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…!

Mickey O'Cock!

Cock up your beaver laddy, and I'll cock up your beaver for you. Fiddle your mickey O Johnny, fiddle your mickey do, O Johnny don't you leave me, or I'll rip off your fuckin mickey with a mint leaf for Cockflavor-upon-Tyne. Mickeymickeymickeymickeymickeymickey. What a masturbatepiece that was.

Grace, you is my Cockflavor now!

Beaverial Transfiguration

Those of you who are familiar with good old Mr(s). Henderson will be aware that in the course of his/her travels she/he came into contact with a mysterious beaver known by the name Anne Gyna. Now you all thought that angina was something aul'ones take tablets for, but you've got another thing coming, because it's actually a beaver. So there.

However, the story of Anne Gyna is, just like all the other tangential characters on this Homeric odyssee of a blog, filled with intrigue and heartbreak. Well, not quite, but you get the drift regardless. In the days when Lyinda McCartney was still alive and kicking she was very clever and decided to use a little bit of the GMO in her very intelligent vegetatian food, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with W.E. Gladstone. But that's beside the point, and so is that. Anyway, Lyinda got into terrible trouble for using all them bold things and had to revert to good old vegetables. When I became a vegetarian first she was all the rage, but she's dead now so nobody cares about her. So much for all that healthy eating bollocks.

Which brings us back by a commodius &c. to Anne Gyna. Now, Anne Gyna was in her day known as Mary-Teresa McNulty, a nice Nordy Catholic woman who in her younger days was a good old hippy and was into Greenpeace and all that shite. Yes, keep with us for a moment. Mary-Teresa was such a good vegetarian that she decided to go off and join Lyinda McCartney's band of veggie pirates sailing the North Sea in search of oil. Sorry, wait a second. Mary-Teresa went and worked in Lyinda's veggie food factory, which was great.

However, one day she realized that they were using the bold GMO things, and so phoned Lyinda to confront her. Lyinda, however, was busy picking her nose ("eating her greens" like a good veggie), and so put her on hold, after which poor Mary-Teresa went insane from listening to five seconds of the Wings recording of "Mull of Kintyre". They brought her to Room 101 where she was confronted with her worst fear, beavers. When faced with the big-toothed furry things (beavers, not Cilla Black) she confessed to a multitude of things, that she was the one who put the GMO into the sausages (mickeys*) and that it was she who caused the Beatles to break up, not that bloody Japanese woman who sat in the corner while Elton John played his pee-pee-peeanoe. After sending poor Mary-Teresa completely insane, Lyinda and Paul's evil henchmen left her on her own with the beavers. In an effort to put herself out of this torture she reached for a box of pills left cleverly on the table and took seventeen of them. It turned out that they were Paul's angina tablets, considering he's an aul'one and all. For some inexplicable reason, this severe overdose of glycerol tri-nitrate (GTN, which has nothing to do with GNT or GMO or GOM, amazingly) caused Mary-Teresa to immediately take on a beaver-like form. See, exquisite style once more. Just for a laugh, the other beavers christened her Anne Gyna because she became one of them due to her overdose of angina tablets. How original. However, it wasn't all bad, as Anne (as we now call her) soon forgot her previous beaverophobia and quickly became an expert at building dams. And best of all she lost that fucking Nordy accent. Harr harr.

So there you have it, Anne Gyna in a nutshell, if you'll excuse the pun.

(*Obligatory mickey-mention.)

Neo-con environmental tourism

Mrs. Thatcher's leather holiday palace in Poshbastard Lancashire.co.uk. Please reuse your tourist guides of Edinbugger castle, the London Eye (which has already been burned down), Christchurch, Airhead, Superquinn in Finglas and the Eiffel Tower which was relocated to Paris from New York (thanks Chris).

The Great Barrier Reef has opened a new campsite today which you can use while utilising ill-fitting dot com-dom over one's bottle of white (Sauvignon Blanc) wine. make sure you use your piccolo flute in the swimming

Vote now, vote for the new Voluntary Euthanasia Bill. The Irish government is so full of shite now that they are swallowing (OooOohOh says the gay guy again) those European bastard values.

Mickey Terenure. There once was a boy named Sue. He enjoyed putting condiments all over his hands and other people's noses. He grew up to become (OooOooh!) Mr(s). Henderson. Gee. That's another midget question to be answered another day, another time.

Isn't it awfully nice to have a EPNS, especially when it's modelled by RO'G (and when it comes to pissing). Sure it's lovely to be wearing crispacketsoncock.com, but it does indeed be nice to have your hole. "I have me hole," says yer woman, but sure isn't better to have a cockmickey than a geehole? OOooooOooh yes says D. Norris!

Apologies

I'm sorry. That last post was a bit shite. But to make up for it, I'll tell you a story. It's a bit like Will & Grace but with a twist. One of them is straight/heterosexual. The mildly acceptable one is the straight one. No, not the token flamboyant gay one. The other one.

Well, let me begin. They live in the lovely, fictional village of Ballykillrathatraw in the suburbs of Tipperary city. The straight one is the descendant of a friend of Éamonn deValera and is reasonably happy with the current Fianna Fáil government under Bertie and Brian. His gay friend however is a womanizer (regardless of sexuality) and doesn't really care about the day-to-day running of the economy. He does know, however, that his heterosexual friend (who I haven't given a name to yet) hates Enda Kenny, Garret Fitzgerald and Keven O'Higgins. He skips around the breakfast table chanting "Sinne Fine Gael" and asks his friend to pass the Richard Bruton instead of the salt just to piss hm off. He was like that you see, little bit dense but evil in a rather unusual and smart way. But they live quite happily together in their rented home in Ballykillrathatraw, fictitiously of course.

The lives of our unnamed (and unbaptized) heroes was never very far from adventure. One time they had to complete their tax forms very quickly after leaving it quite late in the evening. They went to many weddings and ceremonies of the sort. Neither of these fellows went to college but they weren't stupid by any means. Most Tuesdays the gay one bought a paper and they sat in all day doing the crossword. They were a marvellous team. Occasionally they will entertain guest like their straight friend from Prussia, who also won't be getting a name for Christmas. Fun and joy is abundant when the Prussian comes to visit. He tells them stories from his childhood and fables that he heard from his grandfather, Otto.

The straight one works in a bank, you see. He is a teller and is able to use the foreign exchange machine. He was only recently trained at that and is very happy in his job, what with now being able to help customers change currencies. O, how the currency markets fascinate him. How he'd love to buy large quantities of Chilean Peso and sell them again several days later in a different part of the world. His companion, the gay one, never gives his straight friend a minute to air his high hopes of currency speculation. "O, here you go again," he will say if the straight one starts on about the Yen or the Dollar. It's a pity though as he says, for if he made himself a fortune on the FXM he'd take himself and his gay friend away for a long holiday in Asia. He'd love to see Asia. All the Asian things that go on there intrigue him. He wonders if someone in Asia is intrigued by north-western European things. He thinks and hopes. His thought-train is interrupted by his gay friend entering the room with a baroque guitar singing praise to William T. Cosgrave. It's probably for the best he thinks, ey?

Then one day, a good writer came ("OooOh" said the gay one!) along and made these basic characters into something special. They ate like kings in Lourdes and got to meet great people. Finally, the straight one's dreams all came ("OoOOoOh" the gay one said again) true at once. Fianna Fáil asked him to be Taoiseach. They made some provisions, changed the constitution and allowed him to live in Asia and rule from there. Officially after two years, thanks to new legislation, he was crowned High King of the Republic of Ireland.

As for the gay one, he was less successful and lived in Papa New Guinea. He receives "dig-outs" from His Majesty the Straight One of Ireland on a bi-monthly basis. He was reportedly seeing a native of Papa New Guinea and the relationship was getting serious. So, at least he had lovely Jeremy to lean on.

All this happened between 1857 and 1902. The writer then subsequently died and a new writer(ess) came and took them from their positions as High King of the Republic of Irleland and house-husband of Jeremy and put them both in Chicago during the Depression. They are currently still there getting used to America and prohibition. They are reunited but, of course, the straight one misses being High King of the Republic of Ireland and the gay one misses Jeremy.

We may never again hear of their tale. The writer(ess) may want to leave them alone to think of a decent plot for themselves. If that's the case, goodnight ladies and gentlemen.

Ten Things That People Don't Care About Anymore

1. Cassette tapes
2. Morality (just like in the case of the poor little culinary couple)
3. Using the right knife and fork
5. The number four
6. Harry Nilsson
7. Pez
8. Animaniacs
9. Finishing things
10.
11.

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.

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....)

The Curious Incident of Dr More in the Night.

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

Roiding in cors with RO'G.

Those old Southside lads of a weekend do be going into the aul' bars near the river, but only those firmly on the south side of the river. Like Q-Bor, Messrs', and loike awl those posh places in Temple Bor, roysh.

These unscrupulous laddish types with their rugby shirts and their bling-bling (splatter choo choo) find that with the help of a really bad put-on New Yoke accent picking up thick girls is pretty easy for a bit of a score, loike.

Example:

"O, hoy, my name's Maddy and I'm from New Yoke."
"Ah Jaysus, yer accent's bleedin' sexy."
"Oh my Gawd, loike, are you from the Nortsoide?"
"Ah Jayz, are you a fuckin' Soutsoider bollix?"
"Don't ever loike come over to the Southside again or Oi'll roide you and throw you back in the Liffey."


NEWSFLASH:

A READING FROM THE MADE-UP CHURCH OF ULSTER

"Rev" "Dr" Ian Peeslee has issued a new Papal Bull which decrees that "THARR WALL BE NOO GEES IN AWLSTER WHAYLE AY AM FURST MANNASTER OF NORN ARN".

New ad campaigns include and "Save Ulster from Fairy Liquid", "Ulster says no to Rufus Wainwright", and "Death tooy Alton Jawn and awl big farry geeboos". (The latter is "unofficial".)

"Dr" Peeslee says, "Ay yooysed tooy yooyse Farry Lackwad wan that lattle beebee waz on that boddle, but noy that Farry Lackwad raprazants the gees, ay will have noo moor ov ad in may Chorch. Noy wee yooyse Quansworth's bast yallow leebel woshin-up lackwad fur cleenin mee Yooynyun Jack dalf."

Ian "Little Bollix" Jr said when interviewed, "May doddy is rayt, the gees wall destroy Awlster and the Meed-Ap Chorch wath tharr big pank flooyts. Kall tham awl!"

Marn MaGannas said when interviewed, "Shan Fayn wall meek noo comment on Een's remorks. Ay lov Een, but nod in a hoomoosackshooal wee."

MICKEY