And happy Bramiversary.
Gee.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Cocks, etc.
I was in the staffroom on my lunch break innocently reading 'The Ticket' (yes, it was a Friday) and eating a purple snack bar while some colleagues sitting around me chatted away. Half-listening, I would occasionally grab snippets of their conversation.
—...lunch box...seventeen...O'Meara...scratchcard...
It wasn't very interesting. I was much more interested in the theatre listings. I fancied myself as a bit of an art snob sometimes. I didn't even like the theatre, but it was worth going just to tell people you went and see their reaction.
—I was in the Abbey last night.
—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
Yeah. My colleagues were all insufferable. Though in fairness, they probably thought I was an ignorant git myself. But that's how the cookie crumbles.
—So Jonathan, do you like cock?
My ears pricked up. Did she ACTUALLY just ask him that?
—Well Bernie, to be honest I'm not MAD into it. But I dabble on occasion.
—Really? That's nice. I always had a feeling. You know the way.
I lowered my newspaper a little and peered over my glasses with eyebrows raised. Jonathan was a young baldy bloke with a scruffy beard and trendy glasses. And he was talking about cock.
—Well, I mean, flange is all right I suppose, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Cock's more up my street in a way. Not that I have much of a street.
Bernie and Denise laughed very highpitched and very irritating laughs. I stared slightly more incredulously.
—To be honest, said Denise, I love the cock. Nothing better than a mouthful of cock when you come home in the evening.
—Yeah, I know what you mean, Denise, said Bernie. A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush!
This time all three of them laughed. They kept laughing even after I couldn't remember what Bernie had said in the first place. Jonathan had a bellowing English laugh which was really annoying.
After another minute I'd had enough.
—I mean, REALLY. You just think you can sit here and talk about cock and LAUGH without me saying anything? Well, you thought wrong. You are a shower of insufferable BASTARDS and you need to all grow up and GET A LIFE. What the FUCK is wrong with you. Fuck sake.
I threw my copy of 'The Ticket' on the table and stormed out of the staffroom, dropping the wrapper of my snack bar on the floor along the way. I stood outside in the courtyard and lit myself a green Marlboro, blowing smokerings as I smoked. A cooing pigeon landed near to me and I kicked it.
I hate pigeons.
—...lunch box...seventeen...O'Meara...scratchcard...
It wasn't very interesting. I was much more interested in the theatre listings. I fancied myself as a bit of an art snob sometimes. I didn't even like the theatre, but it was worth going just to tell people you went and see their reaction.
—I was in the Abbey last night.
—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!
Yeah. My colleagues were all insufferable. Though in fairness, they probably thought I was an ignorant git myself. But that's how the cookie crumbles.
—So Jonathan, do you like cock?
My ears pricked up. Did she ACTUALLY just ask him that?
—Well Bernie, to be honest I'm not MAD into it. But I dabble on occasion.
—Really? That's nice. I always had a feeling. You know the way.
I lowered my newspaper a little and peered over my glasses with eyebrows raised. Jonathan was a young baldy bloke with a scruffy beard and trendy glasses. And he was talking about cock.
—Well, I mean, flange is all right I suppose, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Cock's more up my street in a way. Not that I have much of a street.
Bernie and Denise laughed very highpitched and very irritating laughs. I stared slightly more incredulously.
—To be honest, said Denise, I love the cock. Nothing better than a mouthful of cock when you come home in the evening.
—Yeah, I know what you mean, Denise, said Bernie. A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush!
This time all three of them laughed. They kept laughing even after I couldn't remember what Bernie had said in the first place. Jonathan had a bellowing English laugh which was really annoying.
After another minute I'd had enough.
—I mean, REALLY. You just think you can sit here and talk about cock and LAUGH without me saying anything? Well, you thought wrong. You are a shower of insufferable BASTARDS and you need to all grow up and GET A LIFE. What the FUCK is wrong with you. Fuck sake.
I threw my copy of 'The Ticket' on the table and stormed out of the staffroom, dropping the wrapper of my snack bar on the floor along the way. I stood outside in the courtyard and lit myself a green Marlboro, blowing smokerings as I smoked. A cooing pigeon landed near to me and I kicked it.
I hate pigeons.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Hari-kari.
I was walking down the side of Belgrave Square having just bought myself a greasy MacDonald's burger in the Swan Centre when I saw Siobhán walking along about ten yards in front of me.
—Siobhán! I said, but she didn't react. I picked up my pace a little to catch up with her.
—Siobhán! I said again. She seemed to have earphones in. What a surprise she'll get when she sees me I thought, and so I ran a little faster until I was right behind her.
—Siobhán, you leatherheaded fuck! I shouted, clattering her across the back of the head with my left hand (in which was held the halfeaten two-euro cheeseburger).
The next second seemed to go on forever. She turned around very slowly as if in shock, and then it hit me. It wasn't Siobhán after all. It was a very irate man that looked nothing like Siobhán.
—Jaysus! I said.
—What the fuck! said the man in a very angry voice.
—I, I, I'm sorry, I just...you know, well, I think...you see, it was, eh, well, I thought that, eh, Siobhán—
—Who the fuck is Siobhán? he said, getting more irate by the minute. His hair was the same colour as hers. That was something. An orangey blob of gooey MacDonald's cheese protruded from the top of his curly mop.
—You see, it was all very innocent really, I just THOUGHT, I mean I THOUGHT that I saw Siobhán but clearly I didn't and I must have just accidentally fallen on top of you instead there. So no harm done and all, yeah! I said, trying to convince myself as well as the irate man of this version of events but failing on both accounts. I was shaking like a leaf. My hands made their ways into my jacket pockets (the burger discarded on the ground in semi-shock) and my right hand grasped the Leatherman multitool which was concealed in my pocket.
—What the FUCK is wrong with you you plastic bastard? he said. His eyes were slightly red, and seemed almost ready to pop out of his head.
—I'm sorry Siobhán. I can't even say any more. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I said, grasping the multitool in my pocket and stabbing myself in the bowels with it through the lining of my jacket. I whimpered a little, but he didn't seem to notice.
—My name's not Siobhán, it's Brian you stupid fuck.
—I'm sorry Brian, I said vaguely. The pain was rather excruciating and my nether regions felt like they were about to burst. Bizarrely enough after a second the pain disappeared and it was replaced by the vaguely pleasant sensation of warmth you feel when you piss yourself. Suddenly I felt myself losing balance.
—I really am sorry, I am! That's why I hari-kari'd myself. It seemed like a good idea at the time but then again so did Hiroshima. O, this honour business is rotten. I don't want to die! All I wanted was to have a bit of fun and see the rugby match. O, O, O.
Brian looked very confused and I realized he must have thought that I was mad. I probably was. Suddenly a feeling of lightheadedness overcame me. In desperate panic I tore my bloody hands from my pockets and grabbed at Brian's voluminous bouffant to keep myself upright, smearing his face with pinkish blood in the process. This didn't really work and instead I sent him flying onto the road and straight under the wheels of a passing Panda bin lorry.
What a shame I thought as I lay in a gathering pool of blood next to my discarded cheeseburger.
What a shame indeed.
—Siobhán! I said, but she didn't react. I picked up my pace a little to catch up with her.
—Siobhán! I said again. She seemed to have earphones in. What a surprise she'll get when she sees me I thought, and so I ran a little faster until I was right behind her.
—Siobhán, you leatherheaded fuck! I shouted, clattering her across the back of the head with my left hand (in which was held the halfeaten two-euro cheeseburger).
The next second seemed to go on forever. She turned around very slowly as if in shock, and then it hit me. It wasn't Siobhán after all. It was a very irate man that looked nothing like Siobhán.
—Jaysus! I said.
—What the fuck! said the man in a very angry voice.
—I, I, I'm sorry, I just...you know, well, I think...you see, it was, eh, well, I thought that, eh, Siobhán—
—Who the fuck is Siobhán? he said, getting more irate by the minute. His hair was the same colour as hers. That was something. An orangey blob of gooey MacDonald's cheese protruded from the top of his curly mop.
—You see, it was all very innocent really, I just THOUGHT, I mean I THOUGHT that I saw Siobhán but clearly I didn't and I must have just accidentally fallen on top of you instead there. So no harm done and all, yeah! I said, trying to convince myself as well as the irate man of this version of events but failing on both accounts. I was shaking like a leaf. My hands made their ways into my jacket pockets (the burger discarded on the ground in semi-shock) and my right hand grasped the Leatherman multitool which was concealed in my pocket.
—What the FUCK is wrong with you you plastic bastard? he said. His eyes were slightly red, and seemed almost ready to pop out of his head.
—I'm sorry Siobhán. I can't even say any more. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I said, grasping the multitool in my pocket and stabbing myself in the bowels with it through the lining of my jacket. I whimpered a little, but he didn't seem to notice.
—My name's not Siobhán, it's Brian you stupid fuck.
—I'm sorry Brian, I said vaguely. The pain was rather excruciating and my nether regions felt like they were about to burst. Bizarrely enough after a second the pain disappeared and it was replaced by the vaguely pleasant sensation of warmth you feel when you piss yourself. Suddenly I felt myself losing balance.
—I really am sorry, I am! That's why I hari-kari'd myself. It seemed like a good idea at the time but then again so did Hiroshima. O, this honour business is rotten. I don't want to die! All I wanted was to have a bit of fun and see the rugby match. O, O, O.
Brian looked very confused and I realized he must have thought that I was mad. I probably was. Suddenly a feeling of lightheadedness overcame me. In desperate panic I tore my bloody hands from my pockets and grabbed at Brian's voluminous bouffant to keep myself upright, smearing his face with pinkish blood in the process. This didn't really work and instead I sent him flying onto the road and straight under the wheels of a passing Panda bin lorry.
What a shame I thought as I lay in a gathering pool of blood next to my discarded cheeseburger.
What a shame indeed.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Hidden Dublin.
“Jeh ‘member when the 41c used leave from Eden Quay?” said one distinctive-looking aulfla’. In that he was distinctive, I mean that he was distinctively old.
“That I do, that I do,” replied a second accompanying aulfla’ and presumably an associate of the first. “And by the same token, jeh remember when Eden Quay (pronounce [ke] in IPA) wasn’t there at all at all?”
“What are on about now? Sure it’s always bin there. Wasn’t there. Would ye listen to yerself?!”
“As true and real as we’re sitting here (‘here’ being Insomnia coffee shop on Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1), Eden Quay was only constructed about nine years ago. An’ now if ye don’t remember that, yer min’s goin’ places you’re not.”
