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.
Showing posts with label whore. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whore. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, October 13, 2008
Paul's demise.
Time: 5am.
Date: Wednesday, April 13th, 1966.
Place: Prince's Parade, Liverpool.
"John, why don't we do it in the road?" asked Yoko Ono.
"Darlin', someone would see us. But if you're talking about doing IT, sure."
It's surely a challenge to get a firm to move a piano all the way from Abbey Road to the Mersey docks with no questions asked. Especially if you're John Lennon. Buying the rope wasn't going to be easy either, but then the idea came; get Ringo to do it.
As they stood on the quays of the River Mersey they undressed Paul's body and tied his mickey to the Yamaha piano.
"Let me take you down, Paul, 'coz I'm I'm going to Strawberry Beds in Dublin to hide out for a while. Christ, you know it ain't easy, Paul, having you dead and all. If only you hadn't wanted to leave the group and become a paperback writer. We were going to make it through it, but you had your dreams of writing complete shite for people to read while they take their stupid holidays back to the U.S.S.R.! You were perverted, diverted! I thought we were in the same tree, but no-one I think is in my tree anymore."
As he lowered the piano (Paul following as his mickey was firmly tied onto the piano's leg) into the river the remaining Beatles sang "A Day in the Life".
John then sang "All You Need Is Love" while Yoko ran around in circles, pulling stupid faces and shouting "NUMBER NINE" over and over again.
"Hey, bitch, you know if you said that backwards it would sound like you were saying 'turn me on, dead man'" said Ringo.
"Ooooooh, spooky!" said all involved at once.
"Hey, I've got an idea," said George, "....let's get a curry!"
"Oh, what a fabulous idea. I know a great place on Lime Street," followed Ringo. "Is he away from detection yet, John?"
"I can't even see the piano. They'll never find him unless they follow the secret clues that I plan on leaving on our next album. I want to call it "Let's Kill Our Bassist" or something to that effect anyway."
"Subtle," said George.
"Wakka wakka, baboo!" mumbled Yoko.
And so Macca was no more. He was brutally murdered by the other Beatles and dumped in the Mersey. God love him. Secret interviews were held in Paul's parents' house and a replacement was soon found. Unfortunately it fooled nobody and in 1970 it was too ridiculous to continue and the band split due to "internal problems". But everyone knew it was just because Eamon Dunphy couldn't sing.
Date: Wednesday, April 13th, 1966.
Place: Prince's Parade, Liverpool.
"John, why don't we do it in the road?" asked Yoko Ono.
"Darlin', someone would see us. But if you're talking about doing IT, sure."
It's surely a challenge to get a firm to move a piano all the way from Abbey Road to the Mersey docks with no questions asked. Especially if you're John Lennon. Buying the rope wasn't going to be easy either, but then the idea came; get Ringo to do it.
As they stood on the quays of the River Mersey they undressed Paul's body and tied his mickey to the Yamaha piano.
"Let me take you down, Paul, 'coz I'm I'm going to Strawberry Beds in Dublin to hide out for a while. Christ, you know it ain't easy, Paul, having you dead and all. If only you hadn't wanted to leave the group and become a paperback writer. We were going to make it through it, but you had your dreams of writing complete shite for people to read while they take their stupid holidays back to the U.S.S.R.! You were perverted, diverted! I thought we were in the same tree, but no-one I think is in my tree anymore."
As he lowered the piano (Paul following as his mickey was firmly tied onto the piano's leg) into the river the remaining Beatles sang "A Day in the Life".
John then sang "All You Need Is Love" while Yoko ran around in circles, pulling stupid faces and shouting "NUMBER NINE" over and over again.
"Hey, bitch, you know if you said that backwards it would sound like you were saying 'turn me on, dead man'" said Ringo.
"Ooooooh, spooky!" said all involved at once.
"Hey, I've got an idea," said George, "....let's get a curry!"
"Oh, what a fabulous idea. I know a great place on Lime Street," followed Ringo. "Is he away from detection yet, John?"
"I can't even see the piano. They'll never find him unless they follow the secret clues that I plan on leaving on our next album. I want to call it "Let's Kill Our Bassist" or something to that effect anyway."
"Subtle," said George.
"Wakka wakka, baboo!" mumbled Yoko.
And so Macca was no more. He was brutally murdered by the other Beatles and dumped in the Mersey. God love him. Secret interviews were held in Paul's parents' house and a replacement was soon found. Unfortunately it fooled nobody and in 1970 it was too ridiculous to continue and the band split due to "internal problems". But everyone knew it was just because Eamon Dunphy couldn't sing.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Hoorin' around on Montgomery Street
Back in the fine days when a youngfla could get up in the morning and go down Monto for a quick ride with a prostitute before work, people were happy. At least, Michael was happy. One July morning he was feeling more than a little randy after passing Ann Summers on O'Connell Street and fancied a bit of the old in-out. So, he nipped around to the Monto for to see what he could see.
The (w)hole area was swarming with hoors and specialists sex shops and all that sort of thing, well done. You'd find all the durty aul' fellas knocking (pun not especially intended, but take it [no pun intended] as you will) around the place aswell as a few decent skins (but not many). Bang Bang was often seen hanging around street corners behind the Pro-Cathedral. He wasn't interested in sex, he just thought he was under enemy fire and was sheltering himself from the pesky Boers that had killed some of his friends in the Royal Dublin Rifles Divisions with pineapples.
Michael was into strange things when it came to sexual relations. He was a fan of "Juliette" by the infamous Marquis de Sade. So, he was keeping an eye out for a young woman with a particular twinkle in her eye as he walked along with hands in his pockets.
"Afternoon Prince Albert," said Michael cheerfully.
"Eh, I don't know what... what you're talking about young man. I'm... I'm not ....Prince Albert!"
"Oh, sorry old chap, no harm done!" replied Micheal and he continued whistling "Good Old Desk" by Harry Nilsson. Of course, Michael knew it was the Prince, but didn't want to make a fuss. He'd see him the following week anyway.
Eventually, whatever it was that Michael was looking for in a girl was found in the eye and brasserie of a twenty-something blond wearing a long dark-blue coat. Their eyes met and the prospect of business drew her towards him.
"Hello, dear. How are we this afternoon?"
"We're surely fine and dandy. We're also very naked under this coat if you're interested."
"Well, you know, I think I am. You're just the sort of whore I'm looking for right now. How much for the afternoon, you little tart?"
"You seem like a regular, you should know the going rates. I'm no different that the other trollops that do these streets. We have a union, you know! Larkin helped us set it up. We didn't know how to thank him enough....."
"Riiiight... So, back to me ridin' ya... How would you like the payment? I've got cash on me, I don't know if I've enough though. Eh, I think I've my laser too. Yeah, here in my inside pocket. Oh, I've some travellers' cheques too in sterling and Australian dollars. --rummaging within-- Ah, and here's a scratch card with three £60s on it."
"Hmmm... is that all you have? No vouchers for Clarks shoe shops? We only take shoe-related currency or payment methods. Even if you have a couple pairs of Crocs handy, that'd do fine. Unfortunately we've had to stop taking Dr. Martin's because of all the forgeries doing the rounds at the moment. Janet down the road there accepted six pairs in payment for a good-hard-shag and it turned out they were fakes. That wouldn't even get you the most basic treatment on any market, let me tell you."
"Eh, yeah," said Michael as he stepped slowly away from the whore. Unfortunately for him he didn't stop, look or listen and was mowed down by an oncoming tram destined for Milltown. God love 'em. It wasn't his fault that the hoor's obsession with shoes had gone so barmy, so off-the-bleedin'-wall, so consuming, so idiotic and nutty that it actually inadvertently caused his death.
The Dublin coroner's court returned a verdict of death by misadventure. The hoor faced no charges. Bitch.
The (w)hole area was swarming with hoors and specialists sex shops and all that sort of thing, well done. You'd find all the durty aul' fellas knocking (pun not especially intended, but take it [no pun intended] as you will) around the place aswell as a few decent skins (but not many). Bang Bang was often seen hanging around street corners behind the Pro-Cathedral. He wasn't interested in sex, he just thought he was under enemy fire and was sheltering himself from the pesky Boers that had killed some of his friends in the Royal Dublin Rifles Divisions with pineapples.
Michael was into strange things when it came to sexual relations. He was a fan of "Juliette" by the infamous Marquis de Sade. So, he was keeping an eye out for a young woman with a particular twinkle in her eye as he walked along with hands in his pockets.
"Afternoon Prince Albert," said Michael cheerfully.
"Eh, I don't know what... what you're talking about young man. I'm... I'm not ....Prince Albert!"
"Oh, sorry old chap, no harm done!" replied Micheal and he continued whistling "Good Old Desk" by Harry Nilsson. Of course, Michael knew it was the Prince, but didn't want to make a fuss. He'd see him the following week anyway.
Eventually, whatever it was that Michael was looking for in a girl was found in the eye and brasserie of a twenty-something blond wearing a long dark-blue coat. Their eyes met and the prospect of business drew her towards him.
"Hello, dear. How are we this afternoon?"
"We're surely fine and dandy. We're also very naked under this coat if you're interested."
"Well, you know, I think I am. You're just the sort of whore I'm looking for right now. How much for the afternoon, you little tart?"
"You seem like a regular, you should know the going rates. I'm no different that the other trollops that do these streets. We have a union, you know! Larkin helped us set it up. We didn't know how to thank him enough....."
"Riiiight... So, back to me ridin' ya... How would you like the payment? I've got cash on me, I don't know if I've enough though. Eh, I think I've my laser too. Yeah, here in my inside pocket. Oh, I've some travellers' cheques too in sterling and Australian dollars. --rummaging within-- Ah, and here's a scratch card with three £60s on it."
"Hmmm... is that all you have? No vouchers for Clarks shoe shops? We only take shoe-related currency or payment methods. Even if you have a couple pairs of Crocs handy, that'd do fine. Unfortunately we've had to stop taking Dr. Martin's because of all the forgeries doing the rounds at the moment. Janet down the road there accepted six pairs in payment for a good-hard-shag and it turned out they were fakes. That wouldn't even get you the most basic treatment on any market, let me tell you."
"Eh, yeah," said Michael as he stepped slowly away from the whore. Unfortunately for him he didn't stop, look or listen and was mowed down by an oncoming tram destined for Milltown. God love 'em. It wasn't his fault that the hoor's obsession with shoes had gone so barmy, so off-the-bleedin'-wall, so consuming, so idiotic and nutty that it actually inadvertently caused his death.
The Dublin coroner's court returned a verdict of death by misadventure. The hoor faced no charges. Bitch.
Friday, September 12, 2008
A Friday Night in Dublin, Year 2022.
Somewhere in the not too distant future, 14 years from now, Dublin is a changed place. Metro North carries boisterous skangers from Finglas to Stephen's Green every five minutes. The Irish Independent has a dirty page 3. Gay Byrne is dead, God love him. TV3 is now an adult channel, showing complete and utter American dirt every night of the week. The Spire has been blown up by the UVF. Catholicism no longer exists, and the Pro-Cathedral has been converted into a gay bar with St Kevin's Oratorio as a leather fetish shop. Clery's has become a knocking shop. Stephen's Green is filled with northside junkie bastards. The canal is full of shite. Croke Park now seats 500,000 people and the entire Phoenix Park has been converted into the Phoenix Car Park, the largest in Europe. In fact, Dublin has become pretty shit.
But not everything has changed. Dublin Bus is still shit. Capel Street is still a load of hole. Cabra is still common. Ballsbridge is still full of posh bastards. And most of all, Twenty-Ones is still a mouldy, poxy kip.
—FREE HOLE.
Inside the dark, dank abyss of Twenty-Ones, Lola Sleevend is there dancing her arse off for yet another Friday evening all alone. Despite the fact that she is now 34 years old, Lola has been coming here every week since she broke up with Keerawn back in 2006. If you do the maths, that is, of course, a grand total of 16 years of weekly holegetting. What a desperate aul' hoor she became. In the first few years, she got hole on average eight times a week, but as she got older the hole opportunities decreased proportionally. By the time Lola was approaching 30, hole was almost non-existent for her, and rightly so in a club meant for 14 year-olds. By 2022, Lola was so desperate for hole she had started offering it for free.
—FREE HOLE. Lads, would yez like yer hole?
—Eh, no thanks love, yeh can keep it.
In a far corner of that same club stood an equally old Keerawn, so desperate for hole that he had taken to showing off his mickey to any girls who passed by. Despite several courses of herbal penis-enlargement tablets, his mickey was still inordinately small. To make it worse, girls always assumed he was jewish, which was terribly unsettling for poor Keerawn. By 2022, he was so desperate for hole that he exposed his mickey all night from open to close, hoping that some passing youngone would take the hint. However, just as Lola had told him, girls would rather have a Big Mac than a Happy Meal, and the fact that he was about 20 years older than most of the girls in the place didn't help either.
—Girls, would you like to see me mickey?
—Ah jaysus, you call that a mickey?
—FREE HOLE.
—Girls, would you like to see...?
—Fuck off ya paedo!
—FREE HOLE!
—Jaysus, what a desperate aul' hoor.
—Girls, would you...?
—Jaysus, didya see that durty aul'fella?
—FREE HOLE!?
—Bleedin' hell.
—Girls...?
—FUCK OFF OR I'M CALLIN' DE GARDS!
—FREE—HOLE!!!
—JAYSUS, CLOSE YOUR LEGS WILL YA?!
And such was the way of Lola and Keerawn, a pair of desperate mid-thirtysomethings who tried too hard to get hole for too long. In spite of years of attempting to get hole in Twenty-Ones, they never succeeded. Lola's greatest success was meetin' eight mingers in one night. It's quantity, not quality, so she said. But still, it didn't do her any good, and Keerawn neither.
FREE HOLE. God love them both.
But not everything has changed. Dublin Bus is still shit. Capel Street is still a load of hole. Cabra is still common. Ballsbridge is still full of posh bastards. And most of all, Twenty-Ones is still a mouldy, poxy kip.
—FREE HOLE.
Inside the dark, dank abyss of Twenty-Ones, Lola Sleevend is there dancing her arse off for yet another Friday evening all alone. Despite the fact that she is now 34 years old, Lola has been coming here every week since she broke up with Keerawn back in 2006. If you do the maths, that is, of course, a grand total of 16 years of weekly holegetting. What a desperate aul' hoor she became. In the first few years, she got hole on average eight times a week, but as she got older the hole opportunities decreased proportionally. By the time Lola was approaching 30, hole was almost non-existent for her, and rightly so in a club meant for 14 year-olds. By 2022, Lola was so desperate for hole she had started offering it for free.
—FREE HOLE. Lads, would yez like yer hole?
—Eh, no thanks love, yeh can keep it.
In a far corner of that same club stood an equally old Keerawn, so desperate for hole that he had taken to showing off his mickey to any girls who passed by. Despite several courses of herbal penis-enlargement tablets, his mickey was still inordinately small. To make it worse, girls always assumed he was jewish, which was terribly unsettling for poor Keerawn. By 2022, he was so desperate for hole that he exposed his mickey all night from open to close, hoping that some passing youngone would take the hint. However, just as Lola had told him, girls would rather have a Big Mac than a Happy Meal, and the fact that he was about 20 years older than most of the girls in the place didn't help either.
—Girls, would you like to see me mickey?
—Ah jaysus, you call that a mickey?
—FREE HOLE.
—Girls, would you like to see...?
—Fuck off ya paedo!
—FREE HOLE!
—Jaysus, what a desperate aul' hoor.
—Girls, would you...?
—Jaysus, didya see that durty aul'fella?
—FREE HOLE!?
—Bleedin' hell.
—Girls...?
—FUCK OFF OR I'M CALLIN' DE GARDS!
—FREE—HOLE!!!
—JAYSUS, CLOSE YOUR LEGS WILL YA?!
And such was the way of Lola and Keerawn, a pair of desperate mid-thirtysomethings who tried too hard to get hole for too long. In spite of years of attempting to get hole in Twenty-Ones, they never succeeded. Lola's greatest success was meetin' eight mingers in one night. It's quantity, not quality, so she said. But still, it didn't do her any good, and Keerawn neither.
FREE HOLE. God love them both.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
"Keerawn's Ode to Lola's Gee", by Robert Frost.
I have been acquainted with the flaps of Lola Sleevend
And the dark abysses of her gee.
I have sat and drunk from the Kopparberg bottle of eternity
Drowning in washes of gee-cider.
O Lola, let me go—
Why do you keep me locked in your gee so?
I long to be free
Playing guitar,
Fixing my hair—
Not in your gee.
I long to return to Twenty-Ones
To expose my mickey to passing girls
And to hear them remark, as you did once, Lola,
"O, such a happy meal it would make."
But will it never be, Lola?
Will I spend eternity here trapped behind your flaps?
Let me go
And be free
Without woe
Here in gee.
O Lola, let me go
And let me be free
From the mystifying glances
Of the eyes of your gee...
And the dark abysses of her gee.
I have sat and drunk from the Kopparberg bottle of eternity
Drowning in washes of gee-cider.
O Lola, let me go—
Why do you keep me locked in your gee so?
I long to be free
Playing guitar,
Fixing my hair—
Not in your gee.
I long to return to Twenty-Ones
To expose my mickey to passing girls
And to hear them remark, as you did once, Lola,
"O, such a happy meal it would make."
But will it never be, Lola?
Will I spend eternity here trapped behind your flaps?
Let me go
And be free
Without woe
Here in gee.
O Lola, let me go
And let me be free
From the mystifying glances
Of the eyes of your gee...
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Historical Inaccuracy
Tonight I'd like to right a wrong, if I may. An inaccuracy that has arrived somehow in our history books as fact. The inaccuracy that I speak of is the use of the term the "Night of the Long Knives". Most people think that it refers to the purge against Rohm and the SA, among others, in Nazi Germany. This is, however, wrong. I shall now tell you the true roots of the phrase. It will take you to Dublin in the early years of Irish independence and the Irish Free State.
The story begins with an all-night Exposition and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament in St. Patrick's church in Ringsend. The particular occurrence in question happened in November 1929. Imagine the scene, a couple dozen holy auld ones kneeling on pews looking at a gold thing, undisturbed, for twelve hours. Even poor Geraldine, who had come all the way from Leixlip for the occasion, felt so bad as to leave after sneezing. The church was silent, the holy auld ones in prayer. The host-holding thingy (monstrance) sat on the altar in a way in which you've never seen a host-holding thingy (monstrance) sit on an altar ever before. That's because you've presumably never been to St. Patrick's in Ringsend. I haven't. Why would anyone want to go there? Well, anyway, it sat on the altar, in the words of an eyewitness, "in quite an astonishing manner". Bloody holy auld ones. Nobody really knows why this group of holy auld ones decided to hold their annual field trip in Ringsend. One legend may hold water. At the time, it was a popular belief that God loved even the worst places on earth. Christians flocked to the mouldiest kips they could think of to hold Masses and services of all kinds. This may have influenced the decision to go to Ringsend. After all, it was the '20s. God love them.
So, as you can imagine, the holy auld ones were all holied up after all that time being holy and praying and the like. The most exciting thing they could think of doing to splash out (in a respectable fashion) was to have a nice cup of cup somewhere. Unfortunately they were in Ringsend and it was nearing six o'clock in the morning. The only place where they could find to have a cup of tea was a pub that opened early in the morning to accommodate the drinking needs of certain folks. Seeing no alternative, the holy auld ones entered the pub with dismay. They really would have done anything to get a decent cup of tea.
As soon as the door started to open everyone in the pub spun around in the chairs. They expected some sailor and a dirty youngfla that was finished having his way with a whore down on the quays. Their gasps were met by twenty late middle-aged women with raincoats and rosary beads. The remaining holy auld ones had decided to wait in the church until nine o'clock for confessions. The customers in the pub stared at the women as they passed the dirty mirrors advertising alcoholic drinks such as Murphy's, Guinness and Tullamore Dew. As they approached the bar Mary asked the grey-haired man behind the counter for six pots of tea. The man looked up from the tap of Killkenny from which he was pouring a pint and quickly glanced at every one of the women before he said anything. He grinned to himself and said, "Jiz want milk 'n' sugar wi' da'?" Relieved at the barman's response, the holy auld ones crossed the floor and occupied most of the eastern corner of the pub. They sat uncomfortably as they were being stared at from all sides. They gave each other uneasy looks as they sat waiting for their tea.
The clientele of the pub were dirty, randy aul' bastards that had made the soil their bride or were too ugly to ever go with anybody let alone have relations. Unfortunately for the holy auld ones, the pub was also occupied by particularly randy, drunk auldflas that morning. Leo, a drunk, randy bastard offered to help the barman to carry over the tray of tea to the "fine ladies in the corner". In unfortunate fashion, Leo had the most unpleasant fall and skulled himself off the edge of the bar and left several minutes later after regaining consciousness.
After this first attempt at approaching the holy auld ones, the other druk, randy auldflas began to get ideas of their own. Poor auld ones. The drunk, randy aul' bastards started crossing the pub with grins and with greasy combs in hand running them across their balding heads and tidying their ear hair. They moved in slowly but with an increasing menace that made one holy auld one puke delicately into her hanky (the one that her neighbour had bought for her in Fatima when she was there with the parish).
The drunk, randy, aul' bastards numbered eight. The holy auld ones were, at this stage, very nervous. And rightly so, for in a flash (if you'll pardon the pun) the nearest aulfla whipped out his mickey and began wiggling it at the holy auld ones. In a moment of stress, Mrs. Kennedy withdrew a large knife from her raincoat and sliced the drunk, randy aul' bastard's mickey right off.
"Come on girls! These randy aul' men need to be taught a lesson."
At that, each of the holy auld ones retrieved from their pockets a long knife. For, you see, they were all members of the Legion. They were all armed with their standard issue emergency mickey knife. By the time they were finished, there wasn't an attached mickey left in the building. "Hmmm, that'll put a stop to their randy little ways," said Mrs. Kennedy as they walked back onto the streets of Ringsend. The incident instantly became known as the Night of the Long Knives. It was, of course, in the morning. But nothing interesting even happens in the morning, so they just said that it happened at night for a greater "Ooooh" factor.
One of the poor, then mickeyless, aul' bastards left his native Dublin because every one knew that he hadn't a mickey. He fought the insults, the hurt for a few years but left for Germany in 1934. He was barely off the boat when he found himself in a bar with four whiskeys in front of him (two empty) and talking to the barman. He began to cry and cry very loudly at that. SO much so that he didn't hear the window being smashed in at the front of the bar. The poor barman, a dissident, had legged it off somewhere. The poor mickeyless bastard was left with nobody to tell his story to. He yelled at in anger, "CURSE THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES!"
On hearing the shouts of the old man, an SS youngfla shot him. He was part of a team doing a regular around-the-town check on things when some little fucker threw a brick at him. It just missed the SS fella and smashed the window of the bar. The youngfla ran into the bar for safety and on hearing the auldfla's shouts in a foreign language, he spun around and pulled the trigger. So, that was the end of the poor, mickeyless aul' bastard. And that's how the phrase "Night of the Long Knives" reached Germany. Case Closed.
The story begins with an all-night Exposition and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament in St. Patrick's church in Ringsend. The particular occurrence in question happened in November 1929. Imagine the scene, a couple dozen holy auld ones kneeling on pews looking at a gold thing, undisturbed, for twelve hours. Even poor Geraldine, who had come all the way from Leixlip for the occasion, felt so bad as to leave after sneezing. The church was silent, the holy auld ones in prayer. The host-holding thingy (monstrance) sat on the altar in a way in which you've never seen a host-holding thingy (monstrance) sit on an altar ever before. That's because you've presumably never been to St. Patrick's in Ringsend. I haven't. Why would anyone want to go there? Well, anyway, it sat on the altar, in the words of an eyewitness, "in quite an astonishing manner". Bloody holy auld ones. Nobody really knows why this group of holy auld ones decided to hold their annual field trip in Ringsend. One legend may hold water. At the time, it was a popular belief that God loved even the worst places on earth. Christians flocked to the mouldiest kips they could think of to hold Masses and services of all kinds. This may have influenced the decision to go to Ringsend. After all, it was the '20s. God love them.
So, as you can imagine, the holy auld ones were all holied up after all that time being holy and praying and the like. The most exciting thing they could think of doing to splash out (in a respectable fashion) was to have a nice cup of cup somewhere. Unfortunately they were in Ringsend and it was nearing six o'clock in the morning. The only place where they could find to have a cup of tea was a pub that opened early in the morning to accommodate the drinking needs of certain folks. Seeing no alternative, the holy auld ones entered the pub with dismay. They really would have done anything to get a decent cup of tea.
As soon as the door started to open everyone in the pub spun around in the chairs. They expected some sailor and a dirty youngfla that was finished having his way with a whore down on the quays. Their gasps were met by twenty late middle-aged women with raincoats and rosary beads. The remaining holy auld ones had decided to wait in the church until nine o'clock for confessions. The customers in the pub stared at the women as they passed the dirty mirrors advertising alcoholic drinks such as Murphy's, Guinness and Tullamore Dew. As they approached the bar Mary asked the grey-haired man behind the counter for six pots of tea. The man looked up from the tap of Killkenny from which he was pouring a pint and quickly glanced at every one of the women before he said anything. He grinned to himself and said, "Jiz want milk 'n' sugar wi' da'?" Relieved at the barman's response, the holy auld ones crossed the floor and occupied most of the eastern corner of the pub. They sat uncomfortably as they were being stared at from all sides. They gave each other uneasy looks as they sat waiting for their tea.
The clientele of the pub were dirty, randy aul' bastards that had made the soil their bride or were too ugly to ever go with anybody let alone have relations. Unfortunately for the holy auld ones, the pub was also occupied by particularly randy, drunk auldflas that morning. Leo, a drunk, randy bastard offered to help the barman to carry over the tray of tea to the "fine ladies in the corner". In unfortunate fashion, Leo had the most unpleasant fall and skulled himself off the edge of the bar and left several minutes later after regaining consciousness.
After this first attempt at approaching the holy auld ones, the other druk, randy auldflas began to get ideas of their own. Poor auld ones. The drunk, randy aul' bastards started crossing the pub with grins and with greasy combs in hand running them across their balding heads and tidying their ear hair. They moved in slowly but with an increasing menace that made one holy auld one puke delicately into her hanky (the one that her neighbour had bought for her in Fatima when she was there with the parish).
The drunk, randy, aul' bastards numbered eight. The holy auld ones were, at this stage, very nervous. And rightly so, for in a flash (if you'll pardon the pun) the nearest aulfla whipped out his mickey and began wiggling it at the holy auld ones. In a moment of stress, Mrs. Kennedy withdrew a large knife from her raincoat and sliced the drunk, randy aul' bastard's mickey right off.
"Come on girls! These randy aul' men need to be taught a lesson."
At that, each of the holy auld ones retrieved from their pockets a long knife. For, you see, they were all members of the Legion. They were all armed with their standard issue emergency mickey knife. By the time they were finished, there wasn't an attached mickey left in the building. "Hmmm, that'll put a stop to their randy little ways," said Mrs. Kennedy as they walked back onto the streets of Ringsend. The incident instantly became known as the Night of the Long Knives. It was, of course, in the morning. But nothing interesting even happens in the morning, so they just said that it happened at night for a greater "Ooooh" factor.
One of the poor, then mickeyless, aul' bastards left his native Dublin because every one knew that he hadn't a mickey. He fought the insults, the hurt for a few years but left for Germany in 1934. He was barely off the boat when he found himself in a bar with four whiskeys in front of him (two empty) and talking to the barman. He began to cry and cry very loudly at that. SO much so that he didn't hear the window being smashed in at the front of the bar. The poor barman, a dissident, had legged it off somewhere. The poor mickeyless bastard was left with nobody to tell his story to. He yelled at in anger, "CURSE THE NIGHT OF THE LONG KNIVES!"
On hearing the shouts of the old man, an SS youngfla shot him. He was part of a team doing a regular around-the-town check on things when some little fucker threw a brick at him. It just missed the SS fella and smashed the window of the bar. The youngfla ran into the bar for safety and on hearing the auldfla's shouts in a foreign language, he spun around and pulled the trigger. So, that was the end of the poor, mickeyless aul' bastard. And that's how the phrase "Night of the Long Knives" reached Germany. Case Closed.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
THE TESTAMENT OF MRS. JOAN KELLY.
I write this testament so that one day you, Jeremy Henderson, and the world, will know the truth. I write as I am barricaded into the crypts of Christchurch Cathedral, the only place I know that I am truly safe from that damned Legion of Mary and Catholics at large ever since the Archbishop named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic".
I was born along the tramline somewhere between Windy Arbour and Cowper in 1867 to a respectable Protestant family. My father was a house-wife and my mother was an Admiral in the British Navy. I was an only child, and I was reared by my father and our maid. I left home at sixteen to marry my sweetheart, David Kelly. I never saw my parents again. Shortly afterwards I heard that my father had killed himself with an iron, and my mother was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar. After all this tumult, our now unemployed maid was often seen drunk talking to Bang Bang and puking on Charles Stewart Parnell as he went for his morning stroll on Parnell Street.
My husband David was from a well-to-do Protestant family from Rathmines, and so his parents paid for our foreign honeymoon. We went to Brighton where we met Kitty O'Shea-Parnell. Kitty, like me, had an overwhelming passion for lovely jam jars and until the day she died we corresponded and often swapped lovely jam jams with each other. At Christmas 1891 just after Charlie died, Kitty came over to visit to have a romp in my Olde Knockin' Shoppe, and during that week we held exhibitions of our favourite jam jars on Kingstown pier on a daintly table that I bought on Capel Street, just beside the mashed bananas.
I opened my Olde Knockin' Shoppe in Monto in 1888, after the premises was purchased for me by David's mammy Joqueena Kelly for my 21st birthday. I made sure that I found all the nicest looking girls in Dublin. I even imported some from Kinnegad and Tipperary, both of whom turned out to be my best hoors. The gentlemen of Dublin quickly flocked to my genial hooring establishment for all sorts of fun and frolicks, and soon I was the most famous Madam in all of Ireland. My best clients included Parnell, James Joyce, Brendan Behan's father, Bang Bang (before he was mad, when he like a bang bang every now and again), the Lord Lieutenant, the Chief Secretary, and all the gentleman British. We even had the honour of being visited by Queen Victoria who'd heard all about it from Albert, and who particularly liked the fireplace. Even Pope Leo XIII paid us a visit after we won Best Brothel in the 1896 Vatican Awards.
My husband David was very supportive of my profession and he regularly availed of the services of my hoors. Life and work for me were very successful until my spate of misfortunes began in 1916, after my beloved husband David was shot by the IRA up in the Hellfire Club for stealing picnic baskets. All I had left was my young son David Jr and my beloved Knockin' Shoppe. However, David went to fight in the Great War and I was left alone with nobody to defend me and the Knockin' Shoppe. The only protection we had were the tougher hoors and a few bottles of stout.
Times became more difficult during the War of Independence when my young clients became less interested in shagging and more interested in flying columns (their own columns). The greatest catastrophe happened after one of my hoors was killed when riding a Black and Tan when his rifle went off in his trousers and shot her straight up the gee. Some more of my hoors caught syphillis from the Black and Tans and eventually the HSE removed my Knockin' Shoppe's hooring licence and from then on we had to deal in secret.
Shortly after my hooring licence was removed I got a visit from a cloaked young man one night who handed me a ten-shilling note and asked me for my best hoor for the evening. I showed him to Susan "The Lips", my hoor who back in 1918 had won the under 21s category for hooring in the 24th Feis Gee, and I left them to it. As they were riding in the back room, suddenly I heard Susan scream. I ran in to the room only to find that the man's face had been revealed and it was none other than Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I didn't know what to say to him, as Susan cowered in the corner, covering her gee with clingfilm. McQuaid told me that if I told anybody about the fact that he had visited the Knockin' Shoppe that he'd have me excommunicated, but I told him that it didn't matter anyway because I was a Protestant, at which point he puked all over his mickey. He told me then that if I didn't keep quiet he'd have the Legion of Mary come and burn down my Knockin' Shoppe and kill me and all my hoors. I told him that if he let us live in peace that he could have free romps twice weekly, and so he agreed.
This arrangement worked out rather nicely for a couple of years until McQuaid somehow discovered the truth, that Susan had given birth to you, Jeremy, his child and heir-bastard. Somewhere in history the situation arose that gave rise to the writing of a Catholic ecclesiastical law that states that the bastard son (and his descendents thereof) of an archbishop is entitled to all the property and temporal powers held by that archbishop during his tenure once he is deceased, whether or not he dies as archbishop. When McQuaid discovered that his brief romp with Susan had caused her to become pregnant and bear a son, he immediately instructed the Legion of Mary and their commander General Frank Duff to begin the Battle of Monto.
What looked like a Catholic crusade against vice was nothing more than a smokescreen for McQuaid to kill all those who knew about his bloodline and to make sure than he had no heir-bastard who could upscuttle the church in the future. The Legion attacked my Knockin' Shoppe and burned it to the ground, killing all my hoors including your poor mother Susan. They were allowed by their religious mandate to kill only sinners (the hoors) but could not kill you or I, you as you were an innocent child and I because I was not a hoor. However, they tried their best to scorch me with holy water and Marian paraphernalia (since I was a Protestant), but this did not work, and so they burned off my hair instead. They made sure to cut off your mickey and took you to the Magdalene sisters where you would be brought up as a girl who would never know the truth about your father and your entitlement to all the riches and power of the church in the archdiocese of Dublin. When they had taken you, I retrieved your little severed mickey and preserved it in one of my last surviving jam jars in some malt vinegar from Beshoff's chipper, adding some Miracle-Gro in the hope that by the time you find it some miracle of medicine would be available in order to have it reattached.
I tell you all this, Jeremy, so that you may know the truth and that you may avenge your mother's death and that of her hoor friends by claiming your rightful inheritence from the Catholic Church, which has made all our lives so miserable. I fear also that you may need to avenge my death too, as only this morning McQuaid named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic" and I am free game to be killed by any Catholic for the reward of a plenary indulgence. I am here in Christchurch as I know it is the only place I am safe from Catholics, but now I have heard rumours that my own kind have turned against me also, and that Douglas Hyde has ordered my assassination by the IRA for giving Protestants a bad name. I shall leave this testament in the care of my son David to bring to the Hellfire Club, where my husband and I had our first romp back in 1883 and which remained our favourite hideout until he was tragically killed there in 1916. Somehow I hope that he will be able to find you and lead you there to discover the truths that you seek.
I only hope that this testament will give you the answers for which you have no doubt long searched.
—MRS. JOAN KELLY.
Hendy read the last words aloud wistfully. S/he now knew all the answers. What was next? Claim his/her inheritence? Reattach his/her mickey? His/her mind was in a daze.
Just then, before any of them could speak, they saw a fourth figure emerge from the shadows, carrying what appeared to be a bag of organic onions and a pitchfork.
"I heard it all. Now stand against the wall."
It was Trevor Sargent.
I was born along the tramline somewhere between Windy Arbour and Cowper in 1867 to a respectable Protestant family. My father was a house-wife and my mother was an Admiral in the British Navy. I was an only child, and I was reared by my father and our maid. I left home at sixteen to marry my sweetheart, David Kelly. I never saw my parents again. Shortly afterwards I heard that my father had killed himself with an iron, and my mother was killed in the Battle of Trafalgar. After all this tumult, our now unemployed maid was often seen drunk talking to Bang Bang and puking on Charles Stewart Parnell as he went for his morning stroll on Parnell Street.
My husband David was from a well-to-do Protestant family from Rathmines, and so his parents paid for our foreign honeymoon. We went to Brighton where we met Kitty O'Shea-Parnell. Kitty, like me, had an overwhelming passion for lovely jam jars and until the day she died we corresponded and often swapped lovely jam jams with each other. At Christmas 1891 just after Charlie died, Kitty came over to visit to have a romp in my Olde Knockin' Shoppe, and during that week we held exhibitions of our favourite jam jars on Kingstown pier on a daintly table that I bought on Capel Street, just beside the mashed bananas.
I opened my Olde Knockin' Shoppe in Monto in 1888, after the premises was purchased for me by David's mammy Joqueena Kelly for my 21st birthday. I made sure that I found all the nicest looking girls in Dublin. I even imported some from Kinnegad and Tipperary, both of whom turned out to be my best hoors. The gentlemen of Dublin quickly flocked to my genial hooring establishment for all sorts of fun and frolicks, and soon I was the most famous Madam in all of Ireland. My best clients included Parnell, James Joyce, Brendan Behan's father, Bang Bang (before he was mad, when he like a bang bang every now and again), the Lord Lieutenant, the Chief Secretary, and all the gentleman British. We even had the honour of being visited by Queen Victoria who'd heard all about it from Albert, and who particularly liked the fireplace. Even Pope Leo XIII paid us a visit after we won Best Brothel in the 1896 Vatican Awards.
My husband David was very supportive of my profession and he regularly availed of the services of my hoors. Life and work for me were very successful until my spate of misfortunes began in 1916, after my beloved husband David was shot by the IRA up in the Hellfire Club for stealing picnic baskets. All I had left was my young son David Jr and my beloved Knockin' Shoppe. However, David went to fight in the Great War and I was left alone with nobody to defend me and the Knockin' Shoppe. The only protection we had were the tougher hoors and a few bottles of stout.
Times became more difficult during the War of Independence when my young clients became less interested in shagging and more interested in flying columns (their own columns). The greatest catastrophe happened after one of my hoors was killed when riding a Black and Tan when his rifle went off in his trousers and shot her straight up the gee. Some more of my hoors caught syphillis from the Black and Tans and eventually the HSE removed my Knockin' Shoppe's hooring licence and from then on we had to deal in secret.
Shortly after my hooring licence was removed I got a visit from a cloaked young man one night who handed me a ten-shilling note and asked me for my best hoor for the evening. I showed him to Susan "The Lips", my hoor who back in 1918 had won the under 21s category for hooring in the 24th Feis Gee, and I left them to it. As they were riding in the back room, suddenly I heard Susan scream. I ran in to the room only to find that the man's face had been revealed and it was none other than Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I didn't know what to say to him, as Susan cowered in the corner, covering her gee with clingfilm. McQuaid told me that if I told anybody about the fact that he had visited the Knockin' Shoppe that he'd have me excommunicated, but I told him that it didn't matter anyway because I was a Protestant, at which point he puked all over his mickey. He told me then that if I didn't keep quiet he'd have the Legion of Mary come and burn down my Knockin' Shoppe and kill me and all my hoors. I told him that if he let us live in peace that he could have free romps twice weekly, and so he agreed.
This arrangement worked out rather nicely for a couple of years until McQuaid somehow discovered the truth, that Susan had given birth to you, Jeremy, his child and heir-bastard. Somewhere in history the situation arose that gave rise to the writing of a Catholic ecclesiastical law that states that the bastard son (and his descendents thereof) of an archbishop is entitled to all the property and temporal powers held by that archbishop during his tenure once he is deceased, whether or not he dies as archbishop. When McQuaid discovered that his brief romp with Susan had caused her to become pregnant and bear a son, he immediately instructed the Legion of Mary and their commander General Frank Duff to begin the Battle of Monto.
What looked like a Catholic crusade against vice was nothing more than a smokescreen for McQuaid to kill all those who knew about his bloodline and to make sure than he had no heir-bastard who could upscuttle the church in the future. The Legion attacked my Knockin' Shoppe and burned it to the ground, killing all my hoors including your poor mother Susan. They were allowed by their religious mandate to kill only sinners (the hoors) but could not kill you or I, you as you were an innocent child and I because I was not a hoor. However, they tried their best to scorch me with holy water and Marian paraphernalia (since I was a Protestant), but this did not work, and so they burned off my hair instead. They made sure to cut off your mickey and took you to the Magdalene sisters where you would be brought up as a girl who would never know the truth about your father and your entitlement to all the riches and power of the church in the archdiocese of Dublin. When they had taken you, I retrieved your little severed mickey and preserved it in one of my last surviving jam jars in some malt vinegar from Beshoff's chipper, adding some Miracle-Gro in the hope that by the time you find it some miracle of medicine would be available in order to have it reattached.
I tell you all this, Jeremy, so that you may know the truth and that you may avenge your mother's death and that of her hoor friends by claiming your rightful inheritence from the Catholic Church, which has made all our lives so miserable. I fear also that you may need to avenge my death too, as only this morning McQuaid named me an outlaw in "The Irish Catholic" and I am free game to be killed by any Catholic for the reward of a plenary indulgence. I am here in Christchurch as I know it is the only place I am safe from Catholics, but now I have heard rumours that my own kind have turned against me also, and that Douglas Hyde has ordered my assassination by the IRA for giving Protestants a bad name. I shall leave this testament in the care of my son David to bring to the Hellfire Club, where my husband and I had our first romp back in 1883 and which remained our favourite hideout until he was tragically killed there in 1916. Somehow I hope that he will be able to find you and lead you there to discover the truths that you seek.
I only hope that this testament will give you the answers for which you have no doubt long searched.
—MRS. JOAN KELLY.
Hendy read the last words aloud wistfully. S/he now knew all the answers. What was next? Claim his/her inheritence? Reattach his/her mickey? His/her mind was in a daze.
Just then, before any of them could speak, they saw a fourth figure emerge from the shadows, carrying what appeared to be a bag of organic onions and a pitchfork.
"I heard it all. Now stand against the wall."
It was Trevor Sargent.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Lola Sleevend and Lisbon.
SCENE: A school hall somewhere in the Bow-mont area. LOLA SLEEVEND approaches a desk attended by two old ladies and produces her polling card and her passport.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.
OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.
OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.
OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.
OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?
OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?
OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!
OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!
LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.
GEE!
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Hi, I'm here to vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
I'm sorry dear, this is a referendum, not an election.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
A what? O, I thought I could vote for the Green Party.
OLD LADY TWO:
No darling, that'll be the local elections next time round. This is a referendum. It's very simple really. You're asked if you agree with the constitutional amendment that accepts the Lisbon Treaty and you simply put an X next to yes or no.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But how do I know what to say? I mean, can I not just vote for the Green Party?
OLD LADY ONE:
Look, what is your fucking problem? Are you stupid? We've told you already it's a REFERENDUM. You say YES or NO. There's no voting for anyone involved.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
But my brother Ciaran is in the Green Party and he told me to vote today.
OLD LADY ONE:
And did he not say whether to vote yes or no?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
Yes.
OLD LADY TWO:
Is that sorted then?
LOLA SLEEVEND:
No. Well, I think he said vote, anyway. I'm not sure. He might have said goat, because he likes goats. I won the Feis Gee in 1999 for shoving an entire goat's head up my gee, and ever after that they named the cup after me.
OLD LADY ONE:
Is this really relevant?
OLD LADY TWO:
Take your polling card, dear.
LOLA SLEEVEND:
And what am I supposed to do with it?
OLD LADY ONE:
Shove it up your gee for all I care!
OLD LADY TWO:
Agnes!
LOLA SLEEVEND proceeds to the voting booth where she writes a large "GEE" on her polling card, though not quite as large as her own. She then proceeds to put it in her box. The box, excuse me.
GEE!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
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.
...
"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.
...
Monday, June 2, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The way things go.
My granny playing Rachmaninoff as the midgets have sex in the background.
A magic show in Stephen's Green with a greyhaired aulfella called Pat Magic. Well done. He's halfbrother of Pat Ingoldsby who does be selling his books down there where Bewley's used to be.
A pigeon called Jeffrey. Woman needs man, and pigeon must have her Jeffrey while we poison them in St Mark's, which nobody can deny. Woman needs man, but she's not allowed play Liszt. But my granny can play Rachmaninoff, fair play to her. Bang bang goes the midgets as they roide. I just love a hellbound hottie. Don't you? 'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, and makes every Sunday a treat for me, and that's meeting the Reverend Willy Wonka in the Green, a great achievement for David Kelly back in the 60s before he was skin, bones and bowtie. Mind you don't drop your chocolate. I won't, but keep your chips in the bag lest the midgets get them. To the tune of Rach 2. Rutting with Rachmaninoff. Congratulations.
Well done!
Don't feed the midgets. I got it from Agnes, didn't you know that old Hollywood is over. Mickey miiiickey mickeeey et al. Dulce ay decorum ay. Fuck Leeson Street, but don't fuck there unless you want to get arrested and spend the night up in Pearse Street Garda Station with your face red, and that's not for the sake of having a spoon up your arse either.
This is another one of those Poshbastard Leather Holiday Palace posts. Do the Masochism Tango, personally approved by Mrs Thatcher and her randy husband Dennis as Mrs Thatcher dons her pink frilly knickers all the way from Shauna's Naughty Adult Shop in Capel Street, just across the road from the Mashed Bananas. SDRAWBREEZ TWOFERAEURO. But she's old and grey now and Dennis wishes she was dead. But he's consoled by the memories of them whipping each other back in the 60s when he had his virility and agility and "ability" and other ilities, well done to him. God love him, all he has left now is disab. Hellbound hottie once more. Sure God love us all. Roide? Oh moy gawd, are you a northsoider?
Kisses. On the mickey. Puke. In the face!
That's very good. Just like Garro and his Cock, but sure we never see him in there, God love us. Well done to Rach 5 (communist) and the hot youngfla (fascist). Well done all round.
Claps.
Kisses.
A magic show in Stephen's Green with a greyhaired aulfella called Pat Magic. Well done. He's halfbrother of Pat Ingoldsby who does be selling his books down there where Bewley's used to be.
A pigeon called Jeffrey. Woman needs man, and pigeon must have her Jeffrey while we poison them in St Mark's, which nobody can deny. Woman needs man, but she's not allowed play Liszt. But my granny can play Rachmaninoff, fair play to her. Bang bang goes the midgets as they roide. I just love a hellbound hottie. Don't you? 'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, and makes every Sunday a treat for me, and that's meeting the Reverend Willy Wonka in the Green, a great achievement for David Kelly back in the 60s before he was skin, bones and bowtie. Mind you don't drop your chocolate. I won't, but keep your chips in the bag lest the midgets get them. To the tune of Rach 2. Rutting with Rachmaninoff. Congratulations.
Well done!
Don't feed the midgets. I got it from Agnes, didn't you know that old Hollywood is over. Mickey miiiickey mickeeey et al. Dulce ay decorum ay. Fuck Leeson Street, but don't fuck there unless you want to get arrested and spend the night up in Pearse Street Garda Station with your face red, and that's not for the sake of having a spoon up your arse either.
This is another one of those Poshbastard Leather Holiday Palace posts. Do the Masochism Tango, personally approved by Mrs Thatcher and her randy husband Dennis as Mrs Thatcher dons her pink frilly knickers all the way from Shauna's Naughty Adult Shop in Capel Street, just across the road from the Mashed Bananas. SDRAWBREEZ TWOFERAEURO. But she's old and grey now and Dennis wishes she was dead. But he's consoled by the memories of them whipping each other back in the 60s when he had his virility and agility and "ability" and other ilities, well done to him. God love him, all he has left now is disab. Hellbound hottie once more. Sure God love us all. Roide? Oh moy gawd, are you a northsoider?
Kisses. On the mickey. Puke. In the face!
That's very good. Just like Garro and his Cock, but sure we never see him in there, God love us. Well done to Rach 5 (communist) and the hot youngfla (fascist). Well done all round.
Claps.
Kisses.
Friday, February 15, 2008
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 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.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
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…!
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…!
Monday, January 7, 2008
Our Cake Bastard (A 21st Century Parable)
Dear children,
Once upon a time, and a very very good time it was, a man and a woman were living together in an apartment in Raheny. They were not married and therefore in the eyes of Gawd and the Chorch they were technically living "in sin" as they say. As if this were not bad enough, they were shagging as well, the pair of durty hoors. His name was Johnny and hers was Teresa. She came from Offaly, so that probably explains it. She was awfully fond of offal into the bargain, but as Fr Brian would say, that's just sick. And kind of irrelevant.
But one day as Johnny and Teresa were sitting together at the pre-marital breakfast table Johnny had an idea.
"Teresa," sez he, "do you know how to bake?"
Teresa looked at him for a minute as if he had suddenly turned into a monkey. "What? Ay doon't knoo ennything about beeking!"
"Well then," says Johnny, "why don't we take cookery classes?"
Teresa mulled this over in her simeon little brain for a few moments and then shrugged her shoulders, indicating that whatever was to be done was Johnny's decision.
So, Johnny, being a good boy, enrolled them both in cookery classes. Every evening they tried new recipes and never again did they have to phone up Domino's Pizza.
The following Christmas, buoyed by their new-found culinary prowess, they invited Johhny's posh Ballsbridge-dwelling aunt and uncle for Christmas dinner. Perhaps it wasn't a wise choice for their first Christmas dinner, but how and ever. The dinner turned out fairly all right on the day, but it was what happened afterwards that we will concern ourselves with.
Jump back six weeks. Johnny and Teresa had taken the initiative and began to bake a Christmas cake. But no ordinary Christmas cake. This was a superbly fabulous Christmas cake containing only the most expensive ingredients. But most of all it was a joint effort between the little culinary couple. The cake turned out all right and they left it wrapped up until Christmas day when they cut a few slices for Johnny's aunt and uncle.
Now the problem was, Teresa was just a little bit thick and so she mistakenly added a whole bottle of whiskey to the cake, as well as lashings of cinnamon. Now, because of some bizarre chemical reaction which resulted from the fact that the whiskey was in excess and so the cinnamon was the limiting reactant, as soon as Johnny's aunt Margerie took a bite of her slice of cake her skin started breaking out in awful red spots and she promptly expired. Uncle Jimeny was so shocked at this that he had a very large heart attack and died also. And there were Johnny and Teresa, left staring at the bodies of Johnny's poor posh relations.
You see, the moral of the story of the story is this, you see. Indeed. Johnny and Teresa shouldn't have been shagging when they weren't married, but they didn't care. And they shouldn't have been making cakes together either. The problem was that being unmarried, the cake that was the product of their relationship was thus a bastard cake, also known as a cake bastard. And so it was always going to be cursed. Especially afterwards, when they were both arrested for poisoning poor aunt Margerie.
And there you have it. The Poop and the Chorch were right once again. 1-0 to the Vatican.
Once upon a time, and a very very good time it was, a man and a woman were living together in an apartment in Raheny. They were not married and therefore in the eyes of Gawd and the Chorch they were technically living "in sin" as they say. As if this were not bad enough, they were shagging as well, the pair of durty hoors. His name was Johnny and hers was Teresa. She came from Offaly, so that probably explains it. She was awfully fond of offal into the bargain, but as Fr Brian would say, that's just sick. And kind of irrelevant.
But one day as Johnny and Teresa were sitting together at the pre-marital breakfast table Johnny had an idea.
"Teresa," sez he, "do you know how to bake?"
Teresa looked at him for a minute as if he had suddenly turned into a monkey. "What? Ay doon't knoo ennything about beeking!"
"Well then," says Johnny, "why don't we take cookery classes?"
Teresa mulled this over in her simeon little brain for a few moments and then shrugged her shoulders, indicating that whatever was to be done was Johnny's decision.
So, Johnny, being a good boy, enrolled them both in cookery classes. Every evening they tried new recipes and never again did they have to phone up Domino's Pizza.
The following Christmas, buoyed by their new-found culinary prowess, they invited Johhny's posh Ballsbridge-dwelling aunt and uncle for Christmas dinner. Perhaps it wasn't a wise choice for their first Christmas dinner, but how and ever. The dinner turned out fairly all right on the day, but it was what happened afterwards that we will concern ourselves with.
Jump back six weeks. Johnny and Teresa had taken the initiative and began to bake a Christmas cake. But no ordinary Christmas cake. This was a superbly fabulous Christmas cake containing only the most expensive ingredients. But most of all it was a joint effort between the little culinary couple. The cake turned out all right and they left it wrapped up until Christmas day when they cut a few slices for Johnny's aunt and uncle.
Now the problem was, Teresa was just a little bit thick and so she mistakenly added a whole bottle of whiskey to the cake, as well as lashings of cinnamon. Now, because of some bizarre chemical reaction which resulted from the fact that the whiskey was in excess and so the cinnamon was the limiting reactant, as soon as Johnny's aunt Margerie took a bite of her slice of cake her skin started breaking out in awful red spots and she promptly expired. Uncle Jimeny was so shocked at this that he had a very large heart attack and died also. And there were Johnny and Teresa, left staring at the bodies of Johnny's poor posh relations.
You see, the moral of the story of the story is this, you see. Indeed. Johnny and Teresa shouldn't have been shagging when they weren't married, but they didn't care. And they shouldn't have been making cakes together either. The problem was that being unmarried, the cake that was the product of their relationship was thus a bastard cake, also known as a cake bastard. And so it was always going to be cursed. Especially afterwards, when they were both arrested for poisoning poor aunt Margerie.
And there you have it. The Poop and the Chorch were right once again. 1-0 to the Vatican.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
A continuation of the gospel according to Mr(s). Henderson.
Last time we heard from gallant Mr(s). Henderson, s/he was trekking across North America in search of something called love. This may have been a place, a gay bar, a Broadway show or a run-down brothel, which of course was her last place of employment
-----Flashback-----
Back in the days when Mr(s). Henderson was but a wee boy, he lived in the durty auld Dublin town where his mammy specialized in the trade of hoorin' down the Monto in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe. Mrs. Kelly was a grand old woman who had once lived in the Dublin Mountains. Her husband was shot in 1916 for stealing picnic baskets up in the Hell Fire Club. She subsequently moved into the heart of Dublin and started her roaring whoring trade up behind the Pro-Cathedral. Because she was a good Protestant, Mrs. Kelly was permitted to have her husband's remains slightly singed and then fully blown to bits (also known as cremated) and put in a lovely Chivers jam jar that she'd been keeping for a special occasion such as that. She placed the jar on the fireplace in her beloved brothel and urged the young men to admire her lovely vessel accordingly.
The whoring trade had a roaring trade until 1925 when Frank Duff and a few holy auld wans arrived at the door carrying bottles of holy water and armed with 1798 vintage pikes, muskets (good Catholic weapons), a few Rosary beads and a big gold crucifix with a pointy end for smashing windows and killin' hoors. Just for extra reinforcement they borrowed several of the Pro's baptismal fonts to break in the doors that had been cleverly barricaded with hoors and the occasional bottle of stout. The Legion broke into Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, killed all her hoors with the crucifix and set Mrs. Kelly's hair on fire. They even smashed her husband's ashes, the bastards. She was particularly upset at the loss of the lovely jam jar, which she'd been keeping since 1893.
