Fucking Vagnians.

Dr Brian Fitzgibbon was an ordinary young thirtysomething from Mount Merrion who had recently got himself a job as assistant lecturer in UCD's history department. He was a nice guy apart from his severe pent-up anger stemming from repressed homosexuality, but never mind all that.

Now it just so happened that one day just before Christmas Brian decided to go and buy his granny a voucher for her favourite shop, Arnott's. You see, Brian may have been born in Dee Fowr, but his family originally hailed from the northside—Arbour Hill to be precise. Not that he was ashamed of that at all. He was quite proud of the fact that he was a northsider at heart. He preferred not to tell anyone about it, but he was proud in the knowledge at least.

Brian's granny was a fine woman who was approaching the big 8-0 and who loved nothing more than a morning in town followed by a cup of tea in Arnott's. In recent years she had taken to getting the Luas home and disembarking at the Smithfield stop, which was dead handy as it saved her having to walk. And what's more, it was free! Well done government. Well done Charlie Haughey. Recession my arse. Sure it's all grand.

Well, it was indeed grand until the morning of the 22nd of December when Brian decided to take a trip down Henry Street. O, he thought as he passed the side entrance to the Ilac Centre, that reminds me of my childhood when my idea of fun was to go up and down the bubble lifts all day, before I discovered history. Life was great back then indeed. Just as he approached the entrance to Arnott's he spied a dealer selling lighters, two fer a yoorow.

—Gecher lighters, two fra yoo-row.

Brian thought for a second and realized that this might be an idea. After all, he'd spend most of Christmas smoking funny cigarettes with his dubious friend and colleague Dan who lived in a charming flat there just off Bird Avenue in Clonskeagh. It was a perfect location since the sound of the Muslim call to worship is about seventeen times funnier when you're high as a kite. The whole affair was likely to end up like that last episode of Peep Show series one, but we won't mention that here for Brian's sake. Two lighters for a euro, can't go wrong.

—Excuse me, may I have two lighters?

The lady was about fifty years old but judging by the smokeinduced lines on her face she could easily have been ninety-seven. Her face looked as if it had been belted on several occasions with an iron. Brian suddenly felt the urge to puke, but repressed it as he did with most other unwelcome feelings, adding them to his bubbling pot of repression.

—Two yoo-row plee-ez.

—But you said it was two for a euro...?

—Did I? Ah well, I lied. Sure you have to say dese things nowadays to ge' a bi' o' custom with them fuckin' Vagnians comin' in and takin' our jobs left righ' an' centre. It's terrible. All of us dealers here have to tell pure an' utter lies just to sell a few poxy lighters. It's despera'.

—But what are you talking about? Brian was very confused. Here was a woman who probably had never even sat a state exam in her life confusing him, Brian Fitzgibbon, who had a Ph.D. in the influence of Vatican sovreignty on the course of the Second World War from Trinity College Dublin. Utterly confounding.

—It's the fuckin' Vagnians, comin' over and takin' our jobs. My father Billy Reilly owned the best hardware shop in Dublin down on Benburb Street until the fuckin' Vagnians came along and started selling hammers out of their caravans for next to nothin'. And then he had to go and throw himself in the Tolka. Fuckin' Vagnians. Pack o' hairy foreign bastards.

—But...but what's a Vagnian? Brian suddenly felt like an idiot, and that rarely ever happened to him, except when he was around Dan. But that's another story also.

—Those bastards from Vagnia or wherever. Comin' over here and takin' our houses, our jobs, our social welfare, and worst of all, our cock. Fuckin' Vagnians takin' Irish cock. I mean, women in Ireland used to be able to take their pick of whatever man they wanted, but now those Vagnians are selling gee for nothin' in every back alley from here to Westmoreland Street. I'm fuckin' sick of it. Fuckin' Mary Robinson, mouldy duckheaded aul' cunt. She ruined Ireland lettin' in all those bastard foreigners. You can't go down the street now without seein' some Vagnian in a fancy dress asking for money. You can't even go into Supermacs without been served by a fuckin' chinky.

Brian was getting more uncomfortable by the minute as the lady continued with her racist tirade. All he wanted was a lighter, hoping that somehow it would aid him in getting his hole with Dan. It had been a grave mistake.

—And as for those Polish, they're a pack of cunts. My brother Billy used to be the best painter and decorator in Phisbra until those Polish fuckers came along and put him out of business. Now he's in Grangegorman, God love him. Those Polish are worse than the fuckin' Chinese, they—

—Stop! Please! Brian couldn't take it any longer. A crowd had begun to gather and were all staring in a palpable mixture of amazement, amusement and disgust. He felt like crying, but he did his very best not to.

—I don't want the lighters, he said dejectedly and began walking away, forgetting about his granny's present.

Strolling aimlessley, Brian eventually reached the top of Henry Street. Turning to the right he saw a group of women in colourful dresses gathering outside the GPO and swapping babies.

Fucking Vagnians.

O I'll eat the sandwiches Joseph.

Almost one year on, it is time to reflect. Reflect on instrumental and vocal teaching, or something like that. Bram-style.

Let's talk about biscuit appreciation. To my mind Aldi biscuits are just as good as any other biscuits as they taste good and are cheaper than massmarketed fancyshite otherstuff. Even though they call their version of Toffee Pops "Toffy Ooze" [sic.], which almost makes me want to sick all over the floor.

VOMIT

BLEAUGH.

FLAN-GEE to your da.

That's the way. Send an aul flan-gee to your da, a sup of soup and you'll be right as Rudolf the rednosed rain dear. Great organ/pedal. Such a great idea. A nice lad also. A large lad instead of a small one. Like Mr(s). Henderson's nonexistant mickey, god love him/her.

Camomile tea and the Irish times. Such a posh thing. Teadrinking irishtimesreading bastards. Lol, there you are, that's how the mickey crumbles, or doesn't as the case may be.

Flan-gee to your da. That's the more-al of the store-ee.

Cockflute.

There's a party in Lola's gee...

And everyone's invited!

Come one and all to Lola's gee. You know you want to.

O LOLA!

This is a London Underground service update.

Would passengers using the District Line please take note of the following disruptions between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations. Lola has blocked the line with her gee causing delays of up to thirty minutes. I repeat, there are minor delays on the District Line between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations caused by Lola's gee. All other lines are operating at a good service.

The Mayor of London suggests that passengers travelling on the London Underground lines should bring a bottle of water with them in this warm season and warns passengers to mind the gee.

I buried Paul.

Miss him, miss him.

The man who...

Joseph Donnelly, a homeless, jobless, wannabe alcoholic roamed the streets of London (play the Streets of London!!) on a night of light drizzle. It was one of those nights that you get wet and then feel really hot because of it. You know the ones. It gets sticky and clammy. This didn't apply to Joseph because he was only wearing a tank-top and a sock. The very sight of him would make you cross the road to avoid passing him. People actually did this as he plodded across the slightly shaky Millennium Bridge.

"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.

"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.

Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.

It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.

But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.

"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."

Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.

"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).

"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.

He's... he's over there. Look out!"

Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.

"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.

And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.

P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.

Paul's demise.

Time: 5am.
Date: Wednesday, April 13th, 1966.
Place: Prince's Parade, Liverpool.

"John, why don't we do it in the road?" asked Yoko Ono.

"Darlin', someone would see us. But if you're talking about doing IT, sure."

It's surely a challenge to get a firm to move a piano all the way from Abbey Road to the Mersey docks with no questions asked. Especially if you're John Lennon. Buying the rope wasn't going to be easy either, but then the idea came; get Ringo to do it.

As they stood on the quays of the River Mersey they undressed Paul's body and tied his mickey to the Yamaha piano.

"Let me take you down, Paul, 'coz I'm I'm going to Strawberry Beds in Dublin to hide out for a while. Christ, you know it ain't easy, Paul, having you dead and all. If only you hadn't wanted to leave the group and become a paperback writer. We were going to make it through it, but you had your dreams of writing complete shite for people to read while they take their stupid holidays back to the U.S.S.R.! You were perverted, diverted! I thought we were in the same tree, but no-one I think is in my tree anymore."

As he lowered the piano (Paul following as his mickey was firmly tied onto the piano's leg) into the river the remaining Beatles sang "A Day in the Life".

John then sang "All You Need Is Love" while Yoko ran around in circles, pulling stupid faces and shouting "NUMBER NINE" over and over again.

"Hey, bitch, you know if you said that backwards it would sound like you were saying 'turn me on, dead man'" said Ringo.

"Ooooooh, spooky!" said all involved at once.

"Hey, I've got an idea," said George, "....let's get a curry!"

"Oh, what a fabulous idea. I know a great place on Lime Street," followed Ringo. "Is he away from detection yet, John?"

"I can't even see the piano. They'll never find him unless they follow the secret clues that I plan on leaving on our next album. I want to call it "Let's Kill Our Bassist" or something to that effect anyway."

"Subtle," said George.

"Wakka wakka, baboo!" mumbled Yoko.

