You’d even wonder, all the same, Stevie, just precisely why the DUP en masse (both high and low) don’t just decamp pronto, as fast even as Tonto might say ‘Kemo Sabay’, and Ryanair it from Greater London to the Lesser London on Liffeyside a la the Lone Rangers supporters club, aka, the Penny Arcadians..
Ryanair, specifically, for its almighty fleet of flight machines come decked out in the Tipp colours of budget blue and budgie yeller. Reason being if you want to go to DUPlin (for it is it !) you land in Tipperary which is not such a long way away at all, at all.
Cheap unravel, made for simpletons.
While those Premier fellers from Londonderry who keep the home byres churning and who like to yell useful, orangejuicy abuse at the Leprechaun the only way for these downhome DUPerstars is not UP but further down, down South of the Black Sow’s Dyke. They might even, Stevie, commandeer a police train or six and travel Down via the territory of your equally wondrous namesake, Stevie from Killeavy himself, (even if that Stevie did have an eye for goal), all the way down to their natural capital of Occidental England’s Fairly Ancient East.
Following in the footsteps of Jeff who addressed the True Blue Shirts last week to rapturous applause and moist drawers alike. And also, much to the delight of his CommonCelt himself, Mutt, if the latter’s manic street preacher’s yelping was anything to go by. Yes, that Mutt: the lapdog with a laptop. (See far below).
Away from all the convoluted political meanderings which have transfixed a perplexed world and turned the philandering Step-Mother of Parliaments into a place of sad but radical ridicule.
The Harried, Potty Chamber
The chap with the gavel and voice of gravel
Presides fit less for a V. Havel than a Ravel
Dudley Mo and Bolero D go
For 10 hours on a blow-slow
As over 9 parts of an Aero they eternally cavil.
Away then from Greater London to the Lesser London: that would be, cinnte, dearfa, DUPlin, where a plurality of indicative rather than subjunctive ` Somme Enchanted Evenings’ will await them. Where Harrisment rather than harassment will be the order of the day for they. And odds on too from the gods of the Abbey sycophantic kudos of praise from the usual pseudo you-know-who’s will not only raise the roof even as they pour down upon the anything but fragile head and modern bod of Nigel Dodds. Looking, it must be averred, quite fetching in his codpiece on Liffeyside, as, at last centrestage in the latest revival of the compulsory must-see ‘Somme E.E.’, even as he puts on his familiar antic disposition as the Ken Dodd of the Diddy Men (and Women) of the DUP.
Doubt ye, still, there will be no such Céad Mile Fawlties for they? Consider, then, the following, dear reader, and if you have, erm, a Crocodile tear or ten to shed, well, then, prepare to shed a shed-load now:
Last week, the BAI (Broadcasting Authority of Ireland), not unlike its poetic rhyming couplet, the FAI, made a Tennysonian balls-up of things. Curiously, the two central characters of this pair of assinine associations had long faces such as one might see dolefully drooping out of horseboxes whenever one finds oneself for an age while crawling behind them on the Information Super-Highway.
For, in its, erm, abnormal wisdom, the BAI gave a ruling on the following headine from the Indo with its trademark mispelling of the G-word:
–Complains made about Ivan Yates ‘cultural terrorists’ remark regarding Gaelgoirs.
The viewer (i.e., sorehead, in shoneen speak) alleged the comment was unfair to Irish language speakers and the guest Bláthnaid Ní Chofaigh who is an Irish language speaker.
The broadcaster Virgin Media Television stated that the format of the programme is that presenters ‘often adopt opposite tacks in deconstructing arguments’ and that Yates ‘played devil’s advocate’ in order to provoke debate on the topic which was whether or not Irish should remain a compulsory subject in schools.
The BAI addressed the viewer’s complaint about the use of the term ‘cultural terrorists’ and said they were of the view that Yates used the term to ‘kick start the debate’.
(i.e., ‘to kick the Gaelgoirs in the Tennysonian balls’ in shoneen speak)
While the BAI noted it may have offended some viewers, they also noted that ‘this style is usual for the presenter and regular viewers would have expected the presenter to make controversial comments’. They said the topic was dealt with in a manner which was fair, objective and impartial.
(Not, be it noted: ‘Fair, Abjective and Impartial’ as in FAI. Gach seans go bhfuil sé ríthábhachtach sin a thabhairt faoi ndear)).
They further noted that ‘playing ’devil’s advocate’ to launch a debate did not necessarily constitute unfairness and that use of the term in question did not make the entire broadcast unfair or unbalanced’.
Now, while there are impetuous (aren’t they all?) Gaelgoirs (sick) out there who would rush to a conclusion in condemning out of hand this bland BAI with juvenile comments such as ‘ how’s the judgement hanging, m’luds’?, this would not be the Warbeckian way. He prefers to delve deeper. A la Delvin, which was, go dearfa, the setting for ‘The Valley of the Squinting Windows’.
Inspired by the Protestant-spired words of the Iron Duke in his Wellington boots:
-The genie was let out from the Bottle of Waterloo on the preying fields of Eton.
The Perkin instead opted to squint with the eye compassionate through the windows of the Eton of Occidental England. Why? In the vague hope of discovering what harrowing horrors of childhood might have prompted the Sir Andrew Aguecheek of Oirish Broadcasting, I. Yates, to masterfully bate up on the ‘cultural terrorists’. And, erm, get away with it, Randolf Scott-free, in the tolerant, inclusive Occidental E.
Chruthaigh cúrsaí níos gruama ná fiú mar a bhíothas imníoch faoi / The reality proved to be even grimmer than one anticipated.
What a devastating tale of deprivation unfolded !
For starters, his alma pater St. Columba’s Church of Ireland College (for it is it !), that Anglicised Alamo on the heights of the DUPlin mountains looking down its toffee nose on the Bog Oak trogs below (who do not yet know the taste of decaffeinated coffee) charges the highest fees South of the Black Sow’s Dyke for an uncontaminated oideachas príobháideach:
-15,699 squids per annum
If one is minded to put one’s offspring’s ainm down for reg.
Oh, the privations that the parental class must suffer to put their t-nosed offspring down for a private e as a buffer agin the commonality. One has nightmarish visions of Ivan Og running barefooted and blazer-free up and down the streets of his native Enniscorthy during vacations. Truly must he have had his fill of that local sour-tasting bitter pill, i.e., when Vinegar Hill runneth over.
It is a measure of the man’s T. Kettle-like mettle that his amour propre was impacted not a whit, and it comes as no surprise to imagine – one is playing the divil’s own advocate here – him soon becoming encumbered with the sobriquet of :
-Ivan the Thurible.
For the first thing one notices on lending an ear and a nose to the smug, self-congratulatory tones of this particularly Big Ivan on his Newstalk Wireless Programme is the uncanny whiff of self-referential and incendiary incense. Which emanates from his equitable equine mouth even as he weaponises his Wexford accent. Having had all the wrinkles ironed out of it by St. Columba’s and by the swinging between his legs of his imaginary thurible.
Before Casting Broad he first revelled in a Uri Geller-style stellar career as a True Blue Shirt feller, becoming Minister for Aggroculture in the process. However, on finding the bent-spoon ambiance of artful politics not so much to his liking the straight-talking Ivan soon went and switched careers, taking to the Bookmaking Biz like a carthorse to a nosebag. Ivan the Thurible wasn;t long getting the lead out and duly. Duly?
-Became the chairman and managing director of Celtic Bookmakers, an Irish chain of betting shops, and expanded the company from its Wexford base to a chain of 64 shops around the country at its peak
On 4 January 2011, it was announced that the company had gone into receivership.
In September 2013, it was announced that Yates was discharged from bankruptcy, having fulfilled the requirements set down by Swansea County Court, where he made his application for personal insolvency on 24 August 2012.
But, why Swansea?. Perhaps, the hint lies in the motto of St. Columba’s, the Eton of Occidental E.
‘Prudentes sicut serpentes, sed simplices sicut columbae’ / ‘Chomh críonna le hollphéisteanna’, ‘chomh saonta le coilm’ / ‘As wise as serpents, but as simple as doves’.
(Actually, the motto is only in one dead language, but, Ringo, one felt at least two dead lingos were required to measure up to the one live lingo.)