“Sure, look, my Margaret’s dead now ten and a half years and it was there when she was walking the earth, God rest her kind soul. Are ye tryin’ to tell me that Eden Quay wasn’t there when she was?”
“You’re bang on. You were torn up by grief so you were, I remember it well. A fine woman she was and a fine wife I wouldn’t be shamed to have had if I was you. But the one think about her was that she never set eyes on Eden Quay. Let alone did she get the bus from it either.”
“Yer mad. Yer sayin’ they built it not ten years ago. An’ tell me this, what was there before this time in our glorious past when Eden Quay wasn’t there? Tell me that.”
“There was nuttin’ there o’ course. Sure isn’t it a river? Our own Liffey came all the way up as far as Liberty Hall and the Customs House down the road, or ‘down the river’ as we said then. Jeh not remember?”
“Your head’s done in for sure. The Liffey was up against the Customs House?!”
“Lapping up ‘gainst the windows, so it was. Y’kno little Johnny Sheridan’s father? Sure he worked for Local Govehment in the basement of the Customs House and he’d tell yeh that he’d drownded if someone left the latch off the air vent.”
“What’s Johnny Sheridan’s father got to do with any o’ dis? Look, don’t be telling me lies. You’re having me on an’ it’s not worth the time o’ day.”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember this. The Corpo were down there for months building on the quay and pushing the water back with great big machines and magnetic devices and the divil knows what. The achievement of the century they were calling it. Reclaiming Ireland for Dubliners they said. The bit of Ireland the Brits never ruled. Now, they didn’t make much use of it, I’ll tell yeh. A road an’ a few benches is all they put on it.”
“Like the Dutch?”
“Like the Dutch, wha’?”
“The Corpo reclaimed land from the sea like the Dutch?”
“No, no! They just sorta extended the city out about forty feet and put Eden Quay on it.”
“Are yeh sure?”
“It’s a Dublin fact,” said he in triumph. “Are yeh gettin’ another muffin?”
“That I do, that I do,” replied a second accompanying aulfla’ and presumably an associate of the first. “And by the same token, jeh remember when Eden Quay (pronounce [ke] in IPA) wasn’t there at all at all?”
“What are on about now? Sure it’s always bin there. Wasn’t there. Would ye listen to yerself?!”
“As true and real as we’re sitting here (‘here’ being Insomnia coffee shop on Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1), Eden Quay was only constructed about nine years ago. An’ now if ye don’t remember that, yer min’s goin’ places you’re not.”
“Sure, look, my Margaret’s dead now ten and a half years and it was there when she was walking the earth, God rest her kind soul. Are ye tryin’ to tell me that Eden Quay wasn’t there when she was?”
“You’re bang on. You were torn up by grief so you were, I remember it well. A fine woman she was and a fine wife I wouldn’t be shamed to have had if I was you. But the one think about her was that she never set eyes on Eden Quay. Let alone did she get the bus from it either.”
“Yer mad. Yer sayin’ they built it not ten years ago. An’ tell me this, what was there before this time in our glorious past when Eden Quay wasn’t there? Tell me that.”
“There was nuttin’ there o’ course. Sure isn’t it a river? Our own Liffey came all the way up as far as Liberty Hall and the Customs House down the road, or ‘down the river’ as we said then. Jeh not remember?”
“Your head’s done in for sure. The Liffey was up against the Customs House?!”
“Lapping up ‘gainst the windows, so it was. Y’kno little Johnny Sheridan’s father? Sure he worked for Local Govehment in the basement of the Customs House and he’d tell yeh that he’d drownded if someone left the latch off the air vent.”
“What’s Johnny Sheridan’s father got to do with any o’ dis? Look, don’t be telling me lies. You’re having me on an’ it’s not worth the time o’ day.”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember this. The Corpo were down there for months building on the quay and pushing the water back with great big machines and magnetic devices and the divil knows what. The achievement of the century they were calling it. Reclaiming Ireland for Dubliners they said. The bit of Ireland the Brits never ruled. Now, they didn’t make much use of it, I’ll tell yeh. A road an’ a few benches is all they put on it.”
“Like the Dutch?”
“Like the Dutch, wha’?”
“The Corpo reclaimed land from the sea like the Dutch?”
“No, no! They just sorta extended the city out about forty feet and put Eden Quay on it.”
“Are yeh sure?”
“It’s a Dublin fact,” said he in triumph. “Are yeh gettin’ another muffin?”
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Bramwanking.
Making up a bram on the spot and forgetting it before it can be brammed is exactly like wanking.
Think about it.
Think about it.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Diarmuid agus Gráinne ag marcaíocht.
Lá amháin, bhí Diarmuid agus Gráinne amuigh sa gháirdín agus ní raibh aon éadaí orthu.
'A Dhiarmuid!' arsa Gráinne. 'Tar anseo agus tabhair sé dom!'
Bhí áthas an domhain ar Diarmuid agus bhí bata mór aige. Thóg sé a mhicí as a bhrístí agus chuir sé é i bhosca Gráinne.
'Ó Ó Ó Ó!' a scread Gráinne taréis cúpla nóiméad ag marcaíocht.
'Tá mé ag teacht!' arsa Diarmuid agus chríochnaigh sé taréis nóiméad amháin. Bhí áthas ar an bheirt agus thit siad ina gcodladh.
'A Dhiarmuid!' arsa Gráinne. 'Tar anseo agus tabhair sé dom!'
Bhí áthas an domhain ar Diarmuid agus bhí bata mór aige. Thóg sé a mhicí as a bhrístí agus chuir sé é i bhosca Gráinne.
'Ó Ó Ó Ó!' a scread Gráinne taréis cúpla nóiméad ag marcaíocht.
'Tá mé ag teacht!' arsa Diarmuid agus chríochnaigh sé taréis nóiméad amháin. Bhí áthas ar an bheirt agus thit siad ina gcodladh.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Six reasons why bringing back the Latin Mass is a bad idea.
1. No-one can speak Latin.
2. Priests can't actually speak Latin, and are probably just mumbling to themselves.
3. It's racist.
4. Women spend so much money on their hair nowadays, it'd be a shame for them to have to cover it up at Mass.
5. 'Corpus Christi.'
— 'Ye fuckin' wha'?'
2. Priests can't actually speak Latin, and are probably just mumbling to themselves.
3. It's racist.
4. Women spend so much money on their hair nowadays, it'd be a shame for them to have to cover it up at Mass.
5. 'Corpus Christi.'
— 'Ye fuckin' wha'?'
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Shauna and the Irony of a Same-Sex Relationship.
[Dear readers of Bram, this is a trial. This post is un-Bram. Testing testing. Thank you for your patience. Yours faithffully, Willie.]
They say we should learn from our mistakes. I sure did.
My name is Shauna and I'm a real-life lesbian. I say "real-life" for a reason. These days it's necessary. Since lesbianism became popular as a result of reality television (and girls' desire to look sexy in front of heterosexual men--attention-seeking whores) the once quite set lines of sexuality have become like a February morning--hazy.
This is the background to my tragedy. In short, I met a girl and fell in love with her. As my feelings for her continued to grow I learned that she wasn't a lesbian at all. She had a long-term boyfriend that had gone to Germany to study. Stuttgart to be precise.
I was drinking alone in a city centre pub one night when I met Janice my ex-(fake) girlfriend. She was out with her friends from work. It was a girls night out and they were drunk. They were guzzling vodka so I presumed they were straight until Janice came to talk to me. After asking my name she kissed me with much passion and tongue. Admittedly I did think it odd that she kept looking back at her friends who were laughing heartily. But that wasn't important then. Real female contact made me feel alive.
We started "dating" which consisted of going out with her friends to clubs, lots of passionate kissing and erotic dancing that attracted considerable attention. Of course I thought this was for me when it was really for the the six-foot hunk in the corner. This continued for a month or so until I felt so strongly for Janice that I told her I loved her. She laughed, ordered a bottle of Bacardi Breezer and started feeling up the next guy at the bar of the club we were in.
My mistake was, of course, trusting another woman. After my experience with Janice, I travelled a bit. I saw most of Australia. You could say I learned a lot and learned something directly from Janice. I'm now married to Matt and we live happily with our three children (two girls and one boy) in West Sussex.
Funny how things work out, huh?
They say we should learn from our mistakes. I sure did.
My name is Shauna and I'm a real-life lesbian. I say "real-life" for a reason. These days it's necessary. Since lesbianism became popular as a result of reality television (and girls' desire to look sexy in front of heterosexual men--attention-seeking whores) the once quite set lines of sexuality have become like a February morning--hazy.
This is the background to my tragedy. In short, I met a girl and fell in love with her. As my feelings for her continued to grow I learned that she wasn't a lesbian at all. She had a long-term boyfriend that had gone to Germany to study. Stuttgart to be precise.
I was drinking alone in a city centre pub one night when I met Janice my ex-(fake) girlfriend. She was out with her friends from work. It was a girls night out and they were drunk. They were guzzling vodka so I presumed they were straight until Janice came to talk to me. After asking my name she kissed me with much passion and tongue. Admittedly I did think it odd that she kept looking back at her friends who were laughing heartily. But that wasn't important then. Real female contact made me feel alive.
We started "dating" which consisted of going out with her friends to clubs, lots of passionate kissing and erotic dancing that attracted considerable attention. Of course I thought this was for me when it was really for the the six-foot hunk in the corner. This continued for a month or so until I felt so strongly for Janice that I told her I loved her. She laughed, ordered a bottle of Bacardi Breezer and started feeling up the next guy at the bar of the club we were in.
My mistake was, of course, trusting another woman. After my experience with Janice, I travelled a bit. I saw most of Australia. You could say I learned a lot and learned something directly from Janice. I'm now married to Matt and we live happily with our three children (two girls and one boy) in West Sussex.
Funny how things work out, huh?
Friday, July 3, 2009
Dinnertime in Heaven.
"Jay-sis!?"
"Wha'?"
"That's enough of that attitude with me Jay-sis! Did you answer your prayers today?"
"Go away, I'll did it after dinner."
"That's what you said yesterday and 400 people down there died from that disease that was killing all those chickens. St. Peter was down my neck last night about all the paper-work he has to do for new admissions. He had to stay back until seven o'clock, he did. I had to tell him you were planning an apparition somewhere. I can't keep making up excuses for you."
"Ah, fine, I'll do the prayers now."
(St. Anthony arrives at Mary's door. Knocking within.)
"Hello, Mary."
"Afternoon, Tony."
"I was wondering if you'd have a word with the Lord for me on behalf of a friend of mine. It's Joe in Balbriggin; he's lost his keys again. He's a good man and helps charities as much as he can."
