"Title TBC"

Xcr'pt from forthcoming Roy Keane / Sinead o'Connor Dub' based thrilla:



"The future was bright, and it took place in the sun. Something was about to happen, some terrible event, and in some location at some time! Well at least that was a clue. Probably very shortly, he could feel in his bones. Was it to take place tomorrow? "Focus, Roy, focus" he told him himself (but not aloud though, he wasn't a nutcase was he!). Closing his eyes, he swivelled in his swivel-chair and let his fingers rest upon the computer map. The signal guided his hand. His fingers started to followed some strange contour as if guided by a superior force, and slid in one definite direction -this must be the way. His hand finally came to a standstill. A complete standstill! This must be it, Roy reckoned. The signal faded indeed into the ether and he allowed himself a deep breath. He opened his eyes. His index pointed to the Emerald Isle! Something ominous was about to happen to his native land! Holy Mother of Christ, hadn't they suffered enough?? Roy let out a long sigh (pffffff........) then blinked and checked more thoroughly. Hey, at least it wasn't to take place in his native Socialist Republic! Oh no, the spot revealed was none other than the capital (Dublin, that will be). Dublin eh... For a second Roy entertained the mischievous thought of letting them Dubs deal with it themselves, serves them right for farting higher than their collective arses! He instantly took it back, though. Not because this would have been callous and -dare he add- ungallant of him, but because such was not his prerogative. Not for him to question the course of celestial events. On the football pitch maybe, and sometimes in the tunnel, but on the ouija-board? No chance. No way Jose, what was dictated was to be obeyed. It was as immutable as the clouds in the sky, as transcendent as an eclipse. And like the referee's decision it was final. Besides should he fancy trying to ignore his calling, he wouldn't get any sleep for sure. The Signal would come back strong as the angel of Fate was breathing hard upon him, leaving him in no doubt as to where his priorities lay. It was like when Triggs decided he needed out; the blasted beast wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. So... Dublin it was then. Something was afoot and it wasn't attached to a leg!


No-one spoke and Roy fell into a dream."


There'll be more than a touch of Victorian Gothic as well as "pulp fiction" touches + tons of musical references. Dublin will once more take centre stage...

"Learn French" poster -how could anyone resist!

xc'rpt from "You Know Yourself 2.0" copyright UmaUma -with the usual proviso: subject to (yet another) revision / the setting: Alliance Francaise in Dublin, the time: around 2008.


A cheery poster catches my attention.


"Discover the fascinating world of the French, in all of its vibrant complexity and enriching magnitude!"

"Look at them, the French natives..." (photo of a French native) "they certainly are a queer kettle of fish, aren't they? They can't pronounce their aitches but add them everywhere, they eat frogs and snails, they play with flair but give up at the earliest opportunity, and when they're not on strike, they're after taking a siesta!!" (cartoon of a bed sprouting "ZZZZzzzs" in the air) "Now scratch beyond the surface, look beyond the cover, and ask yourself: are the French actually worth knowing? The answer is "Yes"! A thousand oui!

Take this French you may have just encountered around the corner, all lips curled and shoulders a-shrugging, everyone's natural reaction would be to flee and delouse but non, non, non, that would be wrong. That would indicate poor judgement on your part (and probably be offensive, all things being equal). Non, our advice is: don't be alarmed. Don't be phoning "Talk To Joe" just yet. Maybe this is all a misundestanding, maybe this is just a case of cultural -yes, cultural (!!)- differences...

Let's apprehend the situation in a rational manner. So here you are, faced with a French that is starting to make noises. Don't panic, assess the situation calmly. Maybe he -or she- is trying to impart knowledge of some sort? Maybe he -or she- is simply happy to see you? Does he wag his tail? (Ha ha, only kidding -it might be a she.) Look him -or her- in the eye and breathe slowly -now no brisk movement here, this might set them off-, observe the French and take note. Is he -or she- responding to your friendly behaviour and reciprocating eye-contact, or are the auld shoulders still rotating? For all you know, this may constitute normal conduct in France when awakening... Or else this French may genuinely be inebriated. True that, true, well within the realms of possibility.

Seriously though, think about it: could it be this French -who is now presumably standing up and squaring up to you, crab-legged, in typical Gallic stance-, could it be he -or she- is after all... not so different from you! Could it?? Admittedly, yes, this may come as a bombshell to some and an affront to good Fenian manners, but do bear with us and chew this over for a while. ... Now then. See? There's got to be some truth in it, isn't there got? Here is what we suggest: for all you know, yous two may have more in common than you previously imagined! For real!! Or at least we, at the Alliance, like to think so (otherwise, what a complete waste of our lives this has been... but let's not go there, oh no).
For sure, he -or she- will differ in a few minor details here and there, but you can't expect everyone to be the same. The real question is: should these details actually matter? Leaving aside the baffling accent and infinitely more stylish clothes, wouldn't you accept our daring proposition: this French you're exposed to may not, in fact, be so different from your good self... Have a heart. Doesn't he -or she- deserve to be treated with the same respect you would grant anybody in the country (even Limerick)?

So just relax. Try not to look tense or apprehensive when approaching a French: this is sending the worst possible kind of signal as he -or she- can smell fear, even beyond its surrounding cloud of perfume. Mock not the French. Engage with them via careful eye-contact; this is not the London Tube, so this conduct is perfectly acceptable. You may then attempt a friendly gesture such as waving your arm -not too vigorously though. Chances are the French may recognise your intention and will respond accordingly -note of warning here: this may entail kissing. Congratulations: you've overcome the first hurdle!

Now for the noise emitted by this hypothetical French. Bear this in mind, and this will spare you sweats of anguish: just because this lot sounds to your refined Gaelic ear like they are engaged in shouting or cursing you does not necessarily mean they are. In fact, their incomprehensible ejaculations may not even denote aggression -Oh no, this is just the French way of communicating! So don't be reaching for the mace just yet.


Part deux: Welcome To France.

Welcome to France" (map of France) "where the weather is famously grand, 365 days sunny, and where the girls are pretty -"Heureux days!" one is tempted to say (LOL!!!). France, where the houses come up with prices so low, so ridiculous ...they are literally begging to get snapped off indigenous hands! It's a win-win situation and no mistake, so heed the call, you cunning investor, and go East, help yourself to one, or two, or three -who's counting after all! Expand your portfolio and get in there before the Brits nab all the good ones. There may not be any French word for "entrepreneur", but the future is bright -and it's right up for grabs! Noted commentators say: be investing in the true land of opportunity the other side of the Irish sea, and secure yourself the dream cottage that you've always, er, dreamed of; it's easy to find: right under the sun. Only requiring a minimum amount of touch-up here and there (maybe a lick of paint or two), your very own retreat awaits your pleasure and is totally languishing after you, so don't be scared now, don't fret -go right ahead! Tackle the French by the horns!

Why wait when you can put one over your neighbours? They'll be fuming when they hear about your good fortune! Don't be phoning your Mammy in the middle of "Father Ted" just to tell her about your encounter with a French, jump straight into the world-famous Je Ne Sais Quoi lifestyle and enjoy! Try some nice Beaujolais instead of beer, tuck into cooked meat for a change, and remember: interacting with the French doesn't have to be a chore :-(
-after all, we're not English! :-)

Ourselves at the Alliance Francaise are on hand to help you achieve your dream, we love to help! So come on in, sample the legendary French sense of hospitality, its easy manners and famed politeness, and sign up for our StartUpQwikLern (TM) series of up freshening language courses! Anyone can apply -even Culchies. After a mere couple of lessons with our legally registered tutors (all criminal records vetted and local sex offender registries duly notified of our teachers' whereabouts), you too will soon be able to converse almost fluently with René the jovial postman and Renée the fat butcher. "Sacrebléu! Merde alors mon ami!""

Radio clichés

X'crpt fromYKNY2.0, copyright Uma o'Gil 0018-0012

(...)
Finally, if I'm really desperate for topics and pressed for time, I can always resort to the Disguised Overkills. These are deadly: they bypass the brain almost entirely and go straight for the jugular; they tick the boxes that haven’t even been built. When I'm really stumped for ideas, I don't think twice, I bring out the big guns. Here is a selection of what I mean by that -Enjoy!


"Politicians -who do they think they are? Do you think they are special? In your judgement, do you think they deserve special treatment?"
"Traffic wardens eh... -shouldn't they be employed catching criminals instead?"
"Billions are starving in the world and we have this obesity problem here in Western Europe ...what gives??"
"The Queen of England... isn't it time she came to Ireland on a State visit? What do you think?"
This one is an all-time favourite with right-wing loudmouths, it is so wrong on so many levels it becomes sheer genius. Introducing the Political-Correctness-Gone-Mad sledgehammer: "How do you feel about this school in" (insert place name that can't be checked anyway) "that wants to ban Christmas this year for fear of offending non-Christian pupils?"
"Heard the latest from the European Community: they want to ban bendy bananas / they want to force circus acrobats to wear safety hats in keeping with the new Health and Safety regulations?" -This one adds a further layer: the European Community has actually become the European Union for fifteen fecking years now.
Sure, there is an awful lot of old junk out there, right up for recycling.

And that's even before the "cyclicals".
Now, the basic principle behind the "cyclicals" is simplicity itself: it is about hailing the socially established landmarks that time our lives ("-Eh?") ...or what regular events happen every bleedin' year. You start with New Year resolutions and move on from there. In no particular order (that'd take me too long), we certainly have plenty to choose from:

-the officially most depressing day of the year: January the 5th
-the shocking discovery that, three weeks on, gym attendance by New Year recruits is already collapsing
-the Chinese New Year
-much chin stroking and finger wagging after the quarterly publication of various official statistics detailing such things as personal debt figures and road fatalities numbers :-(
-the sitting of Leaving Certs exams throughout the land -i.e. the usual advice to be administered to the nervous young wans
-the publication of Leaving Certs results and attending condemnation of the drunken mayhem ensuing
-Saint-Patrick's Day, the inevitable warnings against public drunkenness followed by consternation at the nighttime vandalism
-the arrival of spring (hurrah!)
-the arrival of summer (hurrah!)
-the official end of the summer, and the countdown towards the end of the year: aren't days getting shorter?
-Left-handers day
-Women’s Day
-Mother's Day
-Father's Day
-Nan's Day
-Doris Day
-Easter
-Passover
-First communions
-the wildly (widely?) awaited Christmas office parties. How to avoid gross personal misconduct, wink wink
-Christmas and its shameless commercialism (there's always a Grinch on hand to solemnly declare in the mike that "This year, that's it, I won't be celebrating!")
-Valentine's Day and its shameless commercialism -but then no fellow out there would dare ignore it
-Bloom's Day and its shameless commercialism
-the Roses of Tralee, its innocent kitsh gone astray and its shameless commercialism
-the (January) sales and their shameless etc.
-the Easter Rising
-the end of WW2 (in which Ireland didn't take part)
-the start of the GAA season. The rising sense -mainly in the Dub' media- that this could be the year the Dubs will be mounting a credible challenge for the title
-the deflation at the Dubs' defeat
-the GAA final
-the rugby Six Nations, and how outstanding-yet-unlucky-with-injury Drico seems to be (the main thing being that we beat you-know-who, though)
-the FA Cup Final, featuring these well-known Irish teams Manchester United, Arsenal or Liverpool
-the summer music festivals, their line-ups, and the cheeky advice to mete out to revellers preparing to undergo the gruelling experience
-the presentation of this summer's uniformly American megabudget blockbuster sequels
-that one day in the year apart from Christmas when alcohol is scandalously not on sale
-the mad Irish horse race festival, over the water in Cheltenham
-the failure of the Irish soccer team to qualify for a forthcoming tournament ("to be honest with you, we're a small country")
-the Eurovision song contest, and why we should win really
-the Eurovision song contest, and how the "new" Eastern European countries have ruined it for everybody else
-the election of "Alternative Miss Ireland", and what it says about our new tolerant mores
-the release of the new U2 album, its importance for the national psyche and prominence on the world stage
and on and on. Like I said, simplicity itself! Pick an agenda (any agenda), leaf through the holidays marked, select the ones for which you have old bollix to recycle, and there you are: job done, boxed off!

