Separated at Birth No. watevz

 

French-Palestinian lawyer Salah Hamouri

Irish historian Diarmaid Ferriter

A trip to the jax furra piss

One would imagine that going for a piss in a pub is a fairly simple affair. It would appear, however, that it is far from a direct action & many other operations & activities need doing. 

Let’s say Freddie is out in town with a few mates & the group is having a convivial & chatty evening. Freddie has already been holding in a piss for over a pint & a half and can do it for no longer. Off he pops in a natural break in conversation despite having a line he thinks is witty but it’s just the piss talking.

Here are some of the things that Freddie may do &/or think on his voyage to & from the pub toilets.

Say ‘uh’ or ‘sorry’ to lads emerging while trying to navigate the two subsequent doors that are apparently required for jacks

Nod weirdly at others in the confined space of the pub toilets

Choosing a urinal or space along the urinal trough is a complex affair & is outside the scope of this paper

Exhale noisily while whipping it out

Check time on phone

Try to empty mind & get piss flowing

Check phone to see what time the guy who is always late is coming

Be relieved that piss has started to flow

Think about what time you need to be conscious in the morning

Cough & look to the ceiling

Cheekily Shazam a fart & be unsurprised that it returns Wham

Calculate how many more pints can fit in to the definition of ‘a relaxing midweek drink with friends’

Over-analyse a weird nod from another pisser & send out subtle ‘I’m not gay’ vibes  

Have pity for the lad in the cubicle making fierce noises of agony

Check phone to ensure that nobody from your table is texting you with the gossip you’re missing

Be disappointed that you’re missing out on potentially explosive bantz

Remember that you’re still standing at the urinal with an empty bladder

Cough again & fold away mickey

Ineffectually wash hands & partially dry them with the facilities that are provided 

With an undeserved sense of triumph, grin at a group of chung wans with no interest in anything you do

Repeat every twenty minutes until fifty minutes after last call

 

PISS HERE

 

Adrian and the Legion

 Adrian was walking the main street of his home town. There were various things in his mind that needed his attention that afternoon—needless kitchen gizmos needed buying, fliers for festivals that he wouldn’t attend needed collecting and dog shits on the path needed avoiding.

As he neared the entrance to the emporium of consumerism and glitziness, Adrian was pulled back to a consciousness of his immediate environment. A late-middle-age woman with a long raincoat over a cardigan over a cardigan stepped towards him, smiling.

‘Would you like a Miraculous Medal, love?’ she said.

The quotidian skill of listening took a moment to return.

‘Sorry?’ said Adrian.

‘We’re with the Legion of Mary [here the woman nodded her head to one side at one side to indicate another similarly dressed woman nearby] and we’re giving Marian Finucane of Fatty Ma medals to people’.

Adrian was then standing stationary beside the woman and still half thinking about the koala bears in fez hats appreciation festival of which he would tell his friends but not attend.

‘Right, yea, that’s nice’, he managed to say fairly absentmindedly.

‘It’ll protect you from all the bold things that go on in the world. Rub it against your shoes as a cure for athletes’ foot. The Legion of Mary give them out on about sixty-five centimetres of light blue wool. We buy it up from knitting shops around the world when they’re going bust or at craft shops when they realise nobody else wants it. Our Lady of Perpetual Good Value works in mysterious ways.’

‘Cheap wool…what?’

Adrian was somewhat interested by the economics and potential exploitation of the market by those who wanted to thread religious medals on to small lengths of the wool but that was probably best left to another day.

‘Yea…the Legion of Mary…where did I see something about you all recently?’

‘Did you hear our Cavan county commander on with Derek Mooney last week? Maybe that was it. She spoke beautifully about the new shrine to Our Lady of Scouring Pads.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘She was on to tell people about the petition to officially change the name of Ballyjamesduff to Ballyjamesfrankduff. Cavan could really of with a bit more on that these days.’

Adrian squinted his eyes at the notion of such a name change. How would it be of any benefit to anyone let alone believers? How would the Irish name be altered? Surely Éamon Ó Cuív would have something to say about it.

‘Ah, I think I remember now. I was listening to a podcast about how the Legion of Mary is the lay organisation with the highest levels of outstanding petty nuisance court orders in Ireland.

‘In the name of all that is good and holy, Our Lady of the Mountain of Caramel Pop Tarts, blessus n savvus.’

The woman appeared deeply shaken.

‘What under the heavens is a podcast? The Blessed Virgin of Me Jugga Gorey, County Wexford, didn’t need that kind of thing, I’m sure of it.’

‘It’s like a recorded show…like…eh, a radio—anyway, I don’t think that’s the important point. Is the thing about the court orders true?’

‘I don’t know anything about that now…no, wait now…what was it we did at that prayer evening in front of the Garda station on the corner of Griffith Avenue? We offered up fourteen novenas to the Queen of Peas to grant us immunity from persecution—or was it prosecution—for our faith.’

‘Ah, OK, I think I’ll leave you to it and do my bit of shopping’, Adrian half chuckled under raised eyebrows.

‘O, no, hang on and I’ll give you a medal and a leaflet of prayers to Our Lady of Loo Odours that you can say to keep bats out of your attic and there’s another one about stopping the New World Order of Protestants out of key policy position in the EU.’

‘Right, yea, I’m out’, Adrian said as he made a large side step and went in the direction of the Permanent Allied Anglo-Irish Credit Union of Aldi-Currys.

‘Maybe we’ll see you in the white collar soon, love. You’d look lovely as a Cossack. You could even be Pope!’ the woman called after her ex-interlocutor.

‘Pffft, Pope she sez. Sure, who ever heard of a Pope Adrian anyway? As an Irishman called Adrian I’Ve [sic.] never heard of such a lad. It’d be far from luadibl[iter] in any case.’

Bastardry

I've been cheated by you since I don't know when, sang some Swedish youngone. Look at me now--will I ever learn? Probably not. I love the box too much, says your one. Life is so much easier when you speak a Nordic language, have curly hair, and no fanny.

Barry White. He made his career and more money than you can imagine as the soundtrack to riding. Quite an achievement for a fear gorm. He wasn't even very good at singing. In fairness, neither was Tom Jones.

The difference between Tom Jones and Tom Cruise is subtle and rarely understood. It's essentially about eating b**. If the television remote was out of order, it'd be a decent way to spend half a Tuesday.

Wanking is a subtle art. If you're five it's obviously not possible.

The Terrible and Tragic Case of ‘The Cock Tavern’ Water-Hole, or The Lamentable Cock

The news of the closure of The Cock Tavern in the north of Dublin spread from the epicentre to the provinces as fast as the passage of information can allow—so reasonable fast these days. Time-space convergence has something to do with that but that’s a story (mind you, not a terribly interesting one) for another day and another time.

The façade of the public house at present, with doors closed and window blinds low, looks like any such establishment would after about one in the morning or on Good Friday. However, these are not sings of temporary closure, but of the place and activities at an end, terminated, shut down, business concluded.

The Cock Tavern had been a powerful institution within the archipelago of pubs along the thoroughfare of Sord, the home of a hole in the ground where midnight drinkers and exalted saints used to frequent since the late 800s AD. On the eastern side of the street, The Cock Tavern had hegemony as far as the Fingal County Council offices to the north and the Apache Pizza place on the Malahide Road to the south. It extracted heavy tribute from businesses within its territory (The Camera Cabin, Peter Mark, Joan Van Danmagdenberg [or whatever you’re having yourself] and that place that once was a jeweller, then an offo, a florist and is currently a jeweller again). The Star, a rival pub to the north, was vanquished and was placed strictly under the direct suzerainty of The Cock Tavern following the Battle of Chapel Lane.

The greatest challenge to the survival of the ideals, and the very existence, of The Cock was the arrival of the invasion forces of the feared Nordies. Having occupied the town’s castle and either blown up or set up gerrymandering Vichy France-style governments in the other pubs of the town, The Cock Tavern was the last bastion of resistance facing the Nordies. To their battle cry of ‘WE’LL BLOO UP YAR FLUTHER IN THE NEEM OF MARTIN LUTHER,’ those holding out in The Cock replied, with a mature debonair nonchalance, ‘ah no’.

The day was won by Martin, the fella on the door, who boxed Ian Paisley… in the face. The victory was hard won and gave The Cock Tavern an aura of martial greatness which bolstered its claims to greater tribute and superiority amongst the other powerhouses of the town. [For more on the failed Nordy invasion of Sord, see: http://thebram.blogspot.ie/2008/06/nordy-bastards-invade-swords.html.] This led to the dawning of, what historians have since called, its Golden Age as it held lordship over all others in the vicinity—the greatest pub in terms of resources, prestige, seniority and imperial clout along An Sráid Mhór.

Then all of a sudden something happened in the wider economy that was to have a detrimental effect on the zenith age of the Cock. However, nobody really understands what it was exactly, but it had something to do with banks, over-paid footballers and a recession. The only person who knew what was going on, C. Lenihan, was killed by the knowledge itself. The Garda Suíochána are still investigating at great cost. The moral of the story for the Cock was that people started getting locked at home more often instead of popping down the pub for ‘a few swifties’ and ending up staying all night and spending a bomb. So, balls to that.

As the Ancients were more than aware, empires can fall as easily as they rise. The days of Cock were drawing to an end. The libation of Fosterius was poured for one and all in the Golden Age, available to those across the income-spectrum. Then it went up to a fiver a pint and, I mean, it’s not even worth the €3 we were paying for it at its lowest.

