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.

Prayers After Riding

On page 79 of Alive O 8 (for 6th class students), the page that most diligent parents tear out the moment they purchase the book, you will find a section in small print headed ‘Prayers after Riding’. This is the section that Breda O’Brien fought hard to erase from the religious curriculum, but in acknowledgment of the fact that omitting it might cast some poor children into hell, the Archbish of Dubdub decreed that it should be included, for better or for worse. This is pure filth, they say. You’ve been warned.

Prayers After Riding 

O God, who makes us all live together in harmony and loveliness, we thank you for the lovely experience of the ride. Please let us make a baby together and live forever and ever in holiness and loveliness, only having a lovely ride when we truly want to make a baby. Amen.

Holy Mary, who definitely never ever rid, make sure that we don’t catch chlamydia (or however you spell it) or whatever other form of clap that’s going around at the moment. In the name of your holy Son Jesus Christ. Amen.

Lord Jesus, who gave us families, infertile couples, and single mothers, please make sure that if a baby should result out of this ride we have just had that we should have the decency to get married and try our best to bring the child up together, even if we are twelve. Amen.

Mrs Kinsella's Creche, Donnycarney, Dublin Nine

'Get us a cup of tea will ya Jimmy?' croaked Mrs Kinsella, drawing heavily on the three smouldering cigarettes she held in her fist. 'You what? I know you bleedin' scalded yourself with the kettle yesterday. Did yer mammy not put any Sudocreme on it? Jaysus. Neglect, that's what it is. Pure and utter neglect.'

Jimmy was five. He looked quite terrified, and his right hand was covered with bandages.

'C'm'ere t'me Jayden. Yeah, you,' roared Mrs Kinsella. 'Have y'any of them jelly babies left? No? You bleedin' glutton.'

'I gave the last one to you, Mrs Kinsella,' said Jayden, his eyes fixed on the ground in an intense stare of shame.

'Yeah, but who ate the rest of them? It wasn't me, was it Jayden? You cheeky little shite. Fuck off now and go back to cleanin' the bath.'

Mrs Kinsella got up out of her armchair with great effort. She fastened her pink dressinggown around her waist. 'Ah Jaysus, me back,' she moaned.

Mrs Kinsella was only twenty-nine years old, but she already had seven children of her own, all of whom she sent to boarding school as soon as they were old enough. The creche didn't make her quite enough money to afford all the school fees, but she also had the social, her disability allowance, her father's CIE pension money and the compensation she got from the hairdresser who burned her ear with a GHD in 2009.

Mrs Kinsella was nothing if not enterprising. Ten quid a day to look after a child was quite a bargain, and so every mother in the area dropped their children to Mrs Kinsella in the mornings. Her two-bed council house was small, but it just about accommodated the fifty-two children she looked after daily. It was good life experience for them, Mrs Kinsella told the mothers. They learned useful skills like making tea, cleaning out ashtrays, ironing, basic sewing, and polishing things with Brasso.

Speaking of which, Janice Dempsey was polishing the fender around the fireplace as Mrs Kinsella stepped over some small boys to get to the cupboard where she kept her vodka bottles.

'Janice!' shouted Mrs Kinsella. 'The fuck are ya doin'? There's bleedin' streaks alloverih. Go an' get yourself a clean yellow cloth.'

'There aren't any more cloths Mrs Kinsella,' said Janice, almost despairing. She had been using the same filthy cloth for the last week in repeated failed attempts to clean the fender. She was seven.

'De fuck do I care? Get yourself on the 20B and go down to Talbot Street and get a few new ones. There's fifty p. Bring me back a Cornetto as well.'

Janice was about to say something in response but Mrs Kinsella cut across her. 'Hurry up to fuck!'

​Mrs Kinsella's creche was eventually closed down when she was reported to the police for locking three​ small children in the broom cupboard which she alleged was inhabited by a mythical Chinese man. Her profiteering from innocent children's misery was of course denounced in all the red-tops, but secretly most of her neighbours were envious: why hadn't they thought of doing that?

Whatever you're having yourself

As part of Fine Gael's magnificent several-point-plan to Get Ireland Working, a new national industry has been created, through which many millions will be pleasured.

