Friday, August 12, 2011
Uachtaráin na nGaybo abú.
Hello, hello, hello there now thank you very much, and welcome to the little Áras of the Uachtaráin—ye wha', Gay?—the Áras of the an-Uachtaráin, or the Residence of the Presidents if you will thank you very much, well done to you all. Now, I came here all the way on my little Harley Davidson, all the way, all the way from my little home on the little hill of Howth, isn't that right now, thank you, thank you very much now, yes, yes. And I'd like to thank all those who voted for me in this past election to be a President indeed, especially Agnes from just down the road there around the corner now, that's right. I'd also like to thank Bono, the lovely lovely Sinéad O'Connor and of course the dear darling national broadcaster, the RTE, the Lord above be good to them all indeed, and of course Tayto crisps, all of whom, without whom none of us, none of us I say would be here today for little old uncle Gaybo's little Presidential serenade, dear O dear O deary me. And there's one for everyone in the audience...
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Devil Eire beyant the grave.
'Hlo, Eeamon Oo Cweeve? Week up...it's your Grendeddy.'
Eamon Ó Cuiv wakes up in a cold sweat having heard the voice of Granda de Valera from beyond the grave. He immediately phones the Feena Fawl press office to tell them the news.
DE VALERA NOMINATES HIMSELF FOR THE PRESIDENCY FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE, runs the headline of the Irish Press, which was dead a while since. Liberal Ireland was in uproar and the Papal Nuncio was flown back to Dublin from Prague in order to explain to Enda Kenny in person that he had seen a vision of John Charles McQuaid holding hands with Our Lady of Knock appearing in the skirting board of his hotel room.
'God is angry at you for disrespecting the Holy Father, Mr Kenny,' explained the Nuncio in far worse English than that. 'This is his retribution.'
The whole presidential election shite was halted because Gawd hath ordainéd that de Valera was to be dug up and removed to the Áras at once and installed as President-for-Life-and-All-Eternity (Amen). Nordy Mary mother of Éireann was removed immediately from the Áras along with her family by An Garda Sicíní. The bastards didn't even give her a chance to pack and just fucked her belongings (and her husband) unceremoniously out onto the Twenty-Nine Acres (or whatever you call it). A Garda helicopter escorted the McAleeses (with the help of searchlights) into a safe house prepared for them in O'Devaney Gardens, North Circular Road, Dublin Seven, between St Bricin's and the pond where all the local drug dealers go to have a piss. (Note the irony of 'safe house' in this context. Refer to Chapter Four, Page Twenty-Eight, the section entitled 'Irony, Bwooh!'.)
They started digging up de Valera's grave, but when they discovered that he'd rotted away to nothing they commissioned Madame Tussaud's to make a lifelike wax replica of him that was installed in the front hall of the Áras in a glass case that Lenin would have been proud of. A ceremony was held to mark the occasion, celebrated by Archbishop Dearmit Martin and accompanied by a performance at communion by thrice-failed presidential candidate Dana Rosemary-Scallions, who treated the congregation to a lovely rendition of her hit 'All Kinds of Everything (Remind me of the Eucharist)', which was briefly at number two in the US Christian charts in 1987.
President-for-Life Eamon de Valera, 1882-1975, 2011-∞. Amen.
Eamon Ó Cuiv wakes up in a cold sweat having heard the voice of Granda de Valera from beyond the grave. He immediately phones the Feena Fawl press office to tell them the news.
DE VALERA NOMINATES HIMSELF FOR THE PRESIDENCY FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE, runs the headline of the Irish Press, which was dead a while since. Liberal Ireland was in uproar and the Papal Nuncio was flown back to Dublin from Prague in order to explain to Enda Kenny in person that he had seen a vision of John Charles McQuaid holding hands with Our Lady of Knock appearing in the skirting board of his hotel room.
'God is angry at you for disrespecting the Holy Father, Mr Kenny,' explained the Nuncio in far worse English than that. 'This is his retribution.'
The whole presidential election shite was halted because Gawd hath ordainéd that de Valera was to be dug up and removed to the Áras at once and installed as President-for-Life-and-All-Eternity (Amen). Nordy Mary mother of Éireann was removed immediately from the Áras along with her family by An Garda Sicíní. The bastards didn't even give her a chance to pack and just fucked her belongings (and her husband) unceremoniously out onto the Twenty-Nine Acres (or whatever you call it). A Garda helicopter escorted the McAleeses (with the help of searchlights) into a safe house prepared for them in O'Devaney Gardens, North Circular Road, Dublin Seven, between St Bricin's and the pond where all the local drug dealers go to have a piss. (Note the irony of 'safe house' in this context. Refer to Chapter Four, Page Twenty-Eight, the section entitled 'Irony, Bwooh!'.)
They started digging up de Valera's grave, but when they discovered that he'd rotted away to nothing they commissioned Madame Tussaud's to make a lifelike wax replica of him that was installed in the front hall of the Áras in a glass case that Lenin would have been proud of. A ceremony was held to mark the occasion, celebrated by Archbishop Dearmit Martin and accompanied by a performance at communion by thrice-failed presidential candidate Dana Rosemary-Scallions, who treated the congregation to a lovely rendition of her hit 'All Kinds of Everything (Remind me of the Eucharist)', which was briefly at number two in the US Christian charts in 1987.
President-for-Life Eamon de Valera, 1882-1975, 2011-∞. Amen.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
Origin Myth of the Bram, a History of the Bram & letter of resignation from Bram
Origin Myth of the Bram
The following is a pseudo-history of the Bram, as written by Martin Luther after actually reading the Bible. After much scholarly revision of the material from the early Irish historic period, this tale fits into the Cycle of the Kings classification. It is known as The Book of Hendy.
Mr(s). Henderson was the grand-daughter of Noah, the sole survivor of the Great Flood. After combining with the Vikings of the Hebrides, Dublin ands Waterford (all quite miffed after losing the Battle of Clontarf), Hendy took the Kingship of Tara and ate a white mare after killing, fucking and sharing it out among his/her kinsmen (Jeremy of Connaght and Rufusonium of the Columban church of Linndisfarne). Hendy’s lineage continues straight and pure until the invasion of the Green Party from the islands of the north where they studied the arts of war, magic and the crafts. The Green Party made an alliance with the McQuids, of the land over the seas, by way of the marriage between the kings’ children. The bride-price was paid with the land afforded by the Green Party being given to the McQuids. A fort was built by the Green Party for the McQuids. The Hendersons were driven from their lands and replaced in the north of the island in special reserves (the borders of which would later be used by the Boundary Commission to create the territory of the State of Northern Ireland as led by Liam Neeson and Martin McGuinness of James’ Gate). The Green Party-McQuaid majority government of the island extracted tribute from the Hendersons and taxed their smoke, feet, heat, streets and their Apple Records. Dissension existed within the ruling classes but they maintained supremacy by rigid oppression. The ritualistic beating and ill-treatment of the Hendy children was widespread. It would later become a key-stone policy of state and non-state organisations.
…to be continued… (Please fill in below.)
This tale ends here rather suddenly. Eight empty folios are found after the end. They were presumably to be used by future storytellers/ historians.
A History of the Bram
‘The Bram aims to reunite the Irish people under common comedic values. While the Bram treasures its members’ individual identity it will not discriminate on any grounds of identity.’ –the Constitution of the Bram (1937)
In the early days, Douglas Hyde proved, using the analytical techniques of many academic disciplines, that de-Anglicisation of Ireland was needed. Hyde drew attention to one example—RTÉ showing Jimmy Carr’s stand-up shows in the theatres of Shrewsbury Avenoo. Even the mild Anglo-Irish gentry thought he was a flange sponge cake.
The Marquis de Bram (Bram being the next town along the east-bound main road from Bodenstown where T. Wolfetone was busy setting up the United Irishmen, writing bad ballads to be sung form the 1960s onwards and getting his private regions rubbed by Hispanic tourists for good luck) was a good friend of D. de hÍde and an avid believer of de-Anglicising the Irish.
At the height of C. S. Parnell’s fame (as he battled for a good woman, finding many a strange one and finally settling on an English whore—pity really, but it did make for a cracking period drama as broadcast by ITV on Boxing Day 1985) and successful career, around the time of the ‘new departure’, the Marquis de Bram called for the creation of an organisation to petition RTÉ to remove Carr from their Tuesday night schedule. After appearing on the ‘Midday’ show on TV3 and speaking on Matt Cooper’s radio show a boards.ie discussion showed the Marquis that the people were in agreement. He called for a mass (monster, if you will) meeting on the Hill of Tara but cancelled it due to RIC intimidation. Instead he got into contact with Parnell (to primarily buy some granite to pave Bram Street, Dublin 1) to get the leaders of the various strata of Irish society to accept him as a friend on Facebook so they could organise a representative meeting without the hassle of twenty thousand followers descending on the Hill of Tara and disturbing the British Israelites as they searched for the Ark of the Covenant.
Status update: The Marquis de Bram is way excited about the meeting, lol!
1 New Event: De-Anglicising Meeting
Who? Host: the Marquis de Bram
Where? Table-tennis Room Miss Hayes Commercial Hotel, Thurles (Main Street, between Via Gesú and Thorpebank Road, Shepherd’s Bush. (The table-tennis table is foldable and will fit easily behind the main door. Please supply your own seating.)
When? 3 p.m. Saturday, 1st November, 1884.
Why? To reinvigorate the Irish sense of idiosyncratic, misplaced, inappropriate humour.
That was the day that the Irish Truly Funny Association for the Preservation of the National Humour (ITFAPCNH) was founded. The association’s name was roughly translated (and later impugned) into Irish as Cumann Luthcleas Gael.
At the meeting, the patrons were named and accepted. Each was asked to become patrons as they represented a section of Irish society—Rufus Wainwright (representing the gays, of course), David Kelly MEP (RIP) (bow-tie lovers), Gerry Ryan (the general Evening Herald reading masses) and Dr. Garret Fitzgerald (representing the children that would be affected by the up-coming Dublin insurrection of 1916).
Local legend has it that a larger number of persons were present at the meeting, including some well-known personalities. Folklore historians add to the supposed list of attendees every year. The potential list includes the following:
Field Marshal Horatio Herbert Kitchener, 1st Earl Kitchener
Tom Lehrer
Pat Ingoldsby
Nicky Brennan
Charles the First of England
Madonna
Father Ted Crilly
Émile Durkheim
Thomas Clarke
George Hook
The ITFAPCNH set up branches in any parish in Ireland that would have them. By the end of ’84, they had a following in the regional centres and other minor towns.
Secret comedic societies around the country watched with both dismay and delight as Irish humour was being given a public respectable face. At the town level of organisation, some groups were more successful than others at infiltrating the ITFACPNH. The Knock-Knock Jokes Club tried and failed at their attempt to get a prominent member elected to the Ennis Committee. The semi-militant Poshbastards Underground had a strong presence in the Association in the south-west and exerted much influence on the association’s monthly publications (source: Bureau of Military History Release XM120J5 1971).
At the foundation meeting in Thurles, the Marquis de Bram was unanimously appointed Life-Time Honorary President of the ITFAPCNH having brought the pieces together for such an association to be formed. On the event of his death, the association was renamed in his honour. It became known simply as the Bram and to this day the Marquis de Bram’s dream lives on through the activities and determination of the Bram’s members.
The Bram has founded the Bram Charity to further the cause of the child victims of mickey mutilation in the developed world. It has also proved itself able to flex its political muscles by showing support for Noel Browne in his mother and child scheme. When the scandal ended in the opposing favour, the Bram paid for Dr. Brown and his immediate family to take a recuperating holiday to a popular Greek island.
More recently, the Bram has sponsored the Love Irish Food campaign alongside Anne Doyle and has forwarded the work of Childline in people’s minds. The Bram itself receives sponsorship from Toyota and Avonmore. It also gratefully receives honorary grants form various American universities, including Yale and Columbia, for being so fucking hilarious.
The Bram, for most of its existence, has shown itself unified. Only once did a leadership struggle threaten the association. In 1985 a radical grouping within the National Assembly attempted to seize power and install a new constitution and value system of a very different direction. It was led by Tom Waits, Michael McDowell and Geraldine Kennedy. The group were defeated and left the Bram. After their leaving they found refuge in the fairy mounds of the midlands where they continued to influence Irish society, interacting with the human world on the festive quarter-days especially Samhain.
To Whom It May Concern:
Since the foundation of the State in late December 2007, I believe I have acted, as administrator and contributor, in good faith and in the best interest of the Bram.
However, as it is very fashionable to do so and with due regard to outstanding managerial, financial, administrative, temporal, economic, racial and legal issues, I hereby tender my resignation from all posts and positions I currently hold.
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that my continuing in office will only serve to distract from the important and vital work and the serious challenges that the Bram faces at this time.
I leave, confident that my department’s contribution will be remembered fondly and with due credit in any possible further use, whatever form of manipulation that may take.
The material up until this post in which I was involved (whether partially or wholly responsible for) can be accredited to the authors of the Bram, as of the eighth of March 2010, in a manner similar to that of the late Mr. John Lennon and Mr. Paul McCartney in alphabetic order separated by a forward slash. The one exception to this is this post; I would like to hold lone credit for it.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to persons (still alive at this time) that I have killed fictitiously in the running of this administration. I extend my apologies to all affected family and friends.
I would like to thanks the National Geographic magazine, the British Broadcasting Company, Raidió Teilifís Éireann, Blogger, Google, Bill Waterson, Tom Lehrer, Dublin City Council and the wonderfully friendly citizens of Love, Missouri, USA.
I extend my best wishes to the administration remaining and look forward to further cooperation in the House.
I leave you with some words that have soothed me in recent decadent times.
‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’
‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.
‘I don’t care where—’ said Alice.
‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.
‘—so long as I get somewhere,’ Alice added as an explanation.
‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk far enough.’
Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1994 edition) Penguin Books: London, pp. 74-5.
‘Don’t let us put the responsibility, the individual responsibility, upon anybody else. Let us take that responsibility and let us in God’s name abide by the decision.’
Michael Collins in a speech to Dáil Éireann, 19 December, 1921.
Aldous, Richard. Great Irish Speeches. (2007) Quercus: London, p.74.
Go raibh míle maith agaibh.
The following is a pseudo-history of the Bram, as written by Martin Luther after actually reading the Bible. After much scholarly revision of the material from the early Irish historic period, this tale fits into the Cycle of the Kings classification. It is known as The Book of Hendy.
Mr(s). Henderson was the grand-daughter of Noah, the sole survivor of the Great Flood. After combining with the Vikings of the Hebrides, Dublin ands Waterford (all quite miffed after losing the Battle of Clontarf), Hendy took the Kingship of Tara and ate a white mare after killing, fucking and sharing it out among his/her kinsmen (Jeremy of Connaght and Rufusonium of the Columban church of Linndisfarne). Hendy’s lineage continues straight and pure until the invasion of the Green Party from the islands of the north where they studied the arts of war, magic and the crafts. The Green Party made an alliance with the McQuids, of the land over the seas, by way of the marriage between the kings’ children. The bride-price was paid with the land afforded by the Green Party being given to the McQuids. A fort was built by the Green Party for the McQuids. The Hendersons were driven from their lands and replaced in the north of the island in special reserves (the borders of which would later be used by the Boundary Commission to create the territory of the State of Northern Ireland as led by Liam Neeson and Martin McGuinness of James’ Gate). The Green Party-McQuaid majority government of the island extracted tribute from the Hendersons and taxed their smoke, feet, heat, streets and their Apple Records. Dissension existed within the ruling classes but they maintained supremacy by rigid oppression. The ritualistic beating and ill-treatment of the Hendy children was widespread. It would later become a key-stone policy of state and non-state organisations.
…to be continued… (Please fill in below.)
This tale ends here rather suddenly. Eight empty folios are found after the end. They were presumably to be used by future storytellers/ historians.
A History of the Bram
‘The Bram aims to reunite the Irish people under common comedic values. While the Bram treasures its members’ individual identity it will not discriminate on any grounds of identity.’ –the Constitution of the Bram (1937)
In the early days, Douglas Hyde proved, using the analytical techniques of many academic disciplines, that de-Anglicisation of Ireland was needed. Hyde drew attention to one example—RTÉ showing Jimmy Carr’s stand-up shows in the theatres of Shrewsbury Avenoo. Even the mild Anglo-Irish gentry thought he was a flange sponge cake.
The Marquis de Bram (Bram being the next town along the east-bound main road from Bodenstown where T. Wolfetone was busy setting up the United Irishmen, writing bad ballads to be sung form the 1960s onwards and getting his private regions rubbed by Hispanic tourists for good luck) was a good friend of D. de hÍde and an avid believer of de-Anglicising the Irish.
At the height of C. S. Parnell’s fame (as he battled for a good woman, finding many a strange one and finally settling on an English whore—pity really, but it did make for a cracking period drama as broadcast by ITV on Boxing Day 1985) and successful career, around the time of the ‘new departure’, the Marquis de Bram called for the creation of an organisation to petition RTÉ to remove Carr from their Tuesday night schedule. After appearing on the ‘Midday’ show on TV3 and speaking on Matt Cooper’s radio show a boards.ie discussion showed the Marquis that the people were in agreement. He called for a mass (monster, if you will) meeting on the Hill of Tara but cancelled it due to RIC intimidation. Instead he got into contact with Parnell (to primarily buy some granite to pave Bram Street, Dublin 1) to get the leaders of the various strata of Irish society to accept him as a friend on Facebook so they could organise a representative meeting without the hassle of twenty thousand followers descending on the Hill of Tara and disturbing the British Israelites as they searched for the Ark of the Covenant.
Status update: The Marquis de Bram is way excited about the meeting, lol!
1 New Event: De-Anglicising Meeting
Who? Host: the Marquis de Bram
Where? Table-tennis Room Miss Hayes Commercial Hotel, Thurles (Main Street, between Via Gesú and Thorpebank Road, Shepherd’s Bush. (The table-tennis table is foldable and will fit easily behind the main door. Please supply your own seating.)
When? 3 p.m. Saturday, 1st November, 1884.
Why? To reinvigorate the Irish sense of idiosyncratic, misplaced, inappropriate humour.
That was the day that the Irish Truly Funny Association for the Preservation of the National Humour (ITFAPCNH) was founded. The association’s name was roughly translated (and later impugned) into Irish as Cumann Luthcleas Gael.
At the meeting, the patrons were named and accepted. Each was asked to become patrons as they represented a section of Irish society—Rufus Wainwright (representing the gays, of course), David Kelly MEP (RIP) (bow-tie lovers), Gerry Ryan (the general Evening Herald reading masses) and Dr. Garret Fitzgerald (representing the children that would be affected by the up-coming Dublin insurrection of 1916).
Local legend has it that a larger number of persons were present at the meeting, including some well-known personalities. Folklore historians add to the supposed list of attendees every year. The potential list includes the following:
Field Marshal Horatio Herbert Kitchener, 1st Earl Kitchener
Tom Lehrer
Pat Ingoldsby
Nicky Brennan
Charles the First of England
Madonna
Father Ted Crilly
Émile Durkheim
Thomas Clarke
George Hook
The ITFAPCNH set up branches in any parish in Ireland that would have them. By the end of ’84, they had a following in the regional centres and other minor towns.
Secret comedic societies around the country watched with both dismay and delight as Irish humour was being given a public respectable face. At the town level of organisation, some groups were more successful than others at infiltrating the ITFACPNH. The Knock-Knock Jokes Club tried and failed at their attempt to get a prominent member elected to the Ennis Committee. The semi-militant Poshbastards Underground had a strong presence in the Association in the south-west and exerted much influence on the association’s monthly publications (source: Bureau of Military History Release XM120J5 1971).
At the foundation meeting in Thurles, the Marquis de Bram was unanimously appointed Life-Time Honorary President of the ITFAPCNH having brought the pieces together for such an association to be formed. On the event of his death, the association was renamed in his honour. It became known simply as the Bram and to this day the Marquis de Bram’s dream lives on through the activities and determination of the Bram’s members.
The Bram has founded the Bram Charity to further the cause of the child victims of mickey mutilation in the developed world. It has also proved itself able to flex its political muscles by showing support for Noel Browne in his mother and child scheme. When the scandal ended in the opposing favour, the Bram paid for Dr. Brown and his immediate family to take a recuperating holiday to a popular Greek island.
More recently, the Bram has sponsored the Love Irish Food campaign alongside Anne Doyle and has forwarded the work of Childline in people’s minds. The Bram itself receives sponsorship from Toyota and Avonmore. It also gratefully receives honorary grants form various American universities, including Yale and Columbia, for being so fucking hilarious.
The Bram, for most of its existence, has shown itself unified. Only once did a leadership struggle threaten the association. In 1985 a radical grouping within the National Assembly attempted to seize power and install a new constitution and value system of a very different direction. It was led by Tom Waits, Michael McDowell and Geraldine Kennedy. The group were defeated and left the Bram. After their leaving they found refuge in the fairy mounds of the midlands where they continued to influence Irish society, interacting with the human world on the festive quarter-days especially Samhain.
To Whom It May Concern:
Since the foundation of the State in late December 2007, I believe I have acted, as administrator and contributor, in good faith and in the best interest of the Bram.
However, as it is very fashionable to do so and with due regard to outstanding managerial, financial, administrative, temporal, economic, racial and legal issues, I hereby tender my resignation from all posts and positions I currently hold.
I have come to the regrettable conclusion that my continuing in office will only serve to distract from the important and vital work and the serious challenges that the Bram faces at this time.
I leave, confident that my department’s contribution will be remembered fondly and with due credit in any possible further use, whatever form of manipulation that may take.
The material up until this post in which I was involved (whether partially or wholly responsible for) can be accredited to the authors of the Bram, as of the eighth of March 2010, in a manner similar to that of the late Mr. John Lennon and Mr. Paul McCartney in alphabetic order separated by a forward slash. The one exception to this is this post; I would like to hold lone credit for it.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologise to persons (still alive at this time) that I have killed fictitiously in the running of this administration. I extend my apologies to all affected family and friends.
I would like to thanks the National Geographic magazine, the British Broadcasting Company, Raidió Teilifís Éireann, Blogger, Google, Bill Waterson, Tom Lehrer, Dublin City Council and the wonderfully friendly citizens of Love, Missouri, USA.
I extend my best wishes to the administration remaining and look forward to further cooperation in the House.
I leave you with some words that have soothed me in recent decadent times.
‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’
‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.
‘I don’t care where—’ said Alice.
‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.
‘—so long as I get somewhere,’ Alice added as an explanation.
‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk far enough.’
Carroll, Lewis. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1994 edition) Penguin Books: London, pp. 74-5.
‘Don’t let us put the responsibility, the individual responsibility, upon anybody else. Let us take that responsibility and let us in God’s name abide by the decision.’
Michael Collins in a speech to Dáil Éireann, 19 December, 1921.
Aldous, Richard. Great Irish Speeches. (2007) Quercus: London, p.74.
Go raibh míle maith agaibh.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
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?”
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