Whatever you're having yourself

As part of Fine Gael's magnificent several-point-plan to Get Ireland Working, a new national industry has been created, through which many millions will be pleasured.

Every home in Ireland will shortly receive a new dildo, hand-made from peat from genuine Irish bog. The dildos have been made lovingly in Co. Clare by a lady in a shawl who looks like Peig Sayers. Each dildo comes emblazoned with a pencil-drawn image of Hibernia, in the guise of that very famous American, Lady Lavatory, who used be on the pound notes.

The stated purpose of these dildos is to take pressure off the government: now everyone can fuck themselves to save the government having to do it. As a result of this cleverness, taxpayers' money will be saved in droves and rediverted to such useful purposes as RTÉ comedy, filling up cracks in roads in and around Rathfarnham, Dublin Fourteen, deporting refugees, and not looking after homeless people.

A launch event for this new scheme will take place in Collins Barracks hosted by Gay Byrne, who is still not dead. There will be (quite literally) one for everyone in the audience.

Uachtaráin na nGaybo abú.

Hello, hello, hello there now thank you very much, and welcome to the little Áras of the Uachtaráin—ye wha', Gay?—the Áras of the an-Uachtaráin, or the Residence of the Presidents if you will thank you very much, well done to you all. Now, I came here all the way on my little Harley Davidson, all the way, all the way from my little home on the little hill of Howth, isn't that right now, thank you, thank you very much now, yes, yes. And I'd like to thank all those who voted for me in this past election to be a President indeed, especially Agnes from just down the road there around the corner now, that's right. I'd also like to thank Bono, the lovely lovely Sinéad O'Connor and of course the dear darling national broadcaster, the RTE, the Lord above be good to them all indeed, and of course Tayto crisps, all of whom, without whom none of us, none of us I say would be here today for little old uncle Gaybo's little Presidential serenade, dear O dear O deary me. And there's one for everyone in the audience...

Cocks, etc.

I was in the staffroom on my lunch break innocently reading 'The Ticket' (yes, it was a Friday) and eating a purple snack bar while some colleagues sitting around me chatted away. Half-listening, I would occasionally grab snippets of their conversation.

—...lunch box...seventeen...O'Meara...scratchcard...

It wasn't very interesting. I was much more interested in the theatre listings. I fancied myself as a bit of an art snob sometimes. I didn't even like the theatre, but it was worth going just to tell people you went and see their reaction.

—I was in the Abbey last night.

—OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Yeah. My colleagues were all insufferable. Though in fairness, they probably thought I was an ignorant git myself. But that's how the cookie crumbles.

—So Jonathan, do you like cock?

My ears pricked up. Did she ACTUALLY just ask him that?

—Well Bernie, to be honest I'm not MAD into it. But I dabble on occasion.

—Really? That's nice. I always had a feeling. You know the way.

I lowered my newspaper a little and peered over my glasses with eyebrows raised. Jonathan was a young baldy bloke with a scruffy beard and trendy glasses. And he was talking about cock.

—Well, I mean, flange is all right I suppose, if that's the sort of thing you're into. Cock's more up my street in a way. Not that I have much of a street.

Bernie and Denise laughed very highpitched and very irritating laughs. I stared slightly more incredulously.

—To be honest, said Denise, I love the cock. Nothing better than a mouthful of cock when you come home in the evening.

—Yeah, I know what you mean, Denise, said Bernie. A cock in the hand is worth two in the bush!

This time all three of them laughed. They kept laughing even after I couldn't remember what Bernie had said in the first place. Jonathan had a bellowing English laugh which was really annoying.

After another minute I'd had enough.

—I mean, REALLY. You just think you can sit here and talk about cock and LAUGH without me saying anything? Well, you thought wrong. You are a shower of insufferable BASTARDS and you need to all grow up and GET A LIFE. What the FUCK is wrong with you. Fuck sake.

I threw my copy of 'The Ticket' on the table and stormed out of the staffroom, dropping the wrapper of my snack bar on the floor along the way. I stood outside in the courtyard and lit myself a green Marlboro, blowing smokerings as I smoked. A cooing pigeon landed near to me and I kicked it.

I hate pigeons.

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.

The 48th Eurachistic Conference.

Pope Benjidict the X vee eye called the 36th Euchratistic Conflagration in the year 200diddlysquat to be held in Dublin, Ireland for the celebration of Eric Clapton's birthday. The proceedings were renamed "Ecumenical Congress" as the word eucharistic was considered to be offensive and frankly racist to the hindus, muslimists and protestants. The actual event itself was not, however. Well done yet again catholic church.

Day 1 began with a huge procession from Bird Avenue, Clonskeagh to the Pro-Cathedral, Marlborough Street, which was hampered by a large number of pigeons and junkies, but got there eventually. Benediction was pronounced (or whatever verb is correct with benediction, given, benedicted, popeified, etc.) outside the Pro at 5pm just as all the whitecollar types were going home from work.

Now most of these types didn't give a rat's flute about the holy proceedings happening outside the Pro. As a matter of fact, some of them downright despised catholicism, the pope and the chorch. Two of these were Wes and Brian, a pair of queers who lived along Grand Canal Street, Dublin 4. Wes and Brian were two nice chaps in their 30s who had been husband and husband for a few years now and loved nothing more than an evening drinking a nice bottle of mid-range wine followed by a session of weird sex games where they shoved parsnips up each other's noses and smeared gooseberry jam over one another's arses. But of course that was fine in our Tolerant Modern Society where Anything Goes.

Sadly, Wes and Brian had to get divorced in 2004 because one of them discovered the other had raped his dog. Jeesus. However, they met weekly thereafter in the sleaziest joints in Ballsbridge for a quick parsnip and a royid.

The end of the Eorcastic thing was interesting because of a scene which occurred just there beyant O'Connell Bridge. Mary Robinson was there to review the proceedings and it just so happened that she mistook Brian Cowen's wife for the pope, which was very embarrassing, considering there was no pope there at all. Now that was a faux-pas if e'er I saw one.

Well done Mary. Well done Brian's wife. Well done Wes and Brian. Well done Clapton. Well done pope.

Well done all round!

Appendix #1 (refer to Pg. eighty-four)

Come one, come all for a walkabout from LONDON - CANNON STREET to Windsor with slightly unexpected bursts of horns. With a delay effect, you may synthetically visit Paris Paris Paris ParisParis... See what Orwell saw, saw in the bath as you hack off your leg with a Superb use of strings and wireless message from An Taoiseach, Mr. Éamonn deValera speaking at the Mansion House, Dawson Street, Dublin two steaks and chips, please. Barbeque sauce, "please, please me" said the Beatles in a Norwegian Wood out the beyant Shelbourne Park can surprise. To: the editor of the IRISH PRESS- why have you not been publishing daily editions of your newspaper? What happened to the Governor-General? Has King George died? I hear news from the front "line up, children-FIRE" Drills do annoy me. No need for that do, Geoff. Signed Richard Bruton. I'm a spokesman you know? What a title for Best Film with repeated piano and guitar synch. notes. In come the Vikings but that didn't stop the ECB putting up and down interest rates. Up and down like a hoor's knickers. Fred always liked Galaxy but not quite as much as sodomy. Promptly Galaxy went out of business because God wanted him to have a rotten, miserable life MAGAZINE- special deal on now: we call to your house with brightly coloured jackets and "annoy someone else, Dorothy" was afraid of open spaces so she got fat to take up more room. £12 p.p. in room 7, Mr. Johnson. I'm glad you enjoyed your "STAY, bad dog!" Run, Run- run on as she hit the finish line on 76 street interstate of chasis, I'm telling you. Tenement housing, yummy yummy. Stay away from the drugs- but they're yummy- no use full of holes in Regent Street. Bloody Royals coming over the border into Fingal. SANTA. Four songs.

THE LONG-AWAITED LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"Trevor? I don't understand..." Testaments, hoors, pickled mickeys and Green TDs. Hendy was sure that life had gone beyond surreal.

"Of all people to become an heir-bastard, it would be a homosexual freak of nature like you, Jeremy Sue, wouldn't it?" The tone of Trevor's voice was steely, almost priest-like.

"Wow, wow, wow there!" interrupted Rufus camply. "At least she's not carrying a bag of onions. I mean, what the fuck?"

"Quiet Rufus!" whispered John sharply. "He's armed."

"But Trevor...where do you fit in in this story?"

Trevor smiled harshly, almost delighting in the confusion he had caused.

"Well, Jeremy. Your father John Charles McQuaid was a disgrace to the holy church which had appointed him archbishop. My father on the other hand was the greatest Irish Catholic who ever lived."

"But wait...you're a Protestant!"

"Yes...that's what I've told people all along. Nobody would ever suspect me, upstanding Protestant Trevor Sargent, to have come from where I did. No. I lived my life in hiding. Nobody knew that I was actually Francis Duff Junior, the heir to the Catholic fortunes of the world! But though you might want to use your inheritence for evil and destruction, I will use mine to glorify God and the Pope of Rome, our great spiritual father."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Trevor's eyes glinted as if with madness. "I have inherited the strongest Catholic faith of all. Your father may have been an exalted archbishop, but he was a waste of space, a religious airhead, a falsely zealous demagogue, a fraud and a charlatan! My father, however, was the greatest Catholic who ever lived on this island, and my mother a saintly woman of the greatest charity. My parents were General Frank Duff and Mother Teresa."

Rufus's jaw fell open, and John found himself getting an erection. However, realising how embarrassing that could possibly be, he imagined himself having sex with Mother Teresa and the feeling promptly disappeared. Rufus took two steps back to the window and lit himself a cigarette.

"But what does that make you then?" asked Hendy, becoming more worried by the minute.

"I am the heir to the command of the Legion of Mary, and from today onwards we will be the Catholic army of the world, destroying vice, fornication, feminism and homosexuality wherever we go. But first I must pay my father's debt by once and for all finishing the job that he could not finish and which left him in disgrace, a disgrace foisted upon him by your father the archbishop, and a legacy he did not deserve."

Suddenly it clicked in Hendy's mind. "You mean...?"

"Give me that mickey."

"No! I can't! I've searched my whole life for the truth, and just as I finally know it you're going to take that away from me. I know now how I've wasted these years trying in vain to be a woman, when all along I was just a man with no mickey. But now I will wait for no man. I am going to have my mickey reattached and live my life at last as a man, the life I should have had for all these years."

"Fool!" shouted Trevor, shaking his pitchfork and onions threateningly. "You don't understand at all. You have lived your life this far without that mickey. I have hidden all my life, waiting for the moment at which I could finally reveal myself. And all I need to fulfil my father's legacy is that mickey. Give it to me!"

John was trying hard to get it down as Rufus ejaculated suddenly: "Darling, why don't you listen to the lady? She just found her penis that she hasn't had in like, a million years, and she wants to get it sewn back on. How would YOU feel if you just found your penis and some guy came along wanting to take it off you? Well? Just think about that before you make any rash moves."

Trevor was visibly annoyed at Rufus's insolence. Just as it seemed like he was going to make a decisive move, Rufus flicked his cigarette out the window onto the grass below.

"NO! THE GRASS!" Ever a Green at heart, no matter what his religious aspirations, Trevor flung down his onions and his pitchfork and dived out the window after the cigarette. However, having forgotten that they were on the upstairs floor, he misunderestimated the distance he would fall, and splattered like a bucket of moist flange onto the hard ground far below in the manner of Brendan Gleeson falling from the tower In Bruges.

The three gays gazed out the window after Trevor in silent shock. He was definitely dead, as you could see his brains. It was not a pretty sight. Rufus retched a little, but felt better as soon as John put his hand down his trousers.

"So...is that it then?" asked Hendy with a hint of sadness in his/her voice. "Is this the end?"

"Of course not darling!" said Rufus. "The end is never any fun. It's still the beginning."

And with that, the Gaybus reappeared outside, and in a flash a troupe of dancers had alighted and began dancing suggestively to "Between My Legs". Rufus and John gazed into one another's eyes for a moment before they started some severe stubble-scratching. Hendy looked beyond the dancers and to the hills and the sky in the distance. Then he/she picked up his/her little shrivelled mickey and hugged it to him/herself and pondered about the future.

And it was a bright, mickeyed future.

Fucking Vagnians.

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

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

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

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

—Gecher lighters, two fra yoo-row.

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

—Excuse me, may I have two lighters?

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

—Two yoo-row plee-ez.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking Vagnians.

Mary Robinson's Heartbreak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well done Mary. God save Ireland.

We're not racist at all but

you're a fuckin' chinese lesbian.

Gee Beauty

Come in to Gee Beauty and get your gee made lovely. God knows, your gee doesn't look lovely now!

"Hello and welcome to Gee Beauty. What procedure would you like us to carry out on your gee today? We have a special deal on the Pat Kenny Nose Beauty Treatment this week."

"I care about my gee, what does that involve?"

"Well, we heat up your gee to a nice tepid temperature about the suggested temperature of a nice bowl of Ready-Brek. Then using the most sensitive and most beautiful manipulative tools, we mould your gee lovingly into the general shape of Pat Kenny's nose."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. I used to love Kenny Live. I'd love for my gee to look like Pat's nose."

"Yes. It's popular this month what with him turning sixty and all. The advertisement in Alive! got us a lot of new customers. Margaret, put on the kettle. Brenda, heat up the gee tongs."

THE SECOND LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"You know him?" said Mr(s). Henderson, utterly flabbergasted.

"Of course I know him, but not in the biblical sense darling!" Rufus replied, laughing like a hyena and scaring all Mr. Jackson's second year students going by on Nassau Street on the way to Leinster House with their iced cappuccinos, little cosmopolitan fuckers.

"Okay, so, where do we start then?" asked John.

"Well," said Hendy, "let's start at the start—the Pro-Cathedral!"

So off they went on their merry little gay ways, first stopping to pick up a lovely coffee from Insomnia on Nassau Street. Along the way they sang "YMCA", annoying Dubs with fuck-the-gays mentalities.

Just as they came to the Kylemore Café, they saw some lower-ranking Green Party members (like Ciaran Sleevend, Lola's brother) picking their beloved ex-leader Trevor Sargeant off the ground, as only recently he had been mashed into the street by the Geebus. Then, suddenly, posing beside the James Joyce statue with his cane and bow-tie was none other than David Kelly.

"It's him!" exclaimed Rufus. "It's Mrs. Kelly's son from the Yellow Lounge, looking as faaabulous as ever may I say!"

Pushing out of his/her way a group of Japanese tourists who were taking photographs and making peace signs, Hendy caught a glimpse of David Kelly. He was his/her key to finding the truth.

"Oh, David?!" squealed Rufus, in his most alluringly gay voice.

"Ah, Rufus, howya?" replied David, just before Rufus jumped on him and gave him a randy hug. This unfortunately was too much for the poor old man who wasn't used to all this homosexual activity. He fell immediately to the ground, clutching his chest and shouting, "Me heart, me heart!"