The holy sanctuary dedicated to the Cock deity (down by the Five Lamps for some reason) has been overwhelmed with offerings in the aftermath of the pub’s closure. Among the symbols left at the altar of Cock were a red t-shirt, three Belgian waffles, a slightly tattered deck of playing cards, a glass of Fosterius, a combo plate with chicken tenders, and a bag of mixed jellies.

Petitioners have particularly rallied around the plinthèd statues of two divinities: Rachel, goddess of youthful beauty and politics, and Ana, goddess of absolute ride and affable chats. Gifts offered to these deities include smiles, awkward conversation and small tips of €2 coins. In the regions, the people offer sacrifices to the Cock gods of their choosing: Tall Blonde, the Fat Sound Bouncer, Hell-Bound Hotty, Yer One that Used Work During the Day and the ‘My Aul Flower’ Barman.

*

Take me, Muse, back through the Cock for a quick pint and a bit of a look around…

We scoot by the door man, you and I, with a familiar nod and a ‘how’s things?’ that is half meant as proof of non-intoxication and half simply being nice. ‘Ah, it’s buzzin’ in there!’ comes the reply.

We pass two boys self-consciously drinking Guinness at the first table in on the right. Nodding slightly flirtatiously to a barmaid, we stride to the bar and place an order with yer man from down the way there. At the bar are four lads bantering incessantly about music, laughing maniacally and waiting on eight drinks. Out at the front table is an enormous group of mixed individuals and couples, each in some state of a decaying uniform attire and the space hangs with the odour of ice-cream and popcorn.

We pass, you and I, out the back as small groups celebrate birthdays, people coming and going out of each other’s lives, chance encounters and long-time-no-see meetings. We enjoy our drinks and watch as the groups enter and exit, dwindle in size and reform with new components, in all states of high energy and emotion. The bar must be an equal opportunities employer, especially when it comes to left-right political leanings—there are staff that, at one time or another, are Communists, Fascists, Centre-Rightists with a European Christian Union membership, Don’t-give-a-shit-ists and ‘sure they’re all a loada wankers’ enthusiasts.

Staff are drawn to a table with a brimmed hat placed atop a book. It causes curiosity, openness and a sense of sociability. Exchanged stories bring civility and all. There is a feeling of waiting and anticipation in the wooden tables and in the mirrors—advertising long-dead whiskies—that line the walls. A character wearing a watch that reads ‘too soon’ picks up the hat and walks slowly towards the door. Watch him, my companion, watch what he does and try to guess what it is that brings him here and what he leaves with—and leaves without.

*

There is talk among the underground intelligentsia of collusion, plots, intrigue. It is said that the Cock, despite having to all appearances lost the war of life, has a stratagem in play. It is said that it faces a new enemy, a foe greater than the outdone Nordies with their flutes, sashes and Paisley weapon. The Wetherspoonians of the land beyond the seas has gained a strategic foothold in the adjacent territory to the Cock. According to a small group of hooded aul-wans all huddling over a cauldron and whispering something about Cawdor, Glamis and all, have prophesised that the Cock is not extinct.

They use a sacred text, which looks an awful lot like the Boy Scouts Directory from 1998, to predict an alliance that will be advantageous to the Cock in a conflict with the new-comers. ‘Gabhála Éirin,’ says one aul-wan. As the second shushes the first, the third pops a Fisherman’s Friend into her gob, pleased with her choice to stash them away in her handbag, from Dorothy Perkins, that is concealed under her hooded garment.

Local seers point to the joint benefit of such a venture between the Cockonians and the Wrightlanders. Although the treaty prepared after the Battle of McDonald’s Corner kept relations between the two establishments peaceful, customer-poaching often flared tempers. However, one’s enemies’ enemies are often better bar buddies than the gobshite at the far table after he’s had one too many. Omens are all that point the way for future shifts, conflicts, wars, all with potentially colossal consequences. Where will one go for a quiet pint and a read of a Tuesday evening? Where will one go to be able to gawp at attractive young things with whom fierce small talk can be had? Where will one go to take a sneaky piss on the way to the bus stop?

Here’s to Cock, to poppin’ Cock for a swift one, to pullin’ a Cock night, to cards and chats and carefree drinking. It’s all over though but it’s not necessarily a bad thing, after all.

RyanLine poetry competition

In a recent rummage through the archival material at RTÉ Radio (as punishment for cruel, grisly crimes of a past life) I came across the recording of an instalment of the 'Gurry Ryan Hour of Shit, Shite and More of the Same', a popular radio emission (of one kind or another) of the late 1980s. In the show that I had the bad luck to hear, Gurry ran a poetry competition for his listeners. The competition was sponsored by Jacob's, the biscuit-makers, and Barry's, the tea-makers. The prize for the best poem, as judged by Gurry himself, was a week's worth of tea and biscuits.

The estimation of 'a week's worth' was judged, however, by executives from Jacob's and from Barry's. They reckoned that 'a week's worth' of tea and biscuits, based on the general median consumption rates of tea and biscuits by the average person who isn't all that gone on either tea or biscuits was virtually nil. Concluded on the back of a highly-reputed survey across all constituencies of Ireland, the only time that such a consumer would in fact have either a cup of tea or a biscuit would be if they happened to visit an elderly neighbour or a relative living within a fifteen mile radius of their own primary abode. However, it was later proved that the results were skewed, as an inordinate weight was placed on the answers of the consumers who happened to be lactose intolerant and were also severely allergic to whatever biscuits are made (biscuit plants, I suppose).

In the end, the winner of the competition was given five digestive biscuits, a spoonful of jam in a zip-lock bag and three tea bags. He was reported to have been 'pleased' with his winnings. More exciting than the free commodities and produce, the winner was treated to a rare visit to the radio building in RTÉ, Donnybrook, Dublin Four, to meet Gurry himself.

Gurry greeted the winner of the poetry competition half-heatedly at the steps that led to the reception area of the building (housing a small collection of tatty year-old fashion magazine), hurriedly read the winning poem, shook the winners hand, said something about a lunch appointment in Merrion and promptly left. The winner was said to be 'pleased' with his interview with the radio dick-jockey [sic.] celebrity.

Below are the three finalists in the poetry competition. In the archives of the show, Gurry's hand-written notes are still on the printed copies of the poems from the meetings to discuss the poems' artistic merit. 'Load of bollix' reads one annotation. 'Can't imagine worse wank' is another highly critical comment, also in Gurry's hand. However, at stanzas that took his fancy, Gurry scratched 'spot on' beside them in faint pencil. Also praising is his frequently used phraseology 'better than a slab of rib-eye and peppercorn sauce smothering a side dish of mushrooms'.

For the sheer fun of it, I will not reveal which of the below entries was picked by Gurry to win. However, I'm sure it'll be more than heavily apparent-- to those of us who were raised on Cheerios, Petit Filous and RTÉ Radio as we got ready for school in the '80s-- which Gurry was likely to choose.


Entry 1
Title: Thursdays

I tiptoe to have a go
and a lash at my lady's gash,
and then I spy her wanting eye
having a look see at my mickey.

We went at it, and at it, and at it--
you don't need tellin' how we were yellin'
for more and more 'til we heard the door.

The conclusion of our foul play
met with the arrival of the take-away.
'Here's a twenty,' sez I to the pizza felleh
bringing tomato red and cheese of yelleh.

I devoured it in just three bites
and then I shite; shite; shite!


Entry 2
Title: All Beneath Me

Irish chippers learn your trade
Fry up whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort to waste good chips
On stupid little pots of dips;
Lob 'em all in a vat of curry
and gobble them down all a-hurry.
Wash it down with cans of Fanta--
Jaysus Christ-- that's my mantra!
Eat, repeat, do a shite,
Get paid, ah! That's the life!
Top it off with plenty champagne
RTÉ's payin'! Again, again!
I will be a public hero
'Til my heart rate lands at zero.


Entry 3
Title: Irish Sudoku Haiku

Vibrators here, vibrators galore,

But have you ever seen the vibrators of
Tramore.

In the beginning, there was the creation myth...

There is a strong awareness that there are those of you who, through no fault of your own, have been Bramified. Of late, there has been little Bram to speak of and, with no direct inheritor of the Bram (Waterford Whispers is a bit like the Bram but rather less brilliant), you have been left wanting. Disappointment is however an Irish delight. In true self-referential Bram fashion, it now aims to take away even that small pleasure, in the name of Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

This is, in all senses, an affair of constancy, but also something rather new. This brings to mind the Franciscan historical endeavours of the seventeenth century, utilising the continuity of the past in an ever-changing present with its elements in flux, and is a fit analogy for the present pursuits of modernising in the frameworks of tradition, traditionalising in the framework of modernity, if you will. However, if you won't, you can feck off with yourself.

There have been interim media predating this new project of projects: The Bram continued to be a vehicle for humorous, amourous outpourings, and The Cake of Floots contains gems of witibility and jestacious neologisms. See in particular

'The 99¼th anniversary celebrations of the 1916 Rising'

'Visitation'

 'Taoiseach and Tánaiste Announce Pregnancy'

 'Taking & Supping the Soup'

This chronicle has a vision: an approach to silly humour that is anachronistic, nonsensical, anarchic, innovative, sardonic, satirical and all a little bit ridiculous. Sure, what's the point of being vital components of a non-existent ruling intelligentsia if we can't have a bit of fun at the world's expense, ey?

All the very best from the Bram Fraternal Community of Love, Missouri, USA.