There's a party in Lola's gee...

And everyone's invited!

Come one and all to Lola's gee. You know you want to.

O LOLA!

This is a London Underground service update.

Would passengers using the District Line please take note of the following disruptions between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations. Lola has blocked the line with her gee causing delays of up to thirty minutes. I repeat, there are minor delays on the District Line between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park stations caused by Lola's gee. All other lines are operating at a good service.

The Mayor of London suggests that passengers travelling on the London Underground lines should bring a bottle of water with them in this warm season and warns passengers to mind the gee.

I buried Paul.

Miss him, miss him.

The man who...

Joseph Donnelly, a homeless, jobless, wannabe alcoholic roamed the streets of London (play the Streets of London!!) on a night of light drizzle. It was one of those nights that you get wet and then feel really hot because of it. You know the ones. It gets sticky and clammy. This didn't apply to Joseph because he was only wearing a tank-top and a sock. The very sight of him would make you cross the road to avoid passing him. People actually did this as he plodded across the slightly shaky Millennium Bridge.

"Hmmm, Thames looks nice tonight," thought Joe.

"Holy fuck! You stink......BWLUAH!" a passer-by said as he puked over the side of the bridge.

Joe kept up a steady pace until, lifting his head at the end of the bridge, he saw St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe I'll get pretend to light a candle (if they even do that in St. Paul's) and get a bit of heat and a chair, thought Joe.

It was late and nobody was having a bit of an aul' pray or anything in the cathedral. It was big and holy. What more do you want in a cathedral. Unfortunately Joe found no candles. Just a bit too Catholic, Joe thought.

But in St Dunstan's Chapel Joe found some wafers in a big box. Jackpot. He hadn't eaten all day apart from some popcorn left in a bin. So, he munched in to the deliciously soft wafer biscuits.

"If only they had a little fridge with some ice-cream, I'd be in Hea...."

Just then a fabulous light came shining forth from Joseph's stomach. "Ooooop!" was all Joe could say at a moment like that. It had always been that way. At important times in Joe's life, he was never one for speeches or anything more than monosyllabic sounds.

"Oh no! He's eaten a full pack o' Jee-zus!" exclaimed a now nervous clergyman who happened to waltz in (I'm not joking, he actually waltzed in. Clergymen can dance too, you know.).

"Where is this man? The man who ate too much Jesus?" queried a second clergyman that had just entered.

He's... he's over there. Look out!"

Joe had never felt so alive or dead. His otherwise decrepit body had taken on the form of a superhero or something like Hulk Hogan back in the day. Or Mr. T. You see where I'm going.

"No-one's gonna take me alive!" bellowed Joe as he flew through the dome on the cathedral more than one hundred metres up, secretly hoping that the two men standing before him got the Muse reference.

And so, Joe spend the rest of his days selling hot dogs to poor kids in Jamaica to fund his lavish lifestyle of gym membership, Bacardi & Coke, wood turning and general resurrection.

P.S. Don't try this at home. He eventually died. God love him.

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.

Stick a mickey in your carrotcake.

I shave dado. Shave it real good. And make sure it's nice and even before I put on the wallpaper paste.

Dead visa ho. Absolute hoor, always looking for an aul' ride on the credit card. Dead, that's where it gets you.

Head as void. Speaks for itself really. Or rather doesn't. Ha ha ha ha. !

I shove a dad. As dirty as that may seem, it's true.

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.

This

This is Not Funny. I'm sorry, it just isn't.

The Nordies go by in twos and threes.

The Nordies come ALL the way down the M1 by the busload for the attack, painting county flags red and white as they went. When they came off the motorway the first place they saw was Drumcondra.

"Well, thaat'll have t'dooy. ATTACK!"

The bastards burned Upper Drumcondra Road to a crisp with all their Nordy flag waving. The aul' orange floyt doubled up as a flamethrower to scorch Free State arses.

After their embarrassing defeat in Swords, they changed tactics. Instead of attacking the watering holes of the town, they revised their battle plans and decided on sports grounds. Poor Na Fianna and their GAA pitches were the first to get it. The Nordies just HARR-HARRed and blew the house down aswell as the goal-posts.

Ironically (maybe it was coldly calculated) enough, it was the third Sunday in September and the All-Ireland (Bank of Ireland) football final was being held in Pairc na Crocaigh up the road. Kerry were due to play Galway at four o'clock but The Nories burst in through the Nally Stand and demanded to be allowed to play Kerry. Their ultimatum was ignored until they shot Nicky Brennan. So, the GAA committee had an emergency meeting to insert a new clause in the GAA Constitution that would allow such a situation.

The match began and despite the turmoil, Kerry were kicking ass as they do. But after a late counter-asskicking, the Nordies won. Their control over Drumcondra was complete. They blew up the Bishop's Palace using a well-armed warboat that they'd brought up the canal. Poor Bertie's house was blown up aswell as St. Luke's for good measure. What was strange was all the people in Drumcondra just sat on their arses and did nothing. Sure, it's only full o' aul ones and priests. God love them.

Thankfully, when the scum from the surrounding areas heard about the Nordy invasion and occupation they came out. Whitehall, Santry, Ballymun, Beaumount, Phisboro and Fairview Divisions all reported for duty. Facing such fierce opposition, and not forgetting THAT day on O'Connell Street, all the Nordies legged it for Drumcondra Station and off they went.

Everyone then had a great piss up in Fagan's and all was fine. The Nordies wone the All-Ireland, but at least they were out of the Republic again. Well done.

With a flilly lilly in your gee-hole.

Trying to drink whiskey from a bottle of wine women and song. A lovely thought, promulgated by Mister Justice Aimin' Devil-Eire with the help of Eeen Peeslee Jooynyor and a load of other Nordy Bastard with Large Arses.

Well done to all involved. If you'd like to shove your granny up your arse on hallowe'en do so, but not please in my line of vision express, where glasses are now half price starting at 499. Such a load of

Hole is the word and whole is the flesh,
The dirty breast-like nodules of potatoes
Buried in the earth,
"Arr," says Maguire, "there be my mammary-like spuds
Shat on by generations of pigeons named Geoff."

And if not so bad, Mr Jehan Booklay, the great composer of numerous works of shit and Friend of Fat, well renowned for speaking in tongues (including Gwaylin, now extinct except for around the Ring of Kerry ORAL FACE)—has recently completed a massive work for tin horn and flutewhistle including a very good electronic sound approximation of a person farting and belching at once in Hebrew. It was until now thought that that was impossible—not farting or belching in Hebrew, just doing both at the same time, no matter what the language. Bloody joojooman language. Not that we're racist or anything, but you're a fuckin' chinese

Lovely person, said Jonathan of his coach-driver as he disembarked from his carriage on Tottenham Court Road back in 1863, whose anniversary occurs around this time. A lovely day for a spot of whiskeydrinking Charlie wouldn't you said? said he. O yes dear boy, come here till I roide ya.

And throw you back to where you belong. Back there in East Angular, what a load of whole that may have seemed. A whole week of hole weeks wages. And well done to your FLUTE.

Thanks for the memories.

And well done!

GEE