Every home in Ireland will shortly receive a new dildo, hand-made from peat from genuine Irish bog. The dildos have been made lovingly in Co. Clare by a lady in a shawl who looks like Peig Sayers. Each dildo comes emblazoned with a pencil-drawn image of Hibernia, in the guise of that very famous American, Lady Lavatory, who used be on the pound notes.

The stated purpose of these dildos is to take pressure off the government: now everyone can fuck themselves to save the government having to do it. As a result of this cleverness, taxpayers' money will be saved in droves and rediverted to such useful purposes as RTÉ comedy, filling up cracks in roads in and around Rathfarnham, Dublin Fourteen, deporting refugees, and not looking after homeless people.

A launch event for this new scheme will take place in Collins Barracks hosted by Gay Byrne, who is still not dead. There will be (quite literally) one for everyone in the audience.

Pissing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--Holy God, the absolute bang of piss.

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

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

Devil Eire beyant the grave.

'Hlo, Eeamon Oo Cweeve? Week up...it's your Grendeddy.'

Eamon Ó Cuiv wakes up in a cold sweat having heard the voice of Granda de Valera from beyond the grave. He immediately phones the Feena Fawl press office to tell them the news.

DE VALERA NOMINATES HIMSELF FOR THE PRESIDENCY FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE, runs the headline of the Irish Press, which was dead a while since. Liberal Ireland was in uproar and the Papal Nuncio was flown back to Dublin from Prague in order to explain to Enda Kenny in person that he had seen a vision of John Charles McQuaid holding hands with Our Lady of Knock appearing in the skirting board of his hotel room.

'God is angry at you for disrespecting the Holy Father, Mr Kenny,' explained the Nuncio in far worse English than that. 'This is his retribution.'

The whole presidential election shite was halted because Gawd hath ordainéd that de Valera was to be dug up and removed to the Áras at once and installed as President-for-Life-and-All-Eternity (Amen). Nordy Mary mother of Éireann was removed immediately from the Áras along with her family by An Garda Sicíní. The bastards didn't even give her a chance to pack and just fucked her belongings (and her husband) unceremoniously out onto the Twenty-Nine Acres (or whatever you call it). A Garda helicopter escorted the McAleeses (with the help of searchlights) into a safe house prepared for them in O'Devaney Gardens, North Circular Road, Dublin Seven, between St Bricin's and the pond where all the local drug dealers go to have a piss. (Note the irony of 'safe house' in this context. Refer to Chapter Four, Page Twenty-Eight, the section entitled 'Irony, Bwooh!'.)

They started digging up de Valera's grave, but when they discovered that he'd rotted away to nothing they commissioned Madame Tussaud's to make a lifelike wax replica of him that was installed in the front hall of the Áras in a glass case that Lenin would have been proud of. A ceremony was held to mark the occasion, celebrated by Archbishop Dearmit Martin and accompanied by a performance at communion by thrice-failed presidential candidate Dana Rosemary-Scallions, who treated the congregation to a lovely rendition of her hit 'All Kinds of Everything (Remind me of the Eucharist)', which was briefly at number two in the US Christian charts in 1987.

President-for-Life Eamon de Valera, 1882-1975, 2011-∞. Amen.

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.

Trace the thought of the poet in the poem "Keerawn's Ode to Lola's Gee" by Robert Frost.

In this poem the poet Keerawn-Robert Frosty-Crustygee is describing the gee of his love and how he longs to be freed from her flaps.

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

The poet says that he has been acquainted with his love Lola's gee and the darkest recesses of it. He says that he has almost drowned in Kopparberg cider which she has poured into her gee.

EXCUSE ME IS THAT WHAT THE POET IS SAYING?

Historical Inaccuracy

Tonight I'd like to right a wrong, if I may. An inaccuracy that has arrived somehow in our history books as fact. The inaccuracy that I speak of is the use of the term the "Night of the Long Knives". Most people think that it refers to the purge against Rohm and the SA, among others, in Nazi Germany. This is, however, wrong. I shall now tell you the true roots of the phrase. It will take you to Dublin in the early years of Irish independence and the Irish Free State.

The story begins with an all-night Exposition and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament in St. Patrick's church in Ringsend. The particular occurrence in question happened in November 1929. Imagine the scene, a couple dozen holy auld ones kneeling on pews looking at a gold thing, undisturbed, for twelve hours. Even poor Geraldine, who had come all the way from Leixlip for the occasion, felt so bad as to leave after sneezing. The church was silent, the holy auld ones in prayer. The host-holding thingy (monstrance) sat on the altar in a way in which you've never seen a host-holding thingy (monstrance) sit on an altar ever before. That's because you've presumably never been to St. Patrick's in Ringsend. I haven't. Why would anyone want to go there? Well, anyway, it sat on the altar, in the words of an eyewitness, "in quite an astonishing manner". Bloody holy auld ones. Nobody really knows why this group of holy auld ones decided to hold their annual field trip in Ringsend. One legend may hold water. At the time, it was a popular belief that God loved even the worst places on earth. Christians flocked to the mouldiest kips they could think of to hold Masses and services of all kinds. This may have influenced the decision to go to Ringsend. After all, it was the '20s. God love them.

So, as you can imagine, the holy auld ones were all holied up after all that time being holy and praying and the like. The most exciting thing they could think of doing to splash out (in a respectable fashion) was to have a nice cup of cup somewhere. Unfortunately they were in Ringsend and it was nearing six o'clock in the morning. The only place where they could find to have a cup of tea was a pub that opened early in the morning to accommodate the drinking needs of certain folks. Seeing no alternative, the holy auld ones entered the pub with dismay. They really would have done anything to get a decent cup of tea.

As soon as the door started to open everyone in the pub spun around in the chairs. They expected some sailor and a dirty youngfla that was finished having his way with a whore down on the quays. Their gasps were met by twenty late middle-aged women with raincoats and rosary beads. The remaining holy auld ones had decided to wait in the church until nine o'clock for confessions. The customers in the pub stared at the women as they passed the dirty mirrors advertising alcoholic drinks such as Murphy's, Guinness and Tullamore Dew. As they approached the bar Mary asked the grey-haired man behind the counter for six pots of tea. The man looked up from the tap of Killkenny from which he was pouring a pint and quickly glanced at every one of the women before he said anything. He grinned to himself and said, "Jiz want milk 'n' sugar wi' da'?" Relieved at the barman's response, the holy auld ones crossed the floor and occupied most of the eastern corner of the pub. They sat uncomfortably as they were being stared at from all sides. They gave each other uneasy looks as they sat waiting for their tea.

The clientele of the pub were dirty, randy aul' bastards that had made the soil their bride or were too ugly to ever go with anybody let alone have relations. Unfortunately for the holy auld ones, the pub was also occupied by particularly randy, drunk auldflas that morning. Leo, a drunk, randy bastard offered to help the barman to carry over the tray of tea to the "fine ladies in the corner". In unfortunate fashion, Leo had the most unpleasant fall and skulled himself off the edge of the bar and left several minutes later after regaining consciousness.

After this first attempt at approaching the holy auld ones, the other druk, randy auldflas began to get ideas of their own. Poor auld ones. The drunk, randy aul' bastards started crossing the pub with grins and with greasy combs in hand running them across their balding heads and tidying their ear hair. They moved in slowly but with an increasing menace that made one holy auld one puke delicately into her hanky (the one that her neighbour had bought for her in Fatima when she was there with the parish).

The drunk, randy, aul' bastards numbered eight. The holy auld ones were, at this stage, very nervous. And rightly so, for in a flash (if you'll pardon the pun) the nearest aulfla whipped out his mickey and began wiggling it at the holy auld ones. In a moment of stress, Mrs. Kennedy withdrew a large knife from her raincoat and sliced the drunk, randy aul' bastard's mickey right off.

"Come on girls! These randy aul' men need to be taught a lesson."

At that, each of the holy auld ones retrieved from their pockets a long knife. For, you see, they were all members of the Legion. They were all armed with their standard issue emergency mickey knife. By the time they were finished, there wasn't an attached mickey left in the building. "Hmmm, that'll put a stop to their randy little ways," said Mrs. Kennedy as they walked back onto the streets of Ringsend. The incident instantly became known as the Night of the Long Knives. It was, of course, in the morning. But nothing interesting even happens in the morning, so they just said that it happened at night for a greater "Ooooh" factor.

