Yesterday, The Twelfth Day of Christmas, all our troubles seemed so far away, a bhuachaillí. But still, even the infamous Grouse heself is entitled to one last crib. By coincidence last night was also Twelfth Night, the last night of the Festive Season.
While the former translates as The Twalfth Day in Ulster Scots the latter is expressed as Nollaig na mBan in Leprechaun.
Shakespeare, of course, goosequilled one of his most delightfuly distilled comedies with that title and it’s almost as if he had Oíche Nollaig na mBan in mind. For of late, the almost forgotten term Nollaig na mBan has been revived with the risible rise of McHenpartyism, and which as Campbell of the Gregorian Cant can confirm, illiterally translates as:
The 3 Queens as usual brought gifts of Gold, F.M.
The Gold was supplied by the cross-garterd yellow stockings of Malvolia, Minister of Malevolence, wearing a less than beguiling fixed smile on his facebook. A first edition of Frankenstein was carried by a feisty Feste Westy Brit, in commemoration of the first horror book, written by Mary, daugher of Mary Wollstonecraft, the first Feminist. While the vanity Mirror was in the claw of Sir Andrea Auguecheek, whose ugly mug was almost stuck to the glass like a barnacle, under the impression (s)he’s as gorgeous as Georgina Clooney.
A cold coming these 3 Queens had of it but a warm welcome was afforded them amidst great, erm, rejoycing in the magical Panti Bliss Bar on incapable Capel Street. Dublin, of course, is the epicentre of epiphanies, that sorta thingy.
Yesterday, Nollaig na mBan, all our troubles looked like they’re here to stay, a bhuachaillí, Lyric FM, the classical musical wing of RTE, devoted the whole day, 24/7 to female music. Or, rather, Female Music. Sexclusively, no male music allowed / cosc ar cheol na gcloch. Leading, inevitably, to numerous reports of a Nineteeth Nervous Breakdowns. We can already look forward with Von Trappidation to the Next New Year’s Eve Night when – lemme see – a mere male such as the celerbated pianist Lang Lang will be banned from playing – ah, yis ! – Auld Lang Syne. Dublin warms its hands while Roberta Burns with resentment.
Back in the day of old, when Knights were bold they were still told what to do by their scolds of fishwives, the Ireland of Islands was divided in two: Leath Cuinn (Conn’s half) in the North and Leath Mogha (Mo’s half) in the South.
Baile Átha Cliath / Dublin, centre of conformity, even though it is not located in Conn’s Half, is still the gravitational navel of global a la mode as it is yet in Mo’s Half. Plus ca loose change. Thus, without any fuss, An Chailleach Feasa Facebook, humourless sourpuss Wet T-shirt Taoiseach of McHenpartyism, for whom any discuss is superfluous, has already broadcast on Broad Caste FM, that as from now on the following will no longer obtain:
–Lá Coille, coiscéim choiligh / A cock’s step is the increase in the day’s length on New Year’s Day.
Instead, it will be replaced by:
–Lá Coilleadh, coiscéim chirce/ A hen’s step is the increase in the day’s length on New Year’s Day.
In a phrase: Castration Once Again !
Sounds, does it not, like a (gasp) a squadron of mounted bowlegged Rope a Dopeheads on M.O.P.E.heads, from Kevin My Erse to Ruth Goodly News, oh my bold bombardier, who are in a perpetual state of incessant conniption, and who really should look south of the Black Sow’s Dyke to find where the true M.O.P.E.ry is located.
Kev, incidentally, is the bitter pillar of truth who has been outlandishly pilloried by pillocks riding pillion and who know no better, as:
-The Leicester Bigot.
M.O.P.E. is, indubitably, The Anglo-Anagram of the Century: Most Oppressed People Ever. And whose author, fortunately, prefers to remain synonymous with shoneenery. He is entitled to his piracy and as such, must be respected.
Nowadays his Wildean Wit-coinage would appear to apply to a certain persecuted cohort of the Free Southern Stateen:
-The Unfriendly Daughters of St. Patricia, Patron Saint of Paint-stripper Voices.
And it is Me Tuna, aka The Big Yen, who refuses to get out of the sea bed for anything less than three millions squids (in Japanese money) who is universally credited with lightbulbing the bright idea of – watt?
– ‘Let us show you our Hits, guys’ on Lyric FM 24/7.
Sadly,The Perkin due to a prior engagement in a Priory, had to give the Missies’ Hits a miss.
One lucky femmy (honorary) who did get to lend an hear ! hear ! to the progressive prog was T.U.T.
Purely by chance, TUT who struts his stuff by writing, writhing and riding a cock horse to Banbury Cross for his employers, the Organ of Record itself, and coincidentally a rhyming anagram, TUT/ The Unionist Times, found himself far, far away in outher space. We are of course talking here about FOTUS (Fintan O Toole Uber Shoneeen) aka The Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop aka:
-The Ultima Thule.
FOTUS was photographed a full (gasp) 4,000, 000, 000 miles from Planet Earth. Phew ! What a (gulp) view.
This most distant object EVER photographed by a spacecraft is a reddish, snowman-shaped space rock 4 billion miles from Earth. Its reddish colour corresponds with the fav col of the stock stick- figure Continuity Sticky while its odd shape, which scientiests term a ‘contact binary’ indicates it formed as two spherical roxcmks slowly fused together in the early days of the solar system.
Yes, even a Fear Sneachta le Cojones de Nieve needs to get away now and again from (burp) peanut-brained earthlings the better to give his e-normous ego more stretch room commensurate with its sheer ginormity and also, to recharge his Eveready brain as large as (trouser cough) Uranus.
Ní hionadh go bhfuil gach magairle i Sasana Thiar chomh meidhreach sin le seachtain anuas.
The Perkin once had the leisure of seeing Barry Douglas slouch on to the stage in Singapore in Beatle boots to tickle the ivories with a memorable rendition of the Emperor Piano Concerto by Beethoven. After which he slouched off with his Beatle boots still on, with all the aw-shucks nonchalance of that Horowitz of the Honky Tonk, Jerry Lee Lewis, even while the roof was nearly roared off its beams with the diffident Chinese versions of yells, yippees, huzzas and whoopees reaching to the rafters.
The Perkin, sadly, as mentioned did not get to lend an ear to the Pyrric Victory for Irritability on Lyric FM yesterday.
The reason was simple: due to a prior engagement in a Priory where no violonce is done to the Vow of Silence. And the sadness was magnified because one had so anticipated listening to a modern day mistresspiece such as the Empowerment Piano Concerto by Bee Twoven and played by a virtuoso (gulp) tash-hag would-be pianist called something like (gasp) Carrie Smugness.
But if The P. failed to tune in one who did was FOTUS, as already namechecked, who was determined to make it back in time to hear:
–If music be the low-calorie food of love, play on.
For despite pausing briefly on the dark side of the moon on the way back to admire the Tara-shaped hills lording it over the poor craters of outcroppies, and where the harpies that once did, still do, nonetheless he still made back in time and in Times.
Yes, notwithstanding that it was, ullulation time again, from the Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop who can sniff phoney reports no matter how distant.
For it was nothing but feckn’ F.N. (Fake News) on the part of the Chinee on all about New Year’s Eve . These chow meanies had chosen to, erm, take away the glory of exploring the Dark Side of the Moon from The Ultima Thule. But we in Occidental England know better: The Thule has been exploring the Dark Side of the Irish Mún for more years than any of us care to dismember. Thule and Mún after all go hand in hand and sometimes, even, hand in glove.
-What, prey, o Crooked Mouth of the Gregorian Cant does Mún mean in Leprechaun? A conduit towards the porcelain, perchance?.
-Pass off, will ye !
-Oh, I see, pee. So, in other words: The Thule passes (as) the Ultima Urine?
An Rud Ómra
Ó fill, fill, fill, fill,fill, a rúin-ó
Is líon an bodéal le do mhún-ó !
‘Tú m’Ab le bod !’
Arsa Amber Rudd
Ghnothaigh tú í led G. chluain-ó.
Another deathless line from Shakespeare’s Twelth Night (or Twalfth Night in Ulster Scots) was uttered by (burp) Sir Toby Belch :
–Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?
No more CAE, therefore from the CEO of a caught-short Conformity; from now on it will a steady diet of (trouser cough) Aches and Kale.
–If music be the carlorie-free diet of love, play on.
And because, in the only English-only speaking stateen left in the EU, henceforth, according to McHenpartyism, the legal limit of Leprechaun allowed on information highwasys is the cúpla focal therefore Nollaig na mBan is considered one over the linguistic limit. Thus, it will be, from this time forth, known only as:
–Nollaig na Monolith.
Sounds rather like, does it not, something that fell off the back of Peter Lorre ?
Ah, yis: South of the Black Sow’s Dyke where tis:
Lethal to be Foetal
McHenpartyism holds coercive control
Over Patron St.Cecilia’s art form : ceol
Where it is lethal
To dare be foetal
Put that to music now: Wilhelma Joel.
Ah, yis: Occidental England.
A New Republic is Born
(if nothing else)
Infallible Neo-Popes of the Stethoscope
Like to Ulysses summoned by Penelope
Dopey, not, see-
Have invented a b-new trope for K.T.P.
Hark ! Breaking Fake News:
Once again TUT is first with the FN as this delish morsel of media hokum, no jokin’, appeared in their January 1, 2019 edish::
(Warning this news report might contain Flash Harry photography of a Fat Harry building. Best therefore to raise one’s head slow-ly above the paragraph.).
–The service was held in the Protestant church in Drogheda, dating from the 12th century with centuries old bells – and once attacked by Cromwellian forces.
Erm, fact check.
In 1534, Henry VIII, the King of England, separated from the Roman Catholic Church to establish the Church of England, because the pope would not grant an annulment of his first marriage. The Act of Supremacy established this new Anglican church in Ireland calling it the Church of Ireland.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED