Een Peeslee, ARR EYE PAY!

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



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

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

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



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

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



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

Harr harr no more.

RIP

A Romance on Two Wheels.

—Come lesbians all, rejoice,
With heart and hand and voice.

Pippi was a lesbo and she was feeling down. It didn't help that she even sounded like a lesbo, so she couldn't really escape it at all.

—Hi, my name is Pippi.

—Are you a lesbian or something?

She really didn't appreciate that. However, she did her best to hide her lesbianisms and despite the bright red shoes, the manly gait and the Southamerican girlfriend she did an okay job of it. She spent her time trying to make it up to Gawd by singing the Easter proclamation (the exsultet, not the proclamation of the ayrish rhepablick) and visiting old people's homes. That is homes for old people, not the homes of old people (just so we have that one cleared up).

So when Pippi started to become an aulone she knew what people were thinking. Look, it's Pippi Magee, old lesbo in denial. So after a long hard think, she came up with the solution.

One day as she visited the old people's home in Ballymun she met a nice old gent in a wheelchair named Jim. Now it so happened that he was actually the bastard child of An Taoiseach Jack Lynch and Lennie Bernstein (who wants to do Boulez, Nono, Stockhausen) who used to tune pianos for a living but somehow ended up in a wheelchair and basically couldn't manage it anymore. How often do you and your wife manage it, Mr Fawlty? A couple of times a week as a matter of fact. Well, he certainly couldn't manage it, and neither could he tune pianos, so Pippi fell madly in false love with him straight away and they decided to be married by Father Brian right that day in a gunshot ceremony, during which someone was actually shot outside in a drug-related incident, leading Father Brian to declare that it was just sick. They trundled down the aisle together to the strains of the Mendelssohn wedding march as played by an aulone on a casio keyboard (on single-finger setting) with Dr More and co in the background smiling like gobaloons and strumming guitars. (Mrs More played the flute, which Father Brian also said was sick but found secretly arousing.)

And so Pippi and Jim lived happily ever after. He died two weeks later when he fell out of his wheelchair outside the Fingal Coco offices and Pippi was very sad (at least on the surface, as she was actually relieved that she wouldn't have to push that fucking wheelchair around anymore). So it was win-win really. Jim died rather more happy than he had expected, and nobody thought Pippi was a lesbo anymore. The plan had worked.

Well done Pippi, well done Jim, well done lesbos all. Amen.

Dr More's Almanac

Last time we met the hero(ine) of Bramblog, the courageous Mr(s). Henderson, s/he was fleeing the Pro-Cathedral after the then dead 115-year-old sacristan's face began to melt and she was slapped...in the face!...with a ghostly bishop's mitre. S/he was a bit self-absorbed and decided to forget all about the poor sacristan and think about him/herself. S/he went into Boyers to buy a few pairs of knickers and Guiney's to buy a few pairs of curtains.

Turning up right onto O'Connell Street, Mr(s). Henderson spotted a green bus drive past (as they did) bearing an advertisment which read, "Have you ever considered the priesthood?" Seconds later another bus passed which Mr(s). Henderson could have sworn read, "Have you ever considered a gee transplant?" Just as s/he was taking in this suggestion, another bus passed, which read, "I've had enough." In the daze of bus ads, the bus which read "Have you ever coinsidered a gee transplant?" reversed down O'Connell Street and knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. The gobshite shouldn't have been on the road anyway, harr harr.

So with this new bee in his/her bonnet, Mr(s). Henderson made his/her way straight up to the Mater. Arriving in the foyer s/he asked the nice blonde woman behind the counter what a gee transplant was. The nice woman turned red immediately, smiled and pointed him/her in the direction of Dr More's office.

Entering Dr More's office, Mr(s). Henderson was struck immediately by the seventeen food pyramid charts on the back wall, pictures of organs and odd-looking holy sorts of people with guitars and bodhráns. In pictures, of course. Dr More himself was sitting absent-mindedly behind a desk, reading the Beano, pausing every few moments to shift his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. When he noticed Mr(s). Henderson standing there, he suddenly jumped to his feet and grabbed his stethoscope.

"Eh, hello. I'm Dr More, or something. But that's not really important. How are you? Big breh."

Taken aback by the doctor's odd manner, Mr(s). Henderson stood back for a moment and eyed Dr More with suspicion.

"Hello...my name is, erm, Henderson, and I was told you could tell me about gee transplants?"