One of the poor, then mickeyless, aul' bastards left his native Dublin because every one knew that he hadn't a mickey. He fought the insults, the hurt for a few years but left for Germany in 1934. He was barely off the boat when he found himself in a bar with four whiskeys in front of him (two empty) and talking to the barman. He began to cry and cry very loudly at that. SO much so that he didn't hear the window being smashed in at the front of the bar. The poor barman, a dissident, had legged it off somewhere. The poor mickeyless bastard was left with nobody to tell his story to. He yelled at in anger, "CURSE THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES!"

On hearing the shouts of the old man, an SS youngfla shot him. He was part of a team doing a regular around-the-town check on things when some little fucker threw a brick at him. It just missed the SS fella and smashed the window of the bar. The youngfla ran into the bar for safety and on hearing the auldfla's shouts in a foreign language, he spun around and pulled the trigger. So, that was the end of the poor, mickeyless aul' bastard. And that's how the phrase "Night of the Long Knives" reached Germany. Case Closed.

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.

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.

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.

Gerrard O'Caogain and the Bottle of Whiskey in the Trousers.

Poor old G-G-Gerrry, being holy and all of that. As a matter of fact, he was never really holy, he just carried around a consecrated host in his pocket and showed it to people to scare them at inappropriate moments, like when he was telling a group of youngfellas about how he got his hole every night when he was their age. That's why HH got rid of him off the curriculum. It was a shame really, because the randy youngfellas hadn't a decent example to follow now except that fucking bollocks Pete Doherty, who certainly didn't carry around a host in his top pocket and couldn't write holy songs about love and things of the sort.

But poor Gerrry was actually a desperate alco, and he used to drink for Ireland every Saturday night, as well as every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Wednesday, and Monday, morning and evening. But on Sunday he went to Mass just to keep up appearances, and afterwards would come along for a bit of drink. But one day in the 1990s he met an American priest who could turn his vestments a different colour by just getting everyone to close their eyes and pray hard for ten seconds, and this convinced him for once and for all that there really was a Gawd, and so the priest gave him a lovely present of a golden monstrance and a host that he could use to scare children. It came in pretty handy, especially after Gerrry had told stories about getting both high and his hole in one night back when he was a youngfella and didn't have that silly beard.

One day Gerrry realized that being an alco was a sin and so went to classes in abstinence with the Legion of Mary, but realized that wasn't the sort of abstinence he needed when they took out the meat cleavers. Instead, he went on a six-week course with Archbishop Desmond Connell who made really boring speeches every night and drove everyone to drink, except of course Gerrry who was so enlightened that he vowed he'd never drink again and dedicate his life to Gawd. In fact, he did this with renewed vigour, taking out his guitar at the drop of a hat (bastard) to serenade all and sundry about the virtues of keeping your mickey in your trousers and all those things that Catholics do be going on about. Well done to him.

But of course, it didn't last. One night, Gerrry was walking through Baile Sord when he passed the establishment known to the youth of the area simply as Lamb. "O no," thought Gerrry to himself, "I can't possibly go there. Only youngfellas who want to get pissed, dance badly and get their hole go there." And sure wasn't he right. So he crossed the road and walked further up on his way to MacDonald's where he was looking forward to having a nice double cheeseburger to the glory of Gawd. However, passing by another establishment by the name of Cock, he was taken immediately with the delicious smell of pub and couldn't help himself. He ran straight in through the doors (in his confusion even pushing the right-hand one first) as Martin turned to him and raising his hands in a gesture of coolness said, "Look, take it easy." Gerrry ignored Martin and stood in the doorway for a minute breathing in the delicious smell of pub he had missed for so long. Striding up to the bar, he asked one of the pinkies to give him a bottle of Bushmills. Because they didn't have any on hand, they sent Stuart the hot youngfla down to the cellars to retrieve one. Gerrry tried his best to remain inconspicuous, but the silly little beard gave it away really. Having paid the barman, he grabbed his bottle of whiskey, shoved it down his trousers and ran straight out.

Reaching the wall over outside the Old Boro, he tried his best to extract the bottle of whiskey from his trousers, but somehow it had managed to become stuck. As he fiddled desperately with the bottle he couldn't manage to get it up for some reason. Maybe he was drunk on the smell of a pub. Who knows? But unfortunately for Gerrry one of the gardaí across the road had nothing to do and was staring out the window of his office, and jumped at the chance to run out to Gerrry when he saw him doing what he thought was a bold thing in public.

"Here, you, mister, with the silly beard. What's your name?"

"What's it to you, you big fuckin' culchie?"

"You shut up your fuckin' jackeen bollix mouth and get your durty cunt hands off your mickey."

"Me hands aren't on me mickey."

"I could see you fiddlin' your mickey all the way across the road, so don't give me that bollix."

"I mean it," said Gerrry, "I wasn't fiddlin' me mickey. I'd go to hell for that. I'm trying to get a bottle of whiskey out of me trousers."

"A bottle of whiskey me brown bollix. You're arrested."

And so Gerrry was arrested. And that is the moral of the story, because he was never again allowed to lecture youngfellas about drugs and getting their hole and things like that because he got arrested for fiddling his mickey in the street (or so it seemed). And worse still, he had a bottle of whiskey in his trousers, which was extremely embarrassing for a whole lot of reasons. So now when you see Gerrry it won't be with his guitar or his host, because both were taken off him. Instead you'll see him standing around Eason's looking at Mills & Boons books all day, and when Eason's closes you'll see him wandering in and out of pubs all around the town but not drinking a single drop. That's probably what hell is for an ex-holy like Gerrry, Gawd love him.

"Dropping It."

Poor old Clowee, going in to have her first child in the Rotunda. She just boxed some youngone as she was running down the side of Parnell Square where the buses do be stopping (the 16, 13, 11, those ones) when the youngone shouted "Sta' of yeh missus". Clowee replied, "I'll fucking box in your face" and promptly carried out her threat. Well done.

Arriving in the new doors of the Rotunda, she ran straight to the desk.

"Eh, I'm havin' a child."

The receptionist lady looked at her blankly. "O. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm bleedin' sure," replied Clowee. "Aren't me waters just after breakin' an' I thinking I pissed on the bleedin' floor without knowin' i'?"

"O. Okay. Are you married?" asked the receptionist calmly.

"Does it make any fuckin' difference?" asked Clowee, more agitated by the moment.

"Well, we need to check for our records."

"Well, what do you think, missus? I'm bleedin' too young to be married."

"Fine so," said the receptionist. "Just down the corridor on your left hand side. The blue room with the towels."

Clowee ran immediately down the corridor and turned into the blue room to which she had been directed by the receptionist. Sure enough there were plenty of towels all over the floor, some in particularly garish colours, and some emblazoned with pictures of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and others with the words "Costa del Sol". Well done to them. Clowee looked up at the ancient woman sitting on the ledge enquiringly.

"What de fuck is this about?"

"This is the bastard drop zone. You've come here to drop a bastard I presume? Well, have no fear, there are plenty of towels and I was a midwife back in the sixties so I think I know what I'm doing."

"Wha'?!"

You see, poor Clowee wasn't the brightest spark in the box. That's how she got herself Up-the-Duff. And speaking of that, out of nowhere, in came Jono.

"Jaysis Clowee, whadefuck's up?"

"Fuckin' hell Jono, where were ye? I'm about to bleedin' have the baby."

"Ah no, I thought you were only messin'! Jaysis! I'm goin' to be a fader. I'm not even old enough! I can't even get into Velvet without a fake ID!"

"Yeh didn't need a bleedin' ID to get into me gee Jono, so you're fuckin' old enough to look after this bleedin' baby."

"Bollix."

And so Clowee dropped her bastard. She was hopin' to God it wouldn't happen before her night at the debs, and she just about got her wish. But sure God love her, and poor old Jono and their bastard. Kevin Myers is desperate proud that Clowee has made a career of mothering bastards. Guaranteed income for at least sixteen years. Well done.

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.

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…!

Our Cake Bastard (A 21st Century Parable)

Dear children,

Once upon a time, and a very very good time it was, a man and a woman were living together in an apartment in Raheny. They were not married and therefore in the eyes of Gawd and the Chorch they were technically living "in sin" as they say. As if this were not bad enough, they were shagging as well, the pair of durty hoors. His name was Johnny and hers was Teresa. She came from Offaly, so that probably explains it. She was awfully fond of offal into the bargain, but as Fr Brian would say, that's just sick. And kind of irrelevant.

But one day as Johnny and Teresa were sitting together at the pre-marital breakfast table Johnny had an idea.

"Teresa," sez he, "do you know how to bake?"

Teresa looked at him for a minute as if he had suddenly turned into a monkey. "What? Ay doon't knoo ennything about beeking!"

"Well then," says Johnny, "why don't we take cookery classes?"

Teresa mulled this over in her simeon little brain for a few moments and then shrugged her shoulders, indicating that whatever was to be done was Johnny's decision.

So, Johnny, being a good boy, enrolled them both in cookery classes. Every evening they tried new recipes and never again did they have to phone up Domino's Pizza.

The following Christmas, buoyed by their new-found culinary prowess, they invited Johhny's posh Ballsbridge-dwelling aunt and uncle for Christmas dinner. Perhaps it wasn't a wise choice for their first Christmas dinner, but how and ever. The dinner turned out fairly all right on the day, but it was what happened afterwards that we will concern ourselves with.

Jump back six weeks. Johnny and Teresa had taken the initiative and began to bake a Christmas cake. But no ordinary Christmas cake. This was a superbly fabulous Christmas cake containing only the most expensive ingredients. But most of all it was a joint effort between the little culinary couple. The cake turned out all right and they left it wrapped up until Christmas day when they cut a few slices for Johnny's aunt and uncle.

Now the problem was, Teresa was just a little bit thick and so she mistakenly added a whole bottle of whiskey to the cake, as well as lashings of cinnamon. Now, because of some bizarre chemical reaction which resulted from the fact that the whiskey was in excess and so the cinnamon was the limiting reactant, as soon as Johnny's aunt Margerie took a bite of her slice of cake her skin started breaking out in awful red spots and she promptly expired. Uncle Jimeny was so shocked at this that he had a very large heart attack and died also. And there were Johnny and Teresa, left staring at the bodies of Johnny's poor posh relations.

You see, the moral of the story of the story is this, you see. Indeed. Johnny and Teresa shouldn't have been shagging when they weren't married, but they didn't care. And they shouldn't have been making cakes together either. The problem was that being unmarried, the cake that was the product of their relationship was thus a bastard cake, also known as a cake bastard. And so it was always going to be cursed. Especially afterwards, when they were both arrested for poisoning poor aunt Margerie.

And there you have it. The Poop and the Chorch were right once again. 1-0 to the Vatican.

A continuation of the gospel according to Mr(s). Henderson.

Last time we heard from gallant Mr(s). Henderson, s/he was trekking across North America in search of something called love. This may have been a place, a gay bar, a Broadway show or a run-down brothel, which of course was her last place of employment

-----Flashback-----

Back in the days when Mr(s). Henderson was but a wee boy, he lived in the durty auld Dublin town where his mammy specialized in the trade of hoorin' down the Monto in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe. Mrs. Kelly was a grand old woman who had once lived in the Dublin Mountains. Her husband was shot in 1916 for stealing picnic baskets up in the Hell Fire Club. She subsequently moved into the heart of Dublin and started her roaring whoring trade up behind the Pro-Cathedral. Because she was a good Protestant, Mrs. Kelly was permitted to have her husband's remains slightly singed and then fully blown to bits (also known as cremated) and put in a lovely Chivers jam jar that she'd been keeping for a special occasion such as that. She placed the jar on the fireplace in her beloved brothel and urged the young men to admire her lovely vessel accordingly.

The whoring trade had a roaring trade until 1925 when Frank Duff and a few holy auld wans arrived at the door carrying bottles of holy water and armed with 1798 vintage pikes, muskets (good Catholic weapons), a few Rosary beads and a big gold crucifix with a pointy end for smashing windows and killin' hoors. Just for extra reinforcement they borrowed several of the Pro's baptismal fonts to break in the doors that had been cleverly barricaded with hoors and the occasional bottle of stout. The Legion broke into Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, killed all her hoors with the crucifix and set Mrs. Kelly's hair on fire. They even smashed her husband's ashes, the bastards. She was particularly upset at the loss of the lovely jam jar, which she'd been keeping since 1893.

Now, Mr(s). Henderson fits into all this tumult somehow. We'll now do this in exquisite style. He (yes, he) was the bastard child of one of the nicer and nicer-lookin' hoors who was killed by the Legion in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion took pity upon the poor orphan child and decided to send him into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. You can see where this is going, the poor little shite. Before the Legion sent him away, they made sure that he would never become like those durty young fellas that did be shaggin' the poor young wans in places like the Monto. So, they promptly cut off his mickey and all related appendage with the help of the Holy Knife of Padre Pio, some nice incense, some Our Fathers and a few Hail Marys ('tis the Legion after all).

Mrs. Kelly survived but never recovered from having her hair burned off and the loss of that lovely jam jar that she'd got as a Christmas present from Kitty O'Shea-Parnell who had come to Dublin for a romp in Mrs. Kelly's gaff, back after Charlie died. After all, Kitty was a proved English prostitute, so says Tim Healy, harr harr. Mrs. Kelly lived on a few more years until she was shot by the IRA who had mistaken her for Grant Mitchell. However, her son David went on to become a well-respected actor and gentleman. In later years, he met Willy Wonka, a great achievement for any Irishman.

Dotdotdot...WAKE UP

As Mr(s). Henderson shook his/her head and came back to reality, s/he turned to her beaver, Anne Gyna. As they floated down the Miss/Misterissippi, s/he spotted a distant luminous edifice. "O, Anne Gyna," s/he exclaimed, "could it be Love?" Anne Gyna said nothing—predictably, as she was a beaver. Mr(s). Henderson dived out of the boat and swam to the bank of the river three and a half miles away, leaving Anne Gyna alone in the boat. Dam, thought Anne Gyna.

Mr(s). Henderson swam with a spring in his/her step. Eventually s/he stood at the foot of the imposing pink edifice, the castle-like structure. S/he entered like s/he'd never entered before. Fear shook her/him, not unlike the Sisters had done all those years ago. S/he nearly pissed him/herself. Just as s/he was putting his/her hand on the doorknob...

---------Flashback, but this time in colour and a little more exciting.--------

There she was, a little girl/boy sitting alone in front of an empty fireplace. Why did the girls think she was so strange? Especially.......

------door-----sudden-----pink-----Love----------

...out came Rufus Wainwright wearing a dress and generally looking faaaaaaaabulous.

"Hi and welcome to the Yellow Lounge!"
"Yellow Lounge? It seems quite pink to me."
"O, honey, don't be so judgemental! Everything I touch turns to pink. They say I have the Midas touch!"
"O, how did we get to Berlin?"
"Wow, Berlen? Let me tell you, in spectacular style!"

Suddenly, the statues came alive and became half-naked German men including Herr Bogsbonny and Rufus's fella, Jorn, playing the (skin)flute, as he clearly did so well. As the stairs inverted, Rufus broke into song, a rendition of "Tiergarten" while swinging the mic(k) in rhythmic motions. While this ridiculous occurrence did...well, occur... Mr(s). Henderson's mind began to wander as she watched Rufus's dress swinging in the arms of .......

_-_-_-_-_-_-FLASHING-_-_- Rufus flashing......FLASHBACK.....

The nuns had inflicted the punishment of a long, cold bath administered by a couple of evil little young one nuns upon young Mr(s). Henderson.

"Jaysus, Sister Jacinteh, c'mere! Look ah dis! I waz just abou' to wash her gee an' I seen she hasn't even go' wan. An' it looks like she used to have a mickey!"
"The bleedin' little freak."

............Flashflashflash (choochoo) swish swish goes Rufus's dress in the wind, forget your troubles, come on get happy.

REAL
ITY.

S/he remembered at last. S/he was a s/he. S/he suddenly ran out of the castle. At this stage, Anne Gyna had built a massive dam and the river was beginning to flood. Seeing the water coming towards him/her, s/he dived into the nearest wormhole and passencore rearrived by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

Rufus was shocked (for once) and slightly embarrassed. The elephants had come out and all!

"What did I say? Was I too straight?"

(To be continued, in true sitcom fashion....)

Happy new year, you stupid fuckin' dickheads.

How To Hide An Unwanted Erection

Regardless if you find this video of any use, you'll laugh (if you're a man, or the holder of a mickey).

How to Hide an Unwanted Erection

If you're in a mood for poy-tree/poetry/bwuh!, you may also like to look at The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe, purely for the laugh.