"Ah, fuck, this is the third time he's after losing them in a month! Is is blind or what!?"
"Eh, he is actually. Fully blind. From birth too. Poor soul."
"Ah, Jay-sis."
(voice coming from living-room) "Wha'?"
(calling into the living-room) "I'll be into you in a minute. (to St. Anthony with a sigh) I'll see what I can do. The world is full of down-and-outs these days, Tony. That leads to a lot of prayers, you see. It's bleedin' overload at the moment. There's talk of privatisation going around. Keep your ear to the ground."
"O, I will, Mary. Thank you and God bless you."
[Aside] "I'm bloody well missing Cash in the Attic with all these saints."
A group of holy auld ones visit Mary. (knocking within)
"Hello" (answering the door, Mary sees a crowd of holy, kneeling, praying auld ones on the doorstep).
"Good day to you, the holiest woman, the mother of God and the commander-in-chief of our Legion."
"Oh, it's youz."
"Yes, Mother. We are here to pray to you to use your intercession to pray to God for the well-being of a nun in Buenos Aires. She's got a bad dose of whooping cough."
"Oh, in the name of the earth and all its plants and the like. All yez do is come and ask me for to use my connection with the big man. Intercession this, we ask for your intercession that. Yez are a bleedin' legion by name and my legion at that. I want some action. Instead of leaving that woman in bed and praying to me by her near to be death-bed, bring her to see the shaggin' doctor. He only lives next door. He'll give her some Calpol and she'll be grand by tea-time. The next time you find yourself picking up your rosary beads, think, "what can I do to help this situation without the intercession of the Virgin Mary?"
"Mary you are both kind and wise aswell as being the virgin mother of our Lord Jesus Christ. We will do as you say and take up arms the next time there's bad trouble in the Holy Land instead of asking for your intercession that someone else shoot all those bold children on the streets. Okay ladies, ready, 1, 2 and three. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord......."
(Mary slams the door and returns to the kitchen and leans wearily on the back of the closed door.)
"It sucks being the only person in heaven with a body."
"Wha'?"
"That's enough of that attitude with me Jay-sis! Did you answer your prayers today?"
"Go away, I'll did it after dinner."
"That's what you said yesterday and 400 people down there died from that disease that was killing all those chickens. St. Peter was down my neck last night about all the paper-work he has to do for new admissions. He had to stay back until seven o'clock, he did. I had to tell him you were planning an apparition somewhere. I can't keep making up excuses for you."
"Ah, fine, I'll do the prayers now."
(St. Anthony arrives at Mary's door. Knocking within.)
"Hello, Mary."
"Afternoon, Tony."
"I was wondering if you'd have a word with the Lord for me on behalf of a friend of mine. It's Joe in Balbriggin; he's lost his keys again. He's a good man and helps charities as much as he can."
"Ah, fuck, this is the third time he's after losing them in a month! Is is blind or what!?"
"Eh, he is actually. Fully blind. From birth too. Poor soul."
"Ah, Jay-sis."
(voice coming from living-room) "Wha'?"
(calling into the living-room) "I'll be into you in a minute. (to St. Anthony with a sigh) I'll see what I can do. The world is full of down-and-outs these days, Tony. That leads to a lot of prayers, you see. It's bleedin' overload at the moment. There's talk of privatisation going around. Keep your ear to the ground."
"O, I will, Mary. Thank you and God bless you."
[Aside] "I'm bloody well missing Cash in the Attic with all these saints."
A group of holy auld ones visit Mary. (knocking within)
"Hello" (answering the door, Mary sees a crowd of holy, kneeling, praying auld ones on the doorstep).
"Good day to you, the holiest woman, the mother of God and the commander-in-chief of our Legion."
"Oh, it's youz."
"Yes, Mother. We are here to pray to you to use your intercession to pray to God for the well-being of a nun in Buenos Aires. She's got a bad dose of whooping cough."
"Oh, in the name of the earth and all its plants and the like. All yez do is come and ask me for to use my connection with the big man. Intercession this, we ask for your intercession that. Yez are a bleedin' legion by name and my legion at that. I want some action. Instead of leaving that woman in bed and praying to me by her near to be death-bed, bring her to see the shaggin' doctor. He only lives next door. He'll give her some Calpol and she'll be grand by tea-time. The next time you find yourself picking up your rosary beads, think, "what can I do to help this situation without the intercession of the Virgin Mary?"
"Mary you are both kind and wise aswell as being the virgin mother of our Lord Jesus Christ. We will do as you say and take up arms the next time there's bad trouble in the Holy Land instead of asking for your intercession that someone else shoot all those bold children on the streets. Okay ladies, ready, 1, 2 and three. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord......."
(Mary slams the door and returns to the kitchen and leans wearily on the back of the closed door.)
"It sucks being the only person in heaven with a body."
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
LOL! LOL! LOL!
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vibrator_(sex_toy)
Particularly love the vibrator ad from 1910 and 'Vibrators for disabled people'. LOL!
Particularly love the vibrator ad from 1910 and 'Vibrators for disabled people'. LOL!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Enda Kenny and toilets.
The Taoiseach: Deputy Kenny has suggested the economy is going down the toilet in toto. He is suggesting that is a level of indebtedness that is simply out of kilter with everybody else. We will still be the third lowest-----
Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet”.
The Taoiseach: -----in the euro area for total level of indebtedness.
Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet” at all.
The Taoiseach: Deputy Kenny has been saying-----
(Interruptions).
An Ceann Comhairle: Please allow the Taoiseach to continue without interruption, please.
The Taoiseach: The Deputy has been continuously coming into this House----
Deputy Enda Kenny: The Taoiseach should keep away from the toilets.
Deputy Noel Dempsey: That is about the level of the Deputy’s intellect.
(Interruptions).
Deputy Enda Kenny: How is the Deputy’s friend, Mr. McKevitt, today?
Deputy Ulick Burke: He wants to take a break.
An Ceann Comhairle: Allow the Taoiseach to continue without interruption, please.
The Taoiseach: The Deputy has been continually coming into this House suggesting that there are no prospects for this economy. I am making it very clear that the-----
Deputy James Reilly: Not under the Taoiseach’s tutorage.
Deputy Enda Kenny: Forget about the toilet. What about a-----
The Taoiseach: Are we going to have a debate or an infantile, childish-----
An Ceann Comhairle: Allow the Taoiseach to continue please.
The Taoiseach: Let us have a serious debate.
An Ceann Comhairle: The Taoiseach, without interruption.
The Taoiseach: The people have spoken. They want to us talk about the future and the seriousness of the situation.
Deputy Alan Shatter: The Taoiseach should tell us how he created the structural deficit.
The Taoiseach: Let us have a chat about it. Let us discuss it. With respect, I listened to what others had to say and I expect them to do the same for me.
Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet” at all.
The Taoiseach: The Deputy is saying he did not mention the word “toilet” to me. He is coming into this House week in and week out, saying that the banks are banjaxed and everything else is banjaxed and that the whole country is going down the tubes.
Deputy Fergus O’Dowd: They are.
The Taoiseach: That is the Deputy’s contention.
Deputy Fergus O’Dowd: The Taoiseach is banjaxed.
Deputy Enda Kenny: The Taoiseach was not on the streets. He does not know.
The Taoiseach: I do know-----
An Ceann Comhairle: The Taoiseach, without interruption please.
Deputy Noel Dempsey: Have some manners.
Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet”.
The Taoiseach: -----in the euro area for total level of indebtedness.
Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet” at all.
The Taoiseach: Deputy Kenny has been saying-----
(Interruptions).
An Ceann Comhairle: Please allow the Taoiseach to continue without interruption, please.
The Taoiseach: The Deputy has been continuously coming into this House----
Deputy Enda Kenny: The Taoiseach should keep away from the toilets.
Deputy Noel Dempsey: That is about the level of the Deputy’s intellect.
(Interruptions).
Deputy Enda Kenny: How is the Deputy’s friend, Mr. McKevitt, today?
Deputy Ulick Burke: He wants to take a break.
An Ceann Comhairle: Allow the Taoiseach to continue without interruption, please.
The Taoiseach: The Deputy has been continually coming into this House suggesting that there are no prospects for this economy. I am making it very clear that the-----
Deputy James Reilly: Not under the Taoiseach’s tutorage.
Deputy Enda Kenny: Forget about the toilet. What about a-----
The Taoiseach: Are we going to have a debate or an infantile, childish-----
An Ceann Comhairle: Allow the Taoiseach to continue please.
The Taoiseach: Let us have a serious debate.
An Ceann Comhairle: The Taoiseach, without interruption.
The Taoiseach: The people have spoken. They want to us talk about the future and the seriousness of the situation.
Deputy Alan Shatter: The Taoiseach should tell us how he created the structural deficit.
The Taoiseach: Let us have a chat about it. Let us discuss it. With respect, I listened to what others had to say and I expect them to do the same for me.
Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet” at all.
The Taoiseach: The Deputy is saying he did not mention the word “toilet” to me. He is coming into this House week in and week out, saying that the banks are banjaxed and everything else is banjaxed and that the whole country is going down the tubes.
Deputy Fergus O’Dowd: They are.
The Taoiseach: That is the Deputy’s contention.
Deputy Fergus O’Dowd: The Taoiseach is banjaxed.
Deputy Enda Kenny: The Taoiseach was not on the streets. He does not know.
The Taoiseach: I do know-----
An Ceann Comhairle: The Taoiseach, without interruption please.
Deputy Noel Dempsey: Have some manners.
LOL.
Deputy Enda Kenny: -----going from disaster to disaster. The best way to provide stability and to grapple with our country’s problems would be to let the people decide whose programme they like best, whose programme will solve the nation’s problems and which party-----
Deputy Noel Dempsey: Fine Gael does not have one.
(Interruptions).
An Ceann Comhairle: Deputy Kenny without interruption.
Deputy Dermot Ahern: Fine Gael cannot produce one.
Deputy Brian Lenihan: Páipéar.
Deputy Bernard J. Durkan: Easy, lads.
Deputy Noel Dempsey: Fine Gael does not have one.
(Interruptions).
An Ceann Comhairle: Deputy Kenny without interruption.
Deputy Dermot Ahern: Fine Gael cannot produce one.
Deputy Brian Lenihan: Páipéar.
Deputy Bernard J. Durkan: Easy, lads.
Monday, June 8, 2009
A prayer to gee.
O Gee with your teeth,
please stay away from my bed tonight:
I'm tired and don't want to be eaten by you
or any other member of the genital family.
Why do you haunt me with your unforgiving glances
and mystifying eyes?