And so Macca was no more. He was brutally murdered by the other Beatles and dumped in the Mersey. God love him. Secret interviews were held in Paul's parents' house and a replacement was soon found. Unfortunately it fooled nobody and in 1970 it was too ridiculous to continue and the band split due to "internal problems". But everyone knew it was just because Eamon Dunphy couldn't sing.

Stick a mickey in your carrotcake.

I shave dado. Shave it real good. And make sure it's nice and even before I put on the wallpaper paste.

Dead visa ho. Absolute hoor, always looking for an aul' ride on the credit card. Dead, that's where it gets you.

Head as void. Speaks for itself really. Or rather doesn't. Ha ha ha ha. !

I shove a dad. As dirty as that may seem, it's true.

Hoorin' around on Montgomery Street

Back in the fine days when a youngfla could get up in the morning and go down Monto for a quick ride with a prostitute before work, people were happy. At least, Michael was happy. One July morning he was feeling more than a little randy after passing Ann Summers on O'Connell Street and fancied a bit of the old in-out. So, he nipped around to the Monto for to see what he could see.

The (w)hole area was swarming with hoors and specialists sex shops and all that sort of thing, well done. You'd find all the durty aul' fellas knocking (pun not especially intended, but take it [no pun intended] as you will) around the place aswell as a few decent skins (but not many). Bang Bang was often seen hanging around street corners behind the Pro-Cathedral. He wasn't interested in sex, he just thought he was under enemy fire and was sheltering himself from the pesky Boers that had killed some of his friends in the Royal Dublin Rifles Divisions with pineapples.

Michael was into strange things when it came to sexual relations. He was a fan of "Juliette" by the infamous Marquis de Sade. So, he was keeping an eye out for a young woman with a particular twinkle in her eye as he walked along with hands in his pockets.

"Afternoon Prince Albert," said Michael cheerfully.

"Eh, I don't know what... what you're talking about young man. I'm... I'm not ....Prince Albert!"

"Oh, sorry old chap, no harm done!" replied Micheal and he continued whistling "Good Old Desk" by Harry Nilsson. Of course, Michael knew it was the Prince, but didn't want to make a fuss. He'd see him the following week anyway.

Eventually, whatever it was that Michael was looking for in a girl was found in the eye and brasserie of a twenty-something blond wearing a long dark-blue coat. Their eyes met and the prospect of business drew her towards him.

"Hello, dear. How are we this afternoon?"

"We're surely fine and dandy. We're also very naked under this coat if you're interested."

"Well, you know, I think I am. You're just the sort of whore I'm looking for right now. How much for the afternoon, you little tart?"

"You seem like a regular, you should know the going rates. I'm no different that the other trollops that do these streets. We have a union, you know! Larkin helped us set it up. We didn't know how to thank him enough....."

"Riiiight... So, back to me ridin' ya... How would you like the payment? I've got cash on me, I don't know if I've enough though. Eh, I think I've my laser too. Yeah, here in my inside pocket. Oh, I've some travellers' cheques too in sterling and Australian dollars. --rummaging within-- Ah, and here's a scratch card with three £60s on it."

"Hmmm... is that all you have? No vouchers for Clarks shoe shops? We only take shoe-related currency or payment methods. Even if you have a couple pairs of Crocs handy, that'd do fine. Unfortunately we've had to stop taking Dr. Martin's because of all the forgeries doing the rounds at the moment. Janet down the road there accepted six pairs in payment for a good-hard-shag and it turned out they were fakes. That wouldn't even get you the most basic treatment on any market, let me tell you."

"Eh, yeah," said Michael as he stepped slowly away from the whore. Unfortunately for him he didn't stop, look or listen and was mowed down by an oncoming tram destined for Milltown. God love 'em. It wasn't his fault that the hoor's obsession with shoes had gone so barmy, so off-the-bleedin'-wall, so consuming, so idiotic and nutty that it actually inadvertently caused his death.

The Dublin coroner's court returned a verdict of death by misadventure. The hoor faced no charges. Bitch.

This

This is Not Funny. I'm sorry, it just isn't.

The Nordies go by in twos and threes.

The Nordies come ALL the way down the M1 by the busload for the attack, painting county flags red and white as they went. When they came off the motorway the first place they saw was Drumcondra.

"Well, thaat'll have t'dooy. ATTACK!"

The bastards burned Upper Drumcondra Road to a crisp with all their Nordy flag waving. The aul' orange floyt doubled up as a flamethrower to scorch Free State arses.

After their embarrassing defeat in Swords, they changed tactics. Instead of attacking the watering holes of the town, they revised their battle plans and decided on sports grounds. Poor Na Fianna and their GAA pitches were the first to get it. The Nordies just HARR-HARRed and blew the house down aswell as the goal-posts.

Ironically (maybe it was coldly calculated) enough, it was the third Sunday in September and the All-Ireland (Bank of Ireland) football final was being held in Pairc na Crocaigh up the road. Kerry were due to play Galway at four o'clock but The Nories burst in through the Nally Stand and demanded to be allowed to play Kerry. Their ultimatum was ignored until they shot Nicky Brennan. So, the GAA committee had an emergency meeting to insert a new clause in the GAA Constitution that would allow such a situation.

The match began and despite the turmoil, Kerry were kicking ass as they do. But after a late counter-asskicking, the Nordies won. Their control over Drumcondra was complete. They blew up the Bishop's Palace using a well-armed warboat that they'd brought up the canal. Poor Bertie's house was blown up aswell as St. Luke's for good measure. What was strange was all the people in Drumcondra just sat on their arses and did nothing. Sure, it's only full o' aul ones and priests. God love them.

Thankfully, when the scum from the surrounding areas heard about the Nordy invasion and occupation they came out. Whitehall, Santry, Ballymun, Beaumount, Phisboro and Fairview Divisions all reported for duty. Facing such fierce opposition, and not forgetting THAT day on O'Connell Street, all the Nordies legged it for Drumcondra Station and off they went.

Everyone then had a great piss up in Fagan's and all was fine. The Nordies wone the All-Ireland, but at least they were out of the Republic again. Well done.

With a flilly lilly in your gee-hole.

Trying to drink whiskey from a bottle of wine women and song. A lovely thought, promulgated by Mister Justice Aimin' Devil-Eire with the help of Eeen Peeslee Jooynyor and a load of other Nordy Bastard with Large Arses.

Well done to all involved. If you'd like to shove your granny up your arse on hallowe'en do so, but not please in my line of vision express, where glasses are now half price starting at 499. Such a load of

Hole is the word and whole is the flesh,
The dirty breast-like nodules of potatoes
Buried in the earth,
"Arr," says Maguire, "there be my mammary-like spuds
Shat on by generations of pigeons named Geoff."

And if not so bad, Mr Jehan Booklay, the great composer of numerous works of shit and Friend of Fat, well renowned for speaking in tongues (including Gwaylin, now extinct except for around the Ring of Kerry ORAL FACE)—has recently completed a massive work for tin horn and flutewhistle including a very good electronic sound approximation of a person farting and belching at once in Hebrew. It was until now thought that that was impossible—not farting or belching in Hebrew, just doing both at the same time, no matter what the language. Bloody joojooman language. Not that we're racist or anything, but you're a fuckin' chinese

Lovely person, said Jonathan of his coach-driver as he disembarked from his carriage on Tottenham Court Road back in 1863, whose anniversary occurs around this time. A lovely day for a spot of whiskeydrinking Charlie wouldn't you said? said he. O yes dear boy, come here till I roide ya.

And throw you back to where you belong. Back there in East Angular, what a load of whole that may have seemed. A whole week of hole weeks wages. And well done to your FLUTE.

Thanks for the memories.

And well done!

GEE

Mickey O'Leary's Oral Face.

Separated at birth?

A Friday Night in Dublin, Year 2022.

Somewhere in the not too distant future, 14 years from now, Dublin is a changed place. Metro North carries boisterous skangers from Finglas to Stephen's Green every five minutes. The Irish Independent has a dirty page 3. Gay Byrne is dead, God love him. TV3 is now an adult channel, showing complete and utter American dirt every night of the week. The Spire has been blown up by the UVF. Catholicism no longer exists, and the Pro-Cathedral has been converted into a gay bar with St Kevin's Oratorio as a leather fetish shop. Clery's has become a knocking shop. Stephen's Green is filled with northside junkie bastards. The canal is full of shite. Croke Park now seats 500,000 people and the entire Phoenix Park has been converted into the Phoenix Car Park, the largest in Europe. In fact, Dublin has become pretty shit.

But not everything has changed. Dublin Bus is still shit. Capel Street is still a load of hole. Cabra is still common. Ballsbridge is still full of posh bastards. And most of all, Twenty-Ones is still a mouldy, poxy kip.

—FREE HOLE.

Inside the dark, dank abyss of Twenty-Ones, Lola Sleevend is there dancing her arse off for yet another Friday evening all alone. Despite the fact that she is now 34 years old, Lola has been coming here every week since she broke up with Keerawn back in 2006. If you do the maths, that is, of course, a grand total of 16 years of weekly holegetting. What a desperate aul' hoor she became. In the first few years, she got hole on average eight times a week, but as she got older the hole opportunities decreased proportionally. By the time Lola was approaching 30, hole was almost non-existent for her, and rightly so in a club meant for 14 year-olds. By 2022, Lola was so desperate for hole she had started offering it for free.

—FREE HOLE. Lads, would yez like yer hole?
—Eh, no thanks love, yeh can keep it.

In a far corner of that same club stood an equally old Keerawn, so desperate for hole that he had taken to showing off his mickey to any girls who passed by. Despite several courses of herbal penis-enlargement tablets, his mickey was still inordinately small. To make it worse, girls always assumed he was jewish, which was terribly unsettling for poor Keerawn. By 2022, he was so desperate for hole that he exposed his mickey all night from open to close, hoping that some passing youngone would take the hint. However, just as Lola had told him, girls would rather have a Big Mac than a Happy Meal, and the fact that he was about 20 years older than most of the girls in the place didn't help either.

—Girls, would you like to see me mickey?
—Ah jaysus, you call that a mickey?

—FREE HOLE.

—Girls, would you like to see...?
—Fuck off ya paedo!

—FREE HOLE!
—Jaysus, what a desperate aul' hoor.

—Girls, would you...?
—Jaysus, didya see that durty aul'fella?

—FREE HOLE!?
—Bleedin' hell.

—Girls...?
—FUCK OFF OR I'M CALLIN' DE GARDS!

—FREE—HOLE!!!
—JAYSUS, CLOSE YOUR LEGS WILL YA?!

And such was the way of Lola and Keerawn, a pair of desperate mid-thirtysomethings who tried too hard to get hole for too long. In spite of years of attempting to get hole in Twenty-Ones, they never succeeded. Lola's greatest success was meetin' eight mingers in one night. It's quantity, not quality, so she said. But still, it didn't do her any good, and Keerawn neither.

FREE HOLE. God love them both.

Gees and Marys (or Maries?).

To follow on from the last post, we here at the Bram would like to point out that no reference was made in the previous post to Mary Robinson's gee, as that would have been grossly improper and frankly disgusting. Boutros Boutros Ghali would not at all be happy if a lady of the UN was violated by having her gee mentioned on the internet, O no! And in keeping with the new Bramblog policy on gee, mickey, and general durt, there will be, to quote Old Shawneen Pursill, "Less of that."

Now on the other hand, it would be a gross and heinous impropriety to mention the gee of another venerable Mary, she of the Mac Giolla Íosas. That would be completely desperate. Apart from being utterly filthily vile, to mention Mary's gee would be tantamount to treason. Yes, dears, I mean that. Not only would it be an embarrassment to the good and generous lady herself, it would be offensive to the Irish state and more particularly the office of the President.

So you have been warned. Don't talk about Mary's gee.

Awomen.

Mary Robinson's Heartbreak.

Poor Mary Robinson. It's difficult being an Irish ex-president as well as a stupid rubbernecked nodding duckhead. But that's life for her. Back in the 70s when she was a fresh-faced young lawyer she met a dashing young gent named D. Norris, a gentleman and scholar who had a passion for James Joyce and ABBA. Mary had never before met as kind and generous a gent as Norris, and she dreamed day and night about the day when he would propose to her and they could both be robinsoned in Castlebar. They lived together for a while in a lovely Martello Tower along Sandymount Strand. She did everything for him and went everywhere with him. They were utterly inseparable.

The day David revealed his passion for homosexual law reform, Mary was quite taken aback but was willing to support her beloved Daveycakes in anything he did and so agreed to be his legal advisor. And, in spite of the Legion's protests, gays were free to be as gay as their fancy dictated within twenty years. Well done.

But eventually the day came that Mary was knocked out of her little dream world in the cruelest manner imaginable. As she came down to breakfast that fateful morning carrying a large bundle of Davey's pink towels, she was met with the sight of him holding hands with a jew—a man jew!...a jewman! How utterly incredible for Mary that until that moment she'd never once suspected that D. was a ho-ho-homosexua-la-la, even in spite of his preoccupations with gay liberation and such malarky.

"OOOOOO ISAAC MAY I CALL YOU MISTER BLOOM? THE IDEA OF YOU MASTURBATING ON SANDYMOUNT STRAND IS JUST SO EROTIC I CAN'T TAKE IT! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I LAAAAV YOOOOLISEEES BEST BOOK EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVAAAAAH!"

Mary was so shocked she dropped each one of D. Norris's pink towels on the ground. The thoughts of her wedding day suddenly vanished from her mind and in her great and sudden distress her neck contorted itself sideways, never to be the same again.

God love Mary. A hard life she had. Though beating Brian Lenihan for the presidency gave her renewed vigour and throughout the 1990s she was well-known around Ireland for her excellent impression of a duck with a broken neck.

Well done Mary. God save Ireland.

I love you

Trace the thought of the poet in the poem "Keerawn's Ode to Lola's Gee" by Robert Frost.

In this poem the poet Keerawn-Robert Frosty-Crustygee is describing the gee of his love and how he longs to be freed from her flaps.

"I have been acquainted with the flaps of Lola Sleevend
And the dark abysses of her gee.
I have sat and drunk from the Kopparberg bottle of eternity
Drowning in washes of gee-cider."

The poet says that he has been acquainted with his love Lola's gee and the darkest recesses of it. He says that he has almost drowned in Kopparberg cider which she has poured into her gee.

EXCUSE ME IS THAT WHAT THE POET IS SAYING?

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Public Notice.

From henceforth, Bramblog will contain much less gee, mickey and general durt, as it's really just disgusting.

Thanks for listening.

"Keerawn's Ode to Lola's Gee", by Robert Frost.

I have been acquainted with the flaps of Lola Sleevend
And the dark abysses of her gee.
I have sat and drunk from the Kopparberg bottle of eternity
Drowning in washes of gee-cider.

O Lola, let me go—
Why do you keep me locked in your gee so?

I long to be free
Playing guitar,
Fixing my hair—
Not in your gee.

I long to return to Twenty-Ones
To expose my mickey to passing girls
And to hear them remark, as you did once, Lola,
"O, such a happy meal it would make."

But will it never be, Lola?
Will I spend eternity here trapped behind your flaps?

Let me go
And be free
Without woe
Here in gee.

O Lola, let me go
And let me be free
From the mystifying glances
Of the eyes of your gee...

Gerry Ryan's Friday Giveaway.

Friday morning at 11 o'clock with Gerry Ryan as he gives out prizes for the most disgusting stories possible.

GERRY: And now on Ryan's Friday Giveaway, we have Barbara from Killester.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: Howya Gerry.

GERRY: Well Barbara, I've heard from Brenda that you have a story about shite.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: That's right Gerry.

GERRY: Good, I love a bit of shite. Entertain us, Barbara.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: Well Gerry, I was in the Maldives last year with me husband Brian and one day we were at the beach and we were after eatin' ice-cream.

GERRY: Right.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: And so Brian says to me, Jaysus Barbara, I think I'm goin' to have the scutters. And so I says to him, well, what are ya goin' to do about it. And before I knew it he'd scuttered all over his jocks right there in front of everyone on the beach.

GERRY: What a great story. Amazing. I think that one deserves a round of applause lads. Ah, nothing like a bit of shite on a Friday morning. Barbara, hold the line there, I think you might be in with a chance to win our fabulous prize of a fifty-euro voucher for Ann Summers' in O'Connell Street to buy yourself whatever sort of vibrator you like. Now, I hear that next on the line we have Linda from Cabra who has a story about snot. Good morning Linda.

LINDA FROM CABRA: Good morning Gerry.

GERRY: So Linda, is it true that your daughter failed her Junior Cert because she was picking her nose?

LINDA FROM CABRA: Well Gerry, me daughter Jacinta was in doin' her Junior Cert home ec exam and she was making an apple tart and when she thought the examiner wasn't looking she picked her nose and flicked it into the apple, but she got caught and got zero for it.

GERRY: Well that was a bit silly wasn't it? But, I mean, why shouldn't a young girl be allowed to pick her nose in full view of another person? I think it's appalling nowadays how dictatorial schools are. In my day you weren't just allowed to pick your nose, you were encouraged to do it. Extra points if you could flick it into someone else's dinner. So I say fair play to your daughter and may she have many more days of nose-picking ahead of her. Margaret from Finglas good morning.

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Good morning Gerry.

GERRY: So tell us your story.

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Well, one time back in the 90s when I was in holiday in Courtown myself and me husband were ridin' in our caravan when next thing he shoves his mickey by accident into the bed and it goes through and gets caught in a spring and fell off.

GERRY: Amazing. So what happened to it?

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Well, he had to get it stitched back on by the paramedics. So we weren't able to ride ever again.

GERRY: You mean you haven't had sex since the 90s?

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: That's right Gerry. Well, I had a vibrator I bought down in Courtown afterwards but the batteries kept running out and it broke there for good about two months ago. So I haven't had me hole since.

GERRY: Oh dear, oh dear. Well we can't have that. Buy that lady a vibrator!

The Olympics!

Welcome to China and Welcome to the Olympic Games 2008!! (cheering within)

And here is your host, a fucking panda named JingJing...

Historical Inaccuracy

Tonight I'd like to right a wrong, if I may. An inaccuracy that has arrived somehow in our history books as fact. The inaccuracy that I speak of is the use of the term the "Night of the Long Knives". Most people think that it refers to the purge against Rohm and the SA, among others, in Nazi Germany. This is, however, wrong. I shall now tell you the true roots of the phrase. It will take you to Dublin in the early years of Irish independence and the Irish Free State.

The story begins with an all-night Exposition and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament in St. Patrick's church in Ringsend. The particular occurrence in question happened in November 1929. Imagine the scene, a couple dozen holy auld ones kneeling on pews looking at a gold thing, undisturbed, for twelve hours. Even poor Geraldine, who had come all the way from Leixlip for the occasion, felt so bad as to leave after sneezing. The church was silent, the holy auld ones in prayer. The host-holding thingy (monstrance) sat on the altar in a way in which you've never seen a host-holding thingy (monstrance) sit on an altar ever before. That's because you've presumably never been to St. Patrick's in Ringsend. I haven't. Why would anyone want to go there? Well, anyway, it sat on the altar, in the words of an eyewitness, "in quite an astonishing manner". Bloody holy auld ones. Nobody really knows why this group of holy auld ones decided to hold their annual field trip in Ringsend. One legend may hold water. At the time, it was a popular belief that God loved even the worst places on earth. Christians flocked to the mouldiest kips they could think of to hold Masses and services of all kinds. This may have influenced the decision to go to Ringsend. After all, it was the '20s. God love them.

So, as you can imagine, the holy auld ones were all holied up after all that time being holy and praying and the like. The most exciting thing they could think of doing to splash out (in a respectable fashion) was to have a nice cup of cup somewhere. Unfortunately they were in Ringsend and it was nearing six o'clock in the morning. The only place where they could find to have a cup of tea was a pub that opened early in the morning to accommodate the drinking needs of certain folks. Seeing no alternative, the holy auld ones entered the pub with dismay. They really would have done anything to get a decent cup of tea.

As soon as the door started to open everyone in the pub spun around in the chairs. They expected some sailor and a dirty youngfla that was finished having his way with a whore down on the quays. Their gasps were met by twenty late middle-aged women with raincoats and rosary beads. The remaining holy auld ones had decided to wait in the church until nine o'clock for confessions. The customers in the pub stared at the women as they passed the dirty mirrors advertising alcoholic drinks such as Murphy's, Guinness and Tullamore Dew. As they approached the bar Mary asked the grey-haired man behind the counter for six pots of tea. The man looked up from the tap of Killkenny from which he was pouring a pint and quickly glanced at every one of the women before he said anything. He grinned to himself and said, "Jiz want milk 'n' sugar wi' da'?" Relieved at the barman's response, the holy auld ones crossed the floor and occupied most of the eastern corner of the pub. They sat uncomfortably as they were being stared at from all sides. They gave each other uneasy looks as they sat waiting for their tea.

The clientele of the pub were dirty, randy aul' bastards that had made the soil their bride or were too ugly to ever go with anybody let alone have relations. Unfortunately for the holy auld ones, the pub was also occupied by particularly randy, drunk auldflas that morning. Leo, a drunk, randy bastard offered to help the barman to carry over the tray of tea to the "fine ladies in the corner". In unfortunate fashion, Leo had the most unpleasant fall and skulled himself off the edge of the bar and left several minutes later after regaining consciousness.

After this first attempt at approaching the holy auld ones, the other druk, randy auldflas began to get ideas of their own. Poor auld ones. The drunk, randy aul' bastards started crossing the pub with grins and with greasy combs in hand running them across their balding heads and tidying their ear hair. They moved in slowly but with an increasing menace that made one holy auld one puke delicately into her hanky (the one that her neighbour had bought for her in Fatima when she was there with the parish).

The drunk, randy, aul' bastards numbered eight. The holy auld ones were, at this stage, very nervous. And rightly so, for in a flash (if you'll pardon the pun) the nearest aulfla whipped out his mickey and began wiggling it at the holy auld ones. In a moment of stress, Mrs. Kennedy withdrew a large knife from her raincoat and sliced the drunk, randy aul' bastard's mickey right off.

"Come on girls! These randy aul' men need to be taught a lesson."

At that, each of the holy auld ones retrieved from their pockets a long knife. For, you see, they were all members of the Legion. They were all armed with their standard issue emergency mickey knife. By the time they were finished, there wasn't an attached mickey left in the building. "Hmmm, that'll put a stop to their randy little ways," said Mrs. Kennedy as they walked back onto the streets of Ringsend. The incident instantly became known as the Night of the Long Knives. It was, of course, in the morning. But nothing interesting even happens in the morning, so they just said that it happened at night for a greater "Ooooh" factor.

One of the poor, then mickeyless, aul' bastards left his native Dublin because every one knew that he hadn't a mickey. He fought the insults, the hurt for a few years but left for Germany in 1934. He was barely off the boat when he found himself in a bar with four whiskeys in front of him (two empty) and talking to the barman. He began to cry and cry very loudly at that. SO much so that he didn't hear the window being smashed in at the front of the bar. The poor barman, a dissident, had legged it off somewhere. The poor mickeyless bastard was left with nobody to tell his story to. He yelled at in anger, "CURSE THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES!"

On hearing the shouts of the old man, an SS youngfla shot him. He was part of a team doing a regular around-the-town check on things when some little fucker threw a brick at him. It just missed the SS fella and smashed the window of the bar. The youngfla ran into the bar for safety and on hearing the auldfla's shouts in a foreign language, he spun around and pulled the trigger. So, that was the end of the poor, mickeyless aul' bastard. And that's how the phrase "Night of the Long Knives" reached Germany. Case Closed.

Yeah, a bit of a cock.

Lola Sleevend.

A lolworthy pukeinducing holegetter.

Abstain from Bold Things with the Legion of Mary.

She gave up the Legion of Mary for Taekwando. Just shows you where kids' priorities are nowadays. But in days of old young lads and ladies flocked to the Legion abstinence courses, designed especially so that you'd never get your hole. No hole ever, not even for the laugh, like.

Lads were given the meat-cleavers treatment, which sounds a bit nasty but was done under local anaesthetic (some holy water and incense) and so was marginally less painful than it sounds. The ladies however were given some polyfilla in order to polyfill up their gees, which prevented them from getting their hole very well.

Now, you might wonder what became of all these poor unfortunates who never got their hole. Well, they became priests and nuns of course. If you can't get your hole anyway, well why not become a priest then? ran a slogan in the 1950s. But then came the 60s and suddenly everyone was getting their hole. The youngones dug the pollyfilla out of their gees and were finally free to get their hole. The lads had a more difficult time, but a quick trip down to Capel Street got them a plastic mickey good enough to pass for a real one when the youngones were drunk enough. Of course, they didn't actually feel anything but it was the thought that counted.

Thank Jaysus those days are over. Imagine not being able to get your hole. It'd be shite.

Nordy bastards invade Swords.

The Nordies come down the N1 on their Proddy tanks, painting the roadsigns green as they go. Craigavon, this way, 109 miles.

When they arrive in Swords, they immediately occupy the Castle. That wasn't too difficult for them, as they only had to roll over Declan the warden and they were in. As soon as they have a chance, they level the Catholic church, killing Fr Mackey in the process as they mow him down on his mower.

Next stop was the drinking establishments of the town. The Pound was so shit they just hit it with an orange pipe and it blew up. After that they moved on to the Star, which was particularly revolting because of the Polish disco. That didn't take much knocking down; in fact, they just pissed on the side wall and it began to melt, their piss being so acidic. Lamb was quite tricky as it was defended by an army of holegetters, but a quick spray of Lynx down the Jacko led them all away, leaving the Nordies to mow down the two Poles, which they did with pleasure.

The Lord Mayors is a bit shit, though it's grand really, but the Nordies knocked it down with a few poofs of acidic shite which scorched the hole off all the punters. Now, the only place that they had trouble in destroying was Cock, as the regulars of Cock with the help of gallant Martin and hot youngfella put up the bravest defence ever seen in the history of Swords.

"Harr harr, wee'll bloo up yar Cock!"

"O no you won't!" bellowed the gallant drinkers of Cock. Being those that drink in Cock, of course.

"WE'LL BLOO UP YAR FLUTHER IN THE NEEM OF MARTIN LUTHER!"

The Nordies tried everything, even flinging rosary beads at that. They had exhausted all their resources and were left with no choice but to use the secret weapon: Ian Paisley.

"HARR HARR, PEEPIST BAWSTURDS! COME OYT COME OYT OR I'LL BLOO YOOR COCK UP!"

But it didn't work. Martin boxed Ian...in the face! And he died, God love him. Sure isn't everyone dying? And so the Nordies realized that the people of Cock were too good for them, and so they all committed hari-kari at once, and everyone in Swords laughed. Some ladies puked delicately into hankies when they saw the bowels, but everyone else laughed heartily.

Swords 1, Nordies nil. Well done.

Breakfast juice recipe.

You will need:
Orange juice,
Aquafresh,
A glass,
A mickey.

1. Put toothpaste all over yer mickey and make sure it's nicely rubbed in.
2. Put orange juice in a glass.
3. Dip yer mickey in the glass of orange juice.
4. Drink and enjoy.

Overheard in Made-Up Dublin.

Laced bras with gel pads for five-year-olds, or big people with little tits.
—Are ya a paedo or what?
—No, I just work here. It's my job to pick up kids' knickers.

On the radio with John Kelly:
—And this is the sound of a Korean woman giving birth to a chicken.
—HARAAAAA! RRAAAA! HAAAHAA! Bwowk bwowk. HA HA HOWDEFOCK DID SHE MAKE BIRTH WITH CHIKKEN?

Huang-Hon was expecting an heir, but instead he got a lovely dinner.

And meanwhile in the poshbastard holiday palace in Lancashire, Mrs Thatcher and Cherie Blair were playing with plastic mickeys they got in Sainsbury's, thanks to Jamie Oliver. Try something new every day he says, so instead of prime asparagus, they got prime plastic mickey instead.

I love a bit of tomfoolery in the jacks and a bit of rumpy-pumpy-upon-me-cock.

Popcorn is amazing. It's nature's way of telling you to go to the cinema.

The hindus hate the muslims and everybody hates the jews.

But juring National BrotherHood Wake, Naaashional Brotherhood wake, say Cassius Clay and Mrs Wallace dancing chake to chake with his hand in her gee. O! O! O! he cried and it was O! O! O! all over me cock!

Ffffwtoooom.

Bding.

Ouch!

Angry farmer wipes his eye.

"Thank Jaysus lesbians don't fly."

Radiohead for the lips.

We're not racist at all but

you're a fuckin' chinese lesbian.

Lamb, 2am.

—LADS, GETHEFUCKOUT OF THE BAR PLEASE, LADIES AND GENTS, MOVE TO THE FUCKING DOOR.

Stephanie and Brian had just met that evening for the first time, and they both really fancied each other. In fact, they fancied the hole off each other. Stephanie was from Drynam and Brian was from Kinsealy, so they were a match made in Feltrim. Or rather, in Lamb.

—BRING YOUR DRINKS AND FUCK OFF OUT THE DOOR PLEASE, THANK YOU.

Not wanting to part just yet, Brian and Stephanie looked around at each other.

"I know, Steph," said Brian, "let's go down to Margaret in the cloakroom and get our hole."

"But what do you mean Brian? Who's this Margaret woman?"

"It's deadly, actually. You give Margaret a tenner and she lets you in to the cloakroom to roide. Once you're done you just leave, and we never even have to see each other again if it's not that good."

"Oh, Brian, that's a great idea. Have you any money?"

"Actually, no, I'm broke, I gave all my change to the black in the jacks after I bought those two mojitos for us. Have you a tenner?"

"Well, I do, but I was going to use that for the taxi home."

"Ah, sure, you can walk home. Sure let's get our hole."

—FUCK OFF OUT OF THE BAR, LADIES AND GENTS, NOW.

"Well...okay."

So Stephanie and Brian got their hole, and it was grand fun until he came in her eye and she couldn't see. She washed it out, and thankfully she hadn't gone blind, but she was upset that Brian didn't really give a shite, and so she burst into tears and ran off up the general direction of Drynam. Meanwhile Brian got in a fight with some other holegetters and died, God love him.

And so the moral of the story is, never get your hole in Lamb. It'll just end in tears.

GERRY RYAN AND VIAGRA FOR THE LIPS

NEWSFLASH: Today in RTÉ, famed radio presenter and fat Gerry Ryan pioneered the newest medical treatment for men's health, Viagra for the Lips.

"Mrs. Ryan left me because she said my lips weren't sexy enough, so I decided to launch my own brand of male health products so that men can have the best rides possible. I just thought it would be great if you could have lips as hard as your cock for a bit of an aul' shag."

The Legion of Mary protested outside RTÉ holding banners which read "Jesus and Mary hate the Gerry Ryan Show", but nobody cares about them because they're nothing but a bunch of holy aul'ones.

Well done Gerry.

Mary and the Contraception Train

Mary had been up in Belfast to visit her sister Elizabeth who had just had a baby. She was a right auld one so they were overwhelmed that she had managed to squeeze the little shit out of herself without her dying in the process. Poor little mite, thought Mary, being born at this time.You see it was 1970 and the civil right movement in Northern Ireland was turning nasty. What will become of him, Lizzy's new-born baby boy? Maybe he'll be a minister or a parliamentarian. Mary stayed in Lizzy's house for a week before having to return to her job in Jacob's factory in Dublin.

The train station was unusually busy for the day with women gathering around the kiosks and shouting and laughing hysterically. It must be the Nordies' communal time of the month, thought Mary. She shrugged it off and bought her ticket back to Connolly station.

Unfortunately for Mary, all the noisy women that had been in the station appeared to be going to Dublin too. Well, damn that for the price of a cupcake. She took out her "Alive!" paper and tried to ignore the seemingly mad women.

Mary fell asleep soon after opening the cover of "Alive!". It's not the most interest of reads. But she was abruptly awoken from her dream about Bing Crosby by loud shouts, rushing feet and almighty banging. She sat up in seat and realised that she was back in Connolly station. But, there was something going on outside on the platform. Lines of Gardaí blocked the exits to the street and women were lunging at the broad-shouldered members of the Garda Síochana, emptying their bags out and flinging objects at the barricade.

Mary slowly alighted from the train cautiously. It was mayhem on the platform. She overheard an exchange between one of the female passengers that she had seen in Belfast and a Customs official.

"Miss, have you anything to declare?" asked the Garda with stern lips.

"Yeah, I bought some contraceptives," replied the woman in a firm voice.

"Well then, where are they?" His lips may have stayed firm but his cheeks were slightly crimson.

"I'm wearin' them," she said as she thrust her vaginal region forward in the direction of the Garda who had now diverted his eyes to the ground.

"Oh, right then...well yeah. Eh, well, go on then." he stammered as he moved out of her way.

"I'd like to see you confiscated these!" said another woman as she swallowed a handful of pills that she had dropped into her mouth in front of the Custom Officers.

Oh Lord save us, Mary thought. She was still walking slowly through the crowds of women as they waved flags branded with "I JUST WANNA GET ME HOLE NOT GET PREGGERS. SO, WHY CAN'T I BUY CONDOMS FOR ME FELLA?". Mary faced forward again and nearly walked straight into a big culchie of a Garda.

"Evenin', madame. Would you be havin' anything to declare? Any inappropriate devices on your person, say?" said the big culchie Garda.

"Oh, Lord, no. I was only up in my sister Elizabeth's house for the week. She had a baby, you see." answered Mary in a nervous manner, much like a child with a crayon in front of a newly painted wall with blue and red Crayola squiggles all over it. Or so it seemed to the big culchie Garda.

"Is that right? Look, we know what your kind are trying to pull. We happen to know that this is the Contraception Train. We, eh, read so in The Irish Times. So, for the last time, have you any illegal implements and/or devices that would stop impregnation during the act that is sexual intercourse?"

Mary was, at that stage, fingering her rosary bead that were perpetually in her left coat pocket.

"You must believe me, sir. I don't have any of these devices. I'm a good Catholic, I swear! Look, I've got rosary bead in my pocket."

"Yeah, you show them Catholic bastards where they can shove their bloody feudal teachings! Good woman, you!" interjected a young woman as she was being lead away by another Garda.

"I don't know that woman. I'm just a simple holy auld one trying to get by with my rosary bead and reading Alive!. I've...I've never even had sexual relations. While my husband was alive I used to use jam doughnuts to protect my purity. The Legion of Mary suggested it. It worked well until Peter got suspicious about the sugar all over his, well y'know... sheets."

Mary was hyperventilating and the Garda was standing dumbstruck in front of her.

"You used jam doughnuts?!" inquired the Garda a perplexed tone that even surpried himself.

"I did, sir," she managed to say.

In all the hub-bub and crazed activity around the station, all Srg. McCormack could do was shake his head slowly at Mary and let her pass him. The thought of shagging a jam doughnut stayed with him until he died in the Garda Retirement Home in Dublin.

Mary returned home to her house just off Gardiner Street. She said the rosary three times for the mad women that purchased the inplements of depravity. She prayed that they'd all settle down, get married, have children (obviously without the occurence of the female orgasm) and live happily without those comcoms, or whatever they were called.

Gee Beauty

Come in to Gee Beauty and get your gee made lovely. God knows, your gee doesn't look lovely now!

"Hello and welcome to Gee Beauty. What procedure would you like us to carry out on your gee today? We have a special deal on the Pat Kenny Nose Beauty Treatment this week."

"I care about my gee, what does that involve?"

"Well, we heat up your gee to a nice tepid temperature about the suggested temperature of a nice bowl of Ready-Brek. Then using the most sensitive and most beautiful manipulative tools, we mould your gee lovingly into the general shape of Pat Kenny's nose."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. I used to love Kenny Live. I'd love for my gee to look like Pat's nose."

"Yes. It's popular this month what with him turning sixty and all. The advertisement in Alive! got us a lot of new customers. Margaret, put on the kettle. Brenda, heat up the gee tongs."

Poshbastard Cockhole Mickey.

Anne Devitt's sex tape. I believe it features Mr Cian Bailey, showing off his enormous farmer's appendage (also known as combine harvester). O Anne Devitt, you are so perfect in my hole. We love thee dearly. HOLE. You and your horses, and your face just like a gee. Charming Anne darling, marry me forever. With love, Cianycakes.

And in other news, cock. And a hole lot of other things. MICKEY. Sure fair play to all those people that do be doing things with themselves, and their mickeys owe cock.

No, indeed. Jemma's ma, your mickey, and my lez bean. El owe el. Puking isn't the best, and the government don't speak for us. So when you're not feeling very well at all at all you'd be better off puking right up in a large spiral.

Puking and puking in a widening gyre,
The vomit cannot hear the vomitor.

Take that Willie, you bloody cockfiddler. That's what you get for drumming all over your cliff-upon-cock, for it's always the way. You didn't even need a Hitler haircut to make you look like a Nazi GEEEEEEEEBAAG FLANGE-IN-A-POT.

No, not at all. Lawl, says he. No surprises, please. Well done. COCK!

And in further news, it's recently been discovered that you can actually get pregnant by sticking an ear in your gee. Ask Lola Sleevend about that one, as she's well used to it. O LOLA!

Yes, yes. COCK and hole, and all sorts of other tiring things. Lawl.

Asleep yes, and cock it is for hole. Poshbastard things. Where are you going at a thousand miles a second?

Geebo.

http://www.geebo.com/

Geebo—it's MySpace for lesbians!

THE TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY.

I write this testament so that one day you, Jeremy Henderson, and the world, will know the truth. I write as I am barricaded into the crypts of Christchurch Cathedral, the only place I know that I am truly safe from that damned Legion of Mary and Catholics at large ever since the Archbishop named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic".

I was born along the tramline somewhere between Windy Arbour and Cowper in 1867 to a respectable Protestant family. My father was a house-wife and my mother was an Admiral in the British Navy. I was an only child, and I was reared by my father and our maid. I left home at sixteen to marry my sweetheart, David Kelly. I never saw my parents again. Shortly afterwards I heard that my father had killed himself with an iron, and my mother was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar. After all this tumult, our now unemployed maid was often seen drunk talking to Bang Bang and puking on Charles Stewart Parnell as he went for his morning stroll on Parnell Street.

My husband David was from a well-to-do Protestant family from Rathmines, and so his parents paid for our foreign honeymoon. We went to Brighton where we met Kitty O'Shea-Parnell. Kitty, like me, had an overwhelming passion for lovely jam jars and until the day she died we corresponded and often swapped lovely jam jams with each other. At Christmas 1891 just after Charlie died, Kitty came over to visit to have a romp in my Olde Knockin' Shoppe, and during that week we held exhibitions of our favourite jam jars on Kingstown pier on a daintly table that I bought on Capel Street, just beside the mashed bananas.

I opened my Olde Knockin' Shoppe in Monto in 1888, after the premises was purchased for me by David's mammy Joqueena Kelly for my 21st birthday. I made sure that I found all the nicest looking girls in Dublin. I even imported some from Kinnegad and Tipperary, both of whom turned out to be my best hoors. The gentlemen of Dublin quickly flocked to my genial hooring establishment for all sorts of fun and frolicks, and soon I was the most famous Madam in all of Ireland. My best clients included Parnell, James Joyce, Brendan Behan's father, Bang Bang (before he was mad, when he like a bang bang every now and again), the Lord Lieutenant, the Chief Secretary, and all the gentleman British. We even had the honour of being visited by Queen Victoria who'd heard all about it from Albert, and who particularly liked the fireplace. Even Pope Leo XIII paid us a visit after we won Best Brothel in the 1896 Vatican Awards.

My husband David was very supportive of my profession and he regularly availed of the services of my hoors. Life and work for me were very successful until my spate of misfortunes began in 1916, after my beloved husband David was shot by the IRA up in the Hellfire Club for stealing picnic baskets. All I had left was my young son David Jr and my beloved Knockin' Shoppe. However, David went to fight in the Great War and I was left alone with nobody to defend me and the Knockin' Shoppe. The only protection we had were the tougher hoors and a few bottles of stout.

Times became more difficult during the War of Independence when my young clients became less interested in shagging and more interested in flying columns (their own columns). The greatest catastrophe happened after one of my hoors was killed when riding a Black and Tan when his rifle went off in his trousers and shot her straight up the gee. Some more of my hoors caught syphillis from the Black and Tans and eventually the HSE removed my Knockin' Shoppe's hooring licence and from then on we had to deal in secret.

Shortly after my hooring licence was removed I got a visit from a cloaked young man one night who handed me a ten-shilling note and asked me for my best hoor for the evening. I showed him to Susan "The Lips", my hoor who back in 1918 had won the under 21s category for hooring in the 24th Feis Gee, and I left them to it. As they were riding in the back room, suddenly I heard Susan scream. I ran in to the room only to find that the man's face had been revealed and it was none other than Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I didn't know what to say to him, as Susan cowered in the corner, covering her gee with clingfilm. McQuaid told me that if I told anybody about the fact that he had visited the Knockin' Shoppe that he'd have me excommunicated, but I told him that it didn't matter anyway because I was a Protestant, at which point he puked all over his mickey. He told me then that if I didn't keep quiet he'd have the Legion of Mary come and burn down my Knockin' Shoppe and kill me and all my hoors. I told him that if he let us live in peace that he could have free romps twice weekly, and so he agreed.

This arrangement worked out rather nicely for a couple of years until McQuaid somehow discovered the truth, that Susan had given birth to you, Jeremy, his child and heir-bastard. Somewhere in history the situation arose that gave rise to the writing of a Catholic ecclesiastical law that states that the bastard son (and his descendents thereof) of an archbishop is entitled to all the property and temporal powers held by that archbishop during his tenure once he is deceased, whether or not he dies as archbishop. When McQuaid discovered that his brief romp with Susan had caused her to become pregnant and bear a son, he immediately instructed the Legion of Mary and their commander General Frank Duff to begin the Battle of Monto.

What looked like a Catholic crusade against vice was nothing more than a smokescreen for McQuaid to kill all those who knew about his bloodline and to make sure than he had no heir-bastard who could upscuttle the church in the future. The Legion attacked my Knockin' Shoppe and burned it to the ground, killing all my hoors including your poor mother Susan. They were allowed by their religious mandate to kill only sinners (the hoors) but could not kill you or I, you as you were an innocent child and I because I was not a hoor. However, they tried their best to scorch me with holy water and Marian paraphernalia (since I was a Protestant), but this did not work, and so they burned off my hair instead. They made sure to cut off your mickey and took you to the Magdalene sisters where you would be brought up as a girl who would never know the truth about your father and your entitlement to all the riches and power of the church in the archdiocese of Dublin. When they had taken you, I retrieved your little severed mickey and preserved it in one of my last surviving jam jars in some malt vinegar from Beshoff's chipper, adding some Miracle-Gro in the hope that by the time you find it some miracle of medicine would be available in order to have it reattached.

I tell you all this, Jeremy, so that you may know the truth and that you may avenge your mother's death and that of her hoor friends by claiming your rightful inheritence from the Catholic Church, which has made all our lives so miserable. I fear also that you may need to avenge my death too, as only this morning McQuaid named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic" and I am free game to be killed by any Catholic for the reward of a plenary indulgence. I am here in Christchurch as I know it is the only place I am safe from Catholics, but now I have heard rumours that my own kind have turned against me also, and that Douglas Hyde has ordered my assassination by the IRA for giving Protestants a bad name. I shall leave this testament in the care of my son David to bring to the Hellfire Club, where my husband and I had our first romp back in 1883 and which remained our favourite hideout until he was tragically killed there in 1916. Somehow I hope that he will be able to find you and lead you there to discover the truths that you seek.

I only hope that this testament will give you the answers for which you have no doubt long searched.

—MRS. JOAN KELLY.

Hendy read the last words aloud wistfully. S/he now knew all the answers. What was next? Claim his/her inheritence? Reattach his/her mickey? His/her mind was in a daze.

Just then, before any of them could speak, they saw a fourth figure emerge from the shadows, carrying what appeared to be a bag of organic onions and a pitchfork.

"I heard it all. Now stand against the wall."

It was Trevor Sargent.

LEGIO MARIAE ET INCENDIUS PORNAGRAPHICUM.

(Scene: Westmoreland Street, Dublin, just over O’Connell Bridge on the corner of Aston Quay, outside the now-closed Londis shop. A group of drably clad individuals holding crucifixes and statuettes of the Virgin Mary process past an eccentric-looking old man in a hat selling books: they are THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION; he is PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY.)

YOUNG MAN:
You’re going to hell.

PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Fuck off.

YOUNG MAN:
I’m going to say a novena that you’ll go to hell for that.

PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Go an’ ask me arse.

(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION lines up outside the Londis shop, and an elderly lady wearing a red coat and enormous milkbottle glasses comes to the front to address them: she is SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
May our mission of sanitation to this polluted city be pleasing to the Holy Mother of God, Amen.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
I nominate Lieutenant Cormac to go forth to lead us in our task.

(A very tall young man wearing a worn jumper and thick-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding in his hand a wooden crucifix, the same young man who spoke previously with PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY. He speaks with a slight lisp, though it is barely noticeable because of his drawling voice. He is LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON.)

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Yes Sister. Let’s go then.

(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON shuffles into the Londis shop and is followed by THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. He points the end of his crucifix threateningly at the Indian man behind the counter.)

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
This is a stick up. Where are your top-shelf magazines?

SHOPKEEPER:
Eh, on the top shelf.

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Oh right.

(A middle-aged man walks to the counter with a copy of FHM magazine in his hand. He looks shiftily at the floor and does not notice THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. When he does look up, he is startled by their presence and reveals his clerical shirt and collar.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Father!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Is that a pornographic publication in the hands of a holy priest of God!?

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Surely not!

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I...no...it’s not...I'm not...I’m a Protestant!

(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION gasps collectively and they all hold up their crucifixes to FATHER DICK FIDDLER to shield themselves.)

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You’re a what?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I’m not a priest, I’m a Protestant minister!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
You scumbag.

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You don’t need pornography to get yourself into hell.

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I’m sorry, I’ll just leave and let you get on with your business.

SHOPKEEPER:
Are you going to pay for that?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
Oh, er, well...it’s okay, you can keep it.

SHOPKEEPER:
I don’t want it.

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
See? Even he doesn’t want it. You Protestants are scum. And you think you’ll get into heaven just for thinking you’re right? Well you won’t. At least Hindu man over there knows he won’t get into heaven, even if he doesn’t pretend to believe in the Lord.

SHOPKEEPER:
Excuse me?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I can’t take this anymore. I lied. I’m not a Protestant. I really am a Catholic priest.

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
A liar too!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Scurrilous.

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
No holy priest of God would ever touch filth like that! Get out of here and go back to the Protestant hell-hole you came from.

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
As you wish.

(FATHER DICK FIDDLER leaves quickly.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Now Cormac, do your business.

(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON walks over to the magazine rack and begins to throw the top-shelf magazines to the ground, while SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER points the end of a crucifix-shaped letter-opener threateningly at the SHOPKEEPER. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON pauses a moment as he throws the magazines down to ogle the cover of the “Gay Times”, before coming to his senses and throwing it down also. When all the magazines have been thrown to the ground, a sour-faced elderly man named HOLY JOE MacMURCHU helps LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON to carry the piles of magazines out into the street where they are heaped together in a large bundle. SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE sprinkles them with some petrol contained in a Virgin Mary-shaped holy water bottle before HOLY JOE MacMURCHU sets them alight with a match.)

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
May the burning of these pornographic publications be acceptable to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and his Holy Mother, Amen.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

AND SO ON AND SO FORTH, AD NAUSEAM AD INFINITUM,

IN SAECULA SAECULORUM,

AAAAA-MEEEEENNNNNNNN!

(THE END.)

Lola Sleevend and Lisbon.

SCENE: A school hall somewhere in the Bow-mont area. LOLA SLEEVEND approaches a desk attended by two old ladies and produces her polling card and her passport.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?

OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.

OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?

OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.

OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?

LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.

OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?

LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.

OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?

OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?

OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!

OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!

LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.

GEE!

Sister Mary-Teresa gives Protestants a piece of her mind.

"Fuck yez all."

THE SECOND LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"You know him?" said Mr(s). Henderson, utterly flabbergasted.

"Of course I know him, but not in the biblical sense darling!" Rufus replied, laughing like a hyena and scaring all Mr. Jackson's second year students going by on Nassau Street on the way to Leinster House with their iced cappuccinos, little cosmopolitan fuckers.

"Okay, so, where do we start then?" asked John.

"Well," said Hendy, "let's start at the start—the Pro-Cathedral!"

So off they went on their merry little gay ways, first stopping to pick up a lovely coffee from Insomnia on Nassau Street. Along the way they sang "YMCA", annoying Dubs with fuck-the-gays mentalities.

Just as they came to the Kylemore Café, they saw some lower-ranking Green Party members (like Ciaran Sleevend, Lola's brother) picking their beloved ex-leader Trevor Sargeant off the ground, as only recently he had been mashed into the street by the Geebus. Then, suddenly, posing beside the James Joyce statue with his cane and bow-tie was none other than David Kelly.

"It's him!" exclaimed Rufus. "It's Mrs. Kelly's son from the Yellow Lounge, looking as faaabulous as ever may I say!"

Pushing out of his/her way a group of Japanese tourists who were taking photographs and making peace signs, Hendy caught a glimpse of David Kelly. He was his/her key to finding the truth.

"Oh, David?!" squealed Rufus, in his most alluringly gay voice.

"Ah, Rufus, howya?" replied David, just before Rufus jumped on him and gave him a randy hug. This unfortunately was too much for the poor old man who wasn't used to all this homosexual activity. He fell immediately to the ground, clutching his chest and shouting, "Me heart, me heart!"

"Mr. Kelly!" interjected Hendy suddenly, knowing that time was running out, "do you know anything about a young child called Henderson?"

Clearly in breathing difficulty, Mr. Kelly said nothing but removed a yellowed envelope from his breast pocket and pointed it at Mr(s). Henderson. In a fashion that would imply death in a Hollywood film, Mr. Kelly breathed his last and died. Walking away towards Nelson's Pillar and ignoring the crowd that was gathering to gaze upon the dead David Kelly, Hendy examined the envelope and read the print on the front:

FOR THE SOLE ATTENTION OF JEREMY M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. HENDERSON.

"Jeremy M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson? Could it possibly be for me?"

"What a fucking kick ass name! Open it anyway, you HAVE to open it!" said Rufus.

"Okay then. Here it goes!"

Tearing open the envelope, Hendy found inside a single sticky post-it note bearing one word: Hellfire.

"Hellfire?" said John.

"Yeah, whatever that's supposed to mean."

Mr(s). Henderson's mind was racing. David Kelly? Joyce? Hellfire? What would Dan Brown do?

"Hellfire..." says John. "Hellfire...Club? It's up in the Dublin Mountains. I went there with the YMCA on a cruising expedition. I really enjoyed myself. It was much better than the toilets in Eason's which is where we went the previous year."

"Hellfire Club?" said Hendy. "Do you reckon we should go there? Perhaps there'll be a clue."

"Oh, adventure. I love it!" said Rufus, rubbing his crotch against Joyce's stick.

In the background, the Greens were hoisting Trevor Sargent onto their shoulders as he listened with interest to the gays' conversation.

"But how will we get there?" said John, puzzled, as in the distance somewhere "Leaving for Paris No. 2" played.

"We can ride on my fabulous bus," said Rufus, "and there's plenty of dress-up and dress-down material on it!"

"Bus?" said John, always one step behind Rufus (just as Rufus likes it, I might add).

And then, as if by fairy magic (or by Bram), a pink, fluffy bus appeared from nowhere, driven by an unnamed sexy German.

"Hi," he said, "you get on de bus?"

"Sure," said Rufus, with a twinkle in his eye and a glimmer in his cock.

"1.70 please," said Hendy to the driver.

"Ladies on free to de bus," he replied.

"But I'm a not a lady," said Hendy. "I'm a man."

"That's vot dey all say in Germany. Did you never vonder vy old German vomen are so fucking ugly?"

"Actually, no, but thanks for that anyway."

So they all had great fun on the Gaybus (as opposed to the Geebus) all the way to the Dublin mountains. When they alighted, the bus suddenly disappeared in a poof of pink smoke, and there they were, all three gays alone in front of the Hellfire Club.

"Wow, it's so...phallic," said Rufus.

"It looks so familiar," said Hendy. "It must be the right place."

The three gays made their ways through the doors of the desolate building and up the winding stairs. Staring around for a few moments, eventually something caught Hendy's eye. In a far corner of a darkened room, s/he caught a glimpse of a well-hidden picnic basket.

"Look gays!"

"Wow, cool," says Rufus. "I always wanted a picnic basket...they had a really nice one in the antiques shop that I want to go back and visit when it's open...IIIIIN TULSAAAA...!"

"Be quiet, Rufus, this is not the time for silliness. Can't you see this an important narrative moment?"

"Sorry darling, I didn't want to ruin the moment. I just can't help myself. I will never bay as cute as you."

Crouching down together (oooh!), the three gays went to open the box (Lol!).

"You know, gays," said John, "I've never been so close to a box in my life, apart from that time I did the macarena with Shirley Temple Bar."

"Quiet John," said Rufus, "you're ruining the moment!"

"Shut up both of you!" screamed Hendy. "I'm opening it."

