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.
Showing posts with label Catholics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Catholics. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
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.
--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.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
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.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Saturday, September 13, 2014
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
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
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Six reasons why bringing back the Latin Mass is a bad idea.
1. No-one can speak Latin.
2. Priests can't actually speak Latin, and are probably just mumbling to themselves.
3. It's racist.
4. Women spend so much money on their hair nowadays, it'd be a shame for them to have to cover it up at Mass.
5. 'Corpus Christi.'
— 'Ye fuckin' wha'?'
2. Priests can't actually speak Latin, and are probably just mumbling to themselves.
3. It's racist.
4. Women spend so much money on their hair nowadays, it'd be a shame for them to have to cover it up at Mass.
5. 'Corpus Christi.'
— 'Ye fuckin' wha'?'
Friday, July 3, 2009
Dinnertime in Heaven.
"Jay-sis!?"
"Wha'?"
"That's enough of that attitude with me Jay-sis! Did you answer your prayers today?"
"Go away, I'll did it after dinner."
"That's what you said yesterday and 400 people down there died from that disease that was killing all those chickens. St. Peter was down my neck last night about all the paper-work he has to do for new admissions. He had to stay back until seven o'clock, he did. I had to tell him you were planning an apparition somewhere. I can't keep making up excuses for you."
"Ah, fine, I'll do the prayers now."
(St. Anthony arrives at Mary's door. Knocking within.)
"Hello, Mary."
"Afternoon, Tony."
"I was wondering if you'd have a word with the Lord for me on behalf of a friend of mine. It's Joe in Balbriggin; he's lost his keys again. He's a good man and helps charities as much as he can."
"Ah, fuck, this is the third time he's after losing them in a month! Is is blind or what!?"
"Eh, he is actually. Fully blind. From birth too. Poor soul."
"Ah, Jay-sis."
(voice coming from living-room) "Wha'?"
(calling into the living-room) "I'll be into you in a minute. (to St. Anthony with a sigh) I'll see what I can do. The world is full of down-and-outs these days, Tony. That leads to a lot of prayers, you see. It's bleedin' overload at the moment. There's talk of privatisation going around. Keep your ear to the ground."
"O, I will, Mary. Thank you and God bless you."
[Aside] "I'm bloody well missing Cash in the Attic with all these saints."
A group of holy auld ones visit Mary. (knocking within)
"Hello" (answering the door, Mary sees a crowd of holy, kneeling, praying auld ones on the doorstep).
"Good day to you, the holiest woman, the mother of God and the commander-in-chief of our Legion."
"Oh, it's youz."
"Yes, Mother. We are here to pray to you to use your intercession to pray to God for the well-being of a nun in Buenos Aires. She's got a bad dose of whooping cough."
"Oh, in the name of the earth and all its plants and the like. All yez do is come and ask me for to use my connection with the big man. Intercession this, we ask for your intercession that. Yez are a bleedin' legion by name and my legion at that. I want some action. Instead of leaving that woman in bed and praying to me by her near to be death-bed, bring her to see the shaggin' doctor. He only lives next door. He'll give her some Calpol and she'll be grand by tea-time. The next time you find yourself picking up your rosary beads, think, "what can I do to help this situation without the intercession of the Virgin Mary?"
"Mary you are both kind and wise aswell as being the virgin mother of our Lord Jesus Christ. We will do as you say and take up arms the next time there's bad trouble in the Holy Land instead of asking for your intercession that someone else shoot all those bold children on the streets. Okay ladies, ready, 1, 2 and three. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord......."
(Mary slams the door and returns to the kitchen and leans wearily on the back of the closed door.)
"It sucks being the only person in heaven with a body."
"Wha'?"
"That's enough of that attitude with me Jay-sis! Did you answer your prayers today?"
"Go away, I'll did it after dinner."
"That's what you said yesterday and 400 people down there died from that disease that was killing all those chickens. St. Peter was down my neck last night about all the paper-work he has to do for new admissions. He had to stay back until seven o'clock, he did. I had to tell him you were planning an apparition somewhere. I can't keep making up excuses for you."
"Ah, fine, I'll do the prayers now."
(St. Anthony arrives at Mary's door. Knocking within.)
"Hello, Mary."
"Afternoon, Tony."
"I was wondering if you'd have a word with the Lord for me on behalf of a friend of mine. It's Joe in Balbriggin; he's lost his keys again. He's a good man and helps charities as much as he can."
"Ah, fuck, this is the third time he's after losing them in a month! Is is blind or what!?"
"Eh, he is actually. Fully blind. From birth too. Poor soul."
"Ah, Jay-sis."
(voice coming from living-room) "Wha'?"
(calling into the living-room) "I'll be into you in a minute. (to St. Anthony with a sigh) I'll see what I can do. The world is full of down-and-outs these days, Tony. That leads to a lot of prayers, you see. It's bleedin' overload at the moment. There's talk of privatisation going around. Keep your ear to the ground."
"O, I will, Mary. Thank you and God bless you."
[Aside] "I'm bloody well missing Cash in the Attic with all these saints."
A group of holy auld ones visit Mary. (knocking within)
"Hello" (answering the door, Mary sees a crowd of holy, kneeling, praying auld ones on the doorstep).
"Good day to you, the holiest woman, the mother of God and the commander-in-chief of our Legion."
"Oh, it's youz."
"Yes, Mother. We are here to pray to you to use your intercession to pray to God for the well-being of a nun in Buenos Aires. She's got a bad dose of whooping cough."
"Oh, in the name of the earth and all its plants and the like. All yez do is come and ask me for to use my connection with the big man. Intercession this, we ask for your intercession that. Yez are a bleedin' legion by name and my legion at that. I want some action. Instead of leaving that woman in bed and praying to me by her near to be death-bed, bring her to see the shaggin' doctor. He only lives next door. He'll give her some Calpol and she'll be grand by tea-time. The next time you find yourself picking up your rosary beads, think, "what can I do to help this situation without the intercession of the Virgin Mary?"
"Mary you are both kind and wise aswell as being the virgin mother of our Lord Jesus Christ. We will do as you say and take up arms the next time there's bad trouble in the Holy Land instead of asking for your intercession that someone else shoot all those bold children on the streets. Okay ladies, ready, 1, 2 and three. Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord......."
(Mary slams the door and returns to the kitchen and leans wearily on the back of the closed door.)
"It sucks being the only person in heaven with a body."
Friday, April 17, 2009
The 48th Eurachistic Conference.
Pope Benjidict the X vee eye called the 36th Euchratistic Conflagration in the year 200diddlysquat to be held in Dublin, Ireland for the celebration of Eric Clapton's birthday. The proceedings were renamed "Ecumenical Congress" as the word eucharistic was considered to be offensive and frankly racist to the hindus, muslimists and protestants. The actual event itself was not, however. Well done yet again catholic church.
Day 1 began with a huge procession from Bird Avenue, Clonskeagh to the Pro-Cathedral, Marlborough Street, which was hampered by a large number of pigeons and junkies, but got there eventually. Benediction was pronounced (or whatever verb is correct with benediction, given, benedicted, popeified, etc.) outside the Pro at 5pm just as all the whitecollar types were going home from work.
Now most of these types didn't give a rat's flute about the holy proceedings happening outside the Pro. As a matter of fact, some of them downright despised catholicism, the pope and the chorch. Two of these were Wes and Brian, a pair of queers who lived along Grand Canal Street, Dublin 4. Wes and Brian were two nice chaps in their 30s who had been husband and husband for a few years now and loved nothing more than an evening drinking a nice bottle of mid-range wine followed by a session of weird sex games where they shoved parsnips up each other's noses and smeared gooseberry jam over one another's arses. But of course that was fine in our Tolerant Modern Society where Anything Goes.
Sadly, Wes and Brian had to get divorced in 2004 because one of them discovered the other had raped his dog. Jeesus. However, they met weekly thereafter in the sleaziest joints in Ballsbridge for a quick parsnip and a royid.
The end of the Eorcastic thing was interesting because of a scene which occurred just there beyant O'Connell Bridge. Mary Robinson was there to review the proceedings and it just so happened that she mistook Brian Cowen's wife for the pope, which was very embarrassing, considering there was no pope there at all. Now that was a faux-pas if e'er I saw one.
Well done Mary. Well done Brian's wife. Well done Wes and Brian. Well done Clapton. Well done pope.
Well done all round!
Day 1 began with a huge procession from Bird Avenue, Clonskeagh to the Pro-Cathedral, Marlborough Street, which was hampered by a large number of pigeons and junkies, but got there eventually. Benediction was pronounced (or whatever verb is correct with benediction, given, benedicted, popeified, etc.) outside the Pro at 5pm just as all the whitecollar types were going home from work.
Now most of these types didn't give a rat's flute about the holy proceedings happening outside the Pro. As a matter of fact, some of them downright despised catholicism, the pope and the chorch. Two of these were Wes and Brian, a pair of queers who lived along Grand Canal Street, Dublin 4. Wes and Brian were two nice chaps in their 30s who had been husband and husband for a few years now and loved nothing more than an evening drinking a nice bottle of mid-range wine followed by a session of weird sex games where they shoved parsnips up each other's noses and smeared gooseberry jam over one another's arses. But of course that was fine in our Tolerant Modern Society where Anything Goes.
Sadly, Wes and Brian had to get divorced in 2004 because one of them discovered the other had raped his dog. Jeesus. However, they met weekly thereafter in the sleaziest joints in Ballsbridge for a quick parsnip and a royid.
The end of the Eorcastic thing was interesting because of a scene which occurred just there beyant O'Connell Bridge. Mary Robinson was there to review the proceedings and it just so happened that she mistook Brian Cowen's wife for the pope, which was very embarrassing, considering there was no pope there at all. Now that was a faux-pas if e'er I saw one.
Well done Mary. Well done Brian's wife. Well done Wes and Brian. Well done Clapton. Well done pope.
Well done all round!
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Now to ride Mrs O'Leary.
Dear Mary Robinson, only son of the father. Eternally begotten, light from light, true god, etc. One being. Well done to Mary, with her father being pope and all. Shame he died, got love him. Pope Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, the newest and hippest thing to come out of Ocksfurd this side of Tuesday.
Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.
"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."
"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."
"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."
"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."
Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.
NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!
HAH.
The end.
Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.
"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."
"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."
"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."
"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."
Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.
NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!
HAH.
The end.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 30, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, June 16, 2008
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.)
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.)
Monday, June 9, 2008
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