy. "I'm opening it."
"Ooooooooh!" said John and Rufus at once, creating an atmosphere of tense homosexual expectation.
Hendy winced as s/he opened the picnic basket, but soon discovered that it contained nothing more than three jam jars.
"Jam jars?!" exclaimed John. "Is that all? This is a shit adventure."
"Wait a second, John," said an irritated Hendy.
Hendy lifted up the first jar in the row, which appeared to contain thick black liquid. Opening it carefully, suddenly the air was filled with the strong stench of malt vinegar.
"Vinegar? What...?"
In the darkened room Hendy could barely make out the outline of something small and rather cucumberish protruding from the vinegar. Placing that jar on the ground, Hendy opened the second jar, which contained a rolled, yellowed piece of paper. Unrolling it, s/he and the other two read it open-mouthed.
BIRTH CERTIFICATE issued in pursuance of Births and Deaths Registration Act 1863
Number:
32.
Date and Place of Birth:
6th December 1922,
Monto.
Name:
Jeremy Michael O'Cock John Charles McQuaid Henderson.
—"What the...?" whispered Hendy.
—"Kick ass," whispered Rufus.
Sex:
N/A.
Name and Surname and Dwelling Place of Father:
John Charles McQuaid,
Archbishop's Palace, Drumcondra.
Name and Maiden Surname of Mother:
Susan "The Lips" Henderson.
—"Wow, I wish my mom had such a kick-ass name."
—"Shut up, Rufus."
Rank or Profession of Father:
Archbishop.
Signature of Registrar:
Michael James John-Joe O'Cock.
TO ALTER THIS DOCUMENT OR TO UTTER IT SO ALTERED IS A SERIOUS OFFENCE.
Stunned, the gays could only stare blankly at the third and final jam jar and wonder what shocking revelations it might contain.
"OH MY GOD WE'RE MISSING DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!"
The shock of Rufus's sudden exclamation caused Hendy to knock over the vinegar jar, spilling its murky contents all over the floor. From the jar had come a small, shrivelled object about the size of a Macaroon bar. After a couple of seconds, they all realized what it was and suddenly shouted together:
"IT'S A PICKLED MICKEY!"
Hendy was sure his/her life could get no stranger. In silence, all s/he could do was open the third jam jar and unroll the large manuscript paper in it. S/he slowly read the hastily scrawled title:
TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY, 8TH MAY 1925.
...
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Adventures of Mr(s). Henderson and Various Other Gays.
Jeremy-Sue M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson. What a mouthful of a name for such an unfortunate character. Join him/her as s/he travels through the anachronistic world of 20th-century Dublin and beyond looking for Love and the Meaning of Life, trying along the way to unravel his/her own murky past/present in a world gone gay.
"The oddest thing I've read all year."--Gay Byrne.
"Complete and utter shite. I love it!"--Gerry Ryan.
"A human story for the 21st century."--Mary Robinson.
"A load of me cock."--Some aul'one on Capel Street.
"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.
"Such a load of bollocks."--Hugh Leonard.
"NOT EEN MAY RHEPABLICK!"--Éamon de Valera.
"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.
"What?"--The Observer.
"Vulgar, offensive left-wing homosexual claptrap."--Alive!
"BEST BOOK EEEEEVAAAH!"--Senator David Norris.
"The oddest thing I've read all year."--Gay Byrne.
"Complete and utter shite. I love it!"--Gerry Ryan.
"A human story for the 21st century."--Mary Robinson.
"A load of me cock."--Some aul'one on Capel Street.
"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.
"Such a load of bollocks."--Hugh Leonard.
"NOT EEN MAY RHEPABLICK!"--Éamon de Valera.
"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.
"What?"--The Observer.
"Vulgar, offensive left-wing homosexual claptrap."--Alive!
"BEST BOOK EEEEEVAAAH!"--Senator David Norris.
THE FIRST LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.
"O Jeremy, it really is you!"
So it was true. Mr(s). Henderson had lived in Papua New Guinea as a man in a relationship with the gay gay (as in the gay guy and straight guy). S/he really didn't know what to say.
"Hello?"
"Jeremy, what's wrong with you? Why are you dressed like a woman?"
"Because I am a woman darling, or at least I think so," replied Mr(s). Henderson somewhat unsurely.
"But Jeremy, don't you remember all the good times we had together in Papua New Guinea?"
