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?

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.

Separated at Birth: Part the Sixth

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

English composer, Basil Harwood.

Visitation

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

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

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

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

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

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

The auldfella looked away without saying anything.  Prick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

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

Silence.

—Or a cock ring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Hari-kari.

I was walking down the side of Belgrave Square having just bought myself a greasy MacDonald's burger in the Swan Centre when I saw Siobhán walking along about ten yards in front of me.

—Siobhán! I said, but she didn't react. I picked up my pace a little to catch up with her.

—Siobhán! I said again. She seemed to have earphones in. What a surprise she'll get when she sees me I thought, and so I ran a little faster until I was right behind her.

—Siobhán, you leatherheaded fuck! I shouted, clattering her across the back of the head with my left hand (in which was held the halfeaten two-euro cheeseburger).

The next second seemed to go on forever. She turned around very slowly as if in shock, and then it hit me. It wasn't Siobhán after all. It was a very irate man that looked nothing like Siobhán.

—Jaysus! I said.

—What the fuck! said the man in a very angry voice.

—I, I, I'm sorry, I just...you know, well, I think...you see, it was, eh, well, I thought that, eh, Siobhán—

—Who the fuck is Siobhán? he said, getting more irate by the minute. His hair was the same colour as hers. That was something. An orangey blob of gooey MacDonald's cheese protruded from the top of his curly mop.

—You see, it was all very innocent really, I just THOUGHT, I mean I THOUGHT that I saw Siobhán but clearly I didn't and I must have just accidentally fallen on top of you instead there. So no harm done and all, yeah! I said, trying to convince myself as well as the irate man of this version of events but failing on both accounts. I was shaking like a leaf. My hands made their ways into my jacket pockets (the burger discarded on the ground in semi-shock) and my right hand grasped the Leatherman multitool which was concealed in my pocket.

—What the FUCK is wrong with you you plastic bastard? he said. His eyes were slightly red, and seemed almost ready to pop out of his head.

—I'm sorry Siobhán. I can't even say any more. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, I said, grasping the multitool in my pocket and stabbing myself in the bowels with it through the lining of my jacket. I whimpered a little, but he didn't seem to notice.

—My name's not Siobhán, it's Brian you stupid fuck.

—I'm sorry Brian, I said vaguely. The pain was rather excruciating and my nether regions felt like they were about to burst. Bizarrely enough after a second the pain disappeared and it was replaced by the vaguely pleasant sensation of warmth you feel when you piss yourself. Suddenly I felt myself losing balance.

—I really am sorry, I am! That's why I hari-kari'd myself. It seemed like a good idea at the time but then again so did Hiroshima. O, this honour business is rotten. I don't want to die! All I wanted was to have a bit of fun and see the rugby match. O, O, O.

Brian looked very confused and I realized he must have thought that I was mad. I probably was. Suddenly a feeling of lightheadedness overcame me. In desperate panic I tore my bloody hands from my pockets and grabbed at Brian's voluminous bouffant to keep myself upright, smearing his face with pinkish blood in the process. This didn't really work and instead I sent him flying onto the road and straight under the wheels of a passing Panda bin lorry.

What a shame I thought as I lay in a gathering pool of blood next to my discarded cheeseburger.

What a shame indeed.

Dublin Vignettes.

‘Come on.’ It was taking the dog a long time to do his business there at the little triangular park at the end of the Howth Road. His owner was getting more and more frustrated by the minute. ‘Come on Rover, just shit and be done with it.’ The dog didn’t understand, of course. How could he? The owner was pressing his arse to the ground but that didn’t mean anything to the poor animal.

—See that woman? That’s a man. I thought it was a woman but it’s got a very deep voice.

Stupid fucking old woman. What a geebag.

People on Grafton Street are so easily amused. A man with some stupid cheap dancing things on sticks, dancing them away to the Macarena on his mobile phone. Some foreigner who can jump through rings of fire.

—Hi, can you spare five minutes for Concern?
—Sorry, I don’t speak English.

—Hi, can you spare five minutes?
—Fuck off.

A man dressed as the statue of James Joyce who dances if you put fifty pence into his bucket. Another man dressed as Paddy Kavanagh who farts at will every time you put a coin into his box. A man with a guitar who sings ‘The Fields of Athenry’ every Sunday morning between 10 and 11 a.m. People are that easily amused.

A Cabra woman, entering Subway on O’Connell Street.

—Can yiz give me a rowill please?
—What bread would you like? He was foreign, god love him, and didn’t realise.
—Eh, just white bread.
—Italian?
—Yeah, whatever. Just some butther.
—Butter?
—Yeah, just a bit.
—Eh, cheese and toasted?
—No, I just want butther.
—Eh, you want any salads?
—No, just fuckin butther ye rasherheaded fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers.

