Saturday, April 30, 2011
Thought for the day.
We are, each of us, the centre of our own universe. Therefore, we can never be, by definition, the centre of anyone else's.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
CAAEPAP
You know, I've been kinda a British English fan my whole life, but, hey, now I've decided to do a one-eighty and inaugurate a group called The Campaign for the Adoption of American English for the Purposes of Annoying People. It's just the humor I'm in.
If you wanna join this group, all you gotta do is use American spelling, grammar and vocabulary in at least one post or email a week, and put "This [post / mail] is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP" in a small font, color blue, at the bottom. It's kinda tough to get into the swing of it at first, but all it takes is a little practise folks.
You may hate the idea but, know what, I could care less. Let's see if this dog will hunt, and how many people we can piss off.
This post is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP.
If you wanna join this group, all you gotta do is use American spelling, grammar and vocabulary in at least one post or email a week, and put "This [post / mail] is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP" in a small font, color blue, at the bottom. It's kinda tough to get into the swing of it at first, but all it takes is a little practise folks.
You may hate the idea but, know what, I could care less. Let's see if this dog will hunt, and how many people we can piss off.
This post is proudly sponsored by CAAEPAP.
Monday, April 18, 2011
What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?
A couple of years ago, one Saturday afternoon, I was bored and decided to create a quiz on Facebook.
For years, I'd had the phrase "What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?" rattling around in my head. I heard it from a Cavan girl I shared a house with in London half a lifetime ago. It was something her dad, or uncle used to say - and he pronounced 'eejit' as 'ee-get'. Very Cavan. I love the Cavan accent, having spent several years in boarding school, and much of my childhood on my grandparents' farm up there, so the phrase stayed with me.
In any case, I thought that if it were taken as an actual question, rather than a rhetorical insult, it could make for a funny quiz. After a few hours of effort, during which I managed to make myself laugh out loud many times - always a good sign when you're writing comedy - I had the thing done.
I put it up onto Facebook, obsessed over it for a few days, then forgot all about it. A few weeks later I remembered it and when I checked, it had over three thousand 'Likes.' Checking now, the figure is at 3,984. So it must have a made a few other people laugh too.
I decided, before it goes missing on Facebook, I'd preserve it here.
The questions and possible answers are first, followed by the possible results, and the picture associated with each:
What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?
Find out what sort of a gobshite you'd be if you grew up in Ireland - or what class of a shitehawk you should be if you actually did!
1. How do you pronounce 'idiot'?
3. Where would you spend Christmas?
4. What's a 'Wheel?'
5. What's a dump valve?
6. Do you like the English?
7. What's the definition of 'class'?
8. What does "Quar'n" mean?
9. What's a 'turn?'
10. Cad is ainm duit?
For years, I'd had the phrase "What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?" rattling around in my head. I heard it from a Cavan girl I shared a house with in London half a lifetime ago. It was something her dad, or uncle used to say - and he pronounced 'eejit' as 'ee-get'. Very Cavan. I love the Cavan accent, having spent several years in boarding school, and much of my childhood on my grandparents' farm up there, so the phrase stayed with me.
In any case, I thought that if it were taken as an actual question, rather than a rhetorical insult, it could make for a funny quiz. After a few hours of effort, during which I managed to make myself laugh out loud many times - always a good sign when you're writing comedy - I had the thing done.
I put it up onto Facebook, obsessed over it for a few days, then forgot all about it. A few weeks later I remembered it and when I checked, it had over three thousand 'Likes.' Checking now, the figure is at 3,984. So it must have a made a few other people laugh too.
I decided, before it goes missing on Facebook, I'd preserve it here.
The questions and possible answers are first, followed by the possible results, and the picture associated with each:
What brand of a feckin' eejit are ye?
Find out what sort of a gobshite you'd be if you grew up in Ireland - or what class of a shitehawk you should be if you actually did!
1. How do you pronounce 'idiot'?
- Eeejish
- Ee-jut
- Eeee-jitt
- Langer!
- Eejit
- Eee-get
2. Do you support a British soccer team?
- Soccer? G'way to feck! If it doesnt involve swinging a big lump of a tree around like a homicidal corn-reaper, I'm not interested.
- I'm too busy organising marches and pogroms to bother with that sorta shite!
- I do in me arse!
- Feckin' girl's game! GAA all the way! Yahoo!
- I'm more into Rugby, actually, like.
- Yeah, and I regularly have heated arguments in the pub with supporters of other teams.
- In traffic trying to get home from shopping in Dublin.
- I dunno. The Seychelles this year, maybe.
- Behind the curtains, in fear for me life!
- How much would I have to spend?
- At home, like.
- In the local, if it were open.
4. What's a 'Wheel?'
- Something my Skyline has four of and my Evo X also has four of.
- Something my Ford has four of.
- Something my Honda Civic has four of.
- Something my Massey Ferguson has four of.
- A stupid gobshite.
- Something my SUV has four of.
- I'm not sure; but I bet it was invented by someone from my home county.
- An utterly pointless addition to my Nissan Micra's engine.
- A yoke on the back of the jacks.
- A very useful addition to the twin-turbos on my Jap import.
- Jaysus, I dunno. Something they put on a beer tap?
- I'm not sure, but I think my 4x4 has one.
- It depends on whether there's an English person within earshot or not.
- I do in me hole! Hate the feckers - although that's only because I've been told I should hate them.
- They're not to be trusted.
- I couldn't care less. They're inferior to us in every way, anyway.
- Sure, I mean like, yeah - why not?
- Fluffy Saxon bastards! It pains my breast to think of Eire's fertile sloping mantle being trodden underfoot for 800 years.
- An important social distinction by which you measure yourself against your peers.
- Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
- Something you forego to go into town and hang around Grafton Street.
- I wouldn't have a clue.
- Cristiano Ronaldo.
- Anything that's feckin' brilliant!
- It's a vegetarian meat-substitute.
- Jaysus, I haven't a clue. Is it something you spread on the land?
- No idea. Some bog-trotter code word for something?
- 'Very' - as in "You're quar'n tick!' (You are a person of low intelligence.)
- Something we say when we're copying the Wicklow accent.
- It's a feckin' stupid expression, the likes of which we'd never use around here.
- A bend in the road.
- Something you serve soup in.
- A stroll around your property.
- A bend in the beautiful river that flows through my county town.
- A nasty shock.
- A song by the band 'Travis.'
10. Cad is ainm duit?
- Wha? Feck off with yer Irish, ya spa!
- Leath-uair tar éis a deich.
- No - only red diesel.
- Sorry - I don't speak bog.
- What's that there, now?
- ... Ó Murchu is ainm dom!
And that was it. Ten questions scientifically designed to tell you which part of the country you were from - or should be from. These were the answers:
You're A Feckin' Wicklow Goatsucker
You're A Feckin' 'Cute' Cork Hoo'er
Yer From Wee Northern Ireland
You're A Fockin' D4 Head
You're A Mean Feckin' Cavan Basthard.
You're A Feckin' Wexford Yellowbelly!
Sunday, April 17, 2011
A is for ...
I'm becoming increasingly annoyed at bad parents who use convenient psychological labels to excuse away the fact they've instilled no discipline or boundaries in their children.
So why don't you come clean, and rather than saying that your children have ADHD or Autism or Asperger's, just admit that your remiss parenting skills have turned your children into Assholes.
So why don't you come clean, and rather than saying that your children have ADHD or Autism or Asperger's, just admit that your remiss parenting skills have turned your children into Assholes.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
ISH Magazine Article
This is an article I wrote for ISH (Irish Scene and Heard) Magazine, back in 2003.
A Volatile Mix
Michael Synnott maintains that music and politics don’t always go together like hand and glove.
Let’s try a little thought experiment. Picture yourself sitting in your living room, flicking through the satellite TV music channels. Got the image? OK, now imagine you stumble across a live gig by your favourite band. Result! You settle back in your chair, crank up the volume and rock out.
Now picture yourself listlessly surfing through the other channels. Through some horrid twist of fate you happen across Prime Minister’s Question Time or the televised coverage of the Dáil sessions. What do you do? Well, if you’re anything like me, you switch channels as quickly as your tired surfing-thumb will allow and thank your lucky stars you didn’t see anything that might have polluted your delicate artistic mind.
Now, how did these two scenarios make you feel? Again, if you’re anything like me the answers are ‘elated’ and ‘detached’, respectively. Music and politics: subjects at opposite ends of the social spectrum, diametrically opposed belief systems, freedom versus control, lifestyles never to be mixed. Or are they?
As long as there has been political intrigue, there has been music supporting, condemning or ridiculing it. But how do we feel about musicians crossing the boundary from entertainer to politician, or at least to political commentator? After all, the politicians rarely cross the line in the opposite direction, with the exception of Bill Clinton, who was an aficionado of ‘oral sax’ and numerous Irish politicians who, judging by their characters, have never been averse to twanging out the occasional solo tune on the ol’ one-string banjo.
Here’s another thought experiment: think of as many outspoken musical artists as you can. Off you go. Done? OK, even without knowing your age and political views, I bet I can name at least two of those you came up with:
Bob Dylan, Eminem, Joan Baez, Zach de la Rocha, Frank Zappa, Madonna, Bono, The Wolfe Tones, Stiff Little Fingers, Ice-T, The Dixie Chicks, John Lennon, errmm …. Well, there are shitloads more, but you get the idea. Now, let’s take two of these people, Bono and Eminem, and do a little compare and contrast.
Ask twenty U2 fans how they feel about Bono’s outspoken political views and lyrics and you’ll probably get half of them saying he’s a champion of the people and the other half saying they wish he wouldn’t bother and that he should get on with the business of making rock music. Ask twenty Eminem fans the same question and, notwithstanding the obvious demographic differences, most, if not all, of them will say ‘Yeah, he’s bang on.’
So what’s the difference here? Those of us who saw ‘Self Aid’ in 1986 remember the shock, embarrassment and disdain we felt as U2 played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and Bono fell around the stage, using his microphone lead as a tourniquet as he mimed the act of shooting a syringe full of smack into his arm. ‘He’s lost the plot’, we said, and we prematurely predicted his demise as an Irish rock icon. Yet, we now watch Marshall Mathers lurching around the stage like a demented Quasimodo, spitting vitriol at a world he hates yet has to live in, and we nod our heads in approval—at the message if not the music. What’s going on here?
It’s an honesty thing. We understand someone like Marshall Mathers, for whom politics and the message are his entire raison d’être. He burst onto the scene with an in-your-face delivery and a lyric sheet that reads like the court transcript of a pub argument, and he was political from the get-go. We scoff at the likes of U2, who came from privileged backgrounds and seemed to jump on the political bandwagon to sell a few records. I know it’s a harsh judgement, and anyone who has listened to ‘Boy’ will know that Bono’s political sensibilities were present in his art from the outset, but nonetheless, it is the prevailing attitude. We seem to be mentally categorising politically-outspoken musical artists depending on their backgrounds and adjusting our tolerance levels accordingly. To reinforce this point, go back to your mental list of outspoken musical artists and divide them into ‘always political’ and ‘occasionally political’ camps. You’ll be surprised how your attitude to the members of each differs.
Not since Vietnam have people been more divided politically than they were over the Second Gulf War, or the recent illegal invasion of Iraq, depending on your viewpoint. The fair-weather politicos in the music industry came out of the woodwork like cockroaches, and it became, quite frankly, boring.
“Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” So said Natalie Maines, proud Texan and member of The Dixie Chicks, at a concert in London during the invasion. She recanted after stations boycotted their records and 76% of listeners to Atlanta station KICKS 101.5 said they would return their Dixie Chicks CDs if they could. Hmm… ten-out-of-ten for effort, Love, but you certainly won’t make a successful politician with this propensity towards career-destroying public comments.
On the other hand, System of a Down got out in the streets, joined an anti-war protest and released the song “Boom!”—a sensible approach to protest, I have to say. Zach del la Rocha of Rage against the Machine and his ilk, totally vindicated, looked on quietly, shaking their heads and saying ‘I told you so.’
But what happens when politics encroaches on music? The most memorable example of recent times is the infamous PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center), founded by Tipper Gore in reaction to hearing the lyrics to Prince’s “Darling Nikki”, from the album Purple Rain which she had bought for her 12-year-old daughter Karenna. The PMRC claimed that ‘virgin minds’ were being poisoned by “hidden messages and backward masking” but quite how the notion of a sexually self-assured woman ‘masturbating with a magazine’ would poison the mind of any 12-year-old remains a mystery. The PMRC, or ‘The Washington Wives’—so called because their husbands were prominent politicians—appeared before the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science and Transportation on September 19, 1985 with a list of outrageous demands designed to censor the music industry. Every time you see that ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker on an album or wonder why Kerrang TV has specific late-night slots for certain videos, you can thank Tipper Gore and the PMRC. Protecting children or the most blatant contravention of the First Amendment ever seen? The jury’s still out.
But the PMRC didn’t get it all its own way. Frank Zappa and Dee Snider vigorously defended free speech and Zappa famously declared, “Censorship here would be like using decapitation to deal with dandruff.” He went on to warn that censorship “opens the door to an endless parade of moral quality-control programs based on Things Certain Christians Don’t Like. What if the next bunch of Washington Wives demands a large yellow ‘J’ on material written or performed by Jews?”
Now, these are the kinds of musicians we need in politics. Unfortunately, the good guys like Frank and Sonny Bono seem to die off prematurely.
Where does that leave us? Well, in exactly the same place we came in: there will always be politics in music and there will always be musicians in politics. It’s our duty to support those who deserve to be there and to ridicule those who don’t.
2003-12-16
A Volatile Mix
Michael Synnott maintains that music and politics don’t always go together like hand and glove.
Let’s try a little thought experiment. Picture yourself sitting in your living room, flicking through the satellite TV music channels. Got the image? OK, now imagine you stumble across a live gig by your favourite band. Result! You settle back in your chair, crank up the volume and rock out.
Now picture yourself listlessly surfing through the other channels. Through some horrid twist of fate you happen across Prime Minister’s Question Time or the televised coverage of the Dáil sessions. What do you do? Well, if you’re anything like me, you switch channels as quickly as your tired surfing-thumb will allow and thank your lucky stars you didn’t see anything that might have polluted your delicate artistic mind.
Now, how did these two scenarios make you feel? Again, if you’re anything like me the answers are ‘elated’ and ‘detached’, respectively. Music and politics: subjects at opposite ends of the social spectrum, diametrically opposed belief systems, freedom versus control, lifestyles never to be mixed. Or are they?
As long as there has been political intrigue, there has been music supporting, condemning or ridiculing it. But how do we feel about musicians crossing the boundary from entertainer to politician, or at least to political commentator? After all, the politicians rarely cross the line in the opposite direction, with the exception of Bill Clinton, who was an aficionado of ‘oral sax’ and numerous Irish politicians who, judging by their characters, have never been averse to twanging out the occasional solo tune on the ol’ one-string banjo.
Here’s another thought experiment: think of as many outspoken musical artists as you can. Off you go. Done? OK, even without knowing your age and political views, I bet I can name at least two of those you came up with:
Bob Dylan, Eminem, Joan Baez, Zach de la Rocha, Frank Zappa, Madonna, Bono, The Wolfe Tones, Stiff Little Fingers, Ice-T, The Dixie Chicks, John Lennon, errmm …. Well, there are shitloads more, but you get the idea. Now, let’s take two of these people, Bono and Eminem, and do a little compare and contrast.
Ask twenty U2 fans how they feel about Bono’s outspoken political views and lyrics and you’ll probably get half of them saying he’s a champion of the people and the other half saying they wish he wouldn’t bother and that he should get on with the business of making rock music. Ask twenty Eminem fans the same question and, notwithstanding the obvious demographic differences, most, if not all, of them will say ‘Yeah, he’s bang on.’
So what’s the difference here? Those of us who saw ‘Self Aid’ in 1986 remember the shock, embarrassment and disdain we felt as U2 played ‘Maggie’s Farm’ and Bono fell around the stage, using his microphone lead as a tourniquet as he mimed the act of shooting a syringe full of smack into his arm. ‘He’s lost the plot’, we said, and we prematurely predicted his demise as an Irish rock icon. Yet, we now watch Marshall Mathers lurching around the stage like a demented Quasimodo, spitting vitriol at a world he hates yet has to live in, and we nod our heads in approval—at the message if not the music. What’s going on here?
It’s an honesty thing. We understand someone like Marshall Mathers, for whom politics and the message are his entire raison d’être. He burst onto the scene with an in-your-face delivery and a lyric sheet that reads like the court transcript of a pub argument, and he was political from the get-go. We scoff at the likes of U2, who came from privileged backgrounds and seemed to jump on the political bandwagon to sell a few records. I know it’s a harsh judgement, and anyone who has listened to ‘Boy’ will know that Bono’s political sensibilities were present in his art from the outset, but nonetheless, it is the prevailing attitude. We seem to be mentally categorising politically-outspoken musical artists depending on their backgrounds and adjusting our tolerance levels accordingly. To reinforce this point, go back to your mental list of outspoken musical artists and divide them into ‘always political’ and ‘occasionally political’ camps. You’ll be surprised how your attitude to the members of each differs.
Not since Vietnam have people been more divided politically than they were over the Second Gulf War, or the recent illegal invasion of Iraq, depending on your viewpoint. The fair-weather politicos in the music industry came out of the woodwork like cockroaches, and it became, quite frankly, boring.
“Just so you know, we’re ashamed the president of the United States is from Texas.” So said Natalie Maines, proud Texan and member of The Dixie Chicks, at a concert in London during the invasion. She recanted after stations boycotted their records and 76% of listeners to Atlanta station KICKS 101.5 said they would return their Dixie Chicks CDs if they could. Hmm… ten-out-of-ten for effort, Love, but you certainly won’t make a successful politician with this propensity towards career-destroying public comments.
On the other hand, System of a Down got out in the streets, joined an anti-war protest and released the song “Boom!”—a sensible approach to protest, I have to say. Zach del la Rocha of Rage against the Machine and his ilk, totally vindicated, looked on quietly, shaking their heads and saying ‘I told you so.’
