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.

A prayer to gee.

O Gee with your teeth,
please stay away from my bed tonight:

I'm tired and don't want to be eaten by you
or any other member of the genital family.

Why do you haunt me with your unforgiving glances
and mystifying eyes?

Go now and haunt Bob Geldof.

A-women.

Excuse us while we consecrate a new host!

The man who...

Joseph Donnelly, a homeless, jobless, wannabe alcoholic roamed the streets of London (play the Streets of London!!) on a night of light drizzle. It was one of those nights that you get wet and then feel really hot because of it. You know the ones. It gets sticky and clammy. This didn't apply to Joseph because he was only wearing a tank-top and a sock. The very sight of him would make you cross the road to avoid passing him. People actually did this as he plodded across the slightly shaky Millennium Bridge.

"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.

"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.

Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.

It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.

But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.

"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."

Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.

"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).

"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.

He's... he's over there. Look out!"

Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.

"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.

And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.

P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.

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GERRY RYAN AND VIAGRA FOR THE LIPS

NEWSFLASH: Today in RTÉ, famed radio presenter and fat Gerry Ryan pioneered the newest medical treatment for men's health, Viagra for the Lips.

"Mrs. Ryan left me because she said my lips weren't sexy enough, so I decided to launch my own brand of male health products so that men can have the best rides possible. I just thought it would be great if you could have lips as hard as your cock for a bit of an aul' shag."

The Legion of Mary protested outside RTÉ holding banners which read "Jesus and Mary hate the Gerry Ryan Show", but nobody cares about them because they're nothing but a bunch of holy aul'ones.

Well done Gerry.

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.

...

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?"

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.

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...

The Curious Incident of Dr More in the Night.

Dr: "Hello there, what's your problem?"
Woman: "I'm pregnant."
Dr: "O dear, I'm not sure how we treat that, I fell asleep for the bit in medical school where they talked about tropical diseases."
Woman: "No, I'm pregnant."
Dr: "O, let me see. I'll get my stethoscope. Big breh."
Woman: "What?"
Dr: "Big breh."
Woman: "What did you say? Are you slagging me melons?"
Dr: "What?"
Woman: "O, whatever."
Dr: "I just checked your urine sample and...well, it appears you actually have prostate cancer."
Woman: "But that's impossible, I don't have a prostate!"
Dr: "O really? I'm sorry, I must have switched off for that part of anatomy and physiology. Do you have a mickey then?"
Woman: "Are you taking the piss?"
Dr: "Well, I just did a moment ago, but I can get Susan to look at it if you'd prefer a woman doctor to do it. Or that Masterson woman, she's pretty good at sorting out mickeys."
Woman: "Doctor, I don't know what's wrong with you, but you're just freaking me out."
Dr: "O. It seems that was actually the urine sample of a 74 year-old male patient of mine. That explains why it didn't show you up as being pregnant. I play the organ you know."
Woman: "You what?"
Dr: "Eh, never mind. Big breh."