George William Russell of Lurgan once penned a poem which will live as long as Time, or indeed as a Lurgan Spade itself, whichever is the longer.
Go ahead.
In ancient shadows and twilights
Where childhood had strayed
The world’s great sorrows were born
And its heroes were made.
In the lost boyhood of Judas
Christ was betrayed.
Go ahead.
The poem had only one name, Germinal, unlike its author who had a smorgasbord of monikers such as, i.e., AE which he had hoisted himself and also, The Hairy Fairy which D.P. Moran had foisted upon him. One of these noms de plume fitted him like a glove: while the other glove was such that even a mother, Lord above, could not love.
Go ahead.
Germinal? That rings a bell, even a glockenspiel at the going down of Die Sonne and in Der Morgen. Diese Art von Dingy. Could it be that in the lost kindergarten days of the combatants of the German Civil War 14-18 – the Great Civil War, the Civil War to end all Civil Wars – there was such an origin trail? Donner und Blitzen ! Surely ze point is not being made zat ze Saxe-Coburg-Goths of Anglo-Saxony vere ze first cousints of ze Hohenzollerns of Saxony? Mein Gott !
Go ahead.
In 1863, Wilhelm (later Kaiser) was taken to England to be present at the wedding of his Uncle Bertie (later King Edward V11), and Princess Alexandra of Denmark. Wilhelm attended the ceremony in a Highland costume, complete with a small toy dirk. During the ceremony, the four-year-old became restless. His eighteen-year-old uncle Prince Alfred, charged with keeping an eye on him, told him to be quiet, but Wilhelm drew his dirk and threatened Alfred. When Alfred attempted to subdue him by force, Wilhelm bit him on the leg. His grandmother, Queen Victoria, missed seeing the fracas; to her, Wilhelm remained “a clever, dear, good little child, the great favourite of my beloved daughter Vicky”.
Hmmmm.
More (gasp) legacy issues but, still, what a movie that would have made as a companion fillum to his ‘Debt in Ennis’:
– ‘Deliverance’ starring Dirk Bogarde, with the soundtrack of ‘Duelling Glockenspeils’ und der Untertitel ‘Thistle-Counting in Six-Finger Country’.
It would for sure have been a case of ‘Sad Movies make me Cry’ (see John D. Loudermilk) just as ‘Bad Novels make me Sigh’ (see Milk).
Ná habair, in Ainm Chroim, go bhfuilmid ag caint anseo faoi Réigiún na Sé Méar ar an mBainseo Ocht dTéad ?
But wait, Meine Damen und Herren, there’s more !
Siuthad (Scots-Gaelic).
-As a teenager he was educated at Kassel at the Freidrichsgymnasium. In January 1877, Wilhelm finished high school and on his eighteenth birthday received as a present from his grandmother, Queen Victoria, the (gulp) Order of the Garter.
Mein Gott, was ist das ? ! Relax, just an item of kitsch which Lord Horatio Herbert Kitschener himself of Kerry City who was to become the quasi-counterpart of Kaiser Willhelm (much the way The Munster Fusiliers became the counterparts of Die Fusiliere von Munster) automatically received on his eighteenth birthday.
Old Kitschers, unsurprisingly, went on to become THE great paedo in a speedo / D.O.M. in a hurry to harry, in the Great Race to the (gasp) Bottom of the Great Civil War. The walking-out finger of fact points to the evidence that NO stableboy, choirboy, shoeboy, potboy, even, TALLBOY in the Big Houses of Blighty was safe (gulp) from the basic kneads of OK. Whenever he, The Moustachioed One from Ballylongford in the Kingdom, who hated de Rebels of Cork, boy, with a Passchendaele, was on (frequent) furlough from the far rear end of the Front.
Understandably, this minor detail re. designed-on minors tends to get overlooked by the paper of record known as The Unionist Times, aka, The Rectitude of the Diaspora.
Go ahead.
It is that p.o.r., of course, which purrs about its foremost finger-paw pointer, The Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop. Of late, FOTUS ( for it is also he !- Fintan O Toole Uber Shoneen) has been engaged in one of his myriad precoccupations. The tip of which resourceful pryramid has been the urgent sourcing of a new National Tantrum for the Free Southern Stateen.
Arís, it is ululation once again from The Unionist Times. With this ochone of a bone song which anyone can dogwhistle, in or out of tune. Let’s hear it so from the FOTUS Redding of Redmondism.
Go ahead.
Baying on the Dock of the Bay
I left my home in Crumlin
And I headed for Dublin Bay
‘Cause I’ve got nothin’ to live for
Looks like nothin’s gonna come my way, so
I’m just come bayin’ on the dock of the bay
Watchin’ the tide roll away
I’m bayin’ on the dock of the bay, wastin’ time
Pure, authentic Rhythm and True-Blues of Brexit 2.
Re-spect.
That lamentable lament was leading the race to the top-note notch, pre-Brexit 2, till something not insignificant in the way of cantilevered cant intervened. Such is the Paradox of the Bay in Dublin.
Go ahead.
The Commemorative Ceremony for the Centenary of the Under Armistice at 11 : 11 by Lady Legs 11 in London was simultaneously held by her linguistic loyalists on Liffeyside. And colloquially known as the B.O. of the B.A. or, Somme body did somebody a Pong Song.
There, where A Hauntings Soldier takes his place with most of his nuts and bolts in place, beneath The Alligators’ Gate where the khaki Green and Grafton Street greet .
Go ahead.
There, where the heroes of the Somme who took The King’s Shilling / Der Schilling der Konige have their flag, The Union Jackeen, flown reverentially at half mast, while the anti-heroes of Sam in Croak Park, have their flag flown at no mast, and are not even confined to The Halfpenny Bridge.
Go ahead.
There, were the golden Bullionaire, Martin O’Kneel, OBE has long since been nailed down as Bainisteoir by the F.A.I. (Finances are Immaterial) while the G.A.A. (Grab All Association) gets bogged down in a monolith of money.
Go ahead.
There, where FOTUS Redding, forlorn at the prospect of a neo-Brexit 2, chanced to glance up from the Paradox of Dublin Bay. To catch a life-enhancing glimpse of Shoulders’ Field, aka The Aviva, née Lansdowne Road.
Go ahead.
He then chanced to glance down and caught a glimpse of an anchor. It was at that very instance that the merge began to emerge in the shape of a maritime name, par, of course, for The Unionist Times:
-Paul W. Anka
(The Canadian Ambassador of Song himself, whose overzealous devotees insist on inserting the middle W., misguidedly, perhaps. And which W. stands for Writer to mark the double-checked fact that he was one of the first Singer-Song Writers).
Go ahead.
It was P.W.A. who penned the Half-time dirge at Half-mast in The Shoulders’ Field.
–Put your Head on my Shoulder.
Go ahead.
Another P.W.A. song which so appealed to the p.a.w.– tapping Lapdog, was:
– Diana, whose b.f. Dodie Fayed met with as horrid a fate as his fact-checked first cousin, Jamal Khashoggi, was later to suffer.
This was the dogwhistle which caused the penny to drop for The Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop.
Go ahead.
Poppy Love
And they called it Poppy Love
Oh I guess they’ll never know
How a young heart how it really feels
And why I love her so
And they call it Poppy Love
Just because we’re fourteen / eighteen
Tell them all
Oh please tell them it isn’t fair
To take away my only dream
I cry each night
It’s tears for you
My tears are all in vain
I hope I hope and I pray
That maybe someday
You’ll be back (you’ll be back) in my arms (in my arms)
In my Vickers Machine Gun Arms
Once again
The Tash Hags of the Miaow 2 hash.tag Removement have extracted a cast-iron non-pram prom from FOTUS that this vowel-moving homage to dead men will be recorded by The Mommas minus The Poppas.
Ms spect.
Go ahead.
The poised question will be posed as to what prompted the masterly doctoring of the entrenched last line by The Linguistic Lapdog with a Laptop.
Go ahead.