But what happens when politics encroaches on music? The most memorable example of recent times is the infamous PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center), founded by Tipper Gore in reaction to hearing the lyrics to Prince’s “Darling Nikki”, from the album Purple Rain which she had bought for her 12-year-old daughter Karenna. The PMRC claimed that ‘virgin minds’ were being poisoned by “hidden messages and backward masking” but quite how the notion of a sexually self-assured woman ‘masturbating with a magazine’ would poison the mind of any 12-year-old remains a mystery. The PMRC, or ‘The Washington Wives’—so called because their husbands were prominent politicians—appeared before the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science and Transportation on September 19, 1985 with a list of outrageous demands designed to censor the music industry. Every time you see that ‘Parental Advisory’ sticker on an album or wonder why Kerrang TV has specific late-night slots for certain videos, you can thank Tipper Gore and the PMRC. Protecting children or the most blatant contravention of the First Amendment ever seen? The jury’s still out.
But the PMRC didn’t get it all its own way. Frank Zappa and Dee Snider vigorously defended free speech and Zappa famously declared, “Censorship here would be like using decapitation to deal with dandruff.” He went on to warn that censorship “opens the door to an endless parade of moral quality-control programs based on Things Certain Christians Don’t Like. What if the next bunch of Washington Wives demands a large yellow ‘J’ on material written or performed by Jews?”
Now, these are the kinds of musicians we need in politics. Unfortunately, the good guys like Frank and Sonny Bono seem to die off prematurely.
Where does that leave us? Well, in exactly the same place we came in: there will always be politics in music and there will always be musicians in politics. It’s our duty to support those who deserve to be there and to ridicule those who don’t.
2003-12-16
The opening chapter of Part II of my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'
GPS Ground Control Station, Diego Garcia, Indian Ocean.
“Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
“Report.”
Taylor looked frightened.
“Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
“This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
“Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
“No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
Again, Steinmetz listened.
“No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
They presumed wrong.
Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
“Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
It was a spacecraft.
From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
“No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
“Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
“This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
“I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
“Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
The Major bristled.
“Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
“With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
“What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
And then things got stranger.
As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.
“Master Sergeant, there goes another one!” shouted Airman Taylor.
In the dim control room, the glow of the computer screen threw deep shadows across his face.
The Master Sergeant’s head snapped up from his console.
“Report.”
Taylor looked frightened.
“Another satellite has disappeared, Sir.”
The Master Sergeant crossed to Taylor’s station and peered over his shoulder. Taking in the information on the display, he picked up the phone handset beside Taylor’s keyboard and punched in a number.
“This is Steinmetz at Diego Garcia. We’ve lost signal from three GPS birds in the past fifteen minutes. We’re running … hold on.”
Taylor was gesturing to the screen and holding up four fingers. Steinmetz raised his eyebrows and Taylor nodded.
“Make that four; all four satellites in orbit-plane C have gone dark. We’re running diagnostics now, but the degradation of accuracy and intel from other ground stations is consistent with shutdown of four birds.”
The voice on the other end spoke briefly.
“No sir, we have no idea. Terrorist action is not presumed at this time.”
Again, Steinmetz listened.
“No sir, they could not be shut down by a foreign power. We encrypt all the tasking commands. It would have to be done from within our own control systems.”
The voice barked down the phone again then rang off.
Over the next two hours, ground-control stations around the world monitored the failure of every satellite in the GPS system.
The world felt the effect immediately. Airline pilots and ships’ steersmen reported failures in navigation systems. Cellular networks that relied on timing signals from the GPS system collapsed. NATO countries went on high alert and the United States went to DEFCON Three.
The assumption was that the satellites had shut down. It did not occur to anyone they were physically gone. They presumed such a thing was impossible.
They presumed wrong.
Goddard Space Flight Centre, Greenbelt, Maryland, USA.
The ground controllers of the Hubble Space Telescope were the first to see the strange craft. When the first GPS satellites had gone offline, the US Air Force had requested the telescope be re-tasked to look in the direction of the failed birds.
Dr James King and a few colleagues were huddled around a cluster of computer monitors, examining the area of space where they expected the GPS satellites to be. A US Air Force Major stood behind them.
“Wait a minute,” said someone. “What’s that?”
There was an object near one of the GPS satellites. It might have been an optical glitch until it shifted slightly and glinted in reflected earthlight. King zoomed the telescope in for a closer look.
It was a spacecraft.
From a distance, it looked like a dark metal disc with gold strips traversing it. They zoomed closer until the craft filled the screen. At first, the image was blurred, then the computers finished their sharpening algorithms and revealed the craft in exquisite detail.
“No freaking way!” said one of the observers.
The Major pushed between two civilian scientists and leaned into the screen. As finer images of the craft arrived, the particulars of its construction became clear. None of them could believe what they were seeing.
“Is that … wood?” asked the Major.
The craft was constructed of huge planks of timber, treated until pitch black, and overlapping like a clinker-built rowboat. The planks must have come from trees that were in excess of five-hundred metres tall, and the designers had curved and shaped the planks to make a perfect wheel-shaped craft. Along the fascia of every third plank was a strip of bronze embossed with geometric patterns.
“This is incredible! Look at those symbols,” said Dr King. “They’re all Celtic. That’s a triskelion, and that’s a triquetra.
“I don’t know what we’re seeing here,” said one of King’s associates, “but I doubt the Irish are sending up flying saucers made of wood – or any other spacecraft for that matter.”
A snicker went round the group. The Major cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Dr King. King’s eyes flicked back and forth, his mind racing.
“Well, this is a trick,” said King. “It has to be. Someone’s playing an elaborate practical joke on us.”
The Major bristled.
“Our GPS systems are offline, and we have a bogey parked in the same orbit as our satellites – I don’t see any joke here, Doctor.”
“With respect Major, that’s not what I’m saying. This can’t be real. A wooden spacecraft is not viable, so it’s more likely someone is interlacing these images into the video feed from Hubble.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain the GPS failures?”
They were arguing amongst themselves when the Major got his answer.
“What the hell is that?” said King, pointing at the screen.
A bubble of energy appeared at the edge of the craft, at first indistinct and almost hidden by King’s finger on the screen. The Major slapped his hand out of the way. In seconds, the bubble elongated and flattened out into a shimmering vertical disc. It looked like a thin film of soapy water in a child’s bubble-blowing loop. The disc moved away from the craft towards the nearest GPS satellite, growing all the time. It intercepted the satellite and scrubbed across it like a cosmic eraser. The satellite and the shimmering disc winked out of existence.
The Major strode away and reached for a telephone.
“Did anyone else just see that?” asked King.
Everyone had, but no one could believe it.
And then things got stranger.
As they watched, many portals opened in the edge of the craft, and from each opening protruded a long pole with a flattened blade on the end. Energy fields arced and danced around the blades. In perfect synchronisation, the poles started an elliptical rowing motion. After a brief pause, the craft rowed away smoothly away toward the next satellite.
A poem that forms part of a puzzle, from my forthcoming older children's book 'Tír'
Against the sable backdrop of the night,
The starry actors glide across the stage.
In jewelled costumes sewn with threads of light,
They read their parts, then turn tomorrow’s page.
The earthly audience watches from the dust,
As cosmic players tread Forever’s boards.
Our bearing on our travels we entrust,
To these bejewelled heroes of the Gods.
The Hunter leads the lambent stellar ranks;
His faithful Dogs attending his foray.
His hunting grounds are Danu’s fertile banks;
The Unicorn and Hare his timeless prey.
The Hunter tempers Man’s conceited traits,
And teaches him the limit of his worth.
And Man in turn has sought to emulate,
The august Hunter’s works on artless Earth.
And thus on Earth the Hunter can be found,
In structures placed to emulate his form.
Where Vikings and St Patrick came aground,
The Hunter’s shape conceals a secret door.
Prone, he spans the village like a plan,
From which the ancient builders drew their schemes.
They plotted out his measure on the land,
And placed their covert lodges at his limbs.
Three hallowed houses sit along his belt.
His sword affords a haven from the seas.
His shoulders rest up high along the hills.
His head is where they hid the secret keys.
Above a lofty crag, a Regal keep
surmounts a grotto hid by time and tide,
wherein the keys are placed to then reveal
the secret door that’s hidden Saiph inside.
Geek Humour
Putative designs for geek T-Shirts.
"If there's no chance of a fsck, I'd settle for a cron job ..."
"fsck you and the host you route in on."
"If there's no chance of a fsck, I'd settle for a cron job ..."
"fsck you and the host you route in on."
Chris Eubank
Chris Eubank was wandering around Brighton one day repeating "Fee Fi Fo, Fee Fo Fi Fo" over and over. A bloke walked up to him and said: "What's up Chris? You practising your lines for Jack and the Beanstalk?" "No," said Chris, "I'm memorising my mobile number."
Spoonerism
Uproar in the office this lunchtime as one of the girls spoonerises 'Barefoot Contessa' as 'Barecunt Fontessa.' Hilarity ensues.
Lie about how you met me.
One of my good friends, Gavan, recently put up an interesting and amusing post on Facebook. It went like this:
I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.
This was my response:
It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.
I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.
As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:
"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"
Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.
We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.
We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.
Gavan, you served us those beers.
I would like my FB friends to comment on this status, sharing how you met me. But I want you to LIE. That's right, just make it up. After you comment, copy this to your status, so I can do the same. I bet half won't read the instructions right.
This was my response:
It was the Agency's second black ops mission in the border areas. When it all went south we had to be extracted by chopper. I was in a pretty bad way and don't remember much about the flight back to base, but I do remember the cool, steady voice of the chopper pilot telling me to hang in there. I passed out again, but as I faded, I somehow knew, with this guy at the controls, everything was gonna be OK.
I got out of the Agency medical centre six weeks later and found myself out of contract and walking with a cane. The mission had been a success, but I didn't feel much like the hero they said I was.
As I stepped through the tinted doors of the centre into blinding sunshine, I heard his unmistakable voice:
"Hey, Machete - wanna get a beer?"
Limping down the street to the nearest bar, with this guy to whom I owed my life, I felt like I'd made a true friend; not an easy thing when you work for the Agency.
We stepped into the cool interior of the bar. The early-afternoon musk of sour beer and wood polish smelt like coming home.
We sat at a table bathed in sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the bar window and shared our first beers.
Gavan, you served us those beers.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Sportman's Double
One of the Facebook pages I'm a member of; The Redback Tavern in Acton, London, invited me to a spit roast this weekend. Thing is, I don't know that many people in London any more, so I reckon I'd be fairly shy - not to mention it being embarrassing for the girl and the other bloke involved.
Aslan
I just saw Aslan on 'The Podge and Rodge Show' performing 'This Is.' But it was mimed. Initially, I was disappointed, but then I thought - "Hang on; a talking lion! That's fucking awesome!"
I'm glad I remembered to post this.
I have a photographic memory. I just don't have any film at the moment.
Cell Phones
Just saw two mobile phones in the Garda Station wired up to a portable music player. Turns out they're being charged in connection with a stolen iPod.
Definitely Articulate
A Russian ex-girlfriend used to bemoan the use of definite and indefinite articles in English. Russian doesn't have them and she argued they're redundant in English. I countered that they're important to make subtle distinctions, but she pooh-poohed my assertions. Which is just as well, as I was then able to look her straight in the eye and tell her that I quite often got clap in my younger days as a touring musician.
Don't Disturb the Status Quo
Given how uncertain things are at the moment, I think the most important thing is not to disturb the Status Quo. They might wake up and start playing one of their awful songs.
Huge Strides
The clothing industry shows little sign of economic recovery except the Oversize Trousers Factory where they are making huge strides.
Poppycock
Rumours abound that heroin addicts who can't locate a vein have taken to rubbing it under their foreskins, but I think it's poppycock.
Radio Feature Piece
This is a piece I wrote and narrated for the radio recently.
Peaceful Japanese Music
The heavy wood of the door booms as it closes behind me.
Crisp air draws me shivering into the courtyard and nips at my face. This time of morning, you feel you have the world to yourself.
* PAUSE *
Dawn-frosted gravel glitters and grumbles under my boots as I make the long walk to the iron gate. Over the meadow, a damp mist haunts the trees along the river. The rising sun, faint through the haze, gives no warmth, and my skin fancies it can feel the cold of my armour.
My gut feels twisted. The physician's infernal medicine sits in there like a stone.
* PAUSE *
My warhorse, Blade, waits for me outside the gates and I mount, checking my armour and tightening the strap on my helmet. As I lower the faceplate, I look back through the gates and the courtyard to the carved wooden door of my home.
A single question hangs in my mind:
Will I ever see it again?
* PAUSE *
We stop at the edge of my clan's property and I steel myself. I'm facing a lethal battle; a tradition; a rite of passage in our culture.
It is The Great Rush.
* PAUSE *
I direct Blade into the arena and with a flick of my wrist spur him into action. Other riders and chariots outstrip us until we come up to speed. I join the insane throng and we career along in a random, roiling mass; jostling for position.
The charioteers are the most dangerous participants, and they care little for Riders. Some Riders believe they can compete with the chariots on their own terms. My brother believed this, and he paid the ultimate price:
Two seasons ago, the Man in Black killed my brother, and for two seasons since, I have sought him.
* PAUSE *
Today is not a good day.
Twice I am almost knocked from Blade's saddle, and there is no sign of the Man in Black. I weave through the throng until I sense him ahead. I spur Blade on, and we gain on his chariot.
But my vision is blurring. That damned medicine is making my head spin. I can't continue. I almost make it to the edge of the arena, but a chariot clips Blade and I am thrown from his back. He lies on his side snorting, and as my vision narrows to a point, my last thought is “They've killed my horse.”
* PAUSE *
Then I come to, and everything (short pause – music stops) has changed.
* PAUSE *
(Music changes mood to modern sci-fi / techno.)
Lying on my back, I open my eyes to an expanse of blue dotted with clouds. My vision slides into focus and the largest cloud sharpens into metre-high white letters that say 'M11.'
I get to my feet and take off my helmet. My Honda Fireblade is lying on its side at my feet, engine running but undamaged. The rush-hour traffic pelts by, and despite the chill, I am sweating. I reach into my jacket for a handkerchief and a brown plastic bottle falls from my pocket, spilling its contents. The pill-bottle comes to rest against my boot, the label upwards. “Clozapine,” it says. “Anti-Psychotic Medication. Do not operate machinery or drive a vehicle.”
My knees give out.
* PAUSE *
Hundreds of vehicles go by before I have the courage to lift the bike. My eyes flick over the traffic, picking out the black BMWs. Perhaps one of them contains the hit-and-run driver that killed my brother.
Perhaps I'll never know.
I get back on his bike to continue my journey but, for the life of me, I have no idea where I was going.
Peaceful Japanese Music
The heavy wood of the door booms as it closes behind me.
Crisp air draws me shivering into the courtyard and nips at my face. This time of morning, you feel you have the world to yourself.
* PAUSE *
Dawn-frosted gravel glitters and grumbles under my boots as I make the long walk to the iron gate. Over the meadow, a damp mist haunts the trees along the river. The rising sun, faint through the haze, gives no warmth, and my skin fancies it can feel the cold of my armour.
My gut feels twisted. The physician's infernal medicine sits in there like a stone.
* PAUSE *
My warhorse, Blade, waits for me outside the gates and I mount, checking my armour and tightening the strap on my helmet. As I lower the faceplate, I look back through the gates and the courtyard to the carved wooden door of my home.
A single question hangs in my mind:
Will I ever see it again?
* PAUSE *
We stop at the edge of my clan's property and I steel myself. I'm facing a lethal battle; a tradition; a rite of passage in our culture.
It is The Great Rush.
* PAUSE *
I direct Blade into the arena and with a flick of my wrist spur him into action. Other riders and chariots outstrip us until we come up to speed. I join the insane throng and we career along in a random, roiling mass; jostling for position.
The charioteers are the most dangerous participants, and they care little for Riders. Some Riders believe they can compete with the chariots on their own terms. My brother believed this, and he paid the ultimate price:
Two seasons ago, the Man in Black killed my brother, and for two seasons since, I have sought him.
* PAUSE *
Today is not a good day.
Twice I am almost knocked from Blade's saddle, and there is no sign of the Man in Black. I weave through the throng until I sense him ahead. I spur Blade on, and we gain on his chariot.
But my vision is blurring. That damned medicine is making my head spin. I can't continue. I almost make it to the edge of the arena, but a chariot clips Blade and I am thrown from his back. He lies on his side snorting, and as my vision narrows to a point, my last thought is “They've killed my horse.”
* PAUSE *
Then I come to, and everything (short pause – music stops) has changed.
* PAUSE *
(Music changes mood to modern sci-fi / techno.)
Lying on my back, I open my eyes to an expanse of blue dotted with clouds. My vision slides into focus and the largest cloud sharpens into metre-high white letters that say 'M11.'
I get to my feet and take off my helmet. My Honda Fireblade is lying on its side at my feet, engine running but undamaged. The rush-hour traffic pelts by, and despite the chill, I am sweating. I reach into my jacket for a handkerchief and a brown plastic bottle falls from my pocket, spilling its contents. The pill-bottle comes to rest against my boot, the label upwards. “Clozapine,” it says. “Anti-Psychotic Medication. Do not operate machinery or drive a vehicle.”
My knees give out.
* PAUSE *
Hundreds of vehicles go by before I have the courage to lift the bike. My eyes flick over the traffic, picking out the black BMWs. Perhaps one of them contains the hit-and-run driver that killed my brother.
Perhaps I'll never know.
I get back on his bike to continue my journey but, for the life of me, I have no idea where I was going.
An extract from my forthcoming book 'Acts of God'
Chapter 4
For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
G.K. Chesterton, Ballad of the White Horse.
P.J Rourke was walking home from the pub and making a right bollix of it. Home was only a five-minute stroll from Kavanagh’s bar but he’d already been at it for half an hour. The main street of Annacarran is far too wide to bounce off both sides of it as you stagger along, but P.J was having a damn good crack at it. He sang as he stumbled around in the moonlight, syncopating the erratic metre of his singing with ill-timed hiccoughs. He had already serenaded a post-box with eighteen verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry.’ It only has three verses but that was no hindrance to P.J.
Encouraged that the post-box hadn’t walked away or hit him, he had put his arm around it and progressed on to ‘The Green Fields of France.’
“… I see by yar gravestone ya war awnly nineteen …” he bawled tunelessly.
A bedroom window slid open somewhere above him.
“Shut up and go home you drunken bollocks; the children are petrified!”
“… when ya joined da … ah fuck off! (hic!) … great fallen in nineteen-sixteen.”
He gave the post-box a parting kiss and attempted to continue his meanderings. With some concern, he realised he was leaning against it at such an angle that he had neither the strength nor the coordination to stand up straight and walk away. Summoning a superhuman will, he planted his free hand on the side of the post-box and pushed himself off.
As with most pursuits attempted under the influence, the results were mixed. As his body came up though the vertical, one half of his brain told the other half it was time to stop the manoeuvre. Predictably, by the time the message had sunk in, gravity had taken hold and he started to topple like a felled tree the other way. At that moment, the primal fear of falling kicked his arms and legs into action and he fell sideways, still on his feet, like a demented disco-dancer, two hundred metres down the pavement. By the time he got himself under control he had made it as far as Byrnes’. All this time ‘The Green Fields of France’ had been playing away in his brain and, as he got his breath, his mouth picked up where his brain left off:
“… Did dey beat da drum slowly?…” he inquired.
At this stage an insistent pressure in his bladder started to register on his inebriated brain.
“… Did dey play da fife lowly?…” he wondered.
Just as he was about to ask the ghost of Willy McBride if they had played the death march as they’d lowered him down, P.J tripped over Byrnes’ Geranium plant and went arse-over-tit onto the pavement.
“Bastard!” he spat, as he struggled to his feet. He proceeded to curse the hapless plant, which was now lying on its side for the third time that day. He profaned the Byrnes, their poxy Geranium, all members of the Geraniaceae family and potted plants in general. He attempted to kick the poor thing, missed and fell over backwards again. As he lay there, his bladder gave his brain its second public warning.
A wicked thought came into P.J’s mind and he picked himself up. Cackling like a moorhen with emphysema, he fumbled his flies open and proceeded to piss like a stallion on the unfortunate Geranium. This doubly-cathartic activity accomplished, he decided he’d better get home before Sharon locked the door.
Eventually he made it to his porch and was attempting to insert the key into a knot in the wood when the door flew open.
“Where the hell have you been? The pubs have been closed for hours! Was that you roaring out there?”
“Ah, get outta me way and let me in, woman.”
Sharon moved aside and P.J fell into the house, landing face-first on the carpet. His muffled voice emanated from the floor:
“Either I’ve fallen over again or the wind has picked up something fierce!”
“You’re drunk again. What on earth kept you?”
He shambled to his feet and unleashed a grin at her that Jack Nicholson would have been proud of.
“I think I had one too many. Every time I took one step forward, I staggered two steps back. I’d never have made it home only for I turned around to go back to the pub.”
“Don’t try and sweet talk me, P.J. You know I’ve no sense of humour as far as your drinking’s concerned.”
The smile drained from his face.
“You’ve no bleedin’ sense of humour as far as anything’s concerned, you lime-faced oul’ wagon. It’s a good job one of us has or we’d never have gotten married.”
Sharon slammed the door in reply and started up the stairs. P.J, considerably sobered by the implications of his own last statement, stomped down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“D’you want a cup of tea?” he called.
“No, I do not! I’m brushing my teeth for bed.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
“You will in your eye! You can sleep on the sofa. I’m not having you snoring and breathing alcohol fumes all over me all night.”
“But the fuckin’ dog sleeps in there.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but he doesn’t mind you snoring.”
“Jaysus; thanks a lot. Sleepin’ with the fuckin’ dog! Jaysus!”
“Well you shouldn’t come home so scuttered, should you? Who were you drinking with? That eejit Joe O’Brien, I suppose.”
“Yeah, him and a few others. Do you know what he told me?”
“Should I be interested?”
“Mary O’Toole’s had another vision.”
Sharon hurtled into the kitchen like a vulture. Her shadow had a hard time keeping up with her.
“Really? What sort of vision?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.
“She knows where Fidelma Byrne’s St Anthony is.”
Sharon deflated. Her eyebrows trudged dejectedly back down her forehead. Old news, she thought.
“She said it was dropped in the street and handed in at the Garda barracks.”
This caught Sharon well and truly on the hop.
“Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“That’s what Joe told me.”
“But …” she said.
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
Sharon wandered out of the kitchen and upstairs in a state of utter bewilderment.
What’s the old biddy up to? She knows damn well it was in the flowerpot or she wouldn’t have sent that other eejit looking for it. So why’s he saying it was handed in to the Guards? Think Sharon, think. She knows everyone will find out it’s not there so why would she say it? Aha! She wants everyone to think she’s a fake, that’s why. She wants to keep her abilities to herself. Well that’s fine by me. Tomorrow I’ll lead the charge to the Garda station and make sure everyone knows the medal’s not there. She’ll think her little scheme has worked. She’ll think even I’ve been thrown off the scent. Oh, this gets better by the minute. I’ll be the only person that knows she is psychic and her guard will be down. Oh Mary, you’re going to make me a fortune and you don’t even know it.
Sharon got changed and went to bed with intrigue and plots coursing around her brain like endorphins. Downstairs in the living room, P.J was snoring like a foghorn. After a while, Tiny the “Fuckin’ Dog” abandoned the living room in disgust. He scampered upstairs, clattered across the wooden floor on small terrier claws and jumped up onto P.J’s side of the bed.
Presently he too was asleep. As he dreamt his little legs kicked. He’s chasing rabbits again, thought a drowsy Sharon. But Tiny wasn’t chasing rabbits. He was having nightmares about his previous life as a Black-and-Tan.
For the great Gaels of Ireland
Are the men that God made mad,
For all their wars are merry,
And all their songs are sad.
G.K. Chesterton, Ballad of the White Horse.
P.J Rourke was walking home from the pub and making a right bollix of it. Home was only a five-minute stroll from Kavanagh’s bar but he’d already been at it for half an hour. The main street of Annacarran is far too wide to bounce off both sides of it as you stagger along, but P.J was having a damn good crack at it. He sang as he stumbled around in the moonlight, syncopating the erratic metre of his singing with ill-timed hiccoughs. He had already serenaded a post-box with eighteen verses of ‘The Fields of Athenry.’ It only has three verses but that was no hindrance to P.J.
Encouraged that the post-box hadn’t walked away or hit him, he had put his arm around it and progressed on to ‘The Green Fields of France.’
“… I see by yar gravestone ya war awnly nineteen …” he bawled tunelessly.
A bedroom window slid open somewhere above him.
“Shut up and go home you drunken bollocks; the children are petrified!”
“… when ya joined da … ah fuck off! (hic!) … great fallen in nineteen-sixteen.”
He gave the post-box a parting kiss and attempted to continue his meanderings. With some concern, he realised he was leaning against it at such an angle that he had neither the strength nor the coordination to stand up straight and walk away. Summoning a superhuman will, he planted his free hand on the side of the post-box and pushed himself off.
As with most pursuits attempted under the influence, the results were mixed. As his body came up though the vertical, one half of his brain told the other half it was time to stop the manoeuvre. Predictably, by the time the message had sunk in, gravity had taken hold and he started to topple like a felled tree the other way. At that moment, the primal fear of falling kicked his arms and legs into action and he fell sideways, still on his feet, like a demented disco-dancer, two hundred metres down the pavement. By the time he got himself under control he had made it as far as Byrnes’. All this time ‘The Green Fields of France’ had been playing away in his brain and, as he got his breath, his mouth picked up where his brain left off:
“… Did dey beat da drum slowly?…” he inquired.
At this stage an insistent pressure in his bladder started to register on his inebriated brain.
“… Did dey play da fife lowly?…” he wondered.
Just as he was about to ask the ghost of Willy McBride if they had played the death march as they’d lowered him down, P.J tripped over Byrnes’ Geranium plant and went arse-over-tit onto the pavement.
“Bastard!” he spat, as he struggled to his feet. He proceeded to curse the hapless plant, which was now lying on its side for the third time that day. He profaned the Byrnes, their poxy Geranium, all members of the Geraniaceae family and potted plants in general. He attempted to kick the poor thing, missed and fell over backwards again. As he lay there, his bladder gave his brain its second public warning.
A wicked thought came into P.J’s mind and he picked himself up. Cackling like a moorhen with emphysema, he fumbled his flies open and proceeded to piss like a stallion on the unfortunate Geranium. This doubly-cathartic activity accomplished, he decided he’d better get home before Sharon locked the door.
Eventually he made it to his porch and was attempting to insert the key into a knot in the wood when the door flew open.
“Where the hell have you been? The pubs have been closed for hours! Was that you roaring out there?”
“Ah, get outta me way and let me in, woman.”
Sharon moved aside and P.J fell into the house, landing face-first on the carpet. His muffled voice emanated from the floor:
“Either I’ve fallen over again or the wind has picked up something fierce!”
“You’re drunk again. What on earth kept you?”
He shambled to his feet and unleashed a grin at her that Jack Nicholson would have been proud of.
“I think I had one too many. Every time I took one step forward, I staggered two steps back. I’d never have made it home only for I turned around to go back to the pub.”
“Don’t try and sweet talk me, P.J. You know I’ve no sense of humour as far as your drinking’s concerned.”
The smile drained from his face.
“You’ve no bleedin’ sense of humour as far as anything’s concerned, you lime-faced oul’ wagon. It’s a good job one of us has or we’d never have gotten married.”
Sharon slammed the door in reply and started up the stairs. P.J, considerably sobered by the implications of his own last statement, stomped down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“D’you want a cup of tea?” he called.
“No, I do not! I’m brushing my teeth for bed.”
“I’ll be up in a minute.”
“You will in your eye! You can sleep on the sofa. I’m not having you snoring and breathing alcohol fumes all over me all night.”
“But the fuckin’ dog sleeps in there.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you, but he doesn’t mind you snoring.”
“Jaysus; thanks a lot. Sleepin’ with the fuckin’ dog! Jaysus!”
“Well you shouldn’t come home so scuttered, should you? Who were you drinking with? That eejit Joe O’Brien, I suppose.”
“Yeah, him and a few others. Do you know what he told me?”
“Should I be interested?”
“Mary O’Toole’s had another vision.”
Sharon hurtled into the kitchen like a vulture. Her shadow had a hard time keeping up with her.
“Really? What sort of vision?” she asked, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline.
“She knows where Fidelma Byrne’s St Anthony is.”
Sharon deflated. Her eyebrows trudged dejectedly back down her forehead. Old news, she thought.
“She said it was dropped in the street and handed in at the Garda barracks.”
This caught Sharon well and truly on the hop.
“Are you sure that’s what she said?”
“That’s what Joe told me.”
“But …” she said.
“But what?”
“Nothing.”
Sharon wandered out of the kitchen and upstairs in a state of utter bewilderment.
What’s the old biddy up to? She knows damn well it was in the flowerpot or she wouldn’t have sent that other eejit looking for it. So why’s he saying it was handed in to the Guards? Think Sharon, think. She knows everyone will find out it’s not there so why would she say it? Aha! She wants everyone to think she’s a fake, that’s why. She wants to keep her abilities to herself. Well that’s fine by me. Tomorrow I’ll lead the charge to the Garda station and make sure everyone knows the medal’s not there. She’ll think her little scheme has worked. She’ll think even I’ve been thrown off the scent. Oh, this gets better by the minute. I’ll be the only person that knows she is psychic and her guard will be down. Oh Mary, you’re going to make me a fortune and you don’t even know it.
Sharon got changed and went to bed with intrigue and plots coursing around her brain like endorphins. Downstairs in the living room, P.J was snoring like a foghorn. After a while, Tiny the “Fuckin’ Dog” abandoned the living room in disgust. He scampered upstairs, clattered across the wooden floor on small terrier claws and jumped up onto P.J’s side of the bed.
Presently he too was asleep. As he dreamt his little legs kicked. He’s chasing rabbits again, thought a drowsy Sharon. But Tiny wasn’t chasing rabbits. He was having nightmares about his previous life as a Black-and-Tan.
New Tattoo
Laugh of the week came from my mate in London who rang and said, "I'm getting a new tattoo, and I just wanted to check; it's two Ts in 'Synnott' and one in 'cunt', right?
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