"Oh," began Dr More, "I think that's a new one. Have you heard Art of Fugue on organ? I can play it you know. On my CD player, of course."

"Oh," said Mr(s). Henderson, "right. But what can you tell me about gee transplants?"

"Well, I think that Masterson woman might be able to tell you more, after all, she's well up on that sort of thing. Though I am Dr More, and they don't call me Dr More for nothing. Well, actually, I'm not quite sure why they call me Dr More. Maybe it's because my name is Neil. That has something to do with More, I think. Sorry, what did you ask me?"

"Gee transplant?"

"Oh, that one. Yes, I think Susan had one of those once upon a time, but I can't remember what it was. Would you like an apple lollipop? I have cola ones too. But I prefer to keep those for after blood tests."

"Please, Dr More, tell me about gee transplants."

"Okay, gee. Well, that's in your ear, isn't it? I'm not quite sure if I have one or not, I think I got it out when I had my tonsils removed. I love ice-cream. I wish I could get my tonsils out again just to get a bit of ice-cream. We never eat ice-cream at home, because Susan's afraid it'll make her fat, but I told her it couldn't possibly make her any fatter, and she slapped me...in the face! And maybe that's why we never had any more children, though I think the two we had were enough. I prefer playing the organ anyway. I mean in the church. No, I mean, the organ in the church. The musical one. Not the flute. Speaking of flutes, is that the time? Lunch. I might just go and get myself a Golly Bar. I haven't had one of those since they had free stethoscopes with them back in the 70s, there about three years ago. Oh, that reminds me, big breh."

"Dr More, please, please, can you tell me about gee transplants?"

"Right so, let's have a look then. Gee. I think I'll have to refer you to a specialist. If you get the 41C into Dorset Street and get off there about halfway up, turn right and you'll find the Mater. I'm sure someone there will help you. In fact, I was there just this morning, I had a bit of contact stuck to my eyebrow. Actually, where are we? Is this the Mater? Ah, I see now. So you want a gee transplant?"

"Eh, well, could you tell me what it involves?"

"Well, basically it's like a blood transfusion, but they transplant gee instead. It's painless as far as I know. Put a bit of ice-cream on your gee, and a nice sup of soup, and you'll be right as rain. Susan used to make me soup whenever I was under the weather. A bit of soup and Senokot, nothing better."

"Dr More, I still don't know what a gee transplant is, and my patience is running out."

"Okay, big breh. Ah, it seems like what you need is a nice bit of Augmentin. I'll prescribe you a few courses just in case you need it. And here's an information pack. I must go off now and get a Golly Bar. Good luck with the transplant. Oooh, an organ!"

Dr More proceeded to lick the glass of one of his framed organ posters in a slightly disturbing manner, and so Mr(s). Henderson wisely saw that this was the moment to leave him alone. S/he looked down at the booklet he had given him/her which read, in those magnetic fridge-letters, "SO YOU'RE HAVING A GEE TRANSPLANT! Let's talk about it." As s/he walked out to the main road, s/he perused the booklet intently, discovering along the way the intricacies of gee transplantation...

The Curious Incident of Dr More in the Night.

Dr: "Hello there, what's your problem?"
Woman: "I'm pregnant."
Dr: "O dear, I'm not sure how we treat that, I fell asleep for the bit in medical school where they talked about tropical diseases."
Woman: "No, I'm pregnant."
Dr: "O, let me see. I'll get my stethoscope. Big breh."
Woman: "What?"
Dr: "Big breh."
Woman: "What did you say? Are you slagging me melons?"
Dr: "What?"
Woman: "O, whatever."
Dr: "I just checked your urine sample and...well, it appears you actually have prostate cancer."
Woman: "But that's impossible, I don't have a prostate!"
Dr: "O really? I'm sorry, I must have switched off for that part of anatomy and physiology. Do you have a mickey then?"
Woman: "Are you taking the piss?"
Dr: "Well, I just did a moment ago, but I can get Susan to look at it if you'd prefer a woman doctor to do it. Or that Masterson woman, she's pretty good at sorting out mickeys."
Woman: "Doctor, I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're just freaking me out."
Dr: "O. It seems that was actually the urine sample of a 74 year-old male patient of mine. That explains why it didn't show you up as being pregnant. I play the organ you know."
Woman: "You what?"
Dr: "Eh, never mind. Big breh."