Baby Jesus, meek and mild
Bless the faithful with your smile
Holy Jesus, sacred child
Keep us safe from all things vile

Down from heaven, into manger
Out from slick and slimy thighs
Blood and mucous, lots of danger
Herod’s communist atheist spies

Masturbators, fornicators
Dirty Muslim, Filthy Jew
Double daters, weak dictators
Split their bestial skulls in two

Let blood splatter, cranial matter
To the glory of our Lord
Gay brown hatter, fanny batter
Put the heathen to the sword

Little donkey, one-eyed monkey
Two small camels, talking frog
Hear his sermon, godless vermin
In original Spanish, Catalan dog

Hear the message, peace and love
Listen, sinner, and obey
Iron fist in iron glove
You must kneel and you must pay

See his picture, in the Prado
Beauty wasted on common horde
Give them all the bastinado
If that fails, try waterboard

Gentle Jesus, in a stable
Angels watching, virgin birth
Real Madrid top of the table
Franco’s boys best team on Earth

Loving Jesu, son of God
Kill the pagans, curse the gay
Spoil their children with the rod
Remind them all, is Christmas Day.

Feliz Navidad y una Feliz Año Nuevo to all my reader.

Muchos besos

Manuel

The London Times followed a similar line, asking “…has humanity overstayed its welcome? Should we now join the dinosaurs in extinction? On the evidence of this novel, it is hard to justify our continued consumption of the earth’s resources. We are a failed species.”

Lofty criticism indeed. Enjoy!

12 ANGRY GOBSHITES

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 346 of 346

…sat herself down on one of them-there Whoopee Cushions,” said the jury foreman. “I nearly bust me a gut laughin, until the smell set in. Ain’t supposed to be no God-damned smell with a Whoopee Cushion. Grandma musta used the opportunity to squeeze a real one out. Can’t says I blame her. Probably woulda done the same in her shoes.”

Everybody shifted in their seats, unsettled by the anecdote.

“Can we please get back to the case?” demanded Henry. “A man’s life is at stake.”
“Fine, let’s have another vote,” said the foreman. “Not guilty?”

Eleven jurors raised their hands.

“Guilty?”

Only Henry raised his hand.The rest of the jurors gasped in annoyance.

“Well ain’t this here a dilly of a pickle?” said the foreman in his thick Russian accent.
“Weren’t the last six votes all 12 – 0?” asked the juror from Brooklyn. “I don’t understand why we didn’t stop after any of them.”

Henry stood and paced around the table.

“Just hear me out,” he said. “Supposin the kid did kill the old man.”
“Did he?” asked the foreman.
“I don’t know, I’m just supposin.”
“Hmm. Never thought of it like that.”

Henry wiped his brow.

“But the old lady,” said the bookish juror. “She says she had sex with the killer immediately after the killing, and that he was white, skinny, ginger and old.”
“So?” replied Henry.
“So the kid is is black, fat, bald and young,” replied the bookish juror.
“But that’s evidence,” said Henry. “Why, you can’t try a man on evidence. You’ve got to use your gut.”
“Are you saying the old lady might be mistaken?”
“Maybe the killer did her from behind, and she’s too ashamed to admit she never saw him.”

The bookish juror reclined in his seat, more than satisfied with the logic. Again, Henry wiped his brow.

“But what about the kid’s alibi?” asked the elderly Jewish juror.
“What about it?” countered Henry.
“Six thousand people watched him singing live at Madison Square Garden. Millions more on television.”
“Supposin it wasn’t him?”
“It looked like him. And his wife and children joined him on stage. Why would they do that if it wasn’t him?”
“Supposin they were high on crack?”
“Hmm.”

Amply convinced, the elderly Jewish juror fell silent.

“What’s all this supposin?” demanded the permanently hot-heated, blue-collar juror. “Are you sayin he killed the old man or not?”
“I don’t know,” replied Henry. “Isn’t it possible he killed him?”
“Ah, you’re talkin all screwy. The kid lost his hands in a freak orange peeling accident. How you figure he held a knife with no hands?” shouted the hot-head.
“Supposin he’s got bionic hands, for attachin to his stumps?”

The hot-head blue-collar juror had to accept that bionic hands were not something he’d considered. Henry took a sip of water.

“I reckon it’s time for another vote,” said the foreman. “Not guilty?”

Nobody raised  a hand.

“Guilty?”

Twelve hands raised in unison. Their duty done, the jury returned the verdict to the judge who handed a death sentence to the kid. Without goodbyes, Henry and his fellow jurors went their separate ways on the court steps that summer eve. The kid was hung later that month. Only when the real killer struck twelve more times was the case re-opened, and the kid posthumously pardoned. Henry never stopped campaigning to have the pardon overturned, until his death at the jaws of a neighbour’s Rottweiler many decades later.

THE END

]]> http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/12/02/final-page-12-angry-gobshites/feed/ 12 http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/11/20/the-thick/ http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/11/20/the-thick/#comments Fri, 20 Nov 2009 00:01:02 +0000 Sweary http://www.coddlepot.com/?p=1883 I don’t pride myself on being contrary, you know.

Granted, there are perhaps too many very popular, very well-loved things I completely detest. Bill Murray, for one. Milk. Leona Lewis. I would keep my mouth shut about this fear and loathing, because I understand that non-conformists make everyone else … kind of annoyed; when people like me disagree with you about things you didn’t know we could disagree on, it’s a shock, and it feels like a challenge, a slur on your good judgement. I would keep my mouth shut if I could, but I get loud when I’m defensive, never the wisest tactic, but there you go. It’s a personal failing. I’m sorry. It’s not a good thing; like I said, I’m not proud of it.

I don’t much like The Thick Of It, and I’m not much proud of that, either.

Now, I know everyone loves The Thick Of It. I know it’s critically acclaimed, I know it’s clever, I know some of it is improvised and that’s clever too, I know it’s hilarious, I know the sky is blue and the ocean is deep and Amy Winehouse has new tits. But I’ve become quite disillusioned with The Thick Of It. To me, it’s like … a maelstrom of insults, the writing getting dizzier and dizzier and the dialogue more and more high-pitched, each line reaching for an even dafter metaphor, each character’s squeal more and more desperate, onwards and upwards and endless and one big, long, heaving fucking festival of cunt fucking arsefucks – how many shits for how many giggles? How many profane similes can you chuck at a sentence?

Of course, the whole thing is a love story, swooning around the character of Malcolm Tucker…

… who does most of the bollicking in a very impressive Scottish accent. When he’s on screen we’re directed to quiver deliciously, when he’s not on screen the other characters talk about him like he’s some sort of awesome natural disaster that makes you throw caution to the wind and let strangers play with your nipples. Ooh, Malcolm. OOH, MALCOLM. Ooh, Malcolm’s coming. OOH, I’M COMING! LIKE A FUCKING JACKHAMMER ON THE NIGHT FUCKING TRAIN! MALCOLM!

Oh, fuck it, I don’t know. I don’t dislike The Thick Of It, to be honest. I’ll watch it over my laptop when it comes on t’ellah. I’m just not salivating over it like I should be. I think of it not so much as jumping the shark, but doing a steeplechase over a whole line of ‘em, except the sharks are made of elaborate jumbles of cocksucking dickmongers and the only leaps made over them are hot off the legs of writer who should know better.

And then I think … well, maybe I’m just jealous. I’m one for belching up daft, Gypsy Tourette’s bollickings at the best of times. I tend to call down all manner of genital-twisting curses on those whose mere plonkerisms stoke my wrath like a … No, no more fucking similes. It’s fucking lazy, for fuck’s sake. I’m fucking lazy. I get slightly annoyed and I wrap it up in entertaining hyperbole and embellish it with stupid gurglings of swear words and diseases and how my subject resembles something fat with some sort of embarrassing ailment … Christ, it’s ridiculous. I don’t even know who the fuck would be entertained by it. I’ve flogged this dead horse down to the maggoty marrow, and The Thick Of It keeps reminding me of that; it nags me, through all its expletives and sour linguistic buffoonery, like a possessed fishwife on an LCD screen.

I mean, if I had an LCD screen telly. And if I hadn’t sworn off similes.

I’m having a really, really horrible week at work. The terrible weather at the moment is causing our clients quite a few problems with various products and services of ours – we’re in the construction industry, and many times, you won’t actually spot the snags in your architect-designed snuggle pad until the wind has blown away everything but. This week I’ve been chewed up more than a handsome bull’s balls. I don’t know why people feel they have the right to scream at and threaten strangers on the other end of the phone (but enough about my work ethic); let’s just say I’ve been very angry this week. Very stressed. Very frustrated. And not just because of clients! Because of co-workers, because of management, because of resources squeezed useless by the economic downturn. And the more angry I got, the more tongue-tied I got. By 5pm today I’d been struck dumb by my lot, no more able to conjure up a clever put-down than Kermit the Frog can an erection.

I hadn’t given up, mind. I work well under pressure. But so pissy was I, so sparky and hard-nosed and crackling with the current of STFU BITCHES, that there was no way I could do a Malcolm and belt around the office calling everyone cunts and cracking the witty whip of well-directed and terrible ire.

Fuck fucking Malcolm. No one is that creative when surrounded by the dregs. No one is that terrifyingly witty when battling through the fucking flotsam. I identify more with Larry David than Malcolm Tucker, dumbfounded by the fools around me, by the pond-life and the righteousness of idiocy and …

Yeah. The Thick Of It. God, it makes me jealous.

Her buddy laughed appreciatively. There’s no one who doesn’t enjoy the occasional channelling of Jessica Simpson for the entertainment of the troops; blonde moments are best on demand, and God knows we need free stand-up comedy these days, when whole streets have but one collective pot to piss in. Ireland’s a miserable place at the moment, so blonde moments have become golden moments, especially now that we can’t afford Barry’s tea.

The lass in question laughed along heartily, but when the laughter died away she was still waiting expectantly, eyes wide, head nodding like a dashboard pug.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” the lad said eventually. “You’re serious.”

She was.

“You really don’t know whether a penguin is a bird or a fish?” he spluttered, breaking stunned silence before it settled like a brick fecked onto a sandbank.

“What?” she giggled, and then “What?” again; she didn’t think there was anything wrong in being unsure about biological classification. “God, you’d think I’d said something awfully daft altogether, the way you’re carrying on. It’s not like I’m unique in not knowing whether a penguin is a bird or a fish! Loads of people wouldn’t know! I bet my sister doesn’t know!” And she sent a text to her sister to prove it, somehow managing to escape blowing the handset to smithereens with the concentrated Daft tapping through her fingertips.

Hey gurl do u kno if a penguin iz a burd r a fsih

To which her sister replied…

OMG u retard its a burd when was d last time u saw a fish flying?

…

…

The above story is entirely true.

And it’s funny, gently so, despite the toxic levels of stupidity it illustrates, a fucking Stupidity pandemic threatening to cobble us all. Not that I’m suggesting that this girl should have been strapped to an idle pallet and set adrift on the Atlantic for the crime of being ignorant to fish facts – that they don’t have wings, beaks, or much interest in waddling along on land – I mean, we’re all prone to the odd short-circuit, aren’t we?

Very shortly after my friends and I fell about laughing at this story last Saturday night, we got to chatting about what we had been up to during the day. I mentioned that I’d gone to the Discworld Convention in Ennistymon, as I’d hoped to write something on it afterwards. There followed a chorus of La-Di-Das and Ooh-Get-Yous, which rather confused me, as Discworld is a very popular series, and hardly high literature. The more I tried to point this out, the louder the cawing got.

“If this Terry Pratchett is so great,” shouted one of the group, “how come I’ve never heard of him? I’ve heard of Celia Ahern, though. That would make her better, fnar fnar.”

“First off, I only said I’d been at the convention; I never mentioned greatness, you presumptuous cunt. Secondly, he HAS sold more than 55 million books, so if you’ve never heard of him, that’s a reflection of the social isolation in your monstrous gobshitery. And thirdly, it’s CEcelia Ahern; if you’re going to flog a dead horse, at least get its name right…”

… is what I didn’t say. What was the fucking point?

You can’t fight stupidity anymore, and the effort involved in endeavouring to do so will only move you closer to it; best to raise your eyebrows and your pint glass back to your lips than banjax yourself rising to a challenge beneath you. There seems to be little shame in being stupid these days, but lots in being smart, or worse, in being seen trying to make yourself smarter. You’re in University? Talk only about how drunk you are. You read? Only display pastel paperbacks; if you must have something tailored to your actual reading age, be sure to hide it in a copy of the Sunday World Magazine. Adore the witticisms of Stephen Fry? Be sure to mention what a great big poofter he is too. Close down the independent cinemas, get rid of funding for the Arts … There’s a recession, don’t you know, so no one wants to tolerate a Smartarse anymore. Everyone likes a plain old Arse instead. Just don’t make an Arse out of yourself by coming out as a Smartarse, yeah?

So while my drinking buddies on Saturday night laughed long and loud at the girl who didn’t know her wings from her gills, they didn’t condemn her (as is only right; after all, for all they knew she may have been a talented actress out to shock and awe). She was laughed at, but she sounded like good company, certainly better than an argumentative madam like me, with my lofty literary jaunts around County Clare. Let’s face it, in the space of ten minutes my companions had gone from chuckling about PenguinGirl’s foolishness to what an insufferable twonk I was for reading popular fiction. Had I tried to work in a concept of irony, I would have been sneered at for mentioning laundry in a social setting.

For fuck’s sake, even PenguinGirl herself looked down on her gobsmacked audience – she might have said something stupid, but she knew equally stupid back-up was only a text message away.

I say she made a right nunky out of herself; I doubt she’d agree. Stupidity is much less threatening than intellect or clever cynicism, and it really likes company.

I was wrong, in other words. There’s no social isolation in monstrous gobshitery. God help us all.

And wouldn’t we all like to sashay back to our late teens? To be your very own space/time-continuum-fucking angel, smug as a hug up your snug, waffling through some sort of meaningful glurge while your teenage self alternates between weeping photogenically and nodding with pretty determination in front of a sweeping fucking sunset … I know I would. Why wouldn’t I? And it’s not because such dignitaries as Stephen Fry, Jonathan Ross, and Yoko Ono have joined in the heartwarming fun. I’ve always wanted to time-travel back to secondary school, to set a few things straight, to drag those hostages out of the closet before they starve and rot and shrivel to skeletons that could fall out at any inopportune moment, like at an important job interview where I suddenly remember how I never got my Now 1993 cassette back after Mary Martin’s slumber party, and scowl my way out of any possible full-time contract whilst snarling the melody of “Mr. Wendal” under my breath. Hmph. I should have beat the bitch senseless against the the sink in Home Ec room until she shat the entire playlist, fucking whoring thief.

Anyway, here’s my Dear Me. I’m making it short, snappy and to the point; two out of those three never applied to me at sixteen, and it’s time to make up for it.

Hey up Fucktardatron,

Fucktardatron might seem like something only a “spa” would call a “plike” right now, but trust me, when you join an internet forum (waaay better than chat rooms), the more ridiculous the insult you can pull out of your arse, the better. Also, people who read comedy blogs (waaay better than zines) will love it. Write it in your diary (which is lame, as are the lyrics of East 17 songs; Tony Mortimer is about as semantically talented as a blade of grass), alongside Count Knobula, Twat Machine, and Epic Mongoholic.

Here are some other pointers I think you should pay attention to. If my grasp on the laws of physics is anything like my grasp on this wax replica of Josh Homme’s arse (look him up, he’s in Kyuss), your following these guidelines will mean I’ll have some decent memories when I wake up in the morning, not just regrets about that Schnappes-chugging contest and that floppy-haired ogre at the UCC Traffic Lights disco. Did I say memories? I meant vague understandings of the narrative of fresh sheet-stains. Either or, it’s fucking unpleasant.

• That beautiful bully-queen in your class will end up with anorexia nervosa, with the emphasis on nervosa. With the inevitability of this in mind, it’s perfectly ethical to hurry her along.
• At some stage this year, one of your friends will break free of the studious gobshitery you lot are wedged into and sarcastically wail, “Oh yeah, you’re SO COOL” at one of the well-scrubbed, GAA-playing tools in your French class. It is the greatest thing you’ll ever see. Wipe her eye for her. Get there and startle him silent first.
• Seriously, don’t worry about offending the popular kids; they’re mostly retarded and let’s face it, you don’t fancy any of them.
  
• It’s Jarvis COCKer, not Jarvis CROCKer, stupid.
• You’ll meet your husband at nineteen. That’s only three years to be a light-hearted slut, so get a move on.
  
• Shrooms won’t stay legal forever. Get the drying pan on.
• Save up for a GHD. You’ll know when the time comes.
• There’s no ten-foot ghost that hangs out on the dark corner on your way home. Your da is a sniggering liar, you muppet.
• Never trust anyone from Bandon.
• Those baggy grey slacks make your arse look huge.
• Never make a monetary bet with Nearest Brother. He’s a scabby fucker and his word means about as much as Scatman’s World.
• It’s not cute that you love Star Wars.
• Stop thinking you might be pregnant. You’re couldn’t be less pregnant if you were a concrete block.
  
• Your pixie crop doesn’t make you look like Winona Ryder. It makes you look like Curly Watts.

I’d be mightily disappointed if my sixteen-year-old self actually paid any attention to this shit; there’s no mantra like Don’t Trust The Elderly. I wonder what my fifty-year-old self would tell my twenty-eight-year-old self? Possibly to stop dissing Salman Rushdie and spending my money on shit wine.

I look forward to finding out.

I don’t really. I know being old will be well lame.

“No it’s not, it’s Tammy Wynette!”

“CLINE!”

“WYNETTE!” I jumped off the bar and threw my copy of Chat magazine behind me. I had been reading about a woman who claimed she had fallen pregnant, her words, by the hands of a ghost. I was sceptical and not just because she said it was his hands what done it but all the same I found myself engrossed in the story. My fellow wait chum was slumped over the bar beside me reading her own trash mag, Bella, when country classic, “Stand by your Man” came on.

“Ah I love Patsy Cline”, muttered my incorrect wait chum.

“Who doesn’t? But that’s Tammy Wynette.” And so an argument began.

“Listen I may not know much about yer modern music with yer The Cribs and The Killers and Leo Sayer or what ever the hell you folks listen to these days but I worked in a restaurant in Ireland in the early nineties. If there is anything I have an intimate knowledge off it’s classic country artists and their discography. That’s Tammy married five time Wynette singing, with no hint of irony either, “Stand by your man.” Patsy Cline predicted her own death but again, without even a smidgen of irony sang a song called, Crazy.” I was ranting and I knew it so I left it at that and didn’t resort to getting my iPod out to prove my point.

“Okay then….”, replied my somewhat terrified wait chum and went back to her Bella.

It was quiet that afternoon, save for the ridiculous bantering between wait staff. The city was quiet, the weather will do that. It was raining, biblical rain. One wondered would it be followed with plagues of small animals and assorted vermin. Nothing good comes in when it rains like that.

There was two of them, old and with faces as long as their rain sodden coats. They stood at the door, passive, waiting for someone to acknowledge them. I saw them. But I made like I didn’t. I don’t like to wait on old people. Some say it’s because I see myself in their age ravaged faces, I think it’s because they are grouchy. They looked grouchy and I wasn’t in the mood for grouchy. I didn’t know what I wanted but grouchy wasn’t it. Then they saw me. I swore and faked a smile, reminded me of meeting the in-laws. The taller one, who looked like a mean Walter Matthau, nodded. He made no attempt to shake the rain from his coat nor dry his face. He just stood there, passive as the rain drip drip dripped from his face, eventually nodding in my direction.

“Table for two…..you got a table for two fella?” His voice was hard but not uncouth

Peering at the empty booking sheet I couldn’t help but ask if they had a reservation.

“Nope” replied the other one. He said it with pride. This unnerved me. Most people panic when faced with that question, “Do we need one, oh shit we don’t have one, I said we needed one, didn’t I say we needed one Stevie?”

I seated them, as far away from the bar as I could get away with but not so far as I couldn’t see them without moving. I watched them take their hats and coats off, there was a preciseness about their actions, their movements, that was strangely compelling. Nothing was accidental nor carefree but rather they were deliberate and purposeful. It was almost as if they had over the years determined the best way to remove and store a coat so as to get as little water on the floor but at the same time ensure that their coat would dry.