Ah yes, there is a lot to be said about recycling old chestnuts ...right?


Sadly, this is not how it went today though; today I tried to be cute. Went off the script, went for originality -and now am pretty much up the proverbial creek. Luckily my allocated time is coming to a merciful end and my ordeal will soon be over. Enough with off-the-cuff sez she, enough with material that doesn't tick all the pigeonholes! (or something like that) Sometimes one shouldn't try to be too clever, the beaten path is the safest.


Marina's helping me out though; Marina's on my side. She is the programme's co-presenter and is dutifully emitting the little snorts of appreciation / disbelief befitting my edifying diatribe ("Fancy that! / Well I never! / Good girl yourself!"). I owe Marina big time.
I owe her even more when compared to a certain someone who is staying quiet -very quiet indeed- throughout the course of my ordeal.
That someone is Timothy O'Arnlan.

(tobecontinued)

An Evening At The National Library Of Ireland

xc'rpt from YKNY2.0 copyright Uma o'Gil 00000012, naturally subject to re-re-re-re-re-editing.



(...)

The National Library director strides in, preceding Paddy McCabe and his interviewer. He (the host) climbs onto the makeshift podium and invites him (the guest) to join him there. The third man consults his notes and joins the party. The other two makes themselves comfy under the spotlight, spread out their notes on a little table and, without so much as a "do you mind, folks?", totally help themselves to a glass of water. One of them loosens his belt and lets out a fart ("Aaah, that's better…"). The soundman climbs up onstage to part your men’s chest hairs and adjust the microphones on their medallions. Silence ripples through the rows like dominos falling. The start has never been so close...

The NLI Director has a quick moustache check and puts away his comb. Coughs. He begins by welcoming everyone to this edition of "Library Late" ("welcome, everyone") then half-turns towards the two seated figures on the podium and confidently states that the guest of tonight need no introduction -which he proceeds to deliver. "Paddy McCabe was born blah blah blah, first published in etc., came to fame with yadda yadda -and there he is with us tonight". Big round of applause for Paddy Mccabe.

The next hour or so passes reasonably fast. The journalist feigns to enquire about the writer’s earlier work (which he's obviously re-read before tonight's assignment), gently probes into his writing discipline (morning or night? write or type? whisky or beer?), and generally leads him to recount amusing anecdotes, most of them relating to the recent adaptation of "Breakfast On Pluto" on the big screen (the filum came out last week).


"And I suppose, in a way, it could it be said, given your very pronounced style, would you agree that (...) what did you have in mind when you wrote (...) were you drunk or what? Obviously, you must have been very flattered by the success of "The Butcher Boy", that sick piece of sh(...) where do you get your inspiration (...) does it come naturally to you (...) do you ever read your critics? How much do you pay them to (...) any chance of an autograph for me old Mah, she's like your biggest fan?" (Hang on, cross the last one out!)


Before you know it, the interview comes to an end and we face the moment dreaded by every pupil:
"I'll have to stop you there Paddy, even though that’s -like- totally fascinating yeah, but I'm afraid we're running out of time -Oh my goodness, how time flows in my company!- we've just about five minutes left to take questions from the floor. Now does anyone have any question for our guest tonight? ... Huh? … Anyone? .......... Now don't be shy... (Come on you bunch of mothers)"


Finally someone raises her hand: "What advice would you give to an aspiring writer? Do you know any good agent?" As soon as the ice is broken, someone else does, and someone else -and here we go. Twenty minutes of questioning ensue:

"Hey Pat, remember me? We met –what- five years ago... Bought you a pint in this pub... Anyway, meant to ask you, what's with your obsession with sex, what's the subtext here? What are you like, man? a total perv'??"

"Have you heard the one about the bishop and the rabbi?"

"Why aren't you funny anymore?"

"So who dunnit in the end then? Didn't get it..."

"I have a question. Do you get paid for writing this rubbish? How much?"

"On page ten, you tell us your man is wearing a flat cap; then, five pages later, you write -and here I quote- that "Quentin mournfully took off his delightful panama" -What gives, pal?!"

"Me ma says I've got lovely handwriting, do you reckon I should become a writer such like yourself?"

"Is it me Pat, or aren't Gardai getting younger every year?"

"Me nan says that you're very bold, and a gutter mouth to boot, but I've found copies of your bewks in her house."

"What's your problem with decent ordinary folks who can't abide flaming poofters?"

"Sorry, is this the National Museum or the National Library?"

Twenty hundred minutes of questioning ensue when I, for one, can't wait to go investigate who the big hunk is. Expletives are fully deleted, yawns admirably repressed. A solid half-hour behind schedule, the lit' shindig eventually comes to an end and the Library bigwig grabs the mike back to thank us all again ("Thank yous all …again"). Why, thank you too, Mister. As the National Library staff stand poised to unlock the doors and let us out wild in the street, he informs us of the next event and invites us to a glass of wine upstairs. His intervention serves as a twofold signal:


-Left side, a gaggle of fans swarms onto the visibly gasping author, pressing into his hand copies of his books for signing ("Here, here, I 'got 'em all pal -all of your bewks! Read all of them too, right till the end. Now wait a sec', they're in me bag, ah here they are, shit! the stupid bint's forgot to take the price tags off! / Ah here you are, the man himself! I'm -like- your biggest fan! Can you sign 'em "to me old buddy Deco", that'd be massive!")
-Right side, a substantial crowd rush up to the café to claim their complimentary glass of plonk and low-fat cream cheese canapé. Better hurry, or there won't be any left for everyone.


I hesitate between the two groups, try to hover about and keep an eye on you-know-who: what's the story here? what's he up to? Finally, I have no choice: I let myself be dragged away by the receding flow ...which just happens to have engulfed the hunk. The café it is then (although I can't drink since I'm driving).
By the time I arrive there, no more than five minutes at the most since the end of the talk, half of the booze has gone. Guests in berets and goatees hold gripping conversations, pausing only to refill their glass. Some men do too. Meanwhile, the in-house photographer snaps away at the various personalities in attendance ("snap, snap, snap") -What about "lovely Lily Monaghan off Radio 101, yesterday" eh? But he doesn’t want to know, I don't seem to register -Is this is turning into a regular occurrence or what? Your man prefers to concentrate on some professor type, all wild hair and scuffed Hush Puppies, schmoozing with the Library director. Well suit yourself eh! I won’t insist. So I scan the room and snake my way back into the throng. Ever the accomplished socialite, I work the room; I make sure to salute the faces I recognise; I nibble; I circle back anti-clockwise; I munch some more; I pause five feet in front of the photographer and don't even notice him turning away; I wonder; I worry; I ponder; I even engage in light banter with someone I don't recognise. But still no sign of our Johnny. ?!!??!!! Sigh sigh sigh internally, sigh nevertheless. Well that's a bit of an anti-climax! Where the hell could he be?? Another one clearly biting the dust! Entertaining evening to be sure, pleasant interview that is certain... but massive anti-climax at the end of the day –The hunk is gone!
OK.
So be it, then.

At least I will have shown my nose around and pressed flesh, "Lily woz here" like... I decide to give it a last try just to make sure -let's work this room solid. Deep breath. Poise, posture, and glide, sashay, twist, turn, breathe, pause, repeat. Very good. One more time with feeling. Back straight, head high, elbows tight -here we go. And one, and two, and three, no slouching, "how do you do?", "yes Ma'am", "no Ma'm" -nothing doing. He's deffo gone. (massive :-(( ) Maybe he got bored... maybe he had a bus to catch... maybe -could that be it?- there is a match on the telly and he fecked off to catch it! Oh, whatever.

"How enchanting oh yes, truly delightful evening indeed, that's right, absolute gentleman -and so well spoken too, who would have thought! Oh yes, wild imagination, wild imagination's right! A true original to be sure in the grand tradition of -Pardon? The toilets are this way, yes... Maaarvellous yes, and so entertaining too -can you believe how fast time flew? Yes yes, I am aware he uses profane language, he's very bold. Takes the Lord's name in vain does he? Ah well, you know with these artistic types, they're very bold they are, I was just remarking, and in a sense -well I suppose-, could we maybe suggest it's their prerogative or... Come again? Of course I can take your picture -you two stand right there and... Say "cheese"! No bother at all, you're very welcome. We were saying? Right you are, a colourful bunch they certainly make! Half of what they write is just to fill up the page anyway, it's all fillers; they may just have a vague idea to start with and then... they pad it out is what they do, 'pile on the lines -Excuse me? I left the cap on? Dreadfully sorry about that -here, let me take another one... Oh. As you wish. No no, I don't work here but yes, I know where the toilets are: on your left, then your right, all the way down the corridor, you take the stairs and then you'll see the sign -you're very welcome. Now then. Truly enchanting, yes. And very bold. Too much bad language though. Bohemian type. Bunch of chancers. Totally imaginative and. Unsettling stuff to be sure. Dead queer, oh aye. Maaarvellous. Am afraid 'must dash though, lovely talking to you -Toodleoo now, cheerio! Until next time, absolutely!"

Not a moment too soon I take my leave and, gracious as can be, proceed to repair to the Lilymobile -no cab tonight, thank you very much. Internally, I'm peeved as hell. !!!!! Should have made my move right there and then, what was I waiting for?! ("Excuse me lady, but would you awfully mind fecking off so that I can take your seat? Thank you kindly. Now then. ... And what's a nice young man like you doing in a place like this, big boy?") Oh well, let's concentrate on getting home now. School night after all. Professional, remember? Totally professional. Hopefully they won't have clamped it again, them wardens they can be such a pain, what's their problem, ah let's not tempt fate now, would put the icing on the cake, deffo, keys keys, where are me keys now, never where you left them now that's for sure, sure need a better bag, one with pockets, pockets and flaps yeah, one more practical like -and I don't care if it'll look less "feminine"! A Marc Jacobs tot, that's what, that's what I should have got, a tip top one, that'd be deadly, but when oh when oh when will they come up with one fitted with a little lamp inside, a little lamp, you click it open and it lights up -alleluia! 'Not too much to ask, is it? Not too difficult! Ah but no, that'd be too easy, much too easy for the
So here I am, lost in my thoughts, foraging through the damn thing moving mountains inside in search of them fecking keys when who do I crash into but the man himself:
"Vvvvvlam"!

Flat out on my fanny.

(tobecontinued)

"Life Of Oharu" Revisited

xcrp't from "You Know Yourself 2.0" Uma o'Gil


I remember the time Sean and I met. It was at the IFI, at some... dreary retrospective of a Japanese director -Mizubishi or some name like that-, some high faluting function sponsored by RTE and the "quality broadsheet" (hee hee) The Indo. As it happened, I was less than overwhelmed by "The Life Of (Wretched Woman's Name)" and so was Sean. Give me strength: what a drag that yoke was.

To start with, we're talking black and white filum here. Yes. That put me right in the mood. But I gave it a chance I did, I suspended judgement... Only the suspension didn't last long. The filum went like this. So there's this woman, right? Otaku or something, and she's sacrificing herself in the name of some... quaint aul' code of honour that has already made a right bollix of her godforsaken existence -her main squeeze having been offed in the very first five minutes like- but she's determined to get all martyrical and saintly, something brutal. "Suffering in the name of".
And there is me. Fidget fidget fidget, scratch nose, suck sweet, and I'm thinking (in-between checking for messages): I can't be having that! Can't be going along with this maso charade! This is what I'd say to her:
"Woh-oh, calm your jets here missy, you cannot be serious! Why so po-faced? Why take that aggro, ya bleedin cabbage? Why you give in to that sad bunch of windup merchants when you can see they're as mean as a fiddler's bitch the whole lot o'them! You've got it all arse about face love! Don't let that sorry lot grind you down sister, get yourself a bottle of cop on and tell 'em to stick it up their (untranslatable)!"
That'd be her told. Right and proper.

Joking aside, I'm watching this, I'm watching this poor woman being taken to the cleaners, and I'm thinking: Why on earth does she give up on happiness, why is she taking it lying down -literally, ha ha!- and asking for more? ...Is this what Japan's about? Sacrifice?? Auld Uhuru's got it all wrong! When all she has to do is turn around and go:
"Well feck this for a game of soldiers! Yous can all take your edicts and stuff'em up your pipe! I've had just about enough of this nonsense -am off to Tokyo or New York, either will do! Tool and die, fear and trembling, the have and the have-nots -Yer must be havin’ a larf if you think I'm gonna put up with any more of that crap! Class division is for eighth grades doing maths! I ain't buying no more! So yous think yourselves clever eh, killing me one and only true fella? -Well yous can go hang yourselves for all I care now! Go take a jump! I'm gonna get me good kimono and that's the last yous'll see of me, up up and away! Game over! Let 'em eat lotus leaves, this lady here ain't for turning! It's sayonara from me and Philadelphia here we come! Yee-haw!! "

...But maybe I wasn't in the right mood. Maybe I didn't "get it".

Anyway, neither did Sean. More fidgety than a bag of kittens attacked by fleas, your man was clearly struggling to repress his yawns at ten paces. By the look of him, totally gagging for an espresso he was -and as he was, so was I. (No wonder there: studies have shown that as light goes down, darkness sends a signal to the back of your brain, and activates the production of some sleep molecule thingy... (zerotonin, I believe it's called). The brain is fooled, and interprets the situation as an order to go to sleep. You add black-and-white and subtitles to the equation -you're good as gone.) Yawn on one side of the theatre, yawn on the other, it's funny how yawning spreads faster than chocolate milk on a carpet. (Other scientific aside: Scientists have also recently discovered that yawning spreads to dogs. They conducted this experiment where researchers were told to yawn while looking at their pets and... surprise surprise! The dogs soon followed suit as they took to imitating their masters. Research money well spent, says I.) Anyway our eyes met as we both started squinting towards the door. Ten seconds later we didn't need to squint no more.
So this is how we met, sharing in our probably shameful sense of incomprehension and sympathising over a cupofcoffee. I actually remember telling Sean
"We should probably be ashamed of displaying such cultural ignorance"
-"Should we feck!" was his reply.


(tobecontinued)

Carving Dublin Up.

Uma o'Gil copyright 2008-0012 xcrp't



Let's cut the BS and, since we're on, here's a category The Herald certainly didn't fail to feature at every opportunity, the new top drawer elite that's stamped its mark on Ireland's imagination: drum roll for the new heroes of our times tada! ...The construction magnates. The crane maniacs. Them lovable movers and shakers... always engaged in sneaky acquisitions and cheeky counter acquisitions:


"Now then. Say you buy me The Shelbourne and I buy you St-Stephen's Green, how's that working for you?
-Call that a deal? Who you think you're talking to, pal! Who's the one bottling the Liffey and selling it back to Yank tourists here? You, or me?
-OK OK, so what about... what about I throw in the entry code to the Dail and the thirtieth of April? Fore!
-Riiiight that might just about clinch it but... But then -hear me out here- I'll throw in Balyfermot Central's golf course, Rosanna Davidson, Dun Laoghaire's yacht club and in exchange... in exchange I get the Jackie Yeats's "Water lilies", the Abrakadabra kebab chain, and the new airport terminal!
-Not without the Jackie Skelly gyms you don't!
-I see. You wanna play hard ball wid me, 'sthat it? Well well well... Chew this over pal: scrap my last offer. Forget it, too late! How about I give you instead... my champion greyhound Kiki, a trip down memory lane for two, still Rosanna Davidson, a hearty hello and a couple of cranes in mint condition to boot -How's that sound now? More acceptable?
-What about Jackie Skelly's?
-You really fancy them do you? Right, but then I want my name on the Declaration of Independence!
-With or without your photo?
-Don't be daft -they didn't have cameras in 1916! Now on a postage stamp though... we may have a deal here.
-Hmm now let me think... Let me think, I smell a rat... You sure know how to drive a hard bargain! What about the three little pigs, by the way? You still own them?
-Only half half with McDermo.
-Say you throw in one of the pigs -you sort it out with McDermo- and in return I get your son to play for Ireland at the next Euros. They need a midfielder, leave it to me.
-Deal!
-Spit on it!
-Now wait a second though... I suppose ten sunny days are out of the question?
-.... That could be arranged.
-The right of way anywhere in town?
-Agreed also, but then I take back the thirtieth of April and I get the final edit on your autobiography in return. Spit on it! (Change of clubs, new set of balls.)
-Not so fast, not so fast, that's a big ask that... My legacy eh! Can't be messin' with that! Now what about... What about I agree on principle but then let's say I want the grey squirrels in town and you get the keep the red ones?
-That may work for me, but only pending a tax credit on nuts that your TDs won't oppose in the Dail.
-What about my arse your face?
-Rain on your wedding day?
-Ten thousand knives when all you need is a spoon?
-Are you for real? Want me to go and spill the beans about Shergar?
-OK OK or -Tell you what. Here's a mutually satisfactory one... Say we split the GAA fifty-fifty: half the teams play on my days, and half play when you say.
-Consider it done!
-Plus an audience with Joanne Cantwell.
-Holy feck! Don't push it now, I'd have to consult with me lawyers on that one!"

(tobecontinued)

YKY2.0-1 (subject to re-editing obviously)

A Umao'Gil production 0080012 "Here we go!"

Chapter 1
Days Of Thunder --------------------------------------------------------
Soundtrack: Spacemen 3 "Big City, Bright Lights"



"De la puta madre!"

Café-en-Seine on a Friday night and the tension is brutal. Myself and G. have just gained entrance to and are assessing the situation. Left... right... receding hairline, cut of their stitch, shoulders, bum... -we're on recon mission scoping the pre(o)mises. We're sussing, we're checking, but of course we're not looking -that'd be so fecking cheap! Sooo unrefined, and we are not, let it be known, not the uncouth type. Besides, can't make it too obvious eh. I'd say the main talent of a hunter resides in his -or her- cunning and stealth. Discretion is everything, discretion is the key, and I suppose I'm the one to ask: my recent record pretty much bears proof to how invisible I've become of late... Discretion's my middle name -unlike some other people whose name I won't spell out lest I should sound like I'm slagging me homegirl. Hence our foray into tonight, Georgie and me.

I like to think of myself as clued up. I like to think of Café-en-Seine as a cute choice: you get there, it's a suntan salon heaven! Washboard stomachs and realigned teeth. But Georgie begs to differ. Georgie reckons it's full of poseurs, thinks we should pass on that one ("I mean, it's not like Dublin's running short on pubs is it!"). Fast forward two hours of debate in my kitchen (and half a dozen Bacardis), and we are giving it another try. If only for my sake (thank you G., this is where I scored last! xxx). The way I lie to myself now, as I get all icequeen and not at all bovvered, it's just us two, some girlies passing through this joint. It's just us dropping in for a quick drink. ...A quiet drink at Dublin's Café-en-Seine on a Friday night.


We're like inside the place now. Scope, scope, scope.
To be fair, not much hunk stands out. Not much male sets the pulse alight. At first sight, all I can see is your run-of-the-mill polo and jeans. Even worse: jacket with jeans (!!). A lot of stubble too.
But we're in the place is the main thing, and can now advance in friendly territory. Glance to the left, glance to the right, proceed. We slide our way through the throng as efficiently as female elbows will allow -i.e. not an awful lot. It's like an assault course in here, this scene doesn't give in too easily. A bit like life I guess, you have to dive in and fight your way. A bit like life maybe -but with colognes coming at you from all corners. People's armpits, my nose level -makes for a fragrant equation as we soldier on regardless and hope for the best. Take the dive, suck it and see...

The Babel of voices that passes as the Celtic Tiger's soundtrack beckons: I can distinguish affected English-from-England, French, Spanish, German, Louditalian, Eastern European (that would be mainly from the staff) and, at long last, some good old Dub. Earnestly discussing the state of rugby. ...That would be blokes. Blokes are just weird. Like it's Sat'day night in Dublin, I'll tell yous what lads: Why don't we all go down the classy bars and just discuss rugby? In Dawson Street. The perfect place. Next thing you know, they go on holiday in Spain, and spend their time in a pub watching Sky Sports eating fish and chips. Men are just weird.
I take it these ones are Leinster fans. Leinster are (is?) the local team, the club de rigiour for any self-respecting D 4 type. Mainly -and that much I know- it is the club of Ireland's official number one sex-symbol: Brian "O'Driscoll" Drico. The B.O.D. himself. Your man is sometimes spotted about town, regularly sighted going on about his business -but not by myself yet. (Maybe I should get down to the stadium sometime, that'd help.) Right now, I'm only scouting Café-en-Seine, this super swanky "drinking emporium" that would give any French brothel a run for its money. Not that I would be familiar with French brothels either.

"To be perfectly honest wit you, another couple of deals like this one and I'll be good to go and retire in Dubai my good man! Strike it while it's hot! And then cheerio, that's me done -on my holiers forever! Just imagine: Dubai eh... Playing golf all day, chillaxing on the beach with them rich bitches in bikinis... -Bring it on!"
"For real?"
"For real. Right now, all the indicators are go, the feeling is on -All I need now, really, is close -what?- three or four more no more. Or five or six at the max and then... Happy days! Serious! Right now, we're currently working on a new securitisation package that will blow your socks off! Watch - this - space! It's proper mental rates we anticipate, can only rise even more with the derivatives involved! Win win situation, mate."

Georgina and I are shimmying our way through cool as you like. We're swinging it with as much nonchalance as another couple of Sunrises (Georgie's treat) and a Tropical Reef (mine) downed on our way allows us. Funny that, but feel quite sloshed already. In high spirits, oh high "spirits"'s the right word -see what I've done here!!!! The main thing is, maintain your dignity. Maintain at any cost. Right now, the world sways pleasantly enough, all around me -the problem is, I'm not even moving. Am kind of stuck. Try as we do, our valiant efforts to move forward have not exactly met with unqualified success. We haven't made much progress in the -oh- three/ten minutes that we got here and now me bladder's playing up. Blame it on the sudden heat, the human steam, the general din... but it's brutal. Undeniable -even in my present state. I don't feel well, all of a sudden. All this exaggerated laughter from all directions, these after-shave assaults, the place is heaving and so could I any time soon. Clearly, two packs of mature paprika crisps and a low-fat prawn sambo are nowhere near nourishment enough for a growing girl such as myself.

To take my mind off the ghost of a surge in my abdominal region (ewwww), I decide to apply my naturally legendary sagacity to our whereabouts: what's the story here then?

Well, pretty much as could be expected at this stage of the game...
Revellers come and revellers go, leaving only personal whiffs behind. Look here, I'm not saying that the smoking ban was wrong but... I'd have to say that, ever since it came into practice, odours that once were masked are no longer hidden. Some odours... or in plain English: B.O. -God some people stink! Like total gag, yeah! You'd be surprised, and I'm not just talking about morning -or even worse, evening- commute on the LUAS; even in this swankiest of places you come nose to chest with some mighty fly magnets! That weird mixture of sticky shirt sweat and expensive perfume liberally splashed on top... I know it's been a long day but... there is some serious yuck in here!

Cedarwood Sunrise by Jean-Hubert de D. somewhere on my right (-top drawer, that!), Cristal Fatal in that blonde's wake on my left. After a while, you get to recognise quite a few of them. There may be hundreds of flagrances about, but people can only afford / stick to a dozen. Past the first couple of years, that Jean-Paul Gaultier yoke totally lost its mystery, its novelty factor ...and got adopted by proper skangers -no way back then.

"I could spend hours listening to you... When I'm with you, I don't know why, I feel so relaxed... At long last I can be myself..."
"Oh you handsome swine, how could I resist you..."
"No creo que es una rubia, cabron"
"The index is up, the prospects hot -it's all good, knowwhatImean!"

The jungle's rumbling. What else have we got here...:
Someone's clearly been let loose with her other half's card at Brown Thomas this very afternoon: check out the top-to-bottom that's been freshly liberated from its packaging! I can deffo make out the creases of her outfit as she strikes a pose in a -like- totally casual way.

Next to the clotheshorse, a not even thirty-something (worth going on fifty in my book) is modelling the "golfer" look –and you know what they say about golf kits… (It’s white men’s excuse for dressing up as a black pimps.) Feel tempted to tell your man. Think I'll refrain.


A hot waiter waltzes by, holding aloft a tray that so must weigh at least a ton; does so as if it were the easiest thing in the world. Your man sniffily arrows his way through the circle jerk of rugger bugger fans and merges back into the fray with not a care in the world for their undoubtedly gripping tactical talk. The circle instantly reseals itself before the next attempt upon its safety zone cos’ that’s the thing though: ‘you ever noticed no matter where you stand in a crowd –there’s always someone ‘needs to walk right through your very spot!

As I negotiate my way past your basic dayglo rococo pillar (i.e. crowned by an understated kaleidoscopic ceramic statue of a Greek bodybuilder god holding up a deep red crystal vase overflowing with cascading vines that spread out under the suspended three-tier Art Deco crystal chandelier), I lose my footing for a second. Bending down to readjust the strap, what - do - I - spot?
A pair of Blahniks! A pair of actual Blahniks under a parade of legs that rise all the way to an an excuse of a miniskirt slash kitchen apron -dear me, she hasn’t left much to discover has she? Standing up, I sneak a look and almost gasp at the fakeness of the owner’s face: there’s been a load of work gone into these diagonal cheekbones and fulsome lips! Nose: drawn with a compass. Skin: flawless. In fact, some might even call it foldless ...like unnaturally super-tight, yeah? Like lifted almost as high as her panty line. Surely she mustn't be able to blink for fear of losing control of her bowels!

I'm thinking this, I'm thinking that, and then I realise I don't actually mean it. Standard kneejerk reaction, that. Basic jealousy. If anything I probably feel for her: she must be, what, post second divorce age range, but clearly's decided she won't give up just yet. She ain't going down without a fight and we ought to respect that. What she's saying here is she's still good to go, she’s still up for it, and so if money can buy her ten more years -well that's her choice to make. Fair play to her, says I -and then I realise, ten minutes later on reflection, that she was a he.

(Of The Varied Uses Of "fair play to you", A Little Vocabulary Lesson:
-"And a very good morning to you Philomena, you look radiant! Any news on the grand-child situation yet?"
-"Indeed I have: Clauda gave birth to a baby boy last night!"
-"Oh did she? Fair play to her!"

You Kow Yourself 2.0 Prologue (end)

Prologue suite -copyright Uma o'Gil 0012



/ Except they don't say that, of course. They say / "...Belinda Savage who's at present reporting from the Garden of Serenity and McFergus Enterprises where an old man is being buried. Over to you Derek."


-Derek: "Much obliged Moira."
-Moira: "Good man yourself."

(Deep breath)
-Derek: "And so we continue our coverage of the Koszak funeral -or rather her husband's- in this glorious Dub day that sees us gathered outside the Koszak mansion on a ladder to pay our respects and try to get a piece of the action. I was just after remarking to Belinda -and believe me when I tell yous I don't want to come across all sanctimonious or level-headed here- how utterly dignified everyone's been, how they've behaved themselves throughout the ceremony. Not a word higher than the other, not a cough, not even a discreet fart during the sermon -quite impressive really. Why, some might say our hosts look like they've been specially bodytrained and PR'd for the occasion!"
-Belinda: "That's right Derek, and it would seem our mourners have been rehearsed big time -But then again, this is only the sixth Social Funeral of the season, I guess they're getting the hang of it by now."


/ These two can't stand the smell of each other, they've been at the Chief Ed's throat and kecks for days in order to get this gig! Belinda may be as light-headed as Ozzie beer but she's no mug when it comes to enhancing her profile oh no: got the work done on old Jessie dinn't she! And see her now, fannying about on prime-time crap like it's her God-given right -Result! Ah yes, the bint will go places. ...If only for five minutes. As for Derek, God have mercy on the sad clown. Only last week, 'managed to get himself caught with the make-up queen. 'Moron's not even gay -he's just trying to make himself look interesting; he knows the game is up and is dying to make it through to the central pages while he's still in with a chance! Sadly for him, even the bottom feeders aren't biting. /


-Derek: "Which reminds me, this global warming lark... I'm not saying anything here, right? but come to think of it, I seem to distinctly remember, growing up as a bright lad all of these moons ago -go on lass, you're supposed to jump in and protest it wasn't so long ago ha ha- well anyway (!!), so growing up as one did then on the farm, I remember summers used to be pretty warm actually. Pretty warm indeed... Now I am not suggesting anything here mind, I'm just stating some basic facts. But there you go. Global warming they say? ... I rest me case."
-Belinda: "Absolutely. Absolutely I'd have to reinforce with you Derek, it's like there'd be periods like -really warm right? and then dead cold!"
-Derek: "These would be called seasons. But never mind -Now look who's here! Who could it be, making his grand entrance but none other than rebel chef Jean-Baptiiiste DeLaRue the-man-himself! Accompanied by the lovely Anastacia -Anastacia (sic) who exclusively revealed to us, all of last year, how it felt to be left outside of love ('poor thing got a cold, is what). Jean-Baptiste DeLaRue then... who clearly couldn't find the time to comb his rebel hair, see him Belinda: his trademark half-quiff? All over the place!"
-Belinda: "I find it quite sexy actually."
-Derek: "...Right. At this stage of the game -I'll tell you what, great help Belinda-, at this stage of the game I feel a bit cheeky, I am almost tempted to bring in Moira. Moira are you here? are you receiving? Could you define for us -with your own professional expertise of course- the current style of Jean-Baptiiiste's rebel hair? How would you call it?"
-Moira: "Derek."
-Derek: "Moira."
-Moira: "Derek. Well, 'seems to me, our Jean-Bapt' here is opting for a, er, totally new strand of rebel hair in keeping with his rebel super-chef status: low on constricting structural bouffant, high on impetuosity and innovation. Hints of nonchalonce, shades of creativity -this is a man in a hurry, and not one for conventions. Typically Gallic I'd say."
-Derek: "How about that eh. "Impetuosity and nonchalonce". Isn't that spot-on though, dear viewers? isn't that the very thing itself! Why, you're on fire today Moira, you really are -dead on the money! 'Don't mind telling you: in all modesty, even I couldn't have put it any better meself. ...Would you, Belinda?"
-Belinda: "!?!?? Like yes! absolutely! Absolutely I wouldn't have, er... -Absolutely not, yeah!"


/ Hello hello, what's going on here? Fifteen - love by the sound of it, did the old fart grow himself a new set of balls or? /


-Derek: "You know what Belinda, that just reminded me. You know Jean-Baptiiiiste's smash-hit programme -on TTE naturally- "Chef Challenge Ultimate" -you know the one, yes? Well you will remember how I once took part..." (pauses)
-Belinda: "Er... 'course I do, and totally grand you were"
-Derek: "...It was for last year's exciting charity bash: the "Sprogs In Need All-Week TTE Special", featuring only little aul' me and a whole bunch of super celebs. Well, Bell, what happened was -you will remember- we were asked to take up the "Jean-Baptiiiste Challenge Ultimate". What we had to do, right?, we had to help prepare a meal for them Southside kiddies reduced to wear tracksuit bottoms! Yikes! Save our sprogs from a skanger life!"
-Belinda: "Fair fucks to you, Derek"
-Derek: "Well, Jean-Baptiiiste himself was involved naturally, he took the time to guide us through the kitchen in his chequered pantaloons and rebel hair... Now I don't mind telling you this Bels: it was - simply - the - toughest - hour of my life it was! Absolute nightmare!! That day alone I learnt so much! -I simply learnt more than in my previous (cough) 41 years together and -quite frankly- I have to literally take my hat off to any chef who can rustle up a meal in his kitchen! Art form and no mistake."
-Belinda: "How right you are Derek, like... totally. I think Jean-Bapt is quite sexy actually."


/ .......... And what about Clio, come a long way has our Clio. Only five years ago, she was planning on producing some conscience raising features that would make your man sit up and take notice -or she'd tell me over coffee. She wanted to uncover and expose, kick up the termite mound, outVeronica Guerin Veronica Guerin -minus the lead in the head, mind- and here she is, five years later ...reading the news headlines, employed to interject enthusiasm into that shite. ... At the end of the day someone has to, I guess. Might as well be her. It's all in the presentation, all in the whipping up -Fair fucks to Clio if she can make it sound important. "So-and-So goes into rehab! So-and-So falls off the wagon again!" ...It's all in the whipping up all right. No fade-out here, just a straight cut to /

"...and I suppose, in a real sense, wouldn't it be fair to claim that Dermot, like, revolutionised the Dublin skyline?"
-Whoever: "Oh absolutely, like totally. And I'd even add that, without him, Dublin simply wouldn't be what it is today, what with his contribution and all you know? Oh yes, how many times did I remark on it meself! I grow up a proud Dub... -I see it change beyond recognition! It's like this Derek: Every day I drive up to my gallery on Leeson St., I reflect on these changing times we're going through and I... take stock. I ponder, see? That's what our friend would have done himself -he'd have pondered! What Dermot did, see, his genius is he looked around, he noted how these changing times were evolving, he thought this through -and he effected them, cool as you like! Went unashamedly proactive and pushed the envelope rrrrright off the table -with outstanding results, I think we all agree! Some pretty convincing results, oh aye. I mean, a full 21 holes course by the Liffey... Who'd have come up with that but our Dermot!"

