LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (29) by Perkin Warbeck


In the very soon-to-be the only English only-speaking stateen in the EU (tarantara, tarantara) a prolonged  nurses’ strike was only narrowly averted at the legs-eleventh hour, if one, erm, May breach that particular deadline copyright.



The nurses’  strike, than which there can be hardly any worse, had been caused by the compulsory Irish curse-o’-God tendency to go hard on the old legal tender.  Commencing with, among other projects,  the  building of an art-of-the-stateen  Childrens’ Hospital on Squandermania Avenue with has-been bean counters being given toy blocks to compute with. 

Toy building blocks of wood, plastic and foam made, of various shapes (square, cylinder, arch, triangle, rhomboid, cube etc ) and colours provided they are strictly  confined within the right-on rainbow limitations: infra-red to ultra-violet.

 This is in keeping with the outlandish demands of a Childrens’ Hospital  in a Stateeen where  unbabies are unwelcome and Low-balling Leotards are all the fash among the ruling Caddenistas.  Not least among the anonymous Citzens’ Assembly during their ’Zen-like sessions, for which the respect which pours forth from the Fourth Estate of the Tash-Hag hackettes is saving-your-presence reverential.

The naming of the project proved, alas, to be the most problematical grumbling block of all: under pain of immortal shaming from  the editorial  pulpit of the  pulpable Unionist Times it just  had to legally  terminate and prematurely thwart  that wretched  RC tradition of  calling  secular childrens’ hospitals  in  Occidental England after apallingly unlikeable  religious icons. 

Mainland England, of course,  has a two-in-one religious head of state – you Roi one, get to Reine one in for free. This is no longer good enough for the brave new  Stateen:  therefore, the baptism of town crier  was perfromed  while still retaining an admonition to look up, up  at the  stars. Thus:

-The Pi in the Sky Childrens’ Hospital.


Now, those who are numerate and can count on the toes of one foot with the aid of a differential  abacus, Gus, will know that Pi is the cuddly nickname of the sweety Minister of Health on account of his being an, erm, irrational number. This means anytime he comes up with a number it is automatically multiplied by :

-3.1415926535897932384626433 97037662810834 and so on and so  forth and fifth and whatever comes into  the big, broad, braying Bray Head of the Minister.

And rounded off with a  right good root  up  the Sunny South East. 

Some cack-handed  folks are just born that way: destined to go through life, all sums.

He was braying recently in CrocoDail Eireann at the Shinners and berated them for their odious political  modus operandi, not giving other parties a chance to speak, critique or even free their bubble and squeak through the backstop.


As in, say…………….lemme see now……… ah, yis !

-Section 31 when back in the 70s (as in the 1970s), the Labour Dog-God , Conor Cruise O’Toe-the-Line,  wagged the Fine Gael Tail-Spin  or to give it its full tiara: 

-Section 31. 415926535897932384626433 97037662810834 of the Broadcasting Act, long long before, oddly enough, twaddle-prone  Simon was lying supine  in swaddling clothes.  With rare prescinence for this soundbyte zeitgeist, the same clothes were of herringbone Harris Tweed woven.

Let us pause now  at Limerick Junction:


Simon H, so soon delights in abortion

Drew, who’s righly doon on extortion

Wee 3 Jock boots

Sound like hoots !

Eoghan, face / politics in  contortion.

One place in Hibernia of the Harris Tweet Trio where there can never be a nursing strike (ever !) is, gan dabht dá laghad, at the legendary Weekend Parties of The West Brit Egg Head in West Egg. This is unsurprising, for the Concelebrating Host, The Great FOTsy (for it is still he!), is universally recognised as one of the great contemporary male  Nurses of Grievances. (NOG). Whose mode of transport of choice is, erm, a Moped.

His vast IQ is accomodated in a NOGgin of epic proportions. Little wonder therefore that he draws much of his inspiration from the charmingly named parish on the way in on the DORT to DUPlin  from Bray Head (see above), to wit,  Sallynoggin: it was from this placename he poached the idea for the setting up (gasp)  of Aunt Sally in Tara Brooch House. For  to be subsequently shot down by the discontented contents of  (gulp)   his very own Noggin.

One of the great attractions of his Weekend Parties  for the tailbacks  of acolytic hacks and hacketttes with their yellowpack unionjacks and with whom he’s preternaturally  pally  is the ceremonial shooting down of a Aunt Sally, immediately followed by a celerbratory and ceremonial   clinking of the noggins of  Ye Olde Englishe Pale Ale. Postdated  by?  Postdated by a rousing, pantie-waving chorus of Down by the Auntie’s Gardens !  

The grievances of The  Great FOTsby in his guise as  the male  Florence Nightingale of NOG  are primarily John  Bull’s eyed against the twin scours of:

–  Gaels and Altar Rails (strictly RC). 

Seal sosa anois  ag Acomhal Luimní:

            Macalla Maggie

Arsa Fintan: Níl fuckáil focal Gaeilge againn

Tá críoch le clog Romhánach agus a chling

Is e Fionnghlas 

Foinse Finchley

Nil na Dubanna fiú i láthair  na leathphing’.

The host, incidentally, was deservedly toasted recently as  ‘Finchley Fintan’ for this spot-on spot-kick observation which only barely failed to get inside the corner post :

People who work with culture are not “citizens of nowhere” but they are innately cosmopolitan. The whole point about Irish people running British cultural institutions and vice versa is that they do it because they can – the differences of culture and language do not form significant barriers.

To celebrate, erm,  FITTingly his week, old sports, The Great FOTsby  announced there would be a sporty theme at his Weekend Party. So let us see if one can spot a familiar facebook or five thousand among the truckloads of Zuckerberg suckers in self-invited attendance at this sporty party.

Between nibbles of one’s baked vegan donut there’s hardly a better way to pass a weekend  evening than gawking in through the railings to see in whichever which way the gamey aspect  of the Gaelic thingy is taking a ring, a ding zingy.

Dar leis an Pearcánach, is beag sport a sháraíonn an mheilt áirithe ama sin um deireadh seachtaine.

Look ! Over there – why, it’s Joe ‘Look at Me’ Duffy !

But, what’s he doing here ? The only known sport Joe participates in is  to count his shedloads of  Dough while venting his Guffy on the public airwaves ! And to do so still in his bleedin’ Ballyfermot accent which gives him eternal street cred and which he has never, ever (in public) shed. 

Arís, cad é sin a dúirt tú?

Oh, yes: he has lately morphed into the Consul General in DUPlin of Fianna Fail Better (formerly SDLP): odds on he, erm,  would be equally at ease with either East or  At.

                              Eh, Joe.

First from Ballyer to wear the TCD scarf

Non-boastfully dwells in coastal Clontarf

Y then no dent

In his Bf accent?

Key of B flat still even heard in Joe’s barf. 

But wait: such is the throng of  on-song  self-invitees who have headed for the illuminated and illuminating  home of the West Brit Egg Head – clad in everything from thong to sarong to flared longjohn  – indeed,  such is the tsunami of Bwana-worshipping heads heading in that direction  that the floodlight system has failed, alas, at West Egg. Causing thus  the  sporty party to be postponed till next weekend. (American copies, please text).

Which by a commodious  vicus of recirculation  brings us back, all agog,  to the legs-eleventh hour at the top of the blog.

It is said that Eleanor Roosevelt seemed to have the face of someone who woke up once in a hurry, reached out and put the wrong set of false teeth into her mouth, from where they could not be subsequently dislodged, not ever. Thus, ensuring said dentures were eventually buried with full military honours in the same grave as The First Lady, beannacht Dé lena béal uasal..

The same, sadly, might also be said of  an bhean bhocht eile, Theresa May, though blow the winds of change southerly in her lamentable case : surely, Shirley,  THOSE  are not her …….legs? 

Perhaps now, let us all kneel down and pray / téimis go léir síos  ar ár nglúinte agus guímis, she will wake in the morning, sooner rather than later,  enjoy a Helen Shapiro moment,  put ‘her’  biro-shaped legs on backwards, and…..

Walk us all back to happiness …..woopah, oh, yeah, yeah, yeah….

   Spread the news, she’s on her way….woopah, oh, yeah, yeah, yeah,……. 

…..backstop and all !

                                   TUILLEADH   LE   TEACHT:    TO  BE  CONTINUED

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