Diarmuid agus Gráinne ag marcaíocht.

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

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

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

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

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

Enda Kenny and toilets.

The Taoiseach: Deputy Kenny has suggested the economy is going down the toilet in toto. He is suggesting that is a level of indebtedness that is simply out of kilter with everybody else. We will still be the third lowest-----

Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet”.

The Taoiseach: -----in the euro area for total level of indebtedness.

Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet” at all.

The Taoiseach: Deputy Kenny has been saying-----

(Interruptions).

An Ceann Comhairle: Please allow the Taoiseach to continue without interruption, please.

The Taoiseach: The Deputy has been continuously coming into this House----

Deputy Enda Kenny: The Taoiseach should keep away from the toilets.

Deputy Noel Dempsey: That is about the level of the Deputy’s intellect.

(Interruptions).

Deputy Enda Kenny: How is the Deputy’s friend, Mr. McKevitt, today?

Deputy Ulick Burke: He wants to take a break.

An Ceann Comhairle: Allow the Taoiseach to continue without interruption, please.

The Taoiseach: The Deputy has been continually coming into this House suggesting that there are no prospects for this economy. I am making it very clear that the-----

Deputy James Reilly: Not under the Taoiseach’s tutorage.

Deputy Enda Kenny: Forget about the toilet. What about a-----

The Taoiseach: Are we going to have a debate or an infantile, childish-----

An Ceann Comhairle: Allow the Taoiseach to continue please.

The Taoiseach: Let us have a serious debate.

An Ceann Comhairle: The Taoiseach, without interruption.

The Taoiseach: The people have spoken. They want to us talk about the future and the seriousness of the situation.

Deputy Alan Shatter: The Taoiseach should tell us how he created the structural deficit.

The Taoiseach: Let us have a chat about it. Let us discuss it. With respect, I listened to what others had to say and I expect them to do the same for me.

Deputy Enda Kenny: I never mentioned the word “toilet” at all.

The Taoiseach: The Deputy is saying he did not mention the word “toilet” to me. He is coming into this House week in and week out, saying that the banks are banjaxed and everything else is banjaxed and that the whole country is going down the tubes.

Deputy Fergus O’Dowd: They are.

The Taoiseach: That is the Deputy’s contention.

Deputy Fergus O’Dowd: The Taoiseach is banjaxed.

Deputy Enda Kenny: The Taoiseach was not on the streets. He does not know.

The Taoiseach: I do know-----

An Ceann Comhairle: The Taoiseach, without interruption please.

Deputy Noel Dempsey: Have some manners.

More Dublin Vignettes.

—Hi, can you help me? Like, um, what’s a euro? I’ve just like arrived from the states and I really don’t have my bearings yet.
—Well, a euro is a little small thing you use to buy things.
—So, um, it’s kind of like a dollar?
—Yes, but not quite as thick.

—Hmh. Losing focus. Eat face. Hmh, hmh.

—Come on Samsonite, you’re embarrassing me. You’re slowly ruining my social credibility.
The dog begins barking incessantly.
—Just shut up you little bastard or I’ll have you neutered. Yeah, I mean it this time.
That’ll shut him up.

—But EOB! What am I going to do with this potassium permanganate all over my hands! My social life is ruined!
—Don’t be ridiculous. It’ll fade away in a couple of days. Social life!

—I’ll have twenty Marlboro lights and a pack of those faggy cigarettes for women.
—Excuse me?
—You know the ones, with the flowers on them.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about.
—Jeesus! And you call yourself a newsagent.

A drunk aulfella in Ranelagh.
—Can you spare some change or something, I’m staying in the hostel or whatever.
—You’re not very good at this pretending to be homeless thing, are you?
The aulfella knocks his head against the cash machine outside Ulster Bank.
—Ah jaysus, don’t I know it.
Have two euro for your trouble and buy yourself a Kinder Bueno in Centra.

For the way we live today.

This is a London Underground service update.

Would passengers using the District Line please take note of the following disruptions between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations. Lola has blocked the line with her gee causing delays of up to thirty minutes. I repeat, there are minor delays on the District Line between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations caused by Lola's gee. All other lines are operating at a good service.

The Mayor of London suggests that passengers travelling on the London Underground lines should bring a bottle of water with them in this warm season and warns passengers to mind the gee.

Mickey O'Leary's Oral Face.

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.

Yeah, a bit of a cock.

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.

Cahal does Nepal.

"I love sex," says Cahal to the Nepalese youngfella.

"But what is sex?" asks the youngfella, confused.

"It is complicated," replies Cahal. "You see, most of the time when my hand is on your mickey, that's not really sex. But sometimes it is."

"But Mr Oshark, I am confused."

"Well, Jumbo, don't be. And call me Cahal. Actually, no, call me Bernadette because it turns me on. Now, where were we?"

There was an old woman who lived in a gee.

Geein' Deein', shoving a large pipecleaner up a lady's gee in order to give it a bit of a clean. A microwave from ground level, and he doesn't have to reach too far.

An old lady named Kathleen standing at the bakery in Marks & Sparks. "Those are dead sexy," says Liamycakes as he passes, and the aul'one keels over. God be with the days when she was afraid to shag her husband Jim. She'd been to the Legion of Mary abstinence classes and before they got round to her with the tub of polyfilla she chickened out and ran off. But still she was afraid. So one day when Jim wanted to do a bit of hoo-haar she took the nearest thing she could find (a jam doughnut) and made a hole in it, and shoved it in hers. Her gee, that's the one. So when Jim stuck in his mickey it was grand and all, but Kathleen didn't feel like she was being violated. Well, not really anyway.

Jim was a little surprised when he took his cock out.

"Kathleen, why is there sugar on me mickey?"

Kathleen wasn't sure how to get out of this one. As she desperately thought of a possible excuse, Jim suddenly exclaimed:

"O, is that blood? I didn't realise it was that time..."

"O no, Jim," said Kathleen calmly, "it's just jam."

And so Jim was settled, fair play to him. After he died Kathleen was very upset and so spent her days in Marks staring at the bakery counter where once she'd purchased the doughnut she shoved up her geee.

Now Fat was a different story. She hates priests, you see. The reason she hates priests is long and complicated, and sometimes hilarious. But the main reason, as she explained pithily was because "they made me polyfilla up me gee". In the pre-nunning course run by the Legion and a whole host of old priests in the 1950s in which Fat was in attendance abstinence was encouraged by making the young ladies polyfilla up their gees. You'd be surprised how effective this was, and God love the youngones, they never got their hole. That's why Fat and Brendan could only roll around the assembly area on a load of towels. No matter how hard (hee hee) Brendan tried, his mickey couldn't break the polyfilla. So that was that. God love Fat. God love Kathleen. God love everyone. Amen.

Jurry Royn update.

Further to the previous announcement of Gerry's renewed self-rerealisation programme, Gerry has gone a step further and has split up with Mrs Ryan. Rumours abound as to how this actually happened, and many have said it might involve Gerry being caught by Mrs Ryan doing bold things with a vye-brator, but of course that is purely conjecture, fnar fnar!

So in this time of personal turmoil for poor Gerry, who we greatly empasympathise with at this point in time (despite the general overtone of sarcasm on this pathetic publication—"Now that's sarcasm, Mrs Doyle"), let us review Gerry's greatest moments to date.



There's Gerry repioneering the threepiece suit back in the '80s or so. Shame about the hair, but fair play anyway.



There's Gerry with a pole up his arse standing next to a picture of Bono.



There's a picture Gerry took of a train somewhere in England while he picked his nose.



That was Gerry's first album, including such memorable songs as "It's a Long Way to Clontarf", "Vibrators in Paradise", "Shag Me Twinky" and "Snot and Shite (Are My Favourite Things)".



There's Gerry in his favourite place in Ireland, Abrakebabra.



There's Gerry a while back with his face on the Point. When I saw that I dropped my chips. Actually, I felt like throwing up, but that was because I was in my nan's little blue car (bottom of picture) and she'd just crashed into a traffic island for the sixth time that day.



There's Gerry in his Gaelic footballing days. Well done.



Gerry captured on camera doing his favourite thing in the world: having a shite.

Poor old Gerry Ryan, for he has taken to the vibrators and cocaine, but sure that's nothing new. He'll be back on Monday with another helping of scatological shite, nine 'til twelve, 2FM.

O Shite.

Poor old Alvin Absolom. Apart from having a stupid name he had a terrible problem which was very embarrassing for all involved. He was fat. Very fat. In fact, he'd put B. Mulvey to shame with the amount of pure and utter flab that was to be found around his middle and surrounding areas. But not only did he have a massive stomach (even larger than Bill Ten Thousand Stone, God rest him), he also had a gi-normous arse, slightly larger than a small country. (Fair play to Neil Hannon for that one, and also to Liam for inspiring me to talk like him for some reason.) Thus it was very hard to get by him if you met him in a corridor or something. In fact it was well nigh impossible. And imagine meeting him on a bus. God, it was desperate. And this is just like a Mr Men book.

Though Alvin sounded like he was, he wasn't actually Jewish, though it would have been very hard for him to prove it considering he had so much pure flab around that area. I mean to say, he could have had a Star of David branded onto his arse or something, like a lot of them Jews do be doing these days. As a matter of fact he was baptized as a Catholic, but he stopped going to Mass a few years back because it was bad for his health, but in particular his presence was hazardous to small childs whom he regularly sat on (completely by accident, of course), forgetting that the fat around his arse was so voluminous.

But the reason we mention Alvin to you is because a few months ago he came to the attention of Brenda O'Donoghue of the Gerry Ryan Show, who was investigating the various shite phenomena of Ireland (that being shite as in "Gerry's Cup Lán de Shoite" as in excrement as in poo poo, and not just shite as in rubbish as in not-very-good). Alvin's particular problem with shiteing stems from the fact that due to his enormous body mass the sheer volume of his shite is very difficult to deal with. After a particularly heavy meal Alvin's shite was very often of catastrophic proportions. One particular day he visited Eddie Rocket's only to find himself caught very short indeed after a meal of triple hamburger dripping with blue cheese followed by five Oreo cookie malts and three bowls of disgustingly cheesy garlic fries, all washed down with a nice bottle of Gaviscon and a few Rennie Deflatines. Feeling the shite coming ever quicker, Alvin dashed for the jacks but could only manage a rather hasty plod. Once he had squeezed through the doors he sat his enormously fat arse awkwardly onto the toilet bowl and awaited the explosion. As a matter of fact, he shat so fast that he caused a sonic boom which shattered the mirror and knocked the door off its hinges. The black guys at the door were just ready to call in reinforcements, fearing the angry customer had returned to throw another few punches, but after inspecting the loos they realized poor Alvin's most embarrassing predicament and left him to clean up the lava-like shite which now plastered the walls of the gents' jacks.

Such is the way with fat people and shite. But God love them, it's not their fault really, it's just the gland in the back-passage that has them that way.