Dublin Vignettes.

‘Come on.’ It was taking the dog a long time to do his business there at the little triangular park at the end of the Howth Road. His owner was getting more and more frustrated by the minute. ‘Come on Rover, just shit and be done with it.’ The dog didn’t understand, of course. How could he? The owner was pressing his arse to the ground but that didn’t mean anything to the poor animal.

—See that woman? That’s a man. I thought it was a woman but it’s got a very deep voice.

Stupid fucking old woman. What a geebag.

People on Grafton Street are so easily amused. A man with some stupid cheap dancing things on sticks, dancing them away to the Macarena on his mobile phone. Some foreigner who can jump through rings of fire.

—Hi, can you spare five minutes for Concern?
—Sorry, I don’t speak English.

—Hi, can you spare five minutes?
—Fuck off.

A man dressed as the statue of James Joyce who dances if you put fifty pence into his bucket. Another man dressed as Paddy Kavanagh who farts at will every time you put a coin into his box. A man with a guitar who sings ‘The Fields of Athenry’ every Sunday morning between 10 and 11 a.m. People are that easily amused.

A Cabra woman, entering Subway on O’Connell Street.

—Can yiz give me a rowill please?
—What bread would you like? He was foreign, god love him, and didn’t realise.
—Eh, just white bread.
—Italian?
—Yeah, whatever. Just some butther.
—Butter?
—Yeah, just a bit.
—Eh, cheese and toasted?
—No, I just want butther.
—Eh, you want any salads?
—No, just fuckin butther ye rasherheaded fuck.

O I'll eat the sandwiches Joseph.

Almost one year on, it is time to reflect. Reflect on instrumental and vocal teaching, or something like that. Bram-style.

Let's talk about biscuit appreciation. To my mind Aldi biscuits are just as good as any other biscuits as they taste good and are cheaper than massmarketed fancyshite otherstuff. Even though they call their version of Toffee Pops "Toffy Ooze" [sic.], which almost makes me want to sick all over the floor.

VOMIT

BLEAUGH.

FLAN-GEE to your da.

That's the way. Send an aul flan-gee to your da, a sup of soup and you'll be right as Rudolf the rednosed rain dear. Great organ/pedal. Such a great idea. A nice lad also. A large lad instead of a small one. Like Mr(s). Henderson's nonexistant mickey, god love him/her.

Camomile tea and the Irish times. Such a posh thing. Teadrinking irishtimesreading bastards. Lol, there you are, that's how the mickey crumbles, or doesn't as the case may be.

Flan-gee to your da. That's the more-al of the store-ee.

Cockflute.

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.