Ye Olde Linoleum Shoppe

Tuesday 27 December 2011


Well Chumleys, it seems Pere Noel's generosity knew no bounds this year! He flushed himself down my chimney and left a rich deposit of luxury goods with nary a spot of soot to be seen. Then he managed to get back up said chimney and go on his merry way - which is quite the achievement considering ours has a u-bend fitted.
How does Swiety Mikolaj (as they call him in Poland) do it? I'll admit to being a Godless bead-mumbler but when one sees the miracles Joulupukki (as they have monikered him in Finland) performs, one begins to wonder is it possible there may, after all, be a God?
Yes, it was 'Grand Theft Archaeology Mesolithic' that took top marks among my Xmas chattels. It's the sequel to 'Grand Theft Archaeology Palaeolithic' and what a game it is! Simply insert the disc into the superlative Playbox 2 and using your well polished joystick you wander into an innocent boyish cyber-heaven of blunt trowel beheadings, defiling corpses, damp sandwiches and turning rent boys into roadkill with the aid of a wheelbarrow. Ahh! It brought a tear to my eye, reminding me as it did, of the erstwhile days of yore during the last building boom.
Baba Chagaloo (that's Him in Afghanistan) gave me several books of an educational nature and they are all greatly appreciated as a means of feigning intellectual depth by arranging them suggestively on my mahogany sideboard. I never read the foul things though, literature is (much like going to the loo) a filthy habit. And when they have done their job of educational fakery they will add vigour to the roaring fire in my stove.
When I peeled back the wrapping on my last present the excitement was so great I had fetch a mop from the yard to sort out the mess it provoked. The WHS Nimbus 3000!! No sooner had I this in my moist hands than I leapt up onto it and flew out the window. Such gaiety I have never before endured! It was all going splendidly until, at 30 meters OD, a concerned neighbour shot me down with the aid of a pump action shotgun he had received for Christmas. Damn you Mr. Moldevort - if that is indeed your real name!
And once again thank you dearest Kanakaloka (as they say in Hawaii,) for all your kind gifts, beat those sweatshop elves harder than usual this coming year so that I may enjoy more outstanding consumer goods for Christmas 2012.

Pass my pipe and slippers darling, and be quick about it lest you inflame my ire!

Until Next Week Archaeochrimassophiles!

Wednesday 21 December 2011

The Night Before XXXmas

WARNING: Gentle Readers, the following post is a nauseating, vulgar pastiche, and as such, a perfect reflection of the Christmas spirit. I have asterixed the smutty words giving an amusing snowflake-like texture to the doggrel.

'Twas the night before Christmas and the squeaks in the house,
Were the sounds of Niall Colfer abusing a mouse.
O Sullivan and McDermott were farting in bed
While ould Cathy Moore baked inedible bread.
All our trowels were stored in a small timber box
And Franc Myles was busy choosing a frock.
'Will it be pink?' He wondered, 'Or Blue?'
When out on the street arose a hullabaloo.
Off to the window Franc flew in a flash,
Tearing his gusset as he slipped on the sash.
With his tackle a-dangling he saw through the fog
A box, of cardboard, dragged by two dogs.
"In China," the box claimed it was made in
And packaged within was sweet Alan Hayden.
Those mongrels they charged like seraphs aflame
And Alan he cursed and abused them by name.
'On Gringo you b*****d! On Luther you c***!
You dumb lazy s**ts, we don't have all month!'
To the rear of our house the dogs they came crashing
And then came the sound of a back window smashing.
When we ran to the kitchen it was just as we feared,
There stood dear Alan with glass in his beard.
He looked like an elf. Well . . . more like a goblin
Then he spat and he grunted: 'What's your f***ing problem?'
Al raced upstairs and sniffed about like a fox
Until he had excavated our box.
He tore it wide open, grabbed all the trowels
Then gave a look that could loosen ones bowels.
'You  f***ers,'  he gnashed 'May your spuds all get blight!
You stole all these trowels off my f***ing site!'
Nora Bermingham tried to thieve them once more
But Al roared 'F**k off!' And made for the door.
Conor and Aidan jumped out of the bed
Saying: 'Hold down the p***k and we'll fart on his head!' 
Cathy was p***ed and threw a loaf for a hoot,
But it didn't hit Alan, it hit Franc's dangling fruit!
Niall Colfer appeared in a bit of a flap,
Squealing, 'My b******s! My b******s! They're snared in a trap!'
In all the confusion Al slipped away
With both of his dogs and substitute sleigh,
But I heard him exclaim 'ere he had gone
'Ed Bourke must have been, 'cos there's s**t on your lawn!'

So Merry Christmas blog readers
I wish you good cheer
But beware of housebreakers
If they wear a beard . . .

Wednesday 14 December 2011


It is only the seasoned archaeologist who truly understands what procedures and instruments are needed to successfully involve oneself in what is commonly known as an excavation. An unworldly university graduate comes fresh to the slaughter of field archaeology with callow notions about trowels and measuring tapes only to discover, in a very slow and painful fashion, the true nature of the implements needed for a dig (please forgive my use of the vernacular.) In the following blog I will attempt to tease out the main utensils needed to successfully propel oneself, in an agreeable arc, directly through an excavation and onwards into the dark hopeless void of unemployment on the other side.
No excavation begins without a generous dose of valuim washed down with a half bottle of Sore Leg Vodka. Valium's enthralling effect allows the user to attend a site meeting with a sweaty scrounging developer (who we hereafter only refer to as Mr.J.S.) and plant a kiss on his well picked nose with the words 'You are my beshtest friend inna hole whurl.'
During the previous building boom a refreshing cocktail of viagra and cocaine did win over the hearts of many archaeologists, but the chin bruising precipitated by this remarkable cocktail forced it's early retirement.
When it comes time to begin the delicate onsite task of topsoil removal there can be no doubting the efficacious nature of a few sticks of our old compeer Monsieur J. Elligneet. Since Northern Ireland's terrorist groups have decamped into the more solicitous environment of politics the British Isles explosives market has been flooded with intoxicating choice. A dozen sticks of TNT hammered with a mallet securely into the earth, and then combusted, always provides an amusing display not unlike fireworks, but with mud and gravel instead of sparks. - And you will stand there smiling, high as a kite on valium and not giving a shit as a cloud of filth ascends heavenwards, while your disgruntled developer chum Mr.J.S. screams and runs for cover.
Once the topsoil is safety orbiting the earth, the onerous niceties of stratified remains can be dealt with posthaste under the blunt blade of a big yellow bulldozer, (bones and timber always crunch satisfyingly under the loving embrace of diesel powered caterpillar tracks.) The previously mentioned sweaty developer with look on with grudging approval as you wave goodbye to all his planning difficulties, allowing you to pop another few valium, kiss his noggin and enquire whither those pale encrusted blemishes on his pants came from.
And there you will stand, with your midden faced, whoremonger pal, Mr.J.S. as the subsoil bleeds out from under the servile grind of the dozer - and you will make quite a pair, him fumbling in his greasy pockets and you swimming in the arms of Morpheus. Tra La La!
An end of site party (well lubricated with vomit) ensues and we move rapidly on to the post-excavation work . . .
Oh Post-Ex! Ahahahaaa! That is a good one, (wipes tears of mirth from eyes.) Post-Ex my hole! Those terrorists you bought the TNT off want their money and that's where the post-ex shekels have to go!

That dear readers, is how to properly conduct an excavation!

Better make that two packets of Diazepam please Mary, yes, and a whole bottle of Sore Leg.

Until NEXT WEEK, Christmas is approaching and I am positively damp with excitement.

Wednesday 7 December 2011



The deceptively simple uniwheeled, stereohandled design of the wheelbarrow has proved itself very pliant in the mitts of fashionista archaeologists. No more humble mode of filth propulsion exists which can be moulded so willingly into a contrivance that says everything about it's user.
Niall Colfer has used the nascent field of nanotechnology to develop the micro-barrow and he can often be heard hard at work in the pockets of fellow archaeologists using his new invention to remove the troublesome balls of fluffy lint which accumlate willy nilly in our aforementioned trouser pouches. So next time you put your hand into your pocket and find your linty balls have been interfered with . . .Oh Dear, I think I've said enough.
Aidan O Sullivan's desire to feel his fillings being sucked out by gravitational forces as he hoors around the corner of the site spoil heap has led him to develop a no-holds-barred turbobarrow (YEE-HAW! Go Team Aidan!) This baby's top speed is limited only by weather conditions and O Sullivan's choice of breakfast - on a dry day, with porridge, he can give the large hadron collider a run for it's money. So it truly can be said, (and at the risk of yet another double entendre) - when it comes to evacuating dirt, Aidan has certainly pushed the boat out.
The laziness and ingenuity of Wiltshire archaeologists had led them to design the spectacular West Kennet Longbarrow (not to be confused with the West Kennet Long Barrow.) Once filled to capacity the longbarrow need not be pushed to the spoil heap - because it's already there. So three cheers for all those fine Wiltshire  people - even though the buggers wouldn't sweat in an oven.