"Don't call me Jeremy, please. My name is Sue now."
"But darling, you were always Jeremy to me! I never thought I'd see you again after I was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. It was so miserable darling, I had to work as a jazz singer in the filthiest clubs, and after that I had to ride dirty randy fat Italian men in pinstripe suits for money. It was terrible, Hendy, it was really was. But it's all behind me now, we can live together once again as happy homos, man and husband, once I go to the STD clinic."
"But I'm not a man!" protested Mr(s). Henderson. "I haven't a mickey! I'm here in Dublin to get a gee."
"But darling, you are a man, I know it! You're a faaabulous man! Why on earth would you want a gee? All you need is mickey."
Somewhere in the near-distance, near Harcourt Street or Adelaide Road or somewhere else pukeable, a trumpet played the French national anthem. Mr(s). Henderson jumped suddenly. S/he'd just realized it. S/he was lying to him/herself. It was all clear now. She had a sudden flashback to a dimly-lit brothel in 1920s Dublin.
FLASHFLASHFLASH
A load of holy aul'ones standing around with pointy crucifixes. The strong stench of incense and holy place, but it wasn't a holy place (though it was a holey place, but that's another story).
"There's the bastard," says some withered old nun.
"And there's the hoor," says another old bat.
"Cut off its mickey and kill the hoor," came a booming voice from the far distance, as if amplified by Gawd himself.
"But General McQuaid, what does the third commandment say?"
"And you're asking me, God himself of Dublin, almost? How dare you be so impertinent! Off with your habit! Now kill the hoor and cut the bastard's mickey off!"
"Yes, my Lord and my God."
Suddenly Mr(s). Henderson remembered the screaming of hoors and the grinding of teeth, from the next room. And then s/he knew...the hoor that screamed was his/her mother. But suddenly the screaming faded and s/he recalled a sharp pain in the mickey area...
FLASHFLASHFLASH
And Rufus was lifting up his skirt.
"O, sorry girls, did I ruin the moment?"
Amid all the confusion and flashing, Mr(s). Henderson and the gay guy both failed to notice Rufus still there waiting and wondering why he was no longer the centre of attention (a one-man guy in the morning, the same in the afternoon).
"O, gay guy!" exclaimed Hendy suddenly.
"Yes darling?" answered Rufus.
"No, not you, him—the gay guy from gay guy and straight guy."
We're now on Diabelli Variation No. 31 as Beethoven refers to himself as his compositional life comes to an end, just as Mr(s). Henderson's odyssee comes to an end.
"Yes..." said Hendy, "...John!"
"O Hendy, you remembered!" shouted John, the gay guy.
"Yes, John...I know now. I was the son of a hoor from the Monto. McQuaid made the Legion kill my mother and cut off my mickey, and that's how I became a manwoman!"
"But why, Hendy? Why would they do that?"
"I don't know John, but I have to find out. I'll get to the bottom of it if it's the last thing I do!"
"OooooOOoooOoOooo!" says John, comme usual.
Rufus's ears pricked up suddenly. "Darlings, do I sense a gay adventure coming on?"
"Ooo!"
"I have to know the truth. I won't rest until I know why they killed my mother and cut off my mickey. But where shall I start?"
FLASHFLASH
Aaaaaa.
---Men.
"I'll get you lot back, I will! How dare you come into my Olde Knockin' Shoppe and kill my hoors and cut off their children's mickeys! I always knew you Catholics were bastards. I'll show the world what a pack of hypocritical holy fuckers yez are and what a dirty prick that Archbishop of yours is!"
Silence. Then the sound of matches being lit and screaming and the smell of singed hair.
"You bastards! You'll regret this! It'll be on the front page of the Anglo-Irish Times tomorrow, you just wait! Geraldine loves a bit of gossip. I'll send my son along with the news, be sure of that. Go get down on your knees and pray to your pope you fuckin' papists!"
"That's enough from you you filthy proddy!" shouts Frank Duff from the door as he fires a bottle of black Protestant porter at Mrs. Kelly, narrowly missing her singed head. "Smash those ashes, Sister Paphaloushis!"
"No! No!" screamed Mrs. Kelly. "Not Mr. Kelly's ashes! And that lovely jam jar I got as a present from Kitty O'Shea!"
"That proved English prostitute, eh?" shouted Frank Duff. "Smash it sister!"