"Mr. Kelly!" interjected Hendy suddenly, knowing that time was running out, "do you know anything about a young child called Henderson?"

Clearly in breathing difficulty, Mr. Kelly said nothing but removed a yellowed envelope from his breast pocket and pointed it at Mr(s). Henderson. In a fashion that would imply death in a Hollywood film, Mr. Kelly breathed his last and died. Walking away towards Nelson's Pillar and ignoring the crowd that was gathering to gaze upon the dead David Kelly, Hendy examined the envelope and read the print on the front:

FOR THE SOLE ATTENTION OF JEREMY M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. HENDERSON.

"Jeremy M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson? Could it possibly be for me?"

"What a fucking kick ass name! Open it anyway, you HAVE to open it!" said Rufus.

"Okay then. Here it goes!"

Tearing open the envelope, Hendy found inside a single sticky post-it note bearing one word: Hellfire.

"Hellfire?" said John.

"Yeah, whatever that's supposed to mean."

Mr(s). Henderson's mind was racing. David Kelly? Joyce? Hellfire? What would Dan Brown do?

"Hellfire..." says John. "Hellfire...Club? It's up in the Dublin Mountains. I went there with the YMCA on a cruising expedition. I really enjoyed myself. It was much better than the toilets in Eason's which is where we went the previous year."

"Hellfire Club?" said Hendy. "Do you reckon we should go there? Perhaps there'll be a clue."

"Oh, adventure. I love it!" said Rufus, rubbing his crotch against Joyce's stick.

In the background, the Greens were hoisting Trevor Sargent onto their shoulders as he listened with interest to the gays' conversation.

"But how will we get there?" said John, puzzled, as in the distance somewhere "Leaving for Paris No. 2" played.

"We can ride on my fabulous bus," said Rufus, "and there's plenty of dress-up and dress-down material on it!"

"Bus?" said John, always one step behind Rufus (just as Rufus likes it, I might add).

And then, as if by fairy magic (or by Bram), a pink, fluffy bus appeared from nowhere, driven by an unnamed sexy German.

"Hi," he said, "you get on de bus?"

"Sure," said Rufus, with a twinkle in his eye and a glimmer in his cock.

"1.70 please," said Hendy to the driver.

"Ladies on free to de bus," he replied.

"But I'm a not a lady," said Hendy. "I'm a man."

"That's vot dey all say in Germany. Did you never vonder vy old German vomen are so fucking ugly?"

"Actually, no, but thanks for that anyway."

So they all had great fun on the Gaybus (as opposed to the Geebus) all the way to the Dublin mountains. When they alighted, the bus suddenly disappeared in a poof of pink smoke, and there they were, all three gays alone in front of the Hellfire Club.

"Wow, it's so...phallic," said Rufus.

"It looks so familiar," said Hendy. "It must be the right place."

The three gays made their ways through the doors of the desolate building and up the winding stairs. Staring around for a few moments, eventually something caught Hendy's eye. In a far corner of a darkened room, s/he caught a glimpse of a well-hidden picnic basket.

"Look gays!"

"Wow, cool," says Rufus. "I always wanted a picnic basket...they had a really nice one in the antiques shop that I want to go back and visit when it's open...IIIIIN TULSAAAA...!"

"Be quiet, Rufus, this is not the time for silliness. Can't you see this an important narrative moment?"

"Sorry darling, I didn't want to ruin the moment. I just can't help myself. I will never bay as cute as you."

Crouching down together (oooh!), the three gays went to open the box (Lol!).

"You know, gays," said John, "I've never been so close to a box in my life, apart from that time I did the macarena with Shirley Temple Bar."

"Quiet John," said Rufus, "you're ruining the moment!"

"Shut up both of you!" screamed Hendy. "I'm opening it."

"Ooooooooh!" said John and Rufus at once, creating an atmosphere of tense homosexual expectation.

Hendy winced as s/he opened the picnic basket, but soon discovered that it contained nothing more than three jam jars.

"Jam jars?!" exclaimed John. "Is that all? This is a shit adventure."

"Wait a second, John," said an irritated Hendy.

Hendy lifted up the first jar in the row, which appeared to contain thick black liquid. Opening it carefully, suddenly the air was filled with the strong stench of malt vinegar.

"Vinegar? What...?"

In the darkened room Hendy could barely make out the outline of something small and rather cucumberish protruding from the vinegar. Placing that jar on the ground, Hendy opened the second jar, which contained a rolled, yellowed piece of paper. Unrolling it, s/he and the other two read it open-mouthed.

BIRTH CERTIFICATE issued in pursuance of Births and Deaths Registration Act 1863

Number:
32.

Date and Place of Birth:
6th December 1922,
Monto.

Name:
Jeremy Michael O'Cock John Charles McQuaid Henderson.

—"What the...?" whispered Hendy.

—"Kick ass," whispered Rufus.

Sex:
N/A.

Name and Surname and Dwelling Place of Father:
John Charles McQuaid,
Archbishop's Palace, Drumcondra.

Name and Maiden Surname of Mother:
Susan "The Lips" Henderson.

—"Wow, I wish my mom had such a kick-ass name."
—"Shut up, Rufus."

Rank or Profession of Father:
Archbishop.

Signature of Registrar:
Michael James John-Joe O'Cock.

TO ALTER THIS DOCUMENT OR TO UTTER IT SO ALTERED IS A SERIOUS OFFENCE.

Stunned, the gays could only stare blankly at the third and final jam jar and wonder what shocking revelations it might contain.

"OH MY GOD WE'RE MISSING DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES!"

The shock of Rufus's sudden exclamation caused Hendy to knock over the vinegar jar, spilling its murky contents all over the floor. From the jar had come a small, shrivelled object about the size of a Macaroon bar. After a couple of seconds, they all realized what it was and suddenly shouted together:

"IT'S A PICKLED MICKEY!"

Hendy was sure his/her life could get no stranger. In silence, all s/he could do was open the third jam jar and unroll the large manuscript paper in it. S/he slowly read the hastily scrawled title:

TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY, 8TH MAY 1925.

...

The Adventures of Mr(s). Henderson and Various Other Gays.

Jeremy-Sue M. O'C. J. C. M'Q. Henderson. What a mouthful of a name for such an unfortunate character. Join him/her as s/he travels through the anachronistic world of 20th-century Dublin and beyond looking for Love and the Meaning of Life, trying along the way to unravel his/her own murky past/present in a world gone gay.

"The oddest thing I've read all year."--Gay Byrne.

"Complete and utter shite. I love it!"--Gerry Ryan.

"A human story for the 21st century."--Mary Robinson.

"A load of me cock."--Some aul'one on Capel Street.

"Completely incomprehensible."--The Irish Examiner.

"Such a load of bollocks."--Hugh Leonard.

"NOT EEN MAY RHEPABLICK!"--Éamon de Valera.

"Faaabulous."--Rufus Wainwright.

"What?"--The Observer.

"Vulgar, offensive left-wing homosexual claptrap."--Alive!

"BEST BOOK EEEEEVAAAH!"--Senator David Norris.

THE FIRST LAST GOSPEL OF MR(S). HENDERSON.

"O Jeremy, it really is you!"

So it was true. Mr(s). Henderson had lived in Papua New Guinea as a man in a relationship with the gay gay (as in the gay guy and straight guy). S/he really didn't know what to say.

"Hello?"

"Jeremy, what's wrong with you? Why are you dressed like a woman?"

"Because I am a woman darling, or at least I think so," replied Mr(s). Henderson somewhat unsurely.

"But Jeremy, don't you remember all the good times we had together in Papua New Guinea?"

"Don't call me Jeremy, please. My name is Sue now."

"But darling, you were always Jeremy to me! I never thought I'd see you again after I was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. It was so miserable darling, I had to work as a jazz singer in the filthiest clubs, and after that I had to ride dirty randy fat Italian men in pinstripe suits for money. It was terrible, Hendy, it was really was. But it's all behind me now, we can live together once again as happy homos, man and husband, once I go to the STD clinic."

"But I'm not a man!" protested Mr(s). Henderson. "I haven't a mickey! I'm here in Dublin to get a gee."

"But darling, you are a man, I know it! You're a faaabulous man! Why on earth would you want a gee? All you need is mickey."

Somewhere in the near-distance, near Harcourt Street or Adelaide Road or somewhere else pukeable, a trumpet played the French national anthem. Mr(s). Henderson jumped suddenly. S/he'd just realized it. S/he was lying to him/herself. It was all clear now. She had a sudden flashback to a dimly-lit brothel in 1920s Dublin.

FLASHFLASHFLASH

A load of holy aul'ones standing around with pointy crucifixes. The strong stench of incense and holy place, but it wasn't a holy place (though it was a holey place, but that's another story).

"There's the bastard," says some withered old nun.

"And there's the hoor," says another old bat.

"Cut off its mickey and kill the hoor," came a booming voice from the far distance, as if amplified by Gawd himself.

"But General McQuaid, what does the third commandment say?"

"And you're asking me, God himself of Dublin, almost? How dare you be so impertinent! Off with your habit! Now kill the hoor and cut the bastard's mickey off!"

"Yes, my Lord and my God."

Suddenly Mr(s). Henderson remembered the screaming of hoors and the grinding of teeth, from the next room. And then s/he knew...the hoor that screamed was his/her mother. But suddenly the screaming faded and s/he recalled a sharp pain in the mickey area...

FLASHFLASHFLASH

And Rufus was lifting up his skirt.

"O, sorry girls, did I ruin the moment?"

Amid all the confusion and flashing, Mr(s). Henderson and the gay guy both failed to notice Rufus still there waiting and wondering why he was no longer the centre of attention (a one-man guy in the morning, the same in the afternoon).

"O, gay guy!" exclaimed Hendy suddenly.

"Yes darling?" answered Rufus.

"No, not you, him—the gay guy from gay guy and straight guy."

We're now on Diabelli Variation No. 31 as Beethoven refers to himself as his compositional life comes to an end, just as Mr(s). Henderson's odyssee comes to an end.

"Yes..." said Hendy, "...John!"

"O Hendy, you remembered!" shouted John, the gay guy.

"Yes, John...I know now. I was the son of a hoor from the Monto. McQuaid made the Legion kill my mother and cut off my mickey, and that's how I became a manwoman!"

"But why, Hendy? Why would they do that?"

"I don't know John, but I have to find out. I'll get to the bottom of it if it's the last thing I do!"

"OooooOOoooOoOooo!" says John, comme usual.

Rufus's ears pricked up suddenly. "Darlings, do I sense a gay adventure coming on?"

"Ooo!"

"I have to know the truth. I won't rest until I know why they killed my mother and cut off my mickey. But where shall I start?"

FLASHFLASH

Aaaaaa.

---Men.

"I'll get you lot back, I will! How dare you come into my Olde Knockin' Shoppe and kill my hoors and cut off their children's mickeys! I always knew you Catholics were bastards. I'll show the world what a pack of hypocritical holy fuckers yez are and what a dirty prick that Archbishop of yours is!"

Silence. Then the sound of matches being lit and screaming and the smell of singed hair.

"You bastards! You'll regret this! It'll be on the front page of the Anglo-Irish Times tomorrow, you just wait! Geraldine loves a bit of gossip. I'll send my son along with the news, be sure of that. Go get down on your knees and pray to your pope you fuckin' papists!"

"That's enough from you you filthy proddy!" shouts Frank Duff from the door as he fires a bottle of black Protestant porter at Mrs. Kelly, narrowly missing her singed head. "Smash those ashes, Sister Paphaloushis!"

"No! No!" screamed Mrs. Kelly. "Not Mr. Kelly's ashes! And that lovely jam jar I got as a present from Kitty O'Shea!"

"That proved English prostitute, eh?" shouted Frank Duff. "Smash it sister!"

The sound of smashing glass and the screams of Mrs. Kelly, good Protestant as she was.

"Now, you heard what the Archbishop said, kill her."

"You won't get away with this, yiz feckers! I..I..."

DONG.

DONG.

DONG.

Mrs. Kelly couldn't believe her luck. It was a sign from the Protestant God, Jehovah. "The Angelus," she whispered silently. "Thank Jaysus, for once."

The nuns and Frank Duff all prostrated themselves suddenly towards Rome, momentarily oblivious to their murderous mission given to them by His Lordship and Quasihemidemisemigodness McQuaid.

"The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary..."

"AND SHE CONCEIVED OF THE HOLY SPIRIT HAIL MARY FULL OF GRACE..."

The Legion oblivious, Mrs. Kelly suddenly grabbed as many of her important belongings as she could get her hands on and ran faster than she had ever run until she was at the gates of Pat's Cathedral, before she realized she had left behind her the most important thing...baby Jeremy.

FLASH

"Mrs. Kelly knows the truth!" exclaimed Mr(s). Henderson. "But she must be long dead...where do we go from here?"

"Jeremy..." interrupted Rufus, "...I think I met her son in the Yellow Lounge!"

TO BE CONTINUED.

Gaybo's Hammer.

Hello there, hello, hello, and welcome to the latest installment of the little Blog of the Bram, yes, that's the one, thank you very much, well done to you, well done.

Now in the course of the little position of the Ombudsman of the Road Saftety of the little old Gaybo of the uncles which was given thank you very much, it was decided that all those persons of the driving persuasion in the little old town of the Dublin would be encouraged to park themselves in a manner becoming to that of little old citizens of the municipal area—ye wha' Gay?—municipal area of the Dublin of the city.

So, to whom it concerns, for that reason and for that reason alone and for a number of other little reasons thank you very much good old uncle Gaybo has decided that persons discovering the cars of other persons parked in an incorrect manner will be entitled to break the windscreen of the offender's car with a specially made little hammer of the colour red which would be issued to all those little driving people of Ireland. And so, there's one for everyone in the audience. Thank you, well done, well done.

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?"

WAIT A MINUTE...!

The last time we left gallant Mr(s). Henderson we had just been confronted with the shock revelation that s/he was actually Jeremy, the long-lost lover of the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy). Confused? I wouldn't blame you.

So in true sonata-allegro style, let us have a brief recapitulation, which I promise will be nothing more than a condensed and tonally modified repeat of the exposition.

Somewhere along the way we learned of Mr(s). Henderson's roots. She was the bastard child of a prostitute who worked in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe and who was killed in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion of Mary exacted holy retribution on the poor little child by cutting off his (yes, his) mickey with the Holy Knife of Padre Pio and sending him/her into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. S/he eventually discovered how she was different when one of the evil nuns waz just abou' to wash her gee an' seen she hadn't even go' wan, an' it looked like she used to have a mickey.

So there we are. We do not know what happened between this incident somewhere around 1930 and the present day, which is somewhere in time between 1970 and 1998 (we just haven't decided yet).

We were first told that Mr(s). Henderson was a manwoman, but not a womanman. Therefore we can assume that s/he is more of a man, even though s/he appears to consider him/herself as a woman. S/he starred in that terrible adaptation of Roger Rabbit which flopped on Broadway, and then moved to Ballymena and worked as a tailor(ess) for J. Asha's sweatshop. S/he tried to get married to Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair City, but it didn't work because the Nordy laws wouldn't allow it for all sorts of complicated reasons.

When this failed to work out, Mr(s). Henderson began roaming the plains of North America searching for something called Love, with the help of his/her beaver friend Anne Gyna. Somehow whilst floating along the Miss'hippy Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna came upon a luminous pink castle which just so happened to be inhabited by Rufus Wainwright, who took a rather homosexual shine to our hero(ine) Mr(s). Henderson. As the painful memories of his/her time with the Magdalene Sisters flooded back to his/her (and the river flooded thanks to that dam beaver Anne Gyna) s/he made a dash for the nearest wormhole which transported him/her straight back to Howth Castle.

Once in Howth s/he decided to visit Gay Byrne but realized he had defected to Ballsbridge, the bastard. Instead, s/he got a DART into Connolly Station and went to visit the Pro-Cathedral where, without realising, s/he came across the very baptismal font that had been used to break down the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe in 1925 where his/her poor mother had been killed. Does s/he know his/her true heritage? We're not sure just yet. Anyway, after almost coming close to finding out thanks to the old sacristan, s/he fled the Pro on the sacristan's death to buy some knickers in Boyers and curtains in Guineys like a true aul'fella/one, though we would be hoping aul'fellas wouldn't be buying knickers, or curtains for that matter.

After that, his/her attention was grabbed by the ad for gee transplants on the side of the bus that knocked down Trevor Sargent on his bike. In search of information on gee transplants, s/he came to the Mater Hospital where s/he was referred to the bumbling Dr More, who after much coaxing gave him/her an information leaflet on gee transplants. When this information proved unsatisfactory, s/he ran to Knobs & Knockers of Nassau Street only to discover that they couldn't help either. Once again that gallant homosexual Rufus came to his/her rescue with the help of a gay pride parade and some ridiculously camp choreography. Among Rufus's legion of gay dancers s/he discovered none other than the gay guy (from gay guy & straight, etc.) who addressed him/her as his long-lost love Jeremy with whom he had lived in Papua New Guinea before he was relocated to Chicago during the Depression. We also don't know how he got from Chicago to Nassau Street, and neither do we know how Mr(s). Henderson got from the Magdalene witches to Broadway to Ballymena to North America and to Papua New Guinea somewhere in between. We did know that s/he went Down Under at some stage, but we thought that was just a euphemism.

What will happen to our heros and hero(ine)s? Get the fuck down the stairs and we'll tell you later. Mickey!

TO BE CONTINUED.

SO LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR GEE TRANSPLANT

1. WHAT IS A GEE TRANSPLANT?

A gee transplant is a simple operation in which a lady's gee is replaced with another lady's gee (or alternatively an artificial gee). It's virtually painless and can be performed under local anaesthetic in about ten minutes.

2. WHY ON EARTH WOULD I WANT TO BUY AN OSTRICH?

Reasons for having gee transplants vary. Many ladies find that with age their gee works less and less. In some cases gees may be worn out due to wear and tear. In other cases gees are inconvenient in size and shape. Whatever your reasons for having a gee transplant, be confident that your doctor will be with you all the way.

But what about me? wondered Mr(s). Henderson as s/he desperately scanned the pages searching for an answer to his/her desperate question. There was no mention of mickeys at all. Clearly gee transplants were only for ladies who already had gees...

How on earth could s/he have a gee transplant if s/he never had a gee in the first place? Poor Mr(s). Henderson. Perhaps s/he'd never have a gee after all...

In a last ditch attempt to find the answer to his/her question, Mr(s). Henderson lifted up his/her skirt and made a dash straight for Nassau Street. Once there, s/he ran straight into that well-named shop, Knobs & Knockers. The old man behind the counter wearing the cheeky t-shirt was startled at Mr(s). Henderson's sudden appearance and gazed at him/her with surprise.

"Yes dear?" he said eventually.

"I want a gee," said Mr(s). Henderson flatly and slightly out of breath.

"Excuse me?" replied the man, startled.

"A gee."

"Gee...I'm sorry dear, but this is Knobs & Knockers. You're looking for Gees & Gooters, which is in Fizbra."

"What? You mean I ran all the way here for nothing?" said Mr(s). Henderson, clearly frustrated. "Well, well,...that's a load of mickey!"

"Excuse me, madam," said the old man gesturing to an old lady who had collapsed on the other side of the shop, "but you're disturbing our other customers."

"...MICKEY!" shouted Mr(s). Henderson suddenly.

Just then from nowhere, Rufus Wainwright appeared kitted out with fairy wings and feathers stuck up his arse, followed by an entire gay pride parade marching down the street. Rufus pranced into Knobs & Knockers admiring the knobs as he went and put his arm around Mr(s). Henderson.

"Darling, don't get in such a tizzy. Come to Berlen with me and my happy homos."

"Queers! Queers! Reverse! Reverse!" shouted the old man behind the counter suddenly, as he morphed into Father Jack.

"Oh, do behave," said Rufus calmly as he waved his magic wand (!) and made the aul'fella disappear in a poof of smoke, if you'll pardon the pun. With another flick of his wrist the shop was suddenly transformed into a stage lit by dimmed pink lights and the entire parade began to dance around Rufus and Mr(s). Henderson in circles. This can't be happening, thought Mr(s). Henderson to him/herself. Then for some reason, s/he recognized the gay guy (as in the gay guy and straight guy) amongst all the dancing queers. Slow motion and crossed looks.

"O, Jeremy!" he shouted to him/her. "It really is you!"

The Monologue of the Sacristan

The last time we left Mr(s). Henderson, s/he had arrived at Howth Castle and Environs through the magical tunnel that s/he found after running away from Rufus at the Yellow lounge. S/he decided to visit old Gaybo while s/he was in the area. But, upon knocking on his door and with its new Polish occupants telling her to go and fuck, s/he remembered that he had moved to the little Ballsbridge, the bastard. Hello there, well done.

Back home (Ireland) again, s/he got the DART from Howth into Connolly Station, for the laugh. S/he wanted to visit the Pro-Cathedral to offer up a few prayers for the Pope's intentions like that the good people at the Look Ten Years Younger show on TV3 would accept his request to be on the telly and to remove the black rings under his eyes which age him terrible.

-----Papal Intermission----

Just as a matter of interest, in Poland when Pope John Paul II died, the government couldn't face the consequences, considering the results of the opinion Pole from The Polish Times saying that 90% of Polish people would convert to Judaism if the there was no longer a Polish Pope. The other 10% would become Muslims for some odd reason. This would result in increased usury, circumcision and would decimate the flourishing Polish pork industry. To prevent such a national catastrophe, the government put a ban on any foreign media and pretended that John Paul II hadn't died and acted as if he hadn't. In the interest of public morality and safety, the national broadcaster ran stock footage of the late Pontiff everyday.

------Return to Main Feature---------

After praying for the Pope's intentions, s/he decided to have a look around the Pro-Cathedral in all its splendour. S/he stood by the pews wondering if McQuaid had ever been there. He/she spotted a "Have You Ever Considered The Priesthood" poster on the notice board and thought mmm, well maybe when I had a mickey. Throwing his/her eyes back into the church, he/she found a very interesting baptismal font that had once been broken in two pieces but was now sellotaped and Pritt-Stuck back together courtesy of Reads of Nassau Street. He/she sensed he/she was not alone. Within seconds of drama, a very old man stood near him/her with a warm smile.

-There are no Confessions being heard today.
-O, I'm not here for Confession. I'm just in for a little bit of an auld pray.
-What? In all my 105 years here, I've not yet once come across one genuine soul praying. Catholics don't pray anyway. They just recite shite. Not that I believe any of it. I'm only in it for the money. But, I've seen through it all. I'm a bit of an agnostic myself. That McQuaid, he was a bastard. He used to be slappin' the kids that came in for Confirmation...in the face!

---Dilly-dally sideline----

McQuaid standing up on his high altar. All the little young ones in their dresses kneeling down.

-What is the third Commandment!? boomed McQuaid.
-Eh, eh, thou shall not commit adultery?
-Wrong. SLAP! And how dare you say such a filthy word in MY Pro-Cathedral! I bet you're off committing adultery every night with anyone that'll have you! I'll tell you what'll happen to you. You'll end up like those hoors around in the Monto!
-I'm nine!...(cries).

----End of dilly-dally-------

-They only come in looking for Confession and/or sanctuary. Just like after the Battle of Monto. I remember all those hoors coming down here 'fessin' up after their sins and looking for sanctuary too. The Legion were looking to kill them. The Legion stole that baptismal font to break in the door of Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, stupid pack of holy gobshites. Mrs. Kelly was a grand woman. I had to pretend to hate her for the simple reason that she was a Protestant or I would have lost me job. Sure I remember de Valera praying in here for the soul of Douglas Hyde that he wouldn't go to hell for being a Protestant while his funeral was going on up in St. Pat's until McQuaid came in and slapped him with his bishop's mitre...in the face!...and told him that it was blaphemous to pray for the damned. Fuckin' eejit. And sure all the time he was off fiddlin' young fellas' mickeys.

By now, Mr(s). Henderson was dead. Well, no, but her brain was melting out of her ear. Suddenly, with no warning at all, the auld fella just died. Mr(s). Henderson had witnessed the death of the oldest living servant of the Church on earth and also the oldest man in Ireland. He was 115 after all, fair play to him. Didn't stop him going to hell for being a blasphemer though. Mr(s). Henderson considered lighting a candle for him, but from nowhere a ghostly bishop’s mitre flew towards her and slapped her...in the face! She then remembered the words of wisdom of McQuaid and just left. She noticed the sacristan’s face was going purple and beginning to melt and fall apart. This was his punishment for thinking he was atheist. Stupid auld fella.

To be continued…!

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!