Separated at Birth: Part the Sixth

Irish author and unwitting progenitor of this august blog (est'd 2007), Bram Stoker.

English composer, Basil Harwood.

Visitation

I was having dinner in a pub in Rathmines and by chance I ended up sitting beside a table of clerics all wearing scarlet shirts and collars.  I spotted the Archbishop amongst them and thought it might be an opportunity to introduce myself.  How could I do so without appearing forceful? I wondered.  I kept looking over my shoulder, appearing to do it casually but really keeping a close eye on the episcopal table. 

Just after I finished my garlicky spaghetti the Arch stood up to go to the bar.  Here was my chance.  I waited a second, and then rose from the table sharply (though doing my best to retain the appearance of coolness), dabbing the garlicky oil from the corner of my mouth with a cheap crimson serviette (the sort of thing that leaves a stain if you try to wipe your trousers with it).

I went to the bar, and seeing the grey curly back of the Arch’s head before me, I dived straight towards him, and jabbing him in the shoulder with my entire outstretched hand I almost dislocated one of my fingers.

—Ah sorry, sorry, I said, wringing my hand and looking at the floor.

He turned around.  It wasn’t the Arch at all—it was some other auldfella who wasn’t even wearing clerical garb.

—Ah sorry, I said.  Thought you were someone else.  Never mind.

The auldfella looked away without saying anything.  Prick.

I stood at the bar for a second.  There was no barman to be seen.  Fuck.  I looked over at the wall where the television (Sky News) and the dartboard were.

—Brian, I said.  The auldfella turned his head to the left and looked at me.

—Ah, sorry, I thought Brian was over there.  Never mind.

Fuck that, I said to myself, and giving the bar a little imperceptible shove with both my hands (the left one still a bit sore, as I realized a second later), I began to walk away and headed towards the jacks.

Inside the jacks there were three cubicles on the right, urinals just beyond them, and sinks on the left wall.  I decided to wash my hands, because I didn’t actually need to use the toilet and needed to find some excuse to have gone in there.  I washed my hands with shitty blue liquid soap and then dried them under one of those fucking mental handdriers that nearly take your skin off.  As I was rubbing my hands together in aimless circles I noticed the vending machine on the wall to my right.  Mini Vibrator, €5.  Fuck that.  I’m not paying five quid for that shit.  Extra Safe Condoms, €3.  That’s not bad.  Might be worth it in case I get the ride some time in the next six months, I thought. 

I took out my wallet and withdrew a €1 coin and put it into the machine.  Then I took out another €1 coin and put it also into the machine.  In preparation for the final coin I twitchily felt the knob on the machine which moments later I would turn to retrieve my purchase.  There was one more coin in my wallet but when I took it out it wasn’t a €1—it was a 20 cent.

—Fuck.  Fuck!  Fucking COCK, I shouted as I dropped the 20 cent coin into the sink and banged my fist against the machine in rage.  At that moment someone emerged from one of the cubicles and appeared in the peripheral vision of my left eye.  My eyes darted to the left and I glanced in his direction.  It was the Archbishop.

—O your grace, hello.  How are you?  Em, I’m sorry, I just got a bit carried away.  You see I was putting money into this machine.

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

—I wasn’t buying one of those mini vibrators! I shouted.

Silence.

—Or a cock ring.

Why did I say that?  The machine didn’t even sell cock rings.

The arch stared awkwardly at a fixed point on the tiled bathroom floor ahead of him as he walked past me to the sinks, where he began sheepishly to wash his hands, all the time staring downwards.

—It was only condoms your grace.  Better safe than sorry, eh? 

I laughed awkwardly but lightheartedly.  He didn’t say anything.  That made me very angry. 

I snatched up my wallet (which I had dropped onto the floor earlier) and shoved it half into my pocket and made for the door.  As I opened the door I turned around and shouted in the direction of the Arch who was just about to dry his hands.

—Yeah, well, fuck you anyway Ernie, you big PRICK.

I stormed out the door.  I don't know why I called him Ernie.  That’s not even his name.

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

Graham and Edith's Naughty Half Hour.

Mr and Mrs Graham Whitethorpe, a fine couple of midfortysomethings who lived along Marlborough Road, Dublin 4. Being good Protestants as they were they went to church every Sunday and were of good standing in the community.

Now there is a rather unfair prejudice against Protestants that they're tightfisted cockmunchers. Of course, that's not true. However, a little story may illuminate you as to the ways of Mr and Mrs Whitethorpe as particular examples of the Protestant kind.

Graham and Edith had just had a romp one Friday evening as they were about to go sleep. Edith was rather tired and needed to be up in the morning in order to bake cakes for the Mothers' Union cake sale that Sunday afternoon, and so she turned around to go asleep. However, Graham had other ideas.

'Edie dear,' said Graham, 'would you fancy another bit of rumpy-pumpy?'

'Whatever for Graham darling? I must be up rather early in the morning to bake cakes. And Reverend Swann is coming over for elevenses!'

'Well, I just thought, while I have you here we might as well get our money's worth from this rubber. I mean, it did cost all of two pounds fifty, which I think you'll agree was a little bit on the steep side.'

'O, always the thrifty one Graham dear! Go ahead then darling.'

'Close your eyes and think of England, and I'll be done in two minutes.'

And so they had another bit of slap-and-tickle. However, the poor condom had given its money's worth already and gave up the ghost just as Graham was getting into the, er, swing of things. And so Edith had a child at the age of forty-six, which was terribly inconvenient for her career. But at least it gained her a little bit of credibility in the Mother's Union circles.

God love them, even though he probably doesn't love Protestants. A-women.

Pahnell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor weird little woman. Mizbrigck. Bvv.

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

"Bvv. Hihih."

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

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

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

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

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

The Most Reverent "the Bish" Elizabeth "Emily" Bishop.

As I sit here, seemingly intellectually, with the daily edition of The Nova Scotia Times, I warn people not to read my poytree-- it's hard work.

I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.

Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?

The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.

"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.

"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.

"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."

I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.

"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.

My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.

I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.

The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).

"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.

The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.

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.

What the Elizabethans need is a good kick up the arse.

Elizabethans with all their love love love (or was that the Beatles?) at the first sight of someone's ruffled cuffs.

"O, Mary, how the sun shines on your little ears; it doth engulf me in a dream of miniature puppies and other assorted soft things."

"O, Gerald, how ruffled your cuffs today are! The manner in which you speak to me takes my breath away and leaves the rest of me in the dazzled state of a mere puddle-like shape."

"Mary, you are the love of my life. Though we just met over there at that table by the punch dish I want to use the years of my life to fulfill your desires to an optimum proficiency. Marry me, Mary and we can live in Hampstead Heath forever!"

"Gerald, the punch bowl is blessed to have been the object that we both met at and I pray to God that it shall be canonised or whatever us C. of E. people do to make people very well respected. But, yes of course Gerald, I shall be yours in total, every hand-stitched garment on my body and that which it covers. O, hold me. Take my waist and tell me that we will visit my father at first light to demand his consent."

"Mary, your little waist is like the waist of an angel. I wish to hold it forever while we sit on the greenest grasses of England and watch the youthful lambs of Spring leap full of folly and joy. Blessed be the angels of Heaven that I have found you over there by the punch and sandwiches."

Of course then they realise that they're still drunk from New Year's Eve and that they've wandered into Spar on Liffey Street. A small crowd gathers.

This tomfoolery continued well into the Victorian age when things got really silly. As people said "let this age be known as the Edwardian Age" (it just conveniently suited the monarch's name) things started to look bright again (forgetting the world carnage around the corner) with some simplicity allowed in personal relationships and in dress. Still to this day we value the Elizabethan stupidity and their way of saying pretty things and hopelessly falling in love at the drop of a hat. And all that wooing! Christ.

Picture the scene in Belmonte Calabro-- a beautiful young heiress sits in wait for her knight in shining armour, to use a well-known phrase or saying. In reality, she was waiting for some fellow attractive enough to come along to win her heart. He didn't need to be familiar with horses, but riding knowledge was an advantage.