The sound of smashing glass and the screams of Mrs. Kelly, good Protestant as she was.
"Now, you heard what the Archbishop said, kill her."
"You won't get away with this, yiz feckers! I..I..."
DONG.
DONG.
DONG.
Mrs. Kelly couldn't believe her luck. It was a sign from the Protestant God, Jehovah. "The Angelus," she whispered silently. "Thank Jaysus, for once."
The nuns and Frank Duff all prostrated themselves suddenly towards Rome, momentarily oblivious to their murderous mission given to them by His Lordship and Quasihemidemisemigodness McQuaid.
"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary..."
"AND SHE CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE..."
The Legion oblivious, Mrs. Kelly suddenly grabbed as many of her important belongings as she could get her hands on and ran faster than she had ever run until she was at the gates of Pat's Cathedral, before she realized she had left behind her the most important thing...baby Jeremy.
FLASH
"Mrs. Kelly knows the truth!" exclaimed Mr(s). Henderson. "But she must be long dead...where do we go from here?"
"Jeremy..." interrupted Rufus, "...I think I met her son in the Yellow Lounge!"
TO BE CONTINUED.
So it was true. Mr(s). Henderson had lived in Papua New Guinea as a man in a relationship with the gay gay (as in the gay guy and straight guy). S/he really didn't know what to say.
"Hello?"
"Jeremy, what's wrong with you? Why are you dressed like a woman?"
"Because I am a woman darling, or at least I think so," replied Mr(s). Henderson somewhat unsurely.
"But Jeremy, don't you remember all the good times we had together in Papua New Guinea?"
"Don't call me Jeremy, please. My name is Sue now."
"But darling, you were always Jeremy to me! I never thought I'd see you again after I was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. It was so miserable darling, I had to work as a jazz singer in the filthiest clubs, and after that I had to ride dirty randy fat Italian men in pinstripe suits for money. It was terrible, Hendy, it was really was. But it's all behind me now, we can live together once again as happy homos, man and husband, once I go to the STD clinic."
"But I'm not a man!" protested Mr(s). Henderson. "I haven't a mickey! I'm here in Dublin to get a gee."
"But darling, you are a man, I know it! You're a faaabulous man! Why on earth would you want a gee? All you need is mickey."
Somewhere in the near-distance, near Harcourt Street or Adelaide Road or somewhere else pukeable, a trumpet played the French national anthem. Mr(s). Henderson jumped suddenly. S/he'd just realized it. S/he was lying to him/herself. It was all clear now. She had a sudden flashback to a dimly-lit brothel in 1920s Dublin.
FLASHFLASHFLASH
A load of holy aul'ones standing around with pointy crucifixes. The strong stench of incense and holy place, but it wasn't a holy place (though it was a holey place, but that's another story).
"There's the bastard," says some withered old nun.
"And there's the hoor," says another old bat.
"Cut off its mickey and kill the hoor," came a booming voice from the far distance, as if amplified by Gawd himself.
"But General McQuaid, what does the third commandment say?"
"And you're asking me, God himself of Dublin, almost? How dare you be so impertinent! Off with your habit! Now kill the hoor and cut the bastard's mickey off!"
"Yes, my Lord and my God."
Suddenly Mr(s). Henderson remembered the screaming of hoors and the grinding of teeth, from the next room. And then s/he knew...the hoor that screamed was his/her mother. But suddenly the screaming faded and s/he recalled a sharp pain in the mickey area...
FLASHFLASHFLASH
And Rufus was lifting up his skirt.
"O, sorry girls, did I ruin the moment?"
Amid all the confusion and flashing, Mr(s). Henderson and the gay guy both failed to notice Rufus still there waiting and wondering why he was no longer the centre of attention (a one-man guy in the morning, the same in the afternoon).
"O, gay guy!" exclaimed Hendy suddenly.
"Yes darling?" answered Rufus.
"No, not you, him—the gay guy from gay guy and straight guy."
We're now on Diabelli Variation No. 31 as Beethoven refers to himself as his compositional life comes to an end, just as Mr(s). Henderson's odyssee comes to an end.
"Yes..." said Hendy, "...John!"
"O Hendy, you remembered!" shouted John, the gay guy.
"Yes, John...I know now. I was the son of a hoor from the Monto. McQuaid made the Legion kill my mother and cut off my mickey, and that's how I became a manwoman!"
