Another decade over! Already? Wowsers! Well, I guess it's time for Fugger to round up the highs and lows of the Noughties (just like they are in the Sunday supplements and on TV shows with insightful contributions from people like Blaithnaid Ni Chofaigh or Stuart Maconie etc. . .)
Barack Obama: At last, a black candidate who won't turn the White House into a crack house. Could we really have said that for Jesse Jackson?
Blogs: Thanks to the outlet provided by blogs and Internet forums, killing sprees are down by 15%.
Marley and Me: Jen Aniston and a big old cuddly lab. What's not to like? This decade's answer to Dunston Checks In.
Live8: Trade justice for all and Coldplay too? What an afternoon! Take that Black Bloc!
Madonna Cares: Madge strikes a pre-emptive blow for altruism by adopting orphans before they are even orphaned! You go gal!
Joe (Hulk) Joyce: Congrats to Joe (Hulk) Joyce on becoming King of the Travellers after knocking lumps out of lads in a car park in West Meath. Now tell us Joe, was that Ms. Glenda Gilson we saw on your arm during the Marie Keating Foundation Christmas fund raiser?
Dr. Who Returns: Always loved this show! Hid behind the sofa when the morlocks came on. John Leslie for the Doctor in the Twenny-tens, the campaign starts here!
Susan Boyle: On first sight we thought she should be gassed but then we heard her beautiful voice!
New Bond: Craig Fairbass finally gets the keys to the Aston Martin. Gritty.
Hitler Still Dead: Yay!
9-11: Tragic. Watch them babies fall! No more of that please Mr. Bin Laden!
SARS/Bird Flu/Swine Flu/Ebola: I think I've got the sniffles!
Paedophile Priests: Hey! Hands off Padre!
The Death of Diana: OMG! The car was like completely wrapped around that pillar!
The Death of Michael Jackson: He died too? Wowsers!
Recession: Enough already!
Floods: From Sallins to New Orleans . . .glug glug!
Keano in Saipan: This was our Iraq.
Iraq: We're like sooooo over it now!
Africa: Are you still here?
Well that was the Noughties now let's get ready for the Twenny-Tens and the dawn of the Quantum Age! An era when we realise that 'reality' is just a selective cognitive macro level interpretation and that petty emotional and financial schemes amount to less than nothing when faced with the incomprehensible maelstrom of subatomic lunacy that is the true fabric of the Universe! OMFG! It's gonna be nuts! LOLZ!
This Christmas, as you enjoy the cheer and revelry to be found amongst family and friends, please spare a thought for John.
John can usually be found trampling about the coast of south county Dublin in his familiar long black coat. Sometimes he'll stop and chat with other local characters like Eoghan. You might have seen them, lost in discussion in the People's Park. Happily reminiscing over the good governance and moral authority of days gone by. Later in a given afternoon, you might see John in the window of the local Kylemore Cafe, scribbling his thoughts in a notebook whilst enjoying a slice of cake and a pot of tea. Tea for one.
But, what of Christmas day? On Christmas day the Kylemore will be closed and John will have nowhere to go. Eoghan will be ensconced at home with his new bird and the park gates will be chained shut. What will John do then?
Well, John will awake. He will arise. He will wash and he will attend mass, as will many of us. However, instead of spending the rest of the day in the company of loved ones, John will instead pass his time glaring at the few baubles he pinned above the mantle in a desperate nod to the season. No one told him it would be like this. This wasn't the Christmas McQuaid's Ireland envisioned for a man such as he. John will begin to feel a bit cheated. His mood will grow sour and soon he will be in high dudgeon, tapping wildly into the laptop ( ...as I am now ironically) on subjects ranging from the denigration of Dev to the ascendancy of bloody women.
So please spare a thought for John this Christmas as you settle back with family members to play boardgames, watch Doctor Who or enjoy whatever DVD RTE have rented for the evening. Please, spare a thought for John because . . .John is alone this Christmas.
I'm really sick of the way superheroes and the excessive use of the imagination debase the medium of sequential arts. So, you can imagine how pleased I was to pick up a copy of the ground breaking indie publication Tales from My Man-Bag. An example of its refreshing down to earthness can be found above. Click to enlarge and empathise.
I wrote this poem as a kind of lament. Like most good poems it doesn’t rhyme and its appeal is hard to determine. In fact, it might seem a bit shite at first but try reading it in a solemn Paul Durkinish kind of way and you’ll soon realise how good it is.
And so, without further ado, I give you:
ORANGE FACED LADY
My orange faced lady Where did you go? I used meet you at the close of day Coming with determined face From counter or desk among Dundrum Town Centre resplendent Kathleen Ni Houlihan dressed in Ralph Lauren Optimism incarnate Escalator rider Nay sayer chider Your name, was heard in the right places You knew Conrad Gallagher He sent you a fondue set for Christmas And you kept it Just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha So look into my face Marie-Claire reader And remember just who you are For the light it does fade The tangerine foundation gives way A chill wind blows through the House of Fraser It was all boots and bags Now its riches back to rags Don the shawl again and wanly peer from beneath it Cut your cloth to your measure For the wonderful dream is over The kids’ karate lessons are for the chop It’s Portumna for summer Oh what a bummer What could have been A terrible beauty stillborn Do you remember the back streets of Naples? Just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha Oompa Loompa doompadah dee If you are wise you'll listen to me My orange faced lady Where did you go?
They were at the kids you say? Interfering with them like?
(Falls silent, strokes chin)
That’s Awful. Seriously now, that’s terrible altogether. . . . I had no idea. I mean how could you? Who’d have dreamt? Ah no. It’s very discommoding to hear that.
(Momentarily loses self in thought)
And did no one contact the gardai no? And what happened? Were there arrests? No? That’s awful. The poor kids. No one believed them at all? . . .shocking.
(Another reflective pause. Inhales. Sits up a bit and speaks assertively)
Well, there’ll be words I’m telling you. I’m not having this carry on, oh no. This is a shocking state of affairs. Did they not listen to Jesus at all?
(Sighs. Slumps back into seat. Falls silent again, stroking chin. Mumbles something. Gets to his feet. Wanders to window. Gazes out for a spell. Produces Ten Major from pouch in robe and lights one up. Turns. Quietly asks aide to bring two more sherries. Returns to seat.)
I’ll tell you what. Leave it with me. Give us a bit of elbow room and I’ll get things back ship shape. I’ll get the lads to reconnect with the words of our saviour and that kind of thing. That should stop all the funny business. How does that sound? Have we a deal? I’m as shocked now, . . .seriously, . . .I’ll be needing this sherry I tell you.
(Gulps down sherry. Discretely nods to aide. Aide escorts everyone from the room. Puts feet up. Reaches for digital remote control. Selects Sky Sports. Watches WWE wrestling event.)
I am Gustav Klankenheimer and they love me. I have clawed away at the jaded façade of cinema and forced the bourgeoisie to inhale deeply upon the excremental stench that permeates all our lives. ‘Look,’ I order them, ‘look at the shit’. ‘Smell it,’ I demand, gripping the backs of their skulls and forcing their powdered snouts down into the stinking crap. ‘Eat the shit’ I scream. ‘EAT EXISTENCE’. It is intense. We are . . . each of us, . . .every one of us, . . .all of us, . . .terrified . . .and . . .aroused. I make them eat the shit and they LOVE me for it.
My latest film is called F**king Dog. It features an emaciated dog being severely beaten by a blubbering and incoherent alcoholic sheet metal worker. This abuse goes on for four and a half hours. A lone bagpipe wheezes lethargically on the soundtrack. The dog finally shits and then dies. This is death, all our deaths, and the life, all our lives, that precedes it. This is suffering. This is IRAQ!
Cannes rise to their feet. They cheer. They applaud. One woman screams and tears open her blouse. Her breasts are wantonly exposed, like a greedy infant I clasp to them and feed. I feed for dear life. I Feed. FEED! This garners more applause from the assembled cognoscenti who then begin to shriek in unison like panic stricken primates at the approach of a large jungle cat. The complimentary vol au vents are hurled into the air. ‘Bravo le nouvelle merde’ roars a member of the newly liberated hoard as he discards the petty presumptions that have guided him all his life and falls to the floor on all fours. Soon everyone is on all fours, salivating and tearing at each other’s garments with their teeth until they are naked and bloody and rutting like dogs. Filthy, mange ridden DOGS! They are like dogs . . .yet I have never seen anything so human.
The cloak room attendant looks puzzled as the editor of Cahiers Du Cinéma mounts his lower leg. F**k that cloakroom philistine. What knows he of torment? What knows he of the abyss? What knows he of flickering fluorescent bulbs, steadily dripping faucets, abandoned foetuses in dingy train station toilet cubicles?
We are all desperate starving dogs being slowly beaten to death by drunken sheet metal workers. We are all the nouvelle merde. This is the stench of life and I, . . .I, . . .I, . . .I AM GUSTAV KLENKENHEIMER!!!!! LOVE ME!
(Pictured: two members of the establishment to the rescue)
I hear the Taoiseach and ministers are awaiting the go ahead from IBEC re: the implementation of profit making flood relief ventures. It is proposed that water charges be introduced as an incentive to those with water logged homes/work-places to return said liquids to their (newly) privately owned places of origin or face financial penalties. This will 'incentivize' floodees to not just spend their time floating around the place on lilos expecting the exchequer to bail (pun unintended) them out. As the Taoiseach put it himself, 'Everyone's a winner'.
In addition to this measure, Cardinal Desmond Connell has been appointed to head up a National Emergency Flood Response Action Force Committee. This committee includes AIB's robust fiscal dynamo Colm Doherty and other luminaries of good governance, such as various members of The Knights of Columbanus and/or Opus Dei. 'It'll be like Thunderbirds but without the actual Thunderbirds', suggested the Taoiseach.
'Legitimate' needs will also be dealt with via the altruistic issuing of vouchers that will go 'some way' toward covering the cost of life-jackets from participating outlets. The vouchers will be awarded to means tested parties after they present the required documentation (utility bills, proof of address etc.). Soggy documentation will not be accepted going forward.
'We've set aside €67 for this now, so we're serious', mumbled the Taoiseach.
Last night I was online discussing my favourite TV show with my buddies on the forums. It's great the way the net has democratised the communications/cultural landscape going forward. Here's what went down...
THREAD TOPIC: MISSED LAST NIGHT'S SHOW!
Hey guys, I missed the show yesterday because my Mom died. Did anyone record it or know where I can download it? ------
Try Rapidshare. Should be up by now. Sorry to hear about your Mom. :( ------
Quote: "Try Rapidshare. Should be up by now. Sorry to hear about your Mom. :("
Got it from Rapidshare, Thanks Tru. Don't be sorry about Mom. She was kind of old and crazy anyways. ;) ------
I dig pussy! ------
Mods, he's back again. Could you please remove the pussy remark? ------
Hi, I'm a noob to the forum. Just wanted to say that I really enjoyed the show last night. I thought the bit with the crabs was a tiny bit unoriginal but I really liked the show. ------
Quote: "I thought the bit with the crabs was a tiny bit unoriginal"
WTF??? The bit with the crabs was the best part of the show. I don't think you should come barging onto this forum (a FAN forum!!!) shouting about unoriginality when your post is like the most unoriginal thing I have ever seen IN MY LIFE! ------
Quote: "I thought the bit with the crabs was a tiny bit unoriginal"
I agree with the Bradmeister. If you've gotta criticize the show at least say something constructive. I don't think it's enough to come on here and say it's unoriginal and not make any suggestions or anything. ------
Quote: "I don't think it's enough to come on here and say it's unoriginal and not make any suggestions or anything."
Yeah. It's kind of cowardly. ------
Pussy Rocks! ------
Mods, could you please do something about this pussy stuff? ------
@BigBadBrad, MidnightRambler, BikerGal
Guys, I didn't mean to get you riled. I love the show, I just thought the crab bit was like I've seen on other shows but it's really not a big problem for me. I really love the show :) ------
Quote: @BigBadBrad, MidnightRambler, BikerGal
Guys, I didn't mean to get you riled. I love the show, I just thought the crab bit was like I've seen on other shows but it's really not a big problem for me. I really love the show :)
Jesus H. Why don't you kill yourself or make yourself more intelligent? ------
Quote: "Jesus H. Why don't you kill yourself or make yourself more intelligent?"
Quote: "@BigBadBrad, MidnightRambler, BikerGal
Guys, I didn't mean to get you riled ... I really love the show :)
My brother used to date a girl who went to college with a guy who roomed with this other guy who had the same barber as a guy who works on the show and the barber told the guy who roomed with the guy who went to college with my bro's ex that the next show is going to be even better! ------
Quote: "My brother used to date a girl who went to college with a guy who roomed with this other guy who had the same barber as a guy who works on the show and the barber told the guy who roomed with the guy who went to college with my bro's ex that the next show is going to be even better!"
I doubt the veracity of your sources. ------
Quote: "My brother used to date a girl who went to college with a guy who roomed with this other guy who had the same barber as a guy who works on the show and the barber told the guy who roomed with the guy who went to college with my bro's ex that the next show is going to be even better!"
The show's fine as it is. Your bro is full of shit. F**k you and your queer bro. ------
PUSSY! PUSSY! PUSSY! ------
Mods, what's with the pussy stuff getting on here? This is like the hundredth time! }:[ ------
Quote: "Mods, what's with the pussy stuff getting on here? This is like the hundredth time! }:["
Yeah mods, we're trying to discuss the show here. ------
I'm a big Fat Guy and I'm jerking off! ------
I find much in life to be disappointing and I take no pleasure in adding last night's episode to that ever lengthening list, which also includes the state of public transport and my pathetic son Glen. ------
Do they get the show in Japan? I bet the Japanese would love the show. LOL! ------
Quote: "Do they get the show in Japan? I bet the Japanese would love the show. LOL!"
Seriously dude, are you still here? ------
Quote: "Do they get the show in Japan? I bet the Japanese would love the show. LOL!"
I have no doubt the Japs would love the show but think that you are a faggot. ------
It's no wonder pepole find the net an unfriendly place with pepole like you guys on it. ------
Quote: "It's no wonder pepole find the net an unfriendly place with pepole like you guys on it."
Sure, but what's a 'pepole' exactly? ------
Quote: "Sure, but what's a 'pepole' exactly?"
