Separated at Birth: Part V

Richard Strauss (Composer)

Viscount Craigavon (Nordy)

Een Peeslee, ARR EYE PAY!

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

Harr harr no more.

RIP

Separated at Birth Part III.

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.

Wha'?

Dear Yoplait (Made in Ireland by: Glanbia Consumer Foods, Citywest Business Campus, Dublin 24. LoCall: 1850 20 23 66),

I know things are tough all over and ain't getting any better. Things are more expensive to produce. Consumers are poor. Everywhere you look somebody is telling you to reduce/reuse/recycle or to be green. Cigarettes cost loads and I have to mop floors. I feel the pain. But none of the above complaints give you the right to make the lids on your yoghurts so thin that it is impossible to remove them without them fucking tearing at least twice. What the fuck?

Yours sincerely,
L.

Mary Kenny is such a flange-between-two-wooden-posts. WOOF WOOF.

"Sh00-wiz! Get yer shoo-wiz! Fresh of de back offa Clark's lorry! Tree fura you-row."

Sinatra plays as people try to get through town on a regular Wednesday.

"Good morning."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm too massively geared outa me head."
"Well, this is corner of Marlborough and Abbey."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you're from America. What state?"
"Eh, Vermont..."
"Ooooh, delightful! I love trees."

"On a scale of one to ten, how successful do you think the Northern Ireland peace process has been?"

"Well, I don't think it's that simple. You can't just put it on a number line. It's a complex issue with many facets."

"Eh yeah right. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually active are you?"

"You're not from 'round here, are you?"

"No, I'm Hungarian. On a scale of one to ten, how Hungarian do you think I look"

Less than one millionth of a reality. It's almost a good enough excuse to go get stoned. But Jeff wasn't sure. He needed proof. Good thing his friends had an educational exercise video where hot girls ran around in tight wet t-shirts and talked about the use of recreational drugs. I mean REALLY hot girls.

So, you wanna know about drugs, huh? (Sandy, stop pouring gently-heated caramel all over my breasts, hee hee!) They're bad news, boys. But, then again, so am I! Would you say no to me, hmmmm?

From that day on Jeff was stoned off his face all the time. He was at peace within and without himself and he often masterbated. He began to see what Matthew Bellamy was getting at in "City of Delusion". But in his personal persuit of justice (as he called it), he only got as far as his small collection of butterfly wings hanging on the back of his bedroom door. His parents got worried when he disappeared for several days and was found eating the remains of a red squirrel in St. Anne's Park, Raheny, Dublin Five.

A python snake named Monty. Fair play to Monty. He kicked the ass off those pesky Italians and/or German forces over there in... err, whatchacallit?... Kilmainham?

As the bombs fall, the Eagles play a gig in the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California. "Oh, Johhny" they sing. "There was an aul woman that lived in the woods, Oooooh oooohhooooohhooo, baby!" They never really got the idea of music. They made their money and you can't doubt that. If you listen really closely you will realise that it's all about sex. And, why wouldn't it be? Ask Holy Healy and she'll blush.

Martha was at the gig and then got trashed on Virginia Avenoo. She subsequently died but that's hardly relevent. The post mortem found a small microphone lodged between her upper left molars. There's a pun to be made there somewhere. But until the coroner releaese the details it's considered to be in bad taste. I'm sure the microphone itself was in bad taste but that is too. Good thing this is fictitious.

RUFUS in a large swimming pool wearing a general's uniform. D. Norris watching closely. (Now I can use the Rufus label and the D Norris label. I'm not as stupid as I look. This blog is perpetually innovative.)

Climb Everest, they say. It's good craic and there's a good chance you'll die before you reach the second camp. More than likely though, you'll get mugged by a so-called tourist guide from Mongolia. Then, you're fucked. Whereas the clever bastard that nicked your wallet is off to Dubai for three weeks for fun frollics and maybe more. Emphasis on the maybe more. Whores all a-hootin'. "Ooooh, Western money" they'll shout as they show your mugger things that he has only seen in FHM.

Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down, ooooooh!
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Whisky whisky whisky whisky, drown.

So, this is like a responsive anthem. Those who find solace in it, you're obviously highly delusional and/or in search of some form of leadership or dominance in your life. You've presumably tried Communism and have now turned to the web at large. Typing "help me my life is ruined" into a search engine brought you here. Poor fuck.

O I'll eat the sandwiches Joseph.

Almost one year on, it is time to reflect. Reflect on instrumental and vocal teaching, or something like that. Bram-style.

Let's talk about biscuit appreciation. To my mind Aldi biscuits are just as good as any other biscuits as they taste good and are cheaper than massmarketed fancyshite otherstuff. Even though they call their version of Toffee Pops "Toffy Ooze" [sic.], which almost makes me want to sick all over the floor.

VOMIT

BLEAUGH.

FLAN-GEE to your da.

That's the way. Send an aul flan-gee to your da, a sup of soup and you'll be right as Rudolf the rednosed rain dear. Great organ/pedal. Such a great idea. A nice lad also. A large lad instead of a small one. Like Mr(s). Henderson's nonexistant mickey, god love him/her.

Camomile tea and the Irish times. Such a posh thing. Teadrinking irishtimesreading bastards. Lol, there you are, that's how the mickey crumbles, or doesn't as the case may be.

Flan-gee to your da. That's the more-al of the store-ee.

Cockflute.

The Nordies go by in twos and threes.

The Nordies come ALL the way down the M1 by the busload for the attack, painting county flags red and white as they went. When they came off the motorway the first place they saw was Drumcondra.

"Well, thaat'll have t'dooy. ATTACK!"

The bastards burned Upper Drumcondra Road to a crisp with all their Nordy flag waving. The aul' orange floyt doubled up as a flamethrower to scorch Free State arses.

After their embarrassing defeat in Swords, they changed tactics. Instead of attacking the watering holes of the town, they revised their battle plans and decided on sports grounds. Poor Na Fianna and their GAA pitches were the first to get it. The Nordies just HARR-HARRed and blew the house down aswell as the goal-posts.

Ironically (maybe it was coldly calculated) enough, it was the third Sunday in September and the All-Ireland (Bank of Ireland) football final was being held in Pairc na Crocaigh up the road. Kerry were due to play Galway at four o'clock but The Nories burst in through the Nally Stand and demanded to be allowed to play Kerry. Their ultimatum was ignored until they shot Nicky Brennan. So, the GAA committee had an emergency meeting to insert a new clause in the GAA Constitution that would allow such a situation.

The match began and despite the turmoil, Kerry were kicking ass as they do. But after a late counter-asskicking, the Nordies won. Their control over Drumcondra was complete. They blew up the Bishop's Palace using a well-armed warboat that they'd brought up the canal. Poor Bertie's house was blown up aswell as St. Luke's for good measure. What was strange was all the people in Drumcondra just sat on their arses and did nothing. Sure, it's only full o' aul ones and priests. God love them.

Thankfully, when the scum from the surrounding areas heard about the Nordy invasion and occupation they came out. Whitehall, Santry, Ballymun, Beaumount, Phisboro and Fairview Divisions all reported for duty. Facing such fierce opposition, and not forgetting THAT day on O'Connell Street, all the Nordies legged it for Drumcondra Station and off they went.

Everyone then had a great piss up in Fagan's and all was fine. The Nordies wone the All-Ireland, but at least they were out of the Republic again. Well done.

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.

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.

Cahal does Nepal.

"I love sex," says Cahal to the Nepalese youngfella.

"But what is sex?" asks the youngfella, confused.

"It is complicated," replies Cahal. "You see, most of the time when my hand is on your mickey, that's not really sex. But sometimes it is."

"But Mr Oshark, I am confused."

"Well, Jumbo, don't be. And call me Cahal. Actually, no, call me Bernadette because it turns me on. Now, where were we?"

WAIT A MINUTE...!

The last time we left gallant Mr(s). Henderson we had just been confronted with the shock revelation that s/he was actually Jeremy, the long-lost lover of the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy). Confused? I wouldn't blame you.

So in true sonata-allegro style, let us have a brief recapitulation, which I promise will be nothing more than a condensed and tonally modified repeat of the exposition.

Somewhere along the way we learned of Mr(s). Henderson's roots. She was the bastard child of a prostitute who worked in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe and who was killed in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion of Mary exacted holy retribution on the poor little child by cutting off his (yes, his) mickey with the Holy Knife of Padre Pio and sending him/her into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. S/he eventually discovered how she was different when one of the evil nuns waz just abou' to wash her gee an' seen she hadn't even go' wan, an' it looked like she used to have a mickey.

