MEETING HOUSE SQUARE EXCAVATIONS Week 5

Aboard the pirate brig Pecorino an ocean worn captain and his first mate were involved in a heated debate.

'Five weeks cap'n we've been at sea and not a sight o' land anywhere. The water's run out, the ship's biscuits have been ground to dust by weevils and the salt beef is turned to leather,' said the first mate.

'Fiddlesticks Mister mate, I'll have no bellyachin on my ship!' said the captain with a growl that made his parrot jump, 'Now lookee here, by the way them clouds is rollin' I can tell a nor'easter is a comin' our way. Tell the men to lay aloft, loose the topsails and . . . hold on Mister Mate . . .'

The captain looked about in an anxious way, there was something unsettling about the horizon, the air reeked of vagueness. 'I think we're in the wrong blog,' he said, lifting both of his eyepatches to get a better look at things.

'Well blow me down cap'n,' said the first mate, 'I think we are in the wrong blog! It's a fairly poor jape ain't it? The writer must be runnin' short o' ideas'
'No it can't be,' said the captain. 'I heard this writer is the bees knees. Got a 'D' in his pass grade leavin' cert an' all. Still, just in case, bring the ship about Mister Mate! We need to sort this out.'

The First Mate did as he was bade while the captain turned and walked towards the larboard deck, all the while his wooden leg making a rhythmic tap, tap, tap . . .

Ian' Jivebunny' O'Leary was always insatiable when I whipped out my 160gsm sketch pad. 'Draw me! Draw me!' He would plead before tearing off his shirt and saying: 'Look I've even got chest hair!' It was never the chest hair which caught my eye, it never stood a chance with that carriage clock dangling from his pierced belly button. That's him at the front of the above drawing, I always made such a hames of him it's a wonder he ever came near me. At the very back we can see the bowed features of Siobhan 'The Incralac Tintoretto' Scully. She was a whizz with the finds, caking anything not moving fast enough with a plethora of museum numbers. Early in the excavation we lost a poor staff member called Enda Fahy because of Siobhan's deft pen and brush, she caught him across the shoulder with an 'E' number and it was bon voyage Enda, a swat team from the National Museum (led by The Keeper of Secrets) scaled the hoarding and dragged Enda away. I hear he's now sharing a shelf marked '1980's Retro' with Boy George and a stack of shoulderpads. Damn but those museum chappies are efficient. Never fear Enda, you are in safe hands now old bean!

You don't see this sort of thing often do you? It's a view of the site from the cab of a cheese miner's Maasdam-o-Matic 9000 digger. There were two cheese miner's left on site in order to pile the psychological pressure onto our already overloaded hindbrains. It was a dirty game they played, leaving jars of Branston Pickle and toasted sandwich makers in pertinent locations suggesting the horror to come. To this day I still toss in my sleep sweating, my mind awash with shadows of them gorging themselves on mountains of solidified dairy fat, hurling lumps of Weisslacker and Raclette into each others slavering jaws, an orgy of grease, depravity and Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird. . .
But I always have dreams like that, especially when I eat too many cheesy whizzers before  bedtime.

Starting from the left, there's Herr Uberrooter, then 'The Chairman' Kerins (nice haircut) and at far right we have John 'Broken Nose' Barrett doing his best impression of and Easter Island garden ornament.

Thursday 19th and Herr Uberrooter Hayden rushed onto site rapidly fanning his face with his hands, 'O.M.G,' he whimpered running in a circle. 'O.M.G!' Line up everyone, I want to address you!'
'Oh no you don't,' said Ms. Cathy Moore, 'My Mammy warned me about durty divils like you. You're not undressin' me.'
'I said address,' grunted Alan indignantly, 'I have wonderful news for all of you.'
'They've finally found a bed for you in Mountjoy Prison?' ventured Mr. Barrett.
'No,' said Herr Uberrooter.
'The immigration board is sending you back to the Rhineland?' suggested The Chairman Kerins.
'Nooo,' said Herr Uberrooter.
'We're finally getting paid! Yippee!' Squeaked Niall Colfer Nanoarchaeologist.
'Don't be ridiculous Colfer and come out from under that tea cup,' said Herr Uberrooter. 'Last night I was contacted by our President, she said the Queen has very erm. . . fruity tastes but she wants to visit our site. THE QUEEN IS COMING HERE TOMORROW MORNING!!'
We cheered and threw our hard hats in the air which proved to be an exceedingly stupid thing to do when they descended and battered lumps the size of turnips out of our heads.
'I'll play her a tune on my alpenhorn,' said Mr.Barrett slipping on a gory nugget bashed off his own skull.'
'I'll do the catering!' Said The Chairman. 'Everyone will be issued with a new teabag and I'll even put a packet of rancheros on a plate.'
'Very classy,' nodded Cathy Moore (catering goddess) clearly impressed.
'I'll say a novena for her highness,' offered the Cardinal. 'Even if she is an execrable left-footer,'
'Hello toes,' said Jivebunny O Leary lighting a cigarette.
'I'll do her portrait in corned beef.' said Johnny.
'Corned beef eh? I can't wait,' said the Bishop of Nobber licking his lips.
Brian Hayden sang Le Marseillaise and Siobhan had her ink pens confiscated for fear her highness would end up on a shelf with Enda Fahy.
Then Niall Colfer stood on a luchbox and a yelped: 'God Bless us, everyone!'

Friday 20th and the morning came early (what sort of an expression is that? - how else does the bloody morning come?) The crew stood expectantly by the tea hut door waiting for it to swing open and herself the Top of The Blue Blood Ladderness to enter. Everyone looked very smart, Alan and Peter had combed all the sheep out of their beards and the Cardinal and the Bishop were all cassocked up to the nines.
'I can hear her coming,' whispered Her Uberrooter and we all listened to the sound of her expensive shoes approaching. Tap, tap, tap . . .
But the door swung open to reveal a pirate captain with a wooden leg.
'Where the hell is that writer?' He bellowed swinging his cutlass.
I was already gone - out through the window of a nearby charcuterie and up Sycamore Street with me skinny legs spinning like a windmill in storm.


Y'all come back now for week six.