The D-Jubilee of the D-Day Commemorations at the Naval-gazing base in Blighty could only be summed up in the mighty, diamond-bright lyrics of Cole Portsmouth, oops, Porter:
‘It’s delightful, it’s delicious
It’s delectable, it’s delirious
It’s dilemma, it’s delimit, it’s deluxe
Der Perkin himself, not at all easily moved to the melting mood, is happy to admit he had to dab a deor no deich/ a tear or ten from his Saharan orbs, and to stifle a rogue sniffle, even as he watched the day’s delineating events of Deutschland-Day unfold.
D’epitaph surely of the Second Great Anglo-Saxon Civil War (39-45) as Die Hausfrau Saxe-Coburg-Goth stood pink shoulder to hip with the unzipped lip, Der Donald, descendant of Herr Friedrich Trump of Kallstadt in the Bad Dirkheim division of Das Rheinland-Palitinat.
Hovering over both was the resilient spirit of Dwight D-day Eisenhower, doyen of the Eisenhauer (it means ‘iron miner’) klan from Karlsbrunn, Nassau-Saarbruken. Ole Ike liked Duplicity and Double Agency and Deception so much that he insured his distant Deutschland cousins in the Third Reich were out-psyched on D-Day, thereby ensuring its success.
Call him The Iron Dook, dude.
To complete the final endgame of the all-time Anglo-Saxon peace pact one has but to take a gawk at Herr Gunter Goofball. Ja, zat astonishing bainisteoir of Liverpool FC, he of ze sleepy Ronnie Drew-eyes, ze plasticframed NHS glasses, ze illfitting dentures, der blatherskite and zat passion, oh zat passion for ze red Mersey-side jersey. Mein Gott, zat passion.
For sure, he’ll never walk alone as he wheelbarrows his 13 million squids, Durch breite und schmale StraBen / though streets broad and narrow, to the bank each year.
One pebble in the shoe of the Portsmouth Show, how und ever, was the unasked question which hovered even higher over the Day of D-Days:
–Cá raibh Pilip an Gréigeach (98) ? / Where was Phil the Greek (98)?
Otherwise known as Philip Mountbatten / Battenberg, and also patrilineal member of the House of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksburg.
–Cé air a bhfuil faitíos labhairt faoi 98 / Who fears to speak of 98?
Féach ! Fake news has it that Ole Phil sloped off in a sulk once his request to act as a driver to The Don was thumbed down with due diligence – a never to be forgotten Everly-style drive ! It is rumoured that he had been consigned to driving the latest Quad 4 Wheeler for posh toddlers in the Kiddies Playground at Schloss Windsor for the duration, under strict supervision.
All of which facilitates one to segue seamlessly to another A-list of A-mazing Absentees; this time from our very own rolling out of the red carpet at Powerscourt for our Celtic cousins, the Prince and Duchess, respetively of Cymru Agus Corn:
A reminder of the score of the internecine squabble in The Unionist Times re the Stateen Visit of Prince and Duchess (PAD) :
-Non-Attendees 2: Attendees: 1.
Now while the undoubtedly redoubtable Lady Miriam, Lord of the Queen’s English was the sole Attendee, the first of the two Non-Attendees was Mutt the Lapdog. Though he had, for being as láthair/ absent, a valid excuse, not at all pallid in pigmentation.
He was atop Liberty Hall, ar ndoigh, still pointing out to Jeff, with his usual omniscient soundbytes the sights and delights of DUPLin. For him to forego the opportuinty to regale the Ducal Duo of his post-mortem plans to have his bones interned, oops, interred in the Pet Semetery in Cill Mhantáin, though not in a Gaelic way, is indicative of how much self-sacrifice he has been willing to endure to ensure the seeing through of the Unity of Yunes North and Yunes South.
Even unto denying himself the honour of granting the Ducal Duo a sneek peek at his own self-chiselled eptiaph:
–Here lies the Loyal Lapdog where once The Toole was Top Dog.
Cill Mhantáin is what Wicklow was known during the unspeakable Gaelic-speaking reign of cultural terrorism presided over by An Taoiseach Feidhlim O Tuathail. Sin é, Phelim O Toole, the alpha Gael male who so delighted in having atop his bucket list – the upending of his bedpan and simulataneous emptying of the noctunral Toole fuel – over the unwary heads of the layabed Alfie Pale and his fellow beefeating oafs and loafers.
Being the kind of fellow he was , bhí Feidhlim an-thugtha do / Phelim was much given, first thing every morning, to clearing his lungs with a jolly good bellow. In? In the direction of the virtual volcano of the Sugarloaf across the splendour of Powerscourt valley with a mountain-resounding:
–Agus an bhail chéanna ortsa !
Finchley Fintan of the Fuckáil Focal, needless to say, is much given to a similar practice of emitting a morning bellow; though of course, 4 F being a diffident class of fellow, in a different language to that of his remote ancestor, Feidhlim. A lingua franca pledged to eternally oppose, erm, cultural terrorism. And in a different setting too, deep within the irritable bowels of DUPlin’s book of common prayer city.
O Tuathail / O Toole
Théadh OTuathail i mbun buatála
Ar thoin na Leon anseo thar sáile
Tá an difríocht
Seo san Ríocht
Téann O Toole inniu i mbun lútála.
Cill Mhantáin (‘The Church of the Toothless one’ ), incidentally, may well be the reason why Wicklow folk are known today as ‘goatsuckers’ or cupercabra in Mexico, if not Wexico.
But, where, pray, was the other non-attendeee, Archie-Bishop Patsy McGarry, the Rel Cor in Velcro of TUT?
A monkey puzzle tree may well lend a clue. The same monkey puzzle tree which used – and may well still do – to adorn a front garden in this roadway from Powerscourt to Glencree, during The Perkin’s biking and hiking days in these uplifting uplands. And which exotic plant caused him and his long lost youth’s compeers, much scratching of the skull many a time and oft. That was back in the day of the Barmecides.
But back to the near past.
It was an unqualified triumph of diplomatic thoughfulness to escort the Prince and Duchess (PAD) higher up the rocky Dargle-gargling valley for a recky at the former borstal for boyos of a non-horsey stripe. And which is now known as the Glencree Reconciliation Inc (GRI) that centre of uber-excellence for Virtue Signalling.
As it allowed Der Prinz Karl Saxe-Coburg-Goth celebrate his shared Anglo-Saxon heritage. Just as it had done so in Powerscourt House where the architect was the legendary Richard Cassells, a native of Kassel, Deutschland.
For the GRI is cheek by jowl in Gleann Criothach (‘The Valley of the Shaking Bog’) with the gorgeously-appointed German War Cemetery / Deutscher Soldatenfriedhof . Therein are 134 graves of victims of the First and Second Great Oul’ Anglo-Saxon Civil Wars. Six bodies, f’rinstance, are those of victims of the 14-18 slaughterhouse, POW bowsies held in Lord Kitsch’s chi-chi chow camps overseen by vindictive, erm, camp guards.
Touchingly, this enabled Karl in one of his Saville Row suits to kneel to the gloomy peal of the Glockenspeil and to get in touchy feel with his real Teutonic roots. To the non-conniving Ivy House Mandarins:
Featherbed Mountain is adjacent to Glencree and is crossed by the Military Road, built post 1798, to subdue the local Toole Mob who objected to the Knob Rule from the Mainland. During the Fabulous Fities it was the setting for many a spectacular episode of turf-rustling between the Drimnagh and Crumlin gangs. It worked like this: a collective of brawny men with cornbeef non-yawny faces and rural backgrounds from one or other of the parishes would work their braces off saving / winning that summer’s harvest of the carbon-incontinent fuel, unknown on The Continent.
The day after finishing their toil beneath the midday broiling sun a lorry was duly hired to collect the winter-warming harvest which had been stacked on the roadside, for convenience. Often, it would be to find the harvest the following morning and it – for Pete’s sake ! – gone. The God-sent sods having been thoughfully collected by a – lemme see, ah yis – a lorry load of volunteers with an urban background from the rival parish.
(Grammatical note for the attention of Merriam Webster: ‘lorry load’ is the only valid collective noun for volunteers).
Of course that was all back in the ‘grey and gloomy’ Fifties. The Drimnagh – Crumlin feud has in the meanwhile moved on to a more enlightened form of turf wars in these tolerant Times. Such as happened almost a century ago in the same Featherbed Mountain. Though it did, it must be averred, cause one of the great rhymes ever, bar none, to be composed in Irish balladry:
–And Noel Lemass
Whose body has
For long a bog hole filled.
The reason being that NL had a somethat less than unctuous view of a certain foreign monarchy.
But back to the more recent past, Royal-watchers and other AK47 notchers alike, for this is a shared space.
So, where then was the cultural terrier known as the Rel Col in Velcro of The Unionist Times? Why was he not to hand or paw to quiz The Prince of Wales even it was only to ask him to, erm, unbutton Himself as to what he thought of the view of Cardigan Bay across the way?
The less one forgets about this absence from the Garden of Ireland the more a-stonishing it becomes: for if ever there was a plumper low-hanging POMegranate to be plucked from the garden of this ramshackle Romeo then this, surely, was the moment.
How to explain his absence? Consider the following:
Now, as is well know, too well known, b’fhéidir, Archie-Bishop Patsy MGarry has a thingy about mixing religion with politics: a complete no-no. Think: the merging of Pearse and Easter into the blasphemic Feast of Pearster. Prompting the A-B of the ABC readership to emphasise his distaste by thumping his crozier on the marble floor of his chosen church, a rhythmically righteous:
-Ta-boo ! Ta-boo ! Ta-boo! Ta-boo! To-tall-y Ta-boooooo !
Meanwhile, that monkey puzzle tree on the Powerscourt to Glencee road scratceth itself the more.
Consider, now, f’rinstance the case of The Two Charlies who were simultaneeously in the bad news of late. Take Charlie Manson for starters. This guru of the permanent adieu sent his goons, a squad of sycophantic sickos, to cut, and cut, and cut Sharon Tate’s life short. The unfortunate actress was not the intended target, but rather Terry Melcher, a record producer, who used to live at 10050 Cielo Drive. Terry was not very impressed by the musical talents of Charlie M, whose lofty ambitions in that directon, were not quite balanced by his meagre talents.
Lamentably for Sharon T., nobody had told big time Meanie Charlie Manson that Terry Melcher had, in the meantime, moved addresses. Neither indeed had the Mass Murdering Mastermind, with the swaztika forehead, thought to enquire.
Btw, Terry Melcher was Doris Day’s only offspring. Que sera.
That’s Charlie 1.
Now, to the other Charlie, Der ein und zukinftige Konig Karl 3.
In the week before the CAC visit an official report was published on The Mainland.This is the text of what the Mother House , the Thameside Times, had to say but a Sevenday before the advent of the Next in Line to the Garden of Ireland:
The Prince of Wales was misguided when he used his position and influence to support a disgraced sex offender bishop, a report has said in unprecedented criticism of a senior royal by a public inquiry.
The report by the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA) into the scandal of Bishop Peter Ball questions the prince’s evidence about his friendship with the cleric, attacks the weak leadership of a former Archbishop of Canterbury and accuses the Church of England of secrecy and prevarication in dealing with serious allegations.
Prince Charles maintained a close friendship with Peter Ball for 20 years after Ball, the former Bishop of Gloucester, was cautioned by police for gross indecency with a novice monk.
The caution was given in 1993.
Both the Prince and his spiritual adviser, Pete the Paedo, preyed, oops, prayed together and Charlie even invited Petie to his second wedding, his first to the willing Camilla. Que sera, sera, sir.
All of which makes the absence of Archie-Bishop from the visit of the PAD all the more unfathomable than even the reason why the fond-hearted Adam took a G-damn obsolescent Applemac Laptop without question from his Madame in the Garden of Eden (see above).
Or, as Joe Duffy huffs:
Now, mar is eol do chách, a mere RC priest cannot break wind while breaking bread on the altar in Luckenbach, Texas all the way to Violin Bow, in the Great Outback without the narky Archie Bishop of Tara street Diocese, the Rel Cor in Velcro for The Unionist Times, muttering ‘the job’s oxo’ before dissolving into paroxyms of outrage.
But, wait: the Monarch of the Mainland is not just any Soggart Aroon: not only is she/he (Sheehy?) the (gasp) Head of State but (gulp) the Supreme Governor of the Anglican Communion. In a word:
-The Protestant Pope, dar fia.
Thus, for every political step Sheehy takes with the right leg, the left leg takes a religious step.
How to not mix politics with politics? Has, leis an cheist a chur, Archie-Bishop Patsy McGarry made that what the hoi polloi calls a, erm, B-up? By not being there with his unicorn-sharp tongue to probe the Lion with questions re. his loins? Those liúdramáin with a cynical turn of mind (among whom The Perkin is proudly not numbered) sourly suggest:
-One’s absence fits in better, don’t you know, with the acceptable norritive, oops, knorritive of the Souper Stars of Shoneenism.
Wind-breaking news: The lapdogs on the streets of DUPlin are barking with their familair corgi-orgy chorus marked by that peculiar hitch-piched bitchy yelp of theris that Archie-Bishop P Mc G is currently engaged, 24-7 in quilling an Encyclical on this Matter of Pressing concerns for the Morally superior Majority, those Dort-accented Concerned who have just voted for the Porty.
Ciúnas, leid thoil, ag bun an ranga !
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED.