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.

It's a pickled mickey!

Look!

Now to ride Mrs O'Leary.

Dear Mary Robinson, only son of the father. Eternally begotten, light from light, true god, etc. One being. Well done to Mary, with her father being pope and all. Shame he died, got love him. Pope Jonny Greenwood of Radiohead, the newest and hippest thing to come out of Ocksfurd this side of Tuesday.

Two people riding against the gate of the Pro-Cathedral.

"Jaysis Damo, have ye not got a jonny? I never took me pill on Wednesday and if I end up havin another bleedin child me gee will end up the size of Tolka Park."

"Fuck sake Bernadine, don't ya know I don't? I've only got this bag of chips from Beshoffs and they taste fuckin shoie."

"Trow dem on the ground then Damo and cover yer flute with the bag."

"Wha? What sort of dozy aul cunt are ya? I wouldn't fuckin feel anythin with a brown paper bag on me cock and you'd end up with lacerations all up yer fanny."

Eventually Damo dropped his chips, but Bernadine didn't drop hers as she didn't have any. Archbishop Dearmit Martin later condemned their riding against holy gates, but nobody batted an eyelid. Sure it didn't stop de Valera.

NO MAN has the right to set the boundary unto the march of 31st. The end of the world is now says the nordies. Well, April fools!

HAH.

The end.

Hoorin' around on Montgomery Street

Back in the fine days when a youngfla could get up in the morning and go down Monto for a quick ride with a prostitute before work, people were happy. At least, Michael was happy. One July morning he was feeling more than a little randy after passing Ann Summers on O'Connell Street and fancied a bit of the old in-out. So, he nipped around to the Monto for to see what he could see.

The (w)hole area was swarming with hoors and specialists sex shops and all that sort of thing, well done. You'd find all the durty aul' fellas knocking (pun not especially intended, but take it [no pun intended] as you will) around the place aswell as a few decent skins (but not many). Bang Bang was often seen hanging around street corners behind the Pro-Cathedral. He wasn't interested in sex, he just thought he was under enemy fire and was sheltering himself from the pesky Boers that had killed some of his friends in the Royal Dublin Rifles Divisions with pineapples.

Michael was into strange things when it came to sexual relations. He was a fan of "Juliette" by the infamous Marquis de Sade. So, he was keeping an eye out for a young woman with a particular twinkle in her eye as he walked along with hands in his pockets.

"Afternoon Prince Albert," said Michael cheerfully.

"Eh, I don't know what... what you're talking about young man. I'm... I'm not ....Prince Albert!"

"Oh, sorry old chap, no harm done!" replied Micheal and he continued whistling "Good Old Desk" by Harry Nilsson. Of course, Michael knew it was the Prince, but didn't want to make a fuss. He'd see him the following week anyway.

Eventually, whatever it was that Michael was looking for in a girl was found in the eye and brasserie of a twenty-something blond wearing a long dark-blue coat. Their eyes met and the prospect of business drew her towards him.

"Hello, dear. How are we this afternoon?"

"We're surely fine and dandy. We're also very naked under this coat if you're interested."

"Well, you know, I think I am. You're just the sort of whore I'm looking for right now. How much for the afternoon, you little tart?"

"You seem like a regular, you should know the going rates. I'm no different that the other trollops that do these streets. We have a union, you know! Larkin helped us set it up. We didn't know how to thank him enough....."

"Riiiight... So, back to me ridin' ya... How would you like the payment? I've got cash on me, I don't know if I've enough though. Eh, I think I've my laser too. Yeah, here in my inside pocket. Oh, I've some travellers' cheques too in sterling and Australian dollars. --rummaging within-- Ah, and here's a scratch card with three £60s on it."

"Hmmm... is that all you have? No vouchers for Clarks shoe shops? We only take shoe-related currency or payment methods. Even if you have a couple pairs of Crocs handy, that'd do fine. Unfortunately we've had to stop taking Dr. Martin's because of all the forgeries doing the rounds at the moment. Janet down the road there accepted six pairs in payment for a good-hard-shag and it turned out they were fakes. That wouldn't even get you the most basic treatment on any market, let me tell you."

"Eh, yeah," said Michael as he stepped slowly away from the whore. Unfortunately for him he didn't stop, look or listen and was mowed down by an oncoming tram destined for Milltown. God love 'em. It wasn't his fault that the hoor's obsession with shoes had gone so barmy, so off-the-bleedin'-wall, so consuming, so idiotic and nutty that it actually inadvertently caused his death.

The Dublin coroner's court returned a verdict of death by misadventure. The hoor faced no charges. Bitch.

The Nordies go by in twos and threes.

The Nordies come ALL the way down the M1 by the busload for the attack, painting county flags red and white as they went. When they came off the motorway the first place they saw was Drumcondra.

"Well, thaat'll have t'dooy. ATTACK!"

The bastards burned Upper Drumcondra Road to a crisp with all their Nordy flag waving. The aul' orange floyt doubled up as a flamethrower to scorch Free State arses.

After their embarrassing defeat in Swords, they changed tactics. Instead of attacking the watering holes of the town, they revised their battle plans and decided on sports grounds. Poor Na Fianna and their GAA pitches were the first to get it. The Nordies just HARR-HARRed and blew the house down aswell as the goal-posts.

Ironically (maybe it was coldly calculated) enough, it was the third Sunday in September and the All-Ireland (Bank of Ireland) football final was being held in Pairc na Crocaigh up the road. Kerry were due to play Galway at four o'clock but The Nories burst in through the Nally Stand and demanded to be allowed to play Kerry. Their ultimatum was ignored until they shot Nicky Brennan. So, the GAA committee had an emergency meeting to insert a new clause in the GAA Constitution that would allow such a situation.

The match began and despite the turmoil, Kerry were kicking ass as they do. But after a late counter-asskicking, the Nordies won. Their control over Drumcondra was complete. They blew up the Bishop's Palace using a well-armed warboat that they'd brought up the canal. Poor Bertie's house was blown up aswell as St. Luke's for good measure. What was strange was all the people in Drumcondra just sat on their arses and did nothing. Sure, it's only full o' aul ones and priests. God love them.

Thankfully, when the scum from the surrounding areas heard about the Nordy invasion and occupation they came out. Whitehall, Santry, Ballymun, Beaumount, Phisboro and Fairview Divisions all reported for duty. Facing such fierce opposition, and not forgetting THAT day on O'Connell Street, all the Nordies legged it for Drumcondra Station and off they went.

Everyone then had a great piss up in Fagan's and all was fine. The Nordies wone the All-Ireland, but at least they were out of the Republic again. Well done.

With a flilly lilly in your gee-hole.

Trying to drink whiskey from a bottle of wine women and song. A lovely thought, promulgated by Mister Justice Aimin' Devil-Eire with the help of Eeen Peeslee Jooynyor and a load of other Nordy Bastard with Large Arses.

Well done to all involved. If you'd like to shove your granny up your arse on hallowe'en do so, but not please in my line of vision express, where glasses are now half price starting at 499. Such a load of

Hole is the word and whole is the flesh,
The dirty breast-like nodules of potatoes
Buried in the earth,
"Arr," says Maguire, "there be my mammary-like spuds
Shat on by generations of pigeons named Geoff."

And if not so bad, Mr Jehan Booklay, the great composer of numerous works of shit and Friend of Fat, well renowned for speaking in tongues (including Gwaylin, now extinct except for around the Ring of Kerry ORAL FACE)—has recently completed a massive work for tin horn and flutewhistle including a very good electronic sound approximation of a person farting and belching at once in Hebrew. It was until now thought that that was impossible—not farting or belching in Hebrew, just doing both at the same time, no matter what the language. Bloody joojooman language. Not that we're racist or anything, but you're a fuckin' chinese

Lovely person, said Jonathan of his coach-driver as he disembarked from his carriage on Tottenham Court Road back in 1863, whose anniversary occurs around this time. A lovely day for a spot of whiskeydrinking Charlie wouldn't you said? said he. O yes dear boy, come here till I roide ya.

And throw you back to where you belong. Back there in East Angular, what a load of whole that may have seemed. A whole week of hole weeks wages. And well done to your FLUTE.

Thanks for the memories.

And well done!

GEE

A Friday Night in Dublin, Year 2022.

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

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

—FREE HOLE.

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

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

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

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

—FREE HOLE.

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

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

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

—FREE HOLE!?
—Bleedin' hell.

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

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

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

FREE HOLE. God love them both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gerry Ryan's Friday Giveaway.

Friday morning at 11 o'clock with Gerry Ryan as he gives out prizes for the most disgusting stories possible.

GERRY: And now on Ryan's Friday Giveaway, we have Barbara from Killester.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: Howya Gerry.

