LAPDOG   BITES   BULLDOG (15) by Perkin Warbeck





When historians of the future look back on the affairs of the current time of inanity south of the Black Sow’s Backstop, they will surely christen, oops, baby-name it, assuming that the political climate will have changed back to something remotely resembling sanity:

-The eerie Éire era of the C.A.D.

Now this is in no way to be confused with what they call CAID down in Kerry City, a variant of Gaelic Football that in turn is but a version of Bogball. A recent example of which was the ding-dong when a demented mentor from Dingle, propelled by Daingean anger, lunged on to the field of play and flung a haymaker with Fungie-style elegance. Which felled a blindsided player from the Beasts of East Kerry City.

Actually, there was even a more ample sample further north in Yerraland where Teleporter Gaels finally got the upper fork on Crowbanger Rangers. No, not CAID, so.


Let us hope and prey that these historians of the future will go back to the past and eschew the new, for the contemporary crop are, sadly, in the main a dead loss, led by lead dross. Preoccupied as they are in toto with the headlines of the daily news and in the process going toe to toe with an unfashionable politico. Invariably a Sally Ann set up to be rattled, one specially hand-picked by algorithms and a presenter with an agenda, and with whom the historian is pally. In these gender equal times there is but one agenda permissible.

Contemporary chroniclers are now, bizarrely, the First Responders to the First Draft of history: the microphone is where these hackademics are at. Each a trophy guest with a big loaf from the very best groves of academe.

Thus, it is (sigh) well nigh impossible to turn the knob of one’s wireless these days without hearing a distinguised knob of a professor and he/ she to be playing truant while simultaneously acting the part of a banal-retentive annalist in a broadcasting studio. Complete with mortarboard and tassel-a-dangle he/she is there to lend gravity to the cavity of the narrow-angle talk-journo’s skull. Not to mention the depravity of the day-to-day tittle-tattle.

Fakey ! Fakey ! as the forgotten Billy boys from the Land of Cotton News might roar.

Stair, of course, is the Leprechaun for History. No, Gregory, it does not rhyme with the first part of stairway but rather with that to which it is said to lead: Star.

So, the Stars of Rannóga na Staire/ History Departments in Universities in The Free Southern Stateen instead of, erm, ferreting through dusty files are to found, ever-ready, to be mouthing the must-say mantras, fashionable from Antrim to Santry, with the exception of McArthur’s Pantry. Promulgating the prevailing go-to bromides of the moment, guaranteed to morph any discerning listener into a virtual homicidal maniac.

Resulting in the inevitable head line:

-Freddy Stair ate my hampster !

Small surprise then that Dublin is the New Hampsterdam.

Thus, this STAIR Trek undertaken by the f-ing battery of Ever-Readies is a contributing factor to:.


Which is a hackronym and refers, of course, to the Blessed Trinity of Referendum-de-dum-dum-di-diddley-i, two of which have already in recent Times convulsed the Free Southern Stateen in general and Dublin in particular. And which the third will also do, anytime soon. Indeed, High Noon is coming very soon, oh my darlings.

The C. Referendum has already been done, dusted and come to a (gulp) backstop and so, need not detain us.

A, gan dabht, stands or falls for Abortion.

The Caddenistas who supported the A. Referendum are currently engaged in a joyous laptop of honour through the streets of Dublin, prior to the jubilant unveiling of a fitting monument to Ireland’s most unsung hero (that loutish term, heroine is – out !) and who made the result possible, remotely:

-Nurse Cadden.

It will top the recently unveiled statue in India and reputedly the tallest statue in the world, that of a Mere Man of the Ganges. The one with a garganuan ego on his granite physog.

All those Yessir-that’s-not-my-Baby voters are beside themselves with anticipation of this unveiling which, ar ndóigh, will take place in (gulp) Dame Street. On the site of a recently toppled statue, again of another Mere Man. Name of Tommy Davis, Jnr, whose gawky statue bore a remarkable similarity to Frankenstein’s Monster. And was obviously prompted by Mary Shelley’s Ballet Dancing with the Stars of Literary History, like Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe, the ultimate anti-Bish.

For the past month or so, the wussy-whupped doggies, with, ní nach ionadh, Úna, The Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop, as always, in the lead have graciously made way for the moggies of the Miaow 2 Removement on the metropolitan avenues and Mullally ways of Dublin. These moggies   have been caterwauling, this past twelvemonth, about the imminent Righting of a Hysterical Wrong-A-Ding-Dong.

At the same time as Mamie Eisenhower and her First Gentleman, Dwight, were resident in the White House, Nurse Mamie Cadden, gan sliocht, gan locht, was ensconsed in her Spite House on Hume Street, D 2. Yes, that Spite House on a B.A.C. street with its too-bright, set-to-rights room of womb-unfriendly furnishings.

This phenomenal Feminist was truly A Head of her Times : the attractive Subtractionist’s very long blonde hair could be seen getting a daily blowdry job from the breeze, as she vroomed through the Sesame Streets of Dublin at the wheel of her cherry-red, open-topped MG sports car. A Joan Fanges of F and F. This was a time in whose historical cycle, the colourles Forties and the odourless Fifties, when such vehicles were as rare as a surviving deckchair from the Titanic.

Ironically, she resembled nothing so much as Big Bird from Birdland, though the lullaby was her least favourite of musical genres. Birds matter. For, and, erm, the act of fact-checking will bare this out, she was a real stony-hearted, gamey-eyed stirling warrioress (oops, warrior) of the wheel who gathered no moss and had no meas on Posterity. Reminding hereself for those who could lipread at speed:

-What has Posterity ever done for me, Mamie baby?

Miked-up historians of the moment (see above) and who have never heard of Ike ( see, also, above) compare her (favourably) with the saintly Dr Noel Browne and have in their brown-nosed way, christened her, oops, baby-named her, in retrospect, respectfully, Capability Brown. Whereas he (alas) failed with his Mother and Child Scheme in the Fifties she succeeded overwhelmingly with her (gasp) Mother and No Child Scheme in the same deadly Decade.

After her Spite House had been raided, the same week as a graceful lady of Mayo stock was married in Monaco, (there, by the Grace of God, went she), the uber-industrious Nurse C. was hauled off to chokey even as she rounded on her choke-tackling Cop captors with ‘take your curse-o-God paws offa me!’, to be charged with Industrial Strenghth Abortion as well as murder. Tháinig a Law.

As this graceless lady of Mayo stock defiantly stood in the dock, during what she dismissed as a ‘mock’ trial, she was duly sentenced to be hanged. But this was commuted (possibly on account of the rock-hardness of her slender neck) to a life sentence behind the grey, grim sky-high walls of the Asylum for the Criminally Insane in Dundrum-de-dum-dum, Dublin 14.

The Profit-making Prophetess is never recognised in her own country / Ní raibh meas madra ar an mBanaltra Bhrabúsach seo i measc a muintire féin lena linn, mo léan.

Now that the Ground Zero for the Hero’s monument has been sourced by force (moral, ar eagla go ndéanfar botún) the time is perhaps ripe to pipe up regarding the form it will take.

In honour of The Subtractionist Supreme some of the Caddenistas initially suggested renaming the city:


Others counselled a poetry competition, confined to Caddenistas, for a terse verse in Erse in honour of the Elite Delitist, your honour, .


Banríocht na hUimhriochta.


Ligimis búir d’Éan Mór a hAon,

Dhealaigh is chealaigh sí araon

Cuile ghinmhilleadh

Is seo leanas a bille

‘A haon ón a dó, sis, sin a haon’.

Thanks to the information revealed by the Timely exHumation (address oneself to the Spite House above, a léitheoir dhil) of dusty files in the dark archives of the Criminal Courts – zip your zapper, Zappo ! – the shape which the monument to this True Trumanitarian, will take can now be revealed. The shape of her Re-instatement into the Beantheon of the Stateen.

It will consist of (gulp) a vertical Art Installation and will be comprised of the cool Tools of the Hero’s Trade. Furthermore, as a sensitive study in essential baseness the base of the A.I. will be inscribed with the above slim, trim, anti-him/her Lim.

At the hero’s ‘mock’ trial, the state pathologist of the time gave evidence. He had visited the flat of Nurse Cadden the day after Mamie was arrested. He scoped out the premises with a forensic attention to D-tail and roped in no less than forty five exhibits including an array of instruments and medicines that could be used in abortions including, yes, the cool Tools of her Stock in Trade:

A jar containing a catheter (a narrow tube used for draining);

a jar of the disinfectant, Dettol;

two large douche tops;

a forceps;

six pairs of scissors;

a broken thermometer;

a scalpel;

five clip forceps;

three dissecting forceps;

two pessaries;

a rubber douche;

a plugging forceps;

a jar containing a speculum and other articles;

a syringe case;

a syringe case containing a tube that had in it three smaller tubes of atropine sulphate, hyoscyamine sulphate and morphine sulphate;

a syringe plunger;

a Higginson (!) syringe;

a douche apparatus with a can of tubing;

a long clamp forceps;

two hypothermic needles;

two drums containing items for sterilisation;

two white coats;

a jar of the lubrication, Vaseline,

three medical books,

a scalpel;

a jar containing a speculum and other articles;

a second (!) Higginson syringe;

a metal catheter and mucus extractor;

a flushing curette which is a spoon-shaped instrument for removing tissue from bodily cavities;

a long clamp forceps;

a folding examination table;

a vaginal speculum;

sulphur thianol tablets;

two drums containing items for sterilisation;

a box containing ampoules;

two (!) white coats;

a jar of the lubricant, Vaseline;

three medical books.


This F-for-Feminist Art Installation will actually complement the statue of the Great Liberator on the other Banksy of the Liffey. While both were humane killers, each chose different weapons: Dan the Mere Man from Kerry City, a duelling pistol; Mamie, a box of jewels, oops, Tools.


Before leaving the A-Level Referendum which passed (with honours, your honour) a minor D-tail; The Hippocratic Oath was somehow inadvertently overlooked and left unspoken by the fair-and-square Fourth Estate and other Fifth Columnists of the Free Southern Stateen.

As follows:

I swear by Apollo the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygieia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses, that I will carry out, according to my ability and judgment, this oath and this indenture.

I will use treatment to help the sick according to my ability and judgment, but never with a view to injury and wrong-doing. Neither will I administer a poison to anybody when asked to do so, nor will I suggest such a course. Similarly I will not give to a woman a pessary to cause abortion. But I will keep pure and holy both my life and my art..

Hip, hip, hooray, the Caddenistas say, for this Hip Replacement !

And the third of the Referendum-dum-dum-di? The D.-to-be?

That’s D for another Day.






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