Go now and haunt Bob Geldof.
A-women.
please stay away from my bed tonight:
I'm tired and don't want to be eaten by you
or any other member of the genital family.
Why do you haunt me with your unforgiving glances
and mystifying eyes?
Go now and haunt Bob Geldof.
A-women.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Graham and Edith's Naughty Half Hour.
Mr and Mrs Graham Whitethorpe, a fine couple of midfortysomethings who lived along Marlborough Road, Dublin 4. Being good Protestants as they were they went to church every Sunday and were of good standing in the community.
Now there is a rather unfair prejudice against Protestants that they're tightfisted cockmunchers. Of course, that's not true. However, a little story may illuminate you as to the ways of Mr and Mrs Whitethorpe as particular examples of the Protestant kind.
Graham and Edith had just had a romp one Friday evening as they were about to go sleep. Edith was rather tired and needed to be up in the morning in order to bake cakes for the Mothers' Union cake sale that Sunday afternoon, and so she turned around to go asleep. However, Graham had other ideas.
'Edie dear,' said Graham, 'would you fancy another bit of rumpy-pumpy?'
'Whatever for Graham darling? I must be up rather early in the morning to bake cakes. And Reverend Swann is coming over for elevenses!'
'Well, I just thought, while I have you here we might as well get our money's worth from this rubber. I mean, it did cost all of two pounds fifty, which I think you'll agree was a little bit on the steep side.'
'O, always the thrifty one Graham dear! Go ahead then darling.'
'Close your eyes and think of England, and I'll be done in two minutes.'
And so they had another bit of slap-and-tickle. However, the poor condom had given its money's worth already and gave up the ghost just as Graham was getting into the, er, swing of things. And so Edith had a child at the age of forty-six, which was terribly inconvenient for her career. But at least it gained her a little bit of credibility in the Mother's Union circles.
God love them, even though he probably doesn't love Protestants. A-women.
Now there is a rather unfair prejudice against Protestants that they're tightfisted cockmunchers. Of course, that's not true. However, a little story may illuminate you as to the ways of Mr and Mrs Whitethorpe as particular examples of the Protestant kind.
Graham and Edith had just had a romp one Friday evening as they were about to go sleep. Edith was rather tired and needed to be up in the morning in order to bake cakes for the Mothers' Union cake sale that Sunday afternoon, and so she turned around to go asleep. However, Graham had other ideas.
'Edie dear,' said Graham, 'would you fancy another bit of rumpy-pumpy?'
'Whatever for Graham darling? I must be up rather early in the morning to bake cakes. And Reverend Swann is coming over for elevenses!'
'Well, I just thought, while I have you here we might as well get our money's worth from this rubber. I mean, it did cost all of two pounds fifty, which I think you'll agree was a little bit on the steep side.'
'O, always the thrifty one Graham dear! Go ahead then darling.'
'Close your eyes and think of England, and I'll be done in two minutes.'
And so they had another bit of slap-and-tickle. However, the poor condom had given its money's worth already and gave up the ghost just as Graham was getting into the, er, swing of things. And so Edith had a child at the age of forty-six, which was terribly inconvenient for her career. But at least it gained her a little bit of credibility in the Mother's Union circles.
God love them, even though he probably doesn't love Protestants. A-women.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Pahnell.
"Excuse me young lady," shouts the Gard through his megaphone. "Can you please get down off the statue?"
The Parnell monument at the top of Sráid Uí Chonaill, just there outside thambazdr where My Chemical Romance (huh huh!) will be playing on Tuesday night when they remove all the dead bodies. Good old Bvv, scaling Parnell and trying to ride his statue. It's not the first time either. As a matter of fact, the Gards were getting rather pissed off as it was the third time this week she'd done it.
"Bvvvvvvvvvvvv, Pahnell," she said, making noises like a cold hoover. In fact, it was rather chilly up there near Parnell's crotch.
"Excuse me, you're going to have to come down off the statue as you're causing a public disturbance."
"Matthew will you read please. Conor turn your phone off or I'll have no choice but to rip your head off do you understand."
The Gards couldn't hear what she was saying, but they were right in believing she was insane, and so called immediately for reinforcements.
"You have to write six essays and then three more and eighteen of them in an hour and a half and then the Protestants said that Home Rule would be Rome Rule but Hitler wasn't like that at all because he was small heheheheheheh. I lav Pahnell."
Poor weird little woman. Mizbrigck. Bvv.
"Bwooh, no, that's not how you do it, it's BWWWWWUUUUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOHHH!!!!!!!"
"Bvv. Hihih."
"Please get down off the statue. Please, get down off the statue."
"Pahnell I love you I know you never really loved Kitty O'Shea it was me really wasn't it Pahnell O Pahnell let's get married and live in Avondale forever and ever bvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv————
BANG. They shot her with a rifle that once belonged to Aimin' de Valera and there she was, did.
"Well, that wasn't as bad as I thought Brendan," said Garda Fitzgibbon. "Going home now, the wife's making fish cakes for tea. See you tomorrow."
"Bye Barry," said Brendan. "Enjoy the fish cakes."
The Parnell monument at the top of Sráid Uí Chonaill, just there outside thambazdr where My Chemical Romance (huh huh!) will be playing on Tuesday night when they remove all the dead bodies. Good old Bvv, scaling Parnell and trying to ride his statue. It's not the first time either. As a matter of fact, the Gards were getting rather pissed off as it was the third time this week she'd done it.
"Bvvvvvvvvvvvv, Pahnell," she said, making noises like a cold hoover. In fact, it was rather chilly up there near Parnell's crotch.
"Excuse me, you're going to have to come down off the statue as you're causing a public disturbance."
"Matthew will you read please. Conor turn your phone off or I'll have no choice but to rip your head off do you understand."
The Gards couldn't hear what she was saying, but they were right in believing she was insane, and so called immediately for reinforcements.
"You have to write six essays and then three more and eighteen of them in an hour and a half and then the Protestants said that Home Rule would be Rome Rule but Hitler wasn't like that at all because he was small heheheheheheh. I lav Pahnell."
Poor weird little woman. Mizbrigck. Bvv.
"Bwooh, no, that's not how you do it, it's BWWWWWUUUUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOHHH!!!!!!!"
"Bvv. Hihih."
"Please get down off the statue. Please, get down off the statue."
"Pahnell I love you I know you never really loved Kitty O'Shea it was me really wasn't it Pahnell O Pahnell let's get married and live in Avondale forever and ever bvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv————
BANG. They shot her with a rifle that once belonged to Aimin' de Valera and there she was, did.
"Well, that wasn't as bad as I thought Brendan," said Garda Fitzgibbon. "Going home now, the wife's making fish cakes for tea. See you tomorrow."
"Bye Barry," said Brendan. "Enjoy the fish cakes."
Monday, May 18, 2009
Brief Interuption
We will return to the Lesbo Trilogy shortly after this coverage of some golf game somewhere.
"Well, Tom, isn't it a lovely day here at this large expensive-looking green place?"
"Yes, Tom, I couldn't agree more. It's very green here today."
"We have some guy with a stripy tee-shirt at the eighth hole. I presume he's going to try to put the ball in the hole now."
"Yeah, Tom. That's a good guess. Oh, here he goes. He's started to wiggle a bit as he lines up or whatever they do."
"That's right, Tom. I'm going to predict that he's going to strike it next."
"OH, yes. He's just hit the ball using the stick. Remarkable."
"So, the ball is now on its way towards the hole."
"I think the ball might go into the hole, Tom."
"Yes, Tom. It might go into the hole. But, I also have my doubts. Maybe it won't go into the hole."
"Well, I have to say, it's surely going in the direction on the hole."
"I see your point, Tom. It is going in the direction of the hole, but maybe only the general direction."
"It's pretty tense here as we continue to watch the ball travel towards the location of the hole."
"Oh, look at that, Tom. He's missed it."
"He has missed it, Tom. I really thought it was going into the hole."
"I was thinking that myself. But I now see that I was right to doubt that it was going to go into the hole on that shot."
"All the standing around leaning on sticks isn't going to change the fact that the ball just didn't go into the hole that time. For a while it looked like it was going to go in..."
"It did, Tom."
"...but, in the end, it didn't."
"And he doesn't look happy about, Tom."
"Well, I wouldn't be happy with that miss either. Want to go for a WKD?"
"Bang up job, Tom."
"Well, Tom, isn't it a lovely day here at this large expensive-looking green place?"
"Yes, Tom, I couldn't agree more. It's very green here today."
"We have some guy with a stripy tee-shirt at the eighth hole. I presume he's going to try to put the ball in the hole now."
"Yeah, Tom. That's a good guess. Oh, here he goes. He's started to wiggle a bit as he lines up or whatever they do."
"That's right, Tom. I'm going to predict that he's going to strike it next."
"OH, yes. He's just hit the ball using the stick. Remarkable."
"So, the ball is now on its way towards the hole."
"I think the ball might go into the hole, Tom."
"Yes, Tom. It might go into the hole. But, I also have my doubts. Maybe it won't go into the hole."
"Well, I have to say, it's surely going in the direction on the hole."
"I see your point, Tom. It is going in the direction of the hole, but maybe only the general direction."
"It's pretty tense here as we continue to watch the ball travel towards the location of the hole."
"Oh, look at that, Tom. He's missed it."
"He has missed it, Tom. I really thought it was going into the hole."
"I was thinking that myself. But I now see that I was right to doubt that it was going to go into the hole on that shot."
"All the standing around leaning on sticks isn't going to change the fact that the ball just didn't go into the hole that time. For a while it looked like it was going to go in..."
"It did, Tom."
"...but, in the end, it didn't."
"And he doesn't look happy about, Tom."
"Well, I wouldn't be happy with that miss either. Want to go for a WKD?"
"Bang up job, Tom."
Friday, May 15, 2009
A Romance on Two Wheels.
—Come lesbians all, rejoice,
With heart and hand and voice.
Pippi was a lesbo and she was feeling down. It didn't help that she even sounded like a lesbo, so she couldn't really escape it at all.
—Hi, my name is Pippi.
—Are you a lesbian or something?
She really didn't appreciate that. However, she did her best to hide her lesbianisms and despite the bright red shoes, the manly gait and the Southamerican girlfriend she did an okay job of it. She spent her time trying to make it up to Gawd by singing the Easter proclamation (the exsultet, not the proclamation of the ayrish rhepablick) and visiting old people's homes. That is homes for old people, not the homes of old people (just so we have that one cleared up).
So when Pippi started to become an aulone she knew what people were thinking. Look, it's Pippi Magee, old lesbo in denial. So after a long hard think, she came up with the solution.