/ In his own way, Derek's a pro and a half: see him rinse this small beer for hours on end, truly the man has no shame. He's in his element: yak yak yak -and no actual conversation at the end, no point ever made. Some people are like that though... Silver tongue stylists, piss artists of the highest order. They take to freestyling as dogs take to vomit, it comes to them naturally and they will lap it up till we run out of tape. /

-Derek: "You are so right, I mean... a golf course smack in the heart of the Northside -what an inspired idea!"

/ And on and on. Stand-by for the church yoke, it's about time. /

-Derek: "...this is "not technically legal" -well it won't be Kosher either ha ha!- but anyway we've managed to stick a mike inside last night, and we should be able to catch yous some juicy bits, the best of Father De Bisis's eulogy -What do you think of that eh! The holy man himself in his own words! (......That is, if our techno nerds can be bothered to turn it up a bit... !!) Aaaah there you are, I know you can barely contain yourself Belinda, this is Father De Bisis speaking, let's hear him now:


"Tremble ye not oh humble man but get rejoicing! Rejoice I tell you! Hear our voice, take our heed, share with us in this hour of grief -grief but also celebration... Celebrate the reprobate! Clasp him to your ample bosom and give him a big sloppy kiss! As the Angel said unto the Prophet as He opened a crate of milk: Aye up, slave of Israel! For thy day wilt come, the day of all days before the following night, and ye shalt endeavour to beget Jerezaiah, who begat Ishmael, who begat Rachel, who begat Elsinior, who begat Barack, who begat Necromingian, who begat Oscar, who begat Dunstorum who sowed the first seed upon the salt -and he saw that it was good. "Yyyyyyessss!" shouted he, and lo! another ten storeys were raised and -by Gomorrah and the Bono!- if the wicked Council did not approve my daring throw of the dice initially but I was determined -determined, I tell thees- to prove them wrong, and wrong I proved them.

Mediocre bureaucrats that they were, penpushers in thermal underwear turned inside out on alternate days, they lacked vision so they did. They could not see the potential shopping-mall for the meadow, they could not see the car-park for the trees -but I did, oh I did... So what I actually done was, I had a very civil chat in private with Charlie -and the deal was accepted. Alleluia! Glory be and up the Dubs! At this pivotal switch in my destiny change, I lividly remember -vividly too- getting down on my knees right there and then on Charlie's very own carpet and thanking the Good Lord for His merciful bounty. Thank the Lord for verily He giveth, and He giveth again to those that are truly deserving I correctly observed. It came clear to me in a flash, like a veritable thunderbolt from the heavens: I felt the power! I felt the power that these dusty bureaucrats could never see in their heathen land register, their godless Health and Safety guidelines -Pah! A pox on their (council) houses! Verily blessed be the builders, for they're the ones that charge upon where others dare not tiptoe, they're the ones that see the road is long, long and not properly equipped with regularly spaced prime spot adequate advertising facilities yet.

That moment I remember. That moment I remember well. Down on me knees I was, Charlie not far around, with all these sacred lines ringing through my bowed head and I knew -I KNEW- that the good fight was on my side and that Our Lord, in His infinite mercy, would prevail upon this Earth and in particular the semi-derelict quayside portion of D 8. It was an opportunity too good to be overlooked, and so it came to pass -Amen!"

/ Goes on for quite a while. And then some. /

"...for what does he tell us, in his "Epigram To The Employees To Be Read On Sunday Next (Please Note: Does Not Count As Overtime)"? What does our brother Dermot tell us here? He says. "Let he cast the first stone if he wants to get the wall started" is what! Let the mason cast his stone! (Ontop a properly prepared foundation -one third Sandycove sand, two third good hard Fenian concrete, shake well before usage and let it rest no more than a day, we're on the clock here.) Let the builder erect, says Dermot! Let the carpenter carpent! Let the glass blower blow! Let him blow I tell thees!! And blow down all obstacles for these times -brothers and sisters, various employees-... these times they're a changing so they are! Let nothing stand in the way of progress, he says here. Out with the forces of reaction, out with them poxy health and safety regulations! Red tape? We are done with you! Step back, step back, and vade retro ye parasitic legislatic onanistic leather-elbowed clerk from days of yore! Step down ye hear, step down and make way: Let Dublin rise at long last, let it rise, rise up and sprout!"
-Audience: "Hear hear! Bring the noise! Jerusalem here we come! Where's me jumper?"
-Priest: "This great city of unparalleled infrastructural renovation potential... This half-Eden of emerald stone defiantly set in the shadow of godless unionism... This...-Ireland!!"
-Audience: "Keanooo, there's only one Keano, there's only one Keano"
-Priest: "Ireland, standing shoulder to shoulder! Ring hosanna ring! Chim chim chimeney! Bang the bell ding-a-ling! We woz lost -now we are saved! For the future is upon us, it's coming down -oh yeah it is- and we couldn't be more merrier! No we couldn't -even if we went and played brother Daniel O'Donnell himself! Rejoice, yees all! Rejoice, for -praise be to brother Dermot- we have now seen the future oh yes we have! We have seen it, we have taken its measurements, we have stared it down... and we have razed it to the ground!! Alleluia! That's right, razed it to the ground!!"
-Audience: "Far out my man! Well said, that! Only massive! Onwards Christian soldiers into the valley of death! Take me to the bridge! Take me to the bridge! Ireland 1 - Italy 0! Anyone got any Vera?" (Crowd cheers; cheer dies down.)

*****

/ Must have drifted off cos' when I come to, where do I find ourselves than in the cemetery already! (Oops...) Looks like we've moved on then, must have switched to automatic at some stage... For how long I cannot tell: after a while, pre-digested phrases just wash over you and no longer register, inane small chat pours in through the ears ...and evaporates instantly. Hypnotised, we get. We fall in a cathodic trance only broken by the jolt in volume announcing ad breaks. (Ad breaks, or take a leak breaks to give them their proper name.) Anyway. Could think of worse places to wake up to than here: there's greenery all round, and lovely mounds of flowers. Finely pruned branches sway gently in the breeze, birds flutter about unconcerned -that'd make a smashing spot for a picnic, that. ...But let's-rejoin-our-commentators: /

-Belinda: "...literally costing up to twelve thousand or so my sources tell me, it features three interlaced garlands of miniature blood-free diamonds, 'specially hand-sewn on by children -they've got smaller hands, that's why"
-Derek: "Good call there!"
-Belinda: "...and that's nothing, compared to what me sister's given me to wear at the February fashion awards -thought I might mention it, may I...?"
-Derek: "By all means Belinda, the mike is yours."
-Belinda: "Grand! Now the thing is though, it's not like proper presenting yeah, what I’ll be doing on the night is"

/ The pin-up du jour pauses casually, making sure her right leg rests somewhat extended in front of her supporting one, which in turn pushes her bum up and bust out (flash photography may occur at this point). The desiccated religious mantis parades her latest toy boy before the throng of cameras /

"the lovely Bernadette Egan -heiress to the Egan canned food dynasty- takes a leisurely stroll with her protégé interior designer Philip Murgoyne round the patio; here we can see them, admiring the chrysanthemums and sniffing talcum powder off the back of their hands. How utterly delightful Belinda, how very peacesome"

/ Some bozo shows off his logo splattered top and thinks we haven't noticed. Not to be outdone, some clearly thirsty halfwit waves a recognisably shaped bottle of carbonated sugar soda at the camera, the same 30 centilitres bottle he's been holding up for the last two hours under the sun. Years ago, there was this joke doing the rounds about the forthcoming Tyson fight: apparently, Mike's designated punch-bag would be sporting advertising ...on the sole of his boots. The expected knock-out later, it turned out to be anything but a joke. Now the thing is, Coke ain't no mugs either. They knew exactly what they were doing when they expressly commissioned a weirdly shaped bottle. Paid off, it did...

/ "Posh "Vicky" Beckham, looking stunning in her safety net bikini, engrossed in conversation with Liam Gallagher; charming Glenda Gibbon, fresh from breaking up with hunky GAA star Dara Mahooney, imparting important news to a Polish waitress"

/ How did we allow this to happen? When did we let our guard down? Gradual compromissions... careless acceptance... 'must have snaked its way through the back-door -Talking of which: /

-Belinda: "Absolutely, couldn't put it any better, but I would say this to Mads though:" (deep breath here) "Mads, at this cruellest hour of all hours and this moment in time chips may be down right it's like you'd think there's no light at the end of the tunnel obviously you must feel utterly devastated but see Mads looking at the bigger picture at the end of the day it's always the darkest hour before dawn you could probably say that and I hope I'm not out of line here is what Dermot would have wanted yeah?" (permission to exhale)
"When a door closes a window op"

/ zzzzz... /

..."in association with Blurp Insurance -"Blurp Insurance, the power to"- and the question was: tell us the name of the town that which has been so wonderfully revitalised by our dearly departed, good old Dermot. Is it... A) Limerick? B) Dublin? or C) Timbuktu? You'll kick yourself when you hear the answer!"

/ Cut from the announcer, close-up on the junkie clotheshorse, don't be shy Deco, have no fear re. the lighting on her Botox -that complexion would withstand a nuclear attack! /

"...wonderful occasion, so many emotions going through my head, I don't know where to start really, am literally speechless... is what he would have wanted, am so touched by all these messages of support, overwhelmed really ....these spontaneous messages, your man on the street... Dub' born and bred who -and I suppose, in a real sense- in their own way got equally touched by Dermot's vision. Literally."

/ "Your man on the street" -nice touch here! Not at all patronising, the right side of populist. Why of course pal, we're all in all this together... -after all we share the same post-codes, don't we? We share the same smog. I always relish these exercises in self-promotion, whenever you point a camera at them. Your man seldom lets you down. Wants to look good, wants to sound bright. Switched on, clued up. Such is the appeal, the glamour of appearing on the telly... the proverbial some of us are in the gutter -and jerking off at the stars. /

"...turns out she was Marty's wife. His legally wedded wife! How dreadfully unimaginative of him if you ask me... Tut, tut! ... Oh well, I suppose, what with Martin being officially dyslexic and all, I guess we can count this as an achievement on her part right?"
-Belinda: "For real!"

/ Prepare for the link-up, remind the monkey in his tuxedo, close-up on the airhead. Then hand-over to more time-filler and prepare for the wrap.

Too right you are, Des': the starched automats have all behaved impeccably, they've all done their PR proud. A right credit to their brands and sponsors they've been! ...Now I'm not too sure this was a day-we'll-never-forget tough: you and I know full well we have a team ready for whoever next. Death is pretty much inevitable. The wheel keeps turning. The minute Mads closes the door on the rest of her life with her (cough) adopted male model son, the clock will start ticking for the next one. Featuring the same faces, surfing on the same one-liners. Primetime demands, setting may vary -Is what the public wants, right? /

"...and may I just say what an honour it has been to actually spend it with you, an absolute pleasure. Literally."




 ------------------------------------------------ end of prologue ------------------------------------------

YKNY2.0 Prologue Part 2

Part 2 of prologue, the usual caveats, warnings and reservations apply.


