LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (37) by Perkin Warbeck



A new Yawn, so,  in the life of a Yunefied Ireland, oopsy doopsy, Island.

The Stretch of the Arms and the Trouser Cough will inevitably  follow the Yawn, as surely, Shirley, as  an Lá chuck-wagon follows Sioc na  hOíche.

The Yunefication of Yunes North and Yunes South and the decision to make DUPlin the new de facto agreed capital of a Yuneted Ireland, for fax sakes, Island, is one wheeze of an idea which gestated during the tolerant, open and generous suggestion of Mutt. The pooch with the DUPlomatic pouch, with his pro-Ulster ululations, and his not to be sneezed-at duo with a breezy Jeff. It is the end game for Tommy Davis Jnr’s A  Nation Yune again.

Having downed  the Bog-Oak Monolith and the Mogg-Oak Monolith in quick succession, if not  in jiggy jig  time itself, the better to establish the Tog-Oak Monolith on the Island of Islands, Sir Oracle O’Toole (for it also he !) has spoken  bigly and so, let no dog bark.

Apart of course from The O’Neill,  DUPlomat in charge of the Occidental England Embassy in London (not to be confused with the Ecuadorian Embassy, for those who did not do their, erm, eccer in Geogo back before that superfluous subject became optional, along with Hysteria).

Confucius say:  A DUPlomat be one who get paid to lie doggo on behalf of  Free Southern Stateen.

Thus we had the the sprat-sized spat between d’Ambass in a slouch hat from DUPlin  with the chaps in spats and top hats  of The Spectator. Fun accusations were thrun at that M.A.G.A.zine of ‘pursuing an anti-Irish line’, begorrah. The name of (gulp)  Finchley Fintan of the Fuckáil Focal (for it is still he !) was even taken in a vainglorious drunken way, Duncan. By?  By those out and abouter quidnuncs of the self-unctuous public school publications, on (gasp) both sides of The Occidental English Sea.

Éist le seo/ Get an earful of this:

Mr O’Neill was prompted by an article which appeared in The Spectator six days ago by The Daily Mail’s royal correspondent, Robert Hardman, which criticised Ireland’s decision to join the Organisation Internationale de la Francophonie, the French Commonwealth.

Mon dieu ! And, sans doute, Hmmmmmm.

Do  they – Robert Hardman plus  the hardy annuals and other Sir Bobs  on the ‘opposing’ sides of this contretemps petit know that every day is Christmas Day in DUPlin for those who wish to complete the, erm, Coca Colanisation of the lingua franca of Liffeyside. How?  By, erm, ostentatiously  currying favour with the flavour of the mouth, involving the genuine  genuflecting to die Sprache der Hausfau, as once suggeted in that seminal reflective tome by a tolerant, open and generous  Garbage Fitts Gerry, PM of the FSS,  back in the  Matey Eighties:

– ‘Towards a Genuinely Genuflective Gnu Island’.

In a word or two:

-DUPlin says níl/ O’Neill to Leprechaun.

To wit, to woo: in the same week as it became Polasaí Oifigiúil an Bhata Scoir /  Official Continuity Stick  policy to brand the Darby O Gaels as ‘cultural terrorists’,  a c.t.  named Ciaran O Cofaigh (no fadas, please we’re Occidental English) drew a drooling twitter of tiny peat from an arch twit in Fianna Fail (féach síos).

What a traditional ploughman’s lunch of crusty bread, cheese, pickled onions, chutney  and a slice of pork pie, washed down by Toby Jugs of Old Specked Hen premium biiter, The Spectators in the Corporate Boxes would have made of that linguistic reality in Occidental Englamd,  if they only had of having knew, mon Dieu.

Let no dog bark, mar sin, apart also from the corgies on the no-parking  streets of DUPlin who do so like to indulge in an orgy of   barking. As? As  Dodds, to employ a novel oval-shaped simile, dots down once again beyond the whitewash of the mainscream media in Doddsville-on-Liffey. (Or, the one and only, walking, talking, living  DoL).

