LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (42) by Perkin Warbeck



Simply red, was the colour which Jeff and Mutt saw when they looked through their rose-tinted BA-issued reconaissance binoculars in a wee northerly direction towards Croak Park from the shared space atop Liberty Hall.

Even as they waited to sing their first performance in public of the song first sung by Sam. (A little trifling financial detail still to be ironed out with their sponsors, that sine qua non of sign-on-the-dotted-line in these financially-straitened and narrow-minded Times, erm, Samsung).

And even as they gazed, Mutt the Hack’s inner Mick Hucknell hummed the tune  ‘If you don’t know me by now’ to a Tone-deaf Jeff. But in a tender, generous and open way which is soo characteristic of the wooing technique  from a Southern Yune to a Northern Yune.

Mutt knows, from his omniverous reading of the literary genre known  as a RC, erm, Roman a Clef, that in the blink of a blood-shot eye, one word can wheel-barrow another, leading to a (gasp)  falling out. And then, once push comes to shove, a falling-out can morph immediately and catastrophotically for at least one of the parties not in tune with the other, into a (gulp)  falling over the brink.

The announcement of the birth of the Brave New Netherworld of the Orange Free Stateen must be unfurled with all the decorousness and dignity on display say, by Harry Trotter  at the stable side of the Jiggy-jiggytown Stud (‘Say Hi! to Daisy ! Say Hi! to Dobbin ! in the background’) during the annunciation to an expectant world of the messianic Archie B. Bunker.

But first, something else had to be unfurled by the ever mindful Mutt to the still unjustifiably jittery Jeff, to wit, that the otherside of the sterling coin is, sadly, Death. Thus, the self-satisfied Saturday edition of The Unionist Times was the first item to be flagged before being unfurled.

This, gan dabht, is the Obituary edish is whch only the best and the brightest are laid to rest with due diligence being done to the dictates of decorum and discretion towards the newly dead.

De mortuis nil nisi bonham, oops, bono, oops, bonum.

That kinda thngy. Or is it? Well, it was, up to the recent past, very. Take the obituary of Feargal Quinn when a new approach was adopted and a traditional  red lion was crossed and indeed, bearded. A novel approach which eschewed the normal grovel and instead,  growled:

-Feckin’ decorum ! Sez who?

Now, of all the recently deceased you’d imagine that the late  Feargal Q was the very last person to come in for this mean-spirited approach, as bliggardly as it was niggardly. For disarming bouyancy, a sunshiny disposition  and charm, Feargal Q would have been most folks’ choice for being first in line. That rare enough being: a genuine gent.

His obituary  had all started off so conventionally with  Red to the forefront as  reference was  made to how the Red Island holiday resort in Skerries had been owned and operated by the parents of the deceased.

(This was back in the Fabulous Fifties before  Wineair had become even a fledgling, the same Red Wineair which flies duty-free bowsies who feel duty-bound, as the megaphony Oirish,  to reach their sun destinations, drowsily  screech-compliant, keg-empty and legless. Low life fares, made simple. Red Island, incidentally, is where, ahem, The Perkin made his, erm, stage debut. See below).

But, then, half way down the Obituary the mood took an unexpected turn, and not necessaily for the good of the newly departed.


Feargal Quinn would probably have admitted he was no saint.

He was socially conservative, working against such liberal reforms as the Civil Partnership Act in the Seanad. Senator David Norris remarked this week that Quinn had ‘associated himself with some exceptionally mean-spirited amendments’.


Lámha suas, when is the last time any of you heard ‘mean-spirited’ mentioned in an Ob Ed?

Mind you, there may well be a pattern emerging here: a  patronising pattern,  so well-liked of the morsupial Yunes  south of the Black Sow’s  dyke, and who are so desirous of welcoming their separated Yunes (brethern and sistern), north of the same dyke. To the shared space of DUPlin in a morally superior  Orange Free Stateen where ‘Skippy, Skippy, the Bush Irish Stew’ will be le menu du jour. .

Consider, mar shampla, the following exceptionally mean-spirited homily (but justifiably so, according to TUT)  delivered in the same Organ of Record in his Rite and Reason Column by its Rel Cor in velcro,  the uber-patriotic Patsy McGarry. Who is also affectionately known as  The Archie-Bishop of the Diocese of Tara Street. Much in the same way as his column is jovially referred to in concentric circles,  as ‘Ooh, ahh, Up the RAR’, singing, ‘Ooh, ahh, Up the RAR’.  Alternating with: DUPlin in the RAR ould Times’.


Phew ! After covering his hydra-homily head with that red lion, the narky Archie-Bishop continued:

But further it is a continuing surprise where the churches are concerned that no theologian has

ever addressed the explicit sin of blasphemy involved in those 1916 leaders consciously hijacking

the execution of Christ for their own political purposes by setting themselves us as similar martyrs

at Easter whose blood would ‘save’ their people.

Wow ! Martyr  / Trouser Cougher. But, pray: would the cat-melodeon theologian be including, say, lemme see, ah yis,  the morsupial Unitarian Church on Stephen’s Green, among the churches deserving of his crozier swipe ? The same reserché church which cannot complain of underexposure, as  this RC-born son of Ballaghdareen is often seen to refer to it in tones that are tender, open and, yes, even,  generous itself.

For the first time, this year’s Good Friday ceremony at Dublin’s Unitarian Church on St. Stephen’s Green will mark the dead of 1916, as well as those who died in the more recent conflict in Northern Ireland. Among the readers this year will be broadcaster Joe Duffy, who has written a book on the 40 children killed in Easter Week.

(That should be Somme, oops, some roll call/ altar list of the dead when Joe D’s putative playbook on the children killed in the First Great Anglo-Saxon Civil War (14-18) after the gallant  disengaging, parliamentary-minded  Irish soldiers  took Das Schilling des Konigs, is finally launched, hopefully in time for the Bi-Centenary of the Blasphemers, not).