And when an archaeologist's metaphorical days work is done, they know, (only too well,) how they will carried across the great unknown to the spoil heap of the afterlife. . .
To finish I would just like to include a picture of Thackeray - because all that talk of wheelbarrows has left me completely Thackered.
Until next time - you steamy pride of buttermonkeys!

Wednesday 30 November 2011


Dash it all I'm not out of touch with my feminine side! I like playing with dolls as much as every other square jawed, manly archaeologist. And just to prove it - here's what I've asked dearest Santa to send down my chimney during the Yuletide festivities.
Also on my list is the accessory pack. As every wide shouldered, stubble cheeked archaeologist knows, success in our chosen muddy metier is all about the accessories!
1. High-vis Stella McCartney PPE bikini.
2. Jimmy Choo steel toecaps.
3. Tiger prawn and cucumber sandwiches (cut into ladylike triangles.)
4. Gucci wayfarers.
5. Miu Miu leather bag containing Valentino 4H pencil and Marc Jacobs eraser.
6. Orange Mocha Frappuccino made with civet coffee beans.
7. De Beers Tiara (can't be seen on an excavation without one!)
8. Beaker pot made by an unknown, jumped up Chalcolithic has-been.
9. Crouched Inhumation Ken.

Mind you, if your tastes are a touch more earthy you could do worse than go for the Gimbutas Approved Dolly . . .
Heavens above! I don't know what it is about that ducky Venus figurine but it always makes my loins fruity! Excuse me, but I'm off to satiate myself from within the fortified sanctity of a christian marriage. WOO-HOO!!

Until next time fellow macho archaeological doll collectors - Tooraloora!

Wednesday 23 November 2011


It's no secret I got my archaeology degree from Harvey Norman (they were doing a two for one special so I got a Classical Civilisation degree at the same time.) During my thee years queueing to get to the cashier I kept my screaming poverty at bay by working as a shoeshine boy outside the Bank of Ireland. I polished the bankers shoes (made from the skins of flayed infants) with a frothy smile and they repaid me with a kick in the head or else the more understated dog-poo concealed in a crisp packet.
In these sad days of penury a vision arose from the Drimagh dust-bowl, her name was Nora BerMINGham (as in MING the merciless - but not that turf smoking Galway nob - the Flash Gordon one.) She had an armalite in one hand and a bird box in the other (full of Kentucky fried chicken.) Realising I was a fellow  reprobate (I think it was my open-crotched burqa that did it,) she asked if I would be interested in robbing banks to make ends meet. I gladly accepted and we took the 14A to the nearest branch of Anglo Irish Bank (now renamed the Anglo Irish BONK - because they screwed the whole country - what a laugh that was.)
The queue to rob the bank was considerable, so to pass the time we perused the tattoos on our fellow queue mates (one of them had the marine poetry of Jaques Cousteau written on her thighs and armpits - which was ironic because she had to stand like a starfish while we read her.) When we finally reached the counter who should be waiting there but Wee Seanie Fitzpatrick, my old school chum (it's manys the time we were side by side having the backsides whipped off us, with the headmaster wearing welding goggles to protect his eyes from the incandescent glow off our buttocks.)
Seanie was a treasure, he talked us out our foolish bank robbing notions and swopped us the armalite, the burqa and the bird box for shares in Anglo.
Which probably explains why me and Nora are now both bleedin' penniless.
So ladies and gentlemen let us all raise our glasses in honour of Nora Bang Bang Bermingham - a woman whose Tumbeagh Bog Legs Publication reminds me of a joke so filthy I'm even ashamed thinking about it.

Wednesday 16 November 2011


Lets face it chums, when it comes to archaeology you're either wearing a hat - or you're not.

It's as simple as that. Or is it? - I'm not sure.

But if you are wearing a hat what does your hat say about you? (And if you're not, go put one on.)

I am adventure. I am old school. I am stylish. I am Steven Spielberg's fault.
I am Winter. I am warmth. I am comfort. Even though the bobble on this thing stinks of arse.

I am Summer. I am shade. I have shag-all self-esteem.
I am . . . I am . . . If pot is non-addictive how come I could really, really do with some RIGHT NOW.
I am practical. I am resilient. I am a whore of the building industry (and therefore unemployed.)
I am experimental. And I made a mistake buying that trepanning saw off ebay.
I am in the wrong blog.

Thank you, me and my smurfesque hat models would just like to say: You've been like a herd of giddy camels paddling through a lake of delicious toffee. We love you all. x x x

Wednesday 9 November 2011


When I was a wee ladeen Mr. Fortifiedbreakfastcereal kept a comely shop on the Terenure mainstreet. He sold all manner of things to bewitch the impressionable mind of a young gassune. In his shop window he had statues of the Blessed Virgin lovingly sculpted from freeze dried offal and flashing neon - beside these sat Pope Pius XII memorial plaques imaginatively fashioned from horses' teeth and shattered hurley sticks - but among all these eyecatching beauties there was a stack of model kits retailing at a ha'porth an ounce.
My primary school friends and I would spend hours, noses pressed against the shop window, staring at these boxes containing plastic wonders. We would stare at them until our snot glued us to the window and the fire brigade was called to crowbar us off.
Childhood chum Shaunie Fitzpatrick, (many moons before his dizzying success in the banking sector) was particularily taken by the 'Looting Bastard' model kit (when assembled it featured an overweight posse of businessmen dumping a golden calf into a bottomless pit - I still don't understand what it was about.) My other pal Daniel O'Donnell, (in the days when he hadn't a frog in his trousers nor an arse in his throat) couldn't take his eyes off the 'Elvis Presley Invading Poland' model kit (I often wonder about the historical accuracy of that one.) And what kit caught my eye?

Well don't pretend you haven't already guessed . . .

1. Head -supplied empty, feel free to stuff with arrogance and loony theories.
2. Hat -makes him look like Bungo from the Wombles.
3. Beard -adds to the overall womblesque appearance.
4. Ponytail -optional, for more of a 'My Little Pony' look.
5. Trowel Arm -for scratching at soil.
6. Other Arm -for scratching at hole.
7. Torso -and lavish beer gut.
8. Man Boobs -big enough to smother a sparrow.
9. Wages -a bag of peanuts.
10. Left leg -arthritic.
11. Right Leg - gammy.
12. Feet -clad in recession style plastic bags.
13. Loins -when painting model don't forget to add greasy stains.
14. Plumb bob -and SpongeBob.
15. Excavation licence.
16. Psychiatric evaluation.
17. Pencil - for buttering sandwiches and picking ears and teeth.
18. Sense of propriety - sadly missing.

Wednesday 2 November 2011


Todays blog is kindly sponsored by
*Bourke's Patented Brown Gold Lawn Fertiliser*

I had agreed to meet my usual gang of trick or treat chums for our yearly trawl through the neighbourhood in search of tooth rotting delights. My costume had taken some time to prepare and was a post-post-postmodern take on satire in the media and it's venal relationship with religious postcards circa 1952 - in short - I had a paper bag on my head.
Boy racer Aidan O Sullivan arrived at our rendezvous point pushing an empty child's buggy.
'What are you dressed as?' I asked politely.
Aidan shook his head in a disappointed way, 'I know you're not the sharpest twig in the wood report,' he sighed, 'so I'll make this easy for you - I'm pushing a buggy AND I go WOOOO, Woooo, WOOOO in the darkness AND I scare naughty children.'
'Still haven't a clue old bean,' I said.
'I'm the Buggy Man! Isn't it obvious?'
Cathy Moore's timely arrival broke the clanging silence. She was dressed as everybody's-favourite-communist-next-door, Fidel Castro.
'Great fake beard,' observed Aidan.
'Oh it's not fake,' said Cathy drawing deeply on her cigar. 'It's a side effect from working with Alan Hayden for too long.'
'Yes, I had to have mine surgically removed,' I added sympathetically.
Moments later Conor McDermott appeared dressed, as per usual, as a pumpkin. (I've heard he never takes the costume off- wears it underneath his clothes throughout the year.)
'Who's your friend?' I asked waving at the dark masked figure behind him.
'No idea, he just followed me here,' said Conor. The individual had an ominous air about him so I decided not to enquire about his motives and merely signalled to my playfellows that we should begin the evening's bonhomie and hilarity.
After six hours of dragging our festooned carcasses around the doorsteps of Terenure, Conor McD. held out our combined evenings takings - two monkey nuts and a minature tube of toothpaste (the type dentists give out for free.) We were, unsurprsingly, steaming with rage - when, without warning, a figure with with a riding crop, plus fours and a leather mask leapt out at us!
Conor screamed, causing the minature tube and nuts to fall out of his grip (ooh err.)
'Fear not,' said the becostumed person, 'It's only me, Sir Edward of Bourke - here to bring you seasonal tidings.'
'Wow!' said Cathy looking at the bulging bag by Ed's side. 'You look like you've cleaned up on the goodies, what's your secret?'
'It's my careful choice of words when I address the householder,' said Ed (his dainty voice only slightly muffled by the zip across his mouth.) 'When I arrive at a doorstep I don't use that tired old "trick or treat" chestnut. It's so 1979.'
'Oh, what do you say?' Asked Aidan conspiratorially.
'I say,' whispered Ed, 'Give me sweets or I will take a shit on your lawn!'
'And that works??!' Said Conor McD aghast.
'No, not at all, that's why I have to carry this huge sack of jobbies around with me, I wouldn't have the bowel capacity to do a dump on everyone's lawns around here, so I've been saving my shit all year for this night.'
And he then skipped away merry as grig, with his odorous sack, to deliver more treats onto the unsuspecting lawns of Terenure.

And now dear reader, a brief word from our kind sponsor.
Thank you for your attention and now we resume our narrative:

We then returned to look at our stash of loot when horror of horrors! Someone had eaten the whole minature tube of toothpaste AND both of the monkey nuts!!
'We've been plundered!' Roared Conor McD.
Looking about we realised the dark mystery guest had disappeared . . . (cue dramatic music.)
'Who the hell was that thieving sod?' Cried Aidan.
'Well Muchacos,' said Cathy Moore, with a knowing puff of her cheroot, 'It's elementary isn't it?'
We looked at each other in a confused way.
'Consider his black clothing,' said Cathy, 'His only words of the night - "I am your Father . . ." and his heavy breathing.'
'Oh jeepers,' I said.
'A paedophile priest!' Said Aidan, his face turning white.
'Oh Jinkies, oh Jinkies no! I'm going to sick up!' Squeaked Conor McD.
'What's wrong?' Asked Cathy.
'He kept making me hold his light saber!!' Said Conor as he ralphed a technicolour yawn. AND THAT dear readers, was how we discovered who had really eaten the toothpaste and monkey nuts!!

Wednesday 26 October 2011


Dear readers I have just ventured home from the baroque metropolis of Lisbon, (the return flight was so turbulent one felt one was in a blender with all the rattling and spew splattering hither and thither.) Exotic Lisboa is a city made fat with pork, salt cod and attractively priced egg based pastries. In 1755 an earthquake struck it's precincts and smashed it to a lumpen mess - and although I have no claim to an expertise in history (and let's be honest, who wants to be associated with a shower of duck-milking historians?) I understand that everyone was killed and the population was replaced by a tribe of Eskimo-Rastafarians who had wandered across the Atlantic pack-ice in search of rancid seal meat and ganja. Three cheers for the Snow-Rastas!

The ruined Cathedral of Carmo  looks hungrily down on modern Lisbon, it's gothic rib-cage naked to the heavens. During the earthquake good Catholics fled into the cathedral in the hope God would be their protection - he collapsed the roof on the lot of them - leaving most Lisboans with the suspicion that He is probably a muslim (I feel they did somewhat miss a beat by not using the opportunity to invade Iraq.)
Carmo Cathederal is now a museum - and it was within it's walls I heard an old married couple bicker:
'Why don't we hold hands anymore?' Said the woman's voice.
'Please dear,' said the man, 'we are in a museum.'
'I hate museums,' said she,' why can't we do something interesting. I hear Big Tom and the Boxcar Nudists are playing a tea-dance at the Casa De Alentejo.'
'You know I can't dance, not with my hips,' said the man.
'Your hips don't stop you dancing all over me at four in the morning do they?' Said she. 'You're worse than Berlusconi on a Bunga Bunga night.'
'Please dear,' he pleaded, 'we are in a museum!!'
'You don't have to remind me,' said she, 'I'm not blind . . .'
Then I rounded the corner and faced the two responsible for the chatter - and discovered why they don't hold hands anymore. . .

Sleep tight dear readers . . .

Wednesday 19 October 2011


Aidan O'Sullivan is a man who likes the accoutrements associated with one of his academic status. His belly top, bright pink zoot suit and leopard skin wellies  say everything about his position on the rickety ladder of education.
So it came as little surprise when we were in his saltwater garage and he whipped away an enormous blanket of romaine lettuce to reveal his latest purchase - the new Ford V8 Crustacean.
'What happened to your old Codmobile,' I asked.
'It was getting a bit battered,' he replied (baa-dum-tish.) 'This new baby runs on garlic butter, has a fuel injected omega 3 engine and the ABS anchor comes as standard.'
We then went for a spin, playing Daniel O'Donnell up full blast and shouting expletives at all the barristers wandering the Dublin streets in their wigs, gowns and space hoppers.
On dismounting from the vehicle we both experienced an embarrasing problem . . . a problem which Aidan decided to solve by grinding his nether regions against the wing mirror. 'It's a great car,' he said, 'but be-the-hokey, the upholstery is covered in crabs!'
Call me old-fashioned but I prefer to catch crabs in the traditional fashion (and I don't mean with a pot!)

Wednesday 12 October 2011


Feeling a sick as a parrot and short on cash? Why pump a juicy plug of greenbacks into Ireland's festering health system when you can save yourself the mazuma by avoiding the doctor and instead consulting this diagnostic map. Simply look up where you're from and hey presto that's what's wrong with you.
After that, avoid the crystal meth and we'll take it from there.

Wednesday 5 October 2011


As I sat down to pen this missive there was a faint jingling in my ear, TINGATONG it went, TINGATONG. Imagining it to be little more than a fault in my hearing aid (a large brass horn purloined off a gramaphone and attached to my noodle with a roll of barbed wire,) I went about my business and tried to ignore the nettlesome din.
Kim Jong Il was nominated to run for the Irish presidency by both Dino's chipper in Longford and the reformed Lutheran wing of the ICA. Although he feels his track record as a merciless dictator may stand against him he hopes the Irish people will appreciate the way the buttons on his hideous uniform accentuate his nipples.

TINGATONG,TINGATONG, continued the noise. I removed my hearing aid and vigorously dug a crochet hook into my ear until a large blob of earwax encasing a suffocated cockroach fell out. 'Problem solved,' said I with a knowing wink and replaced the aid to my ear. I then picked up a goose quill and returned to the task at hand . . .
Napoleon had a successful political career in France some years ago (perhaps the more seasoned veterans in our midst may still remember his introduction of non-chafing metric onanism,) but his military campaign into Russia was (in the unforgettable words of my Maiden Aunt Lucretia) 'a total fuck-up.' He is hoping the Irish voters will forgive this blip in his past and focus instead on his appalling taste in head gear. He Is also giving away a free creme-anglaise bun with every vote. Oh Boney, you're a fierce man for the pastries!

TINGATONG,TINGATONG, went the noise again. Convinced it was probably something deep within my cranium, I took a surgical grade lump hammer to the bridge of my nose and administered a succession of sharp blows. No cigar, the cacophony (ooh, I've always wanted to use that word,) continued unabated.
The last individual hopeful of a seat in the park is a person with a somewhat . . . ermm  . . . chequered past. Although he accepts he did singlehandedly start the Second World War he hopes Ireland's mature electorate will understand that he did also singlehandedly end it by putting a bullet through his skull while biting down on a cyanide capsule- a trick, (he is at pains to elucidate,) that can not be repeated without a great deal of effort.

TINGATONG,TINGATONG, went the infernal tinnitus. 'Merlin's Beard!' I ejaculated in a manner not unfamiliar to fans of literary drivel. Then all became apparent, there was a tugging on my trouser leg and I looked down to behold nanoarchaeologist Niall Colfer trying to get my attention.
'I want to TING A TONG!!' he said in his squeaking voice.
'Oh you want to sing a song,' I said.
'Yeth,' he peeped, 'and I want to be the predidenth of Ireland and ting tongs to all the boyth and girlth of dith green and pledanth land!!'
'Very well,' said I, slapping my knee, 'Give us an oul tune there me bucko!'
He whipped out a guitar contrived from a walnut shell and a chicken bone and strummed away merrily until he fell through a gap in the floorboards and silence fell upon the land.
Niall Colfer can be seen in the lead role of Peter Jackson's 'The Hobbit' - coming December 2012.


My photo
I am a descended from a long line of conga dancers. I occasionally wear shoes. I gave up going to the toilet twenty years ago - it's a filthy habit. I have a pet bunny called Mucky - he's a filthy rabbit.