Corona Republic

The nGardaí Sicíni, patrolling the streets of Dublin to prevent people spreading the corona about the place.

‘Excuse me ma’am, could you not step out of the vehicle, please. Keep your window rolled up about three quarters of the way, that’s it now. Now, what’s your business being out and about of a Tuesday? You know that Simon Harris has told all auld ones over the age of sixty-seven to stay indoors for the foreseeable.’

‘Excuse me, Gard, I’m only sixty-three-and-a-half, and I’m just going down to Centra to get the messages.’

‘Go on so missus, good luck to you now.’

Elsewhere in Dublin, on La Touche Bridge, between South Richmond Street, Dublin Two, and Rathmines Road, Dublin Six, two extremely youthful members of the Defence Forces have blocked the way to traffic using sandbags, cans of Harp and multi-packs of Tayto cheese-and-onion. As night falls, a lone figure emerges from the Harold’s Cross vicinity walking towards the make-shift barricade.

‘What’s that over there?’ says Private Peter Buckley to his comrade-in-arms, Tommy Farrell, who is sitting on his arse on the Rathmines side of the bridge. Tommy recently managed to pass his repeat Leaving Cert Irish oral with full marks (by default), even though he’s shite at Irish.

‘Wha’?’ says Tommy, looking up from his Nintendo Switch.

‘There’s someone over there, carrying a big white yoke,’ says Peter. ‘Look.’

Tommy stands up and squints his eyes in the direction of the figure emerging from the darkness. ‘Jaysus, it’s some wan with a load of toilet roll.’

‘Who’s there?’ roars Peter. ‘Friend or foe?’

‘This isn’t the bleedin’ war ye thick,’ says Tommy. ‘Ask what their business is.’

‘What is your business?’ shouts Peter. Tommy rolls his eyes and sits back down on the ground.

‘I’m going down to see me daughther to give her this jacks roll,’ replies a woman’s voice.

‘You know you have no business leaving your house after the six-p.m. curfew missus. Turn back please.’

‘Ah here. Me daughther needs these jacks rolls for her three shitein’ children and she can’t get any of them anywhere for luv nor money.’

‘Stand down!’ shouts Peter threateningly. The woman is now only yards from the bridge.

Tommy looks up from his Nintendo Switch again. ‘Calm down to fuck would you,’ he says, but Peter takes no notice. ‘I’m warning you. One more chance to turn back or I’ll fire.’

Cut to Henry Street, Dublin One, which is lit only by the Christmas lights, inexplicably still up in mid-March. An eerie silence hangs over the place, broken occasionally only by the rustle of rough-sleepers in sleeping bags. In the doorway of Roches Stores, as Harry settles down for the night he hears the distant echo of a far-off noise that sounds like a gun-shot.

‘There goes another one,’ says Harry aloud. ‘Fuckin’ nineteen-sixteen all over again.’

‘Shuddup,’ says a woman’s voice from across the way. ‘Tryin’ to get some bleedin’ sleep here.’

‘Ah, fuck off,’ says Harry quietly to himself before drifting off to sleep. He dreams of a verdant scene of rolling low hills, like something from the Lord of the Rings films. Up in the sky the sun shines brightly, only when you look closely at the sun it’s actually the radiant face of An Taoiseach Leo Varadkar. He speaks in his characteristic monotone, and his Churchilian platitudes echo around the land.

‘We will fight the corona on the beaches. We will fight it in the air. We will fight it on land, and sea. It will be my finest hour.’

Harry wakes with a start. It’s early morning now, and the sky is navy-purple. Someone sleeping in the doorway of the Meteor shop snores loudly. A man wearing a trench-coat and gas-mask passes by, walking his greyhound. The dog comes over to sniff Harry, and Harry pets him. When the man and dog have passed by, Harry observes the man squirt an entire small bottle of hand-sanitizer on the dog’s head with a rubber-gloved hand.

The man and dog disappear in the direction of the Jervis Centre. Silence descends again.

x

x

St Benedildo’s College, Chill Mo Chuda

If you want a vision of hell, go to the Stillorgan Luas station on a windy Wednesday morning. It’s not even in Stillorgan. It’s lawless out there. The wolves walk around the place wearing those blue stripey shirts with white collars that Sean Fitzpatrick et al wore during the Celtic Tiger. Some people have pink hair. Some people eat chicken-fillet wraps wrapped in a further layer of cling-film. Think of the children Joe. They don’t even have velcro here, Joe. How’s the childerints supposed to be fastening thezzir shoe-laces Joe? It’s cridiminal, so it is.