Fucking Vagnians.

Dr Brian Fitzgibbon was an ordinary young thirtysomething from Mount Merrion who had recently got himself a job as assistant lecturer in UCD's history department. He was a nice guy apart from his severe pent-up anger stemming from repressed homosexuality, but never mind all that.

Now it just so happened that one day just before Christmas Brian decided to go and buy his granny a voucher for her favourite shop, Arnott's. You see, Brian may have been born in Dee Fowr, but his family originally hailed from the northside—Arbour Hill to be precise. Not that he was ashamed of that at all. He was quite proud of the fact that he was a northsider at heart. He preferred not to tell anyone about it, but he was proud in the knowledge at least.

Brian's granny was a fine woman who was approaching the big 8-0 and who loved nothing more than a morning in town followed by a cup of tea in Arnott's. In recent years she had taken to getting the Luas home and disembarking at the Smithfield stop, which was dead handy as it saved her having to walk. And what's more, it was free! Well done government. Well done Charlie Haughey. Recession my arse. Sure it's all grand.

Well, it was indeed grand until the morning of the 22nd of December when Brian decided to take a trip down Henry Street. O, he thought as he passed the side entrance to the Ilac Centre, that reminds me of my childhood when my idea of fun was to go up and down the bubble lifts all day, before I discovered history. Life was great back then indeed. Just as he approached the entrance to Arnott's he spied a dealer selling lighters, two fer a yoorow.

—Gecher lighters, two fra yoo-row.

Brian thought for a second and realized that this might be an idea. After all, he'd spend most of Christmas smoking funny cigarettes with his dubious friend and colleague Dan who lived in a charming flat there just off Bird Avenue in Clonskeagh. It was a perfect location since the sound of the Muslim call to worship is about seventeen times funnier when you're high as a kite. The whole affair was likely to end up like that last episode of Peep Show series one, but we won't mention that here for Brian's sake. Two lighters for a euro, can't go wrong.

—Excuse me, may I have two lighters?

The lady was about fifty years old but judging by the smokeinduced lines on her face she could easily have been ninety-seven. Her face looked as if it had been belted on several occasions with an iron. Brian suddenly felt the urge to puke, but repressed it as he did with most other unwelcome feelings, adding them to his bubbling pot of repression.

—Two yoo-row plee-ez.

—But you said it was two for a euro...?

—Did I? Ah well, I lied. Sure you have to say dese things nowadays to ge' a bi' o' custom with them fuckin' Vagnians comin' in and takin' our jobs left righ' an' centre. It's terrible. All of us dealers here have to tell pure an' utter lies just to sell a few poxy lighters. It's despera'.

—But what are you talking about? Brian was very confused. Here was a woman who probably had never even sat a state exam in her life confusing him, Brian Fitzgibbon, who had a Ph.D. in the influence of Vatican sovreignty on the course of the Second World War from Trinity College Dublin. Utterly confounding.

—It's the fuckin' Vagnians, comin' over and takin' our jobs. My father Billy Reilly owned the best hardware shop in Dublin down on Benburb Street until the fuckin' Vagnians came along and started selling hammers out of their caravans for next to nothin'. And then he had to go and throw himself in the Tolka. Fuckin' Vagnians. Pack o' hairy foreign bastards.

—But...but what's a Vagnian? Brian suddenly felt like an idiot, and that rarely ever happened to him, except when he was around Dan. But that's another story also.

—Those bastards from Vagnia or wherever. Comin' over here and takin' our houses, our jobs, our social welfare, and worst of all, our cock. Fuckin' Vagnians takin' Irish cock. I mean, women in Ireland used to be able to take their pick of whatever man they wanted, but now those Vagnians are selling gee for nothin' in every back alley from here to Westmoreland Street. I'm fuckin' sick of it. Fuckin' Mary Robinson, mouldy duckheaded aul' cunt. She ruined Ireland lettin' in all those bastard foreigners. You can't go down the street now without seein' some Vagnian in a fancy dress asking for money. You can't even go into Supermacs without been served by a fuckin' chinky.

Brian was getting more uncomfortable by the minute as the lady continued with her racist tirade. All he wanted was a lighter, hoping that somehow it would aid him in getting his hole with Dan. It had been a grave mistake.

—And as for those Polish, they're a pack of cunts. My brother Billy used to be the best painter and decorator in Phisbra until those Polish fuckers came along and put him out of business. Now he's in Grangegorman, God love him. Those Polish are worse than the fuckin' Chinese, they—

—Stop! Please! Brian couldn't take it any longer. A crowd had begun to gather and were all staring in a palpable mixture of amazement, amusement and disgust. He felt like crying, but he did his very best not to.

—I don't want the lighters, he said dejectedly and began walking away, forgetting about his granny's present.

Strolling aimlessley, Brian eventually reached the top of Henry Street. Turning to the right he saw a group of women in colourful dresses gathering outside the GPO and swapping babies.

Fucking Vagnians.

O I'll eat the sandwiches Joseph.

Almost one year on, it is time to reflect. Reflect on instrumental and vocal teaching, or something like that. Bram-style.

Let's talk about biscuit appreciation. To my mind Aldi biscuits are just as good as any other biscuits as they taste good and are cheaper than massmarketed fancyshite otherstuff. Even though they call their version of Toffee Pops "Toffy Ooze" [sic.], which almost makes me want to sick all over the floor.

VOMIT

BLEAUGH.

FLAN-GEE to your da.

That's the way. Send an aul flan-gee to your da, a sup of soup and you'll be right as Rudolf the rednosed rain dear. Great organ/pedal. Such a great idea. A nice lad also. A large lad instead of a small one. Like Mr(s). Henderson's nonexistant mickey, god love him/her.

Camomile tea and the Irish times. Such a posh thing. Teadrinking irishtimesreading bastards. Lol, there you are, that's how the mickey crumbles, or doesn't as the case may be.

Flan-gee to your da. That's the more-al of the store-ee.

Cockflute.

Gees and Marys (or Maries?).

To follow on from the last post, we here at the Bram would like to point out that no reference was made in the previous post to Mary Robinson's gee, as that would have been grossly improper and frankly disgusting. Boutros Boutros Ghali would not at all be happy if a lady of the UN was violated by having her gee mentioned on the internet, O no! And in keeping with the new Bramblog policy on gee, mickey, and general durt, there will be, to quote Old Shawneen Pursill, "Less of that."

Now on the other hand, it would be a gross and heinous impropriety to mention the gee of another venerable Mary, she of the Mac Giolla Íosas. That would be completely desperate. Apart from being utterly filthily vile, to mention Mary's gee would be tantamount to treason. Yes, dears, I mean that. Not only would it be an embarrassment to the good and generous lady herself, it would be offensive to the Irish state and more particularly the office of the President.

So you have been warned. Don't talk about Mary's gee.

Awomen.

Mary Robinson's Heartbreak.

Poor Mary Robinson. It's difficult being an Irish ex-president as well as a stupid rubbernecked nodding duckhead. But that's life for her. Back in the 70s when she was a fresh-faced young lawyer she met a dashing young gent named D. Norris, a gentleman and scholar who had a passion for James Joyce and ABBA. Mary had never before met as kind and generous a gent as Norris, and she dreamed day and night about the day when he would propose to her and they could both be robinsoned in Castlebar. They lived together for a while in a lovely Martello Tower along Sandymount Strand. She did everything for him and went everywhere with him. They were utterly inseparable.

The day David revealed his passion for homosexual law reform, Mary was quite taken aback but was willing to support her beloved Daveycakes in anything he did and so agreed to be his legal advisor. And, in spite of the Legion's protests, gays were free to be as gay as their fancy dictated within twenty years. Well done.

But eventually the day came that Mary was knocked out of her little dream world in the cruelest manner imaginable. As she came down to breakfast that fateful morning carrying a large bundle of Davey's pink towels, she was met with the sight of him holding hands with a jew—a man jew!...a jewman! How utterly incredible for Mary that until that moment she'd never once suspected that D. was a ho-ho-homosexua-la-la, even in spite of his preoccupations with gay liberation and such malarky.

"OOOOOO ISAAC MAY I CALL YOU MISTER BLOOM? THE IDEA OF YOU MASTURBATING ON SANDYMOUNT STRAND IS JUST SO EROTIC I CAN'T TAKE IT! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO I LAAAAV YOOOOLISEEES BEST BOOK EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVAAAAAH!"

Mary was so shocked she dropped each one of D. Norris's pink towels on the ground. The thoughts of her wedding day suddenly vanished from her mind and in her great and sudden distress her neck contorted itself sideways, never to be the same again.

God love Mary. A hard life she had. Though beating Brian Lenihan for the presidency gave her renewed vigour and throughout the 1990s she was well-known around Ireland for her excellent impression of a duck with a broken neck.

Well done Mary. God save Ireland.

We're not racist at all but

you're a fuckin' chinese lesbian.

Lola Sleevend and Lisbon.

SCENE: A school hall somewhere in the Bow-mont area. LOLA SLEEVEND approaches a desk attended by two old ladies and produces her polling card and her passport.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?

OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.

OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?

OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.

OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?

LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.

OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?

LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.

OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?

OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.

LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?

OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!

OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!

LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.

GEE!

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

"Fuck yez all."

What is the Bram?

A collection of gees, mickeys and urban fairy stories.

NEWS FOR ALL FANS OF BRAMBLOG:

The explosively exciting final instalment of the Mr(s). Henderson saga will reach your screens soon.

Thanks for your GEE

Apologies

I'm sorry. That last post was a bit shite. But to make up for it, I'll tell you a story. It's a bit like Will & Grace but with a twist. One of them is straight/heterosexual. The mildly acceptable one is the straight one. No, not the token flamboyant gay one. The other one.

Well, let me begin. They live in the lovely, fictional village of Ballykillrathatraw in the suburbs of Tipperary city. The straight one is the descendant of a friend of Éamonn deValera and is reasonably happy with the current Fianna Fáil government under Bertie and Brian. His gay friend however is a womanizer (regardless of sexuality) and doesn't really care about the day-to-day running of the economy. He does know, however, that his heterosexual friend (who I haven't given a name to yet) hates Enda Kenny, Garret Fitzgerald and Keven O'Higgins. He skips around the breakfast table chanting "Sinne Fine Gael" and asks his friend to pass the Richard Bruton instead of the salt just to piss hm off. He was like that you see, little bit dense but evil in a rather unusual and smart way. But they live quite happily together in their rented home in Ballykillrathatraw, fictitiously of course.

The lives of our unnamed (and unbaptized) heroes was never very far from adventure. One time they had to complete their tax forms very quickly after leaving it quite late in the evening. They went to many weddings and ceremonies of the sort. Neither of these fellows went to college but they weren't stupid by any means. Most Tuesdays the gay one bought a paper and they sat in all day doing the crossword. They were a marvellous team. Occasionally they will entertain guest like their straight friend from Prussia, who also won't be getting a name for Christmas. Fun and joy is abundant when the Prussian comes to visit. He tells them stories from his childhood and fables that he heard from his grandfather, Otto.

The straight one works in a bank, you see. He is a teller and is able to use the foreign exchange machine. He was only recently trained at that and is very happy in his job, what with now being able to help customers change currencies. O, how the currency markets fascinate him. How he'd love to buy large quantities of Chilean Peso and sell them again several days later in a different part of the world. His companion, the gay one, never gives his straight friend a minute to air his high hopes of currency speculation. "O, here you go again," he will say if the straight one starts on about the Yen or the Dollar. It's a pity though as he says, for if he made himself a fortune on the FXM he'd take himself and his gay friend away for a long holiday in Asia. He'd love to see Asia. All the Asian things that go on there intrigue him. He wonders if someone in Asia is intrigued by north-western European things. He thinks and hopes. His thought-train is interrupted by his gay friend entering the room with a baroque guitar singing praise to William T. Cosgrave. It's probably for the best he thinks, ey?

Then one day, a good writer came ("OooOh" said the gay one!) along and made these basic characters into something special. They ate like kings in Lourdes and got to meet great people. Finally, the straight one's dreams all came ("OoOOoOh" the gay one said again) true at once. Fianna Fáil asked him to be Taoiseach. They made some provisions, changed the constitution and allowed him to live in Asia and rule from there. Officially after two years, thanks to new legislation, he was crowned High King of the Republic of Ireland.

As for the gay one, he was less successful and lived in Papa New Guinea. He receives "dig-outs" from His Majesty the Straight One of Ireland on a bi-monthly basis. He was reportedly seeing a native of Papa New Guinea and the relationship was getting serious. So, at least he had lovely Jeremy to lean on.

All this happened between 1857 and 1902. The writer then subsequently died and a new writer(ess) came and took them from their positions as High King of the Republic of Irleland and house-husband of Jeremy and put them both in Chicago during the Depression. They are currently still there getting used to America and prohibition. They are reunited but, of course, the straight one misses being High King of the Republic of Ireland and the gay one misses Jeremy.

We may never again hear of their tale. The writer(ess) may want to leave them alone to think of a decent plot for themselves. If that's the case, goodnight ladies and gentlemen.

Ten Things That People Don't Care About Anymore

1. Cassette tapes
2. Morality (just like in the case of the poor little culinary couple)
3. Using the right knife and fork
5. The number four
6. Harry Nilsson
7. Pez
8. Animaniacs
9. Finishing things
10.
11.