St Benedildo’s College, Chill Mo Chuda

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

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

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

Pissing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--Holy God, the absolute bang of piss.

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

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

The 99¼th anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

We interrupt this programme to make the following announcement:

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

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

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

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

Visitation

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

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

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

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

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

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

The auldfella looked away without saying anything.  Prick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

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

Silence.

—Or a cock ring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Separated at Birth: Part V

Richard Strauss (Composer)

Viscount Craigavon (Nordy)

Separated at Birth Part the Fourth

A Friday Night in Dublin, Year 2022.

Somewhere in the not too distant future, 14 years from now, Dublin is a changed place. Metro North carries boisterous skangers from Finglas to Stephen's Green every five minutes. The Irish Independent has a dirty page 3. Gay Byrne is dead, God love him. TV3 is now an adult channel, showing complete and utter American dirt every night of the week. The Spire has been blown up by the UVF. Catholicism no longer exists, and the Pro-Cathedral has been converted into a gay bar with St Kevin's Oratorio as a leather fetish shop. Clery's has become a knocking shop. Stephen's Green is filled with northside junkie bastards. The canal is full of shite. Croke Park now seats 500,000 people and the entire Phoenix Park has been converted into the Phoenix Car Park, the largest in Europe. In fact, Dublin has become pretty shit.

But not everything has changed. Dublin Bus is still shit. Capel Street is still a load of hole. Cabra is still common. Ballsbridge is still full of posh bastards. And most of all, Twenty-Ones is still a mouldy, poxy kip.

—FREE HOLE.

Inside the dark, dank abyss of Twenty-Ones, Lola Sleevend is there dancing her arse off for yet another Friday evening all alone. Despite the fact that she is now 34 years old, Lola has been coming here every week since she broke up with Keerawn back in 2006. If you do the maths, that is, of course, a grand total of 16 years of weekly holegetting. What a desperate aul' hoor she became. In the first few years, she got hole on average eight times a week, but as she got older the hole opportunities decreased proportionally. By the time Lola was approaching 30, hole was almost non-existent for her, and rightly so in a club meant for 14 year-olds. By 2022, Lola was so desperate for hole she had started offering it for free.

—FREE HOLE. Lads, would yez like yer hole?
—Eh, no thanks love, yeh can keep it.

In a far corner of that same club stood an equally old Keerawn, so desperate for hole that he had taken to showing off his mickey to any girls who passed by. Despite several courses of herbal penis-enlargement tablets, his mickey was still inordinately small. To make it worse, girls always assumed he was jewish, which was terribly unsettling for poor Keerawn. By 2022, he was so desperate for hole that he exposed his mickey all night from open to close, hoping that some passing youngone would take the hint. However, just as Lola had told him, girls would rather have a Big Mac than a Happy Meal, and the fact that he was about 20 years older than most of the girls in the place didn't help either.

—Girls, would you like to see me mickey?
—Ah jaysus, you call that a mickey?

—FREE HOLE.

—Girls, would you like to see...?
—Fuck off ya paedo!

—FREE HOLE!
—Jaysus, what a desperate aul' hoor.

—Girls, would you...?
—Jaysus, didya see that durty aul'fella?

—FREE HOLE!?
—Bleedin' hell.

—Girls...?
—FUCK OFF OR I'M CALLIN' DE GARDS!

—FREE—HOLE!!!
—JAYSUS, CLOSE YOUR LEGS WILL YA?!

And such was the way of Lola and Keerawn, a pair of desperate mid-thirtysomethings who tried too hard to get hole for too long. In spite of years of attempting to get hole in Twenty-Ones, they never succeeded. Lola's greatest success was meetin' eight mingers in one night. It's quantity, not quality, so she said. But still, it didn't do her any good, and Keerawn neither.

FREE HOLE. God love them both.

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lola Sleevend.

A lolworthy pukeinducing holegetter.

GERRY RYAN AND VIAGRA FOR THE LIPS

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

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

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

Well done Gerry.

Micko Goes Wine-Shopping

Micko and Janet had been married five years. Micko thought that it would be nice to have Maria, their two-year-old daughter, spend the night in the babysitter's house and have a dinner party with their friends. For the duration of the week preceding the day, the seventeenth of August, Micko was making the preparations such as asking Philo & Bridie, Baz & Liz and his brother, Jimmy, over for the dinner. He did some secret shopping and bought a lovely piece of lamb with helpful instruction from the butcher.

The morning of their anniversary, Micko woke up before Janet and made her toast and tea and brought in to her in bed.
"Happy anniversary," said Micko.
"Ah, Jay! Tanks, Micko. Happy anniversary."
Janet was delighted as Micko told her of the evening that he had planned.

They cleaned up the dining-room and the living-room for their guests and put on the lamb. Remembering the tips from the butcher, Micko put the meat in on a low heat early in the afternoon. They both had a nice afternoon together as they prepared the vegetables and tidied the house.

As the arranged time for the guests to arrive approached, Micko remembered the last thing that he had to do. He needed to nip down to the off-license for some wine.
"The veggies are almost done now. Baz and Liz'll be here in 'bout ten minutes. I'm goin' down offo to get some wine. Back in ten," said Micko as he kissed Janet.

Micko was feeling in top form. He was having a pleasant day. He was happily married for five years to his darling wife. The dinner party was going to be great and Janet would be happy to see their friends and would be over the moon about it all. Yes, the day was good.

"Hmmm, what about this wine?" said Micko aloud as he drove to the local off-license in Finglas. He held the door open for an auld fella coming out with a six-pack of Bulmers under his arm. As he walked over to the vast wall of the wine section, he stared at the tapestry of bottles with their colourful labels and foreign words.
"Can I help you, sir?" came a voice from behind.
"Eh, yeah... I'm havin' a bi' of a do an' I'm lookin' for some wine," replied Micko.
"Well, this wine is on special this week. It comes from the smallest vineyard in all of Bordeaux and is made by the Montesemont family who have been producing well-respected wines since the early twentieth century. It is full-bodied, smooth at first with an mild aftertaste of elderberries."
Micko's head hurt. What was this young one on about?
"Eh, righ'. How much is it?"
"This week it's €14.99 which is amazing value for such a wine."
A perplexed look appeared across Micko's face.
"That's a bit much innit?"
Suddenly the off license staff member realised what she was dealing with and sighed.
"Well, on the other hand, on your left is a cheap muck that we import from Slovakia. It's made by child slave labour and that's why it's only €3.99. It's complete piss but comes with a complimentary roll of Polo mints,"she sorrowfully continued.
"Hmmm, yeah alright'. I'll have four bottles of tha'. Tanks."
"I'm here to help," she said as she hung her head.

Micko bought the wine and a six pack of Dutch Gold and drove home. Baz & Liz had arrived and were in the living-room saying how deadly everything looked. Philo & Bridie arrived ten minutes later and Jimmie, and usual, was a little late. The dinner went perfectly and the conversation was overflowing. They all got locked on the cheap piss and thought it was wonderful.

Baz & Liz fell asleep on the couch at half-two. Jimmie went home because he only lived on the next road. Philo & Bridie ended up under the kitchen table while Micko and Janet went to bed sloshed and happily five years married.

Hih, hih.

Roiding in cors with RO'G.

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

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

Example:

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


NEWSFLASH:

A READING FROM THE MADE-UP CHURCH OF ULSTER

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

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

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

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

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

MICKEY

Happy new year, you stupid fuckin' dickheads.