You can smell the poor people a mile away. They pretend they’re going to work at Vodaphone [sic.], but no real job starts at ten in the morning. Narrow windows. Nothing else but to curtain-twitch.

Gallop your gee to Fanny. Make a clock with your cock, and dwell forever in detached suburban grimness, occasionally driving your Volkswagen Beetle down to Centra for a plastic-packed tikka masala. It’s like being in America, only with less nuclear power and more heroin. Happy children playing together in school. They’ll be dead eventually, like ourselves. Sinné Fianna Fáil, atá ag dul go bás.

Prayers After Riding

On page 79 of Alive O 8 (for 6th class students), the page that most diligent parents tear out the moment they purchase the book, you will find a section in small print headed ‘Prayers after Riding’. This is the section that Breda O’Brien fought hard to erase from the religious curriculum, but in acknowledgment of the fact that omitting it might cast some poor children into hell, the Archbish of Dubdub decreed that it should be included, for better or for worse. This is pure filth, they say. You’ve been warned.

Prayers After Riding 

O God, who makes us all live together in harmony and loveliness, we thank you for the lovely experience of the ride. Please let us make a baby together and live forever and ever in holiness and loveliness, only having a lovely ride when we truly want to make a baby. Amen.

Holy Mary, who definitely never ever rid, make sure that we don’t catch chlamydia (or however you spell it) or whatever other form of clap that’s going around at the moment. In the name of your holy Son Jesus Christ. Amen.

Lord Jesus, who gave us families, infertile couples, and single mothers, please make sure that if a baby should result out of this ride we have just had that we should have the decency to get married and try our best to bring the child up together, even if we are twelve. Amen.

Mrs Kinsella's Creche, Donnycarney, Dublin Nine

'Get us a cup of tea will ya Jimmy?' croaked Mrs Kinsella, drawing heavily on the three smouldering cigarettes she held in her fist. 'You what? I know you bleedin' scalded yourself with the kettle yesterday. Did yer mammy not put any Sudocreme on it? Jaysus. Neglect, that's what it is. Pure and utter neglect.'

Jimmy was five. He looked quite terrified, and his right hand was covered with bandages.

'C'm'ere t'me Jayden. Yeah, you,' roared Mrs Kinsella. 'Have y'any of them jelly babies left? No? You bleedin' glutton.'

'I gave the last one to you, Mrs Kinsella,' said Jayden, his eyes fixed on the ground in an intense stare of shame.

'Yeah, but who ate the rest of them? It wasn't me, was it Jayden? You cheeky little shite. Fuck off now and go back to cleanin' the bath.'

Mrs Kinsella got up out of her armchair with great effort. She fastened her pink dressinggown around her waist. 'Ah Jaysus, me back,' she moaned.

Mrs Kinsella was only twenty-nine years old, but she already had seven children of her own, all of whom she sent to boarding school as soon as they were old enough. The creche didn't make her quite enough money to afford all the school fees, but she also had the social, her disability allowance, her father's CIE pension money and the compensation she got from the hairdresser who burned her ear with a GHD in 2009.

Mrs Kinsella was nothing if not enterprising. Ten quid a day to look after a child was quite a bargain, and so every mother in the area dropped their children to Mrs Kinsella in the mornings. Her two-bed council house was small, but it just about accommodated the fifty-two children she looked after daily. It was good life experience for them, Mrs Kinsella told the mothers. They learned useful skills like making tea, cleaning out ashtrays, ironing, basic sewing, and polishing things with Brasso.

Speaking of which, Janice Dempsey was polishing the fender around the fireplace as Mrs Kinsella stepped over some small boys to get to the cupboard where she kept her vodka bottles.

'Janice!' shouted Mrs Kinsella. 'The fuck are ya doin'? There's bleedin' streaks alloverih. Go an' get yourself a clean yellow cloth.'

'There aren't any more cloths Mrs Kinsella,' said Janice, almost despairing. She had been using the same filthy cloth for the last week in repeated failed attempts to clean the fender. She was seven.

'De fuck do I care? Get yourself on the 20B and go down to Talbot Street and get a few new ones. There's fifty p. Bring me back a Cornetto as well.'

Janice was about to say something in response but Mrs Kinsella cut across her. 'Hurry up to fuck!'

​Mrs Kinsella's creche was eventually closed down when she was reported to the police for locking three​ small children in the broom cupboard which she alleged was inhabited by a mythical Chinese man. Her profiteering from innocent children's misery was of course denounced in all the red-tops, but secretly most of her neighbours were envious: why hadn't they thought of doing that?

Social Democrats Fight to the Death

Following the departure of Stephen Donnelly TD from the Social Democrats party, remaining co-leaders Roisin Shortall and Catherine Murphy will Fight to the Death in order to see Who is Better.

Ringside seats will be available for the public spectacle of a left-of-centre bitchfight, which is to take place in a large purple boxing ring, to be erected specially on the lawn of Leinster House, Merrion Square, Dublin Two.

Whatever you're having yourself

As part of Fine Gael's magnificent several-point-plan to Get Ireland Working, a new national industry has been created, through which many millions will be pleasured.

Every home in Ireland will shortly receive a new dildo, hand-made from peat from genuine Irish bog. The dildos have been made lovingly in Co. Clare by a lady in a shawl who looks like Peig Sayers. Each dildo comes emblazoned with a pencil-drawn image of Hibernia, in the guise of that very famous American, Lady Lavatory, who used be on the pound notes.

The stated purpose of these dildos is to take pressure off the government: now everyone can fuck themselves to save the government having to do it. As a result of this cleverness, taxpayers' money will be saved in droves and rediverted to such useful purposes as RTÉ comedy, filling up cracks in roads in and around Rathfarnham, Dublin Fourteen, deporting refugees, and not looking after homeless people.

A launch event for this new scheme will take place in Collins Barracks hosted by Gay Byrne, who is still not dead. There will be (quite literally) one for everyone in the audience.

Pissing

It was a Friday morning and Mass was in progress in the Church of the Holy Prepuce, Glasnevin West, Dublin Eleven-and-Three-Quarters. Father Billy gave a lovely sermon about the weather in Crete on his holidays, and now he was in the business of consecration.

As the host was raised, Barry Gough was so overcome with the excitement of the moment that he wet himself spectacularly. Not just a dribble, but piss everywhere.

--O Jesus, he said. O holy Jesus.

The elderly nun two pews away from him heard what he said, and sure that he was having spiritual orgasms turned and beamed at him. Her smile faded to a look of bemusement and then horror when she witnessed the spectacle of a grown man helplessly pissing himself.

Barry stood up and fiddled with his trousers. He couldn't stop pissing. He began to scream.

Father Billy couldn't see very well and so put the host down and peered into the middle distance. 'Is everything all right out there?' he asked.

The whole congregation was transfixed by Barry's piss. With such fulsome flow he'd surely have put the Trevi Fountain to shame. Eventually it stopped, and the congregation looked back around just in time to sing 'He is Lord', accompanied by Sr Phagina on the Wurlitzer. Mass continued and then ended (thanks be to God), and all the while Barry was slumped half on the kneeler sodden with piss. As the faithful departed, everyone pretended he wasn't there, stepping past him as if he were a dead badger on the side of the road. Eventually, Father Billy passed nearby and sniffed.

--What's that at all? he said.

--It's Barry Gough, Father, said Barry. I, I--I had a bit of an accident. Could you help me, please?

--Holy God, the absolute bang of piss.

Father Billy walked away, whistling 'Sweet Heart of Jesus' to himself tunelessly and barely recognisably. Barry lay there for several hours until some holy aul'ones came in to say the rosary and found him, by which time he was dead, God love him. He was cleared away that afternoon. They've been spraying Air Wick around the place several times a day ever since.

I'll say one thing for being dead: you never have to worry about being caught short again, that's for sure. RIP Barry; sure we hardly knew ya.

The 99¼th anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising

‘I’m Harney, Mary Mary Harney,’ blared the deafening speakers alongside McDowell’s Happy Ring House, O’Connell Street Upper, Dublin 1, as a fork-lift lorry carrying an enormous woman draped in a St-Patrick’s-blue gown trundled slowly towards the GPO, orange lights flashing and warning sirens beeping.

Mary was being wheeled out at last minute to represent One of Ireland’s Worst Governments in place of Brian Cowen, who was still too pissed from the night before. A few years out of public life meant that none of the young people had any idea who she was. Having forgotten the PDs were ever a thing, she was to them no more than a much jollier and more attractive Ann Widdecombe.

The gathered crowd cheered eagerly as the fork-lift came to the podium whereupon Her Ladyship was to be unloaded. ‘WIDE LOAD’, read the fluorescent orange sign at the back of the fork-lift. With a flick of a switch, she was upturned and upended in a most undignified manner onto the podium. A swarm of journalists gathered.

‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of the health service?’

‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of what you’re wearing?’

‘Minister, can you please comment on the state of your face?’

‘Minister, can you please comment on the absolute state of yourself?’

Mary brushed them away with an irritated flick of the wrist, accidentally knocking off Fintan O’Toole’s glasses in the process.

‘Minister, can you please comment on the rumour that you have a tattoo on your arse that says “WIDE LOAD”?’ asked Pascal Sheehy, RTÉ News.

‘I didn’t authorise the tattoo,’ began Mary, ‘but in the interest of public safety...’

Well-wishers threw hamburgers from the viewing stands nearby, and Mary gratefully received them in her gob. When three o’clock came a number of extremely elderly FCA men walked past the front of the GPO in a laughable attempt at military formation. Mary reviewed the troops from a recumbent position, sipping a can of Coke Zero through a straw, and declared herself amused with the proceedings. Everybody had a lovely time and the five confused Italian tourists who were left standing at the barricade beside Henry Street applauded, even though they didn’t really know why.

Following the review, Mary was delivered back into obscurity where she belongs, and now spends her days watching reruns of ‘That’s Life’ with Esther Rantzen from circa 1987 to 1989. Geraldine Kennedy occasionally calls over for tea, but finds it very difficult to make eye contact with Mary when she is lying on the floor.

***

We interrupt this programme to make the following announcement:

Researchers at the University of Cambridge have traced the genesis of bigoted political opinions to the eating of chips wrapped in newspaper. The over-educated boffins have discovered that sheer vitriolic bile and pure shite written in some of our finest rags had an effect on the perception of normal people when consumed in the newsprint which adhered to vinegary chips wrapped in newspaper. The wrapping of chips in newspaper was outlawed in 1985, and this explains why there are very few complete nutters under the age of 35.

However, total nutcases in older age groups sadly prevail. One particular example is failed Eurosong competition entrant John Waters, who for many years wrote for the moderate liberal Irish Times (previously ‘Geraldine’s Gossip Rag’), but always ate his chips wrapped in the pages of the Daily Telegraph. Recently he has founded a campaign called Fist Families First, the purpose of which is to oppose the introduction of same-sex marriage by all means necessary. When questioned about why he is so opposed to same-sex couples marrying, Waters gave the following eloquent answer:

‘We don’t want men touching each other’s mickeys. That is disgusting and wrong. This referendum is about enshrining in our Constitution a man’s right to touch another man’s mickey. I have campaigned for years for a man’s right to touch his own mickey, but for it not to be touched by another man. Only women should touch mickeys, like Sinéad O’Connor touched mine. Except for doctors, who can touch men’s mickeys, but only when strictly necessary. Bum bum arse willies.’

Rumour has it that some right-wing Catholic parents feed their children chips wrapped in the pages of that august publication ‘Alive!’. In another example of nannystateism, the government, led by Dr Noel Browne beyant-the-grave, has recently introduced legislation which criminalises the feeding of newsprint-stained chips to children as child abuse, unless of course the newsprint is from the Cork Examiner, because nobody cares about that.

Separated at Birth: Part VII

Joseph Haydn, Austrian composer and ladies' man.

Jeremy Paxman, difficult British man.

Separated at Birth: Part the Sixth

Irish author and unwitting progenitor of this august blog (est'd 2007), Bram Stoker.

English composer, Basil Harwood.

Visitation

I was having dinner in a pub in Rathmines and by chance I ended up sitting beside a table of clerics all wearing scarlet shirts and collars.  I spotted the Archbishop amongst them and thought it might be an opportunity to introduce myself.  How could I do so without appearing forceful? I wondered.  I kept looking over my shoulder, appearing to do it casually but really keeping a close eye on the episcopal table. 

Just after I finished my garlicky spaghetti the Arch stood up to go to the bar.  Here was my chance.  I waited a second, and then rose from the table sharply (though doing my best to retain the appearance of coolness), dabbing the garlicky oil from the corner of my mouth with a cheap crimson serviette (the sort of thing that leaves a stain if you try to wipe your trousers with it).

I went to the bar, and seeing the grey curly back of the Arch’s head before me, I dived straight towards him, and jabbing him in the shoulder with my entire outstretched hand I almost dislocated one of my fingers.

—Ah sorry, sorry, I said, wringing my hand and looking at the floor.

He turned around.  It wasn’t the Arch at all—it was some other auldfella who wasn’t even wearing clerical garb.

—Ah sorry, I said.  Thought you were someone else.  Never mind.

The auldfella looked away without saying anything.  Prick.

I stood at the bar for a second.  There was no barman to be seen.  Fuck.  I looked over at the wall where the television (Sky News) and the dartboard were.

—Brian, I said.  The auldfella turned his head to the left and looked at me.

—Ah, sorry, I thought Brian was over there.  Never mind.

Fuck that, I said to myself, and giving the bar a little imperceptible shove with both my hands (the left one still a bit sore, as I realized a second later), I began to walk away and headed towards the jacks.

