It is a truth universally acknowledged, that the PRIDE parade in Dublin (sic), in possession of the good fortune of a subservient media, must be in want of an AP.
And that AP is, of course, as apt an acronym as one could prey for:
– AND PREJUDICE.
The Parade where Mickey and Fanny (MaF) are given the freedom – or else !– of Dublin (sic) to faf around the streets of the capital city of the Free Southern Stateen. When the (gulp) Plain Janes get to (gasp) ostentatiously dress up to the nines and the fore alike as they morph into Shrill Jills.
While back down at the, erm, bottom, the Hackbacked Jacks get to jostle each other (goodnaturedly of course, for bonhomie is de rigeur in this celebration of inclusive intimidation once again) for the coveted Last Place. Reserved for the one with the longest schnozzle, and the title of An t-Uasal Asal..
Thus, the Legion of the Rearguard get to playfully indulge their Schmozzle Sashay at the backside region of the PRIDE parade for the title which, it may be divulged, translates as:
-Mr. Darcy.
For this is the parade where, regretfully, all self-respecting Straights head straight for the hills and with no ill reason: highstepping heterophobia is here the order of the day, hey, hey, hey.
For this particularly fussy Dublin (sic) – and how one just hates to state it ! – copy-cat PRIDE parade positively pulsates with pussy PREJUDICE. Having the edge in predge on all other PRIDE parades worldwide for Éire Aerach truly is the global top-seeder and noble weeder-out – sure, and begorra, don’t we sorra lot say so ourselves alone !!
In Éire Neamh-Aerach we used to take the pledge; now it’s the predge. Pioneers have long been replaced by pierced eye and ears. Predge, both for and against in this, erm, shared face space. For themselves, the hack-backing participants and against the pride-lacking enemy, aka, the Enema of the Chosen People.
Well, whatdyaknow, PRIDE just APens to coincide with Bloomsmonth. Boris, a chara, we are so not worthy of the jovial Senator Professor David Norris !.
Which is not to say, ar ndoigh, that there is no Straight presence from Infa Red to Ultra Violet; there is, of course. Consisting of a (gasp), cowed cohort of PC politicos, pretending not to be morto. All the while under the beady eyeliners of their Media Mistresses and Masters to whom they have no alternative (allegedly) but to (gulp) kow-tow. Or, else.
Call them the dire Straights. You can spot them a forced smile away, these in-Sultans of Swing Polls: they don’t got the action, they don’t got the motion.
–Éist le satailt na gcéimeanna gé agus geofar breac.
The Perkin’s inner fisher after the rainbow trout (breac of the brackish water !), so madly, badly wants to love this parade, but, hey, PRIDE, with its cockeyed onesidedness, erm, tadly makes it a wee wee bit diffcult to do so.
Fof this is the PRIDE parade which is not so much ‘something else’ as ‘or else’.
Think back, and in a cloud of pink, to the Noble Screech, delivered from the stage of the National Theatre/ Amharclann Náisiúnta, mar dhea, in the staged strorming of same in 2014 by Missy Panti Bliss for the maiden performance of ‘Finnegan Wakes the Feminists’. Can his (sic) Nobel Speech be far, erm, behind?
That night of nights when the gabby Abbess led the Abbey even deeper down into the abyss.
Certainly the National Museum/ Iarsmalann Náisiúnta, mar dhea was gracious to the point of a gravel-chewing grovel when it accepted (….or else) earlier this week the generous donation by that endlessly benevolent and bellowing fellow, Missy Panti Bliss. Of? Of the sashaying yellow dress (s)he (sic) wore that night of melodramatic nights back in 2014.
Not so much the Hunchback of Notre Dame as the Munchausen of Notre Syndrome. Missy Naccissus hymnself, ablaze with – shall one count the ways? – prissy self-attention-drawing drawers.
Cue:
–Cute Trespassers with Flowing Tesses will be Processed !
A theme song is surely called for, Shirley.
Knock ! Knock ! Who’s there? No, not Our Laddie from Mayo, the Amazonian P. Bliss. No, not George Strait either. (Who, btw, is not a cousin of his co-country singer, Charlie Rich, but, you bet your bottom dollar, is a Stetson-wearing cousin of his fellow Texan, Jeff Bezos – cheque it out ! cheque it out !).
Instead, the best of the lot, the divine Shel Silverstein from Chicago, the man with a spot-on song for every occasion. This particular one as sung-along by Waylon Jennings, and guaranteed an innings on RTE, not.
Chorus:
It’s the world’s gone crazy cotillion
The ladies are dancing alone
Side men all want to be front men
And the front men all want to go home.
Think back now to 2018, and once more in a cloud of pink, when, yes, The Halfpenny Bridge, no less, was joyously commandeered by an eerie Umbrella Group. Turned out to be a reasonly loud Rainbow Coalition of Proud Marys and Pridie Bridies, their upright carriage put down to their pink-alike Same Sox. There, on the bridge, to welcome with pride in their own distinctive way, devoid of the snide sneer and where the leery jeer was unmployed:
– Céad Míle Fawlty to Ole Red Sox.
Pride, the way, say, Dr. Crippen might have taken pride in his potassium cyanide, or Nell Gwyne herself, well known for having no sense of smell at all, at all, might have taken in sniffing the perfume of a low tide (no gwan ourra dat, at the back of the class, led thoil !)
Were, perchance, these Rainbow Umbrella Group Thinkers in Pink Plus told to skedaddle like the addled and banned drapers of the Dubs banner in 2019 as in: Hop on the Bus, Gus or even: pronto, Tonto ! Well, actually, in a Bono-like monosyllable:
-No.
No planning laws flaunted on The Halfpenny Bridge then, accrording to the Planning Authorties of Dublin (sic) on that prior (short for priority) occasion, the prevous year. There is, ní gá a rá, a capital Pride at high tide and then there is a lower-case pride when the sniffy Liffey is at low tide.
In any other part of the whole wide world where Die Hausfrau’s Englische is spoke, the jaded phrase ‘in the halfpenny place’ whenever ladled out, can only mean the one thing, and the one thing only. In, however, that global brand leader in all things to do with the PC Pink Paso Doble, Dublin (sic), things is different. There it means – no joke – the polar opposite and so it is that in Dublin (sic) tis the PRIDE who have the pride of place on the Halpenny Bridge.
This is why The Halfpenny Bridge is now a designated TOL bridge in Molly’s fare city. PRIDE has seen to that, i.e., by kindly donating the first syllable of their hate-speech dissing raison d’etre:
– TOLerance.
Am cuí, seans, do Luimneach na Leathphingne / Time. Perchance, for a Halfpenny Limerick :
Tá Síle Ni Ghadhra anois ina Síle na gCíoch
Aka Panti Bliss :ní fios cá mbeidh a Chríoch
This week, RTE, running a plucky if unlucky 13 million euro slippage, blamed it on the outrageous flipping cost of covering Old Red Sox’s visit. Dála an scéil, this is the same cash-strapped but panache-lapped RTE which is, erm, proud to sponsor this year’s PRIDE parade. Or , erm, else.
The johnny-come-latelys are coming in early
The early bird’s showing up late
The straight men all want to be funny
And the funny men all want to get straight
The Sages in their beige bureacuacracy audaciously decided in their Ms. Norma Wisdom that the pugnacious Pride Umbrella Group (P.U.G.) could let their pointing accusatory finger linger as long as it took. Till? Till the befuddled Argie at Largie had gone back to the where he belongs, the Muddle Ages.
Not only was a súil dhall but a cluas bhodhar as well as a béal tostach was turned: no breach of planning laws to be seen here. In fact, P.U.G. was lavishly praised as a (gulp) plein air art installation equivalent of Les Parapluies by Renoir in the Dublin City Gallery in Parnell Square (actually, to do a geometric repair job, The Parnellogram).
Despite those same brollies by Renoir being, good golly, Miss Molly, B.Á.C. blue and bluer in colour.
-The Republic of Renoirony, or wot, guv?
Appropriately, perhaps, this rather impressive impressionistic painting, as part of the Hughsitania Lane Collection, is on an every other six-year time-share deal with the National Gallery in London-sur-Mainland. And as in ’appens, guv, D’Umbrellas of Dublin (sic) will dryhead back there this very year of our Our Laddie of Knock, 2019,
But, what’s with all this Dublin (sic): what happened to DUPlin all of a sudden?.
Look up ! At the summit of Liberty Hall:
-No Mutt ! No Jeff !
Instead there is a restless Mount Everest-type supermarket queue gathered there to look down with pride on the PRIDE parade. Let’s hope there is no fall. Pride coming, as it does, before a Fallacy. Or, ought that be, a, erm, Phallusy?
Meanwhile, Mutt the Monoglot, aka Finchley Fintan of the Fuckáil Focal, had snook off to entwine himself with hairy twine around the shrine of Lord Jaw-Jaw Joyce, saying Bonjour Tristessse to Trieste. While Jeff the Ineffeable had effed off back up to B-Fast in the Orange Free Stateen as quickly as the Orange Blossom Special (aka the B-Spesh) could carry him out of Dublin (sic).
What can all this mean? Can it be an Ill Met by Mooning light moment, an indication that there is something potentially rotten in the state of the hamlet tentatively known as DUPlin?
A (gasp) status orange warning that there is something amiss in the too, too (gulp) Blissful but changeable Politcal Climate?
Still, ag deireadh an lae, say what you will, Gay, you have to hand it to the PRIDE parade in Dublin (sic): it does, does it not, enable one at long last to put it a good word for the DUP?
Re-spect (x 2)
TUILLEADH LE TEACHT: TO BE CONTINUED
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