From Dublin to DUPlin is a go-with-the-grainer. Where no song or river dance is made about the sacking of B. Á.C. Now that the dried up river bed of the  Liffey has died a death, i.e.,  lost its Life,  ní gá ach na coiscéimeanna fulangacha, oscailte agus flaithiúla  seo leanas a leanúint / tis time to  allow the mazy dribble of Mathews and Mortensen, the two Stans of the Stanchion in the Windsor Park of the Wee Sax towards the Free Southern Stateen, to  increase to a deluge even  unto a –  DoLuge (féach suas).

-Dubh Linn.

-Black Pool.

-Let’s all don, then,  the Tangerine Orange ganseys.


A sorta Black and Táin Bo Cuailgne deal going down here: Taigs have no monopoly on Cuchulainn who was a Prod even before the word had been reinvented to rhyme with God. The prosy  Mutt was, mar is gnách,  to the nosey fore in  sniffing the Tone of Loyalism and detecting to his boney delight the Liffey-like  perfume from that  awe-inspiring rear aperture.

Bottom Line:   The Hound of Ulster is DUPlin bound.

A (gasp) Status Orange Alert has been issued by the Mutt Office as the (gulp) Reign of King Bally comes south to Baile A.C..

There is no doubt but that the Yunes North will have no difficulty in finding their own way down to their new home from Rome-bashing on sniffy Liffeyside, where the Iffy Irish do so like to roam.

Only slight problemo in this Fairy Tale of Fintan’s New (and greater)  Auk is the Rogue Elephant in the room full of brown-nosed roses. Not to mention  the muliplicity of sloppy pogues it has been the recipient of in its Tone  by the otherwise stroppy Redmondites who never flag in flogging the idea of a Yunefied Island in DUBlin.

By which one, gan dabht, means the rogue elements of the RUC, the UDR and the UVF who comprised, less than surprisingly, the unmentionable G.G. Whose HQ of higher IQs was the fertile arms-growing farm of studs at Glennane.

Arrah, Loyalist Paras like the Glennane Gang know the street map of Dublin like the back of their red hand. Although their preferred mode of transport was not the railway, nonethless let us now pause for a moment’s no-warning  at Limerick Junction.

         Glennane Gang

The Valley of Ann had a gang

K.T.P. songs on journeys sang

In and out of Liffey

In the briefest jiffey

Their transit vans went: Bang !

Esteemed Blogmeister’s favourite Brendan Behan quote is, indubiatably:

I have never seen a situation so dismal that a policeman couldn’t make it worse .

One thought of this when the PSNI Dupemobile of the  tolerant, open and generous Drew Harris , aka Commissioner Kleenex came a cropper at the entrance of the Top Cop HQ aka the  Garda DUPot, oops, Depot in the Phoenix Park.

Perhaps  the now-time is more than ripe  to upsize  Ráiteas an Bheachánaigh  to a global situation. One is prompted to do so on reading a recent  reference to the blaze-trailing broadcaster with the BBC World Service elsewhere on this estimable blogside.

– One has never seen a global disaster-like situation so dismal that an Orla Guerin couldn’t make it worse.

This Mother of all Borrowed Sorrows with the banshee wail and the woebegone tone of acting out some Game of Ochones,  was one of dismal Dick Spring’s most drastic OG’s. Yes, that Dick Spring (what a name, what a guy). But that’s all for anon, pop-picking guys and gals !

 Now only did the Glennane Gang display a Double-First knowlege of the street map of Dublin’s fair to middling city during their one-day jaunt but they also nonchalauntly flaunted a gap-free awareness and indeed, respectful acknowledgement. Of?  Of the doings and dontings of one of Liffeysides’ most beloved street characters of yore. All in the process of laying down a gorey marker, but in a charecteristically tolerant, open and generous way, on their long-term journey  towards an ultimate  deténte with their separated Yunes in the Deep South.


Radio and television presenter, Paddy Crosbie, wrote of ‘Bang-Bang’ in his book ‘Your Dinner’s Poured Out’

Bang! Bang! appeared on our scene in the Twenties, but he belonged to the entire city. His favourite hunting-ground was the trams, from one of which he jumped, turning immediately to fire ‘Bang Bang’ at the conductor. Passengers and passers-by took up the game, and soon an entire street of grown-ups were shooting at each other from doorways and from behind lamp-posts. The magic of make-believe childhood took over, and it was all due to the simple innocence of ‘Bang Bang’. He was a very young man at this time. “Bang! You’re shot. If yeh don’t die, I’m not playin’.” My father was very fond of him, and seemed to come across him very often in different parts of the city. He told us about one incident with ‘Bang Bang’ in Marlboro’ Street, where the shooting pretence went on for nearly half-an-hour and some visiting Americans joined in. They thought the whole thing was hilarious.

The Perkin must declare an interest here/ Ní foláir don Phearcánach leas a dhearbhú  anseo.

Way back in the  Fifties, many  a time and oft  Quick Draw Warbeck, in chaps / short pants, learned how to slap leather while eyeballing Bang-Bang. The latter  with his huge prison-door key dysfunctioning  as a not so wee six-gun from the open platform of the 77 Bus, which double-deckered as a stage coach from Tallaght into Town.

Ah, yis, back in the giddyup day of the Fabulous Fifties when, as a little rhyming time-journey reveals that  any time was Urney time, as against, say, today, when any time is Gurney time.

Paddy Crosbie, dála an scéil,  used to present ‘The School Around the Corner’ on the wireless in which four shoolchildren were interviewed. Comprising  funny stories and hard questions, sometimes involving long division, and even longer words, that sorta thingy. The h.q. to be asked in this instance is how come the one-in-four policy of the foursome be interviewed in the Leiprechaun on Radio Éireann (tagann Einstein inmheánach an Phearcánaigh aníos leis an céatadán: 25 %) has been whittled down in these tolerant, open and generous times  to an itty bitty 1.25 % on RTE go ginearálta?

For this marginalisation of the margarine eaters, look no further than the four-pawed 4F: he who controls Foreign Policy finds the manipulation of  the servile Home Service for the Home Counties (including Berkshire, pronounced, Barkshire) a mere Doddle-sur-Poddle. Say no more, Seymour.

He, about whom we reminisce, was a Duine le Dia (which, sadly,  exceeds a mystified  Mutt’s self-imposed quota of focals by one): his name was Thomas Dudley, he  called himself Lord Dudley but everyone knew him as Bang-Bang.

Curious all the same how the surname Dudley (not to be confused with the six-lettered satellite town of  Birmingham)  seems to have an almost ruthless fixation with Bangs ! Even, indeed, especitally,  the Dudley which functions as the first of a double barrelled, unhyphenated surname.

Are they related? Perhaps we should be told. Over so to the Genealogist with the Light Brown Hair.

To conclude: during the week,Timmy Dooley,  the bucklepping  Deputy for the Clare Contituency,  went doolally yet again. Even unto morphing into the Bang-Bang of Occidental Limerick.

As evidenced by this tolerant, open and generous  twitter about the ‘cultural terrorist’ name of

Ciaran O Cofaigh (féach suas)

With all the problems that exist in the health service it’s difficult to listen to this individual banging on about a fada!!


O Dubhlaoich.

Distended, oopsy doopsy, descended from:

Black Hero.


             An Teipreachán

Is í uaillmhian mhor Tim Dooley, TD

Go nglaofar air mar Dim Tooley, MP

Ball é de Fhianna Fail

Fuath leis T. na nGael

Cic on gCoolie don Fada sa ghoolie.


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