LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (38) by Perkin Warbeck

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So,  the question on everybody’s lips, microchips and macro-hips / an cheist atá ar liopai na coitiantachta ná, is:

-What will be Jeff and Mutt’s follow up single to the duo’s debut monster smash-for-cash  hit:

Ebony and Irony-free.

Yes, indeed, the notoriously  difficult Second Single Syndrome, not least for the duopoly – dup in text – especially red-hand picked to launch  Tune One of a Yunefied  Island     

The venue for the first rendition of the second single (and not involving  a tent  although the tolerant, open and generous  militarist mindset of both Jeff and Mutt first mulled over same, as is their synchronised intellectual way,  and then  canvased tirelessly rather than tentatively for a bivouak to make a vinyl comeback) took a while to decide.  In the final end it was Yune-animously decided to choose the following sky-scraping  Liffeyside edifice:

-Liberty Hall.

That is the venue: the second item on the musical menu has also been chosen, but is under strict embargo, Margo. (Jeff is often mistaken for her bro). It is on one’s solemn word of honour that this interdict will be kicked to kingdom come  before you go, go. (And don’t slam the door behind you, wee Whammy).

But why, y’all say, Liberty Hall ?. A sinch. Apart from being the tallest sore thumb in DUPlin by more than a few inches, give or shake,  it is also the building which hath appallest by far  the most discerning eyes. Ever since it was first seen to rise in all its unearned  glass and steel ghastliness.

From its dysfuntional erection in 1965, it has long been a shoo-in for THE uglierst building on the flat surface of Planet Earth in that architectural subgenre known as Shoe-Box.  It is so repugnant  that even its smug owners, SIPTU  eventually  called for its demolition some years ago, go.

Their wish was a simple one: to turn the post-modern eyesore  into ghost-modern nevermore.

 Only to have the green light  of the Dublin City  Council quashed and turned to red  by An Bord Pleanála-B aka An Bord Fanála. Thus, compellng  SIPTU to sip the bitter drop which in their case was blood  Orange Squash.

The motto in Leprechaun of An Bord Pleanála-B, who specialise in decisions which delete the ‘wrecking’ from their balls up, is:

Fir lána  gan ghníomh do na Foirgnimh ghranna le  suíomh.

 ‘Form Follows Function’ is, of course, the predominant  maxim of  post-modern architectural  barbarism and Liberty Hall follows it to a, erm, T. Even, a T-bags.

While Jeff, that old son of a gun, is content to restrict himself to commenting that ‘maxim’ is a daaarling word, Joxer, Mutt will bark in that remarkably aware way of his. And be the first, as always,  to attribute the coining of the maxim to an Irish-American who matters. (Taking up where he left off with Fr. Charles Coughlin who kept the Reps and Dems alike agog with his begorratory).

That would be Louis ‘One Shillelagh’  Sullivan who first fashioned the phrase back in the Floor-soaring Nineties. The sainted Louis, in the wall eyes of the trendy barbarian, was the son of an immigrant, name of the leprechaun-speaking  Pádraig ‘Sail Éille’ O Súilleabháin. Sadly, Louis blew off a sky-scraper he was shaping  in the (gasp) Windy City in 1924 and fell to his death, ere he could even yell.

He had been a virulent critic of The Chicago School but critics who  attrribute this criticism as a factor in his high-rise demise are justifiably dismissed in the hometown of the novelist James T. Farrell  as ‘scraping the barrel’.  As indeed are those narky snarks   who attribute his  ‘one-eyed’ shillelagh style of architecture to his monocular surname; these  duds merit  the full force of a Studs Lonigan boot in the butt.

So, then, how does Liberty Hall follow the function of its Shoe-box shape? Another cinch.

True to form it has, for more than half a century,  warehoused a (gulp) storied number of boxes containing hard-wearing  (gasp) crocodile shoes. Of all shapes and sizes, but with a disproportionate number of , erm, pear-shaped pairs with two left feet.  A F.O.T.-like fact to do with feet unseen but laser sensed nonetheless during her recent jaunt to the  DUPlin  Defroster of Post-Pater Nosters for genuine Imposters  by the  ever alert  Arlene Foster. Who came accompanied by  her crocodile handbag as part of her intuitivetly azure ensemble.

-Seems  more like the Garden of Eden to me.

Said she, as she read the address (bound now for the redress board) of Liberty Hall:

-Eden Quay.

As the Glib One of Jeff and Mutt (who’s who? Heads or Harps? Ooopsy, doopsy, Heads or Crowns?) might remark, just another reason why Liberty Hall is the chosen venue.

Apart altogther from the  Bang-Bang Connection. Read on.

Bang-Bang’s penchant, dammit,  for taking pot shots at lots of passersby with his prisonkey-shaped gun from the platforms of CIE double-decker stage coaches had run. What?  The gammut of fashionable jargon from  shell-shock to, yes,  post-traumatic stress.  Across the  myserious decades, including joyful, sorrowful and glorious itself .

As a result of Liffeyside’s gasest man being gassed by the huns in the blood-sucking muck and after a-kickin’ and a’ gougin’ in the mud and the blood and the beer of the Somme. Even as the wee Sons of Ulster sang psalms with rare apolomb next door in the wee Abbey Theatre.

Fake news, of course, prefabricated in all probability  first of all by the (gulp)  Fakirs of  (gulp) The Unionist Times.

For Bang-Bang was on hand (of the unread palm) to rejoyce in the unveiling at the commencement of the first Great Anglo-Saxon (G.A.S.)  Civil War (14-18)  of a banner across the facade of Liberty Hall (mark 1)  to the  barking mad effect of:

-We serve neither King nor Kaiser.

If B-B had been a Boy named Sue back in the day he was hopping on and off Streetcars named Desire he could of hadding made a bonny lot of  cash, Johnny in de Halls of  Defame.

The fact was that said offensive banner of the dungareed workers  had a spanner thrown in its less than delightfully  Turkish-leaning works  by being  dragged down. By ? By the overwhelming forces of the  goateed Peelers under the ‘Defence of the Wilhelm Act’ and this, naturally,  was another thumbs up from the red and redder hand of Jeff and Mutt alike.

Liberty Hall  is the venue; but what of the musical menu?

Confucius say:  If Malta be home of Lateral Thinking (cf Edward de Bono) then Occidental England be home of Flatulent Thinking (cf Bono).

So, is this then a not-so subtle hint that their next release  will be a cover version of a recording fit to scuttle even the most C-worthy  of muscianships? A recording  of  Me and U2, the greatest super sonic rock brand, man, since the iconic  stick of  Isle  of Man rock? And from where did Bono with his manky band  derive the idea? Of?  Of protruding his reasonably ugly gob, while yet so badly in need of a nose job, into the  Gambian-shaped  ambiance of the  In-Mob with the likes of the lanky Sir Bob  but  from the  Manx Hob Knob itself.

So, then, while the tensh builds, it’s  back to the benchmark saying of  the non-circumlocuous  Confucius.

The scary thing here is that  Edward de Bono and Bono are both  associated with Glasnevin  where, in keeping with a widespread disbelief, the streets do actually have  names: it is scary, but only  for the former in case he is mistaken for the latter day saint.

While the Malteser of the Mind Games  is a Professor of Philosophy  (honorary) in the Dublin City University  the future  Crusade in an Eyeshade  made a right hames of Doh, Ray, Me in the local primary school. Being obsessed with the  making  of  tonic sol fa  a one-note:

– Me, Me, Me.

As a result of which he became the music teacher’s very own petomane, learning in the process  the f. art and craft of controlling his musical  abdominal muscles.  To such a remarkably  breakwinded degree that he was soon  able to  perform the Trouser Cough Concerto by Broims, in F-major right from the very off to the bottom itself.

Which just goes to show how he ended up knowing FA about tonic sol but a lorra ‘bout making a lorra, lorra  notes.  Not bad for a po’ boy from Ballymun.

-Eh, Ballymun?

-That’s Bonospeak for Glasnevin.

Ballymun, like, is a tad better for the old nameless streetcred and does look rather twee on one’s CV as Bono KBE, don’t you see. Not least in the designer scruff of Tír na nOgus, in that  bogus rough neck of the sans-ronnie Woods of the Prole-ing  Bones. Better, say,  in anyways, than that unleavened Glasnevin where the streets have no Naomi, not.

Is fearrde thú Dubhghloiní

Ní thig  Gounod a mheascadh le Bono

Chum Dubhghloiní Ave Me-a, y’know

Dá spás Baile Munna

Rinne sé  Ballymoney

Meallann  a ghleo níos mo notaí ina threo.

But back to Jeff and Mutt,  and their venue.

-Liberty Hall.

Mind you, let’s hope it lasts. It is, after all,  still within the living memory of Methuselah of the Methylated Spirits, the Metropolitan’s most enduring non-whinging  street-sleeper, one with the requisite skill-sets to be still alive,  one  late Easter afternoon  when he arose to find the capital in flames and his eyebrows singed.

But then, some buildings are so hideous they  deserve to be hid from view or at the very least have an Orange Band feel the urge to play a dirge,  to  sound the fife less than lively and to beat the drum slowly, with:

-Conflagration once again !

Yes, a  building  such as L.H., / ar a dtugtar Halla na Saoirse, where Ronanism is rife. Other buildings, sans doute, are so elegant their pews  are the least deserving of  Le Feu.

And  the musical menu….?

But first, and finally a Shout Out for  good old  Father Prout.

Yes, the same  chap from de People’s Republic of Cork, like,  who, as Francis Sylvester O Mahoney once really got up the non-Roman nose of Elizabeth Barrett Browning over in Roma. Shall one count the ways? Perhaps. But that’s for another day of days.

I’ve heard bells tolling Old “Adrian’s Molein their thunder rolling from the Vatican,And cymbals glorious, swinging uproariousIn the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame,But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter,Flings o’er the Tiber, peelingly solemnly,O, the bells of Shandon sound far more grand on,The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

Quasimodo, a la mode.

Ligimis, mar sin,  do chloigíní an tSean Dúin clingeadh agus bainimis ding a ling  binn as an Claisceadal  Cois Laoi. Déan an crios  a tharraingt aníos agus anuas, a bhuachaill !  Ring-a-ding-Ringey, boy !!

                      TUILLEADH    LE    TEACHT :  TO  BE  CONTINUED

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