You know what I mean. ------
"Quote: You know what I mean."
I doubt anyone knows what you mean. You are meaningless. ------
You make this forum an unfriendly place. ------
"Quote: You make this forum an unfriendly place."
For you buddy, the world must be an unfriendly place. ------
I'm never posting here again. ------
"Quote: I'm never posting here again."
My work is done. ------
I'm happy with the show the way it is but my wife says she wishes it was a little longer. What do you guys think? ------
"Quote: I'm happy with the show the way it is but my wife says she wishes it was a little longer. What do you guys think?."
I think that's your wife's way of saying she wishes your cock was a little longer. ------
Quote: "I think that's your wife's way of saying she wishes your cock was a little longer."
Believe me pal, my wife's pretty happy on that score. ;) ------
Quote: "Believe me pal, my wife's pretty happy on that score. ;)"
That's because your wife is imaginary. ------
I'm putting you on my ignore list NV. I didn't come here to be insulted. ------
Thought it was about time this blog was put to some practical use so here are reviews of some recent releases from the world of adult entertainment.
A medieval theme to this one. Problematic ex-child look-a-like Sasha Grey adopts attire akin to a tarty wench circa 1200AD. She is loaded into a large catapult device, launched from a turret over battlement walls and lands in a moat of man juice.
Overall Verdict - Disconcerting.
GANG BANG, THANK YOU MA'AM:
It's hard to know if there's actually a woman in most of this one. It's really just a sea of undulating gonads and what have you. The camera man seems happy enough but all the wobbling hairy arses etc. put me off my dinner (I like to eat in front of the laptop, which guests and family members find anti-social but, y'know, it saves time). I think I saw a girl's toe amongst the scrum at one stage but it's hard to be sure. The toe may have belonged to the girl who featured at the start of the movie. She was very pretty but seemed a touch slow. I may have heard her a few times during the action too. She was saying something about being a 'naughty slut'. Strangely, Popeye's laughter also seemed to permeate the soundtrack???
Overall Verdict - Discombobulating.
Daphne and Monica (two of my favourites) whack the crap out of each other with an assortment of objects that include table tennis bats (good), yard brushes (disturbing) and dustbin lids (quite sexy). There is also a bit where Daphne fires a flare gun at Monica, which is downright irresponsible behaviour when you think about it. The film seems to be in Dutch with Lithuanian subtitles which is odd as both Daphne Delites and Monica Havens are American ladies.
Overall Verdict - Harmless Fun.
When people complain about adult entertainment being 'exploitative' they should bear in mind the amount of people that go on from this genre to make something of their lives. Did you know that 32% of practising marine biologists are former porn stars? Also, both the world of orthodontics and the legal profession are chock-a-block with familiar faces that got their start in adult entertainment. Gives new meaning to the phrases 'open wide' and 'send him down' doesn't it? (Insert 'LOL' here)
P.S.: I also watched THIS ONE recently. It's awful. I couldn't even get anything going at half mast.
Halloween is a fun time but it is important to be safe. Remember, fireworks are dangerous and can cause serious injury. Attend only supervised professional firework displays and always stand at a safe and considerable distance. Risk of accidents aside, it is also worth bearing in mind that the unsanctioned possession/use of fireworks is illegal, the penalties for which include a large fine and/or custodial sentence.
Children must also Play Safe on the night. Dressing up and calling to the doors of complete strangers is a big 'No No' and can result in assault by child molesters and/or abduction by other demented individuals - such as crazed spinsters who never had children of their own. In addition, we have all heard the stories about the poisoned 'treats' that are so often provided to youngsters during this holiday. Try not to contribute to the escalating rate of child mortality caused by these odious deeds. Instead, arrange an organised activity programme for your children in a secure environment. This is far safer than permitting minors to stray around the neighbourhood, leaving them vulnerable to 'Stranger Danger'. Also, the Department of Justice has introduced anti-begging legislation so donning masks and looking for 'treats' could well result in penalties such as large fines and/or custodial sentences.
Having arranged your programme of activities in a secure venue of choice, ensure that all attendees are checked for swine flu. Also, have a basin of regularly refreshed clean warm water and a dispenser of disinfectant handwash at the entrance to your Halloween party.
Have party attendees checked for criminal records before issuing invites. This can be done by contacting the gardai, explaining the situation and providing them with a list of the names and addresses of everyone you want screened. This especially applies to any children's entertainers who may be employed for the evening. Ask yourself, what type of life must a person have led for them to arrive at a point where they have been left with no recourse but to become a children's entertainer? There may well be criminality involved. John Wayne Gacy (pictured above) was a children's entertainer. I rest my case.
Ensure the code to your panic room is learnt by heart or within easy access should any drunken intruders/biker gangs arrive on the scene or should the John Wayne Gacy type turn out to be a 'wrong un'.
Ensure that the kettle is unplugged and that there are no pots of boiling water or bubbling chip pans on the stove. How many more children must we bury because their guardians did not have the foresight to do this? Chip pan related deaths run a close third to poisoned 'treats' and errant fireworks as a major killer of Ireland's youth. THERE IS NO MORE ROOM IN THE CEMETERY!
Last, but not least, under NO circumstances should the offspring of neighbours be permitted to enter your party. Neighbours should be kept at a safe distance lest they start to take liberties, pry into your personal affairs or expect you to maintain a consistent friendly demeanour toward them. Also, John Wayne Gacy (still pictured above, . . .just look at him, . . .Jesus) was someone's neighbour once. You are already running the risk of him gaining access under the guise of a children's entertainer, don't increase his odds. Admit only the offspring of people you respect or who can further your career/social standing. Consider the networking opportunities an added bonus to a Happy Halloween.
So, that's it. Fugger's Halloween safety tips going forward. Oh, before I sign off, there is one last tip: Enjoy yourself, it is Halloween after all.
For a list of festive alternatives to risky Halloween activities please visit PlaySafe.com.
I went to the doctor the other day and he told me I was going to die. When I asked him how, he said 'I don't know, I've just got this feeling'. I asked him if he could at least give me a check up to see if anything could be done but he said he didn't think it would be any use.
I started to get a bit worked up about the whole thing, which I think is understandable, and demanded that he at least tell me how long I had left to live. 'I don't know,' he said 'about half an hour, maybe three quarters'. I began to raise my voice, loudly insisting that he could do more but the doctor just asked me to leave. 'You're freaking me out,' he said, 'and I don't want you dying in here and then all the patients outside thinking I killed you by accident because I'm a crap doctor'.
I was charged €60 as I left.
Speaking of matters health, why not check out this great rediscovered episode of the Windell Comics superhero THE HAT?
'Ah, lay off now. I did me best by yiz. I'm just a man. A normal Drumcondra fella. Love the rasher sandwiches and the Bass. Did you go see the Dubs? Man U played a blinder there, absolute blinder. The daughter likes writing the stories. Loves the bukes. Makes a few bob from that. Did an old buke meself there. A normal enough few pages. Nothing special. A modest buke of recollections and things. Do you like a buke yourself? Mine is seventeen euro. Rasher sandwiches.
Good times. Good times were had by all. There were a few blips on the landscape but we always had the few euro for the Bass. Don't mind the loopers and the whingers, the failures, failed people. Don't mind them feckin' eejits. Feckin' failures. I'd rivet them! Do you hear me? DO YA? I'd rivet that shower! I'LL RIVET THE LOT OF YE!!!!
Ah no, I'm only coddin'. Love an old cod. I love a cod but I'd prefer a Bass. That's a fish joke. Did you get that? It has a double meaning, you can read it two ways. Man U. Rasher sandwiches. Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday's great. Big lump of ash on the noggin there. Smudge. Big smudge of it there and then off we go for rasher sandwiches. Great days. We did right by yiz anyway. Brian's fumbled the ball a bit, not too much. Terrible when that lad painted him doin a shite in the nip. That can't have been easy. Lehmans didn't help either and now there's the uncanny darkness overtaking the place. I'd rivet that darkness. I'd rivet it but I'd rivet Higgins first! I'd rivet that bollix! Rivet him! RIVET!
The future? What of the future you ask? Well, we'll wait and see what comes. I'll still be here, still being Bertie, still watching the matches, drinking the Bass, but I might be doin' it in the Aras. Yiz still love me don't yiz? Yiz still love the Bertie. You'd love to have me up the Aras wouldn't yiz? Oh yeah, yous would n' all. Rasher sandwiches.'
In the hopes of implementing some of their policies, the Green Party recently spoke of a possible coalition between themselves and spider Goddess Nyx. 'As it stands Nyx has no mandate, if we make her seem credible then maybe we can get something positive in return,' said John Gormley at the Green Party conference last week. 'Let's face it,' he continued, 'she's hardly any worse for the nation than FF.'
In consultation with the interesting thinkers that comprise their party membership, the Greens have made a list of rock bottom terms which would absolutely have to be included in a programme for government should one be formed with the telekinetic, genocidal, horrifyingly large, arachnid, spectral freak.
The terms are as follows. . .
1: Vending machines that serve organically sourced vegetarian quiche to be installed in all significant locations of social interaction around the country.
2: The state issue an apology to badgers for the part it played in leaving the cruel pastime of baiting go unaddressed.
3: A monument to bikes and the people who cycle them to be erected outside the General Post Office.
4: A proposal be made to European Parliament that harsh economic sanctions be brought against the French for their rampant consumption of escargots.
5: That the constitution be altered so as to recognise creatures and animals as 'forest, field and kennel dwelling individuals of other species'.
6: That loud lorries stop travelling through Dublin South-East.
In response to this proposal, Nyx mummified a Green Party delegation in webbing, sucked them dry of essential fluids and hung their petrified husks from the railings of Government buildings going forward.
Seeking a solution to the aforementioned supernatural/paranormal tomfoolery/high-jinx that is afoot in my town and spreading throughout the country at large, I have found myself consulting the work of Lady Gregory. In her attempt to assemble an archive of Irish folk beliefs, Lady Gregory spent a large part of the early 20th century travelling the hills of Sligo collecting tales of Fortean phenomena said to have been experienced by the various bog men she found there. It was amongst the folk wisdoms of these first hand accounts that I hoped to find some remedy to our current economic/occult predicament.
Gregory records an odd event that took place late one February night on a muddy road that ran raggedly from the foot of Ben Bulben. The tale of The Thing in the Road became one of the most celebrated paranormal incidents of its time and is even said to have once been referred to by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself, during a drunken tirade launched at his wife.
Anyway, without further ado, I will reproduce the accounts, as recorded by Lady Gregory, of the people who were actually there on the night. If you catch sight of anything that may be of assistance amongst the insanity of the garbled rustic parlance below please let me know.
The Thing in the Road: testimonies by boggers of a fiend that they happened upon whilst drunkenly travelling a pitch dark path at four o'clock in the morning (possibly after taking mushies).
Husband: 'There was something in the road that night. You could tell it was there because it wasn't somewhere else. It had a shape but it wasn't like a shape and it rolled forward like a duck doesn't or a goose either for that matter. It was as big as it was small and twice that size again. It wasn't comely, you wouldn't go toward it.'
Wife of Husband: 'I saw it also. At first I thought it was a cow but it wasn't. It was nothing like a cow and there was no reason to think it was a cow at all. It wasn't a cow or anything like that. It wasn't a horse either. I thought it was a cow and it could've been I suppose but for the fact that it wasn't.'
Brother of Wife of Husband: 'It was fierce. It looked fierce and it smelled it also. There was a stench of fierceness in the road and that is all I will say on the matter.'
Wife of Brother of Wife of Husband: 'My heart was above me at the sight of it. My heart was above me and to either side of me and behind and below me and there before me at the sight of it on the road.'
Father of Wife of Brother of Wife of Husband: 'I'll neither confirm nor deny that I saw it but see it I did and it wasn't there at all.'
Brother of Father of Wife of Brother of Wife of Husband: 'I thought it was something the faery ride upon. It had no hooves. It let a tremendous belch. It called me a gee-bag.'
Random Bogger: It was faery but not good faery, not comely, you would be reluctant to make its acquaintance. There was badness to it. You should never cross a faery's path. Never close a gate upon a faery or speak badly of one's footwear. It called us gee-bags. I didn't like it at all. It might have been a protestant. You know, the grass is so thick there you could grease your boots with it.'
I'm not sure if reading endless streams of this Lady Gregory stuff is helping. Beyond my window I can hear the pitiful wails of a nation being poisoned, paralysed and slowly eaten alive by the hideous scuttling mega-spider that is Nyx. There must be something that can be done, something, . . .going forward.
Telekinetic spider Goddess Nyx's continuing rampage has spread into the Irish Midlands causing councillor Gutty (Gut-Bag) O'Gorman (Fianna Fine-a Gael Fail) to claim that the paranormal assault is now the single largest contributor to the collapse of property prices in the area. O'Gorman, a long time advocate of the Jackson Pollock school of land rezoning, said on local radio that 'some minor misjudgements by certain parties in the past may have played a part in the decline of property values but really it's the spider that's to blame. Who'd want to be living in a place overrun by supernatural entities and malignant arachnid demons looming down on you from the heavens? Let's get real on this issue'.
Naturally, Nyx's effect on the locality is also of great concern to people living there. Taking their first step on the property ladder, James and Sorcha Healy moved out to the commuter belt. Now they find themselves deep in negative equity and unable to leave the house for fear of an Old Hag that lays in wait in their front garden. 'Property around here is worth next to nothing what with the goblins coming down everyone's chimneys and the human skeletons hanging from creepy grey webbing in the sky' says James. 'It's so true,' agrees Sorcha, 'the amount of money we've invested in this place, . . .I mean, we may as well have burned all our cash and gone to live on the North Pole in a house made of shit'. Neighbour, Shane Curley, concurs, 'as a private sector employee I find myself thinking of the sacrifices I have made already, I doubt Missus Colossal Spider Goddess out there even cares. Why doesn't she go attack the knackers on some corpo estate or eat one of those over-funded libraries no one goes to?'
Tourism has also been badly effected by the recent transformation of the Midlands into a web strewn supernatural jungle of death. Just listen to this disgruntled visitor from Germany: LINK. I doubt he'll be back.
'The spider will be the ruination of the country, don't we have sprays for this sort of thing?' asked an emotional O'Gorman before his radio interview concluded with the arrival of a Hat Man in the studio and the ensuing sounds of petrified screams, cardiac arrest and soul consumption.
Tonight, more so than every other night, a great cloak will be thrown over the heavens and darkness will fall. It will be the time of Nyx, the Goddess of night, and she will slide up from the depths of our sleeping minds and crawl like a colossal spider across the land, casting a shadow blacker than a starless night.
Animal headed children will twirl and shriek in the air amongst spinning dead leaves and the psychic transmissions of disturbed rests. 'Mummy is here! Mummy is here!' the children will scream with malign delight and then unmask to reveal themselves to be the offspring of Nyx. The goat faced girl is Lyssa, the Goddess of Madness, the ravager of reason and comprehension. She takes the mind, every individual's only true haven from her expanding realm of unreason. She will slip into your head and stomp and whirl until nothing is where it should be. She will ensure you never again escape the grip of Phobetor, the pig faced boy, her nephew and the God of Nightmares, who bangs remorselessly and senselessly upon the shrill keyboard of rational cognitive processes.
Some of us will perish this night when the rabbit faced Thanatos unmasks, a monstrously deformed child, the God of death, who will drag us forever into a great unknown where science and empirical determination mean less than nothing. Where you are but a frequency in a hissing static discord of paranormal incomprehensibility.
And this night will howl and rage forever and we will all be its victims for the Sun is dead (kicked to death in a shop doorway as it slept a drunken vagrant's sleep). Screaming cats and birds will join every car alarm in the land, singing a panicked song of despair, an eternal cacophonous nocturne, a permanent soundtrack to this Hell on Earth. The agencies of the state will weep. Holy men will plead to a God long since murdered and then, worst of all, Nyx will crack open the Universe like a rotten egg and her summoned army will come oozing out.
Maybe you've seen the foot soldiers of Nyx, creeping from the dark recesses of your room and looming over your frozen bed bound body. The Old Hag, the Shadow People or maybe the Hat Man. Now they are here to stay, released forever from the nocturnal parole of sleep paralysis, defying the left hemisphere of the brain. These Archetypes of Twilight, these members of the Jungian Collective Unconsciousness, will become the new cops, the new teachers, the new doctors, nurses and priests. Un-Civil servants in a new state of infinite chaos.
It is happening in my town and will happen in yours. I warned you all. I wrote letters to both the Irish Times and The Herald, but it did no good. People scoffed, some mocked, Madame editor saw fit not to publish my missive . . . and now it has happened. The Twilight that ruled our pagan past has re-emerged. The shadow of the spider is spreading and soon it will swallow reality whole. We are all to be dead deranged dreamers and Nyx will rule this dominion for eternity.
One day, like every other day, the Sun climbed up over the edge of the Earth, heaved his big burning body into the sky and made it morning. The cats all stood on the rooftops to greet him, the flowers lifted their pretty heads to see him and the birds sang his praises.
As the Sun continued to clamber up higher into the sky, people awoke and the Sun's celestial progress gave temporal cohesion to their lives. 'Now it is time to go to work', said the watches and clocks and they knew this because the Sun told their forefathers, the sundials, and the knowledge was passed down over the generations. 'Now it is time for lunch', said the watches and clocks later that day. 'Now it is time for the news to be on the telly', they said later on ...and so on and so on.
All day the Sun would roll up over everyone's heads until it came time to slide back down the other side of the Earth. What the Sun did when he vanished behind the horizon no one knew but I'll tell you. Every evening, when the Sun's work was done, he went and got pissed out of his mind. 'I'm fucking parched', the Sun would say and tumble like a big scorchy ball toward a hostelry that resides in the gloomy cosmic depths beneath our wonderful flat world. All the planets of the solar system would be there, drinking, playing darts, chatting each other up and complaining about politics. On this night, the Sun glided into the bar and took a seat next to his best pal Jupiter, who the Sun thought was wonderful fun. 'You're a gas planet', the Sun often told Jupiter, causing Jupiter to say, 'tell me something I don't know' and everyone would laugh except Mars who was usually just in the bar to start a fight.
That night, Venus was sitting at a nearby table and the Sun occasionally glanced over at her because he fancied her loads but was a bit shy. Sadly, Venus had no regard for the Sun. 'Mr. Hot Stuff over there thinks the world revolves around him', said Venus of the Sun to Pluto, who was always happy to hear a bad word said about somebody because he was bitter after being demoted from his status as a planet and relegated to being a mere floaty thing, no better than that eejit the Moon. Anyway, the Sun overheard what Venus said to Pluto and his heart sank. He decided to drown his sorrows in copious amounts of booze.
When closing time came the Sun tumbled out of the bar and tried to find his way home but he couldn't because he was so drunk. He span off one way and then another but it was no use, he was utterly lost. 'I think this is Ranelagh', said the Sun to himself upon spotting a familiar Spar, but it was not Ranelagh it was . . .well who knows where it was. 'This is awful', thought the Sun about his efforts to discover his whereabouts and he took out his mobile phone to call a taxi but his mobile was banjaxed. 'Oh no', said the Sun, 'my mobile has melted in my pocket because I am such a hot fellow, I'm up shit's creek for sure now'. Eventually tiring of futilely spinning this way and that, the Sun decided to settle down for a wee sleep in the doorway of the Spar.
The next morning on Earth (or what should have been the next morning on Earth) found the cats, birds and flowers all eagerly awaiting the Sun's return but return he did not. The creatures and plants did not know what to do and grew quite worried. The humans were less worried, awaking and going about their usual business with the help of the watches and the clocks that no longer needed the advice of the Sun. As it turns out, the Sun was kicked to death as he slept by two random weirdos who were good at sports, went to private schools and took amphetamines (this sometimes happens to people who sleep in shop doorways and is said to be frowned upon by the law but I've yet to see anyone do time for it - LOL!). The Sun never visited the Earth again.
The end results of this rambling chain of events were that The Big Issue magazine ran an article on how shop doorway dwellers really should not be kicked to death and someone mentioned what happened to the Sun on the telly. Some arty types and the odd child said they missed the Sun and environmental whingers started a panic about how no more food would grow but the food did grow, hydroponically, and everything was grand because the human race are a great species that can overcome any problem except perhaps the problem of living with each other and their petty neuroses.
As for the solar system, well that dispersed with Jupiter and the other planets going roughly in one direction and Earth spinning off in another. 'I never liked that guy anyway', said Jupiter of Earth and the other planets all agreed except for Mars who was just contrary and Venus who secretly thought the Earth was gorgeous.
Garganex Chemicals Corp. has bought out the Catholic Church.
Due to scandals involving the harbouring of demented sex criminals, market insiders have long believed the Vatican to be merely dragging the once lucrative Jesus franchise through the mud. Needless to say, shares have plummeted. However, like an ever vigilant carrion bird, the Garganex Corporation has swooped down.
