LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (49) by Perkin Warbeck



Early in the Errigal Ciarán  week, the Tyrone GAA County Board was eerily pressurised by a blanket offence (enthusiastically taken both North and South of the Black Sow’s Dyke by outraged, upright Yunes who, in unison,  do so  like to take fake umbrage  at the slightest hint of even no O- directed offence with the sole object of dissing down from a height  on  the Dinosaurs)  into issuing an abject apology.

Re. ? (ooh-ee, up the Re.!).

 Re. the singing of an ironic  ‘Black and Tan Song’ in the vicinity of an iconic  en route, tooting Flute Band of seemingly great repute. 

-The umbrage, Madge.

Whack ! Down comes the union carjack  of Conor Crozier O Brien, yer honour, especially hijacked for the occasion. Anti-Samitism is a-live and well, thriving  in Aughnacloy.

As if the County Board of An Lámh Dhearg agus An Cloigeann Rua  hadn’t already enough botheration with the Black Card for their tanned-leggy players.

One odd (still no non-PC synonyms here, dear) aspect of the cloying reports in The Nodalong Newsmedia from Aughnacloy was the bald reference to the band on the ground.  The only adjective in the wide-awake fake news report to adorn the ‘band’ was the f-word ‘flute’.  Not being a colour piece there was understandably, perhaps, no reference to an Orange or whatever you’re Jaffa yourself.

Ceol,  ach ní Nat Rí Ceol mar is eol dúinne é.

No hint was given as to what kind of music the flute band on the ground was playing, so as to make it a flute band in the round. (Unlike, say, the band of brothers in the bus, about whose Dinosaur game of choice, Dinah, the reader was left in no doubt, for shore, being on their way home, one daresays, from Páirc Jurassic).

Could this flute band in Achadh na Cloiche (civilised to ‘The Field of Stone’) have been, say, a Stones Tribute Band ? Whose tone-perfect rendition of ‘Nineteenth Nervous Shakedown’ was rendered jagged by the boisterous  bullying  boyos, impervious to civility,  on the bus?

Of, was it, for f—k’s sakes, a classical ensemble itself unlucky enough to be  performing  Gluck’s celestial Flute Concerto in G-Major (where the Allegro has been replaced by, erm, Aggro) ?.

Or was it, simply, a harmless Rhythm and Blues band playing a toe-tapping,  finger-snapping versh of Stephen Foster’s ‘Hard Times’, much to the disguised delight of the late song-sung blue songwriter’s  ‘horrified’ namesake, Arlene ?

Perhaps we shall never know, just like the real identity of the well-made Maid  of the Sweet Brown Knowe.

 CLG  v CLD 

Cue Arlne’s S-8 puss

Yet anthr DUPr fuss

Blck n Tan

Stop, man

Tyron thrun undr Bus.

Leo the Lioness will have recognised the, erm, full court pressure both the band and the Board came under.  Himself having been hemmed into the same kind of  sorrowful corner by the paranoiac hummers and hawers who do so insist in getting their bumcrack drawers in a twist.

In the T-shirt wearing Taoiseach’s case (for it is he !) it was on account of his comparing the Fianna Failure of a leader to a ‘sinning Parish Priest’ in, of all sacred sanctums / sancti, Crocodile Éireann itself. Actually, there is a hedge school of opinion, among whose enrollees would be The Perkin heself, which edges towards a different kind of take on the (alleged) contretemps. 

Their beef would be that the hissy, prissy Mícheál Martin, TD resembles less a P.P., sinning or otherwise, or even a mere Priest, singing or otherwise, and much more  a Reverend Mother with the X-factor., i.e,. a  servere case of a completely inexplicable  Superiority Complex. He could even be some kind of squeaky-clean  re-incarnation of the roistering  Phil the Greek’s cloistered rum-sipping mum. Where?  In the convent of a no-meet-and-greet order on the island of Crete.

This taut school of fraught hedge-betters prefer to  refer to him, sadly,  as:

– ‘The Wimple with a Dimple’.

But then what would the T-shirted Taoiseach, an old boy of King’s Hospital (an abbreviated versh of ‘The Hospital and King’s School of King Charles 2’) that Church of Ireland (sic) school for (gulp)  posh sons of pushy parents which is squashed into a (gasp) 80-acre site on the verdant banks of the Liffey at Palmerstown (!), Dublin Plenty, know. About?  About the inside of a mere RC chapel? Not the foggiest, one imagines, appart from what he has coggiest at second, or even, tired hand.

All of which brings one to the robust condition of Anti-Catholicism, aka KTP Kulture in the Free Southern Stateen. The Hausfrau University faculty of fatuous mopery in B-Fast prefers to  substitute the hackneyed KTP acronym with its own self-patuous on the back, KTM Kulture. 

-It’s the correct trope, dope !

All of which robustness Big Ian hymnself  would have died for if he were still alive. 

-Prorogue mo thoin !

Anti-Catholicism, south of the Black Sow’s Dyke, is, incidentally,  called Aloysius by The Unionist Times, being essentially itself  part of an ironically unaware Mogg-Oak Monolith. Named after/ for Sebastian Flyte’s teddybear in Brideshead Revisited, (authored by unapologetic RC convert Evelyn  St. John Waugh)  which the Organ of Record (Oo, ah up the OOR, Woolie) carries with it, just about everywhere. And at all, erm, Times. That is, whenever the time is ripe for yet another ropey  bout of sanctimonious  tut-tut-ing by T.U.T.

Cuddly Anti-Catholicism (C.A.C.)  is a serial  source of comfort  but also, of,  (very) occcasional  discomfort. For Aloysius likes to wake up occasionally and scold, yes, The Unionist Times for being, in truth, fake. Which organ takes it on the chin, as it (very) occasionally takes Times out from  shin-kicking the Shinners. 

Despite the hierarchy of the RC committing the, erm, Cardinal sin of  giving myrrh-scented succour   to the BA for much of  the Troubles, C.A.C.  is all the thanks they get from the Free Southern Stateen, from Ahoghill to Ballybough, Cathal, and on a daily basis.  

Sinn Féin are also learning the hard way that Hard Times (see above) are here to say South of the Black Sow’s Dyke: an obese lot of good their cheesy morphing into Sinn Fem has done  them, in their recent dysfunctional elections. Truly is the Orthodoxy of  Occidental England a thankless lot of bluffers; almost as tankless as its impecunious army (still whimsically  referred to as ‘Oglaigh na hÉireann), it having the buffer zone of the BA to defend it.

Fáilte is scor mar sin  go dtí An Íoroin, stáitín dúchais an Ayatullah Céilí Band under the Moutbattenesque baton of T. Dooley, TD.

Curiously, C.A.C. raised its  curdled perfume in two dead-heat obituaries which went into orbit during the last couple of days: one of which will suffice as an Ecclesiastic example of pious elasticity.

 In the tributary of tributes which first  began to flow  at the  passing of His Grace, Brendan, of the Dioscese of Double-up, before  rapidly swelling  into a tsunami of psalms of praise,  there was a certain  contradiction, oops, disconnect to be detected. 

As the psalm of one hand went along the lines of  how he eschewed foul and profane language in search of a lanternjawed  guffaw,  while on the psalm of the other hand ?  On that psalm the punch line in all of the unctious tributes was his blink-long but which made you think-long  talk-on part in, erm, Father Ted(ium).

This latter glib trib caught The Perkin off guard. So, breaking a sacred vow of a laugh-time he duly youtubed the heftily yt’d FT and caught the 3 minute  appearance. It proved to be even more vile than that which one had feared from  this smile-deterrent River Dance of rancid RC bashing.

 And as His Grace, an indomitable comic talent of some rotunidty, guested into the sitting room of sitting ducks, this hostile aisle of  all  priests being tarred with the same racist rush to judgement,  it became instantly obvious. That?  That even he, B.G.,  had been dragged down without trace  to  the same doggy-bag  level of the resident unfunny bunnies.  With their puerile  slagging off of the Irish RC clergy while simultaneously tail-wagging and baying in the manner servile for their Mainland paymasters.

-Anchors aweigh !

RTE, having turned down this paradigm of slime-daubed D.I.Y. self-abasement  by originally turning their Montrose noses up,  have long  since U-Turned (see dUp)  embraced it with an embarrassing  Charles Aznavour-style  intensity. It’s called Taking Ownership of our own Tipping the Forelock, that sorta thingy 

Not only on RTE but also over in  the ‘independent’ wireless stations.  From Matt Kenny to Pat Cooper, oops, Matt Cooper to Pat Kenny (you mean there is actually a thrawneen of difference between these two mouthpieces of what used to be the shoneen DOBlin broadcasing empah, up to very recently, of Dinny O Brien ?) who both uber-emphasied the Fr. Ted guest appearance of His Grace. 

That is,  before Dinny’s obese wallet got skinny, a comic turn of such rollicking humour it would, erm, grace the pages of a Tobias Smollett four volume novel. Retitled, perchance:

When Humphrey Clinker’s pocket no longer went ………………clink !

To think that Dermot Pierpoint Morgan from Stillorgan,  for the antic  hanging out of his countrymen to dry as Fr. Ted in pursuit of the ever-readies and a battery of sycophantic cameras, has been commemorated, no less, in Merrion Square. Where?  Within a donkey’s bray of Crocodile Eireann. By? By a stick of sculpted metal furniture which rhymes with  the obvious m-word.

-The Jester’s Chair.

Could be that a second, larger chair will in time and Times be erected in close proximity and dutifully named so that it too will rhyme with the the same obvious m-word:

-The Guester’s Chair.

Walk with any Winston (from Wimbledon) or Winnie (from Wigan) and while walking with them, talk to them of their received impresh of a typical member of the RC clergy in Ireland.  And they will tell you, gan eisceacht, that the same gang of cardigan-wearers  are all stare-eyed and  paired with a word which rhymes with the now sadly dead jester, Fr. Ted.

Ní feart go cur le chéile.

To end, friend, where one began : with a place beginning with A:


If, boy,   the song had been sung on  a train rather than  on a bus  by the Chorus of the Academy of  St. Michael’s in the  Field it would have been  ‘The Mountains of Pomeroy’ which was first, erm, pencilled by the songwriter formerly known as Siggy. It figures.  That the cups they’d be in possession of, if indeed, not in, were both the Railway Cup as well as the Sigerson Cup.

And that, if, say, Fr. Ted had come back from the dead he would have spat out the oul ciggy from his foul mouth in protest against this outrageous breach of Die Hausfrau’s peace:

An  out and out law man in a land forlorn

He scorned to scoot and fly

But kept the cause of Flute freedom safe

Upon the mountains high. 

Picking up his ever handy hurley stick and simultaneously frothting at the mouth with fulminating  with  eye-balls rolling and hair unkempt like an unclipped hedge,  he would then proceed to smash (and grab attention) each and every window on the stroppy, Croppy bus, having mislaid one‘s train of thought. In a physical duplicate, Kate, of his verbal wit as Fr. Ted(ium) through the medium of the urgently turgid and, erm, smashing dialogue.

Having finished this, he would then be informed of his having just beem A-listed posthumously on Die Hausfrau’s B-Day Honours list before breaking wind and into :

Jesterday, all our Troubles seemed so far away.

How the Organ of Record – would have reacted to this presence of 3 Morgans – one in the bus, Niall, one outside the bus, Dermot,  and one – one of our very Eoin – representing all of us as Cap’n Fantastic of  Team England in the Whole Wide World Cup of Cricket in Lords – need leave nobody stumped.

Bíonn caora gheal ag an tréad is duibhe.

 The Organ of Record, aka Mutt the Tool –  would – will –having cooled its jets,  have still yet  been  wet, wet, wet with the unfrogettable liquid  asset which loyalty brings to the fabled fibre optic cable. Such is the digital dexterity of its key staff  member’s  stiff little fingers when performing the riff of an iffy Royalty.

Is glas iad na Cricketers i bhfad uainn.

What this loyalty  – on a linguistic, political, blinguistitc, sporting lev, Trev  – to the sable-shrouded  Crown brings to the patio table of Pat  is  the finest, erm, anchor Shoneen Central has ever seen. An anchor  in a  hitherto manky  turbulent, Troubles-tossed Occidental N gland. Thereby ? Thereby ensuring the future will be marked by an absence of rancour, untroubled by oil tankers, investment bankers and, thar rud ar bith eile , RC Clerical spankers.

Anti-Samitism and Religious Racism go hand in glove in the Glove Island of Grovel Central.

Sieg heil, Die Hausfrau.


                              TUILLEADH   LE  TEACHT:   TO  BE CONTINUED

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