Second intermission.
Please read the previous post first.
(Still Act Two Still)

Did you see the way he had to go back and put in that bit he didn’t copy over properly? No I missed it. Well if you read it again you’ll see. The bit about the prophesy near the bottom. Oh I see it. Yes the film was funnier.



“…is the bar shut?
Can’t be
1800 people in here and they shut the bar?
What about a sponsor’s miniature?
They’ve fucked off too
Can you not go an hour without a drink?
I’m just sayin’ wait a minute.. him over there…hang on…excuse me, where did you get the lager?…….
Right come on, follow me, he says the wee bar’s open up the top, we’ve plenty time...”

Still Act Two Still

Follow me, stay close, as we fly from our roost, over hedges and ditches, above the foggy treetops, past spires and roofs, stacked steeple high, with phone aerials and eyeless satellite dishes, blindly searching for the false god of Sky.
Not us, friends! In the murk a space, parted by Divine Hand and in that space a light. Like true sparrows in fog, we follow the beam, straight down through Ryan’s open window. To alight near the table of our five questing friends, let’s see how it goes with their search, for the fabled Guinness Grail!

“The what?”
“The Guinness Grail!
“Haven’t you been listening to all we’ve said?”
“It’s a lot to take in, go back to the bit about the naked man in the museum.”
“Museum? pshaw, fleabag clip joint more like. £7.50 for what? Two or three old pot stills and a tea-towel of Loch Lomond in the gift shop? That‘s not a museum.”
“Yeah yeah, THE MAN?”
“We found him spread-eagled naked on the floor, walked in and there he was.”
“In a pentagram?”
“No”
“With odd symbols on the floor?”
“No”
“Some writing, in blood even?”
“No”
“An anagram maybe?”
“No, I said there wasn’t...”
“That was pentagram, an anagram is a word…”
“No pentagram, anagram, nor telegram neither, nothing. Just him.”
“Dead?”
“No, completely pie-eyed, and I mean totalled. Fuck was he shitfaced!”
“Well who was he in the name of Christ?”
“He was Harry Hutton of our order, but one failed in his Quest. We you see, are sworn to abstinence for the duration of The Search, it‘s a state of grace. He failed.
He Fell.”
“Yeah, off the wagon! Big time! The cunt!” El Barbudo remarks
“Order? Quests? You talk as if you’re knights or something.”
“These two are, that’s why they can’t drink. EL Barbudo as in EL Cid see? And Ayres here is actually Sir Kim, a Knight Of the Round…
“Never mind that now,” says Ayres quite testy, “Tell them what he gave us.”
“Ah yes, before he passed out, he gave us this, the Guinness Code, Ayres decoded it last night…”


Even still, the buckled cogs and wheels of Mally’s mind turn on their crooked spindles, grinding slow now, for want of Love’s kind oil.
He thinks:
I can’t touch him, that’s for sure, for I took an Oath (a perverted corruption of the word) but I know a mob who can. That shower of shite at Ryan’s Bar would eat him alive. They’re mad daft on the hurling and the football and the fightin’ Sure they’ve got Flynn O’Toole’s hurley, Jimmy Johnstone’s jersey, Jack Charlton’s fishin’ rod, all stuck up on the wall. Why even big Roy himself… Mally
remembers the day Roy Keane stopped in for one.

“Have yi change of a hunder?” Said Keano that day, waving the big red note like a flag and him grinnin’ the big man to all and sundry in the bar.
“I’m sorry Mr Keane, I have not,” says Ryan, snatching it from his grip, “I’ll have ti owe yi!” And promptly nailed it to the wall.

Losing a hubcap to the kerb, Mally returns to his steering wheel and changes up to third. I’ll put this fecker on the wrong bus yet!

“Di yi follow the football at all?”
“Oh Aye Rangers daft me.” (a soccer team of the Scottish Presbyterian tradition)
“I have just the place for you then, the only such bar in town, and they’re showin’ a re-run of Barcelona, this very night!”
“A Rangers pub? In Dublin? Surely not”
“Oh staunch, staunch, they are, and they’d love nothing better, than to welcome a visitor, a Prodigal son as it were, if you get my meaning.”
“Do you think?”
“I Do. Now, have you a Rangers scarf?”
“Never leave home without it. What’s more, I’ve also got this, and THIS!”
Oh, haha Oh no! Oh this is too good! “HohohahahHAHAHA splutter choke”


Lindy claps her hands in astonished glee
“You said: ‘Two women from the west will come‘, how do you know its us?”
“The prophesy in the Code describes you both. Two shall bear the clue, One with shining heart so true, the other…”
“Yeah, what does it say about me?”
“Never mind, you fit the bill.”
“And what were we supposed to bring”
“The last but one piece of our jigsaw”
“And that is?”
“I rather think it’s one of those books”
"Are there more to come?"
“Yes just two, ‘One to show the way‘, ‘the other to clear the path‘”


Mally loses his grip. There goes another hubcap, for Binty, from his duffle bag has brought out a Union flag the size of a tablecloth and with some grunting, a red foam glove, which released from its tartan prison, has expanded to reveal a huge Red Hand Of Ulster.

“What do you think?”

I think they’ll fuckin kill you! Thinks he.

Outside Ryan’s, Binty has been dressed with Mally his fussing valet for the night. The union jack is draped like a cloak, the red white and blue of his scarf adjusted just so, and the gigantic Red Hand, placed on with the care of the trainer to his young boxing champ. “Remember“, he says, “big entrance!”

Binty kicks in the door.

“Hello! Hello! We are the Billy boys…

Without even looking up from his pouring, Ryan points to the table, “They’re sittin’ over there. Widyi mind shuttin’ the feckin’ the door?”

Outside on the pavement, R. O. Mally has lost his bladder to the flagstones, in white-hot, helpless fury.


End of act two.

Act Two Still
Programme note: The funny bits here provided by Ms Cat. (Soprano)

Come dear friends, part the fog if we may and take for our vantage, the bough of this handy chestnut. Cling tight and we might also feel, through the warm gnarled bark, the majesty of His Design. And keep such close, a wholesome anchor for us, as we witness grim Humanity.

He has the look of the salt-caked mariner, rolling home from a twelve-month round the Horn to Valparaiso (and damn yer eyes in the Dago lingo!), Right down to his boots and his kitbag duffel. Yet we’d be wrong, for earlier this day he arrived by air, stopping here to change his plane. With fogbound hours to kill, he took the chance, to see the Fair City, but now quite lost, he wanders drunk, his dunnage he cares not where. From that tartan duffle low slung over, he pulls another can, drains it, then with a flick, he kicks it toward the van. Old Scotia’s proud ambassador!

'Oh Danny Boy, the pipes-hic-the pipes are callin', from glen to glen, an' down the mountain side...'

Binty, every drunk, every acting, weaved a weavy weave towards the grinning Mally. He salutes a bush, he winks dutifully at a lampost, Mally watches and feels his dander rise.
What's this? The drunken Binty stops, and fumbles for his crotch. A tilt, a groan, is it...Mally can hardly believe his eyes. Is-is he pissing against Dublin's finest bin?
Baile atha Cliath?
Mally bristles, his jaw muscles jump, he hears the bodhran and the tin whistle in his head. Against the trad music, he also hears the snip snippity snip of his plastic handcuffs.
A surge of power awaiting his deft fingers.
His moblie, cast aside, still bleats faintly in the night...

'Here here, listen you gobshite are you takin' the piss or wha'? Look, if you want t'come 'round it's twenty for a hand-'

Mally reaches down, his thumb hits end, his eyes befixed on Binty's steaming piss. ~He is shaking it off, zipping up. His alluring slip-slod trippity trop waddle commences right this way.
There is a god, Mally thought weakly, and thy name is fuckin cider!
He feels once for his illegal and highly frowned upon sap. It is oiled up and ready to go.
He grapples with the handle and steps out into the cool night air...


Sergeant O’Shea, (master of every rabbit punch, arm twist, kidney poke in the book) has met his match in a slip of a thing that stepped out a toothpaste commercial.

“Where’s oul’ Dan? It’s him that usually sees me.”

Oul’ Dan, an idler from our hero’s betting shop, has, at Barney’s polite but insistent suggestion, taken himself off to his local for the night, with a twenty in his top pocket “to get him started“.

“He had to leave. I’m his locum.”
“His locum? He never mentioned family to me, maybe I should wait till he’s back.”
“Don’t be silly now, sure I know what I’m doin’, come through to the treatment room, it’s the neck is it?”
CRACK.
“My Cot but it is.”

And with soft hands upon his shoulders she steers him through the house, contriving on the way to give the villain’s neck a tweek.
CRACK

“Oh fuck!”
“Are you all right there? Not long now. Get your uniform off and lie on the table.”
“Trousers too? It’s the neck! me neck, I keep telling yi’”
”All of it. I’ve got to…to manipulate the spine…em, sure but you know what they say, the neck bone’s connected to the backbone…
“Jeez, right then, here have them, take it all, feck!”

Onto the table he struggles, what with his gout and his twisted neck and all, but he’s still a man…

“No Sergeant, face down.”

As quick as it’s off, the Garda suit is passed unseen to the waiting Fatmammycat.



“Hello there friend, havin’ a good night eh? long ways from home, here let me assist, “serve and protect” that’s our motto!”
“Are YOU a polis, son?”
“Sorta, come back to the van, I’ll run yi’ to town.” smirks our serpent, overlooked by Patrick in the Holy Days. For Binty, a man lost in the fog, the offer of a warm van back to town, is a harbour light unlooked for. In his best Rastafarian, kept for just such moments, he shouts in joy.

“Rock on, me Bredren!”

The cosh is stopped sudden on the backswing.

“Wha’? Di’ you say Brethren? A Brother? You?”

Now Binty knows naught of square and divider, he’s kept his pockets clean, in simple friendship he responds:
“Eh? Yeah man, put it there…brother”, his honest open hand outstretched.
Mally takes it, to be sure, Lets check the Scotchman’s secret Grip.
Through clumsy drunken mishap or Luck’s protection Binty’s handshake goes awry. Fuck The Hairy Goat! thinks Mally, (for such is the heathen talk they use)
A Grandmaster of the third degree! Wid you fucking believe it? And me a Vow new taken!

“Fucking cuntish bastard hoors of a cunty-cunty fuck!” Shouts Mally in his jig of rage.
“Eh, urr yi all right there Jimmy?”
“Yes Yes, get in the van, I’ll give you a lift. Feck!.”