Now, Mr(s). Henderson fits into all this tumult somehow. We'll now do this in exquisite style. He (yes, he) was the bastard child of one of the nicer and nicer-lookin' hoors who was killed by the Legion in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion took pity upon the poor orphan child and decided to send him into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. You can see where this is going, the poor little shite. Before the Legion sent him away, they made sure that he would never become like those durty young fellas that did be shaggin' the poor young wans in places like the Monto. So, they promptly cut off his mickey and all related appendage with the help of the Holy Knife of Padre Pio, some nice incense, some Our Fathers and a few Hail Marys ('tis the Legion after all).
Mrs. Kelly survived but never recovered from having her hair burned off and the loss of that lovely jam jar that she'd got as a Christmas present from Kitty O'Shea-Parnell who had come to Dublin for a romp in Mrs. Kelly's gaff, back after Charlie died. After all, Kitty was a proved English prostitute, so says Tim Healy, harr harr. Mrs. Kelly lived on a few more years until she was shot by the IRA who had mistaken her for Grant Mitchell. However, her son David went on to become a well-respected actor and gentleman. In later years, he met Willy Wonka, a great achievement for any Irishman.
Dotdotdot...WAKE UP
As Mr(s). Henderson shook his/her head and came back to reality, s/he turned to her beaver, Anne Gyna. As they floated down the Miss/Misterissippi, s/he spotted a distant luminous edifice. "O, Anne Gyna," s/he exclaimed, "could it be Love?" Anne Gyna said nothing—predictably, as she was a beaver. Mr(s). Henderson dived out of the boat and swam to the bank of the river three and a half miles away, leaving Anne Gyna alone in the boat. Dam, thought Anne Gyna.
Mr(s). Henderson swam with a spring in his/her step. Eventually s/he stood at the foot of the imposing pink edifice, the castle-like structure. S/he entered like s/he'd never entered before. Fear shook her/him, not unlike the Sisters had done all those years ago. S/he nearly pissed him/herself. Just as s/he was putting his/her hand on the doorknob...
---------Flashback, but this time in colour and a little more exciting.--------
There she was, a little girl/boy sitting alone in front of an empty fireplace. Why did the girls think she was so strange? Especially.......
------door-----sudden-----pink-----Love----------
...out came Rufus Wainwright wearing a dress and generally looking faaaaaaaabulous.
"Hi and welcome to the Yellow Lounge!"
"Yellow Lounge? It seems quite pink to me."
"O, honey, don't be so judgemental! Everything I touch turns to pink. They say I have the Midas touch!"
"O, how did we get to Berlin?"
"Wow, Berlen? Let me tell you, in spectacular style!"
Suddenly, the statues came alive and became half-naked German men including Herr Bogsbonny and Rufus's fella, Jorn, playing the (skin)flute, as he clearly did so well. As the stairs inverted, Rufus broke into song, a rendition of "Tiergarten" while swinging the mic(k) in rhythmic motions. While this ridiculous occurrence did...well, occur... Mr(s). Henderson's mind began to wander as she watched Rufus's dress swinging in the arms of .......
_-_-_-_-_-_-FLASHING-_-_- Rufus flashing......FLASHBACK.....
The nuns had inflicted the punishment of a long, cold bath administered by a couple of evil little young one nuns upon young Mr(s). Henderson.
"Jaysus, Sister Jacinteh, c'mere! Look ah dis! I waz just abou' to wash her gee an' I seen she hasn't even go' wan. An' it looks like she used to have a mickey!"
"The bleedin' little freak."
............Flashflashflash (choochoo) swish swish goes Rufus's dress in the wind, forget your troubles, come on get happy.
REAL
ITY.
S/he remembered at last. S/he was a s/he. S/he suddenly ran out of the castle. At this stage, Anne Gyna had built a massive dam and the river was beginning to flood. Seeing the water coming towards him/her, s/he dived into the nearest wormhole and passencore rearrived by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Rufus was shocked (for once) and slightly embarrassed. The elephants had come out and all!
"What did I say? Was I too straight?"
(To be continued, in true sitcom fashion....)
-----Flashback-----
Back in the days when Mr(s). Henderson was but a wee boy, he lived in the durty auld Dublin town where his mammy specialized in the trade of hoorin' down the Monto in Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe. Mrs. Kelly was a grand old woman who had once lived in the Dublin Mountains. Her husband was shot in 1916 for stealing picnic baskets up in the Hell Fire Club. She subsequently moved into the heart of Dublin and started her roaring whoring trade up behind the Pro-Cathedral. Because she was a good Protestant, Mrs. Kelly was permitted to have her husband's remains slightly singed and then fully blown to bits (also known as cremated) and put in a lovely Chivers jam jar that she'd been keeping for a special occasion such as that. She placed the jar on the fireplace in her beloved brothel and urged the young men to admire her lovely vessel accordingly.
The whoring trade had a roaring trade until 1925 when Frank Duff and a few holy auld wans arrived at the door carrying bottles of holy water and armed with 1798 vintage pikes, muskets (good Catholic weapons), a few Rosary beads and a big gold crucifix with a pointy end for smashing windows and killin' hoors. Just for extra reinforcement they borrowed several of the Pro's baptismal fonts to break in the doors that had been cleverly barricaded with hoors and the occasional bottle of stout. The Legion broke into Mrs. Kelly's Olde Knockin' Shoppe, killed all her hoors with the crucifix and set Mrs. Kelly's hair on fire. They even smashed her husband's ashes, the bastards. She was particularly upset at the loss of the lovely jam jar, which she'd been keeping since 1893.
Now, Mr(s). Henderson fits into all this tumult somehow. We'll now do this in exquisite style. He (yes, he) was the bastard child of one of the nicer and nicer-lookin' hoors who was killed by the Legion in the Battle of Monto, 1925. The Legion took pity upon the poor orphan child and decided to send him into the care of the Magdalene Sisters. You can see where this is going, the poor little shite. Before the Legion sent him away, they made sure that he would never become like those durty young fellas that did be shaggin' the poor young wans in places like the Monto. So, they promptly cut off his mickey and all related appendage with the help of the Holy Knife of Padre Pio, some nice incense, some Our Fathers and a few Hail Marys ('tis the Legion after all).
Mrs. Kelly survived but never recovered from having her hair burned off and the loss of that lovely jam jar that she'd got as a Christmas present from Kitty O'Shea-Parnell who had come to Dublin for a romp in Mrs. Kelly's gaff, back after Charlie died. After all, Kitty was a proved English prostitute, so says Tim Healy, harr harr. Mrs. Kelly lived on a few more years until she was shot by the IRA who had mistaken her for Grant Mitchell. However, her son David went on to become a well-respected actor and gentleman. In later years, he met Willy Wonka, a great achievement for any Irishman.
Dotdotdot...WAKE UP
As Mr(s). Henderson shook his/her head and came back to reality, s/he turned to her beaver, Anne Gyna. As they floated down the Miss/Misterissippi, s/he spotted a distant luminous edifice. "O, Anne Gyna," s/he exclaimed, "could it be Love?" Anne Gyna said nothing—predictably, as she was a beaver. Mr(s). Henderson dived out of the boat and swam to the bank of the river three and a half miles away, leaving Anne Gyna alone in the boat. Dam, thought Anne Gyna.
Mr(s). Henderson swam with a spring in his/her step. Eventually s/he stood at the foot of the imposing pink edifice, the castle-like structure. S/he entered like s/he'd never entered before. Fear shook her/him, not unlike the Sisters had done all those years ago. S/he nearly pissed him/herself. Just as s/he was putting his/her hand on the doorknob...
---------Flashback, but this time in colour and a little more exciting.--------
There she was, a little girl/boy sitting alone in front of an empty fireplace. Why did the girls think she was so strange? Especially.......
------door-----sudden-----pink-----Love----------
...out came Rufus Wainwright wearing a dress and generally looking faaaaaaaabulous.
"Hi and welcome to the Yellow Lounge!"
"Yellow Lounge? It seems quite pink to me."
"O, honey, don't be so judgemental! Everything I touch turns to pink. They say I have the Midas touch!"
"O, how did we get to Berlin?"
"Wow, Berlen? Let me tell you, in spectacular style!"
Suddenly, the statues came alive and became half-naked German men including Herr Bogsbonny and Rufus's fella, Jorn, playing the (skin)flute, as he clearly did so well. As the stairs inverted, Rufus broke into song, a rendition of "Tiergarten" while swinging the mic(k) in rhythmic motions. While this ridiculous occurrence did...well, occur... Mr(s). Henderson's mind began to wander as she watched Rufus's dress swinging in the arms of .......
_-_-_-_-_-_-FLASHING-_-_- Rufus flashing......FLASHBACK.....
The nuns had inflicted the punishment of a long, cold bath administered by a couple of evil little young one nuns upon young Mr(s). Henderson.
"Jaysus, Sister Jacinteh, c'mere! Look ah dis! I waz just abou' to wash her gee an' I seen she hasn't even go' wan. An' it looks like she used to have a mickey!"