The 1916 Rising was a criminal act perpetrated by a self-selected few who took up arms against a British state from which Ireland was then disengaging by parliamentary means. It was a method supported by the vast majority of Irish people.

Disengaging by parliamentary means, like, say, in the stenchy trenches of ‘Somme Enchanted Evenings’? Fingerpointed  there by the itchy-bitchy, tranny-wanny  Lord Kitchener of Ballykitch, aka The Boy named Sue wants You, who could well, in all wellness, have been the remote inspiraton for that sublime Shel Silverstein song about parliamentary means:

Kitching and gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer


A dude might even hum  it from the same hmmmmmm book if only he had not  been born with, abair, a silver Unitarian  toon in his mouth.Fancy that, Nancy: mixing politics with religion, religion with poltics ! Why, it even has the very sniffy whiff of a Popish plot about it, regardless, by gum, of little, defenceless, gallant, Catholic,  Congo-conquering Belgium.

Small wonder then, that an increasingly but understandably stroppy Rel Cor of The Unionist Times has been put on a strict course of cough drops. Ever since  his  pulpit-thumping baritone, in his denunciation of the damnblasphemous agitprop of the vertical croppies,  exceeded the suggested safe  decibel levels of  a (gulp)  Trump himself.

Truly is Patsy, as non-political Rel Cors go, way out on his McGarry own, south of the Black Sow’s dyke.

Plop !

But what can that loud sound be? Why it is the sound of a tome which has just flipflopped through the portcullis with its Solas Síoraí and on to the cobbled courtyard of Warbeck Towers with a rebounding  thud, Ted. Entitled?

-A Shared Hume, oops, Home Place.


In large print:




Yes, and sharing the honours with… small print:

-andy pollak.

Deora Íosa agus Gadzooks  !

You mean THE Andy Pollak, late of The Unionist Times and now a (gasp) expert on crossborder cooperation and (gulp) managing  committee member of  the Unitarian Church on St. Stephen’s Green ?!!! Such virtue-signalling versatility.


’Swunnerful, wunnerful, in a Lawrence Welky kinda way, all the same,  to see the Ancient Irish Elk of cross, very cross border cooperaton politics, Seamus ‘Not as famous as he’d like to be’ Mallon at last come into his deceptively soft-centred  own and between hard covers too.

For far too long – and shame on us for allowing it to linger by putting it on the long cranberried fingerpoint – dear Seamus  was compelled to play Second Fiddle.  Both on the political  and also, on the prickly front.  The Sullen Cuchulain himself, one of the Fews who could be both gabby and crabby but never, ever back-stabby. In short, fundamentally a  tabby at heart.

Thus, he was a victim of his own good nature. Too often was he sent out to act as a – ouch ! – cat’s paw to test the milky waters for the SDLP. Thus, for Seamus,  there was an uncertain inevitability  about the morphing of the Tanaiste Bo Cúailgne. Into?  Into a stellar perfomer (in his own fetchingly modest opinion) in the Oath-Taking Mother of  the John Bulled  Parliament, (not to be confused with the Oat-taking Daisy and Dobbin above) and where he so delighted in giving wellie to the Machiavellian swells.


And now to broach the sad, yet strangley liberating death of Grumpy the Global Cat:  the newly famous Seamus can now at long, long last  lay down his Second Fiddle and take up the First Violin, thereby giving the lie to the rank rumour that he was not pro-Violins.

Glacaimís sos ceolmhar anois ag Stáisiún Acomhail Luimní / Let us pause now for a musical interlude at Limerick Junction


What size hat that’d fit the head of Mallon?

Who pats his own back with catlike tallon

(All slow learners

Such low earners)

Easy: a hat called the Ten (imperial) Gallon

         CAT MARBH, CATH  NUA.

Grumpy an cat míchlúiteach a fuair bás

Don seanlead cancrach cruthaítear spás

‘Is mé N. Paganini

Rogha na nDaoine’

Is a Stadivarius á dtogáil aige as a chás.

The finally famous  First Fiddler’s ghostly written memoir played right into Dame Dosh Finucane’s spook playbook on RTE  and so guaranteeing up this au revoir  for an early airing over the airwaves.  So disinterestedly neutral  was the rigorously professional hostess that all of the read-out incoming phone calls were uniformly gushy towards Old Faithful.

Indeed, it was a toss-up whether the phone-in add-on was longer than the trimmings of a family rosary or – this is a shared space –  the legendary Orange Order toast brimming with  KTPisms.

In conclusion: having started with Red, as in birth, let us now finish with Black and Blue, as in death.

For Doris Day, the cigar-chomping cowgal in Calamity Jane,  sadly it was T.A.L. Yes, that Doris Day, the one whom G. Marx once remarked that ‘he knew her before she became a virtue signaller’.

(It was her  ‘Take me Back to the Black Hills’ which The Perkin sang when he made his stage debut in Red Island, back in the day. That was the start of his cellar-career as a world-wowing warbler. See above.)

Btw, to clear up a grey area:  this Doris Day is in no way to the confused with Doris UDA. Whereas the former  was The Queen of Bling, the latter was The King of Bling.

The death was also announced of Anton O Toole, aka The Blue Panther, the truly wonderful winger and sharpshooter of Heffo’s Army. Ar dheis lámh Dé go raibh anam Anto, fear uasal ar an bpáirc agus lasmuigh chomh maith.

Next week, it is intended to return to his namesake, if nothing else, who has been somewhat neglected this week:  cé eile, but  the Mutt who put the Cant into The Blue Cantor.

                          TUILLEADH  LE  TEACHT:  TO BE CONTINUED

Comments are closed.