The Bloodening

I now present the last page of my horror novel ‘The Bloodening’. First published in 1973, it is still regarded by many as the most frightening book ever written; several people died within forty years of reading it, and I can’t help but feel responsible (natural causes? Give me a break).

Though the book sold fewer than twenty-three copies (eighteen fewer, in fact), critically it was a smash. Examine the following testimonials:

“….not….a mess, from start to finish...written by...a man…” — Daniel Jones, The Irish Times.

“….I could…make head nor tail of it” — Joanne Lancaster, The Independent

“…a miracle…made…light of day…and…Stephen King is sh*tting himself” — Don O’Brien, The Literary Review




Flann O’Coonassa

Page 341 of 341

…that he’d crunched the numbers, and a Rick Astley tribute band simply wasn’t financially viable,” said Lucy.
“I don’t think this is the time, or the place,” replied Max, warding off the closest vampire with his makeshift crucifix of twin toilet brushes.

The moon was full, bathing the castle courtyard in a dull blue glow. Max checked the alignment of his toilet brushes to ensure they criss-crossed at appropriate right-angles to qualify as a crucifix. Lucy loaded a fresh clip into her M16 fully-automatic machine gun. Neither was ready to go down easy.

Lucy pressed her back against Max’s. What were the bastards waiting for? Who would attack first? Wolfman? Frankenstein’s monster? Medussa? The hungry T-Rex? Dracula? Or perhaps the escaped mental patient? Max hoped it would be the escaped mental patient, because he had no supernatural powers and was pretty much a sitting duck in his straitjacket.

“Transylvanian package holiday my ass,” spat Max, taking the brochure from his back pocket and flinging it to the ground.
“I’m scared,” said Lucy.
“Why?” said Max.
“Because…because we’re going to die.”
“I was being sarcastic,” replied Max.

Just when all seemed lost, the unmistakable sound of a 1964 Harley Davidson ruptured the night air. It was Bruce, the Vampire Hunter. He’d come back, just like he promised. Ramping over the drawbridge and into the courtyard, he circled the monsters, revving the engine and swinging his trusty mace above his head. Max and Lucy punched the air with excitement.

Leaning back, Bruce accelerated his bike full-throttle to instigate a wheelie. Unfortunately, the acceleration was excessive, and he drove straight into the nearest wall at high speed.

“Bruce, no,” cried Lucy.
“He’s gone,” said Max, restraining her from running to him.
“No I’m not,” said Bruce.
“He’s alive,” cried Lucy.
“We can’t help him now,” said Max.
“Yes you can,” said Bruce calmly.

Dracula made short work of Bruce in his weakened state, beating him to death with the detached handlebars of his own bike. The killing took little more than an hour, during which Lucy never opened her eyes.

“You’ll pay for what you did to Bruce,” said Max.
“Who’s Bruce?” asked Dracula.
“That guy,” said Max, pointing to Bruce’s mangled carcass.
“That’s Bruce?”
“Bruce Steel?”
“Bruce Steel, The Vampire Hunter?”.
“Ok,” said Dracula, throwing his eyes up to heaven.

The monsters tightened the cordon, encroaching ever closer. The bloodening was nigh.

“You know,” said Max, “I always regretted not asking you out Lucy. I came close so many times, but something always held me back. Maybe it was how you still seemed to be grieving for Danny.”
“Well, he only died on Thursday…,” said Lucy.
“I know, I know,” said Max.
“…and he was your son,” said Lucy.
“I know, but still. Do you ever wonder? What might have been between us?”
“Honestly? Not really. I like you as a friend, but I don’t find you remotely sexually attractive,” said Lucy.
“Oh. Well, this is awkward,” said Max.
“A little,” said Lucy.
“Hey Dracula,” bellowed Max, changing the subject to alleviate some tension, “your fangs are crooked. Don’t you floss?”

The monsters descended upon Lucy and Max. The bloodening was swift, and surprisingly bloody for a bloodening, which despite the misleading name, was usually a pretty clean, neck-breaking affair. No trace of the pair was ever found, except for Lucy's spleen, scalp and right arm, and Max's brain, left testicle and bladder.

Legend has it that Lucy and Max can still be seen, wandering the Transylvanian moors on a misty night. It's a stupid legend, because they're both dead, and even in the context of vampires and werewolves, spectral ghosts are an absurdity.

Of Bruce, the Vampire Hunter, the villagers insist he survived the bloodening and still patrols the countryside, fighting against the undead hordes. Again, that's just stupid, because he was violently bludgeoned to death in an instance of sustained, blunt-force trauma.


Question Time: Wild Pumas and Adult Movies

You were the darling of the adult movie industry, until your accident. Will we ever see you in front of the camera again?


It’s not all about the accident Tamara. These days, a fractured penis is as treatable as a common cold: a splint and a couple of Nurofen is all you need.

No, it was a different game back then, and I’m not sure I recognise what the industry has become. There used to exist a parity between story-line and intercourse. In fact, I wrote, starred in, and directed Close Encounters of the Sex Kind, still the only adult movie ever made in which nobody has sex (I was successfully sued for flagrant false advertising in a class-action suit that cost me 13.6 million Canadian dollars).

Close Encounters was an extreme example, but there were happier mediums. I remember making a film called A Few Good Semen, which was a well-scripted, well-acted courtroom drama until the last five minutes, when the trial descended into a disturbingly graphic orgy (it was in this movie that I fell from a trapeze swing and fractured my own penis, and the penises of several co-stars).

How r u? Also, were r u?


The text line is now permanently closed.

For the last time, keep your God damned cat out of my tree. Or so help me, I will drag it down and put manners on it myself. Do you even have a license for that thing?


License? For a puma? In Ireland? Are you kidding?

Best of luck getting him out of the tree. If I can’t stop him killing the local livestock, and I’m his owner, I really fear for your chances of dragging him out of a tree by his tail. Bring lots of bandages, is all I’d say.

My Dad says you have a chip on your shoulder because you didn’t win the part of Christy Brown in My Left Foot. Were you even in the running?


In the running? Let’s just say I was made assurances Geoff, and on the strength of those assurances did a lot of preparation work for the part. For example, I learnt to paint, visited with the Brown family on numerous occasions, and spent a full year moving nothing but my right foot (I misread the script).

Day Lewis only pipped me because budgets were tight and he brought his own wheelchair.

I’m still waiting on those insurance details. I trusted you to send them on, because you said it was an emergency and you had to run. That van is my family’s livelihood. People are depending on me,


Hi Jill, I’m going to let my lawyer Frank field this one:

Hi Jill, Frank here. It is illegal to leave the scene of an accident before the police arrive. Both you and my client have broken this law, and therefore neither one of you can legally make a claim against the other. Have a nice day.

Yeah, have a nice day Jill.

I don’t care what the paternity test says, he is your child. Why won’t you accept him?


We’ve been through this. When the paternity test proved he wasn’t mine, I was relieved. Afterward, when the maternity test proved he wasn’t even yours, I was more confused than anything. But when the doctor broke the news that you and I are biological twins? That was the last straw. The physical relationship is over. Happy birthday sis.

What’s your position on torture of suspected terrorists?


I’m for it Jim, on the proviso that exonerated detainees are compensated. A George Foreman Grill (or equivalent value in vouchers) should be the least an innocent putz can expect when his testicles have been warmed to the tune of five hundred volts.

Is it true you invented the mobile phone?


No Donna, I invented the ‘Immobile Phone’, a communication device fashioned from a wrought iron, Blacksmith’s anvil. It never caught on, even among blacksmiths. Only one hundred were ever made, all of which were eventually melted down to make smaller, better anvils with no call-making features.

Your son Chad recently made an emotional tribute to his mother during his acceptance speech at the 2009 Surfing World Championship. Afterwards, holding the trophy aloft, he said, “See this Dad? Up yours, old man. Up yours.” What gives?


I believe he was referring to how I never believed in him, Joel. I thought he would amount to jack-squat, and told him so at every available opportunity throughout the course of his life. Boy did he prove me wrong, not only with the surfing, but his PHD in Advanced Thermonuclear Physics and subsequent Nobel prize nomination.

I still have a feeling that he’ll screw it all up though, and amount to nothing. So I’ll continue to keep him at arm’s length until I see some real results. It's unfortunate that he's fallen ill of late, but I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to patch things up once he gets back on his feet and out of the hospice.

The Racist Friends Spin-off that Never Aired

In 2003, writer and producer David Crane approached me to guest-write a one-off, racist episode of the multi-award winning sitcom Friends. For conflict, we added a towering, blinged-out, streetwise African American called Leeroy to the cast, as Chandler’s adopted brother.

Unfortunately, the network censor would not sanction our footage, branding it gratuitously racist. To this day the reels sit collecting dust in the archives of NBC. Judge for yourself: were we silenced for overshooting the mark? Or was our mirror too uncomfortable for society to gaze into?


Joey: Hey gang, what’s happening?
Phoebe: Hi Joey.
Chandler: Hiya Joe.
Monica: Hey Joe
Ross: Hi Joe.
Rachel: Hiya Joey.
Leeroy: What up J-dog?

Ross: Hey, anybody hear about the shooting in Park Avenue this morning?
Monica: Park Avenue? No, what happened?
Chandler: Oh, I heard about that. A mugging, right?
Ross: Yeah, and the guy decided to fight back. Mugger takes out a gun and shoots him, point blank.
Rachel: Is he dead?
Ross: Yeah, he died an hour later.
Phoebe: Oh that's awful.
Rachel: Poor man.
Joey: Damn blacks.

Chandler's brother, Leeroy Bing

Leeroy: Say what?
Joey: Huh?
Leeroy: What the f*ck you just say?
Joey: What did I say?
Leeroy: That’s what I’m asking. What did you just say?
Joey: I said, you know, I hope they catch these animals.
Leeroy: That ain’t what you said. Think hard, J-Dog. Think real hard.
Joey: Look Leeroy, I’m not trying to ‘diss’ your people.
Leeroy: Oh hell no. No you didn’t.

Chandler: I think we all need to calm down here for a…
Leeroy: Naw, naw C-Man, ain’t nobody need to calm down. Your boy here needs to explain what the f*ck he talkin about.
Ross: Leeroy, I don’t think he meant…
Leeroy: Naw Ross, he’s a big boy. Let the man speak for himself.
Joey: I’m just saying, statistically, you know, the gunman is probably more likely to be…
Leeroy: To be what?
Joey: …you know?
Leeroy: No. Tell us?
Joey: …a black man.
Leeroy: Mother f*cker, I’m gonna f*ck you up.

(Leeroy lunges at Joey and is restrained by Chandler and Ross).

Gunter: That’s it, you’re all out of here. This is a family establishment. You’re all barred.


Leeroy: How can you hang with him, dog?
Chandler: Come on man, he’s my best friend. So he’s a little racist…
Leeroy: A little racist? Dude’s this close to pulling on a white sheet. You hear that knock-knock joke he told yesterday? A little racist? Mother f*ckin joke damn near insulted half the earth.
Chandler: You don’t understand. Where he was brought up, everybody…
Leeroy: Man, don’t tell me that sh*t. That ain’t no excuse. Remember what Mom used to say?
Chandler: I remember.
Leeroy: Do you?
Chandler: I remember. She said racism isn’t hereditary.
Leeroy: That’s right.
Chandler: I’ll talk to him.


Rachel: You’re going to have to apologise.
Joey: I know.
Rachel: Joey, times are different now. You can’t say things like that any more.
Joey: I know.
Rachel: I mean that Knock-knock joke you told yesterday would be deeply offensive to...well...pretty much everybody. Asians in particular, but also Indians, Irish, Jews, pacific islanders, Eskimos…
Joey: It’s just how I was raised Raich.
Rachel:…pygmies, native Americans, Africans, fishermen, Arabs…
Joey: I know. I’ll put this right, I promise.
Rachel: …Muslims, women, hermaphrodites…
Joey: I get it Raich.


Phoebe: …where, in pottery barn? Is the sale still on?
Monica: Yeah, but only until Sunday. There's 33% off the stuff on the ground floor, and 50% off the…
Leeroy: Now what you fine ass, white bitches talkin about?
Phoebe: Only furniture.

Monica: Leeroy. How can I put this?
Leeroy: Spit it out Mon. I can dig it.
Monica: With the whole Joey thing that’s going on, don’t you think calling us ‘white bitches’ might be a little…off?
Leeroy: Two different things Mon. I ain’t implying you criminals and sh*t.
Monica: I know, I know. But truthfully? I’m not comfortable with it Leeroy. I’ve been biting my tongue for a while.
Leeroy: Phoebe? You down with this?
Phoebe: A little Leeroy, yeah.

Leeroy: Ok, that’s cool, that’s cool. I’ll drop the ‘white’ sh*t.
Monica: Thanks Leeroy.
Phoebe: We appreciate it.
Leeroy: Ain’t no thang. All right, I’m late for work. I’ll catch you bitches later.


Joey: Leeroy.
Leeroy: Joey.
Joey: Can we talk?
Leeroy: Free country.
Chandler: Eh..Ross, Raich, Phoebe? Could you all give me a hand in the bedroom? I need to move a wardrobe.
Leeroy: Yeah, get the f*ck out. Me and Joey need some privacy.

Joey: I want to apologise for what I said this morning.
Leeroy: You apologisin coz you think you should, or because you know what you said was whack?
Joey: Both?
Leeroy: That ain’t good enough, J - Dog.
Joey: Come on man, I’m trying. My eyes are opening, but I’ve been blind for a long time. It’s not going to happen over night. But I promise I’m going to work on it. I’ll get there Leeroy. With your help, and with God’s help. You're my friend, and I want to make this right. Will you help me?
Leeroy: All right J-Dog. All right. I'm gonna hook you up.

Rachel: Is everybody friends again?
Leeroy: Yeah, come on outta there you bitches. We good.
Monica: Oh, what a relief. We’ve been walking on eggshells around you guys all day.
Phoebe: Yeah, I hate it when we fight.

Ross: New DVD player Chandler?
Chandler: Yeah, I got it yesterday.
Ross: Chitachi? What is that, Japanese?
Chandler: No, I believe it’s Chinese.
Ross: Chinese? What were you thinking? Everybody knows the Chinese can’t manufacture electrical goods worth a damn. Their hands are too small.

(Everybody hovers in awkward silence for several seconds).

Leeroy: Oh well. Here we go again!

(Everybody breaks into convulsions of laughter. The picture freeze frames, and the credits roll over the applause from the live studio audience).