This stunning princess, Portia, lived in her palace in the hills with her servants and maids. Her over-protective father, Noel Edmonds, had died several years previous and had left her his fortune. During his life, he was known for throwing great house parties for his noble kinsmen of the surrounding province. They would, in time, give rise to Mr. Blobby who would become a popular television character.

Even after death, Portia's father tried to do the best he could for his his little girl. He devised a scheme in which only the best suitor would win Portia's hand (and much more besides) in marriage.

And we're live in three, two.........

"Good evening ladies and gentlemen and welcome to Deal Or No Deal. Today we have the Prince of Morocco in the hot seat. Unfortunately, he's an arrogant chap with stupid headgear who thinks a bit too much of himself. But let's see if he's got a plan for today."

"Well, I think I'll easily dismiss the boxes that don't look good enou...."

"Actually, sorry to butt in but can you clarify that you chose this box freely and that they were all sealed by our adjudicators?"

"Oh, yis. Ehh, I was saying that the lead is shit and I love the gold. Give me the key!"

(opens the gold box by tearing off the little bit of paper after three and a half minutes of Noel's brother asking if he was sure and passing vague comments about previous games)

"Oh no, fuck. Now I can never get married anyone. This game show is rotten. What do you expect me to do when I'm in the mood, huh? All this honour bullshit, I'm sick of it."

"Well, all we can do is hope for a better game tomorrow. Same time (after Brookside), same place (here on 4).

Then again, that's not quite appealing enough for your regular urban dweller in the fifteen hundreds. Bums on seats, as they say in the theatre world. Nowadays, of course, it would fill Croke Park. But then again, people buy any aul' shite these days in the name of literacy and a glass of wine. But back then, common Londoners wanted to see bears being ripped to pieces by savage dogs and all that sort of thing. So, now that I think of it, they probably hated all this thematic waffle about friendships and allegiance and courage. I guess mum had to drag all the kids down to Bankside to listen to the latest twaddle from Willie himself. Nothing much changes over some four hundred years. Well, now people look at porn.

Cheers.

This is a London Underground service update.

Would passengers using the District Line please take note of the following disruptions between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations. Lola has blocked the line with her gee causing delays of up to thirty minutes. I repeat, there are minor delays on the District Line between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations caused by Lola's gee. All other lines are operating at a good service.

The Mayor of London suggests that passengers travelling on the London Underground lines should bring a bottle of water with them in this warm season and warns passengers to mind the gee.

The man who...

Joseph Donnelly, a homeless, jobless, wannabe alcoholic roamed the streets of London (play the Streets of London!!) on a night of light drizzle. It was one of those nights that you get wet and then feel really hot because of it. You know the ones. It gets sticky and clammy. This didn't apply to Joseph because he was only wearing a tank-top and a sock. The very sight of him would make you cross the road to avoid passing him. People actually did this as he plodded across the slightly shaky Millennium Bridge.

"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.

"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.

Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.

It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.

But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.

"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."

Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.

"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).

"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.

He's... he's over there. Look out!"

Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.

"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.

And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.

P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.

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.

THE TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY.

I write this testament so that one day you, Jeremy Henderson, and the world, will know the truth. I write as I am barricaded into the crypts of Christchurch Cathedral, the only place I know that I am truly safe from that damned Legion of Mary and Catholics at large ever since the Archbishop named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic".

I was born along the tramline somewhere between Windy Arbour and Cowper in 1867 to a respectable Protestant family. My father was a house-wife and my mother was an Admiral in the British Navy. I was an only child, and I was reared by my father and our maid. I left home at sixteen to marry my sweetheart, David Kelly. I never saw my parents again. Shortly afterwards I heard that my father had killed himself with an iron, and my mother was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar. After all this tumult, our now unemployed maid was often seen drunk talking to Bang Bang and puking on Charles Stewart Parnell as he went for his morning stroll on Parnell Street.

My husband David was from a well-to-do Protestant family from Rathmines, and so his parents paid for our foreign honeymoon. We went to Brighton where we met Kitty O'Shea-Parnell. Kitty, like me, had an overwhelming passion for lovely jam jars and until the day she died we corresponded and often swapped lovely jam jams with each other. At Christmas 1891 just after Charlie died, Kitty came over to visit to have a romp in my Olde Knockin' Shoppe, and during that week we held exhibitions of our favourite jam jars on Kingstown pier on a daintly table that I bought on Capel Street, just beside the mashed bananas.

I opened my Olde Knockin' Shoppe in Monto in 1888, after the premises was purchased for me by David's mammy Joqueena Kelly for my 21st birthday. I made sure that I found all the nicest looking girls in Dublin. I even imported some from Kinnegad and Tipperary, both of whom turned out to be my best hoors. The gentlemen of Dublin quickly flocked to my genial hooring establishment for all sorts of fun and frolicks, and soon I was the most famous Madam in all of Ireland. My best clients included Parnell, James Joyce, Brendan Behan's father, Bang Bang (before he was mad, when he like a bang bang every now and again), the Lord Lieutenant, the Chief Secretary, and all the gentleman British. We even had the honour of being visited by Queen Victoria who'd heard all about it from Albert, and who particularly liked the fireplace. Even Pope Leo XIII paid us a visit after we won Best Brothel in the 1896 Vatican Awards.

My husband David was very supportive of my profession and he regularly availed of the services of my hoors. Life and work for me were very successful until my spate of misfortunes began in 1916, after my beloved husband David was shot by the IRA up in the Hellfire Club for stealing picnic baskets. All I had left was my young son David Jr and my beloved Knockin' Shoppe. However, David went to fight in the Great War and I was left alone with nobody to defend me and the Knockin' Shoppe. The only protection we had were the tougher hoors and a few bottles of stout.

Times became more difficult during the War of Independence when my young clients became less interested in shagging and more interested in flying columns (their own columns). The greatest catastrophe happened after one of my hoors was killed when riding a Black and Tan when his rifle went off in his trousers and shot her straight up the gee. Some more of my hoors caught syphillis from the Black and Tans and eventually the HSE removed my Knockin' Shoppe's hooring licence and from then on we had to deal in secret.

Shortly after my hooring licence was removed I got a visit from a cloaked young man one night who handed me a ten-shilling note and asked me for my best hoor for the evening. I showed him to Susan "The Lips", my hoor who back in 1918 had won the under 21s category for hooring in the 24th Feis Gee, and I left them to it. As they were riding in the back room, suddenly I heard Susan scream. I ran in to the room only to find that the man's face had been revealed and it was none other than Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I didn't know what to say to him, as Susan cowered in the corner, covering her gee with clingfilm. McQuaid told me that if I told anybody about the fact that he had visited the Knockin' Shoppe that he'd have me excommunicated, but I told him that it didn't matter anyway because I was a Protestant, at which point he puked all over his mickey. He told me then that if I didn't keep quiet he'd have the Legion of Mary come and burn down my Knockin' Shoppe and kill me and all my hoors. I told him that if he let us live in peace that he could have free romps twice weekly, and so he agreed.

This arrangement worked out rather nicely for a couple of years until McQuaid somehow discovered the truth, that Susan had given birth to you, Jeremy, his child and heir-bastard. Somewhere in history the situation arose that gave rise to the writing of a Catholic ecclesiastical law that states that the bastard son (and his descendents thereof) of an archbishop is entitled to all the property and temporal powers held by that archbishop during his tenure once he is deceased, whether or not he dies as archbishop. When McQuaid discovered that his brief romp with Susan had caused her to become pregnant and bear a son, he immediately instructed the Legion of Mary and their commander General Frank Duff to begin the Battle of Monto.

What looked like a Catholic crusade against vice was nothing more than a smokescreen for McQuaid to kill all those who knew about his bloodline and to make sure than he had no heir-bastard who could upscuttle the church in the future. The Legion attacked my Knockin' Shoppe and burned it to the ground, killing all my hoors including your poor mother Susan. They were allowed by their religious mandate to kill only sinners (the hoors) but could not kill you or I, you as you were an innocent child and I because I was not a hoor. However, they tried their best to scorch me with holy water and Marian paraphernalia (since I was a Protestant), but this did not work, and so they burned off my hair instead. They made sure to cut off your mickey and took you to the Magdalene sisters where you would be brought up as a girl who would never know the truth about your father and your entitlement to all the riches and power of the church in the archdiocese of Dublin. When they had taken you, I retrieved your little severed mickey and preserved it in one of my last surviving jam jars in some malt vinegar from Beshoff's chipper, adding some Miracle-Gro in the hope that by the time you find it some miracle of medicine would be available in order to have it reattached.

I tell you all this, Jeremy, so that you may know the truth and that you may avenge your mother's death and that of her hoor friends by claiming your rightful inheritence from the Catholic Church, which has made all our lives so miserable. I fear also that you may need to avenge my death too, as only this morning McQuaid named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic" and I am free game to be killed by any Catholic for the reward of a plenary indulgence. I am here in Christchurch as I know it is the only place I am safe from Catholics, but now I have heard rumours that my own kind have turned against me also, and that Douglas Hyde has ordered my assassination by the IRA for giving Protestants a bad name. I shall leave this testament in the care of my son David to bring to the Hellfire Club, where my husband and I had our first romp back in 1883 and which remained our favourite hideout until he was tragically killed there in 1916. Somehow I hope that he will be able to find you and lead you there to discover the truths that you seek.

I only hope that this testament will give you the answers for which you have no doubt long searched.

—MRS. JOAN KELLY.

Hendy read the last words aloud wistfully. S/he now knew all the answers. What was next? Claim his/her inheritence? Reattach his/her mickey? His/her mind was in a daze.

Just then, before any of them could speak, they saw a fourth figure emerge from the shadows, carrying what appeared to be a bag of organic onions and a pitchfork.

"I heard it all. Now stand against the wall."

It was Trevor Sargent.

LEGIO MARIAE ET INCENDIUS PORNAGRAPHICUM.

(Scene: Westmoreland Street, Dublin, just over O’Connell Bridge on the corner of Aston Quay, outside the now-closed Londis shop. A group of drably clad individuals holding crucifixes and statuettes of the Virgin Mary process past an eccentric-looking old man in a hat selling books: they are THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION; he is PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY.)

YOUNG MAN:
You’re going to hell.

PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Fuck off.

YOUNG MAN:
I’m going to say a novena that you’ll go to hell for that.

PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY:
Go an’ ask me arse.

(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION lines up outside the Londis shop, and an elderly lady wearing a red coat and enormous milkbottle glasses comes to the front to address them: she is SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
May our mission of sanitation to this polluted city be pleasing to the Holy Mother of God, Amen.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
I nominate Lieutenant Cormac to go forth to lead us in our task.

(A very tall young man wearing a worn jumper and thick-rimmed glasses steps forward, holding in his hand a wooden crucifix, the same young man who spoke previously with PAT “THE HAT” INGOLDSBY. He speaks with a slight lisp, though it is barely noticeable because of his drawling voice. He is LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON.)

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Yes Sister. Let’s go then.

(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON shuffles into the Londis shop and is followed by THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. He points the end of his crucifix threateningly at the Indian man behind the counter.)

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
This is a stick up. Where are your top-shelf magazines?

SHOPKEEPER:
Eh, on the top shelf.

LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON:
Oh right.

(A middle-aged man walks to the counter with a copy of FHM magazine in his hand. He looks shiftily at the floor and does not notice THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION. When he does look up, he is startled by their presence and reveals his clerical shirt and collar.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Father!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Is that a pornographic publication in the hands of a holy priest of God!?

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Surely not!

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I...no...it’s not...I'm not...I’m a Protestant!

(THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION gasps collectively and they all hold up their crucifixes to FATHER DICK FIDDLER to shield themselves.)

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You’re a what?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I, I’m not a priest, I’m a Protestant minister!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
You scumbag.

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
You don’t need pornography to get yourself into hell.

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I’m sorry, I’ll just leave and let you get on with your business.

SHOPKEEPER:
Are you going to pay for that?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
Oh, er, well...it’s okay, you can keep it.

SHOPKEEPER:
I don’t want it.

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
See? Even he doesn’t want it. You Protestants are scum. And you think you’ll get into heaven just for thinking you’re right? Well you won’t. At least Hindu man over there knows he won’t get into heaven, even if he doesn’t pretend to believe in the Lord.

SHOPKEEPER:
Excuse me?

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
I can’t take this anymore. I lied. I’m not a Protestant. I really am a Catholic priest.

SISTER ASSUMPTA MARIAEST:
A liar too!

SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER:
Scurrilous.

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
No holy priest of God would ever touch filth like that! Get out of here and go back to the Protestant hell-hole you came from.

FATHER DICK FIDDLER:
As you wish.

(FATHER DICK FIDDLER leaves quickly.)

SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE:
Now Cormac, do your business.

(LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON walks over to the magazine rack and begins to throw the top-shelf magazines to the ground, while SISTER ELEANOR HOWSYERFATHER points the end of a crucifix-shaped letter-opener threateningly at the SHOPKEEPER. LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON pauses a moment as he throws the magazines down to ogle the cover of the “Gay Times”, before coming to his senses and throwing it down also. When all the magazines have been thrown to the ground, a sour-faced elderly man named HOLY JOE MacMURCHU helps LIEUTENANT-GENERAL CORMAC McGUDGEON to carry the piles of magazines out into the street where they are heaped together in a large bundle. SISTER TERESA MARY BATTLEAXE sprinkles them with some petrol contained in a Virgin Mary-shaped holy water bottle before HOLY JOE MacMURCHU sets them alight with a match.)

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
May the burning of these pornographic publications be acceptable to the Sacred Heart of Jesus and his Holy Mother, Amen.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

HOLY JOE MacMURCHU:
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

THE LEGION OF MARY, SECOND DIVISION:
Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.

AND SO ON AND SO FORTH, AD NAUSEAM AD INFINITUM,

IN SAECULA SAECULORUM,

AAAAA-MEEEEENNNNNNNN!

(THE END.)

Sister Mary-Teresa gives Protestants a piece of her mind.

"Fuck yez all."

THE FIRST LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"O Jeremy, it really is you!"

So it was true. Mr(s). Henderson had lived in Papua New Guinea as a man in a relationship with the gay gay (as in the gay guy and straight guy). S/he really didn't know what to say.

"Hello?"

"Jeremy, what's wrong with you? Why are you dressed like a woman?"

"Because I am a woman darling, or at least I think so," replied Mr(s). Henderson somewhat unsurely.

"But Jeremy, don't you remember all the good times we had together in Papua New Guinea?"

"Don't call me Jeremy, please. My name is Sue now."

"But darling, you were always Jeremy to me! I never thought I'd see you again after I was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. It was so miserable darling, I had to work as a jazz singer in the filthiest clubs, and after that I had to ride dirty randy fat Italian men in pinstripe suits for money. It was terrible, Hendy, it was really was. But it's all behind me now, we can live together once again as happy homos, man and husband, once I go to the STD clinic."

"But I'm not a man!" protested Mr(s). Henderson. "I haven't a mickey! I'm here in Dublin to get a gee."

"But darling, you are a man, I know it! You're a faaabulous man! Why on earth would you want a gee? All you need is mickey."

Somewhere in the near-distance, near Harcourt Street or Adelaide Road or somewhere else pukeable, a trumpet played the French national anthem. Mr(s). Henderson jumped suddenly. S/he'd just realized it. S/he was lying to him/herself. It was all clear now. She had a sudden flashback to a dimly-lit brothel in 1920s Dublin.

FLASHFLASHFLASH

A load of holy aul'ones standing around with pointy crucifixes. The strong stench of incense and holy place, but it wasn't a holy place (though it was a holey place, but that's another story).

"There's the bastard," says some withered old nun.

"And there's the hoor," says another old bat.

"Cut off its mickey and kill the hoor," came a booming voice from the far distance, as if amplified by Gawd himself.

"But General McQuaid, what does the third commandment say?"

"And you're asking me, God himself of Dublin, almost? How dare you be so impertinent! Off with your habit! Now kill the hoor and cut the bastard's mickey off!"

"Yes, my Lord and my God."

Suddenly Mr(s). Henderson remembered the screaming of hoors and the grinding of teeth, from the next room. And then s/he knew...the hoor that screamed was his/her mother. But suddenly the screaming faded and s/he recalled a sharp pain in the mickey area...

FLASHFLASHFLASH

And Rufus was lifting up his skirt.

"O, sorry girls, did I ruin the moment?"

Amid all the confusion and flashing, Mr(s). Henderson and the gay guy both failed to notice Rufus still there waiting and wondering why he was no longer the centre of attention (a one-man guy in the morning, the same in the afternoon).

"O, gay guy!" exclaimed Hendy suddenly.

"Yes darling?" answered Rufus.

"No, not you, him—the gay guy from gay guy and straight guy."

We're now on Diabelli Variation No. 31 as Beethoven refers to himself as his compositional life comes to an end, just as Mr(s). Henderson's odyssee comes to an end.

"Yes..." said Hendy, "...John!"

"O Hendy, you remembered!" shouted John, the gay guy.

"Yes, John...I know now. I was the son of a hoor from the Monto. McQuaid made the Legion kill my mother and cut off my mickey, and that's how I became a manwoman!"

"But why, Hendy? Why would they do that?"

"I don't know John, but I have to find out. I'll get to the bottom of it if it's the last thing I do!"

"OooooOOoooOoOooo!" says John, comme usual.

Rufus's ears pricked up suddenly. "Darlings, do I sense a gay adventure coming on?"

"Ooo!"

"I have to know the truth. I won't rest until I know why they killed my mother and cut off my mickey. But where shall I start?"

FLASHFLASH

Aaaaaa.

---Men.

"I'll get you lot back, I will! How dare you come into my Olde Knockin' Shoppe and kill my hoors and cut off their children's mickeys! I always knew you Catholics were bastards. I'll show the world what a pack of hypocritical holy fuckers yez are and what a dirty prick that Archbishop of yours is!"

Silence. Then the sound of matches being lit and screaming and the smell of singed hair.

"You bastards! You'll regret this! It'll be on the front page of the Anglo-Irish Times tomorrow, you just wait! Geraldine loves a bit of gossip. I'll send my son along with the news, be sure of that. Go get down on your knees and pray to your pope you fuckin' papists!"

"That's enough from you you filthy proddy!" shouts Frank Duff from the door as he fires a bottle of black Protestant porter at Mrs. Kelly, narrowly missing her singed head. "Smash those ashes, Sister Paphaloushis!"

"No! No!" screamed Mrs. Kelly. "Not Mr. Kelly's ashes! And that lovely jam jar I got as a present from Kitty O'Shea!"

"That proved English prostitute, eh?" shouted Frank Duff. "Smash it sister!"

The sound of smashing glass and the screams of Mrs. Kelly, good Protestant as she was.

"Now, you heard what the Archbishop said, kill her."

"You won't get away with this, yiz feckers! I..I..."

DONG.

DONG.

DONG.

Mrs. Kelly couldn't believe her luck. It was a sign from the Protestant God, Jehovah. "The Angelus," she whispered silently. "Thank Jaysus, for once."

The nuns and Frank Duff all prostrated themselves suddenly towards Rome, momentarily oblivious to their murderous mission given to them by His Lordship and Quasihemidemisemigodness McQuaid.

"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary..."

"AND SHE CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE..."

The Legion oblivious, Mrs. Kelly suddenly grabbed as many of her important belongings as she could get her hands on and ran faster than she had ever run until she was at the gates of Pat's Cathedral, before she realized she had left behind her the most important thing...baby Jeremy.

FLASH

"Mrs. Kelly knows the truth!" exclaimed Mr(s). Henderson. "But she must be long dead...where do we go from here?"

"Jeremy..." interrupted Rufus, "...I think I met her son in the Yellow Lounge!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

Tom Lehrer on Papists.

The Monologue of the Sacristan

The last time we left Mr(s). Henderson, s/he had arrived at Howth Castle and Environs through the magical tunnel that s/he found after running away from Rufus at the Yellow lounge. S/he decided to visit old Gaybo while s/he was in the area. But, upon knocking on his door and with its new Polish occupants telling her to go and fuck, s/he remembered that he had moved to the little Ballsbridge, the bastard. Hello there, well done.

Back home (Ireland) again, s/he got the DART from Howth into Connolly Station, for the laugh. S/he wanted to visit the Pro-Cathedral to offer up a few prayers for the Pope's intentions like that the good people at the Look Ten Years Younger show on TV3 would accept his request to be on the telly and to remove the black rings under his eyes which age him terrible.

-----Papal Intermission----

Just as a matter of interest, in Poland when Pope John Paul II died, the government couldn't face the consequences, considering the results of the opinion Pole from The Polish Times saying that 90% of Polish people would convert to Judaism if the there was no longer a Polish Pope. The other 10% would become Muslims for some odd reason. This would result in increased usury, circumcision and would decimate the flourishing Polish pork industry. To prevent such a national catastrophe, the government put a ban on any foreign media and pretended that John Paul II hadn't died and acted as if he hadn't. In the interest of public morality and safety, the national broadcaster ran stock footage of the late Pontiff everyday.

------Return to Main Feature---------

After praying for the Pope's intentions, s/he decided to have a look around the Pro-Cathedral in all its splendour. S/he stood by the pews wondering if McQuaid had ever been there. He/she spotted a "Have You Ever Considered The Priesthood" poster on the notice board and thought mmm, well maybe when I had a mickey. Throwing his/her eyes back into the church, he/she found a very interesting baptismal font that had once been broken in two pieces but was now sellotaped and Pritt-Stuck back together courtesy of Reads of Nassau Street. He/she sensed he/she was not alone. Within seconds of drama, a very old man stood near him/her with a warm smile.

-There are no Confessions being heard today.
-O, I'm not here for Confession. I'm just in for a little bit of an auld pray.
-What? In all my 105 years here, I've not yet once come across one genuine soul praying. Catholics don't pray anyway. They just recite shite. Not that I believe any of it. I'm only in it for the money. But, I've seen through it all. I'm a bit of an agnostic myself. That McQuaid, he was a bastard. He used to be slappin' the kids that came in for Confirmation...in the face!

---Dilly-dally sideline----

McQuaid standing up on his high altar. All the little young ones in their dresses kneeling down.

-What is the third Commandment!? boomed McQuaid.
-Eh, eh, thou shall not commit adultery?
-Wrong. SLAP! And how dare you say such a filthy word in MY Pro-Cathedral! I bet you're off committing adultery every night with anyone that'll have you! I'll tell you what'll happen to you. You'll end up like those hoors around in the Monto!
-I'm nine!...(cries).

----End of dilly-dally-------

-They only come in looking for Confession and/or sanctuary. Just like after the Battle of Monto. I remember all those hoors coming down here 'fessin' up after their sins and looking for sanctuary too. The Legion were looking to kill them. The Legion stole that baptismal font to break in the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, stupid pack of holy gobshites. Mrs. Kelly was a grand woman. I had to pretend to hate her for the simple reason that she was a Protestant or I would have lost me job. Sure I remember de Valera praying in here for the soul of Douglas Hyde that he wouldn't go to hell for being a Protestant while his funeral was going on up in St. Pat's until McQuaid came in and slapped him with his bishop's mitre...in the face!...and told him that it was blaphemous to pray for the damned. Fuckin' eejit. And sure all the time he was off fiddlin' young fellas' mickeys.

By now, Mr(s). Henderson was dead. Well, no, but her brain was melting out of her ear. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the auld fella just died. Mr(s). Henderson had witnessed the death of the oldest living servant of the Church on earth and also the oldest man in Ireland. He was 115 after all, fair play to him. Didn't stop him going to hell for being a blasphemer though. Mr(s). Henderson considered lighting a candle for him, but from nowhere a ghostly bishop’s mitre flew towards her and slapped her...in the face! She then remembered the words of wisdom of McQuaid and just left. She noticed the sacristan’s face was going purple and beginning to melt and fall apart. This was his punishment for thinking he was atheist. Stupid auld fella.

To be continued…!