Ho Ho . . . and possibly another Ho for premium Yuletide effect.

Try not to choke

On the turkey folks.

HOW TO BE A BIG SUCCESS AND LIVE THE DREAM AND MAKE EVERYONE FALL IN LOVE YOU AND OTHER TOTAL HOOEY LIKE THAT

Les Moisturables

SHOULD THE PLANE BEGIN TO PLUMMET EARTHWARDS FOLLOW THE INSTRUCTIONS ON THE SAFETY SHEET PROVIDED

Part two of this post can be foundHERE

Chthonic Church

Only 'Common' People Call Them Cupcakes

THE MAN OF STEEL

Warren Peace

Oh What A Lovely Hiatus!

The Hiatus Continues:

Two more facts about where I live. . . 

 

Hiatus

Hello Darlings.

Blog going on general hiatus for a little while. In the meantime I will be posting occasional images from my personal history of Terenure. Do enjoy.



All my love - McHale.

A Bad Dose of the Sonnets

Hello folkingtons, delightful to see you again. Three more poems - and yes I haven't a clue what any of this is about or where it's going, but I must say being a poet is a real blast, the money is spectacular and sitting in my underpants smoking gitanes at four in the morning c'est tres moi!

SAXOPHONOSYNTHESIS

The sun's a solar instrument

At the angels' beatnik gig

But if you want to hear it

Daddy-o, you have to dig.

For the music flows in silence

From the tip of heaven’s eave

And quietly it jives through air

Below to waiting leaves.

The leaves they vibrate twigs,

Twigs and branch and bough,

Down the tune keeps beating

Past the locus of the plough.

Until, where trees are fastened

To terra firma by their shoots

There you sense that music

It goes Rooty

                         Toot

                                    Toot

                                                Toot.

* * * * *

* * * * * * *

AND ALL THEY EVER FOUND WAS MOTHER HUBBARD'S BONES

Old Mother Hubbard

Went to the Cupboard

To feed her minature poodle

When she got there

Inside lurked a bear

With his big hairy bum in her strudel.

YUM! YUM!

* * * * *

THE TRUTH ISN'T

Eve eloped with the snake

(Left one rib I.O.U.)

Noah’s ark did not float

(Leaky two by twos.)

The Tower of Babel reached its peak

Avoiding liquidation

(Two Mormons climbed to the top

Then offered God salvation)

Abraham’s sacrifice

Isaac did not survive

A Japanese whaling boat

Ate Jonah alive

And walls around Jericho

Israel did not uproot

While Goliath with a sheep

Cleaned David off his boots

And that's the truth despite the plain

Bible contradictions

Those Mormons rubbed the Lord up wrong

Now truth's stranger than friction

* * * * *

Until we meet again - keep chewing on those gitanes.

MORE BLEEDIN' POETRY

Fond friends - lately it appears sweet Polyhymina, the muse of sacred poetry, refuses to leave my ears alone. I might only be lifting a broom to innocuously beat the cat out of the chandelier - when (quite without my conscent) the Goddess seizes hold of my Eustachian tube and discharges a sonnet or (more often than not) a filthy limerick, into my cerebral cortex.

I am, in short, becoming a poet (well, it can hardly pay worse than archaeology can it?)

My first poem today is a short reflection on L.P. Hartley's immortal line -'The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.' Please read on.

THE PAST IS A FOREIGN BODY

Last night I passed a foreign land.

How it got up there

I will never know.

My next poem is a stirring ode to death and birthday cake.

BURIAL REQUEST

Oh say you'll serve buns at my funeral

Jellys and chocolates and cakes

Marshmallow top hats

Lots of sugar and fats

To keep the folks sweet at my wake

- My wake
Feed them all sweets at my wake

Strew my coffin with icing and candles

Then ask all assembled to puff

Like and exhaling choir

Extinguish those fires

So's I won't be the only thing snuffed

- Thing snuffed

See that those candles are snuffed

Make my end a sugar rush festival

Let the tears be frosted with fun

That's all that I'm sayin'

But if you find that profane

Nail me up on a hot cross bun

-A bun

Let me die for my sins on a bun

BURY  ME  IN  CAKE

My final poem today comes with a colourful illustration which would be oddly suitable as a bookmark.

Captain Cheese

By mistake the navy knew him

As 'The Corsair Captain Cheese'

On account of the prosthetic

Mounted just below his knees.

It was that adapted flagpole

The error had been built on,

Since mariners oft' spoke of

That pirate with the Stilt-on.

That's all for now darlings. Thank you for your continuing ability to read.

Rudy - A Message To You

Revised Edition: Includes added bitterness.

Hail fellow heritage truffle hunters!! Are we not all poets? Do we not record the steady metre of the soil, measure the rhythms of the past and after all that is done, write the report in rhyming couplets?

Okay, maybe YOU don't - but bear with me while I try and shoehorn this posting into a legible position . . . Ahem.

Correspondence between Rudyard Kipling and Emily Dickinson has proved beyond reasonable doubt that they were both archaeologists!! It seems Rudyard set up the first private archaeological company and Emily on completing her BA wrote to him looking for a job . . .

Dear Mr.Kipling,

Because I sadly have no work
Will you give work to me?

I have dug a flower bed
And done some C.P.D.

With wiry limbs - and all my teeth

My friends say I'm quite plucky,

And I will gladly trade my youth

To get my clothing mucky.

Your company is to heritage,
(I've heard declaration,)
Like the kamikaze is
To prudent aviation.

Yours Faithfully
Emily D.

P.S. - I adore your French Fancies!

 - - - - - - - -

Dearest Emily,

If you can work in a trade with wages like a hobby,
If you can toil in places swine would christen slobby,

If you can go myopic when bulldozers penetrate,
And after that doff your cap to shallow men of state;
If you can spend a fortnight in a stinking, sinking hole
And follow those two weeks with a six-month on the dole;
If you can cross thy shapely legs bereft of vital crapper,
You can use the ditch you know! (And wipe with sandwich wrapper.)

If you have not a care for those who share your labour,

And through dumbest silence show your employer favour

When he picks upon those workmates and rubs them on his bottom

And only mutter in your head -I wish someone had shot him;

If you desire to see yourself ignored and in a pit,

Your years of education valued less than shit,

Then I shall give you work - the sort that makes you hurl,

But we don't pay for sick bags - because it's P.P.E. my girl!

     (and therefore your own responsibility)

Yours in Anticipation
Mr. Rudyard Kipling (a.k.a. Mr. Backyard Fondling.)

THE SACK OF SHIT.

Oh Jaysus let's have a ould tune to cheer us up. Press HERE please!

Until we meet again Mein Mucky Meisters.

THREE STEPS TO A HAPPIER YOU

Time is short my little pickled chumions - so I will make this brief - we are busy people - tempus fugit and all that. Every second that passes is in need of our attention, slap a feature number on it, plan it, photograph it and take a sample from it. Tick, tick ,tick. We are busy folk and if we are to be happy - it must happen quickly!! The following 3 step method holds no guarantee. Keep your hands on the railing at all time and no feeding the crocodiles.

STEP 1: GROW A BEARD

A long one. Tuck it under your nether regions and out the back of your roomy leisure pants. This method of beard deportment was advocated by Karl Barth (while he was taking a break from dialectical theology.) Barth was from Basel, hence the name of this beard style. (See below.)

BOOM BOOM!

STEP 2: DANCE - JUST GODDAMN DANCE

Dance to the outside

Dance to the middle

Set the floor a blazing

While Nero jigs the fiddle

Hula by your lonesome

And boogie in the herd

Gambol in the tulips

Pogo in the turds

And dance because they say you can't

And dance because you can

Hand-jive out to Charleston

Shuffle with your shanks

Shimmy waltz and whip it

Hoedown with a skank

Do the mashed potato

Or perhaps the quiche lorraine

Rhumba with Nijinsky

Slam Margot Fontaine

And dance because they say you can't

And dance because you can

God's moves are mysterious

The dancer gets the spoils

So swing it in the bell tower

And waltz right up the aisle

Fleet-footed as Mercury

(Galileo Galileo)

We'll disco to the heavens

In excelsis Deo

And dance because they say you can't

And dance because you can

STEP 3: GET RICH QUICK

Print the image below a million-billion times (do it on someone else's printer - the cost of ink cartridges is crippling.)

The worst picture of Childe ever drawn. Even if I do say so myself.

You are now rich with raw Heritage (notice the capital 'H') to the tune of one million billion arckydollahs. The arckydollah is legal tender absolutely nowhere, therefore, by the time you stick your head in the gas oven, the gas will have been disconnected.

Afterwards file for bankruptcy, on the forms in the space marked 'occupation' write bank director. You will be handed a bonus, a pension and the right to shit on anybody you like.

Well done.

Thank God that didn't last long - 'til next time mein heritage MacGuffins . .

THE NOTIONAL MUSEUM OF IRELAND.

For the purposes of this blog every non-national reading it is now IRISH. Please check with your local embassy for terms and conditions.

Hail fellow heritage-stalkers, it is no secret that mein old fickle mistress Fame has seen me hounded by prominent members of the glitterati in order that I might grace their sybaritic bunfights with my thermoluminescent presence - and it is in my role as self-appointed world ambassador of buried bunkum that Mr. Barm Stroker MBA recently requested I cut the ribbon at the opening of the newly refurbished Notional Museum of Ireland. This sacred ark of our Irish birthright has seen itself redesigned by HRH Donald Trump and several Ryanair executives in a charming blend of heritage and free market economics which has proved so a la mode over the last few years.

They even laid on a chaffeur to take me to the event!

On my arrival I was greeted by adoring crowds, many of whom, (after assurances I had never attended a seminary) begged me kiss their babies. Once this degrading drool-fest had ended I dallied no longer and swiftly ripped the red ribbon using a blunt knife (which a fellow archaeologist had thoughtfully plunged in my back.) Camera flashes flushed, I beamed a smile (marred only by the three teeth I lost fleeing a Magdalene laundry,) and Mr. Stroker cooed 'Do come inside, admission is €25 plus VAT for adults, unless you are a student - we don't admit those scrounging bastards.' Somewhat miffed I paid the spondoolicks (believing it best not to make a scene) and entered the foyer (or what common yobs might describe as a narthex.)

*

The pilastered foyer (designed in 1775 by Gabriel Abandon,) which was once celebrated as a calm neoclassical well of purest daylight, has now been converted into a kick-ass rapture-a-rama chockablock with an endearing treasure trove of arcade machines - an assemblage of binary beauties which would put Blackpool (and all it's whorish lights) to shame.

SUPER MARIO HERITAGE BUTCHER

'Arcade games Mister Stroker!' I ejaculated.

'Well these are recessionary times . . .' said Stroker. 'Pray sit down and have a go off one.'

I was chagrined, but to show I was a good sport I played a game of 'Super Mario Heritage Butcher,' and upon bulldozing Newgrange I received 100,000 points and full planning permission. A shocking bargain for a fine of only €50!

*

We then left the foyer and processed into the acclaimed Grand Hall (where Dean Swift himself once cried 'this is the canary's tusks, this is truly the shit!!') Unfortunately things did not appear as they should, emptiness hollowed the hall and a fallacious funk filled the air  . . .

The Interactive, (all singing, all dancing) Audio Visual, Heritage Simulator

'Pray tell Mr. Stroker,' I enquired looking about myself, 'whitherforth art all the artefacts of ye olden days gone? Those sweet museum relics which filled my childhood eyes and drew me into a career in archaeology? - The Waxen Axes of Waterville? The Darndale Meth hoard? The carved offal sculpture of Biffo, the big inside-out god?'

'We binned the shagging lot,' he replied, boulderfaced, 'Too expensive to maintain. Trump described it as a pile of cultural baggage, and when the Ryanair boys heard the word 'baggage' they started charging us twice as much for doing the job.  - But do climb aboard our heritage simulator.'

He directed me to the only thing in the room, an inflatable bronze effect statue of Molly Malone and her cart. We ascended the handcart and sat there bobbing away while a pan-pipe version of 'Highway to Hell,' played over the Tannoy.

'It's better than sex,' winked Stroker at me.

'Simulated sex,' I corrected.

Once the main cultural meat of the tour had been exhausted I was dragged screaming into the cafe where I was indulged in a panorama of bargain beer slabs interspersed with an incomparable range of leathery sandwiches, all glued together by means of horse protein. Afterwards I was introduced to the Marlboro smoking head chef who promptly mugged me using naught save a ladle.

*

The inexorable final port of call was the shop - where a million bits of cheap plastic (shackled to the counter) mewled MADE IN CHINA at me, many bookstalls were drenched in tomes about Celtic mysticism and several music sheets of ould Irish tunes went for a song. I could afford zip (since the chef had the last of my money) but the bearded lady behind the cash desk kindly agreed to take my shirt in exchange for nothing.

Finally, FINALLY Mr. Barm Stroker MBA did the decent thing and shouldered me from the building, defecating me onto the pavement with a slam of a cast iron door. I stood there, shivering in the reliably crap Irish climate and hollered: 'Can people really be so GULLIBLE?'
The following week, a kind invitation to open the National Gullery answered that question pronto.

This blog posting bears NO RESEMBLANCE to ANY Irish national (or for that matter International) cultural institution, living or dead.

MAY GOD FORGIVE US ALL and see ya next time.