LAPDOG BITES BULLDOG (56) by Perkin Warbeck



In 2009, OOL announced, oops, made a (yawn)  public ( stretch) pronouncement that (trouser cough) she, Olivia O Leary, no less,  was leaving the Catholic Church.

Stop all the clocks. Cut off the telephone. Prevent the Lapdog from barking  with a juicy bone. That sorta thingy.

Let us now pass over in silence the intervening decade of the non-rosary.

In football terms, this  pass over might be known as (in secular terms) a hospital pass or (in religious terms) a Hail Mary. As Joe Duffy might enquire:


In 2019, OOL drools over Duelling Danno for having won, (gulp) single handedly,  (gasp) Catholic Emancipation for those Irish of that persuasion.  Go figure, guys.

I ndiaidh a chéile a thogtar an Caitliceach Caisleáin.

Meanwhile /Pendant ce temps, Orléans, both ancienne et nouvelle,  and Madame Olivia O Leary will be forever yoked just as long as there is a blokey charlatan to be drooled over by OOL for moola which requires a barrow to wheel home.  It’s a tradish cherished  by some of them what were reared on La Rive Gauche of the River Barrow.

While those terrific  P-trained ones who hail specifically  from Borris-sur-Barrow get hot under the collar if their cherished wish  to be twinned in twine with Barrow-in-Furness in Boris Land is binned.

That would be Boris Johnson and Johnson, out of the two sides of his one opioid mouth he is wont to emit if not prepared to admit, toxic porkies for those who are minus the moxy to tell the heifer-sized differ.

(An  explanation of P-trained  will be found  in the  Po-etry corner further down the river / Faighfear míniú ar P-oilte sa chúinne Fualaíochta nios faide an abhainn síos, amach anseo).

But first, that thief of rhyme, un apéritif:


The kipper the skipper raised with a smile

That didn’t dip with sick chick on his dial

Fish or fowl?

Shld be told:

Big, semi-aquatic reptile, d’Anti-Crocodile.


Sean-logainm a chiallaíonn cíos ar mhias

Don Tiarna Talún on tiononta teanga thíos

Karloff, mar is

Gnách, Borris

On PM go AM, ars’ an Tíosach:‘crom síos!’

Orléans, aprés tous, provided OOL with  the Two Planks of her  platfrom to yank  Daniel O’

Connell, unadueller,  from obscurity. Thus restoring him to the first rank of social, oops, political 

climbers to scale the snowflakey summit  of The Mountebank, oops, Le Mont Blanc of Moderation,

or summat like that.

Obscurity? Indeed, one means to say, like, there are actually some Con-urbations in the Free

Southern Stateen which don’t have an O’Connell Street in them, if not a statue itself, with that big

manhole cover-sized head of his on each and every statue.

The irony of his death, btw, on his way to Rome, which the RCs call home,  was that he of (gulp)

the hard neck died of (gasp) softening of the brain. Not many folk Genoa that, guv.

Andara in Italia senza vedere il papa.

The  First Plank of OOL’s  was, of course,  La Révolution Francais,  which was to the fore in

putting The Gliberator off violent gore for life, sort of,  and which he grew to hate, mais pas

encore. St. Gus would have recognised Danno as one of the Team of  Us, a snaking regarder at

heart of the eternal silence which stealthy violence carries as its freight.

A dickie bird tells one, with one featherweight word,  that we are  deep in Deliverance country

here. Danno the Heavyweight Humano aka The Duelling Dan, Joe,  was a postgrad lad of 

Punningdale for  slow learners. Go háirithe, when it came to taking pot-shots at his fellow soon-

to-be has beens of  human beings. Thus, Mallon Head itself would even have been  above his O’C 

level, never mind Mont Blanc.

The Second Plank of OOL’s platform shoes, also redolent of Le Gout Francais, was Dixie in

general and La Nouvelle Orléans,  in particular.  This is  where the Slave Trade was unshackled 

by any Free Trade Disagreements.

Dixie, of course, has a special resonance for the Pixie, in particular its Irish equivalent, The

Leprechaun. For it has to do both with slavery and the slave-mind.

Slavery? Slave-mind?

Déanaimis  deifir an difríocht a idirdhealú is a mhíniú, Lulu /Let us make haste, Lulu, and

distinguish the differ in taste.

In Dixieland, the difference was clearly understood both from the off and the offal and was neatly encapsulated in the acronym:


For every hundred slaves there was always one Leprechaun-speaking Uncle Dan, oops, Uncle Tom who stood ‘head and shoulders above the rest’ (to borrow the deftly shaped phrase of the Barrowside OOL).

The difference has taken somewhat longer to grasp in Pixieland, aka the  Free Southern Stateen, from Bantry Bay up to Mulroy Bay and where nobody every bayed louder nor U.D. or to give him his full acronym:


(Uncle Dan, Anglo).

Slave? Slave-mind?

To elucidate more, Kate. In a different though not unrelated context, one could do better than to eavesdrop on this slice of vintage Behan dialogue, between Daddy Stephen and his son, Brendan in short pants.

-Daddy, what’s the difference between a Dastard and the B-word ?

(Dastard was a favourite D-word of Daddy Stephen, father of all the Behans).

-Son, if you happen to be a B-word, it’s not your fault. But, janeymack, you have to  really work hard at being a Dastard.

The dialogue, it is understood arose from the common folk belief on the Island of Island (to poach a contemporary term) that Dastardly Dan O Connell could scarcely throw a stone over an orphanage wall without hitting one of his own sticky-fingered offspring, Dick.

In fact, Uncle Dan was never the type of man to miss out on a chance of flaunting his Slave Mind. He worked, it might be said, hard at it / D’oibrigh Dan go dian air.

Wake up, Little Lulu, the next bit from OOL is a lower-case lulu:

He never visited the United States because it was a slave-owning country. He wouldn’t shake the hand of anyone who condoned slavery, including the US ambassador. “I should be sorry to be contaminated by the touch of a man from those states where slavery is continued,” he said.

(So NOW we know where the Slave-minded Gay Byrne aka GB, derived his manual mannerisms from !)

The midnight oil-burning OOL somehow forgot or failed to spot this contemporary report below

re. Uncle Dan, the slave-minded man, during the visit of the Monarch from the Mainland to the

Green land of caubeen-doffing Pat in 1821.The ripping bicentennial commemorations of which

VIP visit the Doxies of Orthodoxy on Liffeyside can  scarcely contains their water for:

-In time, it would become apparent that George IV was a staunch opponent of Catholic Emancipation, but even Daniel O’Connell got caught up in the enthusiasm of the time. He decorated his home in Dublin with many sprigs of shamrock-shaped greenery  and displayed a bright transparency on the drawing room window, inscribed: “George IV, the only king that declared the Crown was held in trust for the good of the people. Erin go Bragh.”

But, wait, there’s more:

– Up to the day of departure, on 5th September and from Dunleary which was then renamed Kingstown in his honour, the numbers following his course never diminished and the visit concluded with Daniel O’Connell – Ireland’s Liberator – kneeling before the monarch and proferring a laurel wreath.

(Yes, dearie, Dunleary, it rhymes with O’Leary).

Greenland  had its honking, loose-neck goose  in the noose  recently for its display of a neon-lit  

‘Not for Sale’  sign, Leon. And  in no uncertain Norse, Nurse. Our own dear green and pleasant

land was, mar is eol do chách milis, sold yonks ago down the liver-dance and for a song:

 –O, Danny Boy, the pinstriped swipe-cards are calling you-hoooooooooooooooooooooo !

Thus, The Forty Shades of Greenland are no longer up for sale. There where if one were to write a

similar thesis to that  of a  drooling OOL the backpassage breezes of Duelling Danno are all  as

soft as Shalimar.

Whatever about putting his head in the Lion’s mouth a lá Mallon,  after entering its den in the

StepMother of Parliaments, there can be nothing but near unanimiity about the Gliberator’s

propensity for stuffing his manhole cover-sized head up the the awe-inspiring rear-aperture  of the

aromatic Unicorn.

Co-incdentally, there was one other island for sale of late, off the east coast of Occidental


Ireland’s Eye.

Give, as Macca might have put it, Ireland’s Eye back to The Iris.

Consider just one more of many fleeting examples of this same bleating  Tadhg-an-dá-Thaobh

slave mind with a propensity to cave-in;

I don’t mind being called a West Brit if that means Ireland is treated fairly like the rest of the UK

(A sentiment curiously  expressed here by the Prophet and re-echoed recently by People before Profiteers in UK North re NHS)

Curiously, as well, OOL did not refer to these slave-minded moments from Uncle Dan. One uses the c-word advisedly in  the context of what one Alan Gilsensen, director of the DO’Cumentary in a RTE hug-heavy plug:

She is forensic in her attention to detail, to getting the facts right.

(Spot the missing s-word x 3: i.e., selective attention, selective detail and selective facts).

The suggestion re. OOL’s forensic  omissions in her pre-emptive preview in The Unionist Times,

i.e.,  that their commissions  wouldn’t  quite fit in with the accepted Knorritive of the Souperstars

of the Shoneen Preeners, is surely unworthy of consideration, Shirley.

Meanwhile, The Madame Defarge of Montrose D4, continues to knit her high brows, seeing nothing.

To conclude with a mention of Daniel O Connell’s rhyming couplet, one from the Rosses who is held in as rank bad odour by the Doxies of Orthodoxy on Liffeyside as the Gliberator is held in the high esteem of the Bosses, both female and male:

-Daniel O Donnell.

Wee Daniel is not the P-trained type, hence his being anathema, Ma, to the tut-tutters of The Unionist Times. Unlike his rhyming couplet, he took the trail less travelled, via Oregon, and rediscovered his Leprechaun origins.

-Badunk !

That’s the sound of the bludgeon of the High Dudgeoners in High Places like Ely Place, D2, coming down upon the head of Wee Daniel. A sound as futile as it is clunky, mar is cuma sa tsioc leis  an boc ceolmhar  as na Rosaibh cad a ghrágann  na préacháin Cois Life go piachánach faoi.

His musical journey too is not guaranteed neither  to warm the cockles, much less the mussels, of the hearts of his tractor-dissing detractors in off-quay DUPlin, those inventors of inverted racism. For Daniel O Donnell has made it big in that musical city which is guaranteed to set the canines of the Lapdogs of Liberalism-sur-Liffey  gnashing in a whining  chorus of ‘white trash !’.


One shudders to think how OOL would react if she were ever to run her disarmingly charming schoolmarm  slide rule over this performance in front of, shoot, a hoot ‘n holler Opryland. Singing a song redolent of Le Gout Francais of Nouvelle Orléans in praise of a Creole and Cajun dish:

Jambalaya and a crawfish pie and filé gumbo

’Coz tonight I’m gonna see my ma cher amio

Perhaps OOL might even see – where no one else has seen before – a reference to Wee Daniel’s rhyming couplet in the first four words of the third last line as follows

Dress in style, go hog-wild, me oh my oh

Son of a gun we’ll have big fun on the bayou!

Settle down, far from town, get me a pirogue

And I’ll catch all the fish in the bayou.

Or, as Wee Daniel might retort:

-Aithníonn pirogue, pirogue eile.

Hup , ya bayou !

                                     TUILLEADH   LE   TEACHT:  TO BE CONTINUED

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