The advantages of this new acquisition to the Garganex Corporation are many. The riches of the Vatican bank are an obvious windfall, not to mention the rights to all of the characters that appear in the Holy Bible. You can soon expect to see Noah, Moses and even Jesus Christ advertising Garganex related goods. The Pope, former CEO and money-changer in chief of the Catholic Church, said that he is happy with the buy out as it provides him with the revenue required for a multitude of out of court settlements. These settlements will save his holiness from a long term in prison for facilitating the world's largest ever paedophile ring. 'It's a liberation really,' said Pope Benedict, 'now we can quit wasting time pontificating about theological mumbo jumbo and spend more time doing things we really enjoy, like putting the boot into the queers, all that stuff'.
I don’t know about you readers, but I am very much looking forward to the impending demise of Kerry Katona. Mourning her promises to be even more cathartic than judging her has been. In a year when we have lost both Jade and Jacko, Kerry’s death would make 2009 a hat-trick year for Celebrity Bereavement.
I heard about Celebrity Bereavement on one of those afternoon TV shows that are watched by home-keepers with a moment to spare, elderly viewers, the chronically unemployed, or those too horribly disfigured to leave the house. A psychologist was on (I’d seen her on Big Brother and she’s pretty insightful) explaining the phenomenon of Celebrity Bereavement. She said that, unlike the grief caused by normal bereavement, Celebrity Bereavement (or CB) causes a kind of super grief. In fact, the amount of grief caused by CB is directly proportionate to the height of the celebrity’s media profile at the time of their passing. For example, Super Grief (or SG) can be caused by the loss of someone extremely high profile like Diana Spencer (a.k.a. the Princess of Hearts) whereas personalities that rank lower on the celebrity scale merely incur a kind of Extra Grief (or EG). Imagine if Kevin Keegan died, EG would be a bit like that.
The psychologist on the afternoon TV show said that perfect conditions for CB include the celebrity in question’s death being sudden and dramatic, perhaps with a tinge of mystery to add a lair of intrigue. ‘Something to make us cock our eyebrows as the tears run down our cheeks,’ was how the psychologist put it. Was Diana murdered? Was Jacko given too much OxyContin with his cocoa? Was Rod Hull pushed? . . .that type of thing.
The psychologist also said it's preferable if the death of the celebrity rehabilitates their reputation to some extent. ‘Everyone loves cutting celebs down to size, it’s natural and there is no shame in it’ said the psychologist, ‘then, when the celebrity is suitably humbled, all we have to do is wait for them to die and we can wail about how they were just like us or how they were misunderstood and so on, it’s great’. Jade Goody went from racist oik to patron saint of the smear test, Michael Jackson went from being a kiddie fiddler back to being the King of Pop, Diana Spencer went from being a right royal strumpet to England’s Rose and Kerry Katona will go from being a coke snorting hussy to an understandably flawed young woman who temporarily overcame her difficult formative years to become both Queen of the Jungle and Mum of the Year, not to mention the face of the Iceland frozen food retail chain. Oh yes, Kerry’s death is going to provide 2009’s third CB emotional work out. Pity it couldn’t have been Britney, bit of a lost chance there although she’s not out of the woods yet. Anyway, I’ll be happy to make do with our martyr to mumdom Kerry Katona.
Incidentally, when asked how the death of someone like Martin Bashir would rate on the CB index, the psychologist said something like, ‘no one will really notice except maybe his wife or people who expect him to show up at work, . . .and even that’s a maybe.’
OK, things have gotten out of hand and I've been forced to send strongly worded letters of complaint to both the Times and the Herald concerning this previous post and the post directly below this one .
Here is the letter I sent to The Irish Times:
Madam, I would like to join intellectual dreadnaught John Waters in his lamentation of John Charles McQuaid’s Ireland, an Ireland where the young respected their elders. It may be unfashionable in these days of rap music and political correctness to assert the old adage ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ but, in light of recent events, unfashionable I must be.
I live in a peaceful coastal town. We are a respectable community that plies its trade during the summer months ensuring visitors feel at ease, enjoy their chips and have ready access to change for the slot machines. Welcome as these revenue generating visitors are, I wish to take issue with the behaviour of their offspring. Our gentle community has recently become besieged by levitating children in disturbing animal masks who worship Satan and have the power of telekinesis. These children have taken to floating into our homes in the dead of night and rearranging furniture in a topsy-turvy and somewhat poltergeist like fashion. Now, this may be all the rage in the cosmopolitan Educate Together crack dens of Dublin, where I presume these children originate, but here we call it trespassing or, worse still, haunting.
As if that wasn’t enough, these paranormal bowsies have taken to reviving the dead from the local cemetery and sending them bewilderedly staggering into the town. I myself received a knock on the door and opened it to discover my late Aunt Dotty in a confused state of advanced decomposition. I brought the poor dear in, gave her a cup of tea and then drove her back up to her final resting place and reburied her. She took some convincing when it came to getting her to lie back in her coffin and let the soil cover her up. The experience was more than a little distressing for both of us. I can still hear her muffled wails as I pass the graveyard on my way to Super Value. The hoodlums are there too of course, revolving in the air above the church, pointing down at us and laughing. Our parish priest, one Father Jim Fondle, did intend on having ‘words’ with the youngsters but, as you will note from the enclosed photograph (blog readers see above), things did not go well.
The authorities seem intimidated by these little monsters and become strangely withdrawn when requested to address the situation. I have been in touch with social services and they are currently endeavouring to track down the parents. Incidentally, should not these juvenile occultists be back at school by now as holiday season is over, or is school attendance considered ‘square’ by the wife-swapping sodomites of D4? . . . but I digress.
As a perpetually persecuted and neurologically beleaguered victim of PC Ireland, Mr. Waters would no doubt concur when I say that the time has come to call a halt to the libertarian social experiment of recent decades. An experiment that has given rise to such evils as rampant drug abuse, gay marriage, strident women, levitating Satanic children and Montessori. Would this rot have set in had we not lost sight of McQuaid’s Ireland?
I’ll finish my missive with a suggestion, perhaps we should introduce the birch like they have on the Isle of Man? I saw some pictures of the Isle of Man in a brochure once and not one levitating, animal headed, devil worshipping delinquent was to be seen.
Is mise le meas, yours in indignant outrage, etc. (Name and address with editor)
And here's my letter to the Herald:
Dear Herald, Your paper is deadly and I think we should hit kids with sticks.
Cheers lads, (Name and address with editor)
Now, as letters to the paper so often are, that should put a stop to things. Otherwise we'll have no alternative but to talk to the mother directly.
Those bloody kids (see August 21st) were back at it again last night, playing hopscotch on the main thoroughfare at 3am if you please. Needless to say, the people living above the places of business in that vicinity were awoken by this nocturnal delinquency. The gardai were eventually called and approached the trouble makers. However, it turns out that one of the youngsters whispered something so appalling into a garda's ear that he returned to his squad car and began to weep bitterly. He's still there now, we can't get him to unlock the doors.
The chalked out hopscotch game remains also. Instead of squares and numbers, like they used have in my day, turns out these ne'er do wells were hopping and jumping amongst occult symbols and diagrams. 'That'll be the heavy metal', I said to the local butcher and he agreed. The butcher then told me that the youngsters were reciting a rhyme as they played. Something about some one's mother, perhaps theirs. The butcher's eyes then glazed over and he started saying the rhyme himself. In a sing song voice, that was most unlike him, he went:
Say your prayers to the man upstairs. He can't hear you coz we cut out his ears. Mummy killed God and Mummy ate the sun. Now it's time for Mummy to come.
The butcher then regained his composure to some extent but seemed very much discommoded by his involuntary recitation. I attempted to distract him by mentioning how every dog in the town seemed to be howling that night and how everyone discovered they were without electrical power when they went to turn on their lights. Putting talk on the butcher didn't seem to help. His limbs were shaking and there was quite an accident as he chopped me a leg of lamb.
Anyway, this used to be a nice town but it seems to me that the young people are getting out of hand. I've a feeling things are only going to get worse. To be honest, I've a good mind to write to The Herald about this or maybe even go so far as to drop a line to madame editor of the Times. I blame the parents myself, ...whoever they are.
Splat! It landed on top of the city centre, like an immense blob of black jelly. It consolidated, congealing into a huge pyramid of, what looked like, pulsating wet tarmac. Roots ran out of its base like dark tentacles. Some spread out onto the surrounding motorways, subsuming and rerouting them, making them the arteries of its throbbing black triangular heart. Other roots bore deep into the earth, why they did this we did not know, or wonder, or care.
It wasn’t long before an exploratory team of brave candidates sliced into one of these rootways and entered it. We saluted them as they left and we apprehensively awaited their return. Their communication devices failed and their families fretted until, one day, a snowy signal was picked up and we travelled to the base of the pyramid. Fissures slowly appeared in the pyramid’s glistening flesh and then an aperture opened up. Figures emerged. They turned out to be our team. The team were wide-eyed and short of breath. When asked what was inside, they feverishly grasped our lapels and exclaimed 'bargains, incredible bargains'.
Soon everyone was regularly entering the pyramid via one of its motorway arteries or other orifices. Inside we found the bargains. Items of utmost desire, going cheap. It was bizarre how we wandered throughout that throbbing space-mall, feeling a want for items we never saw before. The place had a way of invading your consciousness and directing you to an object that would make you feel fulfilled, at least temporarily. The objects were strange, some were like lampshades but couldn’t be used as such and others were like hats you couldn’t actually wear. We could not guess the purpose of these objects, all we knew is that they were there and we wanted them and it all seemed worth it. A strange liberation was felt by those of us too burdened by the onus of autonomy or self-definition. This place told us what to want and who to be. What we actually needed didn’t seem important. To concern oneself with such matters in this heavenly environment would be the contrary stance of a killjoy or chronic malcontent.
Some of us began working in the pyramid, to pay for our purchases, and eventually all of us were doing this. We were never told the prices of the objects, we somehow just knew them. Despite this, we could rarely tell if those prices increased or decreased, the objects just always felt like bargains. We also knew, psychically, that there was a new currency, the Zonk, and we exchanged all our earthly cash for that. The Zonk came in the form of a large black lump of mucus and varied in worth depending upon its density. The hard heavy Zonks were actually of less worth than the lighter ones. We worked hard to earn our Zonks and we happily spent them.
And that was the way things continued for many merry months until the chill morning we awoke to find the pyramid gone and in its place a barren crater. Examining the immense tunnels left by the roots, we discovered that all nutrients had been sucked from the earth and it could no longer sustain any sort of life. We realised we would starve and so immediately set about the only course of action we had left to us. We sent a distress signal into deep space and hungrily awaited a response. A signal eventually came from a distant civilisation, one evidently far more advanced than our own. When deciphered by our team of experts, the signal was revealed to be a message offering us just one word of advice: 'Diversify'. We did not know how to do this and were struck with horror when we realised we had been left with nothing but despair and a load of useless old Zonks.
I've recently come to appreciate Ireland's exciting audio/visual arts movement and the way it redefines the language of the screen by engaging with theories of science, architecture and socio-economic cultural artefacta* to rigorously interrogate psychological attachments to space, form and the places found between both space and form re: memory and place as seen from the imagined perspective of mental and physical architectura* of space itself apropos one detail or form extracted and used to mask out and shape details of another space and the way the form actively tries to build itself, stripping the original sites/memory structures of sentimentality, refracted light, space, nostalgia and/or any remote possibility of interest at all.
A great example of this was the piece I saw recently by prodigious audio/visual supremo and man-bag enthusiast Moses Langley-Hayse M.A. It featured several grainy digital shots of a rusty old metal bench that stood upon on an abandoned and windswept promenade in Ostend. These challenging visuals were accompanied by a soundtrack comprising of atonal electronica and 'found sounds' such as indistinct sighs and moans and a crunching noise that may have been caused by the director eating an egg and ham roll from the local Spar. Langley-Hayse described the piece as his latest exploration into the peripheral realm of the aesthetics of deprivation, a realm he first delved into with his Homeless Shelter Urinal Cake series. Rusty Bench in Ostend was incredible viewing. It was like having a mirror held up our world and being asked 'so what?'.
I also enjoy the new ones they are making where people with man-bags interview their dads but without any sync sound and with loads of close-up camera angles pulling focus on their old fella's nostril hair in an intimate and honest way. Lovely stuff. Keep it coming. It's like Punk all over again.
(*made up words but appropriate I feel given the basic free-form approach to coherence encouraged by said audio/visual practitioners and their cognoscenti benefactors).
There is no point going on about human nature because the only thing anyone knows for sure about human nature is that no one knows anything about human nature for sure. Anyway, it's human nature not to care about human nature.
The ultimate conclusion is that there is no conclusion so you may as well sit back and indulge yourself because no one is going to indulge yourself for you, ...unless you pay them that is.
I'm really engrossed in the unravelling tale that has followed the disappearance of Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge from her home in Basingstoke one month ago today. It is a true tragedy but it is also so much more than that. I couldn't say it better than Take A Break magazine when they wrote of events, 'if you wept for young Maddy then you'll bawl for Little Aggie'. TV Quick agreed saying, 'it's devastating, tears are streaming down my face, I can't turn the television off'. But it was The Star that reminded us of the gritty yet equally relevant aspects to the case when they wrote 'Child Cannibal Claims Fifth?' All possibilities must be kept open. This is a sorrow shrouded in mystery.
Sky News featured a lovely piece about a young girl, around Aggie's age, who made an ingenious diorama of the crime scene in the hopes that it would refresh the memories of those who were in the area that day. She won a prize. We can only feel for the British nation as it clutches its commemorative dolls and tea towels to its chest. (Besides the sad image of little Aggie and the words 'bless her little heart', the tea towels are also helpfully emblazoned with the phone number of the confidential police hotline.) Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge truly is this year's Holly and Jessica.
Of course, I'm beginning to slightly resent the mother, Janet Bainbridge. I hate to say it but she doesn't seem that bothered. Where are her tears? Where is the anguish? They say she bought new shoes for the press conference and is selling pictures of her new patio to Hello. Where are her priorities? I would never come right out and say that she had something to do with Aggie vanishing but she has the look of a woman with secrets to hide, a bit like a murderess might.
'You'll come for the sadness but you'll stay for the mystery of Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge', reads the blurb on the back of a new book entitled Missing Angel that has been appropriately prompt in reaching the market. Tony Parson's concurred when he described the events as 'fantastic viewing' on BBC2's Late Night Review. On the same show Ekow Eshun said the coverage was 'tawdry' but 'a guilty pleasure nonetheless' before saying something about the semiotic significance of Aggie's Peppa Pig hair clip that was found two days into the exhaustive search.
Let's hope there is a breakthrough soon. Little Agatha 'Aggie' Bainbridge TM will remain in all our hearts for the next good while at least. I better stop typing now because I want to log on to the littleaggie.co.uk forum and see if anyone has replied to the remarks I left about Janet's choice in blouse when she gave today's statement.
I awoke at 4a.m. with a profound feeling of unease. Then I saw these cheeky blighters standing at the end of the bed. They were giggling in a weird way and started moving the furniture about the place just by looking at it. 'Get back to your tenements,' I roared and chased them out of it with a brush.
...before they floated out the window they said something like 'Mummy is coming, Mummy is coming for all of you, like a horrible great shadow, she will creep into your world'. Then they giggled and vanished into the gloom.
I've no idea what that means, probably something to do with young people's rap music. Next time I'm contacting the gardai.
Anyhoo, ...has anyone noticed a sudden chill in the air?
According to specialists, a Play Station 3 that was found amongst ancient ruins in northern Israel may have belonged to JESUS! Some experts argue that the PS3 might not have belonged to JESUS but actually belonged to Jesus' SON, Barry, who was GAY!!! That's not all, some say that the ruin isn't in the Middle East!! It's in BALLINTEER!!! In SOUTH COUNTY DUBLIN!!!! And it's not actually a ruin but a semi-detached two story HOUSE!!! It is also claimed that the PS3 may not have even belonged to Jesus or his GAY SON!!!! Who may not have even been GAY!!!!!! In fact, it is now agreed that Jesus' son was not called BARRY and that Jesus may not have even had a SON!!!!!
'All we know for certain,' said a recent press release 'is that Play Station have a great new range of games coming out well in advance of the Christmas market. Keep an eye out for thrilling first person shoot 'em ups like Killzone 9: Armageddon and Call of Duty: Future War/Mission Apocalypse, not to mention fun new games like SingStar Abba and Ghostbusters 12, Spectral Oblivion.'
I've been reading a moving first hand account of Iraq by one of those award winning journalists. It's called I Am Iraq and has just been published. It's got loads and loads of pages so I know it's good. Here is one of the most powerful passages:
'Day 17: Another forty dead and it's only 3 pm. Debris everywhere. People are weeping and imploring the heavens. Did this have to happen? Is God really so callous? I feel a wave of nausea crash against my heart and guts. I cover my eyes. I groan. My wife has had enough of seeing me suffer. She reaches for the remote. She turns off the television. She places a hand on my shoulder and smiles gently. Oh Mags, without you I'd never get through this. I walk to the computer. I switch it on. I've got a couple of hours to get my copy in so I better start typing. Emotionally drained, I email the piece straight to the office. Thank God for email. I don't think I could hop in the car and drive to work in this state. Besides, if I had to go all the way to the city centre now I'm not sure I'd make it back by 8pm and we have tickets for the new one by Eve Ensler. Needless to say, I'm not really in the mood for Ensler's strident populist shtick but I promised Mags. It's the least I can do. After all, without her Iraq would've destroyed me days ago.'
I'm going to become a film director. I'm going to change my name to Gustav Klankenheimer and make a seven hour meditation on suffering. Either the film will be in black and white or only feature washed out varieties of beige mixed with jaundiced yellows. It will be bleak.
The film will begin with a shot of ominous rolling clouds. We hear a clap of thunder. Cut to drizzle against a window pane. Beyond the glass we see a sparsely decorated room with peeling wallpaper and a garish sacred heart picture upon the wall. A fluorescent light bulb crackles and flickers, as they do. A narrow bed with coarse horsehair blankets contains an emaciated old man. He is wheezing heavily and staring at water dripping through the ceiling and landing on the stiff body of a dead cat. The old man is dying of cancer and he frequently moans in pain because he has no medication. Occasionally he calls out in a Scandinavian accent. He calls out the name 'Elizabet'. We see a woman in late middle age sitting at a kitchen table. She hears the old man's calls but ignores them. She chain smokes and stares into the middle-distance. Her face is a road map to regret. She listens to the sound of weeping children being broadcast over a battered wireless.
A clock hangs above the old man's head. Its face is cracked. It ticks portentously. It tocks with even greater menace. A large bluebottle fly buzzes around the room. It lands on the old man's nose. He attempts to lift his hand and swat it away but he hasn't the strength. He is helpless to do anything about it. 'Elizaaaaaaaaabet', he croaks, 'Elizaaaaaaaabet'. Elizabet ignores him.
In the final moments of this film, the old man's eyes will roll back in his head. He will convulse and choke. As he breathes his last, he will gasp these words: ...'I see a great ugly mouth with jagged teeth, gaping open, miles wide. I smell its stinking carcass breath. This is the mouth of God and he is laughing, ...laughing at us all.'... The old man will then die. We hear his death rattle. Elizabet will then enter the room. She will regard the old man's corpse. She will smirk and then jump out of the window. The end credits will roll to the sound of the clock ticking, the children weeping and the water dripping on the dead cat. I'm going to call the film Transformers 3.
It's fun and the reactions can often be a source of amusement for the troll with too much time to spare. You will elicit gems such as 'you Silver Age faggots, it's 2009, get over it' or 'fail'or 'epic fail' or 'this obscure post is a violation of my civil rights! Where are the mods? Why has God abandoned us? It's like 9-11 all over again' and not forgetting the classic 'thread locked'.
Also, remember when spamming to include the obligatory words to describe your post:African Prince must lodge money in your account, Praise Jesus, filthy teens do anything for cash, I sent you an email but you didn't reply, your account has been suspended, make your lover moan with your rock hard diamond cutting trouser python, etc.
By the way, if anyone spams this blog I will hunt them down like rodents and fumigate them. What's good for the goose is NOT good for the gander. Life is unfair like that. There is no Mod.
Pat Kenny or Marty Whelan, I wonder who'd win in a scrap. RTE should fight them if they want ratings. As a matter of fact, Blue Peter should fight their pets on their programme. The kids could ring in and put money on who they think will come out the winner. It would be educational, ...going forward.
I was excited to learn that VHI Healthcare are joining forces with Dublin's celebrated Utopia Adult Store of Capel Street to launch a voucher scheme that allows you to 'spank yourself better'.
The Utopia Lifestage Choices Health Vouchers Scheme (working title) enables those who have signed up to the VHI's Forward Plan to exchange vouchers received upon purchase of certain goods in Utopia's Adult Store for increased Level 1 and Level 2 care (covering day-to-day expenses such as GP visits and complementary alternative therapies) as well as contributing toward the cover of a room in most private hospitals (excluding the Beacon Hospital, Blackrock Clinic and Mater Private Hospital). Rather than being redeemable coupons, the vouchers are intended to compliment the monthly Forward Plan charges of €113.13 to €300.00, which is fair enough really when you think about it.
One general practitioner said of the scheme, 'we quite often get red-faced gentlemen callers to the surgery with certain items from Utopia lodged in their persons. It'll be nice for them to know that the cost of these items will go some way toward getting them back out.'
At last, a group of people prepared to use some initiative instead of moaning and playing the blame game. Going forward!