Still Act Two

But what of our Hero? Some may ask, let’s join the three who left us sharp, now in a house on the outskirts of the fog bound town. Preparations for war are underway, and as Lysander to his few at Thos, Fatmammycat spurs them on…

“Right, SB, is the room ready? You look perfect.”
“I don’t know, do I look right in this white tunic? I don’t look like a fucking chiropodist or something?”

Fatmammycat pauses.

“SB, no matter what, you could never look like a chiropodist. You’ve even got me as damp as my basement. Happy now? Now quick, he’ll be here soon. I’ll take Barney into the kitchen and sort him out.”

“I don’t understand why I have to strip.” Says he, “The mot would kill me.”

“We’ve been through this, you can’t put it on over your clothes, now get them off.”

And so he stands, a David in the firelight now revealed, his many scars no slip of the Sculptor’s hand, but badges proud of the Long Campaign, and in his form we see the Sculptor’s hand was true, (no artisan but Artist, great is He). From the cording of his neck, through coursing forearm veins, o’er the rippling landscape of his torso, past satisfying lunchbox, to his manly thigh. Fatmammycat the expert, runs her expert eye.

“Interesting.”

A loud knock at the door, stops her in her shameful tracks.

“Places everyone, let’s do it!”

Before O’Shea can knock a second time, Sexy Beauty opens the door.



Now they have come in from the night, we can look them over at our leisure. They too, bring a sudden lull with them, into the long night’s business with John Barleycorn, for American lady tourists are as common as one eyed unicyclists in Ryan’s. And especially such interesting specimens of the type. The younger, young enough still, to absorb Life’s great joys by simple osmosis, carries with her an old fashioned book-strap, a half dozen of the Irish Greats in its buckled grip. Her meat and drink on such a trip as this. The other, who even now displays a look-you-in-the-eye feistiness (which all true men value above gold in a woman) has planted herself, back to the counter, and like an adamant lighthouse slowly scans the storm-tossed sea of faces.

“Take a picture why dontcha? It’ll last longer.”

Good natured laughter her reward, she turns and buys the beers. Suddenly they need to sit. For in truth, here in Ryan’s boozy fug, the day’s trudge has caught them up.

“What about over there? There’s some seats free.”
“You’re joking, please tell me you are.”
“I cant stand much longer, I’ll go first, you give em the big smile.”

Charts litter the surface now and we find our three in earnest thought.

“Hi boys, I’m Andraste this is Lindy.”
“Please, you were expected.”
“What?
“Two women from the west, will come bearing…”
“No Ayres, not yet!”
“But we’re from the east”
“It’s the west to us”
“Allow me, I am Gorilla Bananas..”
“You don’t say”
“This is El Barbudo…”
“What does the “L” stand for?”
“The”, not L but EL”
“I get it ! Spanish?
“No, Belgian”
“Why doesn’t he talk?”
“He has, well the most inconsequential of speech problems. He‘s shy.”
“What about him?”
“That’s Ayres, the philosopher, our crypto-analyst, holder of the Fortran seat of alchemy at the University of Cobol.”
“Airs! That’s what your givin’ me! The vapors! Listen what are you guys on?”
“A Quest !”

Andraste calls their bluff.

“OK tell us.”
“Look at this. It’s a brass rubbing from the tomb of Arthur”
“King Arthur?”
“You could say that. Arthur Guinness the brewer….”

As the explanation continues, Lindy feels her heart fill to bursting…

Act Two...

Dear friends,
for some, a fog is hindrance only, for these soulless ants unmoved by Nature’s upkeep of Creation, it’s one hour more in an endless grind. The oak-hearted sailor fears and loathes it, as he strains to hear the skerry bell, yet that same deadening is a gift to some, a respite given from clamour and din, for others more, of a lonesome kidney, fond memories come wrapped within its damp embrace.

But for some, a few, (thankful praise a blessed few), their hearts rotted by malignant grubs of evil, laid in childhood by unknown wasps, a fog is their friend, a cloaking ally, to be greeted with silent salutation upon the field of unspoken filthy deed…

Reserve Officer Mally feels his pleasure mount as each step of Sergeant O’Shea’s stiff gait takes him further into the fog towards the house. The thickening vapours now close behind him with vault door finality.

In the course of his Duty, Mally makes a point of removing the little squares of coloured paper which adorn phone booths, advertising the services of ladies and working girls. You know the thing. Of course you do. These he keeps like a schoolboy pack of cards. And now like a game of patience perverted in its carnal turpitude, he lays them out, every one, on the passenger seat, keeping one hand free.
Like some low, inverted liturgy, he starts to read them out:
Smell the glove - Afterwards!
Backdoor Girl. I likes it HARD I does.
New in town, Be my butt plug.
Bored Housewife, tit-wank a specialty.
French lessons,

“French less…how did that get there?”
Damnation! his strokes now dropped he spies a number closer to his heart.
With frantic button pressing, he hears the rings,
“Come on come on come on.”
“Well hello,” says the husky voice…


Outside our inn, under the sodium street lamp, two American lady tourists are studying a brief volume called, ‘The Joys of Olde Dublin Town‘. It was written by a crook who never got further east than Boston, but some would say “Well, near enough”.
Let’s eavesdrop while they stand there in the glare.

