Cahal does Nepal.

"I love sex," says Cahal to the Nepalese youngfella.

"But what is sex?" asks the youngfella, confused.

"It is complicated," replies Cahal. "You see, most of the time when my hand is on your mickey, that's not really sex. But sometimes it is."

"But Mr Oshark, I am confused."

"Well, Jumbo, don't be. And call me Cahal. Actually, no, call me Bernadette because it turns me on. Now, where were we?"

The 113th Feis Gee.

The Feis Ceoil was a grand old institution of Ireland until Siemens pulled out the sponsorship, which was a desperate pity. Now, the reason Siemens didn't want to sponsor it anymore was because of commercial interests. I mean, who gives a rat's mickey about classical music? Nobody. See? That's why it wasn't worth Siemens' while.

Until of course the organisers of the Feis had a better idea.

"Look, lads. Nobody is interested in classical music anymore. People only care about gee."

"Well, I second that, Poreik."

"Hear, hear."

"Grand so."

And so Feis Ceoil became Feis Gee, and it was a great success. Favourite competitions included the Ronnie Barker prize for shoving inanimate objects up yer gee and the Lar Shay Cup for finding a gee with your eyes closed. Of particular interest was the Sleevend Cup for shoving living things up yer gee. Now, it might be difficult to shove a Bulmers pint bottle up yer gee, but imagine the difficulty in shoving a gerbil up, never mind a guinea pig, or, God forbid, a rabbit. But that's what these batty ladies did, and fair play to them.

Feis Gee abú.

There was an old woman who lived in a gee.

Geein' Deein', shoving a large pipecleaner up a lady's gee in order to give it a bit of a clean. A microwave from ground level, and he doesn't have to reach too far.

An old lady named Kathleen standing at the bakery in Marks & Sparks. "Those are dead sexy," says Liamycakes as he passes, and the aul'one keels over. God be with the days when she was afraid to shag her husband Jim. She'd been to the Legion of Mary abstinence classes and before they got round to her with the tub of polyfilla she chickened out and ran off. But still she was afraid. So one day when Jim wanted to do a bit of hoo-haar she took the nearest thing she could find (a jam doughnut) and made a hole in it, and shoved it in hers. Her gee, that's the one. So when Jim stuck in his mickey it was grand and all, but Kathleen didn't feel like she was being violated. Well, not really anyway.

Jim was a little surprised when he took his cock out.

"Kathleen, why is there sugar on me mickey?"

Kathleen wasn't sure how to get out of this one. As she desperately thought of a possible excuse, Jim suddenly exclaimed:

"O, is that blood? I didn't realise it was that time..."

"O no, Jim," said Kathleen calmly, "it's just jam."

And so Jim was settled, fair play to him. After he died Kathleen was very upset and so spent her days in Marks staring at the bakery counter where once she'd purchased the doughnut she shoved up her geee.

Now Fat was a different story. She hates priests, you see. The reason she hates priests is long and complicated, and sometimes hilarious. But the main reason, as she explained pithily was because "they made me polyfilla up me gee". In the pre-nunning course run by the Legion and a whole host of old priests in the 1950s in which Fat was in attendance abstinence was encouraged by making the young ladies polyfilla up their gees. You'd be surprised how effective this was, and God love the youngones, they never got their hole. That's why Fat and Brendan could only roll around the assembly area on a load of towels. No matter how hard (hee hee) Brendan tried, his mickey couldn't break the polyfilla. So that was that. God love Fat. God love Kathleen. God love everyone. Amen.

Micko Goes Wine-Shopping

Micko and Janet had been married five years. Micko thought that it would be nice to have Maria, their two-year-old daughter, spend the night in the babysitter's house and have a dinner party with their friends. For the duration of the week preceding the day, the seventeenth of August, Micko was making the preparations such as asking Philo & Bridie, Baz & Liz and his brother, Jimmy, over for the dinner. He did some secret shopping and bought a lovely piece of lamb with helpful instruction from the butcher.

The morning of their anniversary, Micko woke up before Janet and made her toast and tea and brought in to her in bed.
"Happy anniversary," said Micko.
"Ah, Jay! Tanks, Micko. Happy anniversary."
Janet was delighted as Micko told her of the evening that he had planned.

They cleaned up the dining-room and the living-room for their guests and put on the lamb. Remembering the tips from the butcher, Micko put the meat in on a low heat early in the afternoon. They both had a nice afternoon together as they prepared the vegetables and tidied the house.

As the arranged time for the guests to arrive approached, Micko remembered the last thing that he had to do. He needed to nip down to the off-license for some wine.
"The veggies are almost done now. Baz and Liz'll be here in 'bout ten minutes. I'm goin' down offo to get some wine. Back in ten," said Micko as he kissed Janet.

Micko was feeling in top form. He was having a pleasant day. He was happily married for five years to his darling wife. The dinner party was going to be great and Janet would be happy to see their friends and would be over the moon about it all. Yes, the day was good.

"Hmmm, what about this wine?" said Micko aloud as he drove to the local off-license in Finglas. He held the door open for an auld fella coming out with a six-pack of Bulmers under his arm. As he walked over to the vast wall of the wine section, he stared at the tapestry of bottles with their colourful labels and foreign words.
"Can I help you, sir?" came a voice from behind.
"Eh, yeah... I'm havin' a bi' of a do an' I'm lookin' for some wine," replied Micko.
"Well, this wine is on special this week. It comes from the smallest vineyard in all of Bordeaux and is made by the Montesemont family who have been producing well-respected wines since the early twentieth century. It is full-bodied, smooth at first with an mild aftertaste of elderberries."
Micko's head hurt. What was this young one on about?
"Eh, righ'. How much is it?"
"This week it's €14.99 which is amazing value for such a wine."
A perplexed look appeared across Micko's face.
"That's a bit much innit?"
Suddenly the off license staff member realised what she was dealing with and sighed.
"Well, on the other hand, on your left is a cheap muck that we import from Slovakia. It's made by child slave labour and that's why it's only €3.99. It's complete piss but comes with a complimentary roll of Polo mints,"she sorrowfully continued.
"Hmmm, yeah alright'. I'll have four bottles of tha'. Tanks."
"I'm here to help," she said as she hung her head.

Micko bought the wine and a six pack of Dutch Gold and drove home. Baz & Liz had arrived and were in the living-room saying how deadly everything looked. Philo & Bridie arrived ten minutes later and Jimmie, and usual, was a little late. The dinner went perfectly and the conversation was overflowing. They all got locked on the cheap piss and thought it was wonderful.

Baz & Liz fell asleep on the couch at half-two. Jimmie went home because he only lived on the next road. Philo & Bridie ended up under the kitchen table while Micko and Janet went to bed sloshed and happily five years married.

No title necessary

One, two, gee o'clock, four o'clock, cock.

Tristan and Isolde: The Dublin Version

During the Great Battle of Dublin 5 in 1997 when a whole load of Tallaght people stormed Artane Castle to fight to the death in order to see Who Was Better, Morgo, betrothed to Princess Isolde of Killester was slain by Tristan McGrath, loyal servant of King Mark of Ballyfermot. However, Tristan was gravely wounded in his battle with Morgo and found himself at the mercy of Isolde whom he begged to help him. At first she was going to bash his head in with a rusty pitchfork, but she looked into his eyes and felt such pity for him that she dropped the pitchfork and put a bit of Sudocreme on his lacerated ear and before he knew it he was right as rain.

Stuck in the back of a dilapidated Hiace with Tristan as Mark's crew drove her back to Ballyer so that they could get married (shit or wha'?), Isolde poured them both a draught of dodgy contraband Polish vodka that she'd got from the bouncers at Lamb hoping that it would kill them both, a sort of bizarre murder/suicide pact. But for some reason it made them fall madly in love and they stood around for about twenty minutes not sure what to do before they decided to have a shag.

"O Tristan!"

"Isolde...! Actually, where did you get your name from?"

"Well, my mother had me when she was sixteen in the bastard drop zone in the Rotunda and didn't really want a baby as you can imagine. So when my uncle John came in to find her he asked her, 'What did you call the baby?' and she said, 'I sold i'.' So when he retrieved me from the Legion he brought me home and called me Isolde."

"That's fascinating. Where were we?"

"You just had your hand on me gee."

"O yes...is that your gee?"

"O yes! Is that your hand?"

"Is that your face?"

"Is that your mickey?"

"Well, actually, it's a Lion bar I was keeping in my pocket for later on, but my mickey should be just beside there. Yep, that's the one."

So they had fun for a while. Unfortunately, just as it was getting good the van stopped and the door was wrenched open by none other than Mark who was none too pleased that Tristan was shagging the woman he thought he'd be getting his hole with that night.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Eh, we're shagging. What does it look like?"

"You fucking what?"

"Fucking, that's the one. Anyway Mark, what's the deal with wreckin' me buzz?"

Mark wasn't happy at all, and so Tristan barely had time to put his mickey back in his trousers (the stupid fuck) before they were boxing each other in the middle of the road. Poor Isolde didn't know what to do, so she ran off back to Killester when nobody was looking.

Mark almost killed poor Tristan, and so once again gravely wounded Tristan had to get a bus into town and walk down to Eden Quay where he picked up a 29A and made his way up to Isolde, hoping that she'd have some Sudocreme left to heal his wounds. He eventually got there but just as she was about to put the Sudocreme on him Mark arrived hot on his tail. One of Tristan's friends stabbed one of Mark's cronies for absolutely no reason, not realising that Mark had come to make peace and give Tristan and Isolde his blessing to get their hole all they liked. But it was too late. Isolde couldn't put the Sudocreme on in time and Tristan died. She was delighted for some odd reason, knowing that if she died as well they could shag in the back of the big Hiace up in the sky for all eternity, and so collapsed right on top of Tristan bringing the story to a swift and slightly bizarre end.

Well done all round. And it took Wagner two weeks to tell that story. Where would you be without Bramblog? In Burger King, of course, or perhaps Bayreuth.

Gerrard O'Caogain and the Bottle of Whiskey in the Trousers.

Poor old G-G-Gerrry, being holy and all of that. As a matter of fact, he was never really holy, he just carried around a consecrated host in his pocket and showed it to people to scare them at inappropriate moments, like when he was telling a group of youngfellas about how he got his hole every night when he was their age. That's why HH got rid of him off the curriculum. It was a shame really, because the randy youngfellas hadn't a decent example to follow now except that fucking bollocks Pete Doherty, who certainly didn't carry around a host in his top pocket and couldn't write holy songs about love and things of the sort.

But poor Gerrry was actually a desperate alco, and he used to drink for Ireland every Saturday night, as well as every Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Wednesday, and Monday, morning and evening. But on Sunday he went to Mass just to keep up appearances, and afterwards would come along for a bit of drink. But one day in the 1990s he met an American priest who could turn his vestments a different colour by just getting everyone to close their eyes and pray hard for ten seconds, and this convinced him for once and for all that there really was a Gawd, and so the priest gave him a lovely present of a golden monstrance and a host that he could use to scare children. It came in pretty handy, especially after Gerrry had told stories about getting both high and his hole in one night back when he was a youngfella and didn't have that silly beard.

One day Gerrry realized that being an alco was a sin and so went to classes in abstinence with the Legion of Mary, but realized that wasn't the sort of abstinence he needed when they took out the meat cleavers. Instead, he went on a six-week course with Archbishop Desmond Connell who made really boring speeches every night and drove everyone to drink, except of course Gerrry who was so enlightened that he vowed he'd never drink again and dedicate his life to Gawd. In fact, he did this with renewed vigour, taking out his guitar at the drop of a hat (bastard) to serenade all and sundry about the virtues of keeping your mickey in your trousers and all those things that Catholics do be going on about. Well done to him.

But of course, it didn't last. One night, Gerrry was walking through Baile Sord when he passed the establishment known to the youth of the area simply as Lamb. "O no," thought Gerrry to himself, "I can't possibly go there. Only youngfellas who want to get pissed, dance badly and get their hole go there." And sure wasn't he right. So he crossed the road and walked further up on his way to MacDonald's where he was looking forward to having a nice double cheeseburger to the glory of Gawd. However, passing by another establishment by the name of Cock, he was taken immediately with the delicious smell of pub and couldn't help himself. He ran straight in through the doors (in his confusion even pushing the right-hand one first) as Martin turned to him and raising his hands in a gesture of coolness said, "Look, take it easy." Gerrry ignored Martin and stood in the doorway for a minute breathing in the delicious smell of pub he had missed for so long. Striding up to the bar, he asked one of the pinkies to give him a bottle of Bushmills. Because they didn't have any on hand, they sent Stuart the hot youngfla down to the cellars to retrieve one. Gerrry tried his best to remain inconspicuous, but the silly little beard gave it away really. Having paid the barman, he grabbed his bottle of whiskey, shoved it down his trousers and ran straight out.

Reaching the wall over outside the Old Boro, he tried his best to extract the bottle of whiskey from his trousers, but somehow it had managed to become stuck. As he fiddled desperately with the bottle he couldn't manage to get it up for some reason. Maybe he was drunk on the smell of a pub. Who knows? But unfortunately for Gerrry one of the gardaí across the road had nothing to do and was staring out the window of his office, and jumped at the chance to run out to Gerrry when he saw him doing what he thought was a bold thing in public.

"Here, you, mister, with the silly beard. What's your name?"

"What's it to you, you big fuckin' culchie?"

"You shut up your fuckin' jackeen bollix mouth and get your durty cunt hands off your mickey."

"Me hands aren't on me mickey."

"I could see you fiddlin' your mickey all the way across the road, so don't give me that bollix."

"I mean it," said Gerrry, "I wasn't fiddlin' me mickey. I'd go to hell for that. I'm trying to get a bottle of whiskey out of me trousers."

"A bottle of whiskey me brown bollix. You're arrested."

And so Gerrry was arrested. And that is the moral of the story, because he was never again allowed to lecture youngfellas about drugs and getting their hole and things like that because he got arrested for fiddling his mickey in the street (or so it seemed). And worse still, he had a bottle of whiskey in his trousers, which was extremely embarrassing for a whole lot of reasons. So now when you see Gerrry it won't be with his guitar or his host, because both were taken off him. Instead you'll see him standing around Eason's looking at Mills & Boons books all day, and when Eason's closes you'll see him wandering in and out of pubs all around the town but not drinking a single drop. That's probably what hell is for an ex-holy like Gerrry, Gawd love him.

"Dropping It."

Poor old Clowee, going in to have her first child in the Rotunda. She just boxed some youngone as she was running down the side of Parnell Square where the buses do be stopping (the 16, 13, 11, those ones) when the youngone shouted "Sta' of yeh missus". Clowee replied, "I'll fucking box in your face" and promptly carried out her threat. Well done.

Arriving in the new doors of the Rotunda, she ran straight to the desk.

"Eh, I'm havin' a child."

The receptionist lady looked at her blankly. "O. Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm bleedin' sure," replied Clowee. "Aren't me waters just after breakin' an' I thinking I pissed on the bleedin' floor without knowin' i'?"

"O. Okay. Are you married?" asked the receptionist calmly.

"Does it make any fuckin' difference?" asked Clowee, more agitated by the moment.

"Well, we need to check for our records."

"Well, what do you think, missus? I'm bleedin' too young to be married."

"Fine so," said the receptionist. "Just down the corridor on your left hand side. The blue room with the towels."

Clowee ran immediately down the corridor and turned into the blue room to which she had been directed by the receptionist. Sure enough there were plenty of towels all over the floor, some in particularly garish colours, and some emblazoned with pictures of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and others with the words "Costa del Sol". Well done to them. Clowee looked up at the ancient woman sitting on the ledge enquiringly.

"What de fuck is this about?"

"This is the bastard drop zone. You've come here to drop a bastard I presume? Well, have no fear, there are plenty of towels and I was a midwife back in the sixties so I think I know what I'm doing."

"Wha'?!"

You see, poor Clowee wasn't the brightest spark in the box. That's how she got herself Up-the-Duff. And speaking of that, out of nowhere, in came Jono.

"Jaysis Clowee, whadefuck's up?"

"Fuckin' hell Jono, where were ye? I'm about to bleedin' have the baby."

"Ah no, I thought you were only messin'! Jaysis! I'm goin' to be a fader. I'm not even old enough! I can't even get into Velvet without a fake ID!"

"Yeh didn't need a bleedin' ID to get into me gee Jono, so you're fuckin' old enough to look after this bleedin' baby."

"Bollix."

And so Clowee dropped her bastard. She was hopin' to God it wouldn't happen before her night at the debs, and she just about got her wish. But sure God love her, and poor old Jono and their bastard. Kevin Myers is desperate proud that Clowee has made a career of mothering bastards. Guaranteed income for at least sixteen years. Well done.

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.

Tom Lehrer on Papists.