"Now who is it I can now see with my little eye -no, not that one you filthy mind- enjoying a stroll with Socially Pitiable Dyslexic Martin Connolly? ...Could it be Famed Temptress Paula Brummingham? could it?? Rrrrr, Paula you femme fatale you!! Wouldn't kick her out of bed myself if she-Actually noooo... No actually, I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure it is her now... May not be Paula Brummingham after all. ... Can anyone confirm? Confirm / deny? Is it Paula or not? Try as I might, I can't see shit through this garden hedge! 'Feckers 'grown it just to hide their guests from us! ..... Ah well, then maybe not on second thought. Hmm. Let's say it isn't Famed Temptress Paula Brummingham. Could it be Tallaght transvestite Dickless Tracey then? Hmmmm, neither I don't think so... (Godfeckindammit, can anyone come to my assistance here!!) Now saddle me on a pushbike with a KwikSave groceries bag and drop me at your Nan viewers, but I'm afraid I can't recognise the young lady presently shaking her money-maker next to Society Sanctioned Connolly! How annoying. ...Any idea as to whom she may be, hired help Belinda?"
-Belinda: "Woh-oh Derek, hold your horse here! You're -like- putting me on a hot spot! That blonde wan with the poxy heels and the boring fur knickers? -Well 'feck me in a hole if I can tell who she is! Now then, let's try though...

'Is not Wild Child Lara Trompton-Mewsley is it? No. This one's not kicking any foreign waitress. Maybe Sizzling Rehab Breakout Saskia Cahill? No, neither: can't see no joint dangling from any part of her body... It wouldn't be Senator Marie Curzcnak, would it? "Clothes Show" presenter Eimear Callahan? Sunday Tabloid Front-Pager Niamh o'Namara? Euro Crumpet Maria Vilverde de San Antonio (y Chupas a Gogo)? I'm literally wrecking me brains here, Derek! Can't think of who on Earth -or Dublin town- she could possibly be, it's doing me bonce in something proper!

Well I suppose... at the end of the day, we'll just have to -Oh. My. God.- Oh my God a thought just occurred to me Derek. Surely, surely it couldn't be... it couldn't be? ... Could your woman be ...a nobody??" (horrified gasp)
-Derek: "Ah don't be being silly now Bels, let me remind you this is a sombre occasion here -I'll tell you what though, we'll leave it at that and pretend that I myself -Derek Whelan at your service ladies 'n gentlemen- have been left floundering for once. ... Only joking! I'm sure one of our inside people working the staff will be able to find out her name. Capisce? There's a tenner in the offing."
-Belinda: "What an inspired suggestion, Derek! Like -totally fresh yeah! A tenner to the good and make it double quick, people -But you know what, Derek? All of a sudden I'm thinking. ... I'm thinking there is NO WAY Blondie here can be a downclass though. Hear me out, yeah? If she actually managed to get in in the first place, she must be like -you know- ...worth it? Well worth and connected! ....Know what I mean? (wink wink)"
-Derek: "By the Bono you must be right Bels lass! The very least she must have got up to to gain admission must have been -ooh I don't know- sleep with half the security! A-ha!! Have we found ourselves a sexscandal or what? Live on TTE! Just fancy that, viewers: a steamy sordid sexscandal in this day of all days! Eros and tornadoes! Could this be for real??"
-Belinda: "Oooh, deadly, see me -I'm shivering all over! Who on Earth could be so sexmad and determined? Who? Who could be so outrageous? This is like... so totally!"
-Derek: "Couldn't agree more Belinda. But obviously mustn't get carried away. Would hate to speak out of turns. Huh huh. Not me, not Derek Whelan. Cos' remember Belso, we at TTE have a mission to uphold, standards to maintain. Our valued viewers look up to us -and that's what makes us the winners that we are"

-Belinda: "Well said, that!"

-Derek: "and what our valued viewers know, it's that we don't want to be bringing the tone down on this day of all days, we can't possibly insist on this shocking sexscandal -oh no, our viewers' probity is too much of a credit to us. So you see Belinda, if it turns out there is indeed any jumped-up hanky-panky going on at McDermot mansion well... Well we'll just have to be mature about it Belinda. That's what we'll content ourselves with doing: we'll just be mature about it. Whose business it is and how often they're at it, where does it take place and what sick fantasies are being enacted -that's for our respected host to deal with. We're mere observers and have a duty to suspend judgement on this perverted upstart. She managed to get in -fair play to her.

Because at TTE, we take our mission seriously, very seriously indeed. And I think you will agree"
-Belinda: "Oh, I agree Derek that"
-Derek: "-Hang on sweetchops I'm not finished- I think you will agree our viewers need to be informed don't they. They need to be informed, as is only right and proper for any self-respecting news outlet -and mark my words, TTE is that kind of responsible news outlet. Our viewers need to be told what's what / who's who. More to the point, they need to know what's going on within these private walls, and what the other channels keep them in the dark about. Like who the hell this slapper is; what sordid details she got up to -and whether she'll have the decency to attend the fecking mass!

Now then Belinda, mull this over for a second... Wouldn't you say I have a point here?"
-Belinda: "Like totally, Derek!"
-Derek: "Good girl yourself. So what I suppose I'm saying here is... What I'm saying here is this: let's our reason keep, and let's -for the sake of the argument- apprehend the current situation this way" (pause) "OK, so let's accept this foxy peroxide blonde has indeed been squeezing the vinegar strokes out our very own dyslexic Marty -as is her absolute right in a free country- ...then, then let me ask you this Belinda. If that's the shocking case, who knows what else is going on out there? What else under our very noses and treacherously hidden away from our viewers! The mind boggles. Still and let's be crystal clear Belinda, it is my firm and solemn belief it is our responsibility -nay our duty- to inform on such matters -and that's out of respect for our audience."
-Belinda: "Right on Derek. We sure are duty bounded and that's the TTE pledge."

/ Deep sigh, let it pass. Can't be seen to twitch, let's pretend I haven't heard that bit. /

"Oh but isn't it... The Man Himself? leading his famous castrated panda up the garden path?"
-Derek: "Eh? Who's that?"
-Belinda: "The scourge of celebrities! You know him already: Baz Guhrnam!! What's he doing here, I would of thought that he was banned!*"


* Bernard "Baz" Guhrnam, born 04/28/71 in Melbourne (Australia), founder of the "Capit'all" paparazzi photo agency. Guhrnam first came to prominence with his aggressive chasing of celebrities for "gonzo" stolen pictures. Credited with inventing the "snatch-it" genre through his own notorious celebrity magazine/website "Snatch", specializing in snapshots of harassed celebrities, often taken in highly personal circumstances (including in bathrooms), on the grounds that celebrities are by definition public property. Another notorious feature of Guhrnam's publications: engineered scuffles between the aforementioned celebrities and camera wielding "Snatch" employees. Although highly criticised, Guhrnam's magazine enjoyed continued and spectacular commercial success; it grew in aggression and scope (targeting politicians as well as athletes and artists) in spite of -or thanks to- high profile court cases. "Snatch" spawned "Puss" and "Chick", similar kinds of publications devoted to celebrities' offspring -often as young as a few days old. Its success inspired a wave of derivative and often anonymous publications/websites that in turn fell foul of the law, leading to drastic changes in the Irish legislation. Guhrnam's death (31/13/07), although officially attributed to drug-related causes, has been the subject of controversy in its own right, with his estate and conspiracy websites claiming he had been the subject of foul play.


-Derek: "Ah but you see Bels, your man Baz is a celebrity in his own right, truth be told: why, he sells millions, he's got every right! Besides, and I should like to imagine, better have him on your side than on your back right? (cough cough). The antipodean maverick eh... I like to think of him as a lovable rogue myself! See Belinda, Mads inviting him is probably a highly clever move: she may want to keep herself in the self-proclaimed King Of Yellow Slebreporting's good books, right? Makes perfect sense to me -surely your man won't be biting the proverbial hand. Fair play to her says I!"
-Belinda: "Fair play to you Derek. I'm not convinced though... His presence looks kinda fishy and dead queer to me... Funny looking fellow he is.

Ah what do I know eh, it's not like -say straight off me head- I would had ever got snapped sharing a man's toilet by one of his trash-can botherers did I? Only kidding, folks. Only kidding. I'm not called Helen.

Anyway! I like your man's pink DocMartens though -they're quite sexy actually. Very Dragon on a Saturday night. Talking of invites," (silly giggles) "-and maybe I shouldn't mention this but...- funny how I don't see Michael O'Leary or Heather McCartney anywhere... Could it be they didn't get an invite? Who would have thought!"
-Derek (giggling himself): "Oh but you're a terrible girl Belinda Savage so you are! Now then, let's not go there!"
-Belinda: "No let's not go there"
-Derek: "Let's not go there. Phew! Close shave. Oh my oh my... Michael O' Leary eh... Talk about bringing the tone down... (!!!) But you know what Belinda, I have to point something out though, with all this commotion, this highly entertaining chit-chat we've been treating our viewers to -I almost got thinking me, I have to point out there's just one thing..."
-Belinda: "Yes Derek, what is it?"
-Derek: "Well actually and believe it or not ...We still haven't caught a glimpse of the widow herself!!"
-Belinda: "Ohmygod you are so right here Derek, I nearly forgot myself about our Mads! Poor old Mads eh... Our one and only! The queen of the show! The one we've all been waiting for! Where must she be? 'She ready yet? 'She having her hair done or what? I wonder what must go through her mind at this stage of the game obviously she must be utterly devastated and she'll take one day at a time it never rains but pours thankfully time is a great healer -But seriously though. But seriously. What must she be thinking right now eh, do you reckon she's still in shock Derek? Do you think she'll ever recover? Obviously things will never be the same and there's only one Dougal"

-Derek: "Fergus"

-Belinda: "there's only one Fergus hopefully she'll find the strength, she'll find the strength to face up face up and gather herself for her guests put on a brave show who must be really wondering by now. They must be wondering what the feck she's up to and I'd say myself she must be chomping at the bit literally chomping at the bit to get on with it and let's get this show on the road isn't that right what do you think Derek?"


/ Get ready to switch to camera 3 on the signal... /


-Derek: "Funny you should say that Belzo, for look here but who's making her entrance right now... None other but talk about perfect timing!"


/ You heard the man... /


"Looking -I have to say- absolutely fabulous, here comes the widow walking up the garden path. 'Much as we can make out through this bleeding foliage, she looks every inch the perfect A-lister that she is -Class eh, 'simply can't buy it!"
-Belinda: "Mads is wearing a Jimy Chou hand-knit woolly dress, Donna Coran pecari hide handbag, Bukkake handkerchief up her left sleeve, vintage Tibetan chihuahua under her right elbow and two Rothko double-laced no-heels flat shoes"
-Derek: "I say Belinda, how impressive, don't be showing off now!"
-Belinda: "...or so my cards tell me."
-Derek: "(cough cough) I'm sure you're right here, I'm sure you're right! Perfect eyesight more like, perfect eyesight has our Belinda! Cos' you know what, folks? Cos' on the money -that's where we like to be at TTE! Spot-on and first with the news! All the thrills, spills, and accurate hair-products. We hope of course to be able to corner Mads later and get her very first reaction to her impressions -some hell of an exclusive not to be missed I dare say- but for the moment, for the time being she's only doing the sympathy rounds chatting to her card-accredited well-wishers -aren't they the lucky ones...

Now here's the deal. Here's the deal, lucky viewers. We ourselves may not be deployed on the ground, that is the Garden of Serenity and McFergus Enterprises Ltd ...we still have a right deadly joker up our very sleeve!"
-Belinda: "Have we?"
-Derek: "We have!"
-Belinda: "Tell us more oh Derek!" (claps her little hands)
-Derek: "If you insist Belinda. Now our viewers all know how much we hate blowing our own trumpet at TTE -oh no we don't- but the fact is, we have ourselves an absolute killer in store for yous we have, a -like- totally lethal surprise that will simply blow your collective socks off. 'Yous ready yet? So get this: yous need not fear missing out on any of the action ...for we have managed to get ourselves a lip-reader that'll decipher them condolences!!"
-Belinda: "No?!>? -Derek: "Yes!!!"
-Belinda "Far out Derek! This is like... -so totally! Fair play to you Derek! You've done it again big man!"
-Derek: "Why thank you Belinda, much obliged, and why don't you hang around after the show, come and see me later heh heh -anyhoo indeed we have, esclusively for TTE, a literally actual lip-reader that can read lips! How about that eh. 'Must say, I ain't half pleased with it, only goes to show we're right on the ball here at "Social Funeral"! Make no mistake, no expenses cut for us oh no, no corner's shaved when it comes to treat our valued viewers -so stick it up your pipe, ya RTE! It's one-nil to the TTE!

