When, in the fateful year of 1992, Francis Fukuyama penned his pivotal prose essay ‘The End of History’, the mint-sucking drama king FOTUS (haka for Fint O Toole Uber Shoneen) was in the second calendar year of his epochal stint of posing as the Artistic Adviser to the Abbey Theatre.
Apart from the too obvious similarities of their surnames, there is another parallel bar which links these two mental gymnasts. A bar raised to such a height indeed that it eludes, in all probability, those too numerous observers who inhabit the over-hallowed halls of the shallow. For in the fullness of time, a quarter of a century and a bit later, Fint, the Clint Westbrit of The Unionist Times, made every reader of that daily’s day, when he went on to tap out his own pivotal prose essay ‘The End of Anglophobia’, which finally saw print in 2018.
Thus, indubitably, cementing the reputaton of FOTUS as one of the great Purloined-up Thinkers of the Age.
One chooses ‘tap out’ advisedly. For, as The Toole himself is fond of saying: the penis, oops, the pen is not quite as mighty as the keyboard.
The reason for the delay in producing the F tribute to Fukuyama was as simple as shooting haddock in a paddock barrel: it took 26 and a bit years of incessant work on the Pommel Horse of Political Correctness. Yes, that’s how long it took the ‘Cromwell of Crumlin’ (whispered in awe by The Fint’s most fervent fans – the Foxrock Fannies) to finally pummel the mar dhea Rommels of Republicanism into extinction. And in the process, leaving his FOTprints in the Sands of warcrime.
26 is, ar ndóigh, a sacred number for West Britons who believe in it just as fervently as, say, lemme see, ah yis, the Messenger Boy who won the first ever 26 and a bit miles race from Marathon to Athens, back in the pre-dawn of day.
Little wonder therefore that the theme music of Fint O Toole’s flinty-eyed stint as Artistic Adviser in the Abbey Theatre was played by him, incessantly, on his too obvious favourite musical instrument, the Old Orange Flute :
-Tooraloo ! Toolaray ! Och, it’s 26 Myles from Pangur to Dontchasee?
Pangur ? Easily explained by the old Lephrechaun Proverb:
-Is Rí é an Tooleabhánach i nDúiche na nDall / In the Land of the Bland tis the one-note Nerd wot rises above the Herd.
Myles, Ersewhile comical columnist of The Unionist Times, was Fint’s predecessor in that role ( cf. ‘A pint of plain Black ‘n ‘Tan is your only man’) And it was from the writhings of Myles, who had some Gaelic and less German, that the monoglot Fint, Messenger Boy of the Mainland, first learned of Pangur and the danger she posed.
Pangur was, simply, the first Pin up Pussy of the Leprechaun-speaking Bog Oak Monolith. And what made this pussy particularly dangerous was that she did not at all conform to the hackneyed stererotype of the official Knorritive as peddled by Fint and his fellow red, white and blueprint Souper Stars of Shoneenism.This is because her biog was written far from the bog: she was born, bred, blessed, fed and eventually ended up safely dead in a monk’s cell on the island of Reichenau in Lake Constance in 9 AD.
Mise agus Pangur Bán I and Pangur Bán my cat
Ceachtar againn lena shan-dhán Tis a like task we are at:
Bíonn a meanma-san le seilg, Hunting mice is her delight
Mo mheanma féin i mo shain-cheird. Hunting words I sit all night.
It was an Englishman, ironically enough but not so much (think Mícheál Mac Liammóir in a different Theatre of Operations), Robin Flower / Bláithín who translated the original of Pangur Bán by Sedullius Scotus, a tranny which hasn’t been bet yet, even by those who, erm, burnished a famous sheen to it..
Myles, being the sly Strabane boyo he was, before he had all that Gaelic schlock knocked out of him in Blackrock College, ponied up the plan to avoid making a fuss about this awkward puss called Pangur of the Swiss-German lake. It would only make mincemeat and a f-up of the fake news from An Béal Bocht that the Gaelic, the Patois of Pat, was but a peripheral Wild Wesht Atlantic Way cant. Not to mince words this revelation would leave Myles quaking in his wee size 6 shoes for fear he’d lose his stake as the resident Fooleen for his masters, the King Leers in The Unionist Times.
Hence, the chorus líne: ‘Tooralooy, Toolaray, och, it’s 26 Myles from Pangur to Dontchasee ?’.
The ‘Dontchasee’ was, or course, a reference to the Revival which a fearful Irish-trans-English Myles opted to call ‘the Retrieval’. Hence the neo-proverb:
–The only thing necessary for the Triumph of The Retrieval is for Goody Two Shoes O Toole not to rule out not doing Sweet Fanny Adams.
This fear of the pioneering Pin-up Pussy called Pangur, in turn influenced the Pussy Rights at the Abbey Theatre last year. This uprising and downshouting, incidentally, is not in any way to be confused with the Pussy Riots during the World Cup (Diving) recently in Mockba, Russia even though both of course are art, part and crafty members of the global Miaow 2 movement.
In the latter case the Pussy Rioters hopped over the baricades, rushing on to the pitches disguised as Police. Before being Putin, oops, put in their places with a certain smart dispatch by a synchonised use of the truncheon and an absence of extreme unctuousness on the part of the actual Police. Broadcasers were forbidden to even mention the anti-him impertinence of the Pussy Rioters.
In Dubh Linn, on the other hand, the Pussy Righters were treated differently: for it was they who were the actual Police, the, erm, Thought Police. In this brave, courageous act (Act Check !) of hopping over the footlights and rushing up to (gasp) grace the stage of the National Theatre did they put in the ultimate unscripted shift. Not only were they, Les Thespians, put in their natural places – both on the Board and the boards of the Abbey – but they were fawningly treated with gourmet luncheons and food parcels of lavish praise by a scrupulously impartial media on the banks of the preternatually sniffy Liffeyside.
It fell, ar ndóigh, to the lot of FOTUS (‘ You can always back ‘Tan O Toole to be the man who is in the van for An Bhean’) to provide the most most supreme example of extreme unctuousness for this daring preview of ‘A Trial Run for Hash-Tagism in Full Flow’:
-Thursday’s thrilling #WakingTheFeminists meeting at the AbbeyTheatre may be a turning point in the fight for gender equality in the arts. But something else in the affair of Waking the Nation, the Abbey’s male-dominated 2016 centenary programme, is all too familiar: bad governance.
If we ask how we got to the point where the National Theatre didn’t notice that its “nation” was made up almost entirely of people with penises, we must of course look at the deep roots of male privilege and female marginalisation.
Is díol spéise de shíor don Pearcánach na scríbhneoirí úd a dhéanann deimhin daingean de a slointí a lua gan teip ina gcuid scríbhinní, bealach amháin nó bealach eile.
-The only thing necessary for the Triumph of the the Primeval is for Goody Two Shoes O Toole not to rule out not doing Sweet Fanny Adams.
For, of course, what Waking the Feminists essentially meant was the Waking of Darby O Gael: no more crock of old gold for DOG at the foot of the New Rainbow/ tá go leor óir faightte ag DOG agus ní bheidh pingin rua nó bonn breise airigid le fáil choíche aige tar éis na hoíche seo ag bun an Bhogha Báistí Nua ó na Puisíní Ceartchreidmheacha seo.
-Galphobia is dead ! Long live Gaelphobia !!
Curious how one common or garden letter – ‘e’ – is the differ in the price of a heifer – Gal and Gael -and then innocent folk wonder just why the Free Southern Stateen is so e-primitive. Between the Broad Bands and the Bodcasts, the answer lies within.
After they had completed the de rigeur Pangur Managment Course, ar ndóigh , The Pussy Righters, aka The Gal-i-bean were not long in giving the Old Lady of Abbey Street both a mike and a make over. It started with the installation of an ATM in the small theatre downstairs (The Peahen, née, The Peacock) and an ABE in the main one upstairs, (The None-ery, née, The Abbey).
The ATM, will come into play when the first ever Pantomime in the Queen’s English opens at Happy Holiday time in December, a gal-a event which will formallly bring the curtain down on The Last Night of the Blight ! So, instead of the primeval Geamarachtaí na Gaeilge / Irish Pantomimes which were once a fatuous feature of the theatre during The Blight era of Earnán de Blaghd aka the Boll Weevil, this year’s Panto for starters, will see a right good rollicking production of (gulp) the all dancing, the all prancing, the all arm-chancing :
-The Pride of Petrovore: A Pioneer of the LBGTQ Movement !
There could only be one choice of Queue-coaxing Panto – when archival studies into the Percy French Letters, after the Forget me Knots had been unravelled, revealed that the one surviving lithograph of Eileen Óg showed her prior to having a man-icure: she is seen to be examining her fingernails with her fingers in a curve pointing towards herself rather that with her fingers at full stretch pointing away from her. Hence the first line (Potboiler Alert !)
–For féach’s sake, what fake news we have been force fed up to this, sisters !
The ATM machine will be one with a difference; and will be available to (gulp) male members of the audience only. For them the use will be, erm, mandatory. After they have inserted the relevant unhappy ap into the slot of the machine and pressed the relevant bally buttons they will be in receipt of a list, detailing the first hundred crimes committed against the biological war-fare sex. Not to mention a reminder of what this target specific ATM machine stands for:
-Anti Toxic Masculinity.
After the rapturous reception including a handstanding ovation at the coming down of the curtain and at the going up of the houselights in The Peahen by the hitherto hostile audience comprising of handpicked critics and nosepicking Junos from God Knows Where, the panting cast of this first post-cant Panto will be given a Garda escort – she kawnee, she kawnee, she kawnee – for an apres- show round of pink drinkies for the thinking lip syncs in the Panti Bliss Bar on Anti-Papal Capel Street. There, to sweat, oops, glow it out with bated halitosis and nervous neurosis for the arrival of the first, erm, glowing review and detailed diagnosis by (gasp) Dr. FOTUS !
–The only thing necessary for the Triumph of The Boll Weevil is for Goody Two Shoes O Toole not to rule out not doing Sweet Fanny Adams.
Meanwhile, the lobby of the main audtitorium upstairs , The None-ery, née, The Abbey, will be dominated by a large tricoloured sign hanging by six-strap lace suspender belts from the ceiling:
A in red, B in white and E in blue.
But, whatever can that mean?
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT / TO BE CONTINUED