One day as she visited the old people's home in Ballymun she met a nice old gent in a wheelchair named Jim. Now it so happened that he was actually the bastard child of An Taoiseach Jack Lynch and Lennie Bernstein (who wants to do Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen) who used to tune pianos for a living but somehow ended up in a wheelchair and basically couldn't manage it anymore. How often do you and your wife manage it, Mr Fawlty? A couple of times a week as a matter of fact. Well, he certainly couldn't manage it, and neither could he tune pianos, so Pippi fell madly in false love with him straight away and they decided to be married by Father Brian right that day in a gunshot ceremony, during which someone was actually shot outside in a drug-related incident, leading Father Brian to declare that it was just sick. They trundled down the aisle together to the strains of the Mendelssohn wedding march as played by an aulone on a casio keyboard (on single-finger setting) with Dr More and co in the background smiling like gobaloons and strumming guitars. (Mrs More played the flute, which Father Brian also said was sick but found secretly arousing.)
And so Pippi and Jim lived happily ever after. He died two weeks later when he fell out of his wheelchair outside the Fingal Coco offices and Pippi was very sad (at least on the surface, as she was actually relieved that she wouldn't have to push that fucking wheelchair around anymore). So it was win-win really. Jim died rather more happy than he had expected, and nobody thought Pippi was a lesbo anymore. The plan had worked.
Well done Pippi, well done Jim, well done lesbos all. Amen.
With heart and hand and voice.
Pippi was a lesbo and she was feeling down. It didn't help that she even sounded like a lesbo, so she couldn't really escape it at all.
—Hi, my name is Pippi.
—Are you a lesbian or something?
She really didn't appreciate that. However, she did her best to hide her lesbianisms and despite the bright red shoes, the manly gait and the Southamerican girlfriend she did an okay job of it. She spent her time trying to make it up to Gawd by singing the Easter proclamation (the exsultet, not the proclamation of the ayrish rhepablick) and visiting old people's homes. That is homes for old people, not the homes of old people (just so we have that one cleared up).
So when Pippi started to become an aulone she knew what people were thinking. Look, it's Pippi Magee, old lesbo in denial. So after a long hard think, she came up with the solution.
One day as she visited the old people's home in Ballymun she met a nice old gent in a wheelchair named Jim. Now it so happened that he was actually the bastard child of An Taoiseach Jack Lynch and Lennie Bernstein (who wants to do Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen) who used to tune pianos for a living but somehow ended up in a wheelchair and basically couldn't manage it anymore. How often do you and your wife manage it, Mr Fawlty? A couple of times a week as a matter of fact. Well, he certainly couldn't manage it, and neither could he tune pianos, so Pippi fell madly in false love with him straight away and they decided to be married by Father Brian right that day in a gunshot ceremony, during which someone was actually shot outside in a drug-related incident, leading Father Brian to declare that it was just sick. They trundled down the aisle together to the strains of the Mendelssohn wedding march as played by an aulone on a casio keyboard (on single-finger setting) with Dr More and co in the background smiling like gobaloons and strumming guitars. (Mrs More played the flute, which Father Brian also said was sick but found secretly arousing.)
And so Pippi and Jim lived happily ever after. He died two weeks later when he fell out of his wheelchair outside the Fingal Coco offices and Pippi was very sad (at least on the surface, as she was actually relieved that she wouldn't have to push that fucking wheelchair around anymore). So it was win-win really. Jim died rather more happy than he had expected, and nobody thought Pippi was a lesbo anymore. The plan had worked.
Well done Pippi, well done Jim, well done lesbos all. Amen.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Most Reverent "the Bish" Elizabeth "Emily" Bishop.
As I sit here, seemingly intellectually, with the daily edition of The Nova Scotia Times, I warn people not to read my poytree-- it's hard work.
I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.
Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.
"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."
I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.
"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.
My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.
I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.
The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).
"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.
The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.
I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.
Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.
"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."
I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.
"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.
My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.
I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.
The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).
"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.
The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Friday, April 17, 2009
The 48th Eurachistic Conference.
Pope Benjidict the X vee eye called the 36th Euchratistic Conflagration in the year 200diddlysquat to be held in Dublin, Ireland for the celebration of Eric Clapton's birthday. The proceedings were renamed "Ecumenical Congress" as the word eucharistic was considered to be offensive and frankly racist to the hindus, muslimists and protestants. The actual event itself was not, however. Well done yet again catholic church.
Day 1 began with a huge procession from Bird Avenue, Clonskeagh to the Pro-Cathedral, Marlborough Street, which was hampered by a large number of pigeons and junkies, but got there eventually. Benediction was pronounced (or whatever verb is correct with benediction, given, benedicted, popeified, etc.) outside the Pro at 5pm just as all the whitecollar types were going home from work.
Now most of these types didn't give a rat's flute about the holy proceedings happening outside the Pro. As a matter of fact, some of them downright despised catholicism, the pope and the chorch. Two of these were Wes and Brian, a pair of queers who lived along Grand Canal Street, Dublin 4. Wes and Brian were two nice chaps in their 30s who had been husband and husband for a few years now and loved nothing more than an evening drinking a nice bottle of mid-range wine followed by a session of weird sex games where they shoved parsnips up each other's noses and smeared gooseberry jam over one another's arses. But of course that was fine in our Tolerant Modern Society where Anything Goes.
Sadly, Wes and Brian had to get divorced in 2004 because one of them discovered the other had raped his dog. Jeesus. However, they met weekly thereafter in the sleaziest joints in Ballsbridge for a quick parsnip and a royid.
The end of the Eorcastic thing was interesting because of a scene which occurred just there beyant O'Connell Bridge. Mary Robinson was there to review the proceedings and it just so happened that she mistook Brian Cowen's wife for the pope, which was very embarrassing, considering there was no pope there at all. Now that was a faux-pas if e'er I saw one.
Well done Mary. Well done Brian's wife. Well done Wes and Brian. Well done Clapton. Well done pope.
Well done all round!
Day 1 began with a huge procession from Bird Avenue, Clonskeagh to the Pro-Cathedral, Marlborough Street, which was hampered by a large number of pigeons and junkies, but got there eventually. Benediction was pronounced (or whatever verb is correct with benediction, given, benedicted, popeified, etc.) outside the Pro at 5pm just as all the whitecollar types were going home from work.
Now most of these types didn't give a rat's flute about the holy proceedings happening outside the Pro. As a matter of fact, some of them downright despised catholicism, the pope and the chorch. Two of these were Wes and Brian, a pair of queers who lived along Grand Canal Street, Dublin 4. Wes and Brian were two nice chaps in their 30s who had been husband and husband for a few years now and loved nothing more than an evening drinking a nice bottle of mid-range wine followed by a session of weird sex games where they shoved parsnips up each other's noses and smeared gooseberry jam over one another's arses. But of course that was fine in our Tolerant Modern Society where Anything Goes.
Sadly, Wes and Brian had to get divorced in 2004 because one of them discovered the other had raped his dog. Jeesus. However, they met weekly thereafter in the sleaziest joints in Ballsbridge for a quick parsnip and a royid.
The end of the Eorcastic thing was interesting because of a scene which occurred just there beyant O'Connell Bridge. Mary Robinson was there to review the proceedings and it just so happened that she mistook Brian Cowen's wife for the pope, which was very embarrassing, considering there was no pope there at all. Now that was a faux-pas if e'er I saw one.
Well done Mary. Well done Brian's wife. Well done Wes and Brian. Well done Clapton. Well done pope.
Well done all round!
Thursday, April 9, 2009
More Dublin Vignettes.
—Hi, can you help me? Like, um, what’s a euro? I’ve just like arrived from the states and I really don’t have my bearings yet.
—Well, a euro is a little small thing you use to buy things.
—So, um, it’s kind of like a dollar?
—Yes, but not quite as thick.
—Hmh. Losing focus. Eat face. Hmh, hmh.
—Come on Samsonite, you’re embarrassing me. You’re slowly ruining my social credibility.
The dog begins barking incessantly.
—Just shut up you little bastard or I’ll have you neutered. Yeah, I mean it this time.
That’ll shut him up.
—But EOB! What am I going to do with this potassium permanganate all over my hands! My social life is ruined!
—Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll fade away in a couple of days. Social life!
—I’ll have twenty Marlboro lights and a pack of those faggy cigarettes for women.
—Excuse me?
—You know the ones, with the flowers on them.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.
—Jeesus! And you call yourself a newsagent.
A drunk aulfella in Ranelagh.
—Can you spare some change or something, I’m staying in the hostel or whatever.
—You’re not very good at this pretending to be homeless thing, are you?
The aulfella knocks his head against the cash machine outside Ulster Bank.
—Ah jaysus, don’t I know it.
Have two euro for your trouble and buy yourself a Kinder Bueno in Centra.
For the way we live today.
—Well, a euro is a little small thing you use to buy things.
—So, um, it’s kind of like a dollar?
—Yes, but not quite as thick.
—Hmh. Losing focus. Eat face. Hmh, hmh.
—Come on Samsonite, you’re embarrassing me. You’re slowly ruining my social credibility.
The dog begins barking incessantly.
—Just shut up you little bastard or I’ll have you neutered. Yeah, I mean it this time.
That’ll shut him up.
—But EOB! What am I going to do with this potassium permanganate all over my hands! My social life is ruined!
—Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll fade away in a couple of days. Social life!
—I’ll have twenty Marlboro lights and a pack of those faggy cigarettes for women.
—Excuse me?
—You know the ones, with the flowers on them.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.
—Jeesus! And you call yourself a newsagent.
A drunk aulfella in Ranelagh.
—Can you spare some change or something, I’m staying in the hostel or whatever.
—You’re not very good at this pretending to be homeless thing, are you?
The aulfella knocks his head against the cash machine outside Ulster Bank.
—Ah jaysus, don’t I know it.
Have two euro for your trouble and buy yourself a Kinder Bueno in Centra.
For the way we live today.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Now to ride Mrs O'Leary.
Dear Mary Robinson, only son of the father. Eternally begotten, light from light, true god, etc. One being. Well done to Mary, with her father being pope and all. Shame he died, got love him. Pope Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, the newest and hippest thing to come out of Ocksfurd this side of Tuesday.
Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.
"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."
"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."
"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."
"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."
Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.
NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!
HAH.
The end.
Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.
"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."
"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."
"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."
"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."
Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.
NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!
HAH.
The end.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Wha'?
Dear Yoplait (Made in Ireland by: Glanbia Consumer Foods, Citywest Business Campus, Dublin 24. LoCall: 1850 20 23 66),
I know things are tough all over and ain't getting any better. Things are more expensive to produce. Consumers are poor. Everywhere you look somebody is telling you to reduce/reuse/recycle or to be green. Cigarettes cost loads and I have to mop floors. I feel the pain. But none of the above complaints give you the right to make the lids on your yoghurts so thin that it is impossible to remove them without them fucking tearing at least twice. What the fuck?
Yours sincerely,
L.
Mary Kenny is such a flange-between-two-wooden-posts. WOOF WOOF.
"Sh00-wiz! Get yer shoo-wiz! Fresh of de back offa Clark's lorry! Tree fura you-row."
Sinatra plays as people try to get through town on a regular Wednesday.
"Good morning."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm too massively geared outa me head."
"Well, this is corner of Marlborough and Abbey."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you're from America. What state?"
"Eh, Vermont..."
"Ooooh, delightful! I love trees."
"On a scale of one to ten, how successful do you think the Northern Ireland peace process has been?"
"Well, I don't think it's that simple. You can't just put it on a number line. It's a complex issue with many facets."
"Eh yeah right. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually active are you?"
"You're not from 'round here, are you?"
"No, I'm Hungarian. On a scale of one to ten, how Hungarian do you think I look"
Less than one millionth of a reality. It's almost a good enough excuse to go get stoned. But Jeff wasn't sure. He needed proof. Good thing his friends had an educational exercise video where hot girls ran around in tight wet t-shirts and talked about the use of recreational drugs. I mean REALLY hot girls.
So, you wanna know about drugs, huh? (Sandy, stop pouring gently-heated caramel all over my breasts, hee hee!) They're bad news, boys. But, then again, so am I! Would you say no to me, hmmmm?
From that day on Jeff was stoned off his face all the time. He was at peace within and without himself and he often masterbated. He began to see what Matthew Bellamy was getting at in "City of Delusion". But in his personal persuit of justice (as he called it), he only got as far as his small collection of butterfly wings hanging on the back of his bedroom door. His parents got worried when he disappeared for several days and was found eating the remains of a red squirrel in St. Anne's Park, Raheny, Dublin Five.
A python snake named Monty. Fair play to Monty. He kicked the ass off those pesky Italians and/or German forces over there in... err, whatchacallit?... Kilmainham?
As the bombs fall, the Eagles play a gig in the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California. "Oh, Johhny" they sing. "There was an aul woman that lived in the woods, Oooooh oooohhooooohhooo, baby!" They never really got the idea of music. They made their money and you can't doubt that. If you listen really closely you will realise that it's all about sex. And, why wouldn't it be? Ask Holy Healy and she'll blush.
Martha was at the gig and then got trashed on Virginia Avenoo. She subsequently died but that's hardly relevent. The post mortem found a small microphone lodged between her upper left molars. There's a pun to be made there somewhere. But until the coroner releaese the details it's considered to be in bad taste. I'm sure the microphone itself was in bad taste but that is too. Good thing this is fictitious.
RUFUS in a large swimming pool wearing a general's uniform. D. Norris watching closely. (Now I can use the Rufus label and the D Norris label. I'm not as stupid as I look. This blog is perpetually innovative.)
Climb Everest, they say. It's good craic and there's a good chance you'll die before you reach the second camp. More than likely though, you'll get mugged by a so-called tourist guide from Mongolia. Then, you're fucked. Whereas the clever bastard that nicked your wallet is off to Dubai for three weeks for fun frollics and maybe more. Emphasis on the maybe more. Whores all a-hootin'. "Ooooh, Western money" they'll shout as they show your mugger things that he has only seen in FHM.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down, ooooooh!
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Whisky whisky whisky whisky, drown.
So, this is like a responsive anthem. Those who find solace in it, you're obviously highly delusional and/or in search of some form of leadership or dominance in your life. You've presumably tried Communism and have now turned to the web at large. Typing "help me my life is ruined" into a search engine brought you here. Poor fuck.
I know things are tough all over and ain't getting any better. Things are more expensive to produce. Consumers are poor. Everywhere you look somebody is telling you to reduce/reuse/recycle or to be green. Cigarettes cost loads and I have to mop floors. I feel the pain. But none of the above complaints give you the right to make the lids on your yoghurts so thin that it is impossible to remove them without them fucking tearing at least twice. What the fuck?
Yours sincerely,
L.
Mary Kenny is such a flange-between-two-wooden-posts. WOOF WOOF.
"Sh00-wiz! Get yer shoo-wiz! Fresh of de back offa Clark's lorry! Tree fura you-row."
Sinatra plays as people try to get through town on a regular Wednesday.
"Good morning."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm too massively geared outa me head."
"Well, this is corner of Marlborough and Abbey."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you're from America. What state?"
"Eh, Vermont..."
"Ooooh, delightful! I love trees."
"On a scale of one to ten, how successful do you think the Northern Ireland peace process has been?"
"Well, I don't think it's that simple. You can't just put it on a number line. It's a complex issue with many facets."
"Eh yeah right. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually active are you?"
"You're not from 'round here, are you?"
"No, I'm Hungarian. On a scale of one to ten, how Hungarian do you think I look"
Less than one millionth of a reality. It's almost a good enough excuse to go get stoned. But Jeff wasn't sure. He needed proof. Good thing his friends had an educational exercise video where hot girls ran around in tight wet t-shirts and talked about the use of recreational drugs. I mean REALLY hot girls.
So, you wanna know about drugs, huh? (Sandy, stop pouring gently-heated caramel all over my breasts, hee hee!) They're bad news, boys. But, then again, so am I! Would you say no to me, hmmmm?
From that day on Jeff was stoned off his face all the time. He was at peace within and without himself and he often masterbated. He began to see what Matthew Bellamy was getting at in "City of Delusion". But in his personal persuit of justice (as he called it), he only got as far as his small collection of butterfly wings hanging on the back of his bedroom door. His parents got worried when he disappeared for several days and was found eating the remains of a red squirrel in St. Anne's Park, Raheny, Dublin Five.
A python snake named Monty. Fair play to Monty. He kicked the ass off those pesky Italians and/or German forces over there in... err, whatchacallit?... Kilmainham?
As the bombs fall, the Eagles play a gig in the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California. "Oh, Johhny" they sing. "There was an aul woman that lived in the woods, Oooooh oooohhooooohhooo, baby!" They never really got the idea of music. They made their money and you can't doubt that. If you listen really closely you will realise that it's all about sex. And, why wouldn't it be? Ask Holy Healy and she'll blush.
Martha was at the gig and then got trashed on Virginia Avenoo. She subsequently died but that's hardly relevent. The post mortem found a small microphone lodged between her upper left molars. There's a pun to be made there somewhere. But until the coroner releaese the details it's considered to be in bad taste. I'm sure the microphone itself was in bad taste but that is too. Good thing this is fictitious.
RUFUS in a large swimming pool wearing a general's uniform. D. Norris watching closely. (Now I can use the Rufus label and the D Norris label. I'm not as stupid as I look. This blog is perpetually innovative.)
Climb Everest, they say. It's good craic and there's a good chance you'll die before you reach the second camp. More than likely though, you'll get mugged by a so-called tourist guide from Mongolia. Then, you're fucked. Whereas the clever bastard that nicked your wallet is off to Dubai for three weeks for fun frollics and maybe more. Emphasis on the maybe more. Whores all a-hootin'. "Ooooh, Western money" they'll shout as they show your mugger things that he has only seen in FHM.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down, ooooooh!
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Whisky whisky whisky whisky, drown.
So, this is like a responsive anthem. Those who find solace in it, you're obviously highly delusional and/or in search of some form of leadership or dominance in your life. You've presumably tried Communism and have now turned to the web at large. Typing "help me my life is ruined" into a search engine brought you here. Poor fuck.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Dublin Vignettes.
‘Come on.’ It was taking the dog a long time to do his business there at the little triangular park at the end of the Howth Road. His owner was getting more and more frustrated by the minute. ‘Come on Rover, just shit and be done with it.’ The dog didn’t understand, of course. How could he? The owner was pressing his arse to the ground but that didn’t mean anything to the poor animal.
—See that woman? That’s a man. I thought it was a woman but it’s got a very deep voice.
Stupid fucking old woman. What a geebag.
People on Grafton Street are so easily amused. A man with some stupid cheap dancing things on sticks, dancing them away to the Macarena on his mobile phone. Some foreigner who can jump through rings of fire.
—Hi, can you spare five minutes for Concern?
—Sorry, I don’t speak English.
—Hi, can you spare five minutes?
—Fuck off.
A man dressed as the statue of James Joyce who dances if you put fifty pence into his bucket. Another man dressed as Paddy Kavanagh who farts at will every time you put a coin into his box. A man with a guitar who sings ‘The Fields of Athenry’ every Sunday morning between 10 and 11 a.m. People are that easily amused.
A Cabra woman, entering Subway on O’Connell Street.
—Can yiz give me a rowill please?
—What bread would you like? He was foreign, god love him, and didn’t realise.
—Eh, just white bread.
—Italian?
—Yeah, whatever. Just some butther.
—Butter?
—Yeah, just a bit.
—Eh, cheese and toasted?
—No, I just want butther.
—Eh, you want any salads?
—No, just fuckin butther ye rasherheaded fuck.
—See that woman? That’s a man. I thought it was a woman but it’s got a very deep voice.
Stupid fucking old woman. What a geebag.
People on Grafton Street are so easily amused. A man with some stupid cheap dancing things on sticks, dancing them away to the Macarena on his mobile phone. Some foreigner who can jump through rings of fire.
—Hi, can you spare five minutes for Concern?
—Sorry, I don’t speak English.
—Hi, can you spare five minutes?
—Fuck off.
A man dressed as the statue of James Joyce who dances if you put fifty pence into his bucket. Another man dressed as Paddy Kavanagh who farts at will every time you put a coin into his box. A man with a guitar who sings ‘The Fields of Athenry’ every Sunday morning between 10 and 11 a.m. People are that easily amused.
A Cabra woman, entering Subway on O’Connell Street.
—Can yiz give me a rowill please?
—What bread would you like? He was foreign, god love him, and didn’t realise.
—Eh, just white bread.
—Italian?
—Yeah, whatever. Just some butther.
—Butter?
—Yeah, just a bit.
—Eh, cheese and toasted?
—No, I just want butther.
—Eh, you want any salads?
