Ye Olde Linoleum Shoppe

Tuesday 26 February 2013


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.

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.)
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

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 . .

Tuesday 12 February 2013


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.
'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.

Tuesday 5 February 2013


Don't panic darlings, will resume in a few days. Here is a nice picture of a burd (as we say in Dublin) to keep you busy.


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.