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?

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.

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.

Hari-kari.

I was walking down the side of Belgrave Square having just bought myself a greasy MacDonald's burger in the Swan Centre when I saw Siobhán walking along about ten yards in front of me.

—Siobhán! I said, but she didn't react. I picked up my pace a little to catch up with her.

—Siobhán! I said again. She seemed to have earphones in. What a surprise she'll get when she sees me I thought, and so I ran a little faster until I was right behind her.

—Siobhán, you leatherheaded fuck! I shouted, clattering her across the back of the head with my left hand (in which was held the halfeaten two-euro cheeseburger).

The next second seemed to go on forever. She turned around very slowly as if in shock, and then it hit me. It wasn't Siobhán after all. It was a very irate man that looked nothing like Siobhán.

—Jaysus! I said.

—What the fuck! said the man in a very angry voice.

—I, I, I'm sorry, I just...you know, well, I think...you see, it was, eh, well, I thought that, eh, Siobhán—

—Who the fuck is Siobhán? he said, getting more irate by the minute. His hair was the same colour as hers. That was something. An orangey blob of gooey MacDonald's cheese protruded from the top of his curly mop.

—You see, it was all very innocent really, I just THOUGHT, I mean I THOUGHT that I saw Siobhán but clearly I didn't and I must have just accidentally fallen on top of you instead there. So no harm done and all, yeah! I said, trying to convince myself as well as the irate man of this version of events but failing on both accounts. I was shaking like a leaf. My hands made their ways into my jacket pockets (the burger discarded on the ground in semi-shock) and my right hand grasped the Leatherman multitool which was concealed in my pocket.

—What the FUCK is wrong with you you plastic bastard? he said. His eyes were slightly red, and seemed almost ready to pop out of his head.

—I'm sorry Siobhán. I can't even say any more. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I said, grasping the multitool in my pocket and stabbing myself in the bowels with it through the lining of my jacket. I whimpered a little, but he didn't seem to notice.

—My name's not Siobhán, it's Brian you stupid fuck.

—I'm sorry Brian, I said vaguely. The pain was rather excruciating and my nether regions felt like they were about to burst. Bizarrely enough after a second the pain disappeared and it was replaced by the vaguely pleasant sensation of warmth you feel when you piss yourself. Suddenly I felt myself losing balance.

—I really am sorry, I am! That's why I hari-kari'd myself. It seemed like a good idea at the time but then again so did Hiroshima. O, this honour business is rotten. I don't want to die! All I wanted was to have a bit of fun and see the rugby match. O, O, O.

Brian looked very confused and I realized he must have thought that I was mad. I probably was. Suddenly a feeling of lightheadedness overcame me. In desperate panic I tore my bloody hands from my pockets and grabbed at Brian's voluminous bouffant to keep myself upright, smearing his face with pinkish blood in the process. This didn't really work and instead I sent him flying onto the road and straight under the wheels of a passing Panda bin lorry.

What a shame I thought as I lay in a gathering pool of blood next to my discarded cheeseburger.

What a shame indeed.

Pahnell.

"Excuse me young lady," shouts the Gard through his megaphone. "Can you please get down off the statue?"

The Parnell monument at the top of Sráid Uí Chonaill, just there outside thambazdr where My Chemical Romance (huh huh!) will be playing on Tuesday night when they remove all the dead bodies. Good old Bvv, scaling Parnell and trying to ride his statue. It's not the first time either. As a matter of fact, the Gards were getting rather pissed off as it was the third time this week she'd done it.

"Bvvvvvvvvvvvv, Pahnell," she said, making noises like a cold hoover. In fact, it was rather chilly up there near Parnell's crotch.

"Excuse me, you're going to have to come down off the statue as you're causing a public disturbance."

"Matthew will you read please. Conor turn your phone off or I'll have no choice but to rip your head off do you understand."

The Gards couldn't hear what she was saying, but they were right in believing she was insane, and so called immediately for reinforcements.

"You have to write six essays and then three more and eighteen of them in an hour and a half and then the Protestants said that Home Rule would be Rome Rule but Hitler wasn't like that at all because he was small heheheheheheh. I lav Pahnell."

Poor weird little woman. Mizbrigck. Bvv.

"Bwooh, no, that's not how you do it, it's BWWWWWUUUUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOHHH!!!!!!!"

"Bvv. Hihih."

"Please get down off the statue. Please, get down off the statue."

"Pahnell I love you I know you never really loved Kitty O'Shea it was me really wasn't it Pahnell O Pahnell let's get married and live in Avondale forever and ever bvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv————

BANG. They shot her with a rifle that once belonged to Aimin' de Valera and there she was, did.

"Well, that wasn't as bad as I thought Brendan," said Garda Fitzgibbon. "Going home now, the wife's making fish cakes for tea. See you tomorrow."

"Bye Barry," said Brendan. "Enjoy the fish cakes."

"Dropping It."

Poor old Clowee, going in to have her first child in the Rotunda. She just boxed some youngone as she was running down the side of Parnell Square where the buses do be stopping (the 16, 13, 11, those ones) when the youngone shouted "Sta' of yeh missus". Clowee replied, "I'll fucking box in your face" and promptly carried out her threat. Well done.

Arriving in the new doors of the Rotunda, she ran straight to the desk.

"Eh, I'm havin' a child."

The receptionist lady looked at her blankly. "O. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm bleedin' sure," replied Clowee. "Aren't me waters just after breakin' an' I thinking I pissed on the bleedin' floor without knowin' i'?"

"O. Okay. Are you married?" asked the receptionist calmly.

"Does it make any fuckin' difference?" asked Clowee, more agitated by the moment.

"Well, we need to check for our records."

"Well, what do you think, missus? I'm bleedin' too young to be married."

"Fine so," said the receptionist. "Just down the corridor on your left hand side. The blue room with the towels."

Clowee ran immediately down the corridor and turned into the blue room to which she had been directed by the receptionist. Sure enough there were plenty of towels all over the floor, some in particularly garish colours, and some emblazoned with pictures of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and others with the words "Costa del Sol". Well done to them. Clowee looked up at the ancient woman sitting on the ledge enquiringly.

"What de fuck is this about?"

"This is the bastard drop zone. You've come here to drop a bastard I presume? Well, have no fear, there are plenty of towels and I was a midwife back in the sixties so I think I know what I'm doing."

"Wha'?!"

You see, poor Clowee wasn't the brightest spark in the box. That's how she got herself Up-the-Duff. And speaking of that, out of nowhere, in came Jono.

"Jaysis Clowee, whadefuck's up?"

"Fuckin' hell Jono, where were ye? I'm about to bleedin' have the baby."

"Ah no, I thought you were only messin'! Jaysis! I'm goin' to be a fader. I'm not even old enough! I can't even get into Velvet without a fake ID!"

"Yeh didn't need a bleedin' ID to get into me gee Jono, so you're fuckin' old enough to look after this bleedin' baby."

"Bollix."

And so Clowee dropped her bastard. She was hopin' to God it wouldn't happen before her night at the debs, and she just about got her wish. But sure God love her, and poor old Jono and their bastard. Kevin Myers is desperate proud that Clowee has made a career of mothering bastards. Guaranteed income for at least sixteen years. Well done.

A Reading from the First Book of Gee.

All fair dues to Holy Healy, but also there is dues undue and also overdue. So, where to begin? Let's start with the undue dues to be paid.

Holy Foley was the alternative. "You have to wear it. You're sacked." It's unknown to most the origins of this. The idea of a hat comes to the mind to those who do be thinking

Bye.
No.
Bi?
No, straight.
Fuck.
Wank.
Yes.
OooOOooh...
Rufus?
Jessica...
Yeah, I thought so, you straighter.

Holy Healy was surely good craic, but only 'coz we did be taking the piss constantly. Or, pardon the pun, the other ways to say it are as follows: take the mickey out of the fridge and use it to direct traffic (you can take that in so many ways), do the Michael O'Leary dance or for those for the faint of heart, forty-nine all over the desks.

Twink, stapling her husband's mickey to the Rusty Railway since 1983. Choo choo wobble wobble splatter choo choo.

How to survive marrying a Catholic. A book, by Holy Healy. Not really, but she does endorse it. Why on earth would you want to buy a Catholic? The answer is, by the way, exactly. Well, I suppose they're low maintainence, all they need is a good confession twice weekly over the phone, with Joe Duffy on ConfessionLine and a poster of the Pope of Ryanair dancing. Dancing. Waltzing Matilda, go waltzing with Jew. A pound of minced Jew there please Mr. Bloom.


Now, overdue dues. If you buy a bleedin' Jew and the repayments are overJew, then beJaysus, you're fucked, rightly, with sausage meat. O mickey.

Here's to shit presents and many more years of shower gel. Fair play to them, fat people. Needing a whole tub of gel to wash themselves.

Eóin O'Duffy dressed as Santa. Here's a wooden gun and a picture of flingin' (Mickey) O'Connell.

Are we drunk? I wish, at least it would give an excuse. Fuckboats.

In the news, Charlie, a long-suffering member of staff (like me, with no work) has left Casaulty. He's taking the walk of shame, with his little son who's a little bollix, like Charles Haughey, according to George, not me, like, I like, him, yeh Fianna Fáil fuck head. Alliteration. There's a camera therer with an unneeded semicolon. Stop hyphenating things! Ya geebag.

Gee, let's talk gee. Actually no, in other news, actaully no, I like Mary Robinson. She's not very gee, but a Nordy she isn't either. She's also not dead comma, fullstop, comma. Robinson used to fancy David Norris, but she realised that the reform of homosexual law wasn't just a side project. Arse, no sorry, I mean, Áras, Norris ended in the first and Mary ended up in the second. Wicked. That's a drink, no, WKD is and Norris probably drinks that becasuse he's a big gay. But all resepects to D. Norris, he does have a blogger blog and we resepect him, fair dues to him. Overdues Jew to Norris, he used to have a Jewish boyfriend. I wonder what that felt like.