“Book of Kells."
“Yep, I think we saw the letter “F” or something, hard to say.”
“Bullet holes in O’Connell Street Post Office.”
“Check.”
“Pea green Liffey.”
“What?”
“The Godamn river.”
“Right. Seen it. Check.”
“Well that’s it.”
“That’s it? You sure? There’s no appendix, addendum, second fucking volume?”
“Nope. Look it’s getting thicker, and my feet hurt, let’s go in here for a Guinness or ten.”
“Check.”


Mally’s hand is shaking now as he grips the phone checking every syllable.
“Wud yi’ like to buy me panties? Up the arse is extra so it is.”
“Mam! Yi promised me. Yi said yi would stop and go back to the betting shop. I believed you I did.”
“Oh it’s you is it? Listen, 10 euros an hour? Did yi never stop and think? Where in the worrald did yi think your plasma screen came from? Now get off the line yi little bollix, yir bad fir trade.”

In tearful fury the phone is flung, but wait, up the road, just discernable through the grey, comes a man, what’s more he’s singing and he’s had a few!
Mally’s lizard grin grows with every step poor Binty takes towards that van…

FIRST INTERMISSION
Please return to your seats by the second bell. (no third bell)

A chance to stretch your legs, have a smoke, drink that pre ordered fizz, have that dump that’s been nagging at you, and in the red plush, listen to the crowd as we mingle…

“…What d’ya think?”
“I liked the fog.”
“It was too much for me. Lots of dry ice, it’s so passé.”
“Stop being such a pompous prick.”
“Jesus, you asked my opinion.”
“No, you asked mine, but gave me yours, as usual…”


“…It’s a big cast.”
“Not half, according to the programme they’re not all on yet.”
“Did you get a programme?”
“Two! We each bought one by mistake. Twelve quid! Dick Turpin wore a fuckin mask. On your own?”
“No she’s over there trying to wheedle another couple of miniatures out the sponsors…”


“…It’s a nice theatre.”
“Yeah they’ve done it up well”
“Lottery money.”
“Well better that, than wasting it on the homeless. Did you see them on the way in? Filthy beggars sleeping rough on the steps?”
“That was women queuing for Daniel O’Donnell tickets*. They’re on sale on Monday Did you not see the thermos flasks and tartan rugs and stuff?”
“For the love of Christ!…”

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

“…We’re away in, don’t be long you two.”
“Aye OK”
“What you reckon Bobby?”
“It’s fucking torture.”
“I know. One for the road?”
“Aye”
“Nice jacket by the way. Lager?”
“Aye…”

* True

More (it is an Opera)

Let’s tarry awhile with these, come lately to the scene. What force of Fate’s has pulled them from the track well beat, to here, this night of all? Nothing less than a Quest!

Their entry stops the hubbub, just new again begun…
“Jesus” says the landlord to himself, as well he might, for the double of the Lamb of God is here tonight on Earth, with two companions now it seems. A jungle ape and a puzzled man with charts and books.
“Ah, now we get it…fancy dress piss-up.” the unspoken agreement round the room. (We, of course know different, don’t we friends?) Even so, when the rhubarb starts up anew it’s muted, to keep an ear free for all that falls unchecked.

Before Ryan’s counter stand the three, still in self absorbed discussion.

“…..no I don’t think that’s wise Barbudo, you have Tourette’s and are socially inept, besides, it’s GB’s round. Let’s sit, he’ll bring them over.”

And now, aware at last of their surroundings, they look for a table. And yes you’ve guessed, there is but one free space among the throng. For none shall sit there now.

From long years watching cowboy films the remarkable gorilla strikes his pose. A size ten hand upon the foot rail, he slaps his money down and orders up.
The barman admits “that Ape has style! And what a suit. The best I’ve seen and anatomically correct. He’s got a mickey and everything, even the eyes, contacts maybe…” (Careful, those eyes hold the wisdom of a myriad years.) He’s checking for the join between them and the mask when……into a lion pit he falls, landing hard in Serengeti, while in his ears, Zambezi drums throb, borne upon the fragrant grassland breeze…
In stone the barman stands, his drifting rollup smoke the only movement.
Our Ape-man turns to his friends;

“I did say this might happen…”

The big one, him the spit of Our Lord, stands up, and to the barman says quite snippy;
“In the name of cuntish fuck! Coke and ginger beer in a pint tumbler for me, right? Look at me when I’m talking son. Splendid. A half pint low alcohol lager shandy with lime for the philosopher in the corner and a banana daiquiri for my friend the Godamned, fucking APE. What’s the fucking problem? Is this a pub or not?”

“I’m having my doubts,” thinks our potman rustic.

Barbudo continues his tirade;
“And Mr G, put your bastard coat back on.”
“Yes of course, pardon.”
“Ayres! This the place or not?”
“Yes…It’s hard to say…there are so many Ryan’s”
“Well is it the right fuckin town?”
“The drunken rampaging stag and hen nights would suggest so.”
“I don’t mean DUBLIN, I know THIS is fucking Dublin. Is Dublin the RIGHT fucking town?”
“Yes. Stop shouting.”

“This is the best daiquiri I’ve ever had.”

El Barbudo looks heavenward in silent pleading, and there serendipitously, on the wall, is his suffering mirror image, complete with exposed sacred heart.
“You and me both, mate.”

