LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (40)
Snakes and Ladders was once a popular indoor board game for children of all ages, from five to frothy, back in the Fabulous Fifties. It originated in the Indian subcontinent (say hi! to Havelock) and ‘back to square one’ is a Hindi term which was duly civilised into Das Englisch der Hausfrau.
It has long since been replaced in the Argyll Socks-County Ulster by the even more populist board game of Alligators and Crocodiles.
This latter game is played by two opponents, the snout shapes of whose game-piece tokens are remarkably similar but crucially different: alligators have wider, U-shaped snouts, while crocodile front ends are pointed and v-shaped.
Or, more particularly: bhí-shaped. For in truth the crux of the matter where the crocs are concerned is their pemanent place in the past. Hence, the origin of the classic anti-Jurassic rallying cry:
-Ulster alligators say NO ! to YESterday’s language.
Thus, as Jeff and Mutt elevated up to the roof of the 17 storey Liberty Hall in the rift-free lift with all the speed of a DUPlin doo-wop duo rocketing and bopping towards the top of the hit parade, it was noticeable that their U-shaped shouty snouts bore a remarkable likeness. Snakes and Ladders during their good ole Baden-Powell boy-scouty days being condusive to factoring in a certain sameness, later on, like. Not to mention their same-Six marriage of true minds.
So, when Mutt began to do – it’s what he do-be-dooby doing – to self-quote during the vertical trip to the top from a recent encyclical he issued on The Unionist Times Survey to do with Behaviour and Altitudes, he was stunned but not surprised to be verbally ambushed by Jeff. Who proceeded to take the very words from his U-shaped snout:
-I hear what you are baying, Mutt. The results of the 2019 Sign of the Times now show we seem less half crazy than most countries. All the manias of unresolved nationalism and of hyper-Catholicism also made us different, distinctive and, in our own estmation at least, charmingly colourful. The 2016 commemorations of the 1916 Rising suggested a society that is, for the most part, reasonably at ease with the complexity of its nationalism.
(Here, a clearly phased Jeff harrumffed, hummed and hawed his way through the following distasteful phrase sexual repression, at least of the old sort, is long banished). But, quickly regained his landrover-shaped composure and lapsed back into uber-clarity with: Hyper-Catholicism has been replaced, in urban society, by everything from utter indifference to opportunistic affiliation.
Yes, indeed, Jeff had the other’s words off just as, erm, pat as Mutt himself. A pat fact which indicates that Jeff is every bit now as much a Paddy as Finchley Fintan of the Fuckáil Focal himself (for it is still he !), which admittedly. After all, Mutt is, as ever, of the incontrovertible opinion that in the neo-Orange Free Stateen the demand for Britishness is so high (and getting loftier as the Leftie in the shared space of the lift expels more luft through his favourite orifice) that is it must be nourished and encouraged, or bust. How? Tenderly, openly and generously, Queenie.
– All the manias of nationalism, sexual repression and of hyper-Catholicism.
Warp and woof (as if such were needed) that ‘allegations’ presented as truth are what alligators do.
Mutt, gan dabht, is as much down on truthiness as he is on toothiness. Why else would the lapdog with a laptop choose the County of Clare as the location for his Holiday Kennel (to rhyme with the Anti-Desmond Fennell). Indeed it is there, in this Dalcassian den of ubiquity on the WAW, Wild Atlantic Way – BFF(Bothar Fiáin Farraige) not – that he, the Bannerman of Colonial Planners, aka, the Patronising Saint of Predictive Text, plots his tanner-a-line crocodile bashing.
The reasons are simple, and as manifest as they are manifold.
Take Feakle, for example. Not to put a, erm, tooth in it, this is the capital of the locality/ an timpeallacht associated with Timmy Dooley, the mega-brainy MP of Fianna Fail Better and for Tuamgraney. The same Timmy with the permanent tummy-ache about the teanga of the crocodile Eireann who is not one biteen timorous about, erm, declaring, while baring his Mutt-like canines, his Intifada against the Fada.
Feakle (home of the biggest Dental Hospital for Mental Crocodiles) is also the hub of the hinterland associated with The Midnight Court, poetic predecessor of the prosaic Country Girls of the identical rainy terrain. Whereas Dame Edna O’Brien penned the latter the former was quilled by Brian Mac Giolla Meidhre (?) in the 19th C under the ill-advised title of ‘Cúirt an Mheán Oíche’
(Crocodiles can be just as nifty at allegations as alligators, accoding to the latter of the law).
To set this distortion of the origins of Occidental England aka Orange Free Stateen bang-bang to rights: at the latest count 17 was the number of translations into sophisticated English of the (alleged ) original, i.e., the lingua franca of the sarcophagus – the spalpeen’s babble.; coincidentally, the same number as storeys in the storied Liberty Hall. Thus, a halt has been called by the exalted cultural ganger-cum-harangeur:
-No need for more trannies ! They are here to stay.
Sir Oracle O Toole has spoken and so, let no other dog bark.
(With in all truthiness, is just as well: from most of the 17 available trannies are fit only for the, erm, CIS-eán).
The Merriman Summer School was hatched by (gulp) The Unionist Times and disptached to (gasp) the county wherein the Merchants of Ennis do dwell. Who do know right well by just how many pounds their trouser coffers by Merriman’s now-codified ode to the flesh can be made to swell. Shortly there will be a straw poll held by the yea-sayers of the car-boot cliché, to wit, to woo, the membership of the Summer School. To do with? The retranslation of the (alleged) surname of ‘Mac Giolla Meidhre’ . Tis being billed by the Dim Timmies of the district as ‘curry my yoghurt can coca coalyer comes to Clare !’.
Thus, the theme for this year will be :
-From Merriman to Openly-Gay.
Take now crocodiles, for another example.
Crocodiles are renowned for their toothy grins. Which come from, mar is eol do chách, all those monstrous Modh Coinníollachs in their smart-assic Jurassic patois of Paddyland. Thus, when their snouts are shut (soon to be forever in the Orange Free Stateen aka der Hausfrau’s Hibernia of Obligator- Englisch) crocodiles still look like they’re flashing a toothy grin, as the fourth (green) tooth on each side of the lower jaw sticks up over the upper lips.
Not so, of course, for the superior, both moral and molar, alligator. Their upper jaw is wider than the lower one, so when they close their mouths and U-shaped snouts, all their teeth are hidden.
While the Mutt, the lapdog with a laptop, likes to give the impression that he is obsessed with biting the bulldog, fact is, he’s not. It’s the crocodile which has been his target all along. The bulldog, after all, it must be noted, is also distinguished. By? By its drooping lips and pointed teeth, with an underbite and an upturned jaw.
Thus, as Clever Clogs, the lapdog who promotes the TOG-Oak Monolith, has already noted, and way before the commonality, crocodiles and bulldogs share with the other a pronounced mandibular prognathism. (See below and deduce, Bruce).
This prognathism is the ONLY similarity between the TOG-oak Monolith and the BOG-oak one. But enough to hoodwink the maniacal nationalists, Hyper-Catholics, the vexatious sexually repressed and all the rest, if, indeed, there are any of this righteous wing left.
Thus, when musing on Mutt the unamusing alligator in Liberty Hall, one is reminded of the female waiter known as Ravishing Ruby, a product of the wittily fertile brain of a genuinely free-spirited hall, one, the uber-talented Tom T. Hall.
Ravishing Ruby was a truckstop child whose daddy, known as Smilin’ Jack, left home when she was just, no not 17, but 14. And never came back.
–All the while she was waiting on him, she’d be waiting on you and me.
Just as crocodiles and alligators are superficially the same so also are the two adjectives, catchy and catching. But, of course, there is a, erm, catch.
In the case of catchy it is overwhelmingly positive when used in relation to songs – and the follow-up second song of Jeff and Mutt is certainly that ! Where catching is concernend however, normally the context connotes a negative. As in an infirmity.
Coincidentally, and it gives The Perkin not a shred to comfort to respread this devastating unfake news, but the two words ‘song’ and ‘catching’ happened to collide during the week. This calamity pertained, Jane, when (gasp) the infirm Independent was sold for a (gulp) song.
In brass tacks: Denis O Brien, having invested in d’Indo a half a billion squids (500,000,000), shove or shake, he is now about to receive in return a thankless paltry sum of pocket money to the less than catchy tune of (sob) a mere fifty million squids (50,000, 000) from the highest bidder. Yes, a tenth, divvy up or take a make, though not in a spivvy way, of what he, his Knobs, originally sank. Talking here about the price of a heifer, in old money.
Begin it from the top, Dinny Boy, aka, The Boss (see above):
–I wish I was Mr. Gates
Pay me my money down
They’d haul my money in in crates
Pay me my money down.
This tenth is not, repeat NOT, despite its supperficial similarity, to be confused with the tent in which his addled predecessor in the saddle of d’Indo is reputed to be compelled to dwell in these dismal days, not merely broke but broken too. That would be, sadly, Sir Tones ‘Ochone’ O Reilly who was also aka The Boss, back in days of old when Kerry was Gold and butter wouldn’t melt in his Bord Bainne.
First, the Hammer of TOR proved to be a sham, rubbery one; now that DOBlin has suffered a slam dunk the way is clear for DUPlin to down the wee dram of victory. (Spot the differ – see above). And is in obviously no rush to do so: all’s fair on the Southern front. And to break into the jargon of the bargain, it’s really a lose one, win one for the belt-tightening Bel Tel.
Yunes North, like the Yunes South have been hit where it hits most: in the old Crockett, Davy.
-Mine’s a very wee Bush !
Irish (?) Independent (!)
Its title was ever and always d’ultimate joke
Jollity among Gaels never failed to provoke
En Francais c’est Dindon
Say in Shoneen it’s d’Indo
No bloke did buy a bigger turkey in a poke.
The bizarre thing here is that the VHI offices are located cheek by jowl with Liberty Hall. Now, VHI stands for Voluntary Health Insurance and also, for Vertical Horizontal Inclination. And if Liberty Hall were to fall to chain and ball (as had been decided but then rescinded, by the Barbarians at the Gate) it could, as it should, have I from the V to the H.
Collateral damage, nonetheless, has omninously been done to the health of the neo-Orange Free Stateen,, including on the physical, psychological and mental fronts.
Harris, Outer HepriDES
Cúléisteadh an Mor-thriúr san Arras
Sé sin: Drew, Eoghan is Simon Harris
‘Leis an praghas is lú’
Arsa An Coimis Drew
‘Ní dheachaigh an speach san ucht amú !’
And if (gulp) Liberty Hall had indeed fallen it would have landed – exactly ! to the nearest column inch !! – on the front steps of (gasp) Independent House. Said Bleak House which reeks of Redmonidism, having moved further East towards the Mainland in recent times, from Middle Abbey Street to Talbot Street on the north bank of the Liffey-cum-Somme. Let us prey the remaining hacks do not suffer unduly in this payback time, by having to eke out a hand to mouthy existence, either on a daily or a weekly basis.
Speaking of dismal times and Bleak Houses, over on the southy docks of the Liffey-chum-Somme, The Unionist Times has also been seen to lockstep in an easterly direction. From D’Olier than Thou Street to the more terrier-like Tara Street, at the persuasive suggestion of the mouthy Mutt, no doubt.
Heaven forfend that the neverending and malign-tumoured rumours currently sweeping the alleyways and avenues of DUPlin about an imminent going bust, are nothing more than gusts of truthiness. To the effect that a (gasp) tabloid-minded Sheikh is on the Brink’s Mat of taking over the (gulp) Gordon Bleu Ramsay Broadsheet of The Times.
Yes, The Unionist Times with its fakey T-bone steak prose for U-shaped snouts. To tinker with the thinking readers’ diet of wormy West Britishisms, and replace it with shrieky bedtime headlines of bubble-and-squeak double entendres !!!
Heist, as it were, with the petard of its own pet Bulletin points.
Zing ! Smartly slides open the lift at the 17th floor of Liberty Hall. Yoof will finally have its roof-top fling !! Time to hear the second song which Jeff and Mutt will sing , what else but the song first composed and later sung by Sam.!!!
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED