Dear Flann: Readers’ mailbag
Bonjour Flann,
Je déteste David Hasselhoff. S’il vous plaît l’assassiner. Je vais donc avoir des relations sexuelles avec vous,
Au revoir,
Vanessa
Vanessa. Ne hassle le Hoff.
Your achievements in Ballroom Dancing have never been surpassed. Why did you retire from dancing in 1984?
Jim,
Derry
Too violent Jim. Newfangled programs like Strictly Come Dancing and Dancing With the Stars portray ballroom dancing as mannerly and genteel, but it was practically a blood sport in the early 80s. At least two competitors died in every World Championship final between 1979 and 1984. For me, the last straw came when my own partner shot me in the head — for no reason — in the final throes of a particularly passionate rumba. How she stashed a shotgun in that tiny costume, still mystifies me.
A few years ago, the papers were reporting that you’d be dead in 6 months without a heart, liver, double-kidney and lung transplant, and that your chronic alcoholism disqualified you from donor waiting lists. I don’t get it. How come you’re still alive?
Joan,
Tuam
Don’t want to say too much Joan. Suffice to say over two thousand people are reported missing every single year in Ireland. Most turn up within twenty-four hours of their reported disappearance. Some never turn up though, please God.
Apparitions at Knock are in the news again. Didn’t you once claim Our Lady appeared to you?
Darren,
Liverpool
Yes, but she looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her. She was mid-yawn, and I was mid-piss. The whole encounter was drenched in awkwardness. She muttered some off-the-cuff divine instruction about not coveting my neighbour’s ox, and disappeared. Moments later she re-materialised, looking even more embarrassed than before. If I recall, she shouted something along the lines of, “Oh…for fuck’s sake, GABRIEL, THE THING IS PLAYING UP AGAIN. TURN IT OFF. JUST TURN THE FUCKING THING OFF…sorry about this,” and then disappeared again.
In an interview with The Guardian, your daughter Flannella recently accused you of “slitting the throat” of her childhood. What did she mean?
Dorothy,
Helsinki
It’s pretty straightforward. I noticed quite early that she was genetically stocky, so I had her ‘baby fighting’ for money from the age of three. Baby fighting is similar in concept to ‘cock fighting’, but twice as lucrative and (at least) three times as immoral. In both hindsight and foresight, the violence was scarring. In my defence, I needed the money. My cocaine addiction was accelerating, and it wasn’t long before Flannella was fighting three or four times a day just to keep me in powder. As strange as it sounds, I miss those days with my daughter. Because I loved coke.
I’m begging you. Stay away from my wife. Please man, don’t break up our family,
Vincent,
Roscommon
Sorry Vincent. The heart wants what the heart wants. And the heart wants a blow-job.
My mate says you played the predator in the film Predator. Bullshit?
Donald,
Cornwall
No, it’s true Donald. Also, the climactic fight between myself and Arnold Schwarzenegger was unscripted. The screenplay actually dictated that the predator and Arnold fall in love, and share a passionate upside-down kiss, ala Spiderman. Neither myself nor Arnie were comfortable with it, so we ad-libbed and beat several shades of shit out of each other instead. Thankfully, the director liked the footage. Just as well, because I don’t think the world was ready for inter-world homo-eroticism in the 80s.
I think we may have met in the past. Was that you as the predator in Predator 2? I only ask because I was Danny Glover’s stunt double. However, being white, too short and only 11 I wasn’t called on much for stunts, so I ended up in the catering van with a predator.
He always promised me not to tell about our time in there, but I’ve kind of buried it now anyway.
That picture just kind of stirred something, so I thought I’d ask.
Flann, I’m beginning to suspect that these readers letters may well be a smidgen on the oul ‘made-up’ side. I happen to have the blood of Roscommon flowing through my veins (as well as half a bottle of Ruby port) and I know for a fact that none of the fuckers fae there can write two words without using the ‘C’ word at least twice, let alone a whole sentence.
Obviously the appearance of Our Lady doesn’t fall into the bollix category… and it was the baby fighting itself where I first made my own money.
Maxi, if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting (that you were sexually assaulted by a predator), know that I WAS NOT the predator from Predator 2.
Obviously I was given the option of reprising the role, but I felt I was being typecast and that it wouldn’t stretch me as an actor. So I declined the offer and went off to play Bigfoot in a straight-to-video sequel of Bigfoot and the Hendersons instead.
Jimmy, I think I can clear up the confusion. All letters sent to me from Roscommon are filtered through a machine called the De-roscommonator. It’s an enormous, leaded-petrol based machine founded upon a two-stroke engine.
Expensive to run, but superb at cleansing correspondence from Roscommon of ‘C’ words, ‘F’ words, death threats to the pope etc. Stick a letter from Roscommon back’n'forth two or three times through the De-roscommonator and you’d swear it came from Leitrim.
Well, I wouldn’t say that the Hoff and I are relatives, per se; though, similarly to him, there are many dying children out there whose last wish it is to meet me.
I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss blood ties with The Hoff Paul. I believe there’s a new episode of Time Team airing soon that traces The Hoff back to, not only Jesus, but the first single-celled organism to coagulate in the primordial soup of life’s beginnings. Quite literally, The Hoffs are the father of us all. Something to think about…