GERRY: Well Barbara, I've heard from Brenda that you have a story about shite.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: That's right Gerry.

GERRY: Good, I love a bit of shite. Entertain us, Barbara.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: Well Gerry, I was in the Maldives last year with me husband Brian and one day we were at the beach and we were after eatin' ice-cream.

GERRY: Right.

BARBARA FROM KILLESTER: And so Brian says to me, Jaysus Barbara, I think I'm goin' to have the scutters. And so I says to him, well, what are ya goin' to do about it. And before I knew it he'd scuttered all over his jocks right there in front of everyone on the beach.

GERRY: What a great story. Amazing. I think that one deserves a round of applause lads. Ah, nothing like a bit of shite on a Friday morning. Barbara, hold the line there, I think you might be in with a chance to win our fabulous prize of a fifty-euro voucher for Ann Summers' in O'Connell Street to buy yourself whatever sort of vibrator you like. Now, I hear that next on the line we have Linda from Cabra who has a story about snot. Good morning Linda.

LINDA FROM CABRA: Good morning Gerry.

GERRY: So Linda, is it true that your daughter failed her Junior Cert because she was picking her nose?

LINDA FROM CABRA: Well Gerry, me daughter Jacinta was in doin' her Junior Cert home ec exam and she was making an apple tart and when she thought the examiner wasn't looking she picked her nose and flicked it into the apple, but she got caught and got zero for it.

GERRY: Well that was a bit silly wasn't it? But, I mean, why shouldn't a young girl be allowed to pick her nose in full view of another person? I think it's appalling nowadays how dictatorial schools are. In my day you weren't just allowed to pick your nose, you were encouraged to do it. Extra points if you could flick it into someone else's dinner. So I say fair play to your daughter and may she have many more days of nose-picking ahead of her. Margaret from Finglas good morning.

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Good morning Gerry.

GERRY: So tell us your story.

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Well, one time back in the 90s when I was in holiday in Courtown myself and me husband were ridin' in our caravan when next thing he shoves his mickey by accident into the bed and it goes through and gets caught in a spring and fell off.

GERRY: Amazing. So what happened to it?

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: Well, he had to get it stitched back on by the paramedics. So we weren't able to ride ever again.

GERRY: You mean you haven't had sex since the 90s?

MARGARET FROM FINGLAS: That's right Gerry. Well, I had a vibrator I bought down in Courtown afterwards but the batteries kept running out and it broke there for good about two months ago. So I haven't had me hole since.

GERRY: Oh dear, oh dear. Well we can't have that. Buy that lady a vibrator!

Yeah, a bit of a cock.

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?"

The 113th Feis Gee.

The Feis Ceoil was a grand old institution of Ireland until Siemens pulled out the sponsorship, which was a desperate pity. Now, the reason Siemens didn't want to sponsor it anymore was because of commercial interests. I mean, who gives a rat's mickey about classical music? Nobody. See? That's why it wasn't worth Siemens' while.

Until of course the organisers of the Feis had a better idea.

"Look, lads. Nobody is interested in classical music anymore. People only care about gee."

"Well, I second that, Poreik."

"Hear, hear."

"Grand so."

And so Feis Ceoil became Feis Gee, and it was a great success. Favourite competitions included the Ronnie Barker prize for shoving inanimate objects up yer gee and the Lar Shay Cup for finding a gee with your eyes closed. Of particular interest was the Sleevend Cup for shoving living things up yer gee. Now, it might be difficult to shove a Bulmers pint bottle up yer gee, but imagine the difficulty in shoving a gerbil up, never mind a guinea pig, or, God forbid, a rabbit. But that's what these batty ladies did, and fair play to them.

Feis Gee abú.

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.

No title necessary

One, two, gee o'clock, four o'clock, cock.

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.

"Dropping It."

Poor old Clowee, going in to have her first child in the Rotunda. She just boxed some youngone as she was running down the side of Parnell Square where the buses do be stopping (the 16, 13, 11, those ones) when the youngone shouted "Sta' of yeh missus". Clowee replied, "I'll fucking box in your face" and promptly carried out her threat. Well done.

Arriving in the new doors of the Rotunda, she ran straight to the desk.

"Eh, I'm havin' a child."

The receptionist lady looked at her blankly. "O. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm bleedin' sure," replied Clowee. "Aren't me waters just after breakin' an' I thinking I pissed on the bleedin' floor without knowin' i'?"

"O. Okay. Are you married?" asked the receptionist calmly.