—No, just fuckin butther ye rasherheaded fuck.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Appendix #1 (refer to Pg. eighty-four)
Come one, come all for a walkabout from LONDON - CANNON STREET to Windsor with slightly unexpected bursts of horns. With a delay effect, you may synthetically visit Paris Paris Paris ParisParis... See what Orwell saw, saw in the bath as you hack off your leg with a Superb use of strings and wireless message from An Taoiseach, Mr. Éamonn deValera speaking at the Mansion House, Dawson Street, Dublin two steaks and chips, please. Barbeque sauce, "please, please me" said the Beatles in a Norwegian Wood out the beyant Shelbourne Park can surprise. To: the editor of the IRISH PRESS- why have you not been publishing daily editions of your newspaper? What happened to the Governor-General? Has King George died? I hear news from the front "line up, children-FIRE" Drills do annoy me. No need for that do, Geoff. Signed Richard Bruton. I'm a spokesman you know? What a title for Best Film with repeated piano and guitar synch. notes. In come the Vikings but that didn't stop the ECB putting up and down interest rates. Up and down like a hoor's knickers. Fred always liked Galaxy but not quite as much as sodomy. Promptly Galaxy went out of business because God wanted him to have a rotten, miserable life MAGAZINE- special deal on now: we call to your house with brightly coloured jackets and "annoy someone else, Dorothy" was afraid of open spaces so she got fat to take up more room. £12 p.p. in room 7, Mr. Johnson. I'm glad you enjoyed your "STAY, bad dog!" Run, Run- run on as she hit the finish line on 76 street interstate of chasis, I'm telling you. Tenement housing, yummy yummy. Stay away from the drugs- but they're yummy- no use full of holes in Regent Street. Bloody Royals coming over the border into Fingal. SANTA. Four songs.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
THE LONG-AWAITED LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.
"Trevor? I don't understand..." Testaments, hoors, pickled mickeys and Green TDs. Hendy was sure that life had gone beyond surreal.
"Of all people to become an heir-bastard, it would be a homosexual freak of nature like you, Jeremy Sue, wouldn't it?" The tone of Trevor's voice was steely, almost priest-like.
"Wow, wow, wow there!" interrupted Rufus camply. "At least she's not carrying a bag of onions. I mean, what the fuck?"
"Quiet Rufus!" whispered John sharply. "He's armed."
"But Trevor...where do you fit in in this story?"
Trevor smiled harshly, almost delighting in the confusion he had caused.
"Well, Jeremy. Your father John Charles McQuaid was a disgrace to the holy church which had appointed him archbishop. My father on the other hand was the greatest Irish Catholic who ever lived."
"But wait...you're a Protestant!"
"Yes...that's what I've told people all along. Nobody would ever suspect me, upstanding Protestant Trevor Sargent, to have come from where I did. No. I lived my life in hiding. Nobody knew that I was actually Francis Duff Junior, the heir to the Catholic fortunes of the world! But though you might want to use your inheritence for evil and destruction, I will use mine to glorify God and the Pope of Rome, our great spiritual father."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Trevor's eyes glinted as if with madness. "I have inherited the strongest Catholic faith of all. Your father may have been an exalted archbishop, but he was a waste of space, a religious airhead, a falsely zealous demagogue, a fraud and a charlatan! My father, however, was the greatest Catholic who ever lived on this island, and my mother a saintly woman of the greatest charity. My parents were General Frank Duff and Mother Teresa."
Rufus's jaw fell open, and John found himself getting an erection. However, realising how embarrassing that could possibly be, he imagined himself having sex with Mother Teresa and the feeling promptly disappeared. Rufus took two steps back to the window and lit himself a cigarette.
"But what does that make you then?" asked Hendy, becoming more worried by the minute.
"I am the heir to the command of the Legion of Mary, and from today onwards we will be the Catholic army of the world, destroying vice, fornication, feminism and homosexuality wherever we go. But first I must pay my father's debt by once and for all finishing the job that he could not finish and which left him in disgrace, a disgrace foisted upon him by your father the archbishop, and a legacy he did not deserve."
Suddenly it clicked in Hendy's mind. "You mean...?"
"Give me that mickey."
"No! I can't! I've searched my whole life for the truth, and just as I finally know it you're going to take that away from me. I know now how I've wasted these years trying in vain to be a woman, when all along I was just a man with no mickey. But now I will wait for no man. I am going to have my mickey reattached and live my life at last as a man, the life I should have had for all these years."
"Fool!" shouted Trevor, shaking his pitchfork and onions threateningly. "You don't understand at all. You have lived your life this far without that mickey. I have hidden all my life, waiting for the moment at which I could finally reveal myself. And all I need to fulfil my father's legacy is that mickey. Give it to me!"
John was trying hard to get it down as Rufus ejaculated suddenly: "Darling, why don't you listen to the lady? She just found her penis that she hasn't had in like, a million years, and she wants to get it sewn back on. How would YOU feel if you just found your penis and some guy came along wanting to take it off you? Well? Just think about that before you make any rash moves."
Trevor was visibly annoyed at Rufus's insolence. Just as it seemed like he was going to make a decisive move, Rufus flicked his cigarette out the window onto the grass below.
"NO! THE GRASS!" Ever a Green at heart, no matter what his religious aspirations, Trevor flung down his onions and his pitchfork and dived out the window after the cigarette. However, having forgotten that they were on the upstairs floor, he misunderestimated the distance he would fall, and splattered like a bucket of moist flange onto the hard ground far below in the manner of Brendan Gleeson falling from the tower In Bruges.
The three gays gazed out the window after Trevor in silent shock. He was definitely dead, as you could see his brains. It was not a pretty sight. Rufus retched a little, but felt better as soon as John put his hand down his trousers.
"So...is that it then?" asked Hendy with a hint of sadness in his/her voice. "Is this the end?"
"Of course not darling!" said Rufus. "The end is never any fun. It's still the beginning."
And with that, the Gaybus reappeared outside, and in a flash a troupe of dancers had alighted and began dancing suggestively to "Between My Legs". Rufus and John gazed into one another's eyes for a moment before they started some severe stubble-scratching. Hendy looked beyond the dancers and to the hills and the sky in the distance. Then he/she picked up his/her little shrivelled mickey and hugged it to him/herself and pondered about the future.
And it was a bright, mickeyed future.
"Of all people to become an heir-bastard, it would be a homosexual freak of nature like you, Jeremy Sue, wouldn't it?" The tone of Trevor's voice was steely, almost priest-like.
"Wow, wow, wow there!" interrupted Rufus camply. "At least she's not carrying a bag of onions. I mean, what the fuck?"
"Quiet Rufus!" whispered John sharply. "He's armed."
"But Trevor...where do you fit in in this story?"
Trevor smiled harshly, almost delighting in the confusion he had caused.
"Well, Jeremy. Your father John Charles McQuaid was a disgrace to the holy church which had appointed him archbishop. My father on the other hand was the greatest Irish Catholic who ever lived."
"But wait...you're a Protestant!"
"Yes...that's what I've told people all along. Nobody would ever suspect me, upstanding Protestant Trevor Sargent, to have come from where I did. No. I lived my life in hiding. Nobody knew that I was actually Francis Duff Junior, the heir to the Catholic fortunes of the world! But though you might want to use your inheritence for evil and destruction, I will use mine to glorify God and the Pope of Rome, our great spiritual father."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Trevor's eyes glinted as if with madness. "I have inherited the strongest Catholic faith of all. Your father may have been an exalted archbishop, but he was a waste of space, a religious airhead, a falsely zealous demagogue, a fraud and a charlatan! My father, however, was the greatest Catholic who ever lived on this island, and my mother a saintly woman of the greatest charity. My parents were General Frank Duff and Mother Teresa."
Rufus's jaw fell open, and John found himself getting an erection. However, realising how embarrassing that could possibly be, he imagined himself having sex with Mother Teresa and the feeling promptly disappeared. Rufus took two steps back to the window and lit himself a cigarette.
"But what does that make you then?" asked Hendy, becoming more worried by the minute.
"I am the heir to the command of the Legion of Mary, and from today onwards we will be the Catholic army of the world, destroying vice, fornication, feminism and homosexuality wherever we go. But first I must pay my father's debt by once and for all finishing the job that he could not finish and which left him in disgrace, a disgrace foisted upon him by your father the archbishop, and a legacy he did not deserve."
Suddenly it clicked in Hendy's mind. "You mean...?"
"Give me that mickey."
"No! I can't! I've searched my whole life for the truth, and just as I finally know it you're going to take that away from me. I know now how I've wasted these years trying in vain to be a woman, when all along I was just a man with no mickey. But now I will wait for no man. I am going to have my mickey reattached and live my life at last as a man, the life I should have had for all these years."
"Fool!" shouted Trevor, shaking his pitchfork and onions threateningly. "You don't understand at all. You have lived your life this far without that mickey. I have hidden all my life, waiting for the moment at which I could finally reveal myself. And all I need to fulfil my father's legacy is that mickey. Give it to me!"
John was trying hard to get it down as Rufus ejaculated suddenly: "Darling, why don't you listen to the lady? She just found her penis that she hasn't had in like, a million years, and she wants to get it sewn back on. How would YOU feel if you just found your penis and some guy came along wanting to take it off you? Well? Just think about that before you make any rash moves."
Trevor was visibly annoyed at Rufus's insolence. Just as it seemed like he was going to make a decisive move, Rufus flicked his cigarette out the window onto the grass below.
"NO! THE GRASS!" Ever a Green at heart, no matter what his religious aspirations, Trevor flung down his onions and his pitchfork and dived out the window after the cigarette. However, having forgotten that they were on the upstairs floor, he misunderestimated the distance he would fall, and splattered like a bucket of moist flange onto the hard ground far below in the manner of Brendan Gleeson falling from the tower In Bruges.
The three gays gazed out the window after Trevor in silent shock. He was definitely dead, as you could see his brains. It was not a pretty sight. Rufus retched a little, but felt better as soon as John put his hand down his trousers.
"So...is that it then?" asked Hendy with a hint of sadness in his/her voice. "Is this the end?"
"Of course not darling!" said Rufus. "The end is never any fun. It's still the beginning."
And with that, the Gaybus reappeared outside, and in a flash a troupe of dancers had alighted and began dancing suggestively to "Between My Legs". Rufus and John gazed into one another's eyes for a moment before they started some severe stubble-scratching. Hendy looked beyond the dancers and to the hills and the sky in the distance. Then he/she picked up his/her little shrivelled mickey and hugged it to him/herself and pondered about the future.
And it was a bright, mickeyed future.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
What the Elizabethans need is a good kick up the arse.
Elizabethans with all their love love love (or was that the Beatles?) at the first sight of someone's ruffled cuffs.