Now then. Now then let's get to it -let's get down to business. Hello lip-reader, welcome to the program and your name is...?"
-Gassarian: "Emir Gassarian."
-Derek: "?? Gassarian that's..." (laughing) "Doesn't sound quite Irish does it? 'Take it you weren't born within the walls of Rathmines were you now?"
-Gassarian: "Actually Derek, I live here -what...- twenty years at least. My parents originally emigrated from"
-Derek: "OK OK I'm sure they were right to so... Gossarian -since Gossarian it is- ...what can you tell us 's happening there? What are the guests saying? Here, take my binos -they're only lethal, they're Bigleux Binoculars- Start with those at the centre if you please, near the gold plated cherub statue"
-Gassarian: "Right. Now let me see....... Hmm.... hmm... right... hmm... OK. Well Derek, see this gentleman here, with the red feather boa and the green suit"
-Belinda: "I think you'll find that's TVfunnyman Damian. I think he's quite sexy actually."
-Gassarian: "Right then, TVfunnyman Damian, well he just was after saying to Madleen "I'm very sorry for your loss.""
-Derek: "Did he now?"
-Gassarian: "He did, and then repeated himself: "Oh yes, very sorry for your loss"; he's now added "My heart goes out to you.""
-Belinda: "Really? Not even a quick joke?"
-Gassarian: "None that I can see. Maybe you would like to hear what Madleen replied?"
-Derek: "By all means Grossarian, you go ahead."
-Gassarian: "She said "Why, thank you kindly Damo.""
-Belinda: "Huh that's just sh"
-Derek: "fanTAStic! That's just fantastic! Isn't it amazing, dear viewers? Isn't it heart-warming? to be able to penetrate the intimacy of your favourite stars -Don't know about you Bels', but I think it's just fab. It really brings it home: you can almost hear our Mads choking back her tears, it's like yous and me are right there in her sad little face! "Why, thank you kindly" that's just.. marvellous. So down to earth, no airs and graces for her eh -Totally levelling with common people is our Mads! Why, thanks a million Grozarian, good work that -and any more exciting revelation for us? What 'they saying now, what's the word on the mourning catwalk? Do tell us, we're all ears!"
-Gassarian: "Right er....... Miss Koszak is now saying to the 40-something lady in the leather tutu "How lovely to see you... how simply wonderful. Glad you could rake it -rake it??"
-Derek: "Fantastic! Isn't it fantastic dear viewers? Such humility, such grace -that's our Mads alright, 'right trooper she is, man of the people like, with a kind word for everyone and a nice gesture for each of them -What gas it must be for her guests, no wonder she got voted "the nicest person in the whole world" at our recent style awards -your woman's a class act pure and simple."
-Belinda: "She's the people's Personality she is!"
-Derek: "Amen to that! Ah yes, must admit I admire the hell out of her"
-Belinda: "Too right you are, Derek! She's like... tiptop! Couldn't have happened to a nicer soul!"
-Derek: "Couldn't indeed -It's me opinion and I'll stick by it! Ah yes, in these sad sad days of no manners, no manners and crass vulgarity, Mads "Madleen" Koszak stands out like the proverbial bacon of light and we could do worse -much worse- than take example on her is what I says. But back to our exclusive revelations live on TTE, tell us oh tell us er... Rozarian (??) -what 'she saying now? Our teleobjective shows her in deep converse with the holy man, what 'she telling him now? We're dying to know!"
-Gassarian: "Well Derek she er...... Couldn't quite catch the start of her sentence but... something about getting it (?) over and done with double quick, she's already late, needs to dash off to Sky TV for an inte"
-Derek: "Thank you that will be all! I think the last thing we need right now we don't want to intrude into Mads's private grief at this difficult juncture in her life this stage of the game and I guess I suppose you need to learn it'd do you good respect people's grief Gozzarian and show a little bit more respect that is if you don't mind some common decency our very own Queen of hearts she is after all -the People's favourite so."
...
-Gassarian: "Er sure... Sure, unquestionably. I certainly didn't mean to"
-Derek: "Thankyou. Thankyou that will be all. And I think that -actually as chance has it- I think we'll take a break now, we'll take a break -But stay with us yes, stay with TTE for we'll be right back -that's myself, Derek Whelan and Belinda Savage- we'll be right back after the news. So don't be switching off now, plenty more to come where these came from, but first... first the headlines with Clio Hartbyrne. Clio."
-Clio: "Derek.


(all rights reserved Uma o'Gil) "Driven To Tears"-The Police, "The Knives Of Summer"-Sparklehorse, "Valentine's Day"-Klaus Nomi, "King Of Rock'n Roll"-Prefab Sprout.

part 1 of "You Know Yourself 2.0" prologue

(please note that this is of course not the final version -a work is always "under construction" until it's sent off and printed) Coffee + vodka + grape juice, Arab Strap on. Uma o'Gil all rights reserved 0012.


---------------- Prologue (Funeral Of The Season) ---------------

-Moira: "And off we go now to Victoria Gardens for a very special live coverage of this week's Social Funeral brought to you by Carterouge Casinos -"Gambling is fun with Carterouge Casinos"- and to present this program Ladies 'n Gentlemen who better than please be upstanding for here he comes your host the man himself may I give you right away this very moment in person the one and only -Derek Whelan! ... Over to you Derek."
-Derek: "Moira."
-Moira: "Derek."
-Derek: "Moira.


For yes indeeeeed -and a very good afternoon to yous all- this is Derek Whelan speaking, 'hope you're feeling grand -myself smashing super, thanks for asking!-, Derek Whelan on the mike then welcoming yous to this week's Social Funeral "The Biiiiig One" as we find ourselves peering through the gate of the gooooorgeous summer residence of TV celebrity Madleen "Mads" Koszak. Ah yes peering we are -peering with both eyes open too- for we are gathered here today at this very place to pay tribute -nay- pay our deepest respects to Mads' s latest husband -or should I say ex-latest husband ha ha- property developer Dermot McFergus. Dermot, you may recall, is best remembered for giving Dublin a decisive hand -and a finger as well!- onto the ladder to its world class status ah yes by razing to the ground its unsightly tower blocks (tss tss!) and replacing them with the deliiightful McFergus Stables Co. Inc. Ltd. which are a veritable credit to our great horse-racing nation." (breathes in) "The McFergus Stables he literally built, and the "Liffey Riviera" golf course too for it was him -him!-, the man behind the brains of the "Liffey Riviera"! Him and no other!! So move over, you Donald Trump, move over, you greedy bling-bling developers: McFergus's the name! -And one suspects it'll always be. (At least until the corporate takeover.) The McFergus Stables then, the Liffey Riviera: out-stan-ding, simply out-stan-ding I'd say you would agree with me, such is your man's legacy. Memorable for all sorts of reasons, sticking out like nobody's business in our venerable town of proud heritage and grand tradition -that's the McFergus style! For your man was unafraid oh, he was unafraid to ruffle feathers -your man was simply deadly.


You know -I'll tell you some'-, people come up to me in the street -they come from all walks of life too-, they say: "Derek Derek, I was born here, right? I grow up here... maybe forty years, forty-five at the max -I know I know, I don't look a day over thirty-nine but- and I'll tell you what, pal: Dublin... It's like a different place altogether today, it's like it's not the same anymore it isn't -and that's all thanks to good Mr. McFergus yeah!!" And yes indeed a different place it most certainly is... Why, myself in person have spent many a happy hour shooting, er, shots onto the almond Riviera green: bull's eye! hole in one! trebles all round! It's always craic time at the Liffey Riviera so it is -but enough about me folks, let us all come together, today off all days, let us come together in a very real sense for the last one (literally) of Dermot McFergus. That's right, let us commune in Dermot's very special day, cos' it's all about him right? It's all about him. We don't just come here to celebrate him -we come to bury him."

(another breath)


"So now he's gone so he is -quite literally Dermot McFergus is now officially yesterday's, alleluia! ...how truly sad. Amen dear Dermot, fare thee well, God speed, and all these sorts of things. And now my friends, now we're mourning him, for yes we are, today our collective efforts are resting him to the ground where he belongs -amen to that! I don't mind telling yous folks, but back here in our van stationed outside Mads's mansion, there's simply not a dry eye in the house oh no! ...Fortunately Derek Whelan is on the case -oh yes we are- and yous my friends -yes yous- are in for a special treat -hell yeah- as we'll cover every single minute starting from the first second of our Dermot's special last day. In fact, I'll tell yous what: we have quite a treat in store for yous so we have! Like St-Paddy's, Cheltenham, Easter Friday and Christmas all at once and no mistake! So switch off the phone, loosen up the belt, grab a pizza and don't yous dare go anywhere for the next two hours -don't even think of nodding off! No toilet break allowed -think clever, recycle your bottle of Coke! No-but-serious, don't yous be wandering off anywhere and yous won't miss a minute of the ceremony! Dermot McFergus's Big Funeral! On TTE! -and it's coming live!!"
(little jingle)
"The action, the reactions, the full Monty, commentary by yours truly, it's all happening -and it's about to kick off right-about-now! Just look who's here who's decided to join us, the stars are out en force to celebrate Dermot's passing -Surely yous'll want to know, surely yous'll want to tell your clueless colleagues tomorrow around the cookie jar? Yous'll want to spill it to them: Like who's come to pay their homage? who didn't get an invite? and what oh what will they be wearing? Well we're just about to find out!!


As soon as we get the live feed, we'll even throw in the actual sermon delivered by Father De Visis no less! My ears on the ground already tell me that it will mainly consist of Revelations 23.69.123 ("and ye shall beget that which is humble unto ye forthwith yea God so there here endeth Ezebaiah's seed"), ingenuously mixed with some excerpts from Dermot's very own autobiography: Dermot McFergus-"Myself" (that's his third one that is, available in all good shops; failing that, it'll be at the Clondalkin's library for sure). Ah yes... The man himself... Who would have thought eh? Rags to riches... rashers to oil rigs... and yet the most sinceeere devotion to Our Lord the Saviour -That was our Dermot all right! Blessed be the man forevermore as millions of Dubs cross themselves at the mere mention of his name and the slightest of sights of his stables!

But first... first let's hand over to Moira for a quick recap of the forthcoming proceedings -Don't know about yous folks, but I can hardly wait myself!
Moira."
-Moira: "Derek."
-Derek: "Over to you."
-Moira "Over to me.


Right, and for those of yous who have only joined us, we are now bringing yous the premium coverage of Dermot McFergus's very own funeral. For Dermot McFergus was not just a renowned renovator of that great city of Dublin -and a brilliant mind at that-, he was also a devout Catholic. An industry baron, a builder, and yet a humble believer. His family has therefore insisted on a proper religious ceremony with all the trimmings and gold tassel which we will share with you lot in as much as the Parish will let us film.

This will constitute the first part of today's events.
We will then cross over to the burial grounds themselves in order to bring yous the actual laying down to earth -all the way down yes- thanks to our exclusive Camcopter for a better view of the action which we will then follow by bringing yous the excluuusive reactions of sample well-wishers if we can find any on the ground (they won't be in the air eh!). We then hope to be able to talk to Mads herself for some precious quality time: what must go through her mind at this moment in time, how will she cope without multimillionaire Dermot's loving presence, and what are her plans for her future with her adopted male model of a son? All this and much more ...in some moments' time.
We will then conclude our coverage with a quick voxpop of the man on the street as to what the passing of Dermot McFergus means to him exactly -please note that this may be shortened for technical reasons (such as whether we can find any English speaker.)

But first with your friendly host for this prestigious event.... to help us along the proceedings of what promises to be the funeral of the season so far, let's go straight to our very own Shoe Correspondent Belinda Savage sitting alongside Derek. Belinda."
-Belinda: "Moira."
-Moira: "Belinda. Afternoon-to-you and how-are-you-keeping Belinda."
-Belinda: "I'm doing grand why thank you Moira. Shoe Expert actually if you don't mind. ...Not all of us can be -whatchallit- "Haircut Specialist", see."
-Moira: "That's right Belinda, not everyone can tell the difference between a Paris Cumblast highlights and a Colm Bald Iroquois, can one? which I guess doesn't matter, though, when one is only required to describe people from a distance, right?"
-Belinda: "Right."
-Moira: "For sure."
-Belinda: "For real."
And this is why you are in the studio and I am the one in the filmomobile at this moment in time -End of.

This point of detail having been clarified for the benefit of our lovely viewers, we can now turn our thoughts to today's exciting occasion, what's already being billed the Funeral of the Season.

Forget about the "Santa Amorosa"'s duelling stars' crisscross acid bath and electrified toilet seat double demise, forget about Linda McMac's little boy drowning, forget even old miss Brady machine-gunned down to feck already -this, lovely viewers, this is tipped to be the one to look out for! This is it, no messin' about, the must-see event of the day, the absolute gas, the veritable meat on the bone, the grand-daddy of all Dub parties -this is the shit! Who will be there, who's wearing what, what generous sponsors have they conveyed to the occasion -everything you're dying to know (especially the lowdown on the deep and dirty) will be revealed! It's like Derek said, don't yous be thinking of hitting that remote control any time soon (or at least not before the end of my coverage) -you'd be a total muppet! Ask yourselves now: Do you want to be a muppet? Do you?? No, so there.


With me today to mark this occasion, I am very honoured to have a -like- superduper host who needs no introduction. / Groan, ten bucks say she's about to! / He is the man of a hundred openings, a thousand cocktails, a million infospecials on footballers' arrests: Mr. Derek Whelan In Person!! And may I just say, Derek, what an absolute honour it is to be literally sitting in your actual company on a day like this."
-Derek: "Why thanks a million Belinda -good girl yourself- cos' that's rrrright folks! coming at yous from the very scene itself live and direct, it is only me on the mike, aul' Derek Whelan to keep yous company -like Moira was just after telling yous, lovely audience, no longer than a moment ago actually."
-Belinda: "She sure did, did studio-bound Moira, she sure did, and aren't they lovely though Derek? I'd say they deserve their own shout-out, right? So helllllo lovely audience, we love you something massive! You're watching TTE -Enjoy!"
-Derek: "Alleluia! Now then, let's not get carried away Belinda, for we have serious business to attend to"
-Belinda: "Indeed we have Derek, as we are like totally mourning the passing of our -er- host today. ... Dergal McFergus."
-Derek: "Dermot. And so, like I was saying, the stars are out en force today to celebrate -nay: commiserate- the tragic end of Dermot's fatal life. All the big names are here, the biggest names in the country, they done us proud, they done us good, they have a heart of gold -and they're not afraid to exhibit it for our cameras.

My my my, let's get started already shall we? Now then... Who can I spot out there on the front porch with my little eye and my Bigleux binoculars if it isn't sex symbol Fran Cosgrave -the man in person! Fran Cosgrave, accompanied by flamboyant designer Keith Drugby ("flamboyant": 'know what I mean here? Nudge nudge wink wink!). Who else? There we can see, heiress to Duffy Sausages Ltd, mizz Susan Duffy, right fresh from her well-deserved vacation in the Maldives. Mizz Susan Duffy, and then TVfunnyman Baz the Boz (usually seen sparring on our channel with equally hilarious Finbar Moss and Father Moyles); TV soap diva Cillian Brandon; maneater shoe expert Tina McNamara (still in search of a catch-phrase); Genial Keith Duffy -looking very suave in a casual cashmere polo, very suave indeed-; Role Model for the children Deco Byrne (plays inside left-back for Shelbourne Rovers, that's who), Fran Cosgrave again -being escorted off the premises- oh, and many many more -Ah yes, what a turn-up!"
-Belinda: "Many many more for sure -Talking of which, Derek, isn't it your woman Claudie McBride I see out there chatting to Father Debifis?"
-Derek: "Tis indeed Belinda -well spotted our kid-, 'tis Claudie McBride and none other, Rob Duffy's girlfriend herself, resplendent in her salmon tracksuit and silver hand-bag -and don't forget the hat! Our Claudie sports a, er, seaweed green yoke with solid gold chains whipping her forehead -dead proper street. Right now, she's deep in talk with Father De Bisis so we sadly can't call her over and ask her how Rob's doing. Aw shucks, and what a sigh they make... Just look them two... Claudie certainly looks like she's able to hold her own with the best of them -even with men of the cloth!-, just check the way she's blowing breeze into Father De Bisis's face -it's like she hasn't got a care in the world!"
-Belinda: "Indeed she is, oh isn't she. Could it be -and I'm just vocalising aloud here- could it be she's more than a pair of double D reinforced? Could it? 'Tell you what though, 'would love to know what our Robbie has to say about her surely fascinating conversation... Not too impressed with her pumps either I am. Look mail order.

Now then, who else are we told is in attendance today... -Oh yes, camp champ Brian "Big Brother" Dowling; Daddy's Daughter Peaches Dullup -the very one who / adds her signature to these distressing shopping-lists of claptrap / writes these gripping and well-informed columns for "The Indo"; Tessa Turlington-Thawthorpe enjoying a joke with DJ Crassman here; ex-Justice Minister Malcolm McDowell; diminutive jockey Jock McFerguson; still no sign of any black person; Convicted Murderer Sensation Willo Byrne -ah but for the power of a new haircut!"
-Derek: "A new haircut for one ...and a good aul', hankies-out, TV confession exclusive for two Belinda! For -lest we forget- Willo's "My Bad" was the second highest rating on Early Evening Prime-Time National Cable TV last week -Beat that, Seamus Heaney! So anyway, here he is, everybody's favourite murderer, all cried out, already pardoned, enjoying a joke with Topless Model Lisa Burlington-Thornley -who shan't be displaying her magnificent breasts today since -so she told me this very morning through a paper I picked on a seat of the LUAS- "no fecker offered to cough up so" and at this stage I really must say -indulge me here Belinda- I really must say, we ought to name and shame whichever swine it was that refused her her due and prevented her from entertaining us in the manner we became accustomed to! (If only we knew who it was....) -Is all I have to say on this downright disgraceful state of affairs."
-Belinda: "Right you are, Derek. Good point well made."
-Derek: "But seriously Belinda -seriously- you tell me: What is the point of a zipped-up topless model? Eh?? What is it exactly? Has this world gone bonkers or what? It'd be like... it'd be like uprooting a soccer player from his pitch and asking him to hold a conversation! Or facing a member of the opposite sex stone cold sober!"
-Belinda: "Or trying to understand the plot of an American filum without watching its trailer first! What's the point!"
-Derek: "Precisely! What's the point! Well I ask you then!"
-Belinda: "You ask me!"
-Derek: "I ask you Belinda!"
-Belinda: "(???) Well I don't know for sure Derek... I can't really tell... (what da???)"
-Derek: "That's right Belinda: my point precisely: we just can't tell! It's not on, is what! It doesn't compute! Oh I don't know Belinda I just don't know, sometimes it seems to me... Seems to me we're experiencing a total lack of respect for our celebrated tarts -total lack of respect! Here, let me ask you this: how do you expect our small country to compete with the big boys out there and develop our very own Anna Nicole Smith ...when we have to suffer this flagrant attack of monetary correctness? Eh??"
-Belinda: "'Fecked if I know the answer to that! I must admit, Derek, you sure got me here... You are so right though: in this-day-n-age, surely our children could do with some positive role model yeah? Sure they do! I hear you good Derek: what example is this kind of behaviour setting? It's like... robbing our young wans of their future!"
-Derek: "Like totally, Belinda -and it's driving me fumes!! So here she is, our Lizzie in person, fannying about like la-di-dah D4 royalty, see her guzzling the Cointreau, see her nibbling at them tiny weenie rashers canapés -having a gay old time have we? And then look at them just look at them: two of the most lethal breasts in the whole of the Republic -still covered up at this stage of the game! That is brutal, that!"
-Belinda: "Too right you are! You tell 'em Dezz!"
-Derek: "Oh well, mustn't grumble I suppose -and it's Derek to you there's a good lass-, we'll have to make do with Plastic Surgery Disaster Marta Gronbowicz then. And there she is, top corner of your screen, hanging by the poolside bar -Point that fecking camera at her will you!- Marta is currently displaying her fifth nose job. This season, it is modelled after "a playful young cub" we are told. And very nice it is too."
-Belinda: "That's right Derek, I can also exclusively reveal Marta went for a "cheekbone readjustment procedure" earlier this year in order to resemble Natalia (?) Kinski. ...Or so she hoped." (Giggles.) "As we all know, she ended up looking like your woman after her fella's team has lost on penalties!"
-Derek, all cheerful: "Oh how we laughed Belinda, oh how we laughed indeed, but even that, that was nothing -compared to her earlier attempt to beat the world record of "beehive stung lips"! Oh happy days!!"
-Belinda: "Great craic that one, 'think I've still wet my knickers here... Half-hours upon half-hours of infotainment footage -Classic!"
-Derek: "Good old Marta eh... Still officially 33 after all these years you know, top girl herself..."
-Belinda: "She'll outlive us all Derek, she'll outlive us all..."
-Derek: "If she makes it past the next time she goes under. Which reminds me. Which reminds me, esteemed viewers: Throughout the course of this program, we have an exciting competition for your good selves to enjoy!"
-Belinda: "Indeed we have, oh lucky yous: an exciting competition courtesy of your very own TTE station, yay! Should be a grand one: nothing but the best for our viewers! But tell us more Derek, do tell us more!"
-Derek: "Right then, here goes. In association with Blurp Insurance -"Blurp Insurance, the power to"-, TTE offers yous the opportunity to spend a romantic evening at l'Escriteuuur Restaurant in Ballybollix Creek -with a full meal for two thrown in on top."
-Belinda: "Fancy!?"
-Derek: "A whole full meal (wine not included) on the week night of your choice, and all yous have to do to win yourselves this fabulous prize is... -now pay attention, here comes the question- ... tell us the name of the town that which has been so wonderfully revitalised by the current departed (Dermot McFergus, that is). Is it... A) Limerick? B) Dublin? or C) Timbuktu? Text your answer to the premium number which should be appearing on your screen now (low-call tariff may not apply). Best luck yourselves, and don't forget Blurp Insurance -"the power to".


/ Sometimes fun is the hardest thing to bear. /