"Does it make any fuckin' difference?" asked Clowee, more agitated by the moment.

"Well, we need to check for our records."

"Well, what do you think, missus? I'm bleedin' too young to be married."

"Fine so," said the receptionist. "Just down the corridor on your left hand side. The blue room with the towels."

Clowee ran immediately down the corridor and turned into the blue room to which she had been directed by the receptionist. Sure enough there were plenty of towels all over the floor, some in particularly garish colours, and some emblazoned with pictures of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and others with the words "Costa del Sol". Well done to them. Clowee looked up at the ancient woman sitting on the ledge enquiringly.

"What de fuck is this about?"

"This is the bastard drop zone. You've come here to drop a bastard I presume? Well, have no fear, there are plenty of towels and I was a midwife back in the sixties so I think I know what I'm doing."

"Wha'?!"

You see, poor Clowee wasn't the brightest spark in the box. That's how she got herself Up-the-Duff. And speaking of that, out of nowhere, in came Jono.

"Jaysis Clowee, whadefuck's up?"

"Fuckin' hell Jono, where were ye? I'm about to bleedin' have the baby."

"Ah no, I thought you were only messin'! Jaysis! I'm goin' to be a fader. I'm not even old enough! I can't even get into Velvet without a fake ID!"

"Yeh didn't need a bleedin' ID to get into me gee Jono, so you're fuckin' old enough to look after this bleedin' baby."

"Bollix."

And so Clowee dropped her bastard. She was hopin' to God it wouldn't happen before her night at the debs, and she just about got her wish. But sure God love her, and poor old Jono and their bastard. Kevin Myers is desperate proud that Clowee has made a career of mothering bastards. Guaranteed income for at least sixteen years. Well done.

Dr More's Almanac

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gee transplant?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neo-con environmental tourism

Mrs. Thatcher's leather holiday palace in Poshbastard Lancashire.co.uk. Please reuse your tourist guides of Edinbugger castle, the London Eye (which has already been burned down), Christchurch, Airhead, Superquinn in Finglas and the Eiffel Tower which was relocated to Paris from New York (thanks Chris).

The Great Barrier Reef has opened a new campsite today which you can use while utilising ill-fitting dot com-dom over one's bottle of white (Sauvignon Blanc) wine. make sure you use your piccolo flute in the swimming

Vote now, vote for the new Voluntary Euthanasia Bill. The Irish government is so full of shite now that they are swallowing (OooOohOh says the gay guy again) those European bastard values.

Mickey Terenure. There once was a boy named Sue. He enjoyed putting condiments all over his hands and other people's noses. He grew up to become (OooOooh!) Mr(s). Henderson. Gee. That's another midget question to be answered another day, another time.

Isn't it awfully nice to have a EPNS, especially when it's modelled by RO'G (and when it comes to pissing). Sure it's lovely to be wearing crispacketsoncock.com, but it does indeed be nice to have your hole. "I have me hole," says yer woman, but sure isn't better to have a cockmickey than a geehole? OOooooOooh yes says D. Norris!

A continuation of the gospel according to Mr(s). Henderson.

Last time we heard from gallant Mr(s). Henderson, s/he was trekking across North America in search of something called love. This may have been a place, a gay bar, a Broadway show or a run-down brothel, which of course was her last place of employment

-----Flashback-----

Back in the days when Mr(s). Henderson was but a wee boy, he lived in the durty auld Dublin town where his mammy specialized in the trade of hoorin' down the Monto in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe. Mrs. Kelly was a grand old woman who had once lived in the Dublin Mountains. Her husband was shot in 1916 for stealing picnic baskets up in the Hell Fire Club. She subsequently moved into the heart of Dublin and started her roaring whoring trade up behind the Pro-Cathedral. Because she was a good Protestant, Mrs. Kelly was permitted to have her husband's remains slightly singed and then fully blown to bits (also known as cremated) and put in a lovely Chivers jam jar that she'd been keeping for a special occasion such as that. She placed the jar on the fireplace in her beloved brothel and urged the young men to admire her lovely vessel accordingly.

The whoring trade had a roaring trade until 1925 when Frank Duff and a few holy auld wans arrived at the door carrying bottles of holy water and armed with 1798 vintage pikes, muskets (good Catholic weapons), a few Rosary beads and a big gold crucifix with a pointy end for smashing windows and killin' hoors. Just for extra reinforcement they borrowed several of the Pro's baptismal fonts to break in the doors that had been cleverly barricaded with hoors and the occasional bottle of stout. The Legion broke into Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, killed all her hoors with the crucifix and set Mrs. Kelly's hair on fire. They even smashed her husband's ashes, the bastards. She was particularly upset at the loss of the lovely jam jar, which she'd been keeping since 1893.

