Social Democrats Fight to the Death

Following the departure of Stephen Donnelly TD from the Social Democrats party, remaining co-leaders Roisin Shortall and Catherine Murphy will Fight to the Death in order to see Who is Better.

Ringside seats will be available for the public spectacle of a left-of-centre bitchfight, which is to take place in a large purple boxing ring, to be erected specially on the lawn of Leinster House, Merrion Square, Dublin Two.

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.

The Most Reverent "the Bish" Elizabeth "Emily" Bishop.

As I sit here, seemingly intellectually, with the daily edition of The Nova Scotia Times, I warn people not to read my poytree-- it's hard work.

I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.

Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?

The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.

"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.

"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.

"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."

I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.

"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.

My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.

I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.

The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).

"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.

The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.

Wha'?

Dear Yoplait (Made in Ireland by: Glanbia Consumer Foods, Citywest Business Campus, Dublin 24. LoCall: 1850 20 23 66),

I know things are tough all over and ain't getting any better. Things are more expensive to produce. Consumers are poor. Everywhere you look somebody is telling you to reduce/reuse/recycle or to be green. Cigarettes cost loads and I have to mop floors. I feel the pain. But none of the above complaints give you the right to make the lids on your yoghurts so thin that it is impossible to remove them without them fucking tearing at least twice. What the fuck?

Yours sincerely,
L.

Mary Kenny is such a flange-between-two-wooden-posts. WOOF WOOF.

"Sh00-wiz! Get yer shoo-wiz! Fresh of de back offa Clark's lorry! Tree fura you-row."

Sinatra plays as people try to get through town on a regular Wednesday.

"Good morning."
"I'm sorry, I don't understand. I'm too massively geared outa me head."
"Well, this is corner of Marlborough and Abbey."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realise you're from America. What state?"
"Eh, Vermont..."
"Ooooh, delightful! I love trees."

"On a scale of one to ten, how successful do you think the Northern Ireland peace process has been?"

"Well, I don't think it's that simple. You can't just put it on a number line. It's a complex issue with many facets."

"Eh yeah right. On a scale of one to ten, how sexually active are you?"

"You're not from 'round here, are you?"

"No, I'm Hungarian. On a scale of one to ten, how Hungarian do you think I look"

Less than one millionth of a reality. It's almost a good enough excuse to go get stoned. But Jeff wasn't sure. He needed proof. Good thing his friends had an educational exercise video where hot girls ran around in tight wet t-shirts and talked about the use of recreational drugs. I mean REALLY hot girls.

So, you wanna know about drugs, huh? (Sandy, stop pouring gently-heated caramel all over my breasts, hee hee!) They're bad news, boys. But, then again, so am I! Would you say no to me, hmmmm?

From that day on Jeff was stoned off his face all the time. He was at peace within and without himself and he often masterbated. He began to see what Matthew Bellamy was getting at in "City of Delusion". But in his personal persuit of justice (as he called it), he only got as far as his small collection of butterfly wings hanging on the back of his bedroom door. His parents got worried when he disappeared for several days and was found eating the remains of a red squirrel in St. Anne's Park, Raheny, Dublin Five.

A python snake named Monty. Fair play to Monty. He kicked the ass off those pesky Italians and/or German forces over there in... err, whatchacallit?... Kilmainham?

As the bombs fall, the Eagles play a gig in the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles, California. "Oh, Johhny" they sing. "There was an aul woman that lived in the woods, Oooooh oooohhooooohhooo, baby!" They never really got the idea of music. They made their money and you can't doubt that. If you listen really closely you will realise that it's all about sex. And, why wouldn't it be? Ask Holy Healy and she'll blush.

Martha was at the gig and then got trashed on Virginia Avenoo. She subsequently died but that's hardly relevent. The post mortem found a small microphone lodged between her upper left molars. There's a pun to be made there somewhere. But until the coroner releaese the details it's considered to be in bad taste. I'm sure the microphone itself was in bad taste but that is too. Good thing this is fictitious.

RUFUS in a large swimming pool wearing a general's uniform. D. Norris watching closely. (Now I can use the Rufus label and the D Norris label. I'm not as stupid as I look. This blog is perpetually innovative.)

Climb Everest, they say. It's good craic and there's a good chance you'll die before you reach the second camp. More than likely though, you'll get mugged by a so-called tourist guide from Mongolia. Then, you're fucked. Whereas the clever bastard that nicked your wallet is off to Dubai for three weeks for fun frollics and maybe more. Emphasis on the maybe more. Whores all a-hootin'. "Ooooh, Western money" they'll shout as they show your mugger things that he has only seen in FHM.

Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down, ooooooh!
Mah woman's a lesbo and I'm feelin' down.
Whisky whisky whisky whisky, drown.

So, this is like a responsive anthem. Those who find solace in it, you're obviously highly delusional and/or in search of some form of leadership or dominance in your life. You've presumably tried Communism and have now turned to the web at large. Typing "help me my life is ruined" into a search engine brought you here. Poor fuck.

What the fuck?!