So there we are. We do not know what happened between this incident somewhere around 1930 and the present day, which is somewhere in time between 1970 and 1998 (we just haven't decided yet).

We were first told that Mr(s). Henderson was a manwoman, but not a womanman. Therefore we can assume that s/he is more of a man, even though s/he appears to consider him/herself as a woman. S/he starred in that terrible adaptation of Roger Rabbit which flopped on Broadway, and then moved to Ballymena and worked as a tailor(ess) for J. Asha's sweatshop. S/he tried to get married to Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair City, but it didn't work because the Nordy laws wouldn't allow it for all sorts of complicated reasons.

When this failed to work out, Mr(s). Henderson began roaming the plains of North America searching for something called Love, with the help of his/her beaver friend Anne Gyna. Somehow whilst floating along the Miss'hippy Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna came upon a luminous pink castle which just so happened to be inhabited by Rufus Wainwright, who took a rather homosexual shine to our hero(ine) Mr(s). Henderson. As the painful memories of his/her time with the Magdalene Sisters flooded back to his/her (and the river flooded thanks to that dam beaver Anne Gyna) s/he made a dash for the nearest wormhole which transported him/her straight back to Howth Castle.

Once in Howth s/he decided to visit Gay Byrne but realized he had defected to Ballsbridge, the bastard. Instead, s/he got a DART into Connolly Station and went to visit the Pro-Cathedral where, without realising, s/he came across the very baptismal font that had been used to break down the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe in 1925 where his/her poor mother had been killed. Does s/he know his/her true heritage? We're not sure just yet. Anyway, after almost coming close to finding out thanks to the old sacristan, s/he fled the Pro on the sacristan's death to buy some knickers in Boyers and curtains in Guineys like a true aul'fella/one, though we would be hoping aul'fellas wouldn't be buying knickers, or curtains for that matter.

After that, his/her attention was grabbed by the ad for gee transplants on the side of the bus that knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. In search of information on gee transplants, s/he came to the Mater Hospital where s/he was referred to the bumbling Dr More, who after much coaxing gave him/her an information leaflet on gee transplants. When this information proved unsatisfactory, s/he ran to Knobs & Knockers of Nassau Street only to discover that they couldn't help either. Once again that gallant homosexual Rufus came to his/her rescue with the help of a gay pride parade and some ridiculously camp choreography. Among Rufus's legion of gay dancers s/he discovered none other than the gay guy (from gay guy & straight, etc.) who addressed him/her as his long-lost love Jeremy with whom he had lived in Papua New Guinea before he was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. We also don't know how he got from Chicago to Nassau Street, and neither do we know how Mr(s). Henderson got from the Magdalene witches to Broadway to Ballymena to North America and to Papua New Guinea somewhere in between. We did know that s/he went Down Under at some stage, but we thought that was just a euphemism.

What will happen to our heros and hero(ine)s? Get the fuck down the stairs and we'll tell you later. Mickey!

TO BE CONTINUED.

Beaverial Transfiguration

Those of you who are familiar with good old Mr(s). Henderson will be aware that in the course of his/her travels she/he came into contact with a mysterious beaver known by the name Anne Gyna. Now you all thought that angina was something aul'ones take tablets for, but you've got another thing coming, because it's actually a beaver. So there.

However, the story of Anne Gyna is, just like all the other tangential characters on this Homeric odyssee of a blog, filled with intrigue and heartbreak. Well, not quite, but you get the drift regardless. In the days when Lyinda McCartney was still alive and kicking she was very clever and decided to use a little bit of the GMO in her very intelligent vegetatian food, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with W.E. Gladstone. But that's beside the point, and so is that. Anyway, Lyinda got into terrible trouble for using all them bold things and had to revert to good old vegetables. When I became a vegetarian first she was all the rage, but she's dead now so nobody cares about her. So much for all that healthy eating bollocks.

Which brings us back by a commodius &c. to Anne Gyna. Now, Anne Gyna was in her day known as Mary-Teresa McNulty, a nice Nordy Catholic woman who in her younger days was a good old hippy and was into Greenpeace and all that shite. Yes, keep with us for a moment. Mary-Teresa was such a good vegetarian that she decided to go off and join Lyinda McCartney's band of veggie pirates sailing the North Sea in search of oil. Sorry, wait a second. Mary-Teresa went and worked in Lyinda's veggie food factory, which was great.

However, one day she realized that they were using the bold GMO things, and so phoned Lyinda to confront her. Lyinda, however, was busy picking her nose ("eating her greens" like a good veggie), and so put her on hold, after which poor Mary-Teresa went insane from listening to five seconds of the Wings recording of "Mull of Kintyre". They brought her to Room 101 where she was confronted with her worst fear, beavers. When faced with the big-toothed furry things (beavers, not Cilla Black) she confessed to a multitude of things, that she was the one who put the GMO into the sausages (mickeys*) and that it was she who caused the Beatles to break up, not that bloody Japanese woman who sat in the corner while Elton John played his pee-pee-peeanoe. After sending poor Mary-Teresa completely insane, Lyinda and Paul's evil henchmen left her on her own with the beavers. In an effort to put herself out of this torture she reached for a box of pills left cleverly on the table and took seventeen of them. It turned out that they were Paul's angina tablets, considering he's an aul'one and all. For some inexplicable reason, this severe overdose of glycerol tri-nitrate (GTN, which has nothing to do with GNT or GMO or GOM, amazingly) caused Mary-Teresa to immediately take on a beaver-like form. See, exquisite style once more. Just for a laugh, the other beavers christened her Anne Gyna because she became one of them due to her overdose of angina tablets. How original. However, it wasn't all bad, as Anne (as we now call her) soon forgot her previous beaverophobia and quickly became an expert at building dams. And best of all she lost that fucking Nordy accent. Harr harr.

So there you have it, Anne Gyna in a nutshell, if you'll excuse the pun.

(*Obligatory mickey-mention.)

Roiding in cors with RO'G.

Those old Southside lads of a weekend do be going into the aul' bars near the river, but only those firmly on the south side of the river. Like Q-Bor, Messrs', and loike awl those posh places in Temple Bor, roysh.

These unscrupulous laddish types with their rugby shirts and their bling-bling (splatter choo choo) find that with the help of a really bad put-on New Yoke accent picking up thick girls is pretty easy for a bit of a score, loike.

Example:

"O, hoy, my name's Maddy and I'm from New Yoke."
"Ah Jaysus, yer accent's bleedin' sexy."
"Oh my Gawd, loike, are you from the Nortsoide?"
"Ah Jayz, are you a fuckin' Soutsoider bollix?"
"Don't ever loike come over to the Southside again or Oi'll roide you and throw you back in the Liffey."


NEWSFLASH:

A READING FROM THE MADE-UP CHURCH OF ULSTER

"Rev" "Dr" Ian Peeslee has issued a new Papal Bull which decrees that "THARR WALL BE NOO GEES IN AWLSTER WHAYLE AY AM FURST MANNASTER OF NORN ARN".

New ad campaigns include and "Save Ulster from Fairy Liquid", "Ulster says no to Rufus Wainwright", and "Death tooy Alton Jawn and awl big farry geeboos". (The latter is "unofficial".)

"Dr" Peeslee says, "Ay yooysed tooy yooyse Farry Lackwad wan that lattle beebee waz on that boddle, but noy that Farry Lackwad raprazants the gees, ay will have noo moor ov ad in may Chorch. Noy wee yooyse Quansworth's bast yallow leebel woshin-up lackwad fur cleenin mee Yooynyun Jack dalf."

Ian "Little Bollix" Jr said when interviewed, "May doddy is rayt, the gees wall destroy Awlster and the Meed-Ap Chorch wath tharr big pank flooyts. Kall tham awl!"

Marn MaGannas said when interviewed, "Shan Fayn wall meek noo comment on Een's remorks. Ay lov Een, but nod in a hoomoosackshooal wee."

MICKEY

A Reading from the Fourth Edition of the Gee Encyclopaedia 1994.