On a windswept roadside, R.O. Mally sits in an unmarked Garda van. His instructions were clear.
“Do nothing’ y’hear? I’m letting’ yiz have the van on that condition.”
“Condition, yes sergeant nothin‘”
CRACK
“Right so, I’m off then.” CRACK “Oh sweet Michael, me poor feckin’ neck.”
A portentous mist is gathering…..

More Beggars’ Opera

Let’s leave our hero for the moment, gentles dear, in his porcelain sanctuary, hot air jet on his trouser front, The Sporting Life fanning his stinging parts.
Come with me back to the bar, for an Entrance is being made.

No base clay in her formation, but from the Dear Land’s best marble, for so it seems, she sprung full-formed.
No fanfare sounded, yet all are deaf, no courtiers attend, yet Sheba’s train is there, feline incarnadine!
An eyebrow for the dumbstruck barkeep.

“Gin…tall…dirty!”
“Absoulement!“ says the astounded barhop, a Limerick man who never spoke French in his life.
His proffered glass, trembling, remains unseen however.

“I’ll sit over there”

With innkeep now entranced in tow, she moves to the very table we know so well. A seat for the lady, her drink presented. She sits, a smile for barkeep that he‘ll put in the bank, her leg is crossed. The clientele breathe again. This bar, to her an inferior foreign state, lies vanquished at her perfect feet.

“Um anything else m-m-mem?”
“I’m looking for a man.”

All men there look round them in joy short-lived, for soon they realise, there are none the measure of such a prize.
Breaking the spell, the squeak of the Gents’ door announces Barney’s return.

“Ah here he is.”
“Christ that was quick Doll, I didn‘t expect you to drop everything”
“Needs must. I have enlisted our friend to help. I have a plan.”
“Right, great, neck that, and I’ll set them up.”

Is it the drinks or Her that’s causing the intoxication?
None know or care. It’s the best trade Ryan’s has done in memory. Right on cue, the door swings wide.
Sexy Beauty has come among them.
For a second time that day, mouths gape, glasses halt halfway to dusty throats.
Without doubt she is the very essence of sex and vitality and now that we see her, there IS a resemblance to Cameron Diaz, but the comparison favours our young Titan. With grace to shame an impala, she crosses the floor; her lithe and limber form a magnet for hungry eyes.

“Vodka and red bull” she calls over her shoulder to the frazzled barman, who will take those lips to his grave.
“And two more here as well - big ones.” Shouts Barney, taking unfair advantage.
Our conspirators three, now lay out their stratagems.
At last, like the final piece of the jigsaw, Fatmammycat passes a business card to SexyBeauty.
“It falls to you now, here is his name, he will be as putty in your elegant fingers.”
“And you?”
“I shall be in the back up vehicle with the mice. And now, since the night is yet young, let us away, for I know a place we can merry make.”
“Why have you started talking like that?”
“I’m pissed.”

As our heroes leave, an equally exotic trio passes them in the doorway.
These three are hairy and engaged in some mild disagreement.

“Yes, I’m quite sure now, this isn’t it, or is it?”
“Well If I hear a remark in here like that last place, I won‘t be responsible.”
“Don’t be a cunt. Leave the talking to me.”

Beggars’ Opera.

A well used bar.
Sits our hero, corner table back to the wall, head bowed in contemplation of The Form spread before him. At his elbow, a queer glass from which he sips his elixir.
For all the world, Rodin’s Thinker.
Now come into his field of view, two gloved fists, resting with malice aforethought, on the oak, near the top of his paper. And two more, now you mention it, to his right, the neighbours of the first.

“Would you just look at this now, Reserve Officer Mally? Sure doesn’t he put you in mind of a Trinity man at his studies?”
“He does sergeant, he does”

Our hero, colour draining, looks up at Sergeant Milo O’Shea of An Garda Siochana. With him, an ill-favoured whip of a lad also in uniform, but with a learner’s armband, and a learner’s hatred.
A lifetime of trickery washes past our hero on a wave of adrenaline.

“Not interrupting Barney? (for it is he) We wouldn’t want to interrupt a scholar at the learnin’, would we Reserve Officer Mally?”
“No we wouldn’t sergeant, not at the learnin’ no.”
“But I see now it’s only the horses he’s reading and nothin’ important. Careful now, Reserve Officer Mally, you nearly had the lad’s drink over there. What manner of drink would that be anyways? It’s neither stout nor ale nor porter, neither is it whiskey nor French brandy. Tell us Barney. We’re agog we are.”

“It’s rumplemayer…ahem! It’s katsenjammer…AHEM…choke…it’s fucking JAGERMEISTER!“

“It isn’t! Doesn’t he have expensive tastes Reserve Officer Mally? And him idle!”
“Expensive sergeant, just what I was thinkin‘”

“look lads…what is it you want?”

“Well it’s like this. Some people think they’re smarter than us Gardai. I know I know, can you believe it? But we’ve a bit of a computer up at the station there and Reserve Officer Mally here likes nothing better than a quick look on the oul web before we go out on patrol. He’s that keen you see. It’s amazing the slander about us they’ll be putting on that thing. Scandalous.”

“Holy Mary Mother of God !”

“Well might you say that Barney boy, but I’m thinking you don’t go as often as you maybe should. Oh now look at that. Reserve Officer Mally has accidentally spilled your German drink into your lap. Well at least the glass didn’t break in your groin, I’ve seen it happen. But listen, we should maybe pick up the cleaning bill…….will we be owing you anything for that?”


Our heroine, our Hera stepped off Olympus, our Juno among mortals, Fatmammycat takes up the tale:

Barney looked down at his damp trousers. 'Nah, lad's that all right, no harm no foul.'

Officer Mally smiled, or at least his mouth did. His eyes however glittered with pent up emotion.

Sergeant Milo cracked his neck- a skill he had spent months learning ever since he had watched Leon in a sauna house. Sure any cunt could crack their knuckles, but the neck? That was style, that was...tough.It didn't half freak out the junkies in Store street.

'Well now' CRACk ' I don't suppose we'll be needing to take up any more of your tiime now Barney, will we?'

'Yeah, will we?' Mally spoke without moving his lips Barney noticed. He wondered idly if he could fart without opening his hole.
Milo looked pained, Mally had ballsed up his good bye speech.'Right so, we'll leave you to your...drink.'
CRACK!

He stalked out of the bar, head high shoulders back. He had gout, and as such walked with a curious stiff gait that he hoped looked powerful and authoritive.

'You've been warned.'
Mally said bunching his fists.
'He said.'
'Yeah well....you better remember it.'
'What?'
'That I warned ya too.'
'You just said that.'
'Yeah, so what?'
'So I heard you the first time.'

A muscle jumped in Mally's jaw.He leaned in. Barney could smell the Joop aftershave. It did not mask the stink of goat.

'I'm jist saying.'
'I know.'

Barney agreed in a surprisingly jovial tone.
Mally huffed softly, unsure of what was happening. Afraid he might be slithering off the high ground he knocked over Barney's glass of jagermeister.

'Oops sorry 'bout that.'

He snickered once, then turned on his heel and left the bar.
Barney glanced down at his paper. Kicking King in the 2:30, after yesterdays rain the ground was soft going. Not a bad bet.He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his mobile. He tapped in a number.

'Howya, Barney here. Yeah, not too bad...no, they're grand too. Listen, you still got that lock up over on the East wall? Grand, and the van? Beautiful. Nah, nah, just that. You're a fucking beut Big Ron. Talk to ya.'

Barney ordered another drink and shook out his paper. Mally was a stupid cocksucker to be sure, in more ways than one. And when Barney was finished with him, the whole of Dublin would agree with that assessment.

He settled back in his seat and dialled another number.'Fatmammycat? Barney, you too. tell me this now and tell me no more, you still got that er...you know... the equipment. No shite, not that, the other stuff. You do? Great, can you bring it to a lock up over in the East wall tomorrow night? Ah you are a Darling. Oh yeah, bring the camcorder too. Beautiful. No, thank you!'

He hung up and smiled for the first time that day. He had been wondering what to do with all the dead mice, two fucking birds with the one stone, you couldn't say fairer than that.'

Clatter! Clang! Scribble scribble, swearwords, scritch scratch…..
No post today readers!
Doctor Maroon is busy!
(third person exclamations)
He’s not busy with his silly fan blades, which pay for all his nice stuff and status in society, no, he’s fucking about with a comic strip. Such Larks!!!

Close to the edge, down by a river...

Maroon you better screw the nut. Your jacket’s on a very shakey nail. I believe I shall be sacked soon, my subordinates will demand it. I rise early, no credit in that, it just happens, I get in early ( the security guard [Reliance] hates me) and can finish my business by around 8:30. A monkey could do it. Then I spend a few hours trying to make a cartoon and save it on a worthless piece of shit site like that fucking southpark garbage.

If nothing’s gone wrong over the weekend, people just get on with it. I take a stroll or two around the place to show that I’m here, and that’s that.

I am of a poetic bent, so I look up Burns with the notion of perhaps learning a poem to recite at the supper in the hotel, another hour. It’s eleven now. I have read GB’s mountain post which has worried me, and am now going for tea and will speak to the Finance Director about his wife’s pelvic floor or some such. I wish I was a cartoonist for the Daily Sketch or something.

A midlife crisis is knocking on the door but I’ve put out the lights and am hiding behind the couch with a book and a plate of shortbread so fuck ‘im and his fucking scythe.

Friday night-Saturday afternoon

The best laid plans of mice and men aft gang agley. It’s rotten when your friends can’t come out to play. In fact it’s utter shite.

The day started poorly.

“Kin-hell Maroon, Elvis lives! Viva Las Vegas!” (singing)
“Right. Just TELL me what to wear then.”
“Well, the baseball jacket? Come on.”
“It’s warm, it’s got pockets with zips. I got it in America you know”
“Yeah, but it‘s a bit…”
“You always have me looking like a fucking country squire or poacher or something.”
“Better that than Babe Ruth”
“I feel like one of Austin Reed’s fucking dummies.”
“Wear what you want…if you’re comfortable.”

And so, off into town. She with her friends to spend their monies like waves on the sea buying frivolities and ladies requisites, me to have some drinks and hearty banter. Ah the banter.

Phone up friend (A)
“Hey Bobbaayyy! Black Jack’s this afternoon? Few beers, game’s on Setanta have a laugh with the other Weekend Tims?”
“Can’t. Her parent’s are up.”
“Bring them!”
“Aye right. He doesn’t walk that well.”
“Who’s asking him to fucking walk? She can run you in and the pub’s got seats now.”
“Ha Ha It’s not gonna happen.”

Phone friend (B)
“Heyy, how’s it hanging you big dopey cunt!?”
“Ack is that you?”
“Oh hi Diane, you’ve got Dan’s phone then?”
“Looks like it”
“Is he about?”
“No he’s away playing golf”
“Golf? (He’ll be joining the lodge next) When’s he back?”
“Who knows? He’s left his phone!”

It wasn’t THAT bad, there’s always someone who’ll listen in a pub. (4:2 for Celtic)
I have heard that women share the sacrosanct secrets of the bedroom with their friends. I hope she lies a bit.
It’s half nine, I’m not going local; I’ll just stay in now. Friday and Saturday, IN both nights, le weekend’s not shaping up at all at all.

FOR THE TWITCHERS..
Hoopoe and Roller. (Common in Namibia)

Don’t touch me! I’m a real live-wire…

“Maroon it’s obvious to everyone what you’re doing.”
“What?”
“You’ve fallen into the media trap.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“This relentless quest for ratings has to stop. You’ve become a….”
“Don’t say it…”
“It’s all vanity, you’re a…”
“Please don’t…”
“A GOBSHITE.”
“I can't believe you said that. You said I made you laugh.”
“I said your POETRY made me laugh.”
“That’s quite unfair.”
“Twenty was right, you’re whoring. First it was the map…”
“The map’s cool! You said so…”
“Now its that wankey Scotch ranking thing that Barney turned you on to.”
“I’m up to eightieth!”
“Yeah, of a hundred. Look, you used to say you didn’t give a flying fuck…”
“I said / you said, - what does it matter now? I’m on to something here.”
“Wise up Maroon, I’m warning you!”
“Oh come on, what about a joke from Jokemail? Barney says he loves him.”
“Barney’s fucked with drink, that much is obvious”
“OK, here it is anyway, How did Pinocchio find out he was made of wood? His hand caught fire…”
See? A smile, that wasn’t hard was it?”
“Listen Maroon, I’m back fairly early tonight, and I’m not playing second fiddle to that fucking laptop. I’m sick of half conversations, it’s like Beardy says, it’s time to take out your dick and start fucking.”

Phew readers, what a to-do! The ladies! They never let us have our fun.
Now, here’s a picture of a very attractive visitor to the garden feeder.
Our old friend the Goldfinch. Pairs or singly this time of year.

Rikki don't lose that number,
you don' wanna call nobody else...

It being the dreichest of days, I took myself off, there just then, to a nearby disused industrial estate now turned into a shopping experience, to eat a flame grilled whopper.
In the steamy warmth was a table of Goths! That’s right! If Beardy hadn’t mentioned them a while back I would have believed them extinct, along with Mohawks Suedeheads and Teddy Boy beat-nicks. Not only were they Goths but they were GOTHS. Rather like undercover police Goths. I sat next to them and what were they talking about? Why the Iraqi war, that’s what. Not only that, but they were talking in loud plummy accents in a quasi-articulate manner.



“Oh come on Sebastian! Military intervention was inevitable with the flouting of resolution 1823”
“Good point Jarvinda! Sea-bass always glosses over the UN mandate.”
“I’m merely stating the obvious, that with any hint of international illegality, the coalition forces can never hope to carry the Sunni minority, leading inevitably to a fractured nation and continued internecine conflict.”
“You going to eat that lettuce?”
“Nah it’s fucking minging”

I will stay at my desk next time. We STILL don’t need to be here you know. Talk about slow?

A Great Bearded Tit.

I recently saw an episode of The Champions on TV. Now I keep whistling the theme tune. Why is that? Is someone trying to contact me? That Alexandra Bastedo was a luverly bit o' crumpet. The other two did nothing for me at all.
Waterspout at Geneva is not that impressive in the flesh neither.

ITC always had the best theme tunes!

Mountains come out of the sky and they stand there…

Cluster maps are COOOL!

They scrubbed all the little red dots off mine on 1st January, I didn’t know they were going to do that, but the current one is interesting because, much to my embarrassment it shows two particular visitors.
One from CAPEtown and another from RIO de Janeiro. Gettit?

What did they think? Are they now, as we speak, taking steps to have the name changed to avoid future confusion? Are they searching their members’ databases for an important Doctor Maroon to be sure of not ruffling the wrong feathers? We await developments with trepidation.

That elf shagger from Iceland was on the last one as well; this is where the map helps.

The Indian ones are friends of the Oxford lads on the Contra-Puntal site. They must have done a reverse link and come here. I don’t think they would be disappointed, it’s just as pseudo intellectual here as the Oxford ramblings. (I’m actually a light blue but don’t tell them).Fuckbags.

There's one in Finland, That must be because of Doctor Evil's coffee debate. Nosey Finn bastard. Look to your own affairs! You and your eggshells. Just joking. You are most welcome my frigid friend. Put the knife down son.

If you can identify your red dot or dots, I’m sure the group would be fascinated.

OFFICIAL! SCOTCHMAN IS BOOZER!

The tea-total world of Westminster was rocked to it’s foundations last night, when in a shock statement to the world, ginger heavyweight Nigel Kennedy confessed to liking a “wee drammy” or two as a “settler” before he got up in the morning.
“It’s the right of every freeborn Englishman,” he slurred.
“But will you stay on and lead the Tories to victory?” demanded the Mail’s correspondent.
Kennedy, his speech garbled and with a donner kebab dripping down his shirt front, replied:
“Why don’t you take a flying fuck at a rolling donut you ugly bastard?”

Later, sporting a black eye and a fine tasselled lampshade, the pissed up carrot top confirmed he would go on for the good of the party.
“Parr-tay” He laughed, as the tell-tale damp patch spread over his grey flannels.
“It’s a black day for Scotland!” said Scotch whisky chief Glen Fiddock.
“It’s a fucking blacker one for us” said Father Abbot Jerome of Buckfast Abbey.

The Mail says: Just a wee dock an’ doris….

Epiphany update:

We three kings etc.
Vee-Barney, tonight’s the night for packing away your fairy lights neatly.
SafeT: You set fire to the couch tonight!

Three wise men. Melchior (with cigar), Balthazar and Caspar.

And when the dam breaks many years from now…

As promised, that nice picture of Lindy again.
Shake it baby, sparkle for me!

That warmed me up.
Minx!
Had a look at that Manuel’s site. http://manuel-estimulo.blogspot.com/
That’s right, he’s a Spanniard and a poet like me so get over it, but he also did some funny posts about Keano not going to Real Madrid. (see 13th to 16th December)
And now, one of the Marx Brothers (sans Zeppo)


“This time we getta halfway across, we hava to come back”
“Why this time?”
“We run outa gasoline”

Can’t seem to face up to the facts…

Dr M’s Jokes that always misfire.
An occasional series.
No1 “stout yeomen of the bar”
No2 “Poles to Warsaw”
No3 “why thank you, I’ll have a brandy if it’s all the same”
No4 “ginger with your melon”
No5 ”Yep! That’s wine!”

Let’s start with No4. Only Binty McShae will get this.
Scene 1 : Restaurant in Glasgow’s West End. It is summer (July 14 - 17 inclusive) we therefore find the group enjoying their “melon boats” for starters.
Waitress: "Would you like ginger with your melon? "
Dr Maroon: "No, I think we’ll be OK with the wine thanks."

No3
Scene 2 : Front Bar anywhere in rural Scotland. Start of busy night for underpaid bar staff. Enter three or more thirsty worthies.
Barkeep : "Evening gents, what would you like to drink?"
Maroon (feigning pleasant surprise) : "That’s very kind of you, I’ll have a brandy thanks very much."

You see the pattern? I’ve lost the will to live but…must….keep…go...ing…

THE MOST ESOTERIC (Wankiest) JOKE IN THE WORLD (Flying to Warsaw)
Background.
This “joke” was told to me by a very intense young man with no friends who took some of us for control theory tutorials which were extra anyway and as much fun as a wire coat hanger up the ass. Charismatic visiting professors make use of the odd joke. Only they can carry it off.
I can’t remember his name, he wore no natural fibres and cut his own hair with a hatchet and wasn’t that much older than us but he was clever. He was clever, thinking back, to the point of disability. WE were clever, but fuck, we were Neanderthals by comparison.
Stay with me!
We must ignore the maths (even though my heroes are involved) and hold in our minds the simple fact, that when the “poles” are found, their position on the Z-plane, determines the stability of the function (hence system) under examination. Please for the love of God stay with me!
The Joke Proper.
Anyway, he clears his throat,
“Why…mmm…why is it dangerous?…snigger…to fly to Warsaw...snort…snicker?”
He can hardly control himself [sic], he’s already at the punch line the fucker!
Oh good, a joke! We are enthusiastic,
“Because it’s a shithole?”
“Because there’s no airport?”
“Because it’s full of gypsies?”
shakes his head in triumph,
“Because the POLES are on the LEFT-HAND-SIDE of the PLANE!” (his emphasis)
Part of me died that day. It’s the price we have to pay for our vocation I guess.

Gee but it’s great to be back home…

Is there any better feeling than when finally released from familial duties we are able to slob out in comfort with a tincture or two? The day is ours to waste in central heated comfort while through the Swedish triple glazing, in the frozen wilderness of Perthshire, songbirds starve to death.

So much for the fantasy. In reality, The House defies the normal laws of thermodynamics, that, or it was built over a Pictish burial site. Bloody useless Picts. We normally have to moon about the place wearing all our tweeds and fleeces, until about lunchtime when the temperature rises enough for independent movement. You couldn’t keep lizards, that’s for sure. And Swedish triple glazing? Hand crafted by well-motivated professional artisans? Don’t make me laugh! Scottish single more like, slapped together in a warehouse in Greenock by a group of young offenders fighting for the nail gun.

Therefore, yesterday, upon our return, we tore into the party food and drinks only in an effort to bump up our calorific intake. It’s a survival issue here you know.
Shortbread, food of kings, and the buffet cocktail sausage roll, our saviour.
Walkers shortbread is the best by far, although Marks and Sparks’ luxury butter variety pushes it hard.
Anyway, that is my excuse, and sticking to it I am.

Oh! Corrections and whatnot.
Eponymous, not apocryphal ! I knew it was not right, and I looked at for a while at the time, but couldn’t think. This is what senility will be like.

Updates may follow.