"The bleedin' little freak."
............Flashflashflash (choochoo) swish swish goes Rufus's dress in the wind, forget your troubles, come on get happy.
REAL
ITY.
S/he remembered at last. S/he was a s/he. S/he suddenly ran out of the castle. At this stage, Anne Gyna had built a massive dam and the river was beginning to flood. Seeing the water coming towards him/her, s/he dived into the nearest wormhole and passencore rearrived by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.
Rufus was shocked (for once) and slightly embarrassed. The elephants had come out and all!
"What did I say? Was I too straight?"
(To be continued, in true sitcom fashion....)
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
A Reading from the Fourth Edition of the Gee Encyclopaedia 1994.
In the beginning there was the Word and the word was with Twink and the word was D. Agnew. And one day when they had a bit of an argument Twink broke D. Agnew's oboe in two. For a while that's why he started playing the English horn. He wasn't just playing at home, he was also playing away from home. Thus, he became a stupid, fucking dickhead. It was all Twinky-winky's fault. One day, while he was playing with his English horn with Proinnsias ÓDuinn, who was playing his own flute, for a change, he spied a young one playing a clarinet. She was very impressed with D.'s mickey English horn playing and he was impressed with her flute playing (even though she didn't play the flute). He reckoned that she was a better flute player than P-P-P-Proinnsias could ever be. So, she decided to became his whore and they lived happily ever after ever in Bastardland. The End.
In other news, the DubDoc (I did say he'd come up again). Once upon a time, there was a Doc that came from Dub. And so the angel of the Lord did appear to him, south of the Liffey. O, faithful DubDoc, you shall serve your people and bear a mini-Doc and he shall be called Mickey, which, when translated from the Latin, means God-is-with-us. But the DubDoc said, "How can this be, since I am a man and not married?" But the angel said unto him, "The Holy Spirit will come upon thee and the power of God.........
Speaking of Mr(s). Henderson, the last time we heard of him/her, s/he was in that bad, bad adaptation of Roger Rabbit. But, now s/he has finally found success working as a tailor(ess) making cheap suits for women in J. Asha's sweatshop in Ballymena, under the very nose of Micheal Collins and Ian Paisley (both of them). They're good value, but the wool ones don't have silk lining. The cheap bastards, harr harr. But, Mr(s). Henderson has settled doyn to become an honourable (wo)man, all in the cases and details under the law. The Nordies allow that sort of thing as it was brought in by the Brits. Like, look at Elton John and Mr. Furnish-me-cock-upon-Tyne for mickey's sake! Ian personally rubberstamped the legislation, even though he hates all them bloody mickey-fiddlers (particularly those that do be fiddling each other's mickeys in the bushes).
At this time the authors would like to point out that "mickey" has absolutely nothing to do with toast or Mickey of the Mouses. Therefore, even though he's dead, Walt cannot do anything against us. Mickey Mouse, we love you!
Enough about mickeys and mickey-related things for now. More to come later. Introducing the newest, brightest item with the most adjectives yet. Big, wonderful, enormous, fabulous, excellent, great, sparkling, awe-inspiring, happy, gee-filled (sorry, that's mildly mickey-related since that's where mickeys go, and because technically, gees are inside-out mickeys. In retribution, we'll smack ourselves twelve and a half times each with our Big Red Mickey™s), mobile, wooden, fantastic THING!! As all of these adjectives can be applied to mickeys and other mickey-related items, the purpose is defeated. Goodbye Napoleon. Some of you may be wondering about the sparkling mickey. It's possible and polished beyond belief. Ask Willy Wonka, with Depp or Wilder. Probably Wilder would be more likely to have a sparkling mickey, or a mickey at all. Since Depp is a mná in the film in the case of Hendersons. Jim Henderson probably has something to do with it. He pulls Depp's strings and his mickey too. God rest 'em. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. If anyone asks, Mr(s). Henderson was Jim Henderson's brother's ex-wife until (we made him/her up) Mr. Henderson discovered that Mr(s). Henderson wasn't a woman at all and therefore couldn't be his wife because he was actually a man, if one gets my meanin'.
So, this is the second chapter of the unofficial biography of Mr(s). Henderson. After moving to Ballymena, where all that sort of thing is allowed, s/he met and fiddled the mickey off a honorary Nordy citizen called Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair Shitty. They availed of the civil-partnership law and got married in Inverted Commas. Well done. Mr(s). Henderson would have become Mr(s). Henderson-Bartley, but when s/he fiddled his mickey off, her/his new husband became a woman in the eyes of both Ian Paisley and Mother Nature. And because Mr(s). Henderson actually had a mickey of his/her own at some stage along the way, things become so incredibly complicated that we'll spare you the details for another day. In
short, the Nordies didn't allow them get wedded in Inverted Commas due to a clause in the civil-partnership legislation of the Nordy Queen Land, related to mickey possession. Instead, the applied to get wedded in Italics but that wasn't allowed either.
In the end, the couple broke it off (not that there was anything to break off in any case). Now poor auld Mr(s). Henderson roams the plains of North America in search of love. All she wants for Christmas is his/her two front ovaries. We will, in time, return once again to the tales of Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna, her new-found Colorado-born friend, that happens to be a beaver, judging by her gee anyway.
Love from us all. Kisses. MMMMWWWWWAHHHH, x.
In other news, the DubDoc (I did say he'd come up again). Once upon a time, there was a Doc that came from Dub. And so the angel of the Lord did appear to him, south of the Liffey. O, faithful DubDoc, you shall serve your people and bear a mini-Doc and he shall be called Mickey, which, when translated from the Latin, means God-is-with-us. But the DubDoc said, "How can this be, since I am a man and not married?" But the angel said unto him, "The Holy Spirit will come upon thee and the power of God.........
Speaking of Mr(s). Henderson, the last time we heard of him/her, s/he was in that bad, bad adaptation of Roger Rabbit. But, now s/he has finally found success working as a tailor(ess) making cheap suits for women in J. Asha's sweatshop in Ballymena, under the very nose of Micheal Collins and Ian Paisley (both of them). They're good value, but the wool ones don't have silk lining. The cheap bastards, harr harr. But, Mr(s). Henderson has settled doyn to become an honourable (wo)man, all in the cases and details under the law. The Nordies allow that sort of thing as it was brought in by the Brits. Like, look at Elton John and Mr. Furnish-me-cock-upon-Tyne for mickey's sake! Ian personally rubberstamped the legislation, even though he hates all them bloody mickey-fiddlers (particularly those that do be fiddling each other's mickeys in the bushes).
At this time the authors would like to point out that "mickey" has absolutely nothing to do with toast or Mickey of the Mouses. Therefore, even though he's dead, Walt cannot do anything against us. Mickey Mouse, we love you!
Enough about mickeys and mickey-related things for now. More to come later. Introducing the newest, brightest item with the most adjectives yet. Big, wonderful, enormous, fabulous, excellent, great, sparkling, awe-inspiring, happy, gee-filled (sorry, that's mildly mickey-related since that's where mickeys go, and because technically, gees are inside-out mickeys. In retribution, we'll smack ourselves twelve and a half times each with our Big Red Mickey™s), mobile, wooden, fantastic THING!! As all of these adjectives can be applied to mickeys and other mickey-related items, the purpose is defeated. Goodbye Napoleon. Some of you may be wondering about the sparkling mickey. It's possible and polished beyond belief. Ask Willy Wonka, with Depp or Wilder. Probably Wilder would be more likely to have a sparkling mickey, or a mickey at all. Since Depp is a mná in the film in the case of Hendersons. Jim Henderson probably has something to do with it. He pulls Depp's strings and his mickey too. God rest 'em. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. If anyone asks, Mr(s). Henderson was Jim Henderson's brother's ex-wife until (we made him/her up) Mr. Henderson discovered that Mr(s). Henderson wasn't a woman at all and therefore couldn't be his wife because he was actually a man, if one gets my meanin'.
So, this is the second chapter of the unofficial biography of Mr(s). Henderson. After moving to Ballymena, where all that sort of thing is allowed, s/he met and fiddled the mickey off a honorary Nordy citizen called Jim Bartley who used to be Bela in Fair Shitty. They availed of the civil-partnership law and got married in Inverted Commas. Well done. Mr(s). Henderson would have become Mr(s). Henderson-Bartley, but when s/he fiddled his mickey off, her/his new husband became a woman in the eyes of both Ian Paisley and Mother Nature. And because Mr(s). Henderson actually had a mickey of his/her own at some stage along the way, things become so incredibly complicated that we'll spare you the details for another day. In
short, the Nordies didn't allow them get wedded in Inverted Commas due to a clause in the civil-partnership legislation of the Nordy Queen Land, related to mickey possession. Instead, the applied to get wedded in Italics but that wasn't allowed either.
In the end, the couple broke it off (not that there was anything to break off in any case). Now poor auld Mr(s). Henderson roams the plains of North America in search of love. All she wants for Christmas is his/her two front ovaries. We will, in time, return once again to the tales of Mr(s). Henderson and Anne Gyna, her new-found Colorado-born friend, that happens to be a beaver, judging by her gee anyway.
Love from us all. Kisses. MMMMWWWWWAHHHH, x.
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