Separated at Birth: Part V

Richard Strauss (Composer)

Viscount Craigavon (Nordy)

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!

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.

Happy birthday, you stupid rubbernecked nodding duckhead.

Fucking Vagnians.

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

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

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

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

—Gecher lighters, two fra yoo-row.

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

—Excuse me, may I have two lighters?

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

—Two yoo-row plee-ez.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking Vagnians.

Gees and Marys (or Maries?).

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

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

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

Awomen.

Mary Robinson's Heartbreak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well done Mary. God save Ireland.

Radiohead for the lips.

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.

Geebo.

http://www.geebo.com/

Geebo—it's MySpace for lesbians!

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.

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

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

"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.

"What?"--The Observer.

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

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

deV and Domhnall.

Ave.

Hail Mary, full of green,
deV is with thee.
Blessed art thou amongst Nordies
and rubber is the neck of thy predecessor, Mary.

Nordy Mary, mother of Erin,
pray for us Free Steeters
now and at the hour of our death.

Éamonn.

A Reading from the First Book of Gee.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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