“Jeh ‘member when the 41c used leave from Eden Quay?” said one distinctive-looking aulfla’. In that he was distinctive, I mean that he was distinctively old.
“That I do, that I do,” replied a second accompanying aulfla’ and presumably an associate of the first. “And by the same token, jeh remember when Eden Quay (pronounce [ke] in IPA) wasn’t there at all at all?”
“What are on about now? Sure it’s always bin there. Wasn’t there. Would ye listen to yerself?!”
“As true and real as we’re sitting here (‘here’ being Insomnia coffee shop on Middle Abbey Street, Dublin 1), Eden Quay was only constructed about nine years ago. An’ now if ye don’t remember that, yer min’s goin’ places you’re not.”
“Sure, look, my Margaret’s dead now ten and a half years and it was there when she was walking the earth, God rest her kind soul. Are ye tryin’ to tell me that Eden Quay wasn’t there when she was?”
“You’re bang on. You were torn up by grief so you were, I remember it well. A fine woman she was and a fine wife I wouldn’t be shamed to have had if I was you. But the one think about her was that she never set eyes on Eden Quay. Let alone did she get the bus from it either.”
“Yer mad. Yer sayin’ they built it not ten years ago. An’ tell me this, what was there before this time in our glorious past when Eden Quay wasn’t there? Tell me that.”
“There was nuttin’ there o’ course. Sure isn’t it a river? Our own Liffey came all the way up as far as Liberty Hall and the Customs House down the road, or ‘down the river’ as we said then. Jeh not remember?”
“Your head’s done in for sure. The Liffey was up against the Customs House?!”
“Lapping up ‘gainst the windows, so it was. Y’kno little Johnny Sheridan’s father? Sure he worked for Local Govehment in the basement of the Customs House and he’d tell yeh that he’d drownded if someone left the latch off the air vent.”
“What’s Johnny Sheridan’s father got to do with any o’ dis? Look, don’t be telling me lies. You’re having me on an’ it’s not worth the time o’ day.”
“I can’t believe you don’t remember this. The Corpo were down there for months building on the quay and pushing the water back with great big machines and magnetic devices and the divil knows what. The achievement of the century they were calling it. Reclaiming Ireland for Dubliners they said. The bit of Ireland the Brits never ruled. Now, they didn’t make much use of it, I’ll tell yeh. A road an’ a few benches is all they put on it.”
“Like the Dutch?”
“Like the Dutch, wha’?”
“The Corpo reclaimed land from the sea like the Dutch?”
“No, no! They just sorta extended the city out about forty feet and put Eden Quay on it.”
“Are yeh sure?”
“It’s a Dublin fact,” said he in triumph. “Are yeh gettin’ another muffin?”
Showing posts with label fightin' through the whiskay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fightin' through the whiskay. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Most Reverent "the Bish" Elizabeth "Emily" Bishop.
As I sit here, seemingly intellectually, with the daily edition of The Nova Scotia Times, I warn people not to read my poytree-- it's hard work.
I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.
Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.
"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."
I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.
"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.
My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.
I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.
The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).
"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.
The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.
I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.
Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.
"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."
I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.
"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.
My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.
I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.
The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).
"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.
The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Wha'?
Dear Yoplait (Made in Ireland by: Glanbia Consumer Foods, Citywest Business Campus, Dublin 24. LoCall: 1850 20 23 66),
I know things are tough all over and ain't getting any better. Things are more expensive to produce. Consumers are poor. Everywhere you look somebody is telling you to reduce/reuse/recycle or to be green. Cigarettes cost loads and I have to mop floors. I feel the pain. But none of the above complaints give you the right to make the lids on your yoghurts so thin that it is impossible to remove them without them fucking tearing at least twice. What the fuck?
Yours sincerely,
L.
Mary Kenny is such a flange-between-two-wooden-posts. WOOF WOOF.
"Sh00-wiz! Get yer shoo-wiz! Fresh of de back offa Clark's lorry! Tree fura you-row."
Sinatra plays as people try to get through town on a regular Wednesday.
"Good morning."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm too massively geared outa me head."
"Well, this is corner of Marlborough and Abbey."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you're from America. What state?"
"Eh, Vermont..."
"Ooooh, delightful! I love trees."
"On a scale of one to ten, how successful do you think the Northern Ireland peace process has been?"
"Well, I don't think it's that simple. You can't just put it on a number line. It's a complex issue with many facets."
"Eh yeah right. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually active are you?"
"You're not from 'round here, are you?"
"No, I'm Hungarian. On a scale of one to ten, how Hungarian do you think I look"
Less than one millionth of a reality. It's almost a good enough excuse to go get stoned. But Jeff wasn't sure. He needed proof. Good thing his friends had an educational exercise video where hot girls ran around in tight wet t-shirts and talked about the use of recreational drugs. I mean REALLY hot girls.
So, you wanna know about drugs, huh? (Sandy, stop pouring gently-heated caramel all over my breasts, hee hee!) They're bad news, boys. But, then again, so am I! Would you say no to me, hmmmm?
From that day on Jeff was stoned off his face all the time. He was at peace within and without himself and he often masterbated. He began to see what Matthew Bellamy was getting at in "City of Delusion". But in his personal persuit of justice (as he called it), he only got as far as his small collection of butterfly wings hanging on the back of his bedroom door. His parents got worried when he disappeared for several days and was found eating the remains of a red squirrel in St. Anne's Park, Raheny, Dublin Five.
A python snake named Monty. Fair play to Monty. He kicked the ass off those pesky Italians and/or German forces over there in... err, whatchacallit?... Kilmainham?
As the bombs fall, the Eagles play a gig in the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California. "Oh, Johhny" they sing. "There was an aul woman that lived in the woods, Oooooh oooohhooooohhooo, baby!" They never really got the idea of music. They made their money and you can't doubt that. If you listen really closely you will realise that it's all about sex. And, why wouldn't it be? Ask Holy Healy and she'll blush.
Martha was at the gig and then got trashed on Virginia Avenoo. She subsequently died but that's hardly relevent. The post mortem found a small microphone lodged between her upper left molars. There's a pun to be made there somewhere. But until the coroner releaese the details it's considered to be in bad taste. I'm sure the microphone itself was in bad taste but that is too. Good thing this is fictitious.
RUFUS in a large swimming pool wearing a general's uniform. D. Norris watching closely. (Now I can use the Rufus label and the D Norris label. I'm not as stupid as I look. This blog is perpetually innovative.)
Climb Everest, they say. It's good craic and there's a good chance you'll die before you reach the second camp. More than likely though, you'll get mugged by a so-called tourist guide from Mongolia. Then, you're fucked. Whereas the clever bastard that nicked your wallet is off to Dubai for three weeks for fun frollics and maybe more. Emphasis on the maybe more. Whores all a-hootin'. "Ooooh, Western money" they'll shout as they show your mugger things that he has only seen in FHM.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down, ooooooh!
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Whisky whisky whisky whisky, drown.
So, this is like a responsive anthem. Those who find solace in it, you're obviously highly delusional and/or in search of some form of leadership or dominance in your life. You've presumably tried Communism and have now turned to the web at large. Typing "help me my life is ruined" into a search engine brought you here. Poor fuck.
I know things are tough all over and ain't getting any better. Things are more expensive to produce. Consumers are poor. Everywhere you look somebody is telling you to reduce/reuse/recycle or to be green. Cigarettes cost loads and I have to mop floors. I feel the pain. But none of the above complaints give you the right to make the lids on your yoghurts so thin that it is impossible to remove them without them fucking tearing at least twice. What the fuck?
Yours sincerely,
L.
Mary Kenny is such a flange-between-two-wooden-posts. WOOF WOOF.
"Sh00-wiz! Get yer shoo-wiz! Fresh of de back offa Clark's lorry! Tree fura you-row."
Sinatra plays as people try to get through town on a regular Wednesday.
"Good morning."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm too massively geared outa me head."
"Well, this is corner of Marlborough and Abbey."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you're from America. What state?"
"Eh, Vermont..."
"Ooooh, delightful! I love trees."
"On a scale of one to ten, how successful do you think the Northern Ireland peace process has been?"
"Well, I don't think it's that simple. You can't just put it on a number line. It's a complex issue with many facets."
"Eh yeah right. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually active are you?"
"You're not from 'round here, are you?"
"No, I'm Hungarian. On a scale of one to ten, how Hungarian do you think I look"
Less than one millionth of a reality. It's almost a good enough excuse to go get stoned. But Jeff wasn't sure. He needed proof. Good thing his friends had an educational exercise video where hot girls ran around in tight wet t-shirts and talked about the use of recreational drugs. I mean REALLY hot girls.
So, you wanna know about drugs, huh? (Sandy, stop pouring gently-heated caramel all over my breasts, hee hee!) They're bad news, boys. But, then again, so am I! Would you say no to me, hmmmm?
From that day on Jeff was stoned off his face all the time. He was at peace within and without himself and he often masterbated. He began to see what Matthew Bellamy was getting at in "City of Delusion". But in his personal persuit of justice (as he called it), he only got as far as his small collection of butterfly wings hanging on the back of his bedroom door. His parents got worried when he disappeared for several days and was found eating the remains of a red squirrel in St. Anne's Park, Raheny, Dublin Five.
A python snake named Monty. Fair play to Monty. He kicked the ass off those pesky Italians and/or German forces over there in... err, whatchacallit?... Kilmainham?
As the bombs fall, the Eagles play a gig in the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California. "Oh, Johhny" they sing. "There was an aul woman that lived in the woods, Oooooh oooohhooooohhooo, baby!" They never really got the idea of music. They made their money and you can't doubt that. If you listen really closely you will realise that it's all about sex. And, why wouldn't it be? Ask Holy Healy and she'll blush.
Martha was at the gig and then got trashed on Virginia Avenoo. She subsequently died but that's hardly relevent. The post mortem found a small microphone lodged between her upper left molars. There's a pun to be made there somewhere. But until the coroner releaese the details it's considered to be in bad taste. I'm sure the microphone itself was in bad taste but that is too. Good thing this is fictitious.
RUFUS in a large swimming pool wearing a general's uniform. D. Norris watching closely. (Now I can use the Rufus label and the D Norris label. I'm not as stupid as I look. This blog is perpetually innovative.)
Climb Everest, they say. It's good craic and there's a good chance you'll die before you reach the second camp. More than likely though, you'll get mugged by a so-called tourist guide from Mongolia. Then, you're fucked. Whereas the clever bastard that nicked your wallet is off to Dubai for three weeks for fun frollics and maybe more. Emphasis on the maybe more. Whores all a-hootin'. "Ooooh, Western money" they'll shout as they show your mugger things that he has only seen in FHM.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down, ooooooh!
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Whisky whisky whisky whisky, drown.
So, this is like a responsive anthem. Those who find solace in it, you're obviously highly delusional and/or in search of some form of leadership or dominance in your life. You've presumably tried Communism and have now turned to the web at large. Typing "help me my life is ruined" into a search engine brought you here. Poor fuck.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The man who...
Joseph Donnelly, a homeless, jobless, wannabe alcoholic roamed the streets of London (play the Streets of London!!) on a night of light drizzle. It was one of those nights that you get wet and then feel really hot because of it. You know the ones. It gets sticky and clammy. This didn't apply to Joseph because he was only wearing a tank-top and a sock. The very sight of him would make you cross the road to avoid passing him. People actually did this as he plodded across the slightly shaky Millennium Bridge.
"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.
"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.
Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.
It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.
But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.
"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."
Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.
"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).
"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.
He's... he's over there. Look out!"
Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.
"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.
And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.
P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.
"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.
"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.
Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.
It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.
But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.
"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."
Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.
"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).
"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.
He's... he's over there. Look out!"
Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.
"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.
And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.
P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Olympics!
Welcome to China and Welcome to the Olympic Games 2008!! (cheering within)
And here is your host, a fucking panda named JingJing...
And here is your host, a fucking panda named JingJing...
Friday, May 9, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Gerrard O'Caogain and the Bottle of Whiskey in the Trousers.
Poor old G-G-Gerrry, being holy and all of that. As a matter of fact, he was never really holy, he just carried around a consecrated host in his pocket and showed it to people to scare them at inappropriate moments, like when he was telling a group of youngfellas about how he got his hole every night when he was their age. That's why HH got rid of him off the curriculum. It was a shame really, because the randy youngfellas hadn't a decent example to follow now except that fucking bollocks Pete Doherty, who certainly didn't carry around a host in his top pocket and couldn't write holy songs about love and things of the sort.
But poor Gerrry was actually a desperate alco, and he used to drink for Ireland every Saturday night, as well as every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Wednesday, and Monday, morning and evening. But on Sunday he went to Mass just to keep up appearances, and afterwards would come along for a bit of drink. But one day in the 1990s he met an American priest who could turn his vestments a different colour by just getting everyone to close their eyes and pray hard for ten seconds, and this convinced him for once and for all that there really was a Gawd, and so the priest gave him a lovely present of a golden monstrance and a host that he could use to scare children. It came in pretty handy, especially after Gerrry had told stories about getting both high and his hole in one night back when he was a youngfella and didn't have that silly beard.
One day Gerrry realized that being an alco was a sin and so went to classes in abstinence with the Legion of Mary, but realized that wasn't the sort of abstinence he needed when they took out the meat cleavers. Instead, he went on a six-week course with Archbishop Desmond Connell who made really boring speeches every night and drove everyone to drink, except of course Gerrry who was so enlightened that he vowed he'd never drink again and dedicate his life to Gawd. In fact, he did this with renewed vigour, taking out his guitar at the drop of a hat (bastard) to serenade all and sundry about the virtues of keeping your mickey in your trousers and all those things that Catholics do be going on about. Well done to him.
But of course, it didn't last. One night, Gerrry was walking through Baile Sord when he passed the establishment known to the youth of the area simply as Lamb. "O no," thought Gerrry to himself, "I can't possibly go there. Only youngfellas who want to get pissed, dance badly and get their hole go there." And sure wasn't he right. So he crossed the road and walked further up on his way to MacDonald's where he was looking forward to having a nice double cheeseburger to the glory of Gawd. However, passing by another establishment by the name of Cock, he was taken immediately with the delicious smell of pub and couldn't help himself. He ran straight in through the doors (in his confusion even pushing the right-hand one first) as Martin turned to him and raising his hands in a gesture of coolness said, "Look, take it easy." Gerrry ignored Martin and stood in the doorway for a minute breathing in the delicious smell of pub he had missed for so long. Striding up to the bar, he asked one of the pinkies to give him a bottle of Bushmills. Because they didn't have any on hand, they sent Stuart the hot youngfla down to the cellars to retrieve one. Gerrry tried his best to remain inconspicuous, but the silly little beard gave it away really. Having paid the barman, he grabbed his bottle of whiskey, shoved it down his trousers and ran straight out.
Reaching the wall over outside the Old Boro, he tried his best to extract the bottle of whiskey from his trousers, but somehow it had managed to become stuck. As he fiddled desperately with the bottle he couldn't manage to get it up for some reason. Maybe he was drunk on the smell of a pub. Who knows? But unfortunately for Gerrry one of the gardaí across the road had nothing to do and was staring out the window of his office, and jumped at the chance to run out to Gerrry when he saw him doing what he thought was a bold thing in public.
"Here, you, mister, with the silly beard. What's your name?"
"What's it to you, you big fuckin' culchie?"
"You shut up your fuckin' jackeen bollix mouth and get your durty cunt hands off your mickey."
"Me hands aren't on me mickey."
"I could see you fiddlin' your mickey all the way across the road, so don't give me that bollix."
"I mean it," said Gerrry, "I wasn't fiddlin' me mickey. I'd go to hell for that. I'm trying to get a bottle of whiskey out of me trousers."
"A bottle of whiskey me brown bollix. You're arrested."
And so Gerrry was arrested. And that is the moral of the story, because he was never again allowed to lecture youngfellas about drugs and getting their hole and things like that because he got arrested for fiddling his mickey in the street (or so it seemed). And worse still, he had a bottle of whiskey in his trousers, which was extremely embarrassing for a whole lot of reasons. So now when you see Gerrry it won't be with his guitar or his host, because both were taken off him. Instead you'll see him standing around Eason's looking at Mills & Boons books all day, and when Eason's closes you'll see him wandering in and out of pubs all around the town but not drinking a single drop. That's probably what hell is for an ex-holy like Gerrry, Gawd love him.
But poor Gerrry was actually a desperate alco, and he used to drink for Ireland every Saturday night, as well as every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Wednesday, and Monday, morning and evening. But on Sunday he went to Mass just to keep up appearances, and afterwards would come along for a bit of drink. But one day in the 1990s he met an American priest who could turn his vestments a different colour by just getting everyone to close their eyes and pray hard for ten seconds, and this convinced him for once and for all that there really was a Gawd, and so the priest gave him a lovely present of a golden monstrance and a host that he could use to scare children. It came in pretty handy, especially after Gerrry had told stories about getting both high and his hole in one night back when he was a youngfella and didn't have that silly beard.
One day Gerrry realized that being an alco was a sin and so went to classes in abstinence with the Legion of Mary, but realized that wasn't the sort of abstinence he needed when they took out the meat cleavers. Instead, he went on a six-week course with Archbishop Desmond Connell who made really boring speeches every night and drove everyone to drink, except of course Gerrry who was so enlightened that he vowed he'd never drink again and dedicate his life to Gawd. In fact, he did this with renewed vigour, taking out his guitar at the drop of a hat (bastard) to serenade all and sundry about the virtues of keeping your mickey in your trousers and all those things that Catholics do be going on about. Well done to him.
But of course, it didn't last. One night, Gerrry was walking through Baile Sord when he passed the establishment known to the youth of the area simply as Lamb. "O no," thought Gerrry to himself, "I can't possibly go there. Only youngfellas who want to get pissed, dance badly and get their hole go there." And sure wasn't he right. So he crossed the road and walked further up on his way to MacDonald's where he was looking forward to having a nice double cheeseburger to the glory of Gawd. However, passing by another establishment by the name of Cock, he was taken immediately with the delicious smell of pub and couldn't help himself. He ran straight in through the doors (in his confusion even pushing the right-hand one first) as Martin turned to him and raising his hands in a gesture of coolness said, "Look, take it easy." Gerrry ignored Martin and stood in the doorway for a minute breathing in the delicious smell of pub he had missed for so long. Striding up to the bar, he asked one of the pinkies to give him a bottle of Bushmills. Because they didn't have any on hand, they sent Stuart the hot youngfla down to the cellars to retrieve one. Gerrry tried his best to remain inconspicuous, but the silly little beard gave it away really. Having paid the barman, he grabbed his bottle of whiskey, shoved it down his trousers and ran straight out.
Reaching the wall over outside the Old Boro, he tried his best to extract the bottle of whiskey from his trousers, but somehow it had managed to become stuck. As he fiddled desperately with the bottle he couldn't manage to get it up for some reason. Maybe he was drunk on the smell of a pub. Who knows? But unfortunately for Gerrry one of the gardaí across the road had nothing to do and was staring out the window of his office, and jumped at the chance to run out to Gerrry when he saw him doing what he thought was a bold thing in public.
"Here, you, mister, with the silly beard. What's your name?"
"What's it to you, you big fuckin' culchie?"
"You shut up your fuckin' jackeen bollix mouth and get your durty cunt hands off your mickey."
"Me hands aren't on me mickey."
"I could see you fiddlin' your mickey all the way across the road, so don't give me that bollix."
"I mean it," said Gerrry, "I wasn't fiddlin' me mickey. I'd go to hell for that. I'm trying to get a bottle of whiskey out of me trousers."
"A bottle of whiskey me brown bollix. You're arrested."
And so Gerrry was arrested. And that is the moral of the story, because he was never again allowed to lecture youngfellas about drugs and getting their hole and things like that because he got arrested for fiddling his mickey in the street (or so it seemed). And worse still, he had a bottle of whiskey in his trousers, which was extremely embarrassing for a whole lot of reasons. So now when you see Gerrry it won't be with his guitar or his host, because both were taken off him. Instead you'll see him standing around Eason's looking at Mills & Boons books all day, and when Eason's closes you'll see him wandering in and out of pubs all around the town but not drinking a single drop. That's probably what hell is for an ex-holy like Gerrry, Gawd love him.
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