Superfluous Fact-check in the post: the prompt came, gan dabht dá laghad, from the unctuous media in Occidental England which, gach lá, went totally tooth and claw O.T.T. by tipping both the mike and Mickaleen D. at Thiepval. Thereby getting the race for the Third Term in the Park off to a lark-early start while (gulp) Sommeltaneously swamping their licence-paying listernership. In what? In the mud (old) and the blood (cold) of the impossible-to-miss reminiscing about the Civil War to end all Civil Wars this weekend gone. This sorta thingy:
We remember them at the going down of The Sun
And in The Morning Ireland.
Go ahead.
Poppy go the Weasel Words and a dawn-grey Dublin (yawn) morphs effortlessly once more into a DUPlin of Sommey’s and Sommies alike.
Take, f’rinstance, The Joe Duffy Show, where Joe talked to Folk and Folk talked to Joe.
One of the first guests called upon to talk to Joe was one, Brian Murphy, a mere White Southern Trashionalist, who was bodyslammed by the gunslinging Canadian Ambassador Kevin Vickers. Where? There, at Easter 2016. at the ‘commemoration’ of the crestfallen numbers of Tommy the Irishman in the appropriate Khaki military cemetery at Grangegorman, historical home of Dublin’s Wacky.
-Did you write a letter of apology to the Ambassador?
Asked Joe.
Go ahead.
-No.
-Y?
-Just didn’t.
-Y not?
The Y letter is always up-front where Joe’s accent comes from: Ballyfermot. Also, the Homeplace of Ghost Writer Sheridan le Fanu. (See The Hauntings Soldier above).
-Windscreen Ypres slapping time.
Go ahead.
Ambassadors are diplomatic dudes sent abroad to lie – and to lay into peaceful nativist protesters of a gnationialist persuasion – on behalf of their imperious country.
Go ahead.
The wooden Joe Duffy, military attaché of the SDLP Confuseliers on Liffeyside, seems to have a pet fetish about wood: from his oft repeated friendship from his TCD days at Inter-Varsity Yoof Spoof Competitions with (gasp) A. Atwood to his mentioning en passant during his latest dogwistle prog ‘the massacre’ of the (gulp) Sherwood Foresters at Mount Street Bridge.
-Windscreen Ypres slapping time.
Not to mention lifting his ire in high dudgeon at those ‘so called patriotic’ curmudgeons who tainted the all-inclusive wall in Glasnevin, Dublin 9 by daubing it with (gasp) paint. And lowering his ire to administer a verbal bludgeon on those dire excuses for Irishmen.
-Escpecially considering that the names of the Fallen Forty Children of the Rising are inscribed on the wall. !!!!
And, oh, about whom the modest presenter penned a bestseller (‘lest we forget ! lest we forget!’). Which he self-effacingly ghost-writ all by himself under the spiritual guidance of his fellow parishioner, Sheridan Le Fanu, aka, Aililiú, who talked to Joe thus, in the long night of his prototype protége’s soul:
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna bána,
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna b’iad a b’fhearr liom,
Aililiú na gamhna, na gamhna geala bána,
Na gamhna maidin shamhraidh
Ag damhsa ar na bánta.
This, of course, is the traditional calling home of the varicose-veined calves in Dublin 10. Depend upon it, there wasn’t a cow milked, or the silk of the kine bulled in Ballyer for Forty Days and Forty Nights as Joe’s large-bore Magum.44 Opus about the Fallen 40 Children of the Rising got ghost-writ, in sandals and by candle light.
So distraught was poor ole Joe Duffy indeed at the scandalous vandalism of these rough toughies, none of whom holds a George Frederick to the stalwarts of Ypres, that, sadly, he clean forgot to mention how his latest rumoured opus is progressing. Dealing with, according to the lapdogwhistles in the streets, the number of childrens’ deaths which coincided with the duration of the Dubalin Tatooseliers on the Continent. The working title is still under wraps :
-Vierhundert Kinder? Viertausend Kinder?
Time to go out now like so many of the Great Civil Warriors – on a Lim.
Go ahead.
Good v. Spud
You say: Somme de Guerre
Deirimid : Pomme de Terre
This is the D.
For U. ’n me
An rogha, É.: Saor nó Daor?
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED
Comments are closed.