Rant...

Readers Mailbag: Rubik's Cubes, Bruce Lee and Prince Charles

2009-12-09T23:37:00.028Z

Please, for once and for all, clear up this urban legend about your fight with Bruce Lee? It’s bullshit, right?

Jim,

Tramore

Far from it Jim. Bruce and I had wildly differing philosophies on fighting, and things came to a head in 1969 outside a Greenwich Village café. I’ve always believed in the element of surprise, so I marched straight up to Lee and punched his wife in the face. This seemed to infuriate Bruce, and his sensitive wife. Magnanimously, I extended my hand and offered a draw, but Bruce insisted on continuing the bout.

I told him it was his funeral, and launched into a jumping, spinning, reversal roundhouse kick. As luck would have it, I pulled my groin in mid-air and landed in a wheelie bin. Needless to say Bruce rained punches into the bin until I was a bloody pulp. He then antagonised an alley cat before throwing it in on top of me and closing the lid, which I felt was excessive.

Bruce and I became firm friends after our duel, and laughed about it for years afterwards. Not his wife though. She never saw the funny side. Some people are just born sour.

I saw what you were doing to that horse last Friday night. What the hell is wrong with you?

Jennifer,

Roscommon

That was actually a donkey Jennifer, though I can see how you’d make that mistake. A donkey is smaller than a horse, with rounder ears.

You sick fuck. I nearly crashed my car when I saw what you were doing to that mule on Friday.

Tony,

Roscommon

That was actually a donkey Tony, though I can see how you’d make that mistake. A mule is the sterile offspring of a donkey and a horse. Generally, it is smaller than a horse but larger than a donkey. The ears will be rounded, but not so round as a donkey’s.

I swear, I’d pull the mickey off you.

Sandra,

Fermanagh

Don’t you threaten me Sandra, unless I’ve misread the situation and you’re actually coming onto me, in which case work away.

You famously threw a half-eaten Curly Wurly at Prince Charles backstage at a Royal Variety show. Why?

Derek,

Amsterdam

To prove a point Derek. Today a Curly Wurly, tomorrow a hatchet. I sought to expose deficiencies in his security detail, and I believe I succeeded. It’s the exact same reason I stitched Nelson Mandela a loaf in 1998, set fire to Des Lynam in 1996, and fired Bett Middler through a plate glass window in 1992. And how did they all thank me? With lawsuits. There’s your modern gratitude.

Did you really invent the Rubik’s cube?

Lucy,

Portsmouth

Yes and no Lucy. I invented the ‘Flann Spike’ in the early 70s, a mechanical puzzle that tasked players with colour-coordinating moving squares upon a razor-sharp metal spike. What I hadn’t considered, was the puzzle’s suitability as a weapon.

News reports of the time commonly featured quotes such as “…autopsies revealed the man had been Flann Spiked in the abdomen…”, or “…detectives speculate the victim was either gored by a herd of African elephants, or felled by a single blow from a smallish Flann Spike.”

From the embers of my failed puzzle, some jerk called Erno Rubik swooped in, refined the design into a cube and never credited me. A year later he himself was Flann Spiked in a darkened alley, and ironically, only survived by hurling a Rubik’s Cube at his assailant, who was never identified or caught. As an aside, a Rubik’s Cube fired into the temple of a man my exact size and weight (for example), can knock him clean out.

Horoscopes: Tightrope walking, tornadoes and Frankenstein

2009-11-26T00:59:00.002Z

Aries (Mar 21 – Apr 19)

The term ‘Office Romance’ is redefined when a janitor discovers you having sex with a photocopier. A perfect storm of paper jam and simultaneous penis jam scuppers your plan for a quick getaway. Though collaterally-damaged pubes (shorn by the fire brigade’s angle grinding equipment) regrow in weeks, slower to recover is your esteem among colleagues.

Taurus (Apr 20 – May 20)

A piano fallen from an overhead crane lands squarely on your skull this weekend, killing you instantly and wounding a nearby pigeon. A BBC4 documentary entitled ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’ charts the pigeon’s recovery in a veterinary hospital just outside Suffolk.

Gemini (May 21 – Jun 21)

Honesty is always the best policy. Your casual white lie about ownership of a sandwich snowballs, resulting in the deaths of millions. Adding insult to injury, the sandwich is dry and lettucey.

Cancer (Jun 22 – Jul 22)

Your attempt to tightrope walk between the roofs of the Petronas Towers passes off without a hitch. Unfortunately, the Malaysian legal system takes a poor view on public displays of tightrope walking. A maximum fine of 200 Malaysian Ringgits (approx. 40 euro) is imposed, along with a beheading.

Leo (Jul 23 – Aug 22)

An unseasonal, flash tornado ravages your house in seconds this week. Carrying your dead wife from the rubble, you fall to your knees and curse the gods. Piqued by your blaspheming, the gods send an even bigger tornado back for your kids.

Virgo (Aug 23 – Sep 22)

You have a terrific sense of humour, which you’ll need when a clown kidnaps you later this week and chains you in his basement. Though his nightly performances are amusing for the first couple of weeks, twenty-six years of the same tired jokes eventually wear thin.

Libra (Sep 23 – Oct 23)

Love is in the air this week. So too is Anthrax. You’ll taste both, but only be killed by one.

Scorpio (Oct 24 – Nov 21)

Spectral ghosts from the past, present and future visit this weekend. Your initial suspicion that they intend steering you back unto the path of righteousness quickly dissolves when they hold you down and bugger you to within an inch of your life.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 21)

Though your work as a geneticist is praiseworthy, your attempt to reintroduce the T-Rex into Ireland backfires when you become the first T-Rex fatality in 65 million years. Reflecting on your death, naturalists describe your Steve Irwin approach of poking and prodding the adult Rexes as having been ‘a ticking time bomb’.

Capricorn (Dec 22 – Jan 19)

Your dream of playing snooker professionally suffers another setback this week when both your arms are amputated. The media initially commends your bravery in relearning to play with your feet, but when Ronnie O’Sullivan crushes you 19 frames to 0 in a charity exhibition match for amputees, reviews of your performance are scathing.

Aquarius (Jan 20 – Feb 18)

A mysterious stranger beats lumps out of you this weekend, in a case of mistaken identity. When a second stranger beats lumps out of you a few days later, you decide to locate the person you are repeatedly being misidentified as. Unfortunately, having tracked him down, he deals you a beating so severe it makes the previous two seem mild by comparison.

Pisces (Feb 19 – Mar 20)

Your temper flares this week, when you learn that you are a patchwork of stolen corpses, reanimated by a mad scientist harnessing the lightening of a violent storm. A petulant, ill-advised rampage through a nearby village only alienates the locals, ending your resurgent life in a flurry of pitch-forking.

Readers' Mailbag: David Hasselhoff, Ballroom Dancing and Predator

2009-11-12T02:31:00.005Z

Bonjour Flann,

Je déteste David Hasselhoff. S’il vous plaît l’assassiner. Je vais donc avoir des relations sexuelles avec vous,

Au revoir,
Vanessa

Vanessa. Ne hassle le Hoff.

Your achievements in Ballroom Dancing have never been surpassed. Why did you retire from dancing in 1984?

Jim,
Derry

Too violent Jim. Newfangled programs like Strictly Come Dancing and Dancing With the Stars portray ballroom dancing as mannerly and genteel, but it was practically a blood sport in the early 80s. At least two competitors died in every World Championship final between 1979 and 1984. For me, the last straw came when my own partner shot me in the head — for no reason — in the final throes of a particularly passionate rumba. How she stashed a shotgun in that tiny costume, still mystifies me.

A few years ago, the papers were reporting that you’d be dead in 6 months without a heart, liver, double-kidney and lung transplant, and that your chronic alcoholism disqualified you from donor waiting lists. I don’t get it. How come you’re still alive?

Joan,
Tuam

Don’t want to say too much Joan. Suffice to say over two thousand people are reported missing every single year in Ireland. Most turn up within twenty-four hours of their reported disappearance. Some never turn up though, please God.

Apparitions at Knock are in the news again. Didn’t you once claim Our Lady appeared to you?

Darren,
Liverpool

Yes, but she looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her. She was mid-yawn, and I was mid-piss. The whole encounter was drenched in awkwardness. She muttered some off-the-cuff divine instruction about not coveting my neighbour’s ox, and disappeared. Moments later she re-materialised, looking even more embarrassed than before. If I recall, she shouted something along the lines of, “Oh…for fuck’s sake, GABRIEL, THE THING IS PLAYING UP AGAIN. TURN IT OFF. JUST TURN THE FUCKING THING OFF…sorry about this,” and then disappeared again.

In an interview with The Guardian, your daughter Flannella recently accused you of “slitting the throat” of her childhood. What did she mean?

Dorothy,
Helsinki

It’s pretty straightforward. I noticed quite early that she was genetically stocky, so I had her ‘baby fighting’ for money from the age of three. Baby fighting is similar in concept to ‘cock fighting’, but twice as lucrative and (at least) three times as immoral. In both hindsight and foresight, the violence was scarring. In my defence, I needed the money. My cocaine addiction was accelerating, and it wasn’t long before Flannella was fighting three or four times a day just to keep me in powder. As strange as it sounds, I miss those days with my daughter. Because I loved coke.

I’m begging you. Stay away from my wife. Please man, don’t break up our family,

Vincent,
Roscommon

Sorry Vincent. The heart wants what the heart wants. And the heart wants a blow-job.

My mate says you played the predator in the film Predator. Bullshit?

Donald,
Cornwall

No, it’s true Donald. Also, the climactic fight between myself and Arnold Schwarzenegger was unscripted. The screenplay actually dictated that the predator and Arnold fall in love, and share a passionate upside-down kiss, ala Spiderman. Neither myself nor Arnie were comfortable with it, so we ad-libbed and beat several shades of shit out of each other instead. Thankfully, the director liked the footage. Just as well, because I don’t think the world was ready for inter-world homo-eroticism in the 80s.

Bob Geldof? Rob Ripof, more like…

2009-10-29T01:11:00.005Z

Like so many of his generation, Bob Geldof idolised me in the early 80s. He made no secret of modelling ‘The Boomtown Rats’ on my band, ‘The Council Estate Speckle-tailed Hamsters’.

I tolerated the likeness in the beginning, but when The Rats released ‘Don’t Like Mondays’ two weeks after The Hamsters' far less successful ‘Mondays are Shite’, I felt compelled to confront the cad in a London pub.

Bob was initially gracious. He apologised for any offense caused and offered me a generous co-writer credit on ‘Don’t Like Mondays’. I accepted his apology, shook his hand, waited for him to turn away, took hold of a bar stool and smashed it over his back.

Unfortunately, I failed to capitalise on my underhandedness. Bob quickly gained the upper hand, gifting me a beating so severe that I permanently lost the ability to exhale. Rendered unconscious for the last forty minutes of the assault, there’s not much else I recall about it. That said, credible eyewitnesses inform me that Sir Bob….

threw me down a flight of stairs, paid a flock of hobos to retrieve me, and repeated the process several times
stripped me naked and took a Brillo pad to over 80% of my body
grasped my hair in one hand, penis in the other, and spun me around in a helicopter fashion. When sufficient momentum was built, he released his grip and sent me careering through the plate-glass front of a local Burger King

Things were slightly awkward between us afterwards. Still, some years later I naively shared with him my brainwave for a one-off charity single, sung by a super-group of contemporary musicians. Little did I know he'd steal my idea and repackage it as ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’.

I present now the lyrics of my own super-group charity single, still regarded by many as the greatest song ever written. Enjoy!

FEED THE NEEDY

by

Flann O’Coonassa

First Verse

(Jimmy Nail) Rejoice starving Africans, celebrities have heard your call,

(Rolf Harris) ‘Norms’ had their chance to help, and managed to do fuck all,

(Tommy Cannon) And though you could argue, we already do more than enough,

(Bobby Ball) There’s no argument about it, we definitely already do

Chorus

(Everybody) It’s time to feed the Needy, they haven’t a pot to piss,

(Lou Ferrigno) In………………………………………………………………….,

(Everybody) Yes it’s time to feed the Needy, though obviously not right now,

(Willis from Different Strokes) But definitely in the short to medium term, it’ll be time to act right then

Second Verse

(Bono’s second cousin, Dermot Hewson) I saw a starving African, near my fixed abode,

(Max from Hart to Hart) Fearing what I didn’t know, I chased him down the road,

(Mel) He fled into the blades of a combined harvester, and now he’s in the ground,

(Kim) We have to start helping these people, but obviously not right now

Chorus

(Everybody) Because it’s time to feed the Needy, they haven’t a pot to piss,

(Lou Ferrigno) In………………………………………………………………….,

(Everybody) Yes it’s time to feed the Needy, though obviously not right now,

(Willis from Different Strokes) But definitely in the short to medium term, it’ll be time to act right then

Back’n'Forth with the Movers and Shakers

2009-10-22T02:02:00.011+01:00

As a globally celebrated renaissance man, naturally I’ve gained the ear of many public figures throughout the decades. Often I’ve had occasion to correspond privately with these movers and shakers via email, text message, letters, and in extreme circumstances, assassin-o-grams. On a whim, I now betray the trust of these putzes by publishing a selection of the more notable exchanges. Enjoy!

YOKO ONO

Dear Mrs Ono,

How are you? That’s great. Listen, keep your God-damned oar out of The Beatles, or so help me, I’ll make Sushi of you. You have 48 hours to comply,

Sincerely,
Flann

p.s. stay the hell away from The Monkees too.

Dear Flann,

Comply with what? Leave the country? Annul my marriage? I could pass your threat to the police, but I’d rather appeal to your humanity. You’re obviously a Beatles fan, and I assure you, so am I. But John and I are married now, and fans are going to have to accept that,

Peace and Love,
Yoko

Dear Mrs Ono,

You have four hours left to comply. Unfortunately, that’s four hours at time-of-writing. Considering I don’t intend posting this letter until tomorrow morning, and allowing two days for delivery, I’m sorry to inform you that you’re most likely now dead. I therefore presume this is John reading? Well John, as your biggest fan and wife’s killer, I wish to express how sorry I am for your loss. Now get back to work,

Deepest sympathies,
Flann

Flann,

You are obviously a disturbed individual who needs professional help. Do not contact my wife again,

John

Dear John,

Can I just say how much I love your music? The Beatles’ albums are the soundtrack to my life, and for this I will forever be in your debt. That said, I am currently locked in a deadly game of cat and mouse with your wife. One will live, and the other shall fall, but it’s between me and her, so keep your oar out,

Cordially,
Flann

Dear Flann,

I heard about the thing with Yoko. I want in.

Sincerely,
Paul

Dear Paul,

No deal. This is between me, Yoko, and maybe John if things get messy. Keep your oar out,

Murderously,
Flann

Dear Flann,

Deal me in,

Ringo

Dear Ringo,

No deal. If I won’t throw McCartney a piece of the action, why the hell would I bring a third-rate pot-clanger like you in? Find your own Asian meddler to gut like a fish,

Sincerely,
Flann

Dear Flann,

I have an incinerator in my backyard. Perfect for dispatching an Asian body,

Sincerely,
Mickey Dolenz

Dear Mickey,

Forget the whole thing. Too many people know about it now. Bunch of God-damn blabber-mouths,

Yours of unsatisfied bloodlust,
Flann

BARACK OBAMA

Text message sent from my phone, 15:04 22/05/09

WHERE R U?

Text message received by my phone, 15:42 22/05/09

The White House. Don’t contact me on this number again.

Text message sent from my phone, 15:43 22/05/09

Y?

Voice message left on my phone, 15:46 22/05/09

Sir, this is Agent James Downey of the CIA. We have reason to believe you have been sending unsolicited correspondence to the president. A car will be with you shortly. Please remain in your current location.

Text message sent from my phone, 15:49 22/05/09

GR8. GETTING ARRESTED. THANX OBAMA. WOT DID I EVER DO 2 U?

Text message received by my phone, 15:52 22/05/09

Who is this? McCain?

Text message sent from my phone, 15:56 22/05/09

M8BE.

Text message received by my phone, 15:58 22/05/09

I beat you fair and square McCain. Don’t make me come down to Arizona and put a beat-down on your withered ass, you fuck.

Text message sent by my phone, 15:59 22/05/09

J-ZUZ

ROBERT DE NIRO

From: flann@rant.ie
To: robert@deerhunter.com
Subject: Role of a lifetime!

Bobby, baby, do I have a role for you! It’s a prequel to ‘The Sound of Music’ that focuses mainly on Maria’s pre-abbey years as an Austrian hooker and crystal meth addict. We’re calling it ‘The Sound of Prostitution and Vomit’. You’re slated to play Maria’s pimp, Herr Goldtooth. Britney Spears has expressed an interest in playing Maria, and Al Pacino is attached to play a cop of some sort.

That reminds me, I mislaid Al’s phone number. Could you email it to me along with both your home addresses? If you have any contact details for Britney Spears lying around, that would be helpful too.

From: robert@deerhunter.com
To: flann@rant.ie
Subject: Re: Role of a lifetime!

Listen to me, you nickel and dime bum. I don’t know who you are or how you got this address, but I want no part of your crumby project. Be a stranger, jackass.

From: flann@rant.ie
To: robert@deerhunter.com
Subject: Role of a lifetime!

Oh, I get it. I see what’s going on here. Not prepared to play second fiddle to Britney Spears? Fine, we rewrite Maria as Martin (we might have to silence Julie Andrews in real life, lest she kicks up a publicity stink), you play the part, Pacino is your pimp, and Britney plays a cop of some sort. Or we leave the script as-is, you play Maria in drag, Britney is your pimp, and Pacino plays a cop of some sort.

From: robert@deerhunter.com
To: flann@rant.com
Subject: Re: Role of a lifetime!

Lose my email address, asshole. Lose it before I lose my cool. I will end you, my friend. Do you hear me? I will end you.

From: flann@rant.ie
To: robert@deerhunter.com
Subject: Role of a lifetime!

You drive a hard bargain Bobby. Okay, final offer: you, Britney and Pacino all play cops of some sort. It’s vice-squad, and you’re all undercover as hookers, but secretly, you all yearn for the simple, humble ways of the seminary, and a modest daily ration of crystal meth to take the edge of monastic life.

From: robert@deerhunter.com
To: flann@rant.ie
Subject: Re: Role of a lifetime!

Asshole.

From: flann@rant.ie
To: robert@deerhunter.com
Subject: Role of a lifetime!

Jerk.

Interview with Satan

2009-10-08T01:20:00.005+01:00

Following from my recent interview with God (see here), I caught up with Satan to find out how things are going in the eternal, fiery pit of Hades. Enjoy!

Me: Satan, thanks for taking the time.
Satan: Pleasure. That thing I did for you work out ok?
Me: Eh…thing? I know not of this ‘thing’, to which you refer.
Satan: The plane crash, with whats-his-face on board? The audit guy from Revenue?
Me: Perhaps we could talk about this some other…
Satan: Sure, we’ll talk later. I need you to come in and finalise some things with the contract anyway.

Me: Now, I recently interviewed God.
Satan: Ah, Larry.
Me: Excuse me?
Satan: You were saying, you interviewed Larry.
Me: No, I said I interviewed God.
Satan: Yes, Larry. His name’s Larry.
Me: You’re shitting me.
Satan: Eh, hello. God is his job title. His name is Larry Dunne.
Me: I’m stunned. Do you have a name too?
Satan: Percy Hornwinkle.

Me: Ok….Percy. How would you characterise your relationship with…Larry?
Satan: On a scale of one to ten?
Me: Sure.
Satan: A six.
Me: Really? I’d have thought less.
Satan: Ah, I’ve got no beef with The Almighty. We still bowl every second Thursday. There’s just a few things we’ll probably never see eye-to-eye on.
Me: Like good and evil?
Satan: There’s that. Also, he has this stupid hip-hop handshake that does my friggin mallet in. Up high, down low, too slow – it goes on for about five minutes. He only does it because nobody else knows all the moves, so he ends up looking like Snoop Dog while you feel like a schmuck.

Me: When I interviewed God, he cited Chris De Burgh as his greatest fuck-up. What’s been yours?
Satan: Bob Dylan.
Me: Dylan? But he’s class.
Satan: Exactly. I gave him all the tools to be shite. Tone deaf, surly with the press, short-arse, appetite for drugs, hippy tendencies, penchant for bleeding-heart protest songs. Imagine my horror when all his handicaps somehow gelled into more than the sum of their parts. That was a real low for me, professionally.
Me: I can imagine. Did you consider packing it in?
Satan: I honestly did. Ghandi expressed an interest in taking over on a trial basis.

Me: Woah, back up there. Mahatma Gandhi?
Satan: Yes, you know him?
Me: Mahatma Gandhi applied for the job of Satan?
Satan: Caretaker Satan, technically.
Me: Jesus. Wasn’t Gandhi all about peace and love during his life?
Satan: Broadly speaking, yes. But there was a less seen side of him.
Me: Back side?

Satan: No, I mean figuratively. There was a side of him blacker than the coals of hell. He despised marsupials, for example. I can understand someone being indifferent to marsupials, but seething, violent hatred? I once saw him do things to a Koala…I mean, I’m Satan, so I’ve done some shit in my time, believe me…but that Koala’s expression…it’s burned into my brain. Little fur-ball didn’t know what hit him.
Me: Are you….
Satan: No.
Me: …you are, you’re crying.
Satan: I’m not.
Me: You bloody are.
Satan: I wonder, would my pitchfork fit successfully up your hole?
Me: Touché sir. Well played.

Me: Moving on from Dylan, any notable examples of your handiwork in the press at the minute?
Satan: Obama.
Me: Ah come on, he’s the dog’s bollox!
Satan: On the surface, yes. But there’s a side to him. A side blacker than the coals…
Me: I’m having major déjà vu here.
Satan: …of hell. He’s done things to marsupials that would turn Gandhi’s stomach. God help the sleek, majestic kangaroo if America ever seizes control of Australia on Obama’s watch.

Me: I see. Eh…Satan?
Satan: Please, call me Percy.
Me: Ok. Percy?
Satan: Yes?
Me: Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you a tad bonkers? The whole marsupial thing sounds a trifle whacko.
Satan: Are you calling me a liar?
Me: Not at all. I’m calling you a fruitcake.

Satan: You’ve got some balls.
Me: Thanks. The secret is to scrub them with a steroid cream every night before…
Satan: That’s not what I meant.
Me: Oh.
Satan: Call me a fruitcake? Me? You’ve made a powerful enemy here today.
Me: Oooh, I’m soooo scared. Percy’s going to get me. Big, bad Percy….
Satan: I’m warning you….
Me: What are you gonna do, hah? A minute ago you were bawling like a little woman, sniffling like a little….AH JAYSUS, NOT THE PITCK FORK…AH FECK, IT’S RIGHT UP THERE….I WON’T BE ABLE TO SHIT RIGHT FOR A MONTH…SWEET SUFFERIN MOTHER O’ JAYSUS…

Ambush in Saigon (continued)

2009-10-01T05:16:00.003+01:00

I now present the final page of my war novel ‘Ambush in Saigon’ (read its first page here). In 1986, The Irish Times branded the book “…historically inaccurate on a Sergeant Bilko scale.”

The Independent was less kind, calling it “…an affront not only to war veterans and humankind generally, but perhaps to the universe, and the very fabric of space/time itself.” Enjoy!

AMBUSH IN SAIGON

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 564 of 564

…whereas if you sit on your hand for, say, five or ten minutes until it numbs, it can feel like someone else is touching you.”
“Not sure I follow you Sarge,” says Private Jones.
“Never mind,” I laugh, “you just concentrate on getting better son.”
“Did they find my legs yet Sarge?” asks Private Jones tearfully.
“When they find your arms, I’m sure your legs will be nearby.”
“And my skull?”
“Again, same explosion, so when your arms and legs turn up, your skull is bound to be close by. It couldn’t have gotten far. Now you just make sure you keep that helmet on soldier. I’m ordering you to stay alive.”
“Yes Sergeant,” gurgles Jones before immediately dying.

Not his fault a man ain’t designed for livin’ without arms, legs and a skull. Still, an order’s an order, and I’ll have to write him up for insubordination. It’ll probably mean a posthumous court-martial and loss of pension rights for his widow. War is hell.

I walk to the cliff edge and look down into the valley. Jesus. Must be more than two million Vietnamese down there, staring up at me in silence, like a gang of mime-artists taking a vow of silence in a library for mutes. Someone coughs and is chastised by the rest of the two million. Dammit, are they with me or against me? Only one way to find out.

I scoop up Hitler’s severed head by the hair, and thrust it forth in my raised hand. After several suspenseful seconds, a joyous roar erupts that scientists of the future will conclude could be heard from space. I plant the Führer’s head on the bayonet of an upright rifle, scoop up Eva Braun’s severed head and similarly thrust it forth. The roar fades to silence.

“Who the fuck is she?” comes a lone voice from the valley.
“It’s Eva Braun,” I shout back.
“What’s she got to do with anything?” comes another voice.
“Hang on,” I reply, sensing myself losing the crowd.

I half-volley Braun’s head a few dozen yards behind me, pluck Hitler’s head from the bayonet and thrust it forth again. The approving roar returns, sending shivers down my spine.

“You have saved us all,” one voice shouts.
“Are you God?” asks another.
“God?” I reply. “Perhaps. Or maybe God is within all of us.”
“So in a way, I might be God?” asks the same voice.
“No, I was being metaphysical,” I reply. “But if anybody’s actually God, it’s probably me.”

Am I God? It’s a fair question, but right now I’m just tired. Tired of killin. Also tired of maiming, which takes roughly the same amount of energy as killing, for less of a return.

I salute the crowd a final time, toss Hitler’s head into my trophy sack and walk for the sunset. I don’t get five yards before Consuela, the farmer’s daughter, drops to her knees and wraps her arms around my left leg, imploring me to stay. I try to ignore her, but after seven or eight miles, her weight begins to slow me down.

“Please Señor, you cannot leave us,” she cries hysterically, now dry-humping my leg.
“Be brave, buxom Consuela. You’ll find someone else. Someone better.”
“Liar!” she spits.
“You’re right. There’s no one better,” I reply, feeling I owe her the truth.
“You cannot come to my country, make love to me, my sisters and my mother, and then leave us forever. You cannot allow us to taste heaven, and then ask us to return to hell.”

She’s right. I can’t bare the thought of how miserable she’ll be without me. I un-holster my Luger and put the barrel to her temple.

“I will wait for you on the other side, my love,” she smiles.

The gun trembles. My finger fidgets the trigger. But I can’t do it. I care about her too much. Bravely, I hand my gun to Private Hudson and ask him to carry out the shooting. He duly obliges by firing a single bullet into Consuela’s forehead. She falls to the ground, smiling. I take a knee and hold her hand. A break in the clouds appears, and a single ray of sunshine bathes us both in radiant light.

“I…can…see heaven,” she struggles.
“Ssssh now. Don’t talk shite,” I reply.
“I….I see God…It’s…..it’s you,” she utters with her last words before going cross-eyed and passing onto the next world.

Another innocent victim of war, but not the last. Goddamit, when will the human race learn? When…

THE END

Ambush in Saigon

2009-09-30T04:36:00.007+01:00

I now present the first page of my war novel ‘Ambush in Saigon’, with the final page to follow tomorrow. Having done literally no research into the Vietnamese war during the writing, I feel the book (published in 1986) benefited from the absence of facts and truths, which could have distracted the reader. Some branded my approach lazy, monstrous and grotesque. My critics were less kind. Enjoy!

AMBUSH IN SAIGON

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 1 of 564

Charlie’s close. So close I can smell ‘em. I can also see ‘em, which makes the smelling largely redundant. I can hear ‘em too, but the same goes for the hearing as went for the smelling.

Dirty war, this Vietnam tussle. Goddamned Hitler up to his old tricks again, and with his buddy Stalin in tow. This ain’t gonna be clean and swift, like World War 2. It’s gonna be slow and bloody, like The Falklands War, which I’ve gotta hunch will probably take place a couple of decades from now.

The jungle’s hot, like the bonnet of an overheating 59 Dodge that’s been set on fire for some reason. Nothing stirs but the sound of mosquitoes having sex. Endless mosquito sex and searing heat. Squatting in my foxhole, I can’t figure what’s sweatier: my armpits or my lone testicle.

My other testicle? God knows where. Shot off in some Goddamned rice field south of Da Nang. Wasn’t even a war on at the time. Thought I’d found it, but turned out to be an African American ball. Found several other balls in that field that afternoon. Never did find a match though. Not even close.

“Jesus, here they come Sarge, three of ‘em,” whispers Leeroy. “We’ve got the drop on ‘em. Permission to fire?”
”Patience,” I tell him. “Let ‘em come a bit closer.”
“It’s a Goddamned Turkey shoot, Sarge,” whispers Danny. “They ain’t seen us yet. I’ve got a clear shot. Now?”
“Patience Danny.”

A shot rings out and Danny slumps to the left, his face largely missing.

“Christ Sarge, the bastards shot Danny in the face. Let’s cut these fuckers in half,” cries Leeroy.
“Patience Leeroy,” I say.

A second shot rings out and Leeroy slumps to the right, also missing a face. Damn Vietcong. They were just too quick for us. With Danny and Leeroy dead, I climb from the foxhole and bravely surrender on behalf of the entire platoon. Hero? Perhaps. It’s not for me to say. All I know is I can’t afford to lose any more men.

The three Vietcong bastards frog-march the eighty-six of us through the jungle. Goddamned Vietnamese sun reddens our necks, like nature’s sunbed, or an industrial toaster powered by excessive wattage. The Vietcong offer us sun block, mosquito repellent, shade, water, food and medical attention, all of which I refuse on behalf of the men. Sure, I take my share, so as not to appear rude. But I’d rather die than see my men indebted to these animals.

We march for three days and three nights, losing nine good men to dehydration and four average men to starvation. Morale nosedives further when the platoon’s token pygmy (Lil Joe) is eaten my a smallish snake. Some of the men pray, but not me. God? There ain’t no God in these thickets. Wood Elves? Mabye. Sasquatch? Definitely. But God? The jungle is fresh out of God, and running low on Jesus.

We reach the secret Vietcong layer, deep within the belly of Mount Vesuvius. Again I refuse rations on behalf of the men, and eat mine in full-view, just to show the Vietcong bastards the true meaning of discipline. Hero? That’s just a label. ‘Lionheart’ would be another label, but labels mean nothing to me, regardless of how snugly they fit.

Having eaten and drank thrice my fill, I set the men doing 1000 press-ups while I grab forty winks. They’re exhausted, but some brisk exercise will keep their minds off the starvation. Barely an hour later an armed minion wakes me.

“Hitler. He see you now. Come. Come,” he orders. Goddamit. Hitler. That’s all we need…..

(tune in tomorrow for the final page of Ambush in Saigon)

Horoscopes: lion-taming, time travel and great white sharks

2009-09-24T01:32:00.002+01:00

Aries (Mar 21 – Apr 19)

Be assertive with colleagues this week. Don’t be afraid to lay down the law. Though you’ll spontaneously combust at midday on Sunday, a torrential downpour will douse the flames and spare your life. You’ll barely have regained your composure when an escaped zoo orangutan named ‘Ghandi’ savages you to death in front of your traumatised children.

Taurus (Apr 20 – May 20)

Pluto aligns with Mars this weekend, giving you an unmerciful rash. Next week brings a mammoth financial windfall. The money quickly corrupts your mind, spurring you to invest in a bionic penis that not only lacks the dexterity of your discarded human penis, but causes the deaths of countless prostitutes.

Gemini (May 21 – Jun 21)

Compassion and generosity are key. Your kindness to a homeless man does not go unnoticed. He is mugged and killed by a burlier, tougher homeless man for the pittance you flung into his upturned cap. Why does everything you touch turn to shit?

Cancer (Jun 22 – Jul 22)

Uranus begins its second lunar cycle, causing you to cultivate a ferocious mono-brow. Friends love your company. Your laughter is infectious. Also infectious is your zombie-ism, which not only sees you feast on the delicious, fresh brains of cherished family members, but has you roaming the moors with scores of your undead brethren for nigh-on eternity.

Leo (Jul 23 – Aug 22)

You have diligence by the bucket full. Though well intentioned, your time-travelling experiment destroys not only our universe, but all parallel universes except one. As the only mammal in your adopted universe capable of farting, it’s not long before you’re burned as a witch.

Virgo (Aug 23 – Sep 22)

Timing is everything, and yours is impeccable. Your career as a circus clown ends this week when a custard pie-based altercation with a colleague escalates into a full-blown knife fight. Taking a young child as a human shield draws scathing criticism from both the clown community, and the child’s parents, who reluctantly accept a refund.

Libra (Sep 23 – Oct 23)

Saturn crosses the path of Jupiter this week, causing your car keys to go missing. Stand your ground on matters of principle. Insisting that you have developed powers of invincibility causes many a raised eyebrow. Attempting to prove it by raping a great white shark only vindicates the doubters and reddens the tank at Sea World.

Scorpio (Oct 24 – Nov 21)

Trusting is in your nature. A family member makes romantic overtures this week. The law takes a poor view of such dalliances, and a brief but torrid affair lands both you and your grandmother in the clink. Though your grandfather vows never to speak to either of you again, your great grandmother begins sending you chocolates and poetry.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 21)

Responsibility is your middle name. Fifteen minutes of fame beckon when you save a drowning infant. A lifetime of infamy follows when CCTV footage shows you punting the wee tyke into the river to begin with.

Capricorn (Dec 22 – Jan 19)

Your passion is an asset. Thinking outside the box has never been your forte, which is a shame considering you’ll accidentally be buried alive following a heart attack this weekend. A foolhardy attempt at a final wank will rupture the coffin lid and collapse a metric tonne of earth upon you. Published findings of a subsequent exhumation will bring a measure of embarrassment to your family.

Aquarius (Jan 20 – Feb 18)

Life is not for sitting still. Your relentless pursuit of your wife’s killer makes progress this week, when you realise that you suffer from split personality disorder, and that a fragment of your consciousness named ‘Mike’ carried out the heinous act all those years ago. You also discover a third inner personality called ‘Deirdre’, which goes someway towards explaining why you have a tampon shoved up your ass.

Pisces (Feb 19 – Mar 20)

Orion is visible in the Southern sky this week, causing your remote control to slide down the back of the couch. Failure to take instruction from your tutors leads to disaster in lion-taming college. Not only do you flunk the course, but you are eaten by a lion. Your rookie mistake of trying to put the lion’s head in your mouth, rather than vice-versa, becomes a cautionary tale in lion-taming circles.

Oasis Split Dooms the Earth

2009-09-10T05:58:00.002+01:00

The music world was effectively ended last week with the news that Noel Gallagher has quit Oasis. Rioting predictably erupted in all 147 of the world’s countries, causing the earth’s rotation to unsettle two centimeters from its usual axis, thereby setting us on a collision course with the sun for early 2011. Selfish apocalyptic Mancunian bastards.

Of course, Nostradamus predicted the whole affair in one of his more accurate quatrains from 1542:

Two musical apes ripping off The Beatles

Friction between the apes grows dire

The lute playing elder walks away

Pair of wankers rain death upon the world

Impressive enough to have predicted The Beatles by name, but Nostradamus’ use of the word ‘wanker’ is regarded as the first on record. Let's now examine the timeline to disaster:

1967: Mother Peggy gives birth to a fully-grown, unshaven Noel. Doctors confirm that she has in fact been carrying twins, and should continue pushing.

1972: Liam is born, bringing an end to a record-equalling five year labor. When asked how she feels, Peggy replies that she is “a little tired”, and says the fifth year of the delivery was “worse than the other 4 put together”.

1978: Noel throws a chainsaw at Liam when a game of Buckaroo goes awry, accidentally beheading him. Thankfully, the world’s foremost decapitation specialist (Dr Manfred Finklestein) lives nearby, and reattaches Liam’s head without charge.

1980: Liam beheads Noel with a samurai sword in response to a taunt about his lack of table etiquette. Dr Finklestein again does a sterling job, though Noel never regains the ability to roll his tongue. He later chronicles the tongue issue in the song ‘Wonderwall’.

1988: Noel’s highly touted dance career flounders. He is firstly ejected from the prestigious Royal College of Ballet for his insistence upon non-standard tutus. The final straw comes during a performance of The Nutcracker in The Albert Hall. Flouting the palette of accepted techniques, Noel improvises a fusion of ballet and a style called ‘The Running Man’ from the burgeoning rave scene. Reviews are unkind.

1989: Liam drops out of medical school, citing “…the impenetrable bureaucracy of the NHS”. Nevertheless, his thesis on the Neurology of Schizophrenia remains required reading in medical schools worldwide.

1990: The brothers form a band called ‘Granny’s Crotch’, later renamed ‘Violating the Platypus’, soon rebranded ‘The Chartered Accountants’, and finally settling on ‘Oasis.’

1992: Noel’s early songwriting bears few portents of the lyrical firebrand he’d become:

The Snuggle Bears

by

Noel Gallagher

Can you see the Snuggle Bears,

Snuggling you and me,

Can you see the fluffy kittens,

Snuggling puppies for free

Gallagher himself admits that ‘The Snuggle Bears’ starts to grate after the eighteenth verse. Other songs such as ‘Stay off Drugs’, ‘Smoking Damages your Health’, and ‘Obey the Food Pyramid’ are equally toothless.

1996: The brothers begin gaining headlines for their outspokenness. Scattergun attacks often seem motiveless and cruel, such as Liam’s branding of Mother Theresa as a “…towel-headed, shriveled up oul’ cock dodger.” Noel is equally unkind to Somalian refugees, regarding them as “…freeloading hobos with their grubby paws out, always wanting something for nothing.”

1999: Blur frontman Damon Albarn is found decapitated in a London park. Though his head is successfully reattached, his short-term memory is compromised, leaving him with no recollection of his attacker(s). In his autobiography, Noel later recalls chopping the head off an unnamed Indie singer:

“….myself and our kid dragged the Indie twat into a small park near Fulham. ‘Park Life? I’ll show you Park Life, you cunt’. And with that, we fashioned a crude guillotine from a plate of glass we’d found in a dumpster and chopped his fucking head off. ‘You’ll be doing no more living in any houses in the country,’ says Liam, which made me chuckle…”

Police question Noel over the contentious passage, but determine there is insufficient evidence to charge him.

2003: An Oasis concert in Norway descends into chaos when Liam produces a shotgun from his trousers and begins taking pot-shots at his brother. Noel flees the stage, only to return minutes later in a Sherman tank. The entire arena is leveled by the ensuing battle, which leaves more than 400 Norwegians dead and twice that number injured. The Norwegian prime minister declares the Gallaghers “mass murderers”, and calls for international sanctions against them.

2009: A minor disagreement regarding ownership of a Dairylee Triangle sees Noel quit Oasis, hence ending the reign of man on earth.

Readers' Mailbag: Madonna and Scatman John

2009-09-03T03:05:00.004+01:00

Anybody who’s ever written an unofficial biography about you has died in mysterious circumstances. Why is that?

Fred,
Dungavin

I don’t like what you’re implying Fred. Sally Wheeton (author of ‘Portrait of a Monster’) was adjudged to have died in a freak Spaghetti Bolognese accident; Mike Snowden (author of ‘Deconstructing a Maniac’) is technically missing, not dead; and Terry Wise (author of ‘Flann: 100% Psycho’) drowned in his own sink, which could happen to anybody who accidentally stabs themselves twice in the back of the neck.

You also ignore the fact that Bill James (author of ‘Celtic Genius’) is alive and well.

You were stripped of your World’s Strongest Man crown in 1979, though you always vehemently denied taking steroids. That famous interview on CBS when you broke down, and swore your innocence on the graves of your late parents, still reduces me to tears. I never doubted you for a second. Are you still bitter about the injustice?

Collin,
Brussels

Actually Collin, I stopped denying that late last year. Truth is, I couldn’t have taken any more steroids if I tried. Sorry for the confusion.

Why did Madonna take out a restraining order against you in the 80s?

Joanne,
Salthill

Pure misunderstanding Joanne. I thought we were in love, whereas she held the opinion that we’d never actually met. I learned a valuable lesson that summer: when a woman finds a deluded stranger lying on the back-seat of her car holding a cloth and a bottle of chloroform, flattery simply does not come into it.

For the last time, stay off the west side. Next time we take your thumbs.

Vinny,
Dublin

That coin has two sides Vinny. I catch your goons on the east side again, they’re coming home without pinkies.

You duetted with the legendary Scatman John in the 70s. That must have been a terrific time for scat. What was he like to work with?

Justine,
Tullamore

Actually, we worked together more than once Justine. We scatted together on Sci-ba-di-ba-di-ba-bo, the second single off his first album, and again on Scu-bi-da-bi-da-bo-bo, which was the third single from my second album.

Frankly though, I couldn’t stand the prick. Overrated as a man and a scatter. Sure, he was a media darling, but his scatting was not well regarded among the scat community. It was sloppy, and he often forgot his lyrics live, like when he infamously scatted sci-ba-di-ba-di-bob-boo instead of sci-ba-di-ba-di-bob-doo at the Royal Albert Hall in 1974. The place nearly erupted in a riot, and he didn’t scat live again for over a decade.

You’ve always been a keen advocate of whaling, and Youtube footage has recently emerged of you clubbing a family of seals. Aren’t these outmoded practices to endorse in this day and age?

Jake,
Nottingham

Not at all Jake. Whales, or ‘sea rats’ as I call them, are a filthy scourge upon our majestic oceans. And what do they even look like? Ignoring the general shape of their body, I defy anybody to take a pen and draw a whale’s face. Why is that? What are they trying to hide? I suggest we whale them to extinction and ask questions later.

As for seals, or ‘ice rats’ as I call them, have you never tasted Seal Stew Jake? It is a delicacy, and I contest that stew made from clubbed seals is clearly tastier than seals euthanised by lethal injection. I proved this conclusively in a Pepsi-style challenge a few years back, when I successfully picked clubbed stew in 51% of cases.

Jaysus, I’m bollixed,

Phil,
Thurles

Sure what can you do Phil, hah?

Interview with Michael Jackson (via Uri Geller)

2009-08-20T02:53:00.005+01:00

In his first interview since dying, the King of Pop Michael Jackson sits down for a chin-wag via the psychic ducting of Uri Geller’s frontal lobe. I shit you not. Enjoy!


Michael Jackson

Me: Welcome to my plush abode. Sorry for keeping you waiting.
Uri Geller: It’s not a problem. I bent this spoon while I was waiting.
Me: Where did you get it?
Uri Geller: It was here, on the table.
Me: So it’s mine?
Uri Geller: I don’t know. It was here on the table.
Me: Bend it back now.
Uri Geller: Ok, calm yourself. I was just trying to demonstrate…
Me: Bend it back, right now.
Uri Geller: There. It’s back.

Me: Ground rules Geller.
Uri Geller: Ok.
Me: You don’t touch the cutlery…
Uri Geller: Fine.
Me: You don’t look at the cutlery…
Uri Geller: I understand.
Me: If I give you tea, you stir it with your hand. Capiche?
Uri Geller: I apologise.

Me: What kind of cretin waltzes into another man’s home and attacks the cutlery?
Uri Geller: I said I was sorry.
Me: Channel Michael Jackson or get the hell out.
Uri Geller: I’m channelling, I’m channelling. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.
Me: Uri?
Uri Geller: Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.
Me: Is that still you Uri?
Michael Jackson: Uri’s not here right now.


Uri Geller

Me: To whom am I speaking?
Michael Jackson: Michael.
Me: J Fox?
Michael Jackson: Jackson.
Me: Prove it.
Michael Jackson: HEE-HEE.
Me: Ok, your story checks out.

Me: We’ll begin then. Thanks for taking the time Michael. We know you’re a busy man.
Michael Jackson: Not really. I’m brown bread.
Me: Not keeping yourself busy down there?
Michael Jackson: Down there?
Me: Up there. I meant ‘up there’.
Michael Jackson: There’s not a whole lot to do. I’m hoping Bubbles dies soon.
Me: Oh, chimps go to heaven?
Michael Jackson: No. I just hope Bubbles dies soon.

Me: Eh…ok. So, your demise. Suicide? Murder? Natural causes?
Michael Jackson: Do I look like a CSI cop?
Me: You look like Uri Geller. And you smell like wet dog.
Michael Jackson: Listen man, I don’t know what happened. One minute I’m moonwalking into the bathroom to take a shit, and the next I’m at the pearly gates, trying to skip the queue, giving St Peter the old ‘do you know who I am?’
Me: So you can’t shed any light on your passing?

Michael Jackson: Until they find a cure for death, I don’t even want to think about that day.
Me: Grand so, we’ll move on. Elvis’ daughter. Did you stick it in her?
Michael Jackson: My penis?
Me: Yes.
Michael Jackson: Good heavens no.
Me: Debbie Rowe?
Michael Jackson: No.
Me: MacCaulay Culkin?
Michael Jackson: Ah, MacCaulay Culkin. Star of Home Alone.
Me: That wasn’t really an answer. You just seemed to…
Michael Jackson: Yessiree, MacCaulay Culkin. Star of Home Alone.

Me: Rightio. Plastic surgery.
Michael Jackson: Never had any.
Me: You’re dead. Why not tell the truth?
Michael Jackson: Fine. I had 864 operations.
Me: 864?
Michael Jackson: 865 if you count the gills.
Me: Gills?
Michael Jackson: Yeah. Bit of an overreaction to seeing Kevin Costner’s Water World.
Me: Did they work?
Michael Jackson: Yes, but only when they were connected to a two-stroke engine.
Me: That doesn’t sound very practical.
Michael Jackson: They’re freaking gills man. What do you want from me?

Me: Quick fire round. List your siblings in order of preference.
Michael Jackson: La Toya, Janet, Tito, Marlon, Jackie, Jermaine.
Me: Now list your parents in order of preference.
Michael Jackson: Mom, Dad.
Me: Now list Hitler and your Dad in order of preference.
Michael Jackson: Hitler, Dad.

Me: Interesting. Tell us a funny showbiz story.
Michael Jackson: One time myself and Tito beat the shit out of a gardener at Neverland, for no reason. We had to buy his silence afterwards.
Me: Jesus. How is that funny?
Michael Jackson: Well, I was dressed as a clown.
Me: What was Tito dressed as?
Michael Jackson: Some manner of otter.
Me: I see.
Michael Jackson: Do you?
Me: Don’t I?
Michael Jackson: Touché. But do you?

Me: Eh…Uri, I’m getting a bit freaked out now. Can we wrap this up?
Michael Jackson: There is no more Uri. There is only Michael.
Me: Uri?
Michael Jackson: Tell me, have you ever seen an Israeli mentalist channelling a dead white African American man naked?
Me: Wait…what? SNAP OUT OF IT URI. HERE, TAKE THIS SPOON.
Michael Jackson: Sp…oon?
Uri Geller: Sp…oon?

Me: That’s right, spoon. Good to have you back Uri.
Uri Geller: Can I keep the spoon?
Me: You can borrow it.
Uri Geller: What did Michael say? Did he mention me?
Me: Yes. He said spoon-bending is for dorks.
Uri Geller: It’s at time like these, I’m glad he is dead.
Me: What? That’s an astonishing thing to say. I thought you were his friend?
Uri Geller: Spoons are my only friend.

Me: Eh…
Uri Geller: You know what you remind me of?
Me: A spoon?
Uri Geller: Yes, exactly. You share many qualities with cutlery.
Me: Eh…I’m going to leave now because I’m a bit frightened. You stay as long as you want.

Sense and Prejudicability

2009-08-13T03:00:00.004+01:00

I now present the last page of my period drama ‘Sense and Prejudicability’. First published in 1992, my agent Diane begged me to remove ‘Prejudicability’ from the title, on account of it not being a word. I told her that if she gave me any more lip, I’d replace ‘Sense’ with ‘Gumptionality’. Check mate. Enjoy!

SENSE AND PREJUDICABILITY

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 548 of 548

…and though your proposal is kind and genteel in nature, Mr Dashley, I must regretfully decline sir. I do treasure the friendship we have forged this summer, and beg you that our correspondence might continue in a cordial vein, upon your return to London tomorrow morn,” said Lady Chastly.
“Why you Goddamned Mickey-teasing slut-faced bitch,” replied Mr Dashley.
“Mr Dashley!” gasped Lady Chastly.
“Ah, cut the shite. Three months I’ve been minding my ‘P’s and ‘Q’s, playing the society game, bending over backwards trying to get into your knickers. And for what? Not so much as a blowjob. You frigid oul’ bag, you. I’m absolutely gutted.”
“Mr Dashley, I must insist you curb your tongue, sir,” said Lady Chastly sternly.

Mr Dashley removed his gentleman’s wig and threw it in the fire. He then loosened his belt and let a slow, lingering fart that stunk the air green and unsettled the servants.

“That….is….heaven,” said Mr Dashley blissfully. “I haven’t been able to do that for three Goddamned months.”
“Sir, this will not do,” implored Lady Chastly, close to tears.

The butler entered the drawing room.

“May I present the Countess Meddlesworth,” announced the butler drily.
“Sir, you look dishevelled. What is the meaning of this?” she inquired.
“Don’t start with me, you big, fat, meddling oul fossil,” replied Mr Dashley.
“He’s gone quite mad,” replied Lady Chastly, running to her aunt’s side.
“Three months,” said Mr Dashley. “Three months I spent poncing around this dump, courting this wench. All because you suggested she was gamey.”

Countess Meddlesworth moved gracefully to Mr Dashley, removed a glove from her purse, and slapped him lightly across the face with it.

“Remember yourself, sir,” she scolded.
“Do that again, and I’ll take that glove out into the garden, fill it with rocks, come back in and beat you to death with it.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. To death.”

Unbeknownst to Mr Dashley, his words were heard by Baron Von Pinklesforth, standing just inside the door.

“What is the meaning of this sir? These threats will simply not do,” said Von Pinklesforth.
“Put a sock in it Von Pinkesforth, or so help me, I’ll flip you over and stick it in you. My balls are about to explode, and I’m in the red. I’m warning all of you, someone’s getting it tonight.”

Von Pinklesforth gulped visibly, and retreated several paces until his anus was secured against the nearest wall. Mr Dashley took a bottle of port from the mantelpiece and gulped from it, pausing occasionally to belch wildly.

“Three months…,” he occasionally repeated between swigs, as his three companions looked on in frozen terror.

Now drunk, Mr Dashley began to disrobe. First his pantaloons. Next his waist jacket, breeches and girdle. Soon he was stark-bollock naked.

“Sir, I beg of you,” said a teary Lady Chastly, “if not for my sake, please consider the good Countess Meddlesworth. Please return your member to its holdings.”
“No deal, Chastly. Dashley Junior is out of the cage, and he ain’t going back in till someone gives him a good oul’ tug.”

With that, Countess Meddlesworth fainted. Upon seeing her head collide with the billiards table, Mr Dashley burst into a laughter that spewed a cocktail of snots and bourbon from his nostrils.

“Fuckin, right off the side of the billiards table,” he laughed, before himself collapsing into a drunken stupor on the floor.

When Mr Dashley awoke the next morning, he found himself alone. At first, he had no memory of the previous night’s doings. Moments later, to his horror, he found that he was lying in a cake of his own defecation.

“This won’t do,” said Mr Dashley, his manners finally restored. He selected a pistol from a case in the writing desk drawer, placed the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

THE END

Questions and Answers (with Ronaldo and Paris Hilton)

2009-07-30T02:52:00.003+01:00

Me: This week on Questions and Answers, former Taoiseach Bertie Ahern…
Bertie Ahern: Good evening.
Me:…socialite and heiress Paris Hilton…
Paris Hilton: Hi.
Me:…Sinn Féin president Gerry Adams…
Gerry Adams: Oiche mhaith.
Me:…and world footballer of the year, Cristiano Ronaldo…
Ronaldo: Ola.

Me: We’ll begin with the economy. Should the government consider a property tax? Ronaldo?
Ronaldo: Yes?
Me: A property tax?
Ronaldo: Yes.

(Audience applause)

Me: Beautifully put.
Gerry Adams: Now hold on. Mr Ronaldo can swan in here with all his populist propaganda…
Ronaldo: Popu…popuganda?
Gerry Adams:…but I don’t think the Irish taxation system is any business of a Johnny Foreigner.
Ronaldo: Is true. I’m notta Irish.

(Audience gasp)

Gerry Adams: How would you feel if I showed up in Portugal, shouting the odds?
Ronaldo: With that beard? You would be a god to my people. Men and women would make-a love to you day and night. Virgins would trim your beard as you slept, and slaves would tend to your pubes while you bathed in the semen of dolphins.
Me: Jaysus.
Bertie Ahern: Jaysus.
Gerry Adams: Why is he looking at me like that?

(Audience member coughs. A mobile phone begins ringing and is instantly silenced)

Me: Eh…Em…Bertie. Property tax?
Bertie Ahern: Wella, I…I do believe that all…all the options should be…be considered, because…
Paris Hilton: This is absurd.
Bertie Ahern: Now hold on, I didn’t interrupt you….
Paris Hilton: You cannot tax your way out of a recession.
Bertie Ahern: Well…well, in desperate times, you have to…
Paris Hilton: No, no, no. It’s kindergarten economics. Increasing taxes shackles market forces. It has failed as a policy time and time again: Norway in 1942, China in 76, Argentina in 79. The great Jean Baptiste Colbert said “The art of taxation consists of plucking the goose to obtain the largest amount of feathers with the smallest amount of hissing.” Obviously it sounds more eloquent in French.

(Audience applause)

Me: So what would you do, in Brian Cowen’s shoes?
Paris Hilton: If I was Taoiseach of this beer-soaked shit hole?

(Audience gasp)

Gerry Adams: Now hold on young lady….
Paris Hilton: I’d trim the public sector work force by a third, disband the quangos, and borrow money to invest in market stimulus initiatives.
Ronaldo: I wanna make-a sweet, sweet love to you.
Paris Hilton: Not now.
Ronaldo: I was notta talkin to you.
Gerry Adams: Tell the dark fella to stop making the eyes at me.

(Audience member exclaims “Jaysus”. Another audience member coughs)

Me: This is getting weird.
Gerry Adams: Then get a hold of things. That’s your job.

Me: Let’s move onto reports of a raid on the offices of Michael Jackson’s doctor. Why is the public thirst for Jackson news so unyielding? Bertie, you met the man in 2003?
Bertie Ahern: That’s correct, yes, we….we held a state dinner in Mr Jackson’s honour. A wonderful, wonderful man.
Me: I believe he tried to teach you the moonwalk?
Bertie Ahern: He did, yes.
Me: And you broke both your legs? Or was it just one?
Bertie Ahern: No, it was both legs, yes. Certainly, a far…far more difficult dance than it looks. I actually swallowed my tongue on the last attempt, and it was…was only when I got to the hospital that they realised that my…my legs were actually broken.

Me: Fascinating. And I presume Jackson visited you in hospital?
Bertie Ahern: No, he…he had a prior engagement. He did send his personal assistant though, and Bubbles the chimp.
Me: That was nice of him.
Bertie Ahern: It was, though the monkey did attack me. I had to beat it away with me bedpan.
Me: Jesus, that must have been terrible.
Bertie Ahern: Ah, ‘twas only a few scratches. Nothing compared to what it did to the poor kids in the children’s’ ward. Never seen so much blood.

Me: Paris, what do you make of the media coverage?
Paris Hilton: Of Michael Jackson?
Me: Yes.
Paris Hilton: I think it’s disgusting. Iraq, Afghanistan and global recession have all been relegated to the middle pages. I renounce this puerile society. I absent myself from it. Shame on you. Shame on you all.

(Audience applause)

Paris Hilton: Well, don’t applaud me. I’m attacking you, you bog-brained Murphys.

(Audience member shouts “fuck you”)

Paris Hilton: You wish.
Ronaldo: I don’t. Too smooth around the chin. Not enough beard, eh my friend?
Gerry Adams: Take your hand off my leg.
Bertie Ahern: Mother of divine Jaysus.
Gerry Adams: You have three seconds to take your hand off my leg.
Me: Em…that’s all we have time for tonight unfortunately…
Gerry Adams: ….two….
Me:…I’d like to thank my guests, Paris Hilton, Bertie Ahern, Cristiano Ronaldo and Gerry Adams…
Gerry Adams:….one….
Me: ….Thank you, and good night.

Gerry Adams: TAKE THAT, YOU GREASY PORTUGUESE CUNT.

(Audience gasp)

Me: Ah Jaysus. Ah Christ, he’s out cold. Tony, ring an ambulance. Tell them we have a man unconscious. He’s been stitched a loaf.
Paris Hilton: Wow. Mr Adams. I never knew you could be so….militant.
Gerry Adams: Get your coat love.

Readers' Mailbag: Michael Jackson, Bill Clinton and Dealing with Hobos

2009-07-23T00:14:00.004+01:00

I hear you were a qualified doctor in the 60s. If medicine is a vocation, why did you stop practising?

Dorothy,
Sydney

It was simple maths Dorothy. A medical review board determined that patients were sixty-five times more likely to die in my care than another doctor’s. Remember, this was pre-Shipman; these days I’d undoubtedly be arrested on suspicion of mass murder.

Was I purposely killing patients? I don’t know. Maybe a few towards the end, but it’s so long ago now I honestly can’t remember. In my defence, I was prescribing myself all sorts of painkillers and whacky potions back then.

Truthfully, my retirement was no great loss to medicine. I earned my degree in eighteen days under the tutelage of some quack called Doctor NaHyarnfinin (pronounced as spelt) in Papua New Guinea.

“Flann, we can’t save them all,” he used to say.

“I understand Doctor NaHyarnfinin,” I’d reply, “but can’t we save some of them?”

“No,” he’d say. “No we can’t.”

Hey Essay,

I have ten keys, just like ju wanted. This shit is the bomb, not like that Venezuelan junk. Ju got the money?

Juan,
Roscommon

I’ve got the money. How do I know you’ve got the stuff?

I saw you in Dublin city last Friday night. Jaysus, you’ve some temper on you Flann,

Donal,
Clonsilla

I overreacted Donal. But I’m tired. Tired of not being able to walk across the Ha’Penny bridge without being accosted by a beggar. Was I short with her? Hands up, yes I was. Ordinarily I’d mind my manners with a frail, elderly vagrant. Was I wrong to hoist her over my head and turf her into The Liffey? Undoubtedly. The fall alone could have killed her, and it’s difficult to swim fully-clothed.

Was it going too far to stamp on her fingers as she tried to claw herself from the river? Who’s to say? The real villain here is the government. They’re the callous bastards who won’t legislate to help these peasants out of the gutter.

If every citizen scooped up their nearest bum and lobbed them into a dangerous body of water, maybe homelessness and poverty would gain a few column inches over your Peter Andres and your Snoop Diddy Doggies.

No, no. Don’t brand me a hero. The real hero is the lady I half-drowned. She’s the one in a coma. All I’ve done is highlight an issue. Save your medal. Better yet, sell it, and use the shillings to buy some reeking hobo a pair of thermal Y-Fronts for winter. I just want to make a difference.

What the?

Mike,
Sallins

I’m going to need more information Mike. Something has obviously shocked you, but damned if I know what.

Having jammed with Michael Jackson in the 80s, were you sorry to see him pass?

Joanne,
Fermanagh

Most certainly I was Joanne. I enjoyed a brief fling with La Toya in 1980 (if one can ever truly ‘enjoy’ being violated with a strap-on whilst simultaneously punched in the back of the head), and got to know Michael reasonably well during that time.

Our jam session unfolded in a Motown recording studio, while Michael was still tinkering with the lyrics of his forthcoming hit ‘The Girl is Mine’ (eventually recorded with Sir Paul McCartney). If I recall, the verse…

The Girl Is Mine
The Doggone Girl Is Mine
I Know She’s Mine
Because The Doggone Girl Is Mine

….began life as….

The Girl Is Mine
I’ll harvest her how I see fit
Confidentiality agreements will be signed in triplicate
Because The Doggone Girl Is Mine

I mourn Michael’s loss deeply. As I said with poetic eloquence during my reading at Princess Diana’s funeral, “like candles, we flicker in the wind, the brightest burning for a shorter time.” Then that jackass Elton John wheeled in his Grand Piano and stole all the headlines.

For the last time, keep your bull out of my field. If I catch that scrawny, one-horned beast sniffing around my heifers again, I’ll put a bullet in it.

Fionn,
Leitrim

Your field? That field has been in my family for a thousand years Fionn. I both lost my virginity and found it again in that field (long story). You know well that your snake of a grandfather shifted the stone wall an acre to the East while my grandfather lay dying in the trenches of the Somme, bleeding for his beloved Kaiser.

And if you shoot ‘Ole Unicorn’, so help me, I’ll blow up your house with your family in it. Then I’ll blow up all your neighbours’ houses (excluding mine). I’ll blow up the shop where you buy your groceries. I’ll blow up the church where you worship The Christ God. All you love and know will perish in great mushroom clouds of black vengeance.

See how quickly these things escalate? I suggest you rent the film ‘The Field’ (or go see the play of the same name) for reference.

In chapter four of his autobiography, Bill Clinton called you “…a spineless, Gaelic, reptilian sludge dweller”, and later in chapter six he labelled you “…Satan’s right-hand man and advisor in chief.” Frustratingly, he never explains why he harbours so much ill-will for you. What did you do to him?

Dennis,
Clonmel

Take a photo of Chelsea Clinton and place it on a table. Place a photo of Bill beside it. Compare the profiles for similarities. Now replace the photo of Bill with a photo of me. Again, compare for similarities. Eh? You see? You see? That’s all I’m saying.

Get your shit together man,

John,
Cabra

Fuck you John. I don’t even know what you’re on about, specifically.

Vito Schillaci

2009-07-16T01:59:00.005+01:00

I now present the last page of my Mafia novel ‘Vito Schillaci’. Though critical response was muted when first published in 1987, the mafia did visit my home and beat my grandmother into a coma. I always felt vindicated by their violence. Enjoy!

VITO SCHILLACI

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 344 of 344

…..buttabing, buttabang, bing-bang, bong-bing, eh?” said Vito.
“He’s right,” replied Tony, rising from his chair and beginning a slow-clap that would quickly gather pace until every crook in the assembly was applauding and cheering. No mobster had ever spoken such eloquence and truth. Grown murderers wept openly. Excited hoodlums fired their weapons into the air (much to the chagrin and death of some upstairs tenants).

Hush was only restored when Don Luigi rose slowly from his seat, chewing a mouthful of salami. Like a Roman emperor deliberating on a gladiator’s faith, nobody ever knew the Don’s mind. He walked to Vito and eyeballed him Italianly. All around fell silent.

The Don lifted his hand and smacked Vito’s cheek playfully, but with enough force to leave an imprint from which a palm reader could easily ply their trade. He then pinched the same cheek with the force of a disgruntled lobster, causing Vito’s eyes to water. Lastly, the Don kissed Vito asexually on the lips for a minute and a half.

“What am I gonna do with this guy, eh? You mamaluke, you.” said The Don.

Crippling tension was once again replaced with rapturous applause and cheering.

“Vito’s words,” continued the Don, “have brought peace to the five families. As head of the Luciano family, and leader of this council, I vow that I shall not break the peace that we have created here today.”
“Here, here!,” cried Harry the Homicider, a good-natured homicidal maniac from the west side. Don Luigi immediately took out a revolver and shot Harry in the face eight times (he had to reload after the first six bullets).

“A man who interrupts another man when he’s talking about peace?” said Don Luigi. “Such a man has no respect. And I cannot respect a man who shows no respect in such situations as the one described just moments ago. Such disrespect is not to be respected. But nor is it to be disrespected, because that would makes us hypocrites. Capiche?”
“Wise words, Godfather,” said Tony.

After the removal of Harry’s carcass from the hall, each mobster queued single-file to pinch Vito’s cheek and kiss him asexually on the lips. When all had paid their respects, Vito’s mouth was dripping with the saliva of fifty men and his cheek bone was fractured in four places. Regardless, his expression never flickered.

“And to think,” said the Don, placing a friendly arm around Vito’s shoulders, “I once thought this guy was an undercover cop.” The Don melted into convulsions of laughter. Everyone else followed suit, until the loud crackle of a walkie-talkie quietened the assembly.

“Come in Delta Bravo,” came a muffled voice from Vito’s pocket. “Delta Bravo, this is Charlie One. Hello? Calling Vito. Hellooooo. Come on Vito, it’s me, Mike, down at the precinct. Want to grab a brewskie tonight? Come on buddy, The Policeman’s Ball only comes around once a year? And it’s the ten year anniversary of our graduation. You know, from the academy? The police academy, I mean? I don’t know why I said that. What other academies have you graduated from, eh? Come on buddy, come for a beer tonight. You’ve been working too hard lately. As an undercover cop. Yep, the old undercover cop-aroony. Doin the copin. Under the old cover-aroonies. Hello, Vito? You there? Oh wait…shit, are you doing that Mafia counsel thing tonight? Cough if you can’t talk.”

Vito coughed, but it was too late.

“Eh, eh, eh,” he remonstrated as several goons seized him and unburdened him of some fresh salami he’d been hoping to bite into. Tony frisked Vito’s pin-striped suit, removing from various pockets the culprit walkie-talkie, a police badge, a gun, a membership card for the police sport & social club, a wallet containing a picture of Vito in his police uniform with the caption ‘Cop of the Year 1984’, and a standard issue police truncheon.

“It’s not what it looks like,” said Vito.
“I loved you like a son,” said Don Luigi.
“We only met forty minutes ago,” answered Vito.
“Well it feels longer. And your disrespect? It cuts me. Cuts me deep in the buttabalingas. And now I have to kill you.”

Vito smiled.

“No, you won’t kill me Don Luigi. You know why? Because deep down, I see good in you. I see a man whose heart beats with the love of…”

Don Luigi took out his revolver and shot Vito in the face fifteen times (two reloads). His carcass was found in the East river by a police-trained beaver. The beaver gnawed away over a kilogram of flesh from Vito’s neck and chin before his handler arrived on the scene, leading to the permanent termination of the disastrous Police Beaver program.

The NYPD tried to find homes for the sixty odd beavers in their charge, but most were too battle-hardened and disturbed to be reintegrated successfully into the wild, or beaver sanctuaries. Most were euthanised with pitchforks or sold to glue farms, but two escaped into the city sewers and briefly terrorised lower Manhattan before they were shot and killed by an off-duty Canadian Mounty outside a pizzeria in Little Italy.

THE END

(dedicated to every beaver who died in the line of duty during the existence of the Police Beaver program)

Horoscopes: African Rhinos, Frankfurters and Filipino Brides

2009-07-09T00:59:00.005+01:00

Aries (Mar 21 – Apr 19)

Stop trying to satisfy everyone else’s expectations. You must learn to feel comfortable in your own skin. If the cannibalistic serial killer who’ll soon be wearing you as a suit can do it, why can’t you?

Taurus (Apr 20 – May 20)

Saturn aligns with Jupiter this weekend, giving you heart burn. It’s time to put your finances in order. Money is scarce, and you can no longer justify keeping a fully-grown African Rhino tethered in your back garden. Take him to the local park, unleash him, and walk casually away whilst whistling nonchalantly.

Gemini (May 21 – Jun 21)

Be more assertive. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. A mysterious stranger bombards you with flattery this week. Unfortunately, it’s only to distract you while his associate hot wires your car. Adding insult to injury, they needlessly run you over during their getaway, breaking both your legs. The same men return to steal your wheelchair, but I’ll cover that in the next month’s horoscopes.

Cancer (Jun 22 – Jul 22)

Saturn begins its fourth lunar cycle, playing havoc with your nasal hair growth. A colleague makes romantic overtures. Now is the time to reciprocate. What have you got to lose? You’ll both be dead in 24 hours anyway, having eaten from the same contaminated canteen stew.

Leo (Jul 23 – Aug 22)

Don’t dwell on the negativity of others. Now is the time to be more assertive. Your get-rich-quick scheme runs aground upon mounting suspicion that your belt is lined with Frankfurters, not TNT. Killing hostage after hostage does temporarily rekindle your aura of menace, but also forces the hand of the Gardai sharp-shooters. Rarely has the term ‘closed casket’ fit more snugly.

Virgo (Aug 23 – Sep 22)

Relaxation is key. Switching off is something you struggle with. An old flame returns unexpectedly this week, preaching reform and asking for a second chance. Do not be fooled. This is the same head case who doused you in petrol and set you alight, for failing to put a coaster beneath your drink. As you remonstrated at the time, there are no coasters in MacDonalds.

Libra (Sep 23 – Oct 23)

Mercury crosses the path of Mars this week, bringing you an unmerciful dose of the shits. Charity always begins at home. Luckily for you, your home will be bulldozed by the council in a case of mistaken identity (the 9 on your front door loosens and swings upside down into a 6). Living rough will be a novelty during the summer months, but you’ll quickly succumb to the elements by mid-autumn.

Scorpio (Oct 24 – Nov 21)

Now is a time for reflection. A friend betrays your confidence, passing your secret to a third party. The third party being a cop, and your secret being a family imprisoned in your basement, does not make your friend any less of a squealer. And you know what must be done with squealers, right? The shovel and the hacksaw are in the shed, behind the paint pots. And for God’s sake wear gloves this time.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 21)

Opportunity knocks, and Cupid pays a visit this week. Play your cards right and wedding bells might beckon. A Royal Flush should be enough to secure the whole pot, including the Filipino bride. Beware though: the southern gentleman to your left is counting cards, and the greasy shark opposite has a dodgy ace taped to the underside of his chair.

Capricorn (Dec 22 – Jan 19)

Caution is paramount. Greeting obstacles head-on is not always the right approach. Particularly when you’re sprinting along a set of train tracks. Mercifully, you’ll side-step the 4:10 from Dublin and come away with little more than a grazed hip. It’s the 2:05 from Galway coming the opposite direction that’ll really catch you by surprise, grinding you into a gloopy, viscous paste.

Aquarius (Jan 20 – Feb 18)

Beware false prophets. You have a tendency to over-trust. A businessman comes to you with a financial proposition this week. Selling him your kidney brings you short-term riches and a heady lifestyle. Selling him your liver, heart and lungs exposes your appalling ignorance of human anatomy.

Pisces (Feb 19 – Mar 20)

Orion is visible in the North sky this month, meaning you have eighteen seconds to live. Put your house in order, sooner rather than later. Though your death certificate will ultimately read ‘Swine Flu’, this is a clerical error. ‘Swine food’ would be more accurate, given that you are choking on a rasher as of…wait….wait for it….NOW.

Grizzled Justice

2009-07-02T01:36:00.006+01:00

I now present the last page of my crime novel ‘Grizzled Justice’. First published in 2003, it reinvented the buddy-cop genre by mismatching bickering partners 15% more than had previously been seen, and making their loose-cannon behaviour 8% more unorthodox. Enjoy!

GRIZZLED JUSTICE

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 362 of 362

…shaved my nipples, and the majority of my pubes. It all grew back ginger for some reason. Never did figure out why.”
“Sarge, why are you telling me this?” asked Stenson, reloading his gun.
“Can’t say exactly,” replied McDiesel, striking a safety match against his own stubble to light a cigarette. “Guess it’s my way of telling you, you’re all right kid. Sure, you go by the book, and you bust my chops, quoting regulations and what not.”
“It’s true, I do that,” interrupted Stenson.

“Shut up,” snapped McDiesel. “My point is, after Pachanski was decapitated, I never thought I’d want another partner. But I’d rather you watching my back than any of those jackasses down at the precinct.”
“Thanks sarge.”
“Shut up,” said McDiesel, stubbing out the cigarette on his own eyeball. “Let’s finish this.”

Both men bounded from behind the empty barrels into a maelstrom of gunfire. Stenson followed a regulation shoot-and-move pattern, flawlessly replicated from his academy training. Not for the first time, McDiesel threw out the rule book, ambling through the warehouse, shooting henchman after henchman in a higgildy-piggildy, unorthodox fashion. At one point he stood still without cover, bullets whizzing by, to answer a text from his estranged daughter.

“U WERE NEVER THERE 4 ME OR MUM,” read the message.
“I WAS MARRIED TO THE JOB, CUPCAKE,” he replied.
“MOM STILL LOVES YOU,” said another text.
“DADDY’S KIND OF BUSY NOW PRINCESS.”
“I HATE YOU.”
“UH-HUH.”

One by one the stooges fell, until the warehouse was strewn with open-eyed corpses. The gunfire petered out. Stenson, breathless, joined McDiesel in the centre of what was now a congregation of corpses. Stenson smiled. “Shut up,” replied McDiesel.

With stealth, a final goon peeped from behind a stack of crates and trained his gun on the duo. McDiesel, harnessing a streetwise sixth sense that can’t be taught in any book or manual, drew his oversized revolver and fired into the air. The bullet severed the chain of an enormous overhead chandelier, crashing it to earth upon the would-be assassin.

“A chandelier in a warehouse?” mused Stenson, mouth agape.
“Go figure,” said McDiesel, essentially putting the plot-hole to bed without satisfactory explanation.
“That’s some pretty unorthodox, grizzled shit you just pulled McDiesel.”
“You French-kiss your mother with that mouth, Stenson?”
“My mother’s dead,” replied Stenson. McDiesel laughed heartily. Still unsure of the joke, Stenson followed suit, laughing nervously.
“Shut up,” said McDiesel, removing his scrotum from his trousers and striking a match among the ginger sproutings.

Suddenly, a shot rang from the shadows, and Stenson’s impeccably ironed shirt reddened. He began to slowly fall. McDiesel could easily have caught him, but it wasn’t his style, and Stenson respected the machismo. After letting Stenson’s head bounce off the concrete, McDiesel took a knee and blew smoke into his face.

“You’re going to be OK kid.”
“I’m so cold McDiesel.
“What are you, shitting me? It’s a hundred degrees outside.”
“I ain’t gonna make it McDiesel.”
“That’s statistically probable. I’ll grant you that.”

“Will you do something for me, McDiesel?”
“Name it kid.”
“My sweetheart…Jessica,” drawled Stenson, weakening with every word.
“She being cheating on you? Want me to slap her around a little?”
“No…no. Tell her…tell her….I…love her.”
“Bit fruity, isn’t it? How about I tell her you like her?”

Stenson gurgled, wet himself, and passed on to the big precinct in the sky. McDiesel blessed himself with the wrong hand, in the wrong direction, opened Stenson’s eyes, lit a match on one of his comrade’s eyeballs, re-closed his eyes, and let a guttural yell.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO….”
“We meet again, Mr McDiesel,” came a voice from the shadows.
“Just a second,” answered McDiesel. “OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

Into the light stepped Dr Blackhorn, kingpin of the drugs empire Stenson had given his life in fighting. One hand pointed a gun at McDiesel; the other was held around the throat of Stacey, McDiesel’s on-again off-again girlfriend who hasn’t been mentioned until this point.

“Blackhorn, I might have known.”
“Pretty obvious, I would have thought old boy,” replied Blackhorn in his refined, aristocratic English accent.
“He hurt you Stacey?”
“A little,” wept Stacey, “he twisted my arm up behind…”
“Shut up. Let her go Blackhorn. This is between you and me.”

“Mr McDiesel, you have been quite the thorn in my side,” said Blackhorn with superb manners and dreamy elocution. “It was my understanding that you’d been suspended? That the mayor and the DA had grown tired of your unorthodox methods? Tired of explaining to the media why you continually lay waste to entire apartment blocks and fleets of cars in an uncompromising pursuit of utopian justice?”
“Yeah, captain took my badge and piece. But I don’t need no badge to track down scum like you.”

McDiesel fidgeted the trigger on his gun. Blackhorn tightened his grip on Stacey’s neck, drawing his human shield closer.

“Enough of this charade, Mr McDiesel. Drop your weapon, or the girl dies.”
“She means nothing to me. Go ahead. Kill her.”
“Come now Mr McDiesel,” said Blackhorn in a lilting swankiness that makes the queen sound like a two-dollar hooker in comparison, “lower your weapon.”

With that, McDiesel raised his gun and shot Stacey. Shocked, Blackhorn loosened his grip and Stacey flopped to the ground. Labouring the point, McDiesel shot Stacey several more times. Both men then shot a single round at each other, and each man collapsed to the ground. Nobody moved for several minutes.

“McDiesel, you…son…of a bitch,” muttered Stacey.
“Shut up,” replied McDiesel, lighting a match across the flesh wound millimetres above his heart — the 84th flesh wound of his career. He stumbled to his feet and lurched to inspect Blackhorn, who sported a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. McDiesel put out his cigarette, opened Blackhorn’s eyes, struck a match against his eyeball, and lit another cigarette.

Soon the warehouse was awash with dazzling blue lights as a flurry of squad cars and ambulances swarmed the crime scene.

“She’s going to make it sergeant,” said a paramedic. “Nice shooting, you avoided all her vital organs.”
“Huh?” replied McDiesel.

His arm in a sling, McDiesel strode from the warehouse smoking two cigarettes at once. At the entrance he happened upon Captain Norfolk.

“I’ve gotta hand it to you McDiesel,” said Captain Norfolk, “you get results. I might not agree with your grizzled attitude, or your loose-cannon methods, but damn it, you bring home the bacon.”

Smiling, Captain Norfolk returned McDiesel his badge and piece. Grinning through his perma-stubble, McDiesel lowered his pants, wiped his ass with the badge, threw it away and continued walking. Farther along, he was confronted by the overzealous reporter who had endangered the whole mission in pursuit of a scoop.

“Sergeant McDiesel, do you have any comment on what went down here tonight?” he asked.

Without breaking his stride, McDiesel removed his arm from its sling and punched the reporter unconscious. A little farther along, McDiesel was again confronted, this time by O’Reilly from Internal Affairs.

“We’re going to need you to sit down tomorrow and explain all this Sergeant,” said O’Reilly. “There’s 154 dead bodies in that warehouse, and all we found was 45 dollars worth of cannabis.”

Again without breaking stride, McDiesel un-slung his arm and punched his tormentor unconscious. Finally free of the melee of reporters and police, he sat into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Hello Cornelius,” came a familiar voice from the passenger seat. It was Imelda, his ex-wife. “I love you, and I want you back,” she said tenderly. McDiesel un-slung his arm, punched her unconscious, rolled her from the car, and drove into the rising sun: ever-villigant, and ever-ready to live life on the edge.

THE END

Transcript of a Real Life Exorcism

2009-06-25T00:19:00.005+01:00

It is well known but poorly documented that I underwent a Catholic exorcism in the spring of 1971. I had been dabbling heavily in the occult for some months, ritually sacrificing hedgehogs, smoking joints made from Ouija Boards, snorting holy communion — the usual stuff.

Before long it was apparent that I’d accidentally opened a portal to hell. It was the same month my washing machine broke and I lost my favourite jacket, thus proving that bad things do indeed come in triplicate.

The first evidence of the unspeakable evil visiting upon me was when my car keys went missing. Things escalated pretty quickly from there, when a gaggle of horny wench-demons dragged me from my toilet mid-brown and raped me for over six hours. These were gruesome, reptilian creatures: foul-stenched, snarling hunchbacks, hairier across the naval than the scalp. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and I’ll admit to yielding more concern for the car keys issue at the time.

I first suspected that the evil was gradually assuming control of me when I found myself telling a perfect stranger that his ‘mother sucks cock in hell’. I was promptly ejected from the Kindergarten, and the boy’s mother — alive and well — was largely furious upon hearing of the incident. When she confronted me in the car park, I tried to convince her that I’d meant it as a compliment of sorts. She planted her knee into my groin in an act of stout unforgiving.

The possession intensified quickly over the month of March. Most mornings I’d awaken with my head back to front and moon-walk straight into a wall. On the rare occasions my head didn’t sleep-rotate, I’d awake deeply confused and march face-first into the opposite wall.

Projectile vomiting became a feature too. Possessed though I was, it was hard not to be awed by the force and accuracy of this built-in slime cannon. It wasn’t long before I was turning on and off the TV with a short burst of pea-green ooze, or closing the curtains with a sustained torrent of bile.

Over time my plight gained notoriety in the local media, and the Vatican council was compelled to dispatch a a renowned exorcist to rid me of my demonic squatter. By then the possession was so entrenched that my own family barely recognised me: my body was a mess of warts and boils, lesions criss-crossed my face, my buttocks were permanently clenched, and my voice was identical to the character Zed from the Police Academy movies.

The ritual began in earnest on a balmy April morn, as I lay tethered to my bed. An audio recording was made for posterity. I present you now, with a transcript of that recording. Be warned: what you are about to read will likely disturb you.

Me: Your mother sucks cock in hell.
Father O’Reilly: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Me: Your father…
Father O’Reilly: …sucks cock in hell. I get it.
Me: Well, I was actually going to say something about minge. Would you like to see a display of my power?
Father O’Reilly: Your powers are nothing compared to the power of the lord Jesus Christ.
Me: Behold!
Father O’Reilly: Are you serious? Separating your thumb? That’s your demonstration of power? My uncle used to do that at parties when we were kids.
Me: That’s only part of it. Watch…this….keep….watching.
Father O’Reilly: Ah Jaysus, you've gone and shit yourself. Ah why did you do that? The stench.

Me: Conas ata tu?
Father O’Reilly: Speaking in tongues will not save you, demon.
Me: Ta me go maith.
Father O’Reilly: Ca bhfuil tu in a chonai?
Me: Ta…ta me in a chonai…FUCK YOU.
Father O’Reilly: You see, you are not the only one versed in the Gaelic tongue, demon.

Me: It matters not. You can not defeat me, priest, for I am legion. We are many.
Father O’Reilly: Oh I understand, demon. You are all the millions of wretched souls in Hades.
Me: Woah, steady on. It’s me, Ted Bundy’s ghost, a few of Hitler’s SS, and a guy called Steve who once pushed his dog around by its hind-legs, like a vacuum cleaner.
Father O’Reilly: Ted Bundy isn’t dead. He’s in jail. This is 1971, remember?
Me: Eh…(muttering)
Father O’Reilly: What?
Me: I said can we get on with this?

Father O’Reilly: THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.
Me: Who’s Mike?
Father O’Reilly: What?
Me: You said ‘the power of Mike compels you’.
Father O’Reilly: No I didn’t. I said THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU.
Me: Oh. That makes more sense. Now what happens?
Father O’Reilly: THE LORD COMMANDS YOU TO LEAVE THIS DISCIPLE.
Me: Fine. The stench is killing me anyway. Believe it or not, most of these hygiene problems were here before I arrived.
Father O’Reilly: Be gone, foul demon.
Me: Sound boss.

And like that, what had taken months to devour my body and soul, vanished in the blink of an eye. Father O’Reilly died of a heart attack 40 minutes after the exorcism. It seems the ritual took a bigger toll on him than me, thank God.

Interview with The Corrs

2009-05-29T17:56:00.013+01:00

Earlier this year I sat down to interview multi-platinum selling chart act, The Corrs, on behalf of Vacuum Cleaner Monthly. I loosely knew the sisters from my time spent lightly stalking them through the alcoves of Dundalk (thankfully, none of them could place my face), though it was my first time meeting male Corr.

Jim and I failed to gel from minute one. His handshake unsettled me: limp, cold and damp, like a heroin-addicted mermaid OD'ing in a gutter. He bore a faint stench of death which he attributed to his volunteerism at an old folk’s home. And when he peered at you, you couldn’t help but feel he was undressing you (in fairness, only as far as the Y-fronts) with his eyes.

Our mutual disdain was hard to conceal. I think one of us remained professional. You be the judge….

Me: Andrea. Attractive, aromatic, alluring Andrea.

Andrea: Hi.

Me: Sharon. Sultry, seductive, sexy Sharon.

Sharon: Oh, don’t know about that last one. At my age, you tend to….

Me: Shush now, there’s a good girl. Caroline. Curvaceous, creamy…

Caroline: What?

Me:…cylindrical Caroline.

Caroline: Ok...Hi.

Me: Jim.

Jim:….

Me: I said, ‘Jim’.

Jim: Oh sorry, hello.

Me: Tune in mate.

Me: Now Jim, if I can start with you?

Jim: Sure.

Me: I’d like to read you a passage from an article written in 2003: “This thing called ‘Jim’ has brazenly contaminated a perfectly viable girl band with its penis. Like a tapeworm, it is a parasite unto its siblings, and tresspasses within the sexual fantasies of fans the world over.”

Sharon: What?

Jim: Who wrote this?

Me: Just a second Jim, it goes on: “I defy anybody to establish a full erection from an imagined pillow fight between Andrea, Sharon and Caroline, without Jim waltzing into the reverie – stark bollick naked, I might add – to starch the sheets and hoover the surrounding floor.”

Andrea: This is inappropriate.

Jim: Which journalist wrote….

Me: One second Jim, last bit: “Not since Hitler invaded Poland has there been a presence so unwelcome, as Jim’s in The Corrs. People die every day in Africa, yet this goatee’d elf clings to life, suckling at the teat of the glorious sirens he calls sisters.”

Caroline: That is shocking. I’m shocked.

Jim: It’s offensive drivel. Who wrote it?

Me: That’s not important.

Jim: Was it published?

Me: No, the excellent journalist involved was made promises by The Irish Independent that were not kept. I believe he even bought a 42 inch Sony flat screen television on the strength of those promises.

Jim: Well, it’s an offensive piece of tripe. Let's move on.

Me: Fine. Andrea.

Andrea: Yes?

Me: I’d like to play a game.

Andrea: Ok.

Me: It’s called, ‘Who’s Hockeying Andrea Now?’

Andrea: Are you serious?

Me: We’ll start with the quick fire round. Robbie Williams?

Andrea: I’m not playing this.

Me: Hugh from The Fun Loving Criminals?

Andrea: I’m serious. Move on.

Me: Derek Davis?

Andrea: Derek Davis?

Me: Yes. He’s been talking around town.

Andrea: Saying what?

Me: That he hockeyed you out of it in The Merrion Hotel two summers ago.

Andrea: You're making this up, right?

Me: Nope. He says it was kinky. That you established a ‘safety word’ beforehand, but you ignored it and bate the shite out of him with his own hand. 'Stop hitting yourself', you shouted. 'Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself', until he was bloodied and unconscious.

Andrea: That's it, I'm done. I’m not answering any more questions.

Me: Ah, Andrea. Don’t be like that.

Jim: I’m not answering any more questions either.

Me: You still here?

Jim: I’m happy to leave.

Me: The band?

Jim: No, the room.

Me: Sorry girls, I tried.

Jim: You’re incredibly rude, do you know that?

Me: Shut up there now for a minute Jim. Caroline, you’ve been described as the band psycho.

Caroline: By who?

Me: An article written in 2003.

Caroline: The same article that slated Jim?

Me: The very same. It reads “she has the cold, black eyes of a serial killer, and the rigid bosom of an angry transsexual. Had she snakes for hair and a moustache of hornets, she’d be scarcely more grotesque or evil.”

Caroline: How dare you?

Me: It’s not me, it’s the article.

Caroline: Well, who wrote the article? Was it you?

Me: Newsflash baby. Every brilliantly written article that comes along isn't necessarily written by me.

Caroline: Fine, but did you write this one?

Me: Could you rephrase the question?

Caroline: Did you write it?

Me: Yes.

Caroline: Why?

Sharon: It’s incredibly cruel.

Andrea: How would you like it if we wrote something about you, full of lies and insults?

Me: I….I wouldn’t like it at all.

Caroline: What if we made fun of your physical features?

Sharon: Yeah, what's your biggest insecurity?

Me: (sniffle) I’m far too well hung. It’s my curse.

Caroline: Eh…ok. Well, what if we made fun of that? How would you feel?

Me: (crying) Flattered and embarrassed.

Caroline: Ok, we’re leaving now. This is ridiculous.

Me: Wait. I might not get this chance again. I have to ask. You three, me, and a Shetland Pony? Jim can watch.

Andrea: You’re sick.

Jim: I ought to break your jaw.

Me: You couldn’t break wind, anti-Smurfette.

Let the record show that Jim did not break my jaw, but did break my nose and crack my eye socket. Ne'er have I seen such a ferocious temper in man nor beast. Had his own sisters not subdued him (Sharon with a taser, Caroline with mace spray), I’d be dead and Jim would be in jail. Sure, The Corrs would finally be a girl band, but at what cost? At what cost...

Jane Goodall and the Chimp Diary

2009-05-17T23:43:00.018+01:00

In 1968 I suffered a nervous breakdown during the London premier of hit motion picture, Planet of the Apes. 20th Century Fox hired me to work the red carpet in a gorilla suit, schmoozing the press and stars alike. The Glitterati were out in force, and aside from a zoologically accurate butt-sniffing that saw Jane Fonda knee me (twice) in the scrotal district, my jungle theatrics charmed all.

Things began to unravel during a hard-earned toilet break. I glimpsed my monkey self in the bathroom mirror and grew disoriented. Soon, not only did I believe myself a genuine gorilla, but I thought my reflection a rival silver back. I made smithereens of the mirror before charging back onto the red carpet in search of a mate.

At first, punters thought my frenzied shenanigans a mere escalation to my 'A' game. Leading man Charlton Heston even embraced me for a photo-op. Alarm bells only rang when I head-butted Mr Heston unconscious, seized a marketing woman from Fyffes, and attempted to climb to the cinema roof. I was subdued by security, wheezing and exhausted, on a narrow window sill only eighteen inches above ground.

A diagnosis of AMA (Acute Monkey Anxiety) was forthcoming, and for six months I literally climbed the walls of my apartment, existing on nothing but bananas. My wife Sorcha couldn’t cope with the constant butt sniffing, and divorced the living crap out of me. Custody of the children was determined in a swiftly arranged court sitting.

I don’t recall the custody proceeding, but the court transcript records my only contribution as “OOH OOH, AAH AAH”, after which I hurled a fistful of my own faeces at the judge, and broke both my legs attempting to climb to the mezzanine public gallery. Sorcha was awarded sole custody of the kids, leaving me to rue the vacuum of paternal rights in the British legal system and scandalous price of imported bananas.

A court-ordered stint in the Institute for Chimpanzee Delusions proved wondrous. Though I didn’t specifically believe myself a Chimpanzee (I saw myself more as a baboon, and shaved my ass accordingly), I recognised myself human again within four months of intensive therapy. However, one symptom lingered: a new-found terror of monkey kind.

My psychiatrist recommended I confront my fear with a zoo trip. I went one better, taking an advertised position in Tanzania as assistant to legendary chimpanzee researcher, Dr Jane Goodall. My psychiatrist strongly disapproved of my spontaneity, but died in a bank robbery crossfire six weeks later. Perhaps she should have spent less time disapproving and more time ducking.

My month in Tanzania was eventful. I kept a shorthand diary during this period, detailing my interactions with both Dr Goodall and the chimps. I publish it now, for your reading:

7th December, 1970

Arrived in Tanzania. Nervous about meeting Jane and the chimps.

8th December, 1970

Had sex with Jane. Nervous about meeting the chimps.

9th December, 1970

Still haven’t seen a God-damned chimp, or left Jane’s cabin. She’s freaking me out. Demands that I stop shaving for some reason.

10 December, 1970

Jane says she hates chimps. Says she shot one dead last year for kicks. Am frightened. She's bonkers. Still haven’t been into jungle. Jane making me scrape knuckles along ground when I walk. Says it’ll put me in mindset of chimp. Can’t be good for my AMA.

11 December, 1970

Awoke in night to sensation of ass being shaved. Turns out Jane was shaving my ass. Told her I'm scared, and want to leave Tanzania. Says she’ll kill me and slit throat of every chimp in thirty mile radius if I leave. Dragged finger across neck for emphasis. Says my tears disgust her.

12 December, 1970

Sexed Jane to sleep and snook into jungle with map. Figure I'll take my chances in wild.

13 December, 1970

Found chimps! Total fluke. Pitched my tent nearby. Too scared of Jane to be scared of the monkeys (not the band). No sign of Jane. Will sleep with knife close.

14 December, 1970

Still no Jane (thank Christ). Chimps intrigued by me. Allowing me to sit close. Females seem to be wearing makeup. Could only be Jane's doing. Males seem to be wearing cologne. What the f*ck is wrong with that woman?

15 December, 1970

Fur balls boring me to tears. So bored this morning, played prank. Waited until two mother chimps distracted. Grabbed child of one and swapped with child of other. Ensuing violence cheered me up.

16 December, 1970

Alpha male has not warmed to me. Keeps posturing, beating his chest. I have no fear. Is only short arse, glorified Mogwai. Have christened him Colin.

17 December, 1970

Have to hand it to Colin. Sure showed me. First embarrassed me in front of other chimps. Wrestled me to ground and jumped up and down on my back. Then whipped off my kacks and violently raped me. Far too strong. Pointless to try and stop him. Once he’d had his fun, ran me out of jungle like common pygmy. Probably a warning to others. Feel so used. Arse killing me.

18 December, 1970

Arrived at Jane’s cabin and grovelled for disappearing. Told her about Colin. Apparently real name is Larry. Jane says Larry must be dealt with. Has thirst for rape now. We attack at dawn.

19 December, 1970

Disaster. Charged into chimpsville at first light. Jane secured Larry in full nelson. I went to work, punching his monkey face repeatedly. Larry was tough. Spat blood into my face in act of defiance. Or perhaps to buy time? Other chimps rallied. Too many. Jane escaped. I couldn't. Was violently raped by Larry again. Chased from jungle for a second time.

20 December, 1970

Jane gave me lift to airfield. Tanzania not for me. Raped once by chimp, shame on chimp; raped twice by chimp, shame on me. Jane promised to kill and eat Larry. Will miss her. Gave me parting gift of photo scrapbook. Insists I don't open until home.

21 December, 1970

Scrapbook filled with photos of me. Am mostly asleep in photos, but some aerial shots of me taking dump in outhouse. Jane must have been on roof. Interesting.

Exclusive Interview with Roy Keane, Mick McCarthy and MC Hammer

2009-05-06T14:09:00.020+01:00

Me: Gentlemen, thanks for taking the time.

Roy Keane: I wasn't told he'd be here.

Me: What's your beef with Hammer?

MC Hammer: Yeah?

Roy Keane: Not Hammer. Him.

Mick McCarthy: 'Him' has a name Roy. I wasn't told you'd be here either. My agent said this was a one-to-one interview?

Me: Lads, lads, lads. Didn't you bury the hatchet a couple of years ago? Can't we be civil? Conduct ourselves as professionals?

Mick McCarthy: I'm willing, if Roy and Mr Ice are.

MC Hammer: Mr Ice?

Mick McCarthy: Oh, I'm sorry. Vanilla.

MC Hammer Who the hell do you think I am?

Mick McCarthy: Weren't you the fat one in Wham?

MC Hammer: Mother f*cker, there wasn't no black man in Wham.

Roy Keane: Tool.

Me: Come on, settle down. This is just a friendly interview. There's no need for anyone to get riled.

Mick McCarthy: Ok.

Me: Now, Saipan....

Mick McCarthy: Christ...

MC Hammer: Sai-who?

Roy Keane: As I said, the facilities were a joke: no floodlights, lack of footballs....

Me: I haven't asked you anything yet Roy.

Roy Keane: ....missing training kit, rock-hard pitches....

Me: Roy?

Roy Keane: ....single-ply non-quilted bog roll, Lenny Henry as live-in entertainer when we were promised Lenny Kravitz....

Me: ROY?

Mick McCarthy: Eh? You see?

Me: I do see.

Roy Keane: See what?

Mick McCarthy: This is what it was like, over there.

Me: It must have been hell for you Mick.

Roy Keane: Stay out of it you.

Mick McCarthy: Like you stayed out of the world cup? BOOYAKASHA!

Roy Keane: UP YOURS MICK YOU W*NKER. I DIDN'T RATE YOU AS A PLAYER, AND I DON'T RATE YOU AS A MANAGER. YOU CAN STICK THIS INTERVIEW…

Mick McCarthy: This is just as hurtful the second time round.

Me: Please people, stop this.

MC Hammer: HAMMER TIME!

Me: What?

MC Hammer: I said, HAMMER TIME!

Me: Why?

MC Hammer: You said 'stop'.

Me: No I didn't, I said 'stop this'.

MC Hammer: HAMMER TIME!

Roy Keane: Listen up Coolio. Shout in my ear once more and you'll be spending none of your time living in the Gangsta's Paradise. Because you'll be dead, strangled with your own parachute pants. Capiche?

Me: Lads, please. All of this negativity is unhealthy.

Mick McCarthy: He started it.

Roy Keane: I started it? All I do is give it 100%, every time...

Me: No, no, no. Let's not play the blame game. Mick, I want you to look into Roy's eyes...

MC Hammer: Hello. Now we talkin...

Me: ....and tell us one good memory you have of Roy. Something from before Saipan.

Mick McCarthy: Well...I remember...no, you'll all laugh.

MC Hammer: Come on brother. We're all here for you.

Roy Keane: Go on Mick. Just be honest.

Mick McCarthy: (deep breath) I remember after a home game in Landsdown Road, against Portugal I think? We'd had our showers, and a few of us thought it’d be a good laugh if we hogtied Niall Quinn and held him down while Mick Byrne threatened to rape him. Quinny was always easy to wind up. He was in floods of tears within seconds.

(Roy giggles. Mick follows suit)

Mick McCarthy: After an hour or so, we decided Quinny'd had enough. Mick Byrne was getting a bit carried away, and none of us were comfortable with where the joke was going. So we untied Quinny and let him go.

Roy Keane: Not a minute too soon.

Mick McCarthy: He briefly talked about pressing charges, but we've heard it all before with Quinny.

Roy Keane: Typical Niall. Never follows through.

Mick McCarthy: So next home game comes and goes, and Quinny decides he'll have his revenge. I come out of the showers, minding my own business, and from nowhere Quinny comes at me with a giant bunch of nettles, swinging and swinging. I turned away to protect my genitals, but he thrashed my back over and over....(welling up)....

Roy Keane: Go on Mick.

Mick McCarthy: Well, if it wasn't for Roy....he came in and beat the sh*t out of Niall.

Roy Keane: For an unrelated matter. I didn't know what was going on with Mick.

Mick McCarthy: That's right, but afterwards? Afterwards you went out and picked some dock leaves, and soothed my back.

Roy Keane: That's right, I did.

Me: What the?

MC Hammer: While we're all male bonding and sh*t, YOU CAN'T TOUCH THIS!

Roy Keane: Ah Jaysus no.

Mick McCarthy: Jaysus, put that yoke away.

Me: Jaysus Hammer, I warned you. I said if you took your lad out, you're out of the interview.

MC Hammer: Come on man. A brother's gotta air the snake?

Me: No, you're gone Hammer. You're out.

MC Hammer: Whatever.

(Hammer waddles out of the room, parachute kacks around his ankles)

Me: Roy? I think you were about to share?

Roy Keane: (deep breath) It's hard, you know?

Mick McCarthy: It’s ok Roy.

Roy Keane: Well, I remember a time in 2001. We’d finished training in Malahide and were bored silly. So myself and Mick decided to climb The Sugarloaf.

Mick McCarthy: I remember.

Roy Keane: We made good time to the summit, but I started to feel dodgy.

Mick McCarthy: More than dodgy.

Roy Keane: It was altitude sickness. I went a bit ga-ga.

Mick McCarthy: You thought you were a ballerina.

Roy Keane: I did, I really believed it. I thought I was a ballerina performing in a production of The Nutcracker. And Mick…the only way he could get me off the mountain was to pretend he was a ballerina too.

Mick McCarthy: It wasn’t hard. I studied ballet for eight years as a nipper. Also, six years jazz and four years tap. The film Billie Elliot was loosely based on me.

Roy Keane: It usually takes an hour to hike down The Sugarloaf, but it took us over twenty four hours to frolic and pirouette to the bottom. Mick was with me every prance of the way.

Mick McCarthy: I’d never leave a fallen brother on The Sugarloaf.

Me: Jaysus.

Roy Keane: When we got to the bottom….

Mick McCarthy: Go on Roy. Don’t be embarrassed.

Roy Keane: …I don’t know how but…instinctively, we both knew what was going to happen. I charged at Mick, dove into his arms, and we performed the lift from Dirty Dancing flawlessly.

Me: Sweet Suffering Mother of Divine Jaysus.

Roy Keane: Where did we lose our way Mick?

Mick McCarthy: I don’t know Roy.

Roy Keane: Can things go back to the way they were?

Mick McCarthy: I believe they can.

Me: Group hug?

MC Hammer: Deal me in.

Me: Ah Jaysus, it’s still hangin out.

Mick McCarthy: Ah no, put it away Shaggy.

Roy Keane: I’m sorry, I'm not into any of this naked stuff.

Mick McCarthy: ROY? ROY, COME BACK?

Me: No, let him go Mick. Gotta let him go. He needs time.

Crooning with Frank Sinatra and The Rat Pack

2009-05-01T00:57:00.007+01:00

In 1982, I had the privilege of being in a head-on car crash with crooning royalty, Frank Sinatra. Though I spent the next year in traction, the friendship that developed between myself and Old Blue Eyes was worth the agonising rehabilitation. Doctors were critical that I focused on learning to croon again before learning to talk again, but when you’ve got an opportunity to learn from the master? You have to take it.

For six months, crooning was my only mode of communication. I’d croon deli orders, croon the guy in the adjacent cubicle to pass some bog roll under the partition — I was even crooning heavy breather phone calls to the girl I was obsessed with.

This behaviour only came to a head when my wife Imelda hung herself in March 1983, directly attributing her unhappiness to an overdose of second-hand crooning. Her suicide note read simply…

I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE. CROONING, MORNING NOON AND NIGHT. PASS THE SALT, DOO-BEE-DOO-BEE-DOO, DID YOU PUT PETROL IN THE CAR, DOO-BEE-DOO-BEE-DOO. YOU’RE A F*CKING PSYCHO. CROON CROON CROON, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Shockingly, the ‘Ahhhhhhhh’ in Imelda's note was forty to fifty times longer than the one I’ve recounted above. Her death sent me spiralling into a weekend-long depression from which Frank eventually rescued me. He was a sturdy crutch to me during that time, and we even crooned a duet at Imelda’s funeral. It’s undoubtedly not what she would have wanted (several of her relatives stormed out), but I’ve been told we were scintillating.

Frank did eventually drop me like a new-born baby with a freshly discovered tail, but not before we delivered some electrifying, sell-out Rat Pack concerts on the Las Vegas strip. Some musicologists regard the line-up of myself, Frank, Sammy and Dean as the halcyon days. Our on-stage banter was legendary, though it did often descend into petty squabbling. I present now the transcript of our now infamous meltdown during a show in The Bellagio Hotel in 1983:

Frank Sinatra: …and I did it, my way.

(Audience applause)

Frank Sinatra: Thank you. Thank you very much. Would you now welcome on stage some friends of mine. I think you know their names.

(More audience applause)

Dean Martin: Man, I could listen to you sing that song all day long Franky Baby.
Frank Sinatra: Thanks Deano, but I doubt you could do anything all day long.

(Audience laughter)

Sammy Davis Junior: It’s like you reinvent the song every night, man.
Frank Sinatra: That’s because I can’t remember the damn words.

(Audience laughter)

Me: I thought it was shite.

(Smattering of uncomfortable laughter, receding into awkward silence)

Frank Sinatra: Why you ungrateful Paddy. Six months ago you thought a crooner was a type of fish.

(Smattering of uncomfortable laughter)

Sammy Davis Junior: Fellas, fellas, let’s have a song.
Dean Martin: A song, a song? Ring-a-ding-dong.
Me: What does that even mean Dean?
Dean Martin: Don’t talk to me like that, you God damned blow-in.
Me: You’re overrated Dean. You know it. I know it. The audience knows it.
Dean Martin: Now just a minute…

Sammy Davis Junior: Uncool man. Frank brings you in, and this is how you repay him? Embarrassing us all on stage? Unprofessional and uncool, man.
Me: Frank did bring me in. But I’m crooning at an advanced level now. He taught me everything he knows.
Frank Sinatra: Not everything, you punk. I’m gonna pop you right in the mouth, Irish.
Me: Why? Because I’m honest? It wasn’t your best performance tonight Frank. And these two jokers? They couldn’t croon their way out of a Turkish prison.

Audience Member 1: (muffled) You suck.
Me: Who said that? Come on, who said it? Why don’t you come up here and repeat that?
Audience Member 2: (muffled) Nobody even knows who the f*ck you are.
Me: Big man, shouting from the shadows. Stand up, and let's see how brave you are.
Dean Martin: Now hold on mister. You never diss the audience.
Me: Ah, screw off Martin, you overrated fossil. I’d teach you to croon, but you wouldn’t know what to do with the sheer, raw power.
Frank Sinatra: I’ve heard enough. Vito? Salvatori? Take this scumbag out back.

Mr Sinatra’s goons dealt me a ferocious beating in the alleyway behind the hotel. Ironically, the head trauma stole my ability to croon. Easy come, easy go, I guess.

The Bloodening

2009-04-29T01:35:00.007+01:00

I now present the last page of my horror novel ‘The Bloodening’. First published in 1973, it is still regarded by many as the most frightening book ever written; several people died within forty years of reading it, and I can’t help but feel responsible (natural causes? Give me a break).

Though the book sold fewer than twenty-three copies (eighteen fewer, in fact), critically it was a smash. Examine the following testimonials:

“….not….a mess, from start to finish...written by...a man…” — Daniel Jones, The Irish Times.

“….I could…make head nor tail of it” — Joanne Lancaster, The Independent

“…a miracle…made…light of day…and…Stephen King is sh*tting himself” — Don O’Brien, The Literary Review

Enjoy!

THE BLOODENING

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 341 of 341

…that he’d crunched the numbers, and a Rick Astley tribute band simply wasn’t financially viable,” said Lucy.
“I don’t think this is the time, or the place,” replied Max, warding off the closest vampire with his makeshift crucifix of twin toilet brushes.

The moon was full, bathing the castle courtyard in a dull blue glow. Max checked the alignment of his toilet brushes to ensure they criss-crossed at appropriate right-angles to qualify as a crucifix. Lucy loaded a fresh clip into her M16 fully-automatic machine gun. Neither was ready to go down easy.

Lucy pressed her back against Max’s. What were the bastards waiting for? Who would attack first? Wolfman? Frankenstein’s monster? Medussa? The hungry T-Rex? Dracula? Or perhaps the escaped mental patient? Max hoped it would be the escaped mental patient, because he had no supernatural powers and was pretty much a sitting duck in his straitjacket.

“Transylvanian package holiday my ass,” spat Max, taking the brochure from his back pocket and flinging it to the ground.
“I’m scared,” said Lucy.
“Why?” said Max.
“Because…because we’re going to die.”
“I was being sarcastic,” replied Max.

Just when all seemed lost, the unmistakable sound of a 1964 Harley Davidson ruptured the night air. It was Bruce, the Vampire Hunter. He’d come back, just like he promised. Ramping over the drawbridge and into the courtyard, he circled the monsters, revving the engine and swinging his trusty mace above his head. Max and Lucy punched the air with excitement.

Leaning back, Bruce accelerated his bike full-throttle to instigate a wheelie. Unfortunately, the acceleration was excessive, and he drove straight into the nearest wall at high speed.

“Bruce, no,” cried Lucy.
“He’s gone,” said Max, restraining her from running to him.
“No I’m not,” said Bruce.
“He’s alive,” cried Lucy.
“We can’t help him now,” said Max.
“Yes you can,” said Bruce calmly.

Dracula made short work of Bruce in his weakened state, beating him to death with the detached handlebars of his own bike. The killing took little more than an hour, during which Lucy never opened her eyes.

“You’ll pay for what you did to Bruce,” said Max.
“Who’s Bruce?” asked Dracula.
“That guy,” said Max, pointing to Bruce’s mangled carcass.
“That’s Bruce?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce Steel?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce Steel, The Vampire Hunter?”.
“Yes.”
“Ok,” said Dracula, throwing his eyes up to heaven.

The monsters tightened the cordon, encroaching ever closer. The bloodening was nigh.

“You know,” said Max, “I always regretted not asking you out Lucy. I came close so many times, but something always held me back. Maybe it was how you still seemed to be grieving for Danny.”
“Well, he only died on Thursday…,” said Lucy.
“I know, I know,” said Max.
“…and he was your son,” said Lucy.
“I know, but still. Do you ever wonder? What might have been between us?”
“Honestly? Not really. I like you as a friend, but I don’t find you remotely sexually attractive,” said Lucy.
“Oh. Well, this is awkward,” said Max.
“A little,” said Lucy.
“Hey Dracula,” bellowed Max, changing the subject to alleviate some tension, “your fangs are crooked. Don’t you floss?”

The monsters descended upon Lucy and Max. The bloodening was swift, and surprisingly bloody for a bloodening, which despite the misleading name, was usually a pretty clean, neck-breaking affair. No trace of the pair was ever found, except for Lucy's spleen, scalp and right arm, and Max's brain, left testicle and bladder.

Legend has it that Lucy and Max can still be seen, wandering the Transylvanian moors on a misty night. It's a stupid legend, because they're both dead, and even in the context of vampires and werewolves, spectral ghosts are an absurdity.

Of Bruce, the Vampire Hunter, the villagers insist he survived the bloodening and still patrols the countryside, fighting against the undead hordes. Again, that's just stupid, because he was violently bludgeoned to death in an instance of sustained, blunt-force trauma.

THE END

Question Time: Wild Pumas and Adult Movies

2009-04-27T20:56:00.006+01:00

You were the darling of the adult movie industry, until your accident. Will we ever see you in front of the camera again?

Tamara,

Sligo

It’s not all about the accident Tamara. These days, a fractured penis is as treatable as a common cold: a splint and a couple of Nurofen is all you need.

No, it was a different game back then, and I’m not sure I recognise what the industry has become. There used to exist a parity between story-line and intercourse. In fact, I wrote, starred in, and directed Close Encounters of the Sex Kind, still the only adult movie ever made in which nobody has sex (I was successfully sued for flagrant false advertising in a class-action suit that cost me 13.6 million Canadian dollars).

Close Encounters was an extreme example, but there were happier mediums. I remember making a film called A Few Good Semen, which was a well-scripted, well-acted courtroom drama until the last five minutes, when the trial descended into a disturbingly graphic orgy (it was in this movie that I fell from a trapeze swing and fractured my own penis, and the penises of several co-stars).

How r u? Also, were r u?

Jamie,

Belfast

The text line is now permanently closed.

For the last time, keep your God damned cat out of my tree. Or so help me, I will drag it down and put manners on it myself. Do you even have a license for that thing?

Cormac,

Tralee

License? For a puma? In Ireland? Are you kidding?

Best of luck getting him out of the tree. If I can’t stop him killing the local livestock, and I’m his owner, I really fear for your chances of dragging him out of a tree by his tail. Bring lots of bandages, is all I’d say.

My Dad says you have a chip on your shoulder because you didn’t win the part of Christy Brown in My Left Foot. Were you even in the running?

Geoff,

London

In the running? Let’s just say I was made assurances Geoff, and on the strength of those assurances did a lot of preparation work for the part. For example, I learnt to paint, visited with the Brown family on numerous occasions, and spent a full year moving nothing but my right foot (I misread the script).

Day Lewis only pipped me because budgets were tight and he brought his own wheelchair.

I’m still waiting on those insurance details. I trusted you to send them on, because you said it was an emergency and you had to run. That van is my family’s livelihood. People are depending on me,

Jill,

Cabra

Hi Jill, I’m going to let my lawyer Frank field this one:

Hi Jill, Frank here. It is illegal to leave the scene of an accident before the police arrive. Both you and my client have broken this law, and therefore neither one of you can legally make a claim against the other. Have a nice day.

Yeah, have a nice day Jill.

I don’t care what the paternity test says, he is your child. Why won’t you accept him?

Patricia,

Athenry

We’ve been through this. When the paternity test proved he wasn’t mine, I was relieved. Afterward, when the maternity test proved he wasn’t even yours, I was more confused than anything. But when the doctor broke the news that you and I are biological twins? That was the last straw. The physical relationship is over. Happy birthday sis.

What’s your position on torture of suspected terrorists?

Jim,

Devon

I’m for it Jim, on the proviso that exonerated detainees are compensated. A George Foreman Grill (or equivalent value in vouchers) should be the least an innocent putz can expect when his testicles have been warmed to the tune of five hundred volts.

Is it true you invented the mobile phone?

Donna,

Glasnevin

No Donna, I invented the ‘Immobile Phone’, a communication device fashioned from a wrought iron, Blacksmith’s anvil. It never caught on, even among blacksmiths. Only one hundred were ever made, all of which were eventually melted down to make smaller, better anvils with no call-making features.

Your son Chad recently made an emotional tribute to his mother during his acceptance speech at the 2009 Surfing World Championship. Afterwards, holding the trophy aloft, he said, “See this Dad? Up yours, old man. Up yours.” What gives?

Joel,

Fermanagh

I believe he was referring to how I never believed in him, Joel. I thought he would amount to jack-squat, and told him so at every available opportunity throughout the course of his life. Boy did he prove me wrong, not only with the surfing, but his PHD in Advanced Thermonuclear Physics and subsequent Nobel prize nomination.

I still have a feeling that he’ll screw it all up though, and amount to nothing. So I’ll continue to keep him at arm’s length until I see some real results. It's unfortunate that he's fallen ill of late, but I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to patch things up once he gets back on his feet and out of the hospice.