Before anything comes of this it first must be clearly understood that Marley is next door to being dead, dead as a doornail, even a coffin nail itself, being on its last legs. Marley, indeed, is, erm, Harley able to breathe. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wunnerful can come of the blog one is about to flog to death.
That would be the Marley of Mainstream Irish Nationalism (M.I.N.).
M.I.N. in other words is, erm, mincemeat. In the monominded mainstream media, in anyways.
Last week, one left Jeff and Mutt, popmusic’s new super DUPer duo waiting in the wings to make their debut, Stevie, with one of your most wondrous hits. Jeff was in DUPlin recently and when he’s not Elsewhere, Mutt is the original dog in the streets of DUPlin who repeatedly barks the shrillest about the darkest of ills in the city, namely the absence of a true blue northern Loyalist presence. Yes, indeed, that Mutt, the lapdog with a laptop.
Here’s what Mutt in his guise as FOT of TUT (for it is still he !) had to fatuously bark in The Unionist Times last week:
–Demand for Britishness is high but the supply is drying up !
The health of Britishness is a vital Irish national interest. In surveys a little under half of people in Northern Ireland say they feel strongly British. And though you might not know it from some of the crudely nationalist rhetoric that has bubbled back up to the surface, the people of the Republic overwhelminly recognise their right to this identity.
There proved to be an eerie prescience about this dreary theory so redolent of Kingstown (né Dunleary):
-Re-spect.
For within the week, in crudely nationalist Eire (sic) the official green light, having just morphed from orange to the surfeited glee of the Murphia in the monominded media, was given to diss the Gaelgoirs (sicker) as ‘cultural terrorists’. And for the terriers too on the street as well as the cocker spaniels, Daniel, to cock one of their hind legs the better to piss upon them.
This orange juicy move towards acceptably provocative inclusivity was made in tandem with the decision to allow members of the laughingly titled ‘Garda Siochana’ to tog out (see below) in Turbans and Hijabs (TaH) should they so desire. Even as they plod the pavements of a Dodds-friendly DUPlin city where the whorls will be so pretty.
This latter decision was taken by one who fairly recently removed the RUC rucksack from his broadly tolerant back and thus, erm, drew down the blinds on any putative harressment which perceived minorities might endure.
-Aithníonn ciarog ciarog eile (féach síos).
There has much talk of late, Arthur, about The Four Freedoms of the EU Charter. The above benchmark barkings were a reminder that another Four F’s are of even far more local significance:
-Finchley Fintan of the Fuckáil Focal.
For it combined in one go the FOTwah agin An Fainne with its Nil to Leprechaun and its Ta to TaH.
-Hey, hey, the Intifada against the Fada is here to stay !
Meanwhile, it is incumbent upon one not to leave Jeff and Mutt much longer in the wings.
Wings?
In one of his rare forays into, er, POPulism this is what FOT had to include in his cod piece in TUT:
–And what record did The Spectator play at the end? Paul McCartney’s naive Brits-out agitpop song from 1972, Give Ireland back to the Irish. Banned from the UK airwaves in 1972, it is now in Tory circles an acceptably provocative way of hinting that perhaps all the ‘Irish’ (including the DUP) should bugger off and leave us to our own grand project of national liberation.
Hmmmm. One could even hummmmmm that if one had the tune.
Actually, the same very tune was the first recorded by Wings (which Macca had founded after flying the coop of Na Ciaroga) and was a visceral response to Bloody Sunday, 1972 update.
Strangely, FOT’s inner manic street preacherman opted to omit any reference to the ruddy Bloody Sunday thingy. Or, perhaps not so strange. In point of fact, this is pluperfectively understandable for the thoughful, non-roistering FOT. For whose global outreach of a mind, the world, is, gan dabht, his oyster.
For the not so nosey who have spent an oaf-like lifetime comatose and cosy as they lie belly down on the sofa in front of daytime Telly, B for Bloody Sunday is the second letter in the alphabet of A-list atrocities which range from Amritsar all the way down the 26 letters to Zululand itself.
And the bulk of which which are Commemorated and Celebrated (CaC) in the regimental colours which edgily dangle at an anglicised angle above the pulpit for Holy Guest Preachers in the hulking edifice of St. Patrick’s borrowed cathedral of the Church of Ireland in the 26 counties. So they do.
Hark ! Whisht to that bitchy bark from the, erm, wings: Who can it be?
Why it is the unmistakeable bark of Mrs Theresa May (née Brasier). No codding or codpiece.
–Sasana go Bra !
Which neatly enables one to segue back to FOT in his opportunistically fatuous cod piece in TUT.
–There is no joy in any of this for Irish naitonalism. The simplictic notion that a quick transition to Irish unity will solve the problem is utterly unconstitutional. The Constitution requires a profound reconciliation between diverse identities. That in turn requires people to be secure and confident in their sense of belonging.
The crisis of the British state so evident in the collapse of the political order at Westminster has destroyed the security and confidence of Britishness. They will not return any time soon. The question for all of us on this island is: what else can make those who see themselves as British at home in Ireland? If we are to share this space decently, it is in all our interests to approach that question tenderly, openly and generously.
Hmmmmm.
This surely is Mutt’s aka FOT’s go-to GUBU moment. Just consider three of the last four words:
-tenderly, openly, generously. Geddit? No?
Ok, try it in capitals as befits DUPlin, the capital city of the ‘space’ which FOT calls by its cod name, Ireland, but which, in factoid, is actually Occidental England.
-Tenderly, Openly, Generously.
And there you have it:
-TOG. As in TOG-oak Monolith.
(As the peddlar of paddle boat rides used to bray from the Bray Promenade in days of yore:
-Come in, Green Number 1, Bog-oak Monolith, your time is up !).
Which is, of course, the reason why the Mutt who normally prefers to dress down in a dog-collar and tartan body-warmer so readily agreed to, as it were, erm, TOG out in a suitably lurid lyrca showbiz outfitt (sic) of Loyal blue and thus become the second part of the Jeff and Mutt duo.
For Mutt is the very soul of self-deprecatory modesty, who merely sees himself as Mutt the Southern Yune who along with his good buddy, the Northern Yune called Jeff , is gonna Yuneite Yunes North and Yunes South. His aim, Eamon, is to go down in hysteria as the Fada, oops Father of the Yuneited Nation.
Na dearmadaigh, led thoil: No Fadas in the new Yunefied Nation (feach suas ).
Devotees of Classikal Musak, indeed, are aware that Mutt is also known as the Modest Mussorsky of the Mainstream Media. Mainly on account of his operatic dissing of Boris as just not, erm, Godunov. Not to mention, on account of his orchestral tone pome: Night on a Bald Mountain.
The mountain in question, quite serendipidly, happens to be named for/after his own IQ, CarraunToole. Yerra, his verra high IQ.
And it is tither he likes the repair to sit on his own airy tone pome when he wants to distance himself, vertically, from the mentally challenged Marleys of Mainstream Irish Nationalism (American papers, please copy) down below, ochone. There to contemplate his naval fluff and other brainy stuff. Tiring as Mutt occasionally does with having to perpetually put up his myths to engage with the moronic Monolith of the Bog-oak.
One of the main reasons why The Marley of Mainstream Irish Nationalism (also see above) is barely breathing, and is such raggae order (if one is to believe the monominded medium where the tedium is the message, and tidy sums and unruly bobs are made from promulgating such grand transpropaganda entirely), is:
1.Continuity Sticks are so pacific they want to change the neo-name of The Wild Atlantic Way, where some, with tidy sums to spend, have their vernal villas, to the more Leo-friendly, The Calm Pacific Way.
An even mainer reason is:
2.Continuity Sticks are so pacific they make Gandhi in restrospect seem like nothing so much as a saucy goosetepper.
But, Mutt………….?
But, what?
But, wasn’t Jeff, who looks and sounds as harmless as – and even has a surname like – Wee Daniel (that would be, mind, the Wee Daniel of the pre-Majella fella phase) a foot soldier in the UDR in his beefier prime?
So?
The answer, a chara, is blowing in the Winds of Change: back then, Jeff was a foot soldier who performed Corporal works of mercy only on behalf of the UDR. Which is another beast entirely / une autre chose completément from corporal works of merci beaucoup for the EU.
Luimneach Imníoch
Bhí sé sna réalta go ndéanfa’ Mutt sodar
I ndiaidh Jeff saolta, saighdiúir san UDR
Rinne Miss T. Brasier beart
Fáil réidh lena Cíochbheart
Fhad is coimeádann Jeff tirim a ph-údr.
So, to conclude, with le denouément, oops, the long delayed unveling of the undercover version of that wondrous hit of yours, Stevie (and Macca), which ougher be clear fiu do Blind Rafterai an File the Beggar, lan dochas is gra ach ar easpa moola is dosh, which will be Jeff and Mutt’s first mega single as a double of DUPer Stars :
–Ebony and Irony-free.
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT : TO BE CONTINUED
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