"Ooooooooh!" said John and Rufus at once, creating an atmosphere of tense homosexual expectation.

Hendy winced as s/he opened the picnic basket, but soon discovered that it contained nothing more than three jam jars.

"Jam jars?!" exclaimed John. "Is that all? This is a shit adventure."

"Wait a second, John," said an irritated Hendy.

Hendy lifted up the first jar in the row, which appeared to contain thick black liquid. Opening it carefully, suddenly the air was filled with the strong stench of malt vinegar.

"Vinegar? What...?"

In the darkened room Hendy could barely make out the outline of something small and rather cucumberish protruding from the vinegar. Placing that jar on the ground, Hendy opened the second jar, which contained a rolled, yellowed piece of paper. Unrolling it, s/he and the other two read it open-mouthed.

BIRTH CERTIFICATE issued in pursuance of Births and Deaths Registration Act 1863

Number:
32.

Date and Place of Birth:
6th December 1922,
Monto.

Name:
Jeremy Michael O'Cock John Charles McQuaid Henderson.

—"What the...?" whispered Hendy.

—"Kick ass," whispered Rufus.

Sex:
N/A.

Name and Surname and Dwelling Place of Father:
John Charles McQuaid,
Archbishop's Palace, Drumcondra.

Name and Maiden Surname of Mother:
Susan "The Lips" Henderson.

—"Wow, I wish my mom had such a kick-ass name."
—"Shut up, Rufus."

Rank or Profession of Father:
Archbishop.

Signature of Registrar:
Michael James John-Joe O'Cock.

TO ALTER THIS DOCUMENT OR TO UTTER IT SO ALTERED IS A SERIOUS OFFENCE.

Stunned, the gays could only stare blankly at the third and final jam jar and wonder what shocking revelations it might contain.

"OH MY GOD WE'RE MISSING DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!"

The shock of Rufus's sudden exclamation caused Hendy to knock over the vinegar jar, spilling its murky contents all over the floor. From the jar had come a small, shrivelled object about the size of a Macaroon bar. After a couple of seconds, they all realized what it was and suddenly shouted together:

"IT'S A PICKLED MICKEY!"

Hendy was sure his/her life could get no stranger. In silence, all s/he could do was open the third jam jar and unroll the large manuscript paper in it. S/he slowly read the hastily scrawled title:

TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY, 8TH MAY 1925.

...

The Adventures of Mr(s). Henderson and Various Other Gays.

Jeremy-Sue M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson. What a mouthful of a name for such an unfortunate character. Join him/her as s/he travels through the anachronistic world of 20th-century Dublin and beyond looking for Love and the Meaning of Life, trying along the way to unravel his/her own murky past/present in a world gone gay.

"The oddest thing I've read all year."--Gay Byrne.

"Complete and utter shite. I love it!"--Gerry Ryan.

"A human story for the 21st century."--Mary Robinson.

"A load of me cock."--Some aul'one on Capel Street.

"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.

"Such a load of bollocks."--Hugh Leonard.

"NOT EEN MAY RHEPABLICK!"--Éamon de Valera.

"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.

"What?"--The Observer.

"Vulgar, offensive left-wing homosexual claptrap."--Alive!

"BEST BOOK EEEEEVAAAH!"--Senator David Norris.

THE FIRST LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"O Jeremy, it really is you!"

So it was true. Mr(s). Henderson had lived in Papua New Guinea as a man in a relationship with the gay gay (as in the gay guy and straight guy). S/he really didn't know what to say.

"Hello?"

"Jeremy, what's wrong with you? Why are you dressed like a woman?"

"Because I am a woman darling, or at least I think so," replied Mr(s). Henderson somewhat unsurely.

"But Jeremy, don't you remember all the good times we had together in Papua New Guinea?"

"Don't call me Jeremy, please. My name is Sue now."

"But darling, you were always Jeremy to me! I never thought I'd see you again after I was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. It was so miserable darling, I had to work as a jazz singer in the filthiest clubs, and after that I had to ride dirty randy fat Italian men in pinstripe suits for money. It was terrible, Hendy, it was really was. But it's all behind me now, we can live together once again as happy homos, man and husband, once I go to the STD clinic."

"But I'm not a man!" protested Mr(s). Henderson. "I haven't a mickey! I'm here in Dublin to get a gee."

"But darling, you are a man, I know it! You're a faaabulous man! Why on earth would you want a gee? All you need is mickey."

Somewhere in the near-distance, near Harcourt Street or Adelaide Road or somewhere else pukeable, a trumpet played the French national anthem. Mr(s). Henderson jumped suddenly. S/he'd just realized it. S/he was lying to him/herself. It was all clear now. She had a sudden flashback to a dimly-lit brothel in 1920s Dublin.

FLASHFLASHFLASH

A load of holy aul'ones standing around with pointy crucifixes. The strong stench of incense and holy place, but it wasn't a holy place (though it was a holey place, but that's another story).

"There's the bastard," says some withered old nun.

"And there's the hoor," says another old bat.

"Cut off its mickey and kill the hoor," came a booming voice from the far distance, as if amplified by Gawd himself.

"But General McQuaid, what does the third commandment say?"

"And you're asking me, God himself of Dublin, almost? How dare you be so impertinent! Off with your habit! Now kill the hoor and cut the bastard's mickey off!"

"Yes, my Lord and my God."

Suddenly Mr(s). Henderson remembered the screaming of hoors and the grinding of teeth, from the next room. And then s/he knew...the hoor that screamed was his/her mother. But suddenly the screaming faded and s/he recalled a sharp pain in the mickey area...

FLASHFLASHFLASH

And Rufus was lifting up his skirt.

"O, sorry girls, did I ruin the moment?"

Amid all the confusion and flashing, Mr(s). Henderson and the gay guy both failed to notice Rufus still there waiting and wondering why he was no longer the centre of attention (a one-man guy in the morning, the same in the afternoon).

"O, gay guy!" exclaimed Hendy suddenly.

"Yes darling?" answered Rufus.

"No, not you, him—the gay guy from gay guy and straight guy."

We're now on Diabelli Variation No. 31 as Beethoven refers to himself as his compositional life comes to an end, just as Mr(s). Henderson's odyssee comes to an end.

"Yes..." said Hendy, "...John!"

"O Hendy, you remembered!" shouted John, the gay guy.

"Yes, John...I know now. I was the son of a hoor from the Monto. McQuaid made the Legion kill my mother and cut off my mickey, and that's how I became a manwoman!"

"But why, Hendy? Why would they do that?"

"I don't know John, but I have to find out. I'll get to the bottom of it if it's the last thing I do!"

"OooooOOoooOoOooo!" says John, comme usual.

Rufus's ears pricked up suddenly. "Darlings, do I sense a gay adventure coming on?"

"Ooo!"

"I have to know the truth. I won't rest until I know why they killed my mother and cut off my mickey. But where shall I start?"

FLASHFLASH

Aaaaaa.

---Men.

"I'll get you lot back, I will! How dare you come into my Olde Knockin' Shoppe and kill my hoors and cut off their children's mickeys! I always knew you Catholics were bastards. I'll show the world what a pack of hypocritical holy fuckers yez are and what a dirty prick that Archbishop of yours is!"

Silence. Then the sound of matches being lit and screaming and the smell of singed hair.

"You bastards! You'll regret this! It'll be on the front page of the Anglo-Irish Times tomorrow, you just wait! Geraldine loves a bit of gossip. I'll send my son along with the news, be sure of that. Go get down on your knees and pray to your pope you fuckin' papists!"

"That's enough from you you filthy proddy!" shouts Frank Duff from the door as he fires a bottle of black Protestant porter at Mrs. Kelly, narrowly missing her singed head. "Smash those ashes, Sister Paphaloushis!"

"No! No!" screamed Mrs. Kelly. "Not Mr. Kelly's ashes! And that lovely jam jar I got as a present from Kitty O'Shea!"

"That proved English prostitute, eh?" shouted Frank Duff. "Smash it sister!"

The sound of smashing glass and the screams of Mrs. Kelly, good Protestant as she was.

"Now, you heard what the Archbishop said, kill her."

"You won't get away with this, yiz feckers! I..I..."

DONG.

DONG.

DONG.

Mrs. Kelly couldn't believe her luck. It was a sign from the Protestant God, Jehovah. "The Angelus," she whispered silently. "Thank Jaysus, for once."

The nuns and Frank Duff all prostrated themselves suddenly towards Rome, momentarily oblivious to their murderous mission given to them by His Lordship and Quasihemidemisemigodness McQuaid.

"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary..."

"AND SHE CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE..."

The Legion oblivious, Mrs. Kelly suddenly grabbed as many of her important belongings as she could get her hands on and ran faster than she had ever run until she was at the gates of Pat's Cathedral, before she realized she had left behind her the most important thing...baby Jeremy.

FLASH

"Mrs. Kelly knows the truth!" exclaimed Mr(s). Henderson. "But she must be long dead...where do we go from here?"

"Jeremy..." interrupted Rufus, "...I think I met her son in the Yellow Lounge!"

TO BE CONTINUED.