Inside the jacks there were three cubicles on the right, urinals just beyond them, and sinks on the left wall.  I decided to wash my hands, because I didn’t actually need to use the toilet and needed to find some excuse to have gone in there.  I washed my hands with shitty blue liquid soap and then dried them under one of those fucking mental handdriers that nearly take your skin off.  As I was rubbing my hands together in aimless circles I noticed the vending machine on the wall to my right.  Mini Vibrator, €5.  Fuck that.  I’m not paying five quid for that shit.  Extra Safe Condoms, €3.  That’s not bad.  Might be worth it in case I get the ride some time in the next six months, I thought. 

I took out my wallet and withdrew a €1 coin and put it into the machine.  Then I took out another €1 coin and put it also into the machine.  In preparation for the final coin I twitchily felt the knob on the machine which moments later I would turn to retrieve my purchase.  There was one more coin in my wallet but when I took it out it wasn’t a €1—it was a 20 cent.

—Fuck.  Fuck!  Fucking COCK, I shouted as I dropped the 20 cent coin into the sink and banged my fist against the machine in rage.  At that moment someone emerged from one of the cubicles and appeared in the peripheral vision of my left eye.  My eyes darted to the left and I glanced in his direction.  It was the Archbishop.

—O your grace, hello.  How are you?  Em, I’m sorry, I just got a bit carried away.  You see I was putting money into this machine.

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

—I wasn’t buying one of those mini vibrators! I shouted.

Silence.

—Or a cock ring.

Why did I say that?  The machine didn’t even sell cock rings.

The arch stared awkwardly at a fixed point on the tiled bathroom floor ahead of him as he walked past me to the sinks, where he began sheepishly to wash his hands, all the time staring downwards.

—It was only condoms your grace.  Better safe than sorry, eh? 

I laughed awkwardly but lightheartedly.  He didn’t say anything.  That made me very angry. 

I snatched up my wallet (which I had dropped onto the floor earlier) and shoved it half into my pocket and made for the door.  As I opened the door I turned around and shouted in the direction of the Arch who was just about to dry his hands.

—Yeah, well, fuck you anyway Ernie, you big PRICK.

I stormed out the door.  I don't know why I called him Ernie.  That’s not even his name.

Separated at Birth: Part V

Richard Strauss (Composer)

Viscount Craigavon (Nordy)

Een Peeslee, ARR EYE PAY!

Lord Bannside has sailed into rest, 
Savage indignation there can no longer lacerate his breast. 
Imitate him if you dare, world-besotted traveller-- 
(I've no idea why you would bother, to be honest).



Ian Paisley, former Furst Mannaster of Norn Iron, as well as founder of his own private religion, the Made-Up Church of Ulster, has died at the age of 88. It came as a surprise to all of us, given that his last few attempts at dying failed and it appeared he may have been Immortal (or that St Peter turned him back, harr harr harr). Reports from The Next World say that he has arrived safely, but is very disgruntled to see that Catholics go to heaven also.

His catchphrase 'no pope here' became one of the celebrated phrases of Northern Irish life in the latter half of the 20th century, being daubed on walls, pavements and kerbs the length and breadth of Ballymena. So vehement was his opposition to the idea of pope, in 1979 Paisley spent a week in intensive care for a case of near spontaneous combustion when Pope John Paul II visited Dundalk (which was too close to Norn Iron for comfort).

Despite the fact that most people in the world thought he was a massive dick, he was much loved by his constituents of all faiths who said that he was actually lovely behind all the vitriol. His warm and friendly personal manner was seen in his organising of a much-loved series of 'free days out for free Presbyterians', and his gift of a massive gun to Bertie Ahern.



He organized the pioneering health campaign 'Save Ulster from Sodium' in the 1970s to raise awareness of the dangers of a diet high in Ulster Fry. This work for the good health of the people of Ulster earned him many accolades, and in recent years he was invited to advise the Ugandan government on a similar programme of public awareness.

His ability to shout anyone else down was widely renowned. This coupled with his Biblical-literalist teachings earned him many admirers who shared his love of fire and brimstone, including Fred Phelps of the Westboro Baptist Church, and many other nutters. In a visit to RTÉ in 1987, Paisley denounced Gerry Ryan as the Antichrist. The same evening, his daughter Rhonda was presented with an award for her excellent impersonation of a blueberry sitting on a sofa.



Dr Paisley held the world record (according to the Devil's Buttermilk Book of World Records) for saying 'No' more times than anyone else who every existed.

Harr harr no more.

RIP

Separated at Birth Part the Fourth

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...

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.

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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.

Separated at Birth Part III.

Happy fuckin' Christmas.

And happy Bramiversary.

Gee.