"But why, Hendy? Why would they do that?"
"I don't know John, but I have to find out. I'll get to the bottom of it if it's the last thing I do!"
"OooooOOoooOoOooo!" says John, comme usual.
Rufus's ears pricked up suddenly. "Darlings, do I sense a gay adventure coming on?"
"Ooo!"
"I have to know the truth. I won't rest until I know why they killed my mother and cut off my mickey. But where shall I start?"
FLASHFLASH
Aaaaaa.
---Men.
"I'll get you lot back, I will! How dare you come into my Olde Knockin' Shoppe and kill my hoors and cut off their children's mickeys! I always knew you Catholics were bastards. I'll show the world what a pack of hypocritical holy fuckers yez are and what a dirty prick that Archbishop of yours is!"
Silence. Then the sound of matches being lit and screaming and the smell of singed hair.
"You bastards! You'll regret this! It'll be on the front page of the Anglo-Irish Times tomorrow, you just wait! Geraldine loves a bit of gossip. I'll send my son along with the news, be sure of that. Go get down on your knees and pray to your pope you fuckin' papists!"
"That's enough from you you filthy proddy!" shouts Frank Duff from the door as he fires a bottle of black Protestant porter at Mrs. Kelly, narrowly missing her singed head. "Smash those ashes, Sister Paphaloushis!"
"No! No!" screamed Mrs. Kelly. "Not Mr. Kelly's ashes! And that lovely jam jar I got as a present from Kitty O'Shea!"
"That proved English prostitute, eh?" shouted Frank Duff. "Smash it sister!"
The sound of smashing glass and the screams of Mrs. Kelly, good Protestant as she was.
"Now, you heard what the Archbishop said, kill her."
"You won't get away with this, yiz feckers! I..I..."
DONG.
DONG.
DONG.
Mrs. Kelly couldn't believe her luck. It was a sign from the Protestant God, Jehovah. "The Angelus," she whispered silently. "Thank Jaysus, for once."
The nuns and Frank Duff all prostrated themselves suddenly towards Rome, momentarily oblivious to their murderous mission given to them by His Lordship and Quasihemidemisemigodness McQuaid.
"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary..."
"AND SHE CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE..."
The Legion oblivious, Mrs. Kelly suddenly grabbed as many of her important belongings as she could get her hands on and ran faster than she had ever run until she was at the gates of Pat's Cathedral, before she realized she had left behind her the most important thing...baby Jeremy.
FLASH
"Mrs. Kelly knows the truth!" exclaimed Mr(s). Henderson. "But she must be long dead...where do we go from here?"
"Jeremy..." interrupted Rufus, "...I think I met her son in the Yellow Lounge!"
TO BE CONTINUED.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Gaybo's Hammer.
Hello there, hello, hello, and welcome to the latest installment of the little Blog of the Bram, yes, that's the one, thank you very much, well done to you, well done.
Now in the course of the little position of the Ombudsman of the Road Saftety of the little old Gaybo of the uncles which was given thank you very much, it was decided that all those persons of the driving persuasion in the little old town of the Dublin would be encouraged to park themselves in a manner becoming to that of little old citizens of the municipal area—ye wha' Gay?—municipal area of the Dublin of the city.
So, to whom it concerns, for that reason and for that reason alone and for a number of other little reasons thank you very much good old uncle Gaybo has decided that persons discovering the cars of other persons parked in an incorrect manner will be entitled to break the windscreen of the offender's car with a specially made little hammer of the colour red which would be issued to all those little driving people of Ireland. And so, there's one for everyone in the audience. Thank you, well done, well done.
Now in the course of the little position of the Ombudsman of the Road Saftety of the little old Gaybo of the uncles which was given thank you very much, it was decided that all those persons of the driving persuasion in the little old town of the Dublin would be encouraged to park themselves in a manner becoming to that of little old citizens of the municipal area—ye wha' Gay?—municipal area of the Dublin of the city.
So, to whom it concerns, for that reason and for that reason alone and for a number of other little reasons thank you very much good old uncle Gaybo has decided that persons discovering the cars of other persons parked in an incorrect manner will be entitled to break the windscreen of the offender's car with a specially made little hammer of the colour red which would be issued to all those little driving people of Ireland. And so, there's one for everyone in the audience. Thank you, well done, well done.
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