The future of Catholicism.

It had been a bad weekend for old Father William as he walked into the parish office on Monday morning. The entire congregation for the weekend had consisted of the same three holy aul'ones at each Mass and nobody else. They had been talking about it for a long time, but surely now the day had come.

"Bernadette, I've made a decision," began Father William, addressing the secretary.

"Yes Father?" she answered eagerly.

"I've decided...well, to be honest, it's not working out, is it?—this whole Mass thing. I think we need to think of a new way to bring the youth to the church. Those bloody Canadians wouldn't do it. I was scared of them myself. What right-minded young person would want to have a cup of tea with one of those lunatics? No, no, I think we need to reconsider our position."

"What do you mean Father?" asked the secretary, more than a little confused.

"I mean that we're going to abolish Mass. If nobody is going to come to Mass except Phyllis and those two nuns then there's no point in having it at all. We've been trying for years to get young people back to the church and we've been doing it the wrong way all along. In my day you went to Mass because you knew if you didn't you'd go to hell. But I don't even believe that, so I don't know why I became a priest. In fact I should have been a Protestant. But that's beside the point. We're going to abolish Mass, Bernadette."

"But what are you going to do with the church instead, Father?"

"Look at it this way: where do young people nowadays go for fun? They don't go to the church and light a candle for St Francis and say 'well there you are now wasn't that fine and dandy altogether'. No, they go to the pub and get drunk. And why should we stop them? If that's what they want to do, the church should let them do it. In fact, the church should encourage them. They'd rather boogie down in a nightclub rather than be bored to death at Mass, and I wouldn't blame them. You know, like that place over on D'Olier Street, XXX's or whatever it's called. We should offer the young people a real social outlet, not bits of wafer we pretend is the body of Christ. Bernadette, we're turning the church into a nightclub."

"Whatever you say Father."

***

Now, though you might have expected wild opposition to this idea, nobody really cared. In fact, the nuns took to it enthusiastically. The only person who had anything negative to say about it was poor old Phyllis, and so Father William had his henchnuns throw her down the steps in front of the altar. She's now up in the Bons Secours and will probably die, God love her. But Father William went on fearlessly with his plan, removing the pews and installing a disco ball above the altar, which was converted into a bar. After a few weeks Club Corpo opened and was soon the community social hotspot, popular among old and young alike. The two nuns were employed by Father William as bouncers and did an excellent job.

Unsurprisingly, the Monsignor (who wasn't consulted about the change) was rather indignant when he discovered he was out of a job. Considering he didn't fancy licking the Archbishop's arse every day and night, he made a deal with Father William that he could read out selections from his best sermons of the past forty years nightly at the back of the church. People were of course invited to listen, but nobody wanted to, unsurprisingly. Except Phyllis, but at this stage she was probably dead anyway.

The Vatican was none too pleased to hear about Corpo's success in bringing people back to the church and promptly excommunicated Father William, the nuns and all those who attended Club Corpo. But this didn't stop the march of the greatest church nightclub venue in Ireland, O no! No man, not even the Pope, has the right to fix the boundary of the march of a church club. No man has the right to say to his church, "Thus far thou shalt go, and no further". And we have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Corpo's nightclubhood, and we never shall. Excommunication didn't harm Club Corpo. Sure it didn't stop de Valera, did it?

And so Club Corpo became one of the greatest social sensations in all of Ireland, all thanks to the forward thinking of old Father William the young man said and your hair has become very white. And all that by a Kerryman! Who would have thought it? Well done all round. The nuns loved it particularly as they chatted away with the regulars to discover the latest gossip. One night as former eucharistic minister Barry Gough, an upstanding member of the community, arrived to Club Corpo alone, the nuns couldn't help but query where Mrs Gough was.

"Well," replied Barry, "she's not in the mood, if you know what I mean. She had a baby there three weeks ago and hasn't been up for it since. To be honest, sisters, I'm just her to get me hole."

"Sure that's lovely Barry," said Sister Phil. "We all need our hole once in a while. Isn't that right Sister Teresa?"

"We do indeed Sister!" replied Sister Teresa. "Nothing like a bit of your hole on a Saturday night."

"For sure Sister," said Barry. "Cheers anyway. I'll be off. Sure I'll see yous later."

"Bye Barry," said Sister Phil. "Good luck getting your hole."

And so was the way of Club Corpo. And you know what the best bit is? Nobody went to hell, because they all realized eventually that there's no such thing and that they were all wasting their time being holy when they should have been out enjoying themselves. And so that makes the Pope a sad aul'fella. Pray for his intentions. He needs to get a life, and "20 Years Younger" is probably a good place to start.

Jurry Royn update.

Further to the previous announcement of Gerry's renewed self-rerealisation programme, Gerry has gone a step further and has split up with Mrs Ryan. Rumours abound as to how this actually happened, and many have said it might involve Gerry being caught by Mrs Ryan doing bold things with a vye-brator, but of course that is purely conjecture, fnar fnar!

So in this time of personal turmoil for poor Gerry, who we greatly empasympathise with at this point in time (despite the general overtone of sarcasm on this pathetic publication—"Now that's sarcasm, Mrs Doyle"), let us review Gerry's greatest moments to date.



There's Gerry repioneering the threepiece suit back in the '80s or so. Shame about the hair, but fair play anyway.



There's Gerry with a pole up his arse standing next to a picture of Bono.



There's a picture Gerry took of a train somewhere in England while he picked his nose.



That was Gerry's first album, including such memorable songs as "It's a Long Way to Clontarf", "Vibrators in Paradise", "Shag Me Twinky" and "Snot and Shite (Are My Favourite Things)".



There's Gerry in his favourite place in Ireland, Abrakebabra.



There's Gerry a while back with his face on the Point. When I saw that I dropped my chips. Actually, I felt like throwing up, but that was because I was in my nan's little blue car (bottom of picture) and she'd just crashed into a traffic island for the sixth time that day.



There's Gerry in his Gaelic footballing days. Well done.



Gerry captured on camera doing his favourite thing in the world: having a shite.

Poor old Gerry Ryan, for he has taken to the vibrators and cocaine, but sure that's nothing new. He'll be back on Monday with another helping of scatological shite, nine 'til twelve, 2FM.

Operation Transformation

After seeing the programme's high success rate on the pudgy people of Ireland, its presenter, Gerard of the Ryans, has decided to undergo the process himself. It has been another great success for Gerard and RTÉ in general.

Gerry has really embraced his new image and to go along with this, he will now spell his name Jeri. It has given him a new lease of life and he has found an interest in Star Trek. He wishes to thank the producers at RTÉ and old Gaybo for the advice over the years.

Well done to Gerard, or Jeri, as we should now be printing. Good luck.

deV and Domhnall.

Hih, hih.

WAIT A MINUTE...!

The last time we left gallant Mr(s). Henderson we had just been confronted with the shock revelation that s/he was actually Jeremy, the long-lost lover of the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy). Confused? I wouldn't blame you.

So in true sonata-allegro style, let us have a brief recapitulation, which I promise will be nothing more than a condensed and tonally modified repeat of the exposition.

Somewhere along the way we learned of Mr(s). Henderson's roots. She was the bastard child of a prostitute who worked in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe and who was killed in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion of Mary exacted holy retribution on the poor little child by cutting off his (yes, his) mickey with the Holy Knife of Padre Pio and sending him/her into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. S/he eventually discovered how she was different when one of the evil nuns waz just abou' to wash her gee an' seen she hadn't even go' wan, an' it looked like she used to have a mickey.

So there we are. We do not know what happened between this incident somewhere around 1930 and the present day, which is somewhere in time between 1970 and 1998 (we just haven't decided yet).

We were first told that Mr(s). Henderson was a manwoman, but not a womanman. Therefore we can assume that s/he is more of a man, even though s/he appears to consider him/herself as a woman. S/he starred in that terrible adaptation of Roger Rabbit which flopped on Broadway, and then moved to Ballymena and worked as a tailor(ess) for J. Asha's sweatshop. S/he tried to get married to Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair City, but it didn't work because the Nordy laws wouldn't allow it for all sorts of complicated reasons.

When this failed to work out, Mr(s). Henderson began roaming the plains of North America searching for something called Love, with the help of his/her beaver friend Anne Gyna. Somehow whilst floating along the Miss'hippy Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna came upon a luminous pink castle which just so happened to be inhabited by Rufus Wainwright, who took a rather homosexual shine to our hero(ine) Mr(s). Henderson. As the painful memories of his/her time with the Magdalene Sisters flooded back to his/her (and the river flooded thanks to that dam beaver Anne Gyna) s/he made a dash for the nearest wormhole which transported him/her straight back to Howth Castle.

Once in Howth s/he decided to visit Gay Byrne but realized he had defected to Ballsbridge, the bastard. Instead, s/he got a DART into Connolly Station and went to visit the Pro-Cathedral where, without realising, s/he came across the very baptismal font that had been used to break down the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe in 1925 where his/her poor mother had been killed. Does s/he know his/her true heritage? We're not sure just yet. Anyway, after almost coming close to finding out thanks to the old sacristan, s/he fled the Pro on the sacristan's death to buy some knickers in Boyers and curtains in Guineys like a true aul'fella/one, though we would be hoping aul'fellas wouldn't be buying knickers, or curtains for that matter.

After that, his/her attention was grabbed by the ad for gee transplants on the side of the bus that knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. In search of information on gee transplants, s/he came to the Mater Hospital where s/he was referred to the bumbling Dr More, who after much coaxing gave him/her an information leaflet on gee transplants. When this information proved unsatisfactory, s/he ran to Knobs & Knockers of Nassau Street only to discover that they couldn't help either. Once again that gallant homosexual Rufus came to his/her rescue with the help of a gay pride parade and some ridiculously camp choreography. Among Rufus's legion of gay dancers s/he discovered none other than the gay guy (from gay guy & straight, etc.) who addressed him/her as his long-lost love Jeremy with whom he had lived in Papua New Guinea before he was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. We also don't know how he got from Chicago to Nassau Street, and neither do we know how Mr(s). Henderson got from the Magdalene witches to Broadway to Ballymena to North America and to Papua New Guinea somewhere in between. We did know that s/he went Down Under at some stage, but we thought that was just a euphemism.

What will happen to our heros and hero(ine)s? Get the fuck down the stairs and we'll tell you later. Mickey!

TO BE CONTINUED.

SO LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR GEE TRANSPLANT

1. WHAT IS A GEE TRANSPLANT?

A gee transplant is a simple operation in which a lady's gee is replaced with another lady's gee (or alternatively an artificial gee). It's virtually painless and can be performed under local anaesthetic in about ten minutes.

2. WHY ON EARTH WOULD I WANT TO BUY AN OSTRICH?

Reasons for having gee transplants vary. Many ladies find that with age their gee works less and less. In some cases gees may be worn out due to wear and tear. In other cases gees are inconvenient in size and shape. Whatever your reasons for having a gee transplant, be confident that your doctor will be with you all the way.

But what about me? wondered Mr(s). Henderson as s/he desperately scanned the pages searching for an answer to his/her desperate question. There was no mention of mickeys at all. Clearly gee transplants were only for ladies who already had gees...

How on earth could s/he have a gee transplant if s/he never had a gee in the first place? Poor Mr(s). Henderson. Perhaps s/he'd never have a gee after all...

In a last ditch attempt to find the answer to his/her question, Mr(s). Henderson lifted up his/her skirt and made a dash straight for Nassau Street. Once there, s/he ran straight into that well-named shop, Knobs & Knockers. The old man behind the counter wearing the cheeky t-shirt was startled at Mr(s). Henderson's sudden appearance and gazed at him/her with surprise.

"Yes dear?" he said eventually.

"I want a gee," said Mr(s). Henderson flatly and slightly out of breath.

"Excuse me?" replied the man, startled.

"A gee."

"Gee...I'm sorry dear, but this is Knobs & Knockers. You're looking for Gees & Gooters, which is in Fizbra."

"What? You mean I ran all the way here for nothing?" said Mr(s). Henderson, clearly frustrated. "Well, well,...that's a load of mickey!"

"Excuse me, madam," said the old man gesturing to an old lady who had collapsed on the other side of the shop, "but you're disturbing our other customers."

"...MICKEY!" shouted Mr(s). Henderson suddenly.

Just then from nowhere, Rufus Wainwright appeared kitted out with fairy wings and feathers stuck up his arse, followed by an entire gay pride parade marching down the street. Rufus pranced into Knobs & Knockers admiring the knobs as he went and put his arm around Mr(s). Henderson.

"Darling, don't get in such a tizzy. Come to Berlen with me and my happy homos."

"Queers! Queers! Reverse! Reverse!" shouted the old man behind the counter suddenly, as he morphed into Father Jack.

"Oh, do behave," said Rufus calmly as he waved his magic wand (!) and made the aul'fella disappear in a poof of smoke, if you'll pardon the pun. With another flick of his wrist the shop was suddenly transformed into a stage lit by dimmed pink lights and the entire parade began to dance around Rufus and Mr(s). Henderson in circles. This can't be happening, thought Mr(s). Henderson to him/herself. Then for some reason, s/he recognized the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy) amongst all the dancing queers. Slow motion and crossed looks.

"O, Jeremy!" he shouted to him/her. "It really is you!"

Dr More's Almanac

Last time we met the hero(ine) of Bramblog, the courageous Mr(s). Henderson, s/he was fleeing the Pro-Cathedral after the then dead 115-year-old sacristan's face began to melt and she was slapped...in the face!...with a ghostly bishop's mitre. S/he was a bit self-absorbed and decided to forget all about the poor sacristan and think about him/herself. S/he went into Boyers to buy a few pairs of knickers and Guiney's to buy a few pairs of curtains.

Turning up right onto O'Connell Street, Mr(s). Henderson spotted a green bus drive past (as they did) bearing an advertisment which read, "Have you ever considered the priesthood?" Seconds later another bus passed which Mr(s). Henderson could have sworn read, "Have you ever considered a gee transplant?" Just as s/he was taking in this suggestion, another bus passed, which read, "I've had enough." In the daze of bus ads, the bus which read "Have you ever coinsidered a gee transplant?" reversed down O'Connell Street and knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. The gobshite shouldn't have been on the road anyway, harr harr.

So with this new bee in his/her bonnet, Mr(s). Henderson made his/her way straight up to the Mater. Arriving in the foyer s/he asked the nice blonde woman behind the counter what a gee transplant was. The nice woman turned red immediately, smiled and pointed him/her in the direction of Dr More's office.

Entering Dr More's office, Mr(s). Henderson was struck immediately by the seventeen food pyramid charts on the back wall, pictures of organs and odd-looking holy sorts of people with guitars and bodhráns. In pictures, of course. Dr More himself was sitting absent-mindedly behind a desk, reading the Beano, pausing every few moments to shift his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. When he noticed Mr(s). Henderson standing there, he suddenly jumped to his feet and grabbed his stethoscope.

"Eh, hello. I'm Dr More, or something. But that's not really important. How are you? Big breh."

Taken aback by the doctor's odd manner, Mr(s). Henderson stood back for a moment and eyed Dr More with suspicion.

"Hello...my name is, erm, Henderson, and I was told you could tell me about gee transplants?"

"Oh," began Dr More, "I think that's a new one. Have you heard Art of Fugue on organ? I can play it you know. On my CD player, of course."

"Oh," said Mr(s). Henderson, "right. But what can you tell me about gee transplants?"

"Well, I think that Masterson woman might be able to tell you more, after all, she's well up on that sort of thing. Though I am Dr More, and they don't call me Dr More for nothing. Well, actually, I'm not quite sure why they call me Dr More. Maybe it's because my name is Neil. That has something to do with More, I think. Sorry, what did you ask me?"

"Gee transplant?"

"Oh, that one. Yes, I think Susan had one of those once upon a time, but I can't remember what it was. Would you like an apple lollipop? I have cola ones too. But I prefer to keep those for after blood tests."

"Please, Dr More, tell me about gee transplants."

"Okay, gee. Well, that's in your ear, isn't it? I'm not quite sure if I have one or not, I think I got it out when I had my tonsils removed. I love ice-cream. I wish I could get my tonsils out again just to get a bit of ice-cream. We never eat ice-cream at home, because Susan's afraid it'll make her fat, but I told her it couldn't possibly make her any fatter, and she slapped me...in the face! And maybe that's why we never had any more children, though I think the two we had were enough. I prefer playing the organ anyway. I mean in the church. No, I mean, the organ in the church. The musical one. Not the flute. Speaking of flutes, is that the time? Lunch. I might just go and get myself a Golly Bar. I haven't had one of those since they had free stethoscopes with them back in the 70s, there about three years ago. Oh, that reminds me, big breh."

"Dr More, please, please, can you tell me about gee transplants?"

"Right so, let's have a look then. Gee. I think I'll have to refer you to a specialist. If you get the 41C into Dorset Street and get off there about halfway up, turn right and you'll find the Mater. I'm sure someone there will help you. In fact, I was there just this morning, I had a bit of contact stuck to my eyebrow. Actually, where are we? Is this the Mater? Ah, I see now. So you want a gee transplant?"

"Eh, well, could you tell me what it involves?"

"Well, basically it's like a blood transfusion, but they transplant gee instead. It's painless as far as I know. Put a bit of ice-cream on your gee, and a nice sup of soup, and you'll be right as rain. Susan used to make me soup whenever I was under the weather. A bit of soup and Senokot, nothing better."

"Dr More, I still don't know what a gee transplant is, and my patience is running out."

"Okay, big breh. Ah, it seems like what you need is a nice bit of Augmentin. I'll prescribe you a few courses just in case you need it. And here's an information pack. I must go off now and get a Golly Bar. Good luck with the transplant. Oooh, an organ!"

Dr More proceeded to lick the glass of one of his framed organ posters in a slightly disturbing manner, and so Mr(s). Henderson wisely saw that this was the moment to leave him alone. S/he looked down at the booklet he had given him/her which read, in those magnetic fridge-letters, "SO YOU'RE HAVING A GEE TRANSPLANT! Let's talk about it." As s/he walked out to the main road, s/he perused the booklet intently, discovering along the way the intricacies of gee transplantation...