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.

The future of Catholicism.

It had been a bad weekend for old Father William as he walked into the parish office on Monday morning. The entire congregation for the weekend had consisted of the same three holy aul'ones at each Mass and nobody else. They had been talking about it for a long time, but surely now the day had come.

"Bernadette, I've made a decision," began Father William, addressing the secretary.

"Yes Father?" she answered eagerly.

"I've decided...well, to be honest, it's not working out, is it?—this whole Mass thing. I think we need to think of a new way to bring the youth to the church. Those bloody Canadians wouldn't do it. I was scared of them myself. What right-minded young person would want to have a cup of tea with one of those lunatics? No, no, I think we need to reconsider our position."

"What do you mean Father?" asked the secretary, more than a little confused.

"I mean that we're going to abolish Mass. If nobody is going to come to Mass except Phyllis and those two nuns then there's no point in having it at all. We've been trying for years to get young people back to the church and we've been doing it the wrong way all along. In my day you went to Mass because you knew if you didn't you'd go to hell. But I don't even believe that, so I don't know why I became a priest. In fact I should have been a Protestant. But that's beside the point. We're going to abolish Mass, Bernadette."

"But what are you going to do with the church instead, Father?"

"Look at it this way: where do young people nowadays go for fun? They don't go to the church and light a candle for St Francis and say 'well there you are now wasn't that fine and dandy altogether'. No, they go to the pub and get drunk. And why should we stop them? If that's what they want to do, the church should let them do it. In fact, the church should encourage them. They'd rather boogie down in a nightclub rather than be bored to death at Mass, and I wouldn't blame them. You know, like that place over on D'Olier Street, XXX's or whatever it's called. We should offer the young people a real social outlet, not bits of wafer we pretend is the body of Christ. Bernadette, we're turning the church into a nightclub."

"Whatever you say Father."

***

Now, though you might have expected wild opposition to this idea, nobody really cared. In fact, the nuns took to it enthusiastically. The only person who had anything negative to say about it was poor old Phyllis, and so Father William had his henchnuns throw her down the steps in front of the altar. She's now up in the Bons Secours and will probably die, God love her. But Father William went on fearlessly with his plan, removing the pews and installing a disco ball above the altar, which was converted into a bar. After a few weeks Club Corpo opened and was soon the community social hotspot, popular among old and young alike. The two nuns were employed by Father William as bouncers and did an excellent job.

Unsurprisingly, the Monsignor (who wasn't consulted about the change) was rather indignant when he discovered he was out of a job. Considering he didn't fancy licking the Archbishop's arse every day and night, he made a deal with Father William that he could read out selections from his best sermons of the past forty years nightly at the back of the church. People were of course invited to listen, but nobody wanted to, unsurprisingly. Except Phyllis, but at this stage she was probably dead anyway.

The Vatican was none too pleased to hear about Corpo's success in bringing people back to the church and promptly excommunicated Father William, the nuns and all those who attended Club Corpo. But this didn't stop the march of the greatest church nightclub venue in Ireland, O no! No man, not even the Pope, has the right to fix the boundary of the march of a church club. No man has the right to say to his church, "Thus far thou shalt go, and no further". And we have never attempted to fix the ne plus ultra to the progress of Corpo's nightclubhood, and we never shall. Excommunication didn't harm Club Corpo. Sure it didn't stop de Valera, did it?

And so Club Corpo became one of the greatest social sensations in all of Ireland, all thanks to the forward thinking of old Father William the young man said and your hair has become very white. And all that by a Kerryman! Who would have thought it? Well done all round. The nuns loved it particularly as they chatted away with the regulars to discover the latest gossip. One night as former eucharistic minister Barry Gough, an upstanding member of the community, arrived to Club Corpo alone, the nuns couldn't help but query where Mrs Gough was.

"Well," replied Barry, "she's not in the mood, if you know what I mean. She had a baby there three weeks ago and hasn't been up for it since. To be honest, sisters, I'm just her to get me hole."

"Sure that's lovely Barry," said Sister Phil. "We all need our hole once in a while. Isn't that right Sister Teresa?"

"We do indeed Sister!" replied Sister Teresa. "Nothing like a bit of your hole on a Saturday night."

"For sure Sister," said Barry. "Cheers anyway. I'll be off. Sure I'll see yous later."

"Bye Barry," said Sister Phil. "Good luck getting your hole."

And so was the way of Club Corpo. And you know what the best bit is? Nobody went to hell, because they all realized eventually that there's no such thing and that they were all wasting their time being holy when they should have been out enjoying themselves. And so that makes the Pope a sad aul'fella. Pray for his intentions. He needs to get a life, and "20 Years Younger" is probably a good place to start.

Jurry Royn update.

Further to the previous announcement of Gerry's renewed self-rerealisation programme, Gerry has gone a step further and has split up with Mrs Ryan. Rumours abound as to how this actually happened, and many have said it might involve Gerry being caught by Mrs Ryan doing bold things with a vye-brator, but of course that is purely conjecture, fnar fnar!

So in this time of personal turmoil for poor Gerry, who we greatly empasympathise with at this point in time (despite the general overtone of sarcasm on this pathetic publication—"Now that's sarcasm, Mrs Doyle"), let us review Gerry's greatest moments to date.



There's Gerry repioneering the threepiece suit back in the '80s or so. Shame about the hair, but fair play anyway.



There's Gerry with a pole up his arse standing next to a picture of Bono.



There's a picture Gerry took of a train somewhere in England while he picked his nose.



That was Gerry's first album, including such memorable songs as "It's a Long Way to Clontarf", "Vibrators in Paradise", "Shag Me Twinky" and "Snot and Shite (Are My Favourite Things)".



There's Gerry in his favourite place in Ireland, Abrakebabra.



There's Gerry a while back with his face on the Point. When I saw that I dropped my chips. Actually, I felt like throwing up, but that was because I was in my nan's little blue car (bottom of picture) and she'd just crashed into a traffic island for the sixth time that day.



There's Gerry in his Gaelic footballing days. Well done.



Gerry captured on camera doing his favourite thing in the world: having a shite.

Poor old Gerry Ryan, for he has taken to the vibrators and cocaine, but sure that's nothing new. He'll be back on Monday with another helping of scatological shite, nine 'til twelve, 2FM.

Operation Transformation

After seeing the programme's high success rate on the pudgy people of Ireland, its presenter, Gerard of the Ryans, has decided to undergo the process himself. It has been another great success for Gerard and RTÉ in general.

Gerry has really embraced his new image and to go along with this, he will now spell his name Jeri. It has given him a new lease of life and he has found an interest in Star Trek. He wishes to thank the producers at RTÉ and old Gaybo for the advice over the years.

Well done to Gerard, or Jeri, as we should now be printing. Good luck.