"O, Mary, how the sun shines on your little ears; it doth engulf me in a dream of miniature puppies and other assorted soft things."
"O, Gerald, how ruffled your cuffs today are! The manner in which you speak to me takes my breath away and leaves the rest of me in the dazzled state of a mere puddle-like shape."
"Mary, you are the love of my life. Though we just met over there at that table by the punch dish I want to use the years of my life to fulfill your desires to an optimum proficiency. Marry me, Mary and we can live in Hampstead Heath forever!"
"Gerald, the punch bowl is blessed to have been the object that we both met at and I pray to God that it shall be canonised or whatever us C. of E. people do to make people very well respected. But, yes of course Gerald, I shall be yours in total, every hand-stitched garment on my body and that which it covers. O, hold me. Take my waist and tell me that we will visit my father at first light to demand his consent."
"Mary, your little waist is like the waist of an angel. I wish to hold it forever while we sit on the greenest grasses of England and watch the youthful lambs of Spring leap full of folly and joy. Blessed be the angels of Heaven that I have found you over there by the punch and sandwiches."
Of course then they realise that they're still drunk from New Year's Eve and that they've wandered into Spar on Liffey Street. A small crowd gathers.
This tomfoolery continued well into the Victorian age when things got really silly. As people said "let this age be known as the Edwardian Age" (it just conveniently suited the monarch's name) things started to look bright again (forgetting the world carnage around the corner) with some simplicity allowed in personal relationships and in dress. Still to this day we value the Elizabethan stupidity and their way of saying pretty things and hopelessly falling in love at the drop of a hat. And all that wooing! Christ.
Picture the scene in Belmonte Calabro-- a beautiful young heiress sits in wait for her knight in shining armour, to use a well-known phrase or saying. In reality, she was waiting for some fellow attractive enough to come along to win her heart. He didn't need to be familiar with horses, but riding knowledge was an advantage.
This stunning princess, Portia, lived in her palace in the hills with her servants and maids. Her over-protective father, Noel Edmonds, had died several years previous and had left her his fortune. During his life, he was known for throwing great house parties for his noble kinsmen of the surrounding province. They would, in time, give rise to Mr. Blobby who would become a popular television character.
Even after death, Portia's father tried to do the best he could for his his little girl. He devised a scheme in which only the best suitor would win Portia's hand (and much more besides) in marriage.
And we're live in three, two.........
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to Deal Or No Deal. Today we have the Prince of Morocco in the hot seat. Unfortunately, he's an arrogant chap with stupid headgear who thinks a bit too much of himself. But let's see if he's got a plan for today."
"Well, I think I'll easily dismiss the boxes that don't look good enou...."
"Actually, sorry to butt in but can you clarify that you chose this box freely and that they were all sealed by our adjudicators?"
"Oh, yis. Ehh, I was saying that the lead is shit and I love the gold. Give me the key!"
(opens the gold box by tearing off the little bit of paper after three and a half minutes of Noel's brother asking if he was sure and passing vague comments about previous games)
"Oh no, fuck. Now I can never get married anyone. This game show is rotten. What do you expect me to do when I'm in the mood, huh? All this honour bullshit, I'm sick of it."
"Well, all we can do is hope for a better game tomorrow. Same time (after Brookside), same place (here on 4).
Then again, that's not quite appealing enough for your regular urban dweller in the fifteen hundreds. Bums on seats, as they say in the theatre world. Nowadays, of course, it would fill Croke Park. But then again, people buy any aul' shite these days in the name of literacy and a glass of wine. But back then, common Londoners wanted to see bears being ripped to pieces by savage dogs and all that sort of thing. So, now that I think of it, they probably hated all this thematic waffle about friendships and allegiance and courage. I guess mum had to drag all the kids down to Bankside to listen to the latest twaddle from Willie himself. Nothing much changes over some four hundred years. Well, now people look at porn.
Cheers.
"O, Mary, how the sun shines on your little ears; it doth engulf me in a dream of miniature puppies and other assorted soft things."
"O, Gerald, how ruffled your cuffs today are! The manner in which you speak to me takes my breath away and leaves the rest of me in the dazzled state of a mere puddle-like shape."
"Mary, you are the love of my life. Though we just met over there at that table by the punch dish I want to use the years of my life to fulfill your desires to an optimum proficiency. Marry me, Mary and we can live in Hampstead Heath forever!"
"Gerald, the punch bowl is blessed to have been the object that we both met at and I pray to God that it shall be canonised or whatever us C. of E. people do to make people very well respected. But, yes of course Gerald, I shall be yours in total, every hand-stitched garment on my body and that which it covers. O, hold me. Take my waist and tell me that we will visit my father at first light to demand his consent."
"Mary, your little waist is like the waist of an angel. I wish to hold it forever while we sit on the greenest grasses of England and watch the youthful lambs of Spring leap full of folly and joy. Blessed be the angels of Heaven that I have found you over there by the punch and sandwiches."
Of course then they realise that they're still drunk from New Year's Eve and that they've wandered into Spar on Liffey Street. A small crowd gathers.
This tomfoolery continued well into the Victorian age when things got really silly. As people said "let this age be known as the Edwardian Age" (it just conveniently suited the monarch's name) things started to look bright again (forgetting the world carnage around the corner) with some simplicity allowed in personal relationships and in dress. Still to this day we value the Elizabethan stupidity and their way of saying pretty things and hopelessly falling in love at the drop of a hat. And all that wooing! Christ.
Picture the scene in Belmonte Calabro-- a beautiful young heiress sits in wait for her knight in shining armour, to use a well-known phrase or saying. In reality, she was waiting for some fellow attractive enough to come along to win her heart. He didn't need to be familiar with horses, but riding knowledge was an advantage.
This stunning princess, Portia, lived in her palace in the hills with her servants and maids. Her over-protective father, Noel Edmonds, had died several years previous and had left her his fortune. During his life, he was known for throwing great house parties for his noble kinsmen of the surrounding province. They would, in time, give rise to Mr. Blobby who would become a popular television character.
Even after death, Portia's father tried to do the best he could for his his little girl. He devised a scheme in which only the best suitor would win Portia's hand (and much more besides) in marriage.
And we're live in three, two.........
"Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to Deal Or No Deal. Today we have the Prince of Morocco in the hot seat. Unfortunately, he's an arrogant chap with stupid headgear who thinks a bit too much of himself. But let's see if he's got a plan for today."
"Well, I think I'll easily dismiss the boxes that don't look good enou...."
"Actually, sorry to butt in but can you clarify that you chose this box freely and that they were all sealed by our adjudicators?"
"Oh, yis. Ehh, I was saying that the lead is shit and I love the gold. Give me the key!"
(opens the gold box by tearing off the little bit of paper after three and a half minutes of Noel's brother asking if he was sure and passing vague comments about previous games)
"Oh no, fuck. Now I can never get married anyone. This game show is rotten. What do you expect me to do when I'm in the mood, huh? All this honour bullshit, I'm sick of it."
"Well, all we can do is hope for a better game tomorrow. Same time (after Brookside), same place (here on 4).
Then again, that's not quite appealing enough for your regular urban dweller in the fifteen hundreds. Bums on seats, as they say in the theatre world. Nowadays, of course, it would fill Croke Park. But then again, people buy any aul' shite these days in the name of literacy and a glass of wine. But back then, common Londoners wanted to see bears being ripped to pieces by savage dogs and all that sort of thing. So, now that I think of it, they probably hated all this thematic waffle about friendships and allegiance and courage. I guess mum had to drag all the kids down to Bankside to listen to the latest twaddle from Willie himself. Nothing much changes over some four hundred years. Well, now people look at porn.
Cheers.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Page(s) twelve through to seventeen.
MARCH, the army... Hih, hih... div. Enter the I.R.A. Band.
Please welcome to the stage DIV, the Long Fellow with the long neck bass.
"Three sharps, boys," they start, "Millwall, Millwall!" And other hits such as....
"During this struggle they will pull us down..." etc.
His war time cabinet will now WOW you with their budgetary melodies... it's in a minor key so beware of the glimmer man and your local volunteer force. (Includes Frank Aiken on the piano.)
"FUCK."
Have you ever seen a "blue" joow?
What about an Australian?
Not after the Anshluss in '39.
With our new State detuned radios we hear all of Hugo Boss's adverts.
STORM MILAN!
Warm guns are at stake! Popular music depends on it.
Arms raids in the Royal Borough of Chelsea and Kensington!
Can Vicky fit through the royal catflap?
Vell, vee vill haff tuh see. Danke.
Meanwhile...
"Lord Salisbury, do make the royal bosom a bit larger if you would."
"Well, Madame, I'm shovelling as fast as I can."
Gobble, gobble.
Comma, comma, fullsTOP. Instant death.
Oh, Maaawd, you are my muse. Your little nose led me to write "Easter 1916". All that shite about Pearse was the filler I used to throw those English bastards. The "terrible beauty" is my love for you. It's all-consuming and I love it. Marry me this day next week in Coole. Signed, Willie.
Poor Harold gettin' killed and the Frenchies making it into a big propaganda poster for recruiting.
The double-glazed window of FEAR/LOVE/LOATHING.
----------------AS SEIRBHÍS-----------------
Please welcome to the stage DIV, the Long Fellow with the long neck bass.
"Three sharps, boys," they start, "Millwall, Millwall!" And other hits such as....
"During this struggle they will pull us down..." etc.
His war time cabinet will now WOW you with their budgetary melodies... it's in a minor key so beware of the glimmer man and your local volunteer force. (Includes Frank Aiken on the piano.)
"FUCK."
Have you ever seen a "blue" joow?
What about an Australian?
Not after the Anshluss in '39.
With our new State detuned radios we hear all of Hugo Boss's adverts.
STORM MILAN!
Warm guns are at stake! Popular music depends on it.
Arms raids in the Royal Borough of Chelsea and Kensington!
Can Vicky fit through the royal catflap?
Vell, vee vill haff tuh see. Danke.
Meanwhile...
"Lord Salisbury, do make the royal bosom a bit larger if you would."
"Well, Madame, I'm shovelling as fast as I can."
Gobble, gobble.
Comma, comma, fullsTOP. Instant death.
Oh, Maaawd, you are my muse. Your little nose led me to write "Easter 1916". All that shite about Pearse was the filler I used to throw those English bastards. The "terrible beauty" is my love for you. It's all-consuming and I love it. Marry me this day next week in Coole. Signed, Willie.
Poor Harold gettin' killed and the Frenchies making it into a big propaganda poster for recruiting.
The double-glazed window of FEAR/LOVE/LOATHING.
----------------AS SEIRBHÍS-----------------
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