St. Columba really does seem to have had a thing about serpents, considering his having been the first recorded sighting of the Scottish one at Loch Ness. In his guise as Colmcille he of course grew up in Donegal, a county which boasts of Glencolumbcille and to which, Dylan Thomas, a native of 5 Cymdonkin Drive, Swansea repaired in the 1940s, hoping to recover from voluntary liquidation.
Perhaps, therefore, there was a certain reciprocity involved when the alumnus of St. Columba’s bitterly pilgrimaged from Rosslare to Swansea, hoping to revover from involuntary liquidation. Quid pro quo, as it were. Indeed, millions of quids pro quo.
Sadly too, Ivan the Thurible wasn’t the only alumnus of St. C’s to come a cropper with na capaill. While he only ended up broke, as in stoney grey soil, another from further north, Brian Faulkner, ended up, tragically, with a broken neck.
And did the wild goose recover? Bet your bottom button-down collar he did ! For, a year and a day to the day afterwards he bounced back like a bad cheque to Occidental E, a honky-tonking to beat the banned. To retain the high moral ground of his alma pater from which to berate the bilingual boyos below/ leis na híochatáin thios a leadradh on dtalamh thuas. Possibly even as a result of aural esposure to the ‘the cultural terrorists’ in bilingual Cymru. The combination of cheques, jockey and hydraulics comes to mind.
If the fillies had occupied some of his attention during his bookmaking days it may come as a surprise to discover that it is filíocht (poetry) which has sparked his interest in, erm, book making. For as well as cultivating pupils with a passion for our one-two-three-four-legged equine friends so also did St. Columba’s nurture alumni with more than a passing interest in quatrains. One indeed, a near namesake of Ivan himself:
-Michael Yeats, son of.
Hence, the impending debut of Ivan the Thurible as a slam poetry perfomer, elocuting from his own damn-good self-parodied prosody. For this latest re-incarnation he will adopt the stage name, yes, of:
Naturally, the initialed first names need no deconstructing: West Brit.
This will be a central item on the upcoming Cultural Mixumgathering of our CommonCelts, on both sides of the Black Sow’s Dyke, to be held, aptly engough, in the Bedlam of Baile Átha Cliath (sick), the former HQ of the deranged and derailed in DUPlin: Grangegorman. Where the honorary head of security will be the Chief of Protocol of the DUPlomatic Corps, the Canadian Ambashador himself. He’ll be keeping a sharpish eye and ear alike out for, erm, ‘cultural terrorists’. This is the same Mountie who always gets his man agus bean.
Is millteanach an pléisiúr ag An Pearcánach a nochtadh / The Perkin is privileged to present a sneak peak now at this reading from the first published collection by W.B. Yates, which is entitled:
–A Beaten Docket.
Here is a sample pome to be read in the (gasp) specially cultivated accent from the (gulp) Yates County for this highly lucrative undertaking :
A Song of the Wandering E
(Yates after Yeats)
That woman’s days were spent
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers.
This man had kept a school
And rode our wingèd horse;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
Too long a sacrifice at the races
Can make a bookie stoney broke.
I write it out in a verse—
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Shoulder to Shoulder,
No ‘Our Ron the Naveen’
I’ll kick it up the Erse
While shoving a Boulder
Connie around the Green.
All changed, changed utterly:
A thurible booty is born’.
W. B., de réir nádúir, is supremely confident that he will make a Tennysonian balls-up of his debut as a poit-tasting poetaster, not. And that his slam performance will be a slam dunk, guaranteed to make a big, erm, plash.
This will be preceded by a song from Jimmy Nail, a collateral cousin of Terence O Nail, the haloed hero credited with introducing ‘The Captain’s Run’ into his cousin’s relatively long-running career. Wee Jimmy will give his distinctive rendition of his signature toon which has yet to wear out and will not anytime soon, erm, be down on its DUPpers, despite its marathon endurance:
And the W.B. Yates declamatory and electrifying elocution will be duly followed by the highstepping blade billed as ‘Ramelton’s Own Elton John’, warbling:
But the piéce de résistance, Stevie, will be a truly wonderful one: featuring the new duo of CommonCelts (see far above), Jeff and Mutt, belting out their cover version of one of your own monster hits:
(Alas an embargo has been placed on this unmissable hit till next week).
Creid é, a chara: You ain’t hoid nuffin yit !
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED