St Benedildo’s College, Chill Mo Chuda

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

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

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

The 99¼th anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

We interrupt this programme to make the following announcement:

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

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

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

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

Cocks, etc.

I was in the staffroom on my lunch break innocently reading 'The Ticket' (yes, it was a Friday) and eating a purple snack bar while some colleagues sitting around me chatted away. Half-listening, I would occasionally grab snippets of their conversation.

—...lunch box...seventeen...O'Meara...scratchcard...

It wasn't very interesting. I was much more interested in the theatre listings. I fancied myself as a bit of an art snob sometimes. I didn't even like the theatre, but it was worth going just to tell people you went and see their reaction.

—I was in the Abbey last night.

—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Yeah. My colleagues were all insufferable. Though in fairness, they probably thought I was an ignorant git myself. But that's how the cookie crumbles.

—So Jonathan, do you like cock?

My ears pricked up. Did she ACTUALLY just ask him that?

—Well Bernie, to be honest I'm not MAD into it. But I dabble on occasion.

—Really? That's nice. I always had a feeling. You know the way.

I lowered my newspaper a little and peered over my glasses with eyebrows raised. Jonathan was a young baldy bloke with a scruffy beard and trendy glasses. And he was talking about cock.

—Well, I mean, flange is all right I suppose, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Cock's more up my street in a way. Not that I have much of a street.

Bernie and Denise laughed very highpitched and very irritating laughs. I stared slightly more incredulously.

—To be honest, said Denise, I love the cock. Nothing better than a mouthful of cock when you come home in the evening.

—Yeah, I know what you mean, Denise, said Bernie. A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush!

This time all three of them laughed. They kept laughing even after I couldn't remember what Bernie had said in the first place. Jonathan had a bellowing English laugh which was really annoying.

After another minute I'd had enough.

—I mean, REALLY. You just think you can sit here and talk about cock and LAUGH without me saying anything? Well, you thought wrong. You are a shower of insufferable BASTARDS and you need to all grow up and GET A LIFE. What the FUCK is wrong with you. Fuck sake.

I threw my copy of 'The Ticket' on the table and stormed out of the staffroom, dropping the wrapper of my snack bar on the floor along the way. I stood outside in the courtyard and lit myself a green Marlboro, blowing smokerings as I smoked. A cooing pigeon landed near to me and I kicked it.

I hate pigeons.

Diarmuid agus Gráinne ag marcaíocht.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Abstain from Bold Things with the Legion of Mary.

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

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

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

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

Lamb, 2am.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well...okay."

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

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

Tristan and Isolde: The Dublin Version

During the Great Battle of Dublin 5 in 1997 when a whole load of Tallaght people stormed Artane Castle to fight to the death in order to see Who Was Better, Morgo, betrothed to Princess Isolde of Killester was slain by Tristan McGrath, loyal servant of King Mark of Ballyfermot. However, Tristan was gravely wounded in his battle with Morgo and found himself at the mercy of Isolde whom he begged to help him. At first she was going to bash his head in with a rusty pitchfork, but she looked into his eyes and felt such pity for him that she dropped the pitchfork and put a bit of Sudocreme on his lacerated ear and before he knew it he was right as rain.

Stuck in the back of a dilapidated Hiace with Tristan as Mark's crew drove her back to Ballyer so that they could get married (shit or wha'?), Isolde poured them both a draught of dodgy contraband Polish vodka that she'd got from the bouncers at Lamb hoping that it would kill them both, a sort of bizarre murder/suicide pact. But for some reason it made them fall madly in love and they stood around for about twenty minutes not sure what to do before they decided to have a shag.

"O Tristan!"

"Isolde...! Actually, where did you get your name from?"

"Well, my mother had me when she was sixteen in the bastard drop zone in the Rotunda and didn't really want a baby as you can imagine. So when my uncle John came in to find her he asked her, 'What did you call the baby?' and she said, 'I sold i'.' So when he retrieved me from the Legion he brought me home and called me Isolde."

"That's fascinating. Where were we?"

"You just had your hand on me gee."

"O yes...is that your gee?"

"O yes! Is that your hand?"

"Is that your face?"

"Is that your mickey?"

"Well, actually, it's a Lion bar I was keeping in my pocket for later on, but my mickey should be just beside there. Yep, that's the one."

So they had fun for a while. Unfortunately, just as it was getting good the van stopped and the door was wrenched open by none other than Mark who was none too pleased that Tristan was shagging the woman he thought he'd be getting his hole with that night.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Eh, we're shagging. What does it look like?"

"You fucking what?"

"Fucking, that's the one. Anyway Mark, what's the deal with wreckin' me buzz?"

Mark wasn't happy at all, and so Tristan barely had time to put his mickey back in his trousers (the stupid fuck) before they were boxing each other in the middle of the road. Poor Isolde didn't know what to do, so she ran off back to Killester when nobody was looking.

Mark almost killed poor Tristan, and so once again gravely wounded Tristan had to get a bus into town and walk down to Eden Quay where he picked up a 29A and made his way up to Isolde, hoping that she'd have some Sudocreme left to heal his wounds. He eventually got there but just as she was about to put the Sudocreme on him Mark arrived hot on his tail. One of Tristan's friends stabbed one of Mark's cronies for absolutely no reason, not realising that Mark had come to make peace and give Tristan and Isolde his blessing to get their hole all they liked. But it was too late. Isolde couldn't put the Sudocreme on in time and Tristan died. She was delighted for some odd reason, knowing that if she died as well they could shag in the back of the big Hiace up in the sky for all eternity, and so collapsed right on top of Tristan bringing the story to a swift and slightly bizarre end.

Well done all round. And it took Wagner two weeks to tell that story. Where would you be without Bramblog? In Burger King, of course, or perhaps Bayreuth.

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.