God Breaks His Silence on Evolution, Immaculate Conceptions, and Chris DeBurgh


Me: God, thanks for sitting down with me.
God: No problem.
Me: We know you’re busy.
God: Hmmm? Oh…yeah, sure.
Me: Although you can probably be everywhere at once, right?
God: Nope.
Me: But The bible says…
God: I wouldn’t go believing too much from The Bible.

Me: Well what can you do?
God: This.
Me: What? Nothing happened.
God: Look closely.
Me: Oh, wow. Your stubble.
God: Yep, gone. Didn’t even need a razor.
Me: Impressive. Anything else?
God: I can bring back the stubble. Want to see?
Me: Eh, maybe later.

Jesus: Hi Dad.
God: Huh? Oh, it’s you.
Jesus: Who’s this dork?
God: Ah, he runs some Mickey Mouse website down on the rock.
Jesus: What the hell’s he doing here?
God: Don’t know. Some kind of out of body experience. I think he's choking on a peanut M & M.
Me: Nice to meet you.
Jesus: Woah, no touchy, no touchy. Jesus no like to be touched.
Me: Fair enough.

Jesus: Ok if I go over to Judas’ gaff?
God: I don’t trust that jerk.
Jesus: Because of the thing? That was like, two thousand years ago Dad.
God: So? I’m a squillion years old.
Jesus: Well we buried the hatchet. Besides, he wants to talk to me about some investment thing. He makes a killing bringing me and nine other people in on it. I then bring ten of my own in, and I make a killing too.

Me: A pyramid scheme.
Jesus: A what?
Me: It sounds like a pyramid scheme.
Jesus: So?
Me: It’s a scam.
God: He’s right, it’s a scam. You didn’t give him any money, did you?
Jesus: Eh…no…no, I’ll catch you guys later.
Me: Bye Jesus.

Me: Can I begin the interview by saying, artists’ impressions of you have been way off.
God: I know…
Me: Red hair? I’d never have thought it.
God: …people are always surprised by that.
Me: You look remarkably like Mick Hucknall.
God: Ok, let’s move on.
Me: I mean, a little pudgier than Mick, but…
God: Easy there, tiger. You’re no waif yourself.
Me: Can’t you just magic away that pot belly, the way you magiced away the stubble?
God: I could magic away your penis? How’d that be?
Me: Ok, calm down, calm down.

Me: First question. What is the one true faith?
God: They’re all good.
Me: But if you had to choose one?
God: I like scientology. Those guys are pretty close to the truth.
Me: I knew it. And Tom Cruise?
God: Jesus 2.
Me: I God damned knew it. How does it work out for him?
God: Same as Jesus 1.
Me: Crucifixion?
God: Yep.
Me: In this day and age?
God: Yep. It’ll be a first for Beverly Hills, but that’s rowdy mobs for you.
Uncanny God lookalike

Me: Mary. Virgin?
God: What are you, a child?
Me: But The Bible says…
God: What did I tell you about paying attention to that book?
Me: So you did?
God: Nail her? Yeah, but she’ll never admit it.
Me: Because you look like Mick Hucknall?
God: One more. Just one more Hucknall joke. See what happens.
Me: How are things between you and Joseph?
God: You know, it’s awkward. That’s a very delicate, awkward situation.
Me: The Bible never fully deals with that whole, menage de trios.
God: I like Joseph, you know? But she needs to make a choice, instead of playing us off against each other.

Me: Your biggest mistake?
God: Probably Chris DeBurgh.
Me: What happened man?
God: Ah, it’s a long story. I just wasn’t at the races that day. I had a lot on my mind, and herself indoors was piping up with the whole immaculate conception thing. I blew it. I hold my hands up. I blew it.
Me: It’s just, the world has suffered much from DeBurgh.
God: I know, I screwed up. I apologise. I'm trying to make it up to people.
Me: How?
God: Global warming.
Me: Global warming? That's you?
God: Yeah. Thought I'd give everyone a bit of a toasty spell.
Me: Aw man, they're hysterical over that sh*t down there. Everyone's blaming CO2.
God: CO2? The stuff you exhale? For Jaysus' sake. I'm thinking it might be time for another flood.

Me: Was Darwin right about evolution, or did you create all life?
God: Yes and no.
Me: Surely it’s one or the other?
God: Well, I created a flock of ducks.
Me: Ducks?
God: Yes.
Me: And then what?
God: And that’s it.
Me: What? We’re all evolved from ducks?
God: That’s about the size of it.
Me: Jesus.
God: What?
Me: I don’t know. It’s disappointing, I guess. To be descendant from ducks.
God: Darwin said you’re descendant from single-celled organisms. How is that better?
Me: I don’t know, but it is. Better than a poxy quack factory.

Me: Some rapid fire questions. Did Lord Lucan kill that woman?
God: Yes.
Me: Did the IRA shoot Shergar?
God: Yes.
Me: Will machines eventually turn on their human masters and try to enslave humanity?
God: Yes.
Me: When?
God: 2012.
Me: Will they succeed?
God: No. You’ll just plug them out.

Me: What is the meaning of life?
God: To convert food into poo.
Me: Really? That’s it?
God: As I designed it, yes. I thought it would be funny.
Me: Was it?
God: Not really. Maybe in the beginning.
Me: Doesn't seem funny to me.
God: I guess you had to be there.
Me: Man. That’s even more disappointing than the duck thing.
God: You complain a lot. This interview is over.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting 2009

In 2009 I approached several celebrities about partaking in a pilot reality program, during which they would be tasked with renovating a house. The cameras, it was explained, would be so well hidden that you “wouldn’t know they were there.”

I had already cut a hole in the ceiling above the downstairs toilet for disturbing reasons, and I used the fissure to communicate with the diarists as a ‘Big Brother’ style character. I managed to scam several days of unpaid work before things came to a head. I present now the Diary Room transcripts. Enjoy!

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 1 (11:04 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Johnny.
Johnny Logan: Jesus, who the f*ck is that?
Big Foreman: This is Big Foreman.
Johnny Logan: What the f*ck, I’m having a sh*t?
Big Foreman: Is there anything you’d like to talk about?
Johnny Logan: No, f*ck off you pervert.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.
Johnny Logan: I’ll diary room you, you sick f*ck.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 1 (14:26 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Rosanna.
Rosanna Davidson: Hello Big Foreman.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman wishes to make it known that you are free to avail of all the diary room’s facilities.
Rosanna Davidson: Do you think Johnny didn’t tell us? I’m not going to the toilet in here. Sure I can see you up there, peeping through that little hole.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.
Rosanna Davidson: But I need to talk about Johnny. He’s really scaring.…
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 2 (13:57 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Terrence.
Terrence Trent Derby: Hey, Big Foreman. What’s happening, dog?
Big Foreman: Please do not speak jive in the diary room.
Terrence Trent Derby: Say what?
Big Foreman: You deaf?
Terrence Trent Derby: This is how I roll, you dig?
Big Foreman: Last warning.
Terrence Trent Derby: Whatever man. I only came here to talk about the Eurovision guy, Logan. I ain’t never seen a temper like that. He put a knife to Rosanna’s throat last night, saying she stole his caviar from the fridge.
Big Foreman: Did she?
Terrence Trent Derby: Man, you know there ain’t no fridge. That's another thing. We haven’t eaten in 24 hours, man. What’s going on?
Big Foreman: Food is apportioned on a performance basis. Grout well and tile well, and food will be awarded.
Terrence Trent Derby: Whatever man, nobody’s down for this no more. It’s getting out of hand, and everybody’s scared. We want out, so please, just unlock the doors and windows.
Big Foreman: I’m afraid I can’t do that Terrence.
Terrence Trent Derby: What? Let us out.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.
Terrence Trent Derby: Man, this I crazy.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 3 (08:04 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Al.
Al Pacino: WHO-HA! Big Foreman. How. Are you doin. My friend?
Big Foreman: Big Foreman is a bit stuffed. He pigged out on steak and chips.
Al Pacino: Really? Because we? We, my friend. Have not EATEN IN THREE DAYS. THREE DAYS. WHO-HA! WHO……HA!
Big Foreman: Al, food is awarded on a tiling and grouting basis.
Al Pacino: Then riddle me this, Big Foreman. How. Are we. Supposed to. WHO-HA. Get anything done, when this Johnny? This Johnny Logan? Is FREAKING OUT, my man. He’s freaking out, threatening to cut everybody.
Big Foreman: As you know Al, Big Foreman cannot interfere in the tiling and grouting operation.
Al Pacino: Then what use. Are you. To me. My friend? WHO-HA!

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 4 (10:42 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Rosanna.
Rosanna Davidson: So…weak now. Four days…no food.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman sympathises, but the tiling and grouting has been disappointing.
Rosanna Davidson: You must help…Terrence….really hurt….Johnny….out of control.
Big Foreman: AH JAYSUS.
Rosanna Davidson: What?
Big Foreman: Ah Jaysus, I’m after catching me finger on a rusty nail.
Rosanna Davidson: Please…let us...go.
Big Foreman: Ah, it’s bleeding and everything. Look, will you feck off? I have me own problems up here.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 5 (15:01 pm)

Big Foreman: Hello Johnny.
Johnny Logan: Hello Big Foreman.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman thinks you sound healthier than the others.
Johnny Logan: Well, they’re too uppity to eat rats, so they’re pretty much starving to death.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman commends your survival nous.
Johnny Logan: What do you mean by that?
Big Foreman: Nothing. It’s a compliment.
Johnny Logan: You think I need compliments? Are you saying I’m weak?
Big Foreman: No. Not at all.
Johnny Logan: I’m going to end you, Big Foreman. I’m going to end you.
Big Foreman: No Johnny, wait.

(Sound of rapid footsteps through hall, footsteps up a stairs, breaking down of door)

Big Foreman: Please Mr Logan, no.
Johnny Logan: You and Al Pacino. You’re both the same, thinking I’m nothing.
Big Foreman: I don’t, I don’t. I love your music. I have all your records.
Johnny Logan: Really? What was my last Eurovision winner called?
Big Foreman: Eh…’All Kinds of Everything’?
Johnny Logan: That was Dana.
Big Foreman: Oh.
Johnny Logan: Prepare to meet thy doom.
Big Foreman: Ah Jaysus Johnny, not the face, not the face.

The Fifth Monkee

For a time in the early 60s I called Hamburg my home. I earned my keep by bagpiping in cafes, bars, public toilets, prisons and Scotch-Germanic heritage centres. Hard to believe now, but at the time the bagpipes were peerlessly cool, and its exponents musical Gods.

Pioneers such as Jock McHamish, Jocky Jockson, Hamish McHamish, and of course, Hamish McJockson, courted global fame, drove tartan Cadillacs, and enjoyed sex with up to a dozen supermodels a night (often in front of their star-struck husbands and children).

I'll be honest. As a bagpiper, I was no Hamish McJockson — few are — but having studied under Jocky Jockson, I could certainly hold my own with the likes of Jock and Hamish McHamish (no relation), and overrated pretenders like Blind Willie McJock.

My talent wasn’t long attracting the overtures of Brian Epstein, then manager of the little-known Beatles. The Liverpudlian quartet had been gaining terrible reviews (one german tabloid labelled them 'Krap', which translates loosely as 'Awful'), stinking up the cabaret clubs with dreadful, sloppy rock’n’roll.

Brian begged me to become the band's musical director. I reluctantly agreed on the grounds that he paid me handsomely, and barked like a dog for several minutes (I can’t remember the ins and outs of the dog thing). I also demanded complete artistic control, which Brian consented to by giving me the paw. He then rolled over, enticing me to tickle his belly, which I reluctantly did amidst blood-curdling awkwardness.

It wasn’t long before I’d remoulded The Fab Four in my image:

  • John Lennon: Lead Vocals, rhythm bagpipes
  • Paul McCartney: Harmonies, rhythm bagpipes
  • George Harrison: Lead bagpipes
  • Ringo Starr: Drums

Though pretenders followed (George Martin, Billy Preston and Apu from The Simpsons to name but three), so it was I became the original ‘Fifth Beatle’. Disaster loomed though, with the great crash of 63: a series of events that led to the spectacular, almost overnight decline of bagpipes,

First, the legendary Jocky Jockson was convicted of attempted rape upon a highland woman. Though ultimately she turned the tables, overpowering and brutally raping him, Scottish law frowns upon the instigator of the initial offence. Jocky, a piper’s piper, was inconsolable to be separated from his pipes, and hung himself the very first night of his incarceration.

In the world's largest ever assembly of bagpipers, over ten thousand Scotsmen marched behind Jocky's coffin through the hills of Aberdeen, filing the air with a music that permanently drove away 90% of the indigenous wildlife.

Soon after, Hamish McJockson was caught miming to a backing track on Top of the Pops. What viewers thought was live bagpiping, turned out to be nothing of the sort when the vinyl record backstage began to skip. Incensed audience members stormed the stage, forcing the powerfully built Hamish to defend himself. The sight of him beating a young fan to death with his bagpipes is one of the most shocking, iconic images of 1960s Britain.

Amidst this harrowing fall of the noble bagpipe, my position as musical director of The Beatles was terminated. Naturally, it seemed logical that I would take up the equivalent position with The Monkees, which I briefly did. It just wasn’t the same though. Being The Fifth Monkee lacked glamour (if anything, it probably got me beaten up once or twice) and I tendered my resignation within six months.

Mickey Dolenz took the news very badly, and overdosed in his hotel room on sleeping pills. I vowed that day to never touch a bagpipe again. And I only ever did, eleven or twelve more times.

Question Time: Elvis, Steve McQueen and The Pope

I’m sick of people waffling about this mythical duet you sung with Elvis. If it exists, why can’t I find it in any shop?


I’ll tell you the same thing I told The King in 1973 Tom. The world isn’t ready for it. It’s an issues song, and even all these years later, I doubt society could peacefully absorb what The King and I had to say.

The whole duet was recorded in one take in Nashville, and to my knowledge, is the world’s first freestyle rap battle. What began as a genuine argument over a stolen Frisbee (at first, we didn’t know the tapes were running) eventually lasted six hours and fifty-seven minutes. It only wound down when Elvis collapsed from dehydration.

Lyrically, we tackled abortion, gay marriage, euthanasia, abolition of the death penalty, stem-cell research, feminism, reducing CO2 emissions — all of which we were against, and all of which were unheard of then. Issues like cannibalism, pygmy exiling, inter-species human breeding, and forced shaving of ginger hair will only gain traction over the next thirty years, and I know Elvis would have hated our masterpiece to prejudice debates that haven’t occurred yet.

For that reason, the lone copy of ‘Keeping it Real with Flann (featuring The King)’ will remain under lock and key in my vault.

Where do you stand on animal testing?


I think laboratory testing should be left to scientists. Just because you can train an orangutan to light a Bunsen Burner, doesn’t mean he understands the principles of the experiment.

I saw you on Grafton Street. What’s with the limp?


Thanks for the concern Jennifer, I cut myself shaving. My legs, obviously. It’s just a habit I got into from my infamous attempt to swim the English Channel in the early forties. I had trained extremely hard, and was hugely unlucky that World War 2 broke out mid-attempt. One minute I’m making good time, cutting through the waves; next minute my face is mashed into the periscope of a submerged U-Boat. Damn thing broke my nose, and I spent the next two years in a Nazi concentration camp.

What is the secret of your extraordinary success?


I suggest you buy a dictionary and look up the word ‘secret’ Lucy. What do you take me for, a chump?

Im a huge, huge fan of your books. My father was a writer, as was his grandfather before him. Sadly, neither of them are any longer with us, but I promised I’d keep the family tradition alive. Writing is my life. Any advice for a budding scribe?


You omitted an apostrophe in your first word Dennis. It’s “I’m”, not “Im”. On this evidence, I can tell you categorically that you’ll never be a writer. You simply don’t have it. Pack it in, and hit MacDonalds with your CV.

Did you really attempt to sue God in the 50s?


Not quite Jack. I sued the pope, for the failings of God. I submitted various exhibits of God’s bungling, but focused mainly on the male scrotum, which I feel is a monument to flawed design. Those tender spheres have no business lingering outside of the overall protective body shell. And explain to me the usefulness of scattering a paltry ten to twenty pubes over its surface?

No, a better design would be a three ball system, including an auxiliary testicle safely encased within the rib cage. I argued my corner bitterly in court, and sought roughly half the Vatican’s reputed loot. The case was dismissed, and costs awarded to His Holiness. In a recent poll of the international legal community, the case was voted ‘Worst Lawsuit of all Time’.

Sophia Loren? Did you?

Brickfield Road

Technically? Yes, though she referred to it in Vogue magazine as “…like being dry-humped by a St Bernard.” Differing standards, I guess.

Historians are still unclear about your role as ‘Special Advisor’ to the Reagan administration. Can you clarify what exactly you did for them?

The Liberties

Certainly Tania, I didn’t do a tap. Ronnie was an old drinking buddy of mine from the acting scene. I had tonnes of compromising photos from our binges, including one of him dressed as a Japanese Geisha. When he was inaugurated years later, I told them to put me on the payroll, or I’d go public with the snaps. I’ve heard since that a ballot to pay me, or have the CIA kill me, only swung my way by a single vote. Phew!

Pat Rabbitte recently labelled you “the most vile, most corrupt, and most devious of them all.” What did he mean by that?


I believe he was referring to my willingness to submit bribes for land rezoning favours.

You’re sexy. Fancy a threesome with myself and my flatmate Billie?


Jo, both you and your flatmate have unisex names. On those grounds, I really don’t know what I’d be committing myself to. Can you clarify whether mine would be the only sabre, or if a sword fight could potentially ensue?

Freaking out with Jack Nicholson and Dennis Hopper

For a time in the late 60s, myself, Jack Nicholson and Dennis Hopper were inseparable. The Three Amigos. Nobody called us that, which always surprised me. The Two Amigos would probably have been more accurate anyway, because we really didn’t see that much of Dennis. Or Jack, for that matter.

I recall one particular eventful night The Three Amigos spent in Jack's pad, around 1967. No sooner had we stripped to our Y-fronts when Jack disappeared into the depths of his lair, mumbling about a surprise. Having never been comfortable alone in each other's company, myself and Dennis sat in a silence so dense it could have been used as grout.

Jack returned several long, long minutes later pushing a wheelbarrow sloshing with a lime green substance that transpired to be LSD. I present now a transcript of the emergency call that soon followed.

Operator: Hello, 911?
Me: Yes, hello?
Operator: What is the nature of your emergency?
Me: Hello?
Operator: Yes hello?
Me: Lady, you’ve got to help us.
Operator: What's the nature of your emergency?
Me: We’re freakin out, man. We’re freakin out.

Operator: You’ll need to be more specific. Do you require police, ambulance or fire department?
Me: Yes, a bit of everything please.
Jack Nicholson: (muffled, in the background) What’s she sayin, man? Did you tell her we're freakin out?
Me: Shut up, I’m dealing with this.
Jack Nicholson: (muffled) I’m freakin out, man. I’m freakin out.
Operator: Sir, who are you talking to?
Me: Jack Nicholson.

Operator: Sir…sir I need you focus here. What exactly is the emergency?
Me: (starting to cry) It’s just…Dennis…
Operator: Dennis?
Me: Dennis Hopper. He says that he can see our outsides, but he’s 100% positive that our insides aren’t there any more.
Jack Nicholson: (muffled) Tell her about the insides.
Me: (hysterically crying) I’m telling her, I’m telling her. Mam? Mam?
Operator: Yes?
Me: Are we the same person? I don’t mean now, but before?

Operator: Sir, we really can’t help you. I think you just need to calm down and…
Jack Nicholson: (muffled) Tell her about the knife.
Me: He has a knife.
Operator: Who?
Me: Dennis Hopper. He wants to cut us open, so our insides can get back in when they get back from Reno. We’re inclined to let him, but we fear the reaper, man. We fear the reaper.
Jack Nicholson: (muffled) I’m freakin out.
Me: We’re freakin out, lady. Throw us a bone here, hah?

Operator: Sir, I’m sending a car over. Please hold he line. Where is Mr Hopper now?
Me: He’s standing beside me.
Jack Nicholson: (muffled) I’m freakin out, man. I’m freakin out here.
Operator: Beside you? Could you put him on.
Dennis Hopper: Hello, this is Dennis Hopper. To whom am I speaking?
Operator: Sir, this is the emergency services. Is it true that you have a knife in your possession?
Dennis Hopper: Yes, that’s correct.
Operator:…and….and what are your intentions sir?
Dennis Hopper: I’m going to gut these two hollow gentlemen like fish, and refill them with some insulation I found in the attic.

Operator: Could you hand the phone back to the other gentleman?
Jack Nicholson: (not muffled) I’m freakin out, man.
Operator: No, not you…sir, could you pass the phone back to the first gentleman.
Dennis Hopper: Hello?
Operator: No…sir, could you pass the phone, not to Jack Nicholson, but to the man who called originally?
Me: Hello?
Operator: Sir?
Me: Yes?
Operator: Without being confrontational, would it be possible to take the knife from Mr Hopper?
Me: Yes, I’m holding the knife now.
Operator: You are? Mr Hopper didn’t resist?
Me: No, he’s busy filling a chain-saw with petrol.
Jack Nicholson: (muffled) Hey, I’m not freaked out any more. I’m ok! I’m ok! Oh, oh no…there it goes, I’m freaking out again.

The call ended to the sound of a chain-saw spluttering to life. None of us remember much after that, although virtually everything Jack owned — including his cat — was cut in two by the time the pigs arrived. A bad day at the office.

The Cattle Rustler and the Kid

I present now the final page of my Western novel, The Cattle Rustler and the Kid. First published in 1986, the New York Times called it, "...the worst novel written in any language, anywhere in the world, ever." My critics, were less kind. Enjoy!



Flann O’Coonassa

Page 367 of 367

…all over my ass, with some kind of scrubbing brush,” said the rustler.
“How do you mean?” asked the kid, weeping.
“Ah, I’d rather not get into it,” answered the rustler, embarrassed to have brought it up.

The sheriff nodded to the hangman, just as the steeple clock of Dry Gulch Creek struck noon. A noose looped around the rustler's neck, drawing a rippling murmur from the hot, sweaty townsfolk.

“Any last words?” asked the preacher, loosening his collar with a bony index finger.
“Hah, you know me preacher,” replied the rustler, smiling.
“Not really,” replied the preacher.
“Well, can you take care of the kid for me?”
“Again, not really. I’m a preacher, not a crèche.”

The rustler looked down at the kid, whose cheeks, chin, neck and upper chest were drenched in snotty tears. His face looked tiny, like the hoof of a massive horse.

“Looks like you’ll be flying solo from now on, kid,” said the rustler.
“Please paw, don’t die.”
“I told you before, I ain’t your paw.”
“But maw said…”
“And I told you before, she ain’t your maw.”
“But granpaw says…”
“Look kid, we’ve been through all this. You can’t rely on nobody in this world but yourself. You gotta be strong now, you hear?”

The preacher leafed his bible, but the rustler declined any last rites.

“Best the kid doesn’t see this,” said the preacher, motioning the boy toward the gallows steps.
“Actually, I’d prefer he watched,” said the rustler.
“Fair enough. I guess a boy only becomes a man when he sees someone he loves being hung to death,” said the preacher with an uproarious belly laugh.
“What?” replied the rustler.
“Nothing,” said the preacher, already halfway down the gallows steps.

The kid threw his arms around the rustler.

“Don’t leave me,” he gurgled, his throat three-quarters full of snot and tears.
“You think I want this?” whined the rustler.
“I wish I could die with you,” gargled the kid.
“I wish it too. There’s something I need you to know before I die kid. It’s important. It’s about your real family.”
“My real family, what? What? Quick, tell me, tell me!” exclaimed the boy excitedly.
“Woah, slow down there champ. Let me get a word in edge-wise. Where was I? Ah yes, your real family. Bet you’re excited about this, eh? Well, you see it’s like this. Your real maw and paw live at the following address. I’ll tell you their names, after I give you the address. They live at…”

Suddenly, the trapdoor released and both the rustler and the kid fell earthward. The kid landed with a thud on the gravel. Dazed, he looked up to see the twitching feet of the rustler suspended above him. They twitched, and twitched, and then fell still. The kid didn’t cry. There were no tears left in him.

“Goodbye, my friend,” he said.

Turning into the midday sun, he motioned to walk away, but the rustler's feet started twitching again. The kid waited for them to stop twitching. He went to walk away, but again the feet started twitching. This happened several more times. Eventually the boy, fighting back the tears, pretended he didn’t notice the feet were still twitching, and strode defiantly toward the horizon. He briefly came back for his hat, and then returned to where he had left off, striding defiantly toward the horizon. The rustler's feet had stopped twitching permanently by then anyway.


The Origins of Easter (eggs)

65 million BC
From cave drawings, anthropologists know that early man often nestled hidden T-Rex eggs within the caves of friends, in prehistoric hi-jinx reminiscent of the hit show ‘Punked’. Upon hatching, the young Rex would usually maul the cave dweller for a while before vamoosing with a severed arm or leg — this was considered ‘fair enough’.

However, sometimes a furious mother Rex would stomp in and butcher and eat the entire tribe. In such cases, the joke was regarded as having backfired.

Cruelly airbrushed from the bible, is the fourth wise man (named Larry by the gospel according to Mathew) who visited the new born Jesus in Bethlehem. Conscious of the importance of protein to a young child, Larry pragmatically brought a punnet of free range duck eggs. Joseph, annoyed to be distracted from his gold, incense and myrrh for a bunch of “poxy eggs” (Joseph’s words, not mine), bid Larry take his leave, in what is believed to be the first recorded use of the word “scram”.

956 AD
Through the centuries, most cultures came to hold the egg as a symbol of rebirth. A civilisation called the Eggtonians briefly held dominance of the Peruvians jungles at the turn of the millennium. In their faith, every egg was a reincarnation of Eggolath, the egg lord, whose mighty shell surrounded the world (doing the job of what we know today as the Ozone layer), and whose sacred yolk sometimes sprayed the skies (I think the morons were talking about volcanoes).

The catch-22 for the Eggtonians was that their primary source of food was eggs, and eggs were too sacred to eat. Every man, woman and child died of starvation within six months.

1220 AD
Genghis Kahn organised the first recorded ‘egg hunts’, to amuse his troops during the sacking of the Jin Dynasty. A single quail egg would be hidden in the burnt remnants of a pillaged village, and one hundred soldiers tasked with its retrieval. The finder of the egg was heralded, showered in rose petals, and granted an audience with Kahn himself.

In what was considered a great honour, the victor was then beaten to death by the ninety-nine unsuccessful searchers, all of whom would live out their days in mild shame.

1584 AD
The legend of the bloodthirsty Easter Bunny first appears in European lore in the mid-sixteenth century. Children are told of a muscular, tattooed, chain-smoking, red-eyed, snarling bunny who visits their bedrooms on the eve of Easter Sunday. If the child slumbers, the bunny reluctantly leaves a cocoa egg; but if the child be waking, the bunny drags them into the sewer and removes their organs in a crude procedure devoid of anaesthesia or properly sterilised equipment.

Whilst this Gothic incarnation of the bunny mythology lasted decades, it is widely accepted to have failed in its purpose of coaxing hyperactive children to sleep. Instead, many terrified children are said to have been driven mad by dread, flinging themselves to their deaths from bedroom windows, or being committed to sanatoriums for the rest of their lives.

1888 AD
The first chocolate Easter eggs begin selling in markets across Europe and America. The early recipes, whilst sweet and tangy, are laden with asbestos. The ill-advised ingredient leads to the The Great Eggocide, in which over one hundred thousand children die of gastritis. It is still regarded as one of the worst humanitarian disasters of the last two hundred years. Pure chocolate recipes became the norm shortly after.

The Simpsons Uncut (as God intended)


Homer: I’m going to ask you one time.
Marge: Can’t we just have one meal when…
Homer: All I want is the truth.
Lisa: Dad, may we be excused?
Homer: Sit down and shut up.

Marge: For God’s sake, let the kids leave the table.
Homer: Nobody’s going anywhere. I want the truth.
Marge: No you don’t. That’s not what you want.
Homer: Are you f*cking Ned Flanders?
Marge: This is ridiculous.
Homer: Are you f*cking him?
Marge: I won’t answer that. It’s beneath me.

Bart: Dad?
Homer: Shut up.
Marge: Leave him alone.
Homer: It’s a simple question.
Marge: I’m not answering it.
Homer: Yes or no. Are you f*cking Ned Flanders?
 Marge: Last month it was Apu Nahasapeemapetilon. The month before it was Krusty the Clown. I’m not playing this game any more.

Homer: Listen to me, and listen good you blue-haired harlot. If I come home, and I find that bible freak Ned Flanders sniffing around here, it will be ugly for all of us. Do you understand?
Marge: I can’t do this any more.
Homer: Oh, here come the water works. Go on, run away. Run away, like always. I’m the bad guy, I’m the bad guy.


Lisa: Do you think they’ll divorce?
Bart: I don’t give a sh*t any more. Sniff?
Lisa: No, I’m done with glue. Gives me palpitations. Who will you live with, if they split?
Bart: Mom.
Lisa: Yeah, me too. Me too. Maybe you should slow down on that stuff Bart?

Millhouse: Heh, party people!
Bart: Did you get it?
Millhouse: Why of course, only the finest. Mr Jack Daniels.
Lisa: Deal me in.
Bart: Thought you were straightening up?
Lisa: Not today I’m not.


Homer: Mind your own f*cking business.
Patty: She didn’t ask us to come here, Homer.
Selma: She’s upset. We just want to know what’s going on.
Homer: Give me a break. You two hated me from day one. This is your dream.
Patty: We’ve only ever wanted what’s best for Marge.
Homer: Get the hell out of here, before I throw you out.

Selma: Oh, big man. Drunk at Two O’Clock in the afternoon.
Patty: Come on Selma, let’s go.
Selma: I tell you one thing Homer. I hope she is f*cking Ned Flanders. I really do. At least he’d treat her right.
Patty: Selma, come on.
Homer: Beat it.
Selma: Yeah. I bet she’s round there right now…
Homer: I said get out.
Selma: …probably sucking that big Christian cock of his.

Selma: You’ll what Homer? You’ll what? You’ll hit me?
Patty: Let’s go Selma.


Flanders: He knows, doesn’t he?
Marge: Yes.
Flanders: Did he hurt you?
Marge: No. He scares me though. When he gets angry, I wonder…
Flanders: I swear, if he lays a Goddamned hand on you, I'll...

Marge: ...Ned, let’s just leave. Up sticks and leave for Shelbyville, tonight.
Flanders: Woah, woah. Slow down Marge.
Marge: You haven’t told her yet, have you?
Flanders: It’s complicated. Maude's a complicated woman. And there’s Rod and Todd to think about, and your kids.
Marge: Oh my God…
Flanders: Now don’t freak out.
Marge: I keep putting myself in this position, over and over…
Flanders: I’m not like those other guys.
Marge: …it’s Reverend Lovejoy all over again.

Flanders: Now hold on, I’m nothing like him.
Marge: You Chrstians say one thing, and do another.
Flanders: I’ll leave her. I swear I will. You just got to give me some time, baby. Do you trust me?
Marge: Stop that.
Flanders: Do you trust me?
Marge: You know I do.

Flanders: Then just lie back, close your eyes, and let Dr Ned to his thang.
Marge: Oh Ned!
Flanders: Yeah, sugar. That’s what I’m talkin about.
Marge: Neddy.
Flanders: The love doctor is in the house.
Marge: Ned Ned Ned. Yes. Yes Ned, yes yes.

Flanders: Oh...yeah.
Marge: Give it to me Ned.
Flanders: I’ I’
Marge: Harder.
Marge: Come on Ned, harder.
Flanders: Oh...Maude.

Marge: What?
Flanders: What?
Marge: You said Maude.
Flanders: No I didn’t.
Marge: Yes you did.
Flanders: I said ‘move’. You were hurting my arm.
Marge: Jesus. Call me when you know what you want.
Flanders: Where you going, baby? Come on Marge, don’t do this. Marge? MARGE?


Chief Wiggum: Easy Lou, I know him. I know him.
Lou: But chief…
Chief Wiggum: I need a minute here Lou. Can you do me that favour?
Lou: One minute. If he’s still holding that gun, I’m calling it in. 
Chief Wiggum: Easy there Homer.

Homer: He’s f*cking her. Look at me, crying like a girl. And he's f*cking her.
Chief Wiggum: Come on now, you don’t know that.
Homer: Right up the ass.
Chief Wiggum: Marge loves you.
Homer: I screwed up, Clancy. I haven't been a good husband. Getting drunk all the time, fooling around with Lurleen Lumkin.
Chief Wiggum: We can fix this, Homer. Nobody’s been hurt. Nothing's broken yet that can't be fixed.
Homer: No, she’s going to leave me and take the kids. I know it.
Chief Wiggum: Nobody knows the future Homer. Nobody. Why don’t you give me that gun? We'll head down to Moes and talk about it.

Chief Wiggum: Ok, ok. I’m staying right here.
Homer: It’s over. It’s all over now. I'm nothing without her.
Chief Wiggum: Don’t talk like that.
Homer: You know it’s funny. I can’t remember our wedding. I mean, I remember the day. But I can’t picture her face.
Chief Wiggum: HOMER, NO. NOOO! Ah Jesus, no Homer. Homer, no.
Lou: He’s gone Chief, he’s gone.
Chief Wiggum: Ah Homer no, we could have fixed it.
Marge: NOOOOO, HOMER. Oh my Homey, no, Christ, what have you done.
Chief Wiggum: No Marge, gotta let him go. He’s gone now. He’s gone.

roll theme music: "The Simp-sons. Di, di di, di di, di di, di di di di di...."

Interview with Sile Seoige, Kenny Egan, and Twink

Sile Seoige

Seoige: Hello.
Me: Sorry love, I don’t know what you’re selling — prize bonds, Avon, Big Issue, Tupperware — I couldn’t give a monkeys. Could you clear off? I’m waiting to interview Sile Seogie.
Seoige: But I’m…
Me: Here’s a few shillings. Now feck off. And give that chair a wipe when you get up.

Seoige: I’m Sile.
Me: You’re Sile?
Seoige: Yes.
Me: Sile Seoige?
Seoige: Yes.
Me: You can’t be.
Seoige: I am.
Me: But I have a collage of you in my downstairs toilet. Well, it’s a bunch of Miriam O’Callaghan heads pasted onto Twink bodies, but there’s some other presenters too.
Seoige: Well, I’m Sile.

Me: Ah no. Ah Jaysus no. I know what’s after happening. We wanted the other one.
Seoige: Other what?
Me: Your sister.
Seoige: Gráinne?
Me: Yes.
Seoige: Oh well…
Me: Ah mother of jaysus, this isn’t happening.
Seoige: …stuck with little old me I guess.
Me: Ah christ no. No, no, no, no…

Seoige: I can leave if you think…
Me: …no, no, no, hah?
Seoige: I said I can leave, if you like?
Me: Thanks.
Seoige: Oh.
Me: Mind yourself now.

Seoige: Ok. You do know myself and Gráinne co-present the same show?
Me: Come on now, don’t make this any more awkward than it has to be. There’s a good girl.
Seoige: No, it’s fine. I’m just making the point that, profile-wise, we’re fairly similar.
Me: Frank? Frank? Could you escort Miss Seoige out?
Seoige: Let go of…you’re hurting my arm.
Me: Not that way Frank. Out the back way. Thanks.

Kenny Egan

Me: Kenny, thanks for talking to us.
Egan: No problem. I’m a big fan of the site.
Me: Really? What’s the address?
Egan: Em…I wouldn’t know it off by heart, exactly.
Me: Don’t lie to us Kenny.
Egan: What?

Me: You don’t love the site. You’re here for the 150 euro.
Egan: My agent said 200.
Me: Well, your agent is obviously screwing you.
Egan: Dad wouldn’t do that.
Me: Your dad’s your agent?
Egan: Yes.
Me: The guy I met in town yesterday, who looks nothing like you?
Egan: Yes.
Me: He’s your biological dad?
Egan: Yes.

Me: If you say so. By the way, congratulations on coming out the other side of your recent meltdown.
Egan: Well, I wouldn’t call it a meltdown as such.
Me: It was Chernobyl from where I was sitting.
Egan: That’s unfair. I just got overwhelmed by all the media stuff.
Me: Nobody told you there’d be a photographer at The Olympics? And that it might appear on the wireless?
Egan: Why are you being a prick?
Me: What did you call me?

Egan: Sit down old man, I’m warning you.
Me: You don’t scare me. I’ve been punched by Michael Carrruth, and he has a gold medal. Not some poxy silver.
Egan: I heard about that. You were out of order. You don’t just walk up to a man and his wife and start talking threesomes.
Me: Stand up.

Egan: You have three seconds to get your hands off me. Three.
Me: I’m going to beat you so hard your real dad will feel it.
Egan: Two.
Me: I’m going to bust up that pretty face, real nice.
Egan: One.
Me: FRANK? FRANK? He’s after breaking my nose. Ah Jaysus. Ring an ambulance. Tell them I’m having a heart attack, they’ll get here quicker.


Me: Twinkle twinkle, little star.
Twink: How I wonder, what you are.
Me: What?
Twink: I was just finishing the rhyme.
Me: What rhyme?
Twink: Twinkle, twinkle, little star. You know, the children’s rhyme?
Me: I hardly think children’s rhymes are appropriate, given the seriousness of tomorrow’s budget.
Twink: But you said ‘twinkle…’
Me: I said, I said. That’s exactly the kind of buck-passing that has us in this quagmire.

Twink: Are you drunk?
Me: Answer the question.
Twink: What question?
Me: For the third and final time, answer the question.
Twink: It’s the second time, and I don't know what question you're talking about.
Me: Ah yes, here we go. Protecting your cronies in The Gaiety.
Twink: What?
Me: Closing ranks, now that your cushy tax exemptions are on the chopping block.
Twink: What the hell are you talking about?

Me: Are you a member of the Golden Circle?
Twink: The Anglo thing? No, of course not.
Me: You’re circling the drain Twinkle Toes. Panto is dead.
Twink: Now hold on just one minute buster. Pantomime has never been healthier.
Me: You were supposed to say “oh no it isn’t”. Then I would have said “oh yes it is”, and so on, and so forth. You’ve ruined it now.
Twink: You smell like a brewery.
Me: You look like a platypus.

Twink: I’ve never been spoken to like this in my life.
Me: Why don’t you leave a message on my phone whinging about it. Frank?
Twink: How dare you?
Me: He’s behind you.
Twink: Oh, very funny.
Me: No really, he’s behind you. Frank, please escort Mrs Twink to the carpark.
Twink: Take your…take your hands off me…you’re hurting my arm.
Me: Get a real job. And get a real name. Twink? You sound like an ad for eye drops.
Twink: This isn’t over. I’ll have you. You and your gorilla.
Me: No Frank, she didn’t mean…no frank, DON’T. Oooh. Oh no. I think she’s really hurt. Let’s get out of here.

Horroscopes: Haley's Commet, Serial Killers, and the Ebola Virus

Aries (Mar 21 - Apr 19)

Your tendency to close yourself off is hampering you. Try to open yourself to new experiences. The stars suggest you will be shocked by an unexpected work promotion this week. More shocking still, will be the double-decker bus that ploughs through you at a pedestrian crossing.

Taurus (Apr 20 - May 20)

Try not to allow stress to anchor you. Work colleagues appreciate your efforts. Though you’ve prayed endlessly for a child, the stork that visits your homestead this week will destroy your property, terrorise your family, and ultimately warrant removal by the ISPCA.

Gemini (May 21 - Jun 21)

Haley’s Comet dips behind Saturn this week, bringing love into your life. Unfortunately, it is a brand of physical love between a man and a horse that society deems unacceptable. You’ll argue otherwise at your trial, but that will only make matters worse.

Cancer (Jun 22 - Jul 22)

A gloom has shadowed you of late. You’ve cursed your luck, constantly wondering why it’s never your turn. The local serial killer has been wondering the same thing, and has decided today is the day. Wear nice underwear, because your headless, semi-naked torso will be splashed across the tabloids.

Leo (Jul 23 - Aug 22)

Fifteen minutes of fame looms, as you become the first person in Ireland to contract the Ebola Virus. With inspirational courage and an iron will, you’ll just about survive, making it all the more devastating for your family when you choke to death on a chicken bone during a celebratory meal.

Virgo (Aug 23 - Sep 22)

A new romantic interest will develop this week. They will shower you with love, affection, gifts and STDs. The love, affection and gifts will be just what you needed. The STDs will play havoc with your asthma.

Libra (Sep 23 - Oct 23)

Take heed of constructive criticism from work colleagues. Those do-gooders will be first to die during your gun-fuelled rampage this week. Then those whores in marketing. Then those smarmy gits in HR. And finally, you'll crumple into a sobbing heap and turn the gun on yourself. Unfortunately, the bullet will only glance your brain, making you a laughing stock among the murder-suicide community.

Scorpio (Oct 24 - Nov 21)

Oooh. Man, I would not want to be you. Jesus H Christ. It’s absolute carnage. Oh, I think I’m going to…yep, I’m going to be sick. There is no God. No God would inflict this kind of horror on a person. That’s more physical pain than anyone should have to endure, in a thousand lifetimes.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 - Dec 21)

Mercury is high in the Northern sky this month, spurring you to embrace adventure. You and your fellow plane-crash survivors, with good humour, will initially liken your predicament to the hit TV drama ‘Lost’. Starvation, dehydration, sun-stroke, dysentery, scurvy, two incidents of extreme violence and one incident of rape, will soon remind you of the boundary between TV and reality.

Capricorn (Dec 22 - Jan 19)

Do not dwell on past failures. Your family will always support you. Until they find out about that lady-boy thing last summer on your “Golf Trip” to Thailand. Then they’ll drop you like a flaming turd.

Aquarius (Jan 20 - Feb 18)

A mysterious stranger will make a proposition that seems too good to be true, and you will accept. Unfortunately, whilst carefully planned, the bank job will be severely bungled. Despite making it clear that you would only participate under the condition of ‘nobody gets killed’, eight people (including two children) will die in a hail of bullets. As you stand behind a human shield, surrounded, you’ll lament how this was to be your last job before retirement. Moments later, the grizzled, loose-cannon detective who has dogged you for years, will kill you with an extremely risky head shot that could easily have killed your hostage instead.

Pisces (Feb 19 - Mar 20)

The trajectory of Uranus this week suggests you will win the lotto. Despite protesting that the money will not change you, in fact you will descend into madness with alarming swiftness. Unable to obtain planning permission for a solid gold, hundred foot statue of yourself, you will assemble a militia of highly-trained mercenaries to try and seize power of the Dáil. The bloody coup will be crushed within a day, and you'll spend the rest of your life in an institution for the criminally insane.

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Rant by is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Copyright © 2009 Flann O'Coonassa