St Benedildo’s College, Chill Mo Chuda

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

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

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

Pissing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--Holy God, the absolute bang of piss.

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

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

The 99¼th anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

We interrupt this programme to make the following announcement:

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

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

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

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

Diarmuid agus Gráinne ag marcaíocht.

Lá amháin, bhí Diarmuid agus Gráinne amuigh sa gháirdín agus ní raibh aon éadaí orthu.

'A Dhiarmuid!' arsa Gráinne. 'Tar anseo agus tabhair sé dom!'

Bhí áthas an domhain ar Diarmuid agus bhí bata mór aige. Thóg sé a mhicí as a bhrístí agus chuir sé é i bhosca Gráinne.

'Ó Ó Ó Ó!' a scread Gráinne taréis cúpla nóiméad ag marcaíocht.

'Tá mé ag teacht!' arsa Diarmuid agus chríochnaigh sé taréis nóiméad amháin. Bhí áthas ar an bheirt agus thit siad ina gcodladh.

It's a pickled mickey!

Look!

THE LONG-AWAITED LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"Trevor? I don't understand..." Testaments, hoors, pickled mickeys and Green TDs. Hendy was sure that life had gone beyond surreal.

"Of all people to become an heir-bastard, it would be a homosexual freak of nature like you, Jeremy Sue, wouldn't it?" The tone of Trevor's voice was steely, almost priest-like.

"Wow, wow, wow there!" interrupted Rufus camply. "At least she's not carrying a bag of onions. I mean, what the fuck?"

"Quiet Rufus!" whispered John sharply. "He's armed."

"But Trevor...where do you fit in in this story?"

Trevor smiled harshly, almost delighting in the confusion he had caused.

"Well, Jeremy. Your father John Charles McQuaid was a disgrace to the holy church which had appointed him archbishop. My father on the other hand was the greatest Irish Catholic who ever lived."

"But wait...you're a Protestant!"

"Yes...that's what I've told people all along. Nobody would ever suspect me, upstanding Protestant Trevor Sargent, to have come from where I did. No. I lived my life in hiding. Nobody knew that I was actually Francis Duff Junior, the heir to the Catholic fortunes of the world! But though you might want to use your inheritence for evil and destruction, I will use mine to glorify God and the Pope of Rome, our great spiritual father."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Trevor's eyes glinted as if with madness. "I have inherited the strongest Catholic faith of all. Your father may have been an exalted archbishop, but he was a waste of space, a religious airhead, a falsely zealous demagogue, a fraud and a charlatan! My father, however, was the greatest Catholic who ever lived on this island, and my mother a saintly woman of the greatest charity. My parents were General Frank Duff and Mother Teresa."

Rufus's jaw fell open, and John found himself getting an erection. However, realising how embarrassing that could possibly be, he imagined himself having sex with Mother Teresa and the feeling promptly disappeared. Rufus took two steps back to the window and lit himself a cigarette.

"But what does that make you then?" asked Hendy, becoming more worried by the minute.

"I am the heir to the command of the Legion of Mary, and from today onwards we will be the Catholic army of the world, destroying vice, fornication, feminism and homosexuality wherever we go. But first I must pay my father's debt by once and for all finishing the job that he could not finish and which left him in disgrace, a disgrace foisted upon him by your father the archbishop, and a legacy he did not deserve."

Suddenly it clicked in Hendy's mind. "You mean...?"

"Give me that mickey."

"No! I can't! I've searched my whole life for the truth, and just as I finally know it you're going to take that away from me. I know now how I've wasted these years trying in vain to be a woman, when all along I was just a man with no mickey. But now I will wait for no man. I am going to have my mickey reattached and live my life at last as a man, the life I should have had for all these years."

"Fool!" shouted Trevor, shaking his pitchfork and onions threateningly. "You don't understand at all. You have lived your life this far without that mickey. I have hidden all my life, waiting for the moment at which I could finally reveal myself. And all I need to fulfil my father's legacy is that mickey. Give it to me!"

John was trying hard to get it down as Rufus ejaculated suddenly: "Darling, why don't you listen to the lady? She just found her penis that she hasn't had in like, a million years, and she wants to get it sewn back on. How would YOU feel if you just found your penis and some guy came along wanting to take it off you? Well? Just think about that before you make any rash moves."

Trevor was visibly annoyed at Rufus's insolence. Just as it seemed like he was going to make a decisive move, Rufus flicked his cigarette out the window onto the grass below.

"NO! THE GRASS!" Ever a Green at heart, no matter what his religious aspirations, Trevor flung down his onions and his pitchfork and dived out the window after the cigarette. However, having forgotten that they were on the upstairs floor, he misunderestimated the distance he would fall, and splattered like a bucket of moist flange onto the hard ground far below in the manner of Brendan Gleeson falling from the tower In Bruges.

The three gays gazed out the window after Trevor in silent shock. He was definitely dead, as you could see his brains. It was not a pretty sight. Rufus retched a little, but felt better as soon as John put his hand down his trousers.

"So...is that it then?" asked Hendy with a hint of sadness in his/her voice. "Is this the end?"

"Of course not darling!" said Rufus. "The end is never any fun. It's still the beginning."

And with that, the Gaybus reappeared outside, and in a flash a troupe of dancers had alighted and began dancing suggestively to "Between My Legs". Rufus and John gazed into one another's eyes for a moment before they started some severe stubble-scratching. Hendy looked beyond the dancers and to the hills and the sky in the distance. Then he/she picked up his/her little shrivelled mickey and hugged it to him/herself and pondered about the future.

And it was a bright, mickeyed future.

Paul's demise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Subtle," said George.

"Wakka wakka, baboo!" mumbled Yoko.

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

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.

Mickey O'Leary's Oral Face.

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.

Public Notice.

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

Thanks for listening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gerry Ryan's Friday Giveaway.

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

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

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: Howya Gerry.

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

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: That's right Gerry.

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

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

GERRY: Right.

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

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

LINDA FROM CABRA: Good morning Gerry.

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

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

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

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Good morning Gerry.

GERRY: So tell us your story.

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

GERRY: Amazing. So what happened to it?

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

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

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

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

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.

Lola Sleevend.

A lolworthy pukeinducing holegetter.

Abstain from Bold Things with the Legion of Mary.

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

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

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

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

Breakfast juice recipe.

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

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

Overheard in Made-Up Dublin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hindus hate the muslims and everybody hates the jews.

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

Ffffwtoooom.

Bding.

Ouch!

Angry farmer wipes his eye.

"Thank Jaysus lesbians don't fly."

Lamb, 2am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well...okay."

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

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

GERRY RYAN AND VIAGRA FOR THE LIPS

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

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

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

Well done Gerry.