Now, Mr(s). Henderson fits into all this tumult somehow. We'll now do this in exquisite style. He (yes, he) was the bastard child of one of the nicer and nicer-lookin' hoors who was killed by the Legion in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion took pity upon the poor orphan child and decided to send him into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. You can see where this is going, the poor little shite. Before the Legion sent him away, they made sure that he would never become like those durty young fellas that did be shaggin' the poor young wans in places like the Monto. So, they promptly cut off his mickey and all related appendage with the help of the Holy Knife of Padre Pio, some nice incense, some Our Fathers and a few Hail Marys ('tis the Legion after all).

Mrs. Kelly survived but never recovered from having her hair burned off and the loss of that lovely jam jar that she'd got as a Christmas present from Kitty O'Shea-Parnell who had come to Dublin for a romp in Mrs. Kelly's gaff, back after Charlie died. After all, Kitty was a proved English prostitute, so says Tim Healy, harr harr. Mrs. Kelly lived on a few more years until she was shot by the IRA who had mistaken her for Grant Mitchell. However, her son David went on to become a well-respected actor and gentleman. In later years, he met Willy Wonka, a great achievement for any Irishman.

Dotdotdot...WAKE UP

As Mr(s). Henderson shook his/her head and came back to reality, s/he turned to her beaver, Anne Gyna. As they floated down the Miss/Misterissippi, s/he spotted a distant luminous edifice. "O, Anne Gyna," s/he exclaimed, "could it be Love?" Anne Gyna said nothing—predictably, as she was a beaver. Mr(s). Henderson dived out of the boat and swam to the bank of the river three and a half miles away, leaving Anne Gyna alone in the boat. Dam, thought Anne Gyna.

Mr(s). Henderson swam with a spring in his/her step. Eventually s/he stood at the foot of the imposing pink edifice, the castle-like structure. S/he entered like s/he'd never entered before. Fear shook her/him, not unlike the Sisters had done all those years ago. S/he nearly pissed him/herself. Just as s/he was putting his/her hand on the doorknob...

---------Flashback, but this time in colour and a little more exciting.--------

There she was, a little girl/boy sitting alone in front of an empty fireplace. Why did the girls think she was so strange? Especially.......

------door-----sudden-----pink-----Love----------

...out came Rufus Wainwright wearing a dress and generally looking faaaaaaaabulous.

"Hi and welcome to the Yellow Lounge!"
"Yellow Lounge? It seems quite pink to me."
"O, honey, don't be so judgemental! Everything I touch turns to pink. They say I have the Midas touch!"
"O, how did we get to Berlin?"
"Wow, Berlen? Let me tell you, in spectacular style!"

Suddenly, the statues came alive and became half-naked German men including Herr Bogsbonny and Rufus's fella, Jorn, playing the (skin)flute, as he clearly did so well. As the stairs inverted, Rufus broke into song, a rendition of "Tiergarten" while swinging the mic(k) in rhythmic motions. While this ridiculous occurrence did...well, occur... Mr(s). Henderson's mind began to wander as she watched Rufus's dress swinging in the arms of .......

_-_-_-_-_-_-FLASHING-_-_- Rufus flashing......FLASHBACK.....

The nuns had inflicted the punishment of a long, cold bath administered by a couple of evil little young one nuns upon young Mr(s). Henderson.

"Jaysus, Sister Jacinteh, c'mere! Look ah dis! I waz just abou' to wash her gee an' I seen she hasn't even go' wan. An' it looks like she used to have a mickey!"
"The bleedin' little freak."

............Flashflashflash (choochoo) swish swish goes Rufus's dress in the wind, forget your troubles, come on get happy.

REAL
ITY.

S/he remembered at last. S/he was a s/he. S/he suddenly ran out of the castle. At this stage, Anne Gyna had built a massive dam and the river was beginning to flood. Seeing the water coming towards him/her, s/he dived into the nearest wormhole and passencore rearrived by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.

Rufus was shocked (for once) and slightly embarrassed. The elephants had come out and all!

"What did I say? Was I too straight?"

(To be continued, in true sitcom fashion....)