LAPDOG   BITES   BULLDOG (9) by Perkin Warbeck



Bray, County Wicklow was the location of a genuine Book of Revelations vibe recently. Specifically the chapter featuring the Burning Bush. It came at the end of the long hot summer when a gorse fire went into so-called Sweeny Todd mode and, by God, remorselessly shaved Bray Head as bald as a billiard ball.

Thereby uncovering in the process a gigantic four-letter word complete with fada:


Some historians subscribed to the view that it carbon-dated from the Hitler v Churchill War and had served as a reminder to Luftwafe and Right-wing RAF alike that Here be a Neutral Country. (This was long before the Here be Dragons phase of Irish hysteria). Dissident historians diatribed that it had a far more ancient provenance than the HC dispute and that the dashes of Brian Ború could be detected in the signature on the hillside.

Last word was left to the real historians who jibed at both schools of opportunistic journalism above by definitively stating that the typeface on the slope was plain to see to be: Times Old Roman. For that was the last time in the recorded history of the county that (gulp) the Wick had burned so Low.

Nó sin a chuala siad sa bhéaloideas faoin réigiún sin den chontae Cill Mhantáin, ar a dtugtaí Cuala.

As honorary doctors of history differ and patience dies of exhaustion the Supreme Arbiter on these matters was asked to adjudicate, as he does. All day, every day. In his voluminous columns of the failing Unionist Times. And in that sublimely diffident way of his, to boot. That would be, ar ndóigh, The Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop.

Sadly, he had to withdraw with a bad dose of distemper. It was the fada over the É what done it for him. For nothing gets the, erm, wick, be it ever so low, be it ever so high, of the inner Fido of FOTUS (for it is still he ! Fintan O Toole Uber Shoneen) than that same doggone F for Fada. This is understandable.

After his long, lonely Intifada against Anglophobia (which his inner honorary coroner had pronounced dead as, begob, the provebial hobnail on March 17 just prior to the long, hot summer mentioned above) the shock to his system to see this phenomenally big F of a Fada on Bray Head was the opposite to token; in fact the shock was spoken of as toxic.


Or as Joe ‘Talk to Me’ Duffy, long-time Clontarf resident might say, in his best up-front, preserved-in-formaldahyde Ballyfermot accent:


Being both descended (and distended) from The Toole, aka The Imam of Imaal in the Wicklow Mountains, flinty Finty had a particular, erm, dog in this fight, so strong was his temptation to, ahem, unleash his bark at that long inhumed and newly exhumed Fada on Bray Head.

Strongly tempted though he was to bark –the glib lad could adlib for Idlib – for the first time in the Free Southern Stateen since the Death of Anglophobia instead, FOTUS decided, in the manner homeric, to temper his response by opting for distemper.

His barks in these troubled Brexiting times are solely directed, in a mighty and main way, in an easterly direction at his beloved Mainland. Specificially towards that quinessential quiche-eater and flaunter of inherited backsheesh:

– The Jacob, the self-appointed bone-china teacup-toting taoiseach of the Rees Mogg Monolith.

Thereby committing the ultimate crime of unsreasonable treason in the colonial mind: leaving Occidental England high, dry and adrift.

Or Citizen Rees Mogg as the Linguistic Lapdog barks up the wrong Twee: the cad who appropriated to himself that Epicentral Object of Anti-Semitism in the Free Southern Stateen (aka The Holy Gruel of Gaelphobia):

-The Jacob Biscuit Tin.

Smoggers thus is the main target on the Mainland of the most watchful of Lapdogs in the failing journal of the anti-Boggers.

Ní hionadh dá laghad mar sin gurb í Tír an Tiffin san iarnóin is mó a spreagann an Madra Lapa chun tafainn go tapa ó dhubh go dubh, 12/7, gan trácht ar an síor-chnáimhseáil ó bhán go bán, 12/7.

Duibhlinn, oops, Dyflinn, om, Dublin, latterly even DUPlin is the capital of Éire which is long for Eire, aka Free Southern Stateen, or, Occidental England, but which Dublin?

There’s Dublin, Ireland and then, there’s Dublin, Texas. (Population: 3,000 plus).

From Bray the first Dublin is but a short hip-hop on The Dort along (gasp) Blurred Lines, notoriously plagiarised by Robin Thicke, thereby guaranteeing ginormous play time on the knob-twiddling Thickies of RTE, the failing broadcasting wing of The Unionist Times. Yes, the same line, The Dort where the stations of Kingstown, Blackrock, Sydney Parade and Lansdowne are known as The Stations of the Crass.

The difference between both Dublins, Ireland and Texas, at this moment in time, going f., might be reduced to:

-Four and Fore.

In Croke Par (so designated to emphasise its incompletion) the two main stands are called the Cusack and the Hogan. Two men of that name were bliggarded in each of those two Dublins, Ireland and Texas. Cusack was bliggarded in a bout of reverse racism by a fictional anti-Gael Semite called L. Bloom. Hogan, was bliggarded by fate, losing his blacksmith pop to suicide by shotgunshot in 1922, compelling his widowed mom to clean the houses of her lessers.

Both were associated with G-named sports: Cusack with the GAA and Hogan with Golf; Michael and Ben, respectively. Although Ben Hogan was nicknamed the Hawk it was in no way related to the Hawkeye located on Hogan Stand, which is also named after a Michael who succumbed to gunshot wounds, not self- inflicted, on a sanguinary Sunday in 1920 in Croke Par. As a result of the GAH being unable to control the patrollables.

The GAA was founded in 1884 and Dr. Pepper’s in 1885 (coincidentally the same year as, erm, Jacob’s Biscuits was first trademarked): both were later H.Q’d in Dublin; D, Ire and D, Tx respectively.

Slim Willett, three quarters Irish (don’t ask) and one quarter Cherkokee (don’t even dream of asking), was a native of Dublin, Texas and a hillbilly singer of note. Of particularly melodic note. His first composition was (gulp) ‘A Tool Pusher from Snyder’ but his one great big obese global hit was ‘Don’t let the Stars get in your Eyes’.

Uncle Thorneycroft Warbeck’s second least favourite nephew has even heard this wunnerful toon being played by a brass band, repeatedly, in the municipal park of the town below the Three Gorges Dam on the Yanztse River, China at the open-air senior-citizen dancing. Grandparents in one-child families in China have a lot of free time on their feet.

Confucius say: Srim Wirret the Papa Haydn of hirrbirry music.

They like C and W music big time in the Far East. And couldn’t care less who cares, not even a mountainy fiddler’s trouser cough. Unlike the sniffy minor chord crowd on the Near East of Liffeyside, them what are part and farcical parcel of the Communications Cartel with its West Brit Watchdogs including the Linguistic Lapdog, hashtag Closed Shep in the oriental part of Occidental England. And who think Dublin, as was pointedly pointed out in Caerdydd by the Cymru crowd last Thursday: ‘is like a small town in England’.

It was, lest we forget at the going down of the Sun or at the rising of the Moon, that the silver teapot of the latter, the suave and sophisticated son of Swatragh heself, CJH, got his greatest guffaw from the failing TUT and other lesser tutters, when he dissed the late ‘Bert Reynolds for being the sheriff of the C and W wing of the ailing and Fianna Failing party. The banal-retentive Brit followers on Liffeyside take their lead on C and W from their dogwhistling City and Eastern monocled masters on the Mainland.

The oriental over-reach of ole Slim Willet’s astral-strong song ‘Don’t let the Stars get in your Eyes’ had a feel of bringing it all back home: he was at home in his clapboard cabin in the dry-town of Dublin, Tx (a dry-town which is full of furtive wet backs to this day working thankless hours for ranchers called Hank) one doggone day when he got a letter from a good buddy in the Orient gay during the war there, in 1951, the same, on-going war of today, I declare. It contained a request from his GI pal to compose a song which would keep his gal’s thoughts on the grunt on the ground in a faraway place with a strange sounding name, Korea.

Rinne sian na gaoithe siansa Slim a shéideadh soir (agus siar) chun na Síne, ag baint sianadh fada sa tslí sin as ceol an chumadóra Hillbillí 16.

Slim’s first song had dealt with his time working as a (gulp) tool pusher on a bubbling oil well in Snyder, Tx   and so, is not in any way connected to the failing Unionist Times where (gasp) snide commentary has been long a tool of choice when it comes to dealing with the anti-semite (alleged) citizenry of the GAH. Indeed, now that Dublin-4 have more all-stars in their eyes than (gulp)   they can shake a biscuit tin at, snide commentary has taken over both sides of Tara Street, next to the Dort Station, a mere few hard yards from the pigeon-holes of the Tara and Feather (spitting) Unionist Times, failing.

Be assured that D-4-in-a-row is nowhere loathed more viscerally than in D4. That would be D4, on the Blurred Lines of The DORT, where the season ticket Thickies don’t take the knee for Ireland’s Call Girls or for Ireland’s Call Boyz, neither.

God alone knows what might happen if, next year, the theme music of the team of Dublin’s Four City becomes, (gulp) A-five a five-o, A-five, a five-o.

Folks talk about how the other 31 counties are agin the Dubs; perhaps, but their dislike seems like perfumed petals softly tossed onto the Liffey waters and pales next to the loathing of   those anti-Dub tossers from within the Pale: call them the Section 31 shoneens of DUPlin.

Not that the Failing TUT is alone in the D-4-in-a-row bashing. On the gauche bank of the Liffey we find the Fianna Failing Indo, whose pages are noted as the notorious nesting places for the Indo-Mynah birds. Not least in the sports pages where one of the biggest of its birds is particularly renowned for his ability to mimic the haka of the hackitariat in a former black-swan colony of the Empah, upon which, once upon a time, the oval-shaped sun never set.

Neil Francis (for it is he!) is the spearhead in spear-tackling Gaelic Futsol:


The people are embracing rugby as our new national sport – and rightly so !


I look around and see what is happening and I see what the kids are interested in, I see the national interest, I see the television figures, I see the sell-out crowds and the evidence of the sustained and broad appeal and it suggests strongly to me that rugby suits the Irish psyche and its attraction and success have more than just caught the imagination. We are now following suit with New Zealand in welcoming it as our national game.

Like another Blackrock Old Boy, who was mucho given to looking into his heart to read the tealeaves, to Brit-coin a phrase, it seems that NF (happy initials!) is more inclined to look into his jockstrap. Reading between the British and Irish lines of the front passage above, what Neil is actually asserting here is:

The goys who are most entitled to wear the Green Gansey of Oirland are them what don’t take a knee but stand Showlder to Showlder for Oireland’s Cawl’.


But, which shade of green? Just as there are Dublins and Dublins – see above- so also there are Neils and Neils.

The recently late and forever great Neil Simon fed the following into the mouth of Oscar Madison:

I got brown sandwiches and I got green sandwiches. Green sandwiches? They could be either very new cheese or very old meat.


Ceaptar gur chóir don NF a shoiléiriú cé acu den dá cheapaire glas is fearr a d’oirfeadh don chluiche nua náisiúnta atá ceaptha aige.

RTE, the broadcasting wing of both the Failing TUT and the Fianna Failing Indo, announced recently that it is shortly to screen another series of the ultra-derivative ‘Who do youse think youse are?’. This delves into the DNA and the DNK alike of minor, junior and intermediate Celebs in Occidental England.

Sadly, the bigboned Indo-Myna bird known as Neil Francis would appear not to have made the line-up nailed up on the dressing room door. Which is a pity, for it means we will have to wait a little longer to discover whether numbered among his ancestors in the family stable is one of the great celebrities of Hollywood – California, not Wicklow – during the Fabulous Fifties:

Francis the Talking Mule.

Which, by a commodious vicus of recirculation brings us back to where we started:





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