In the beginning there was the Word and the word was with Twink and the word was D. Agnew. And one day when they had a bit of an argument Twink broke D. Agnew's oboe in two. For a while that's why he started playing the English horn. He wasn't just playing at home, he was also playing away from home. Thus, he became a stupid, fucking dickhead. It was all Twinky-winky's fault. One day, while he was playing with his English horn with Proinnsias ÓDuinn, who was playing his own flute, for a change, he spied a young one playing a clarinet. She was very impressed with D.'s mickey English horn playing and he was impressed with her flute playing (even though she didn't play the flute). He reckoned that she was a better flute player than P-P-P-Proinnsias could ever be. So, she decided to became his whore and they lived happily ever after ever in Bastardland. The End.

In other news, the DubDoc (I did say he'd come up again). Once upon a time, there was a Doc that came from Dub. And so the angel of the Lord did appear to him, south of the Liffey. O, faithful DubDoc, you shall serve your people and bear a mini-Doc and he shall be called Mickey, which, when translated from the Latin, means God-is-with-us. But the DubDoc said, "How can this be, since I am a man and not married?" But the angel said unto him, "The Holy Spirit will come upon thee and the power of God.........

Speaking of Mr(s). Henderson, the last time we heard of him/her, s/he was in that bad, bad adaptation of Roger Rabbit. But, now s/he has finally found success working as a tailor(ess) making cheap suits for women in J. Asha's sweatshop in Ballymena, under the very nose of Micheal Collins and Ian Paisley (both of them). They're good value, but the wool ones don't have silk lining. The cheap bastards, harr harr. But, Mr(s). Henderson has settled doyn to become an honourable (wo)man, all in the cases and details under the law. The Nordies allow that sort of thing as it was brought in by the Brits. Like, look at Elton John and Mr. Furnish-me-cock-upon-Tyne for mickey's sake! Ian personally rubberstamped the legislation, even though he hates all them bloody mickey-fiddlers (particularly those that do be fiddling each other's mickeys in the bushes).

At this time the authors would like to point out that "mickey" has absolutely nothing to do with toast or Mickey of the Mouses. Therefore, even though he's dead, Walt cannot do anything against us. Mickey Mouse, we love you!

Enough about mickeys and mickey-related things for now. More to come later. Introducing the newest, brightest item with the most adjectives yet. Big, wonderful, enormous, fabulous, excellent, great, sparkling, awe-inspiring, happy, gee-filled (sorry, that's mildly mickey-related since that's where mickeys go, and because technically, gees are inside-out mickeys. In retribution, we'll smack ourselves twelve and a half times each with our Big Red Mickey™s), mobile, wooden, fantastic THING!! As all of these adjectives can be applied to mickeys and other mickey-related items, the purpose is defeated. Goodbye Napoleon. Some of you may be wondering about the sparkling mickey. It's possible and polished beyond belief. Ask Willy Wonka, with Depp or Wilder. Probably Wilder would be more likely to have a sparkling mickey, or a mickey at all. Since Depp is a mná in the film in the case of Hendersons. Jim Henderson probably has something to do with it. He pulls Depp's strings and his mickey too. God rest 'em. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. If anyone asks, Mr(s). Henderson was Jim Henderson's brother's ex-wife until (we made him/her up) Mr. Henderson discovered that Mr(s). Henderson wasn't a woman at all and therefore couldn't be his wife because he was actually a man, if one gets my meanin'.

So, this is the second chapter of the unofficial biography of Mr(s). Henderson. After moving to Ballymena, where all that sort of thing is allowed, s/he met and fiddled the mickey off a honorary Nordy citizen called Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair Shitty. They availed of the civil-partnership law and got married in Inverted Commas. Well done. Mr(s). Henderson would have become Mr(s). Henderson-Bartley, but when s/he fiddled his mickey off, her/his new husband became a woman in the eyes of both Ian Paisley and Mother Nature. And because Mr(s). Henderson actually had a mickey of his/her own at some stage along the way, things become so incredibly complicated that we'll spare you the details for another day. In
short, the Nordies didn't allow them get wedded in Inverted Commas due to a clause in the civil-partnership legislation of the Nordy Queen Land, related to mickey possession. Instead, the applied to get wedded in Italics but that wasn't allowed either.

In the end, the couple broke it off (not that there was anything to break off in any case). Now poor auld Mr(s). Henderson roams the plains of North America in search of love. All she wants for Christmas is his/her two front ovaries. We will, in time, return once again to the tales of Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna, her new-found Colorado-born friend, that happens to be a beaver, judging by her gee anyway.

Love from us all. Kisses. MMMMWWWWWAHHHH, x.

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.

The Second Letter of Gee to the Fallopians.

Dear Dermot Ahern,

It is my firm belief that you spend too much time wearing women's knickers. Not that they'd be men's knickers or anything. So just knickers then. Glad we have that cleared up.

You and those politicians are all the same, with your mickeys in everyone's business. Good old D. Norris, fair play to him with his mickey in everyone's Áras (not bras as the T9 dictionary would have us believe, O no!), and Nordy Mary Mother of Erin with her Áras and all, you know the way. Whatever you like to do in your spare time, not that I spend mine putting crisp packets over me cock. Well, that's disgusting, so don't be using plastic bags either, especially not the child-friendly ones, which are very child-friendly considering that you'll likely end up Up-the-Duff regardless, if God-is-with-us.

Daniel O'Donnell is live on TGCeathair tomorrow, not that I give a rat's mickey or anything.

It's all about how one reacts to the world and its subjects that surround on a every-second-of-the-day basis. That's the message that I'd like the Fallopians to take this St. Steven's Day (Stevenzis Day [Ireland] or Boxing Day [Brits]). The reaction that is given to a situation is vital to how it unravels, disentangles and straightens out (hopefully without anyone getting shot). For example, if one was kicked out of a public house with no plausible reason given, one would have a choice of reactions. One or more of these will get one killed with others having differing degrees of pain and suffering. Few will keep all body parts intact. Point is that choice of reaction determines the next stage in events.

But, I hear you say, reactions to events are immediate, unpredictable, unforeseeable, temperamental and cannot be helped. Well, my answer to this one is that you're wrong, incorrect and mistake. One always has choices. I'm prone to making the wrong choices in reaction choices. But, I have choices, I just make bad ones. So, therefore, I'm right, shag.

Take one look and walk away. That's alright with me. I wish that I could sing that.

Yes, back to a guiding, spiritually inspiring, half-time pep-talk I will go. Don't be taking part in any of those big drunken orgies, ok? If that's not good, well, I really can't do much about that now can I? Hmmmm!? I'm hardly a fuckin' authority to meddle with you am I now? But, don't be doing those things; they're bad for you I hear, mentally and in the arena of the ball games too.

I don't know who'd have the physical ability to function as a human without the use of a thesaurus. They're just so useful. Not as an alternative mickey protector like a crisp bag. It also won't vacuum your carpets for you. I can be quite confident in saying that lots of interesting people have used a thesaurus. The long fellow, Mr. Éamon deValera, more than likely consulted one in his days on this earth.

We're all terminally ill, we're infected with the disease of life. Congratulations, it's a baby boy. I'm sorry he's only got, on average, seventy-six years to live.

J. Edward Denwick says:
Incest.
From The Cradle says:
Puke??
J. Edward Denwick says:
That's when your sister fiddles your mickey
From The Cradle says:
that's when you fiddle your auntie's inside mickey
J. Edward Denwick says:
Eww.
From The Cradle says:
HA

I will in me ________! Fill in the blank with a body part. It works with pretty much any one, but, the more taboo attached to the body part the better. "I will in me chin" works fine, but, "I will in me cock" will work better.

Musicals, ey? Mickey. War of the Worlds can be good, but not in film form with Tom Cruise. Was shite. But with Philip Lynott, one can't go wrong. The Spirit of Man.

For the evil one never rests. I said exercise the devil! But, no, they wouldn't listen. The demons inside them grew and grew until Satan gave his signal and destroyed the world we knew!

House cleaners clean houses. They can, in the right circumstances, polish the odd ornament. If the ornament is in a mickey-based shape, all the better. This will drive the woman of the house (bean an tí) into a wild fit of pleasure until she falls of the couch and onto the freshly hoovered carpet floor. The unstained fibres of the carpet will enhance these felling until she ends up pooped out, breathless on the small glass-topped coffee table, while the topless, cleaning man looks on from in front of the cabinet with a little terracotta vase in hand, long and thin, like a shaft of sorts.

Back in 1968 I gave up on everything. That's not very inspiring, righ'. But, it's not my responsibility to perk youz up on the twenty seventh day of December. Get your own kicks in life. Unfortunately that's all I can say to you. To fully get the lost out of what you have in your heart (life) is to get out there, get a house cleaner and get aroused. Good luck.