They didn’t look at their menus at all. I went to get them a drink.

“Whiskey, Powers, no ice no water”, asked the hard faced Walter Matthau. His hands were flat on the table, they looked like the hands of a much younger man, which was odd. He wore a ring, a big ring with an odd symbol on it. He saw me staring at it and moved his other hand over it. He looked up at me and smiled but not a nice warm cheery Walter Matthau smile no this was more the smile of a pre rampage serial killer.

“Thank you fella, that’s all…for now.” He sent a chill down my back.

I fetched their drinks and dialling 99 on my phone went back down to the table. They weren’t talking. The other one stared out the window at the hard rain falling. The streets were empty, nothing but rain and the occasional flash of some poor soul seeking shelter. Dead eye Walter coughed to get his associates attention. He turned back from the window and thanked me for his whiskey. He stared at it for a moment as if enchanted by the light flickering off the golden brown liquid. Then he took a sip, not a mouthful, not a glug but a gentle sip. It seemed about right. Dead eye did the same. I turned to leave them drinking their whiskey and their no doubt solemn thoughts of dead parents and angry preachers.

“We’ll have the fish…”, began the other one. He said it to me but stared the whole time at his brother.

“Excuse me?

“My brother and I….we’ll have the fish…if you don’t mind”

“No, no I don’t mind…..two fish it is.’

Obviously I was beside myself with anger and if I’m being honest, fear, when the cooker jockey-in chief, the head chef, announced with his usual blasé attitude that the fish hadn’t arrived yet. This meant another visit to The Brothers Grimace.

“….and so sorry gents but there’s is no fish today, well not until the fish man gets here.”

Dead eye Walter stared at his brother for a moment and then took another sip of his whiskey.

In a voice that displayed no emotion let alone anger he started on an old man story ; “There was a time when this town was filled with fish; cod, whiting, haddock, turbot….’

“Prawns and mussels too”, volunteered the other one.

“…prawns and mussels too.” repeated Dead eye Walter nodding at his brother.

“Yes, yes indeed gents. I’m so very sorry…” I was sorry too, sorry and nervous. I felt that at any moment somebody was going to start quoting scriptures. Honestly if there had been thunder and lightning I would have squealed.

Dead eye Walter got to his feet, he towered over me, and putting one hand on my shoulder said, “We’ll pay for our drinks and take our leave…” Clinking their glasses together in a final salute they necked their whiskey. This is it, I thought. They are gonna go mental and I’m gonna end up on the news.

Pulling on their still sodden coats Dead eye Walter turned to his brother and said, “We’ll just go home, there’s no plaice for old men here”

Heh….

They’re “bloody” everywhere at the moment, aren’t they? I don’t mean this in any figurative sense, although some of the weasels we have in public office in this country could well be described as blood-suckers, and oily, smarmy, widows-peak embellished ones at that. Nor do I believe that vampires are real (I relied for years on that mathematic equation that disproves their existence), but just because something’s not real, doesn’t mean it can’t permeate popular culture like a soggy towel dripping onto a warping hardwood floor. Obviously. Like, look at the Bible, that’s been very successful.

We’ve had vampires for quite some time now; there were gentryfolk in odd gaffs in Eastern Europe who bathed in the blood of virgins, and warlords who compensated for having stupid names by ripping the heads off their enemies and making gory sunflowers out of them. We can blame Bram Stoker (and as he’s dead, Dublin, by proxy) for the romanticisation of the nasty fiends, not because he found vampires to be utterly dreamy and scribbled feverishly with one hand down his pants, but because his themes regarding sexuality have been swallowed by people not as intelligent, and regurgitated horribly.

Which is now why, instead of vampires being scary, merciless yokes, who strike fear into the hearts of mortals and burst veins for a living…

… we’ve got sensitive, brooding vampires with floppy hair and poetic inner torment.

How did this happen? I mean, nothing (everything, really) against Twilight or Twilight fans, because there’s nothing new there, but why is a demon who survives on stolen blood a fucking sex symbol? These things are monsters, are they not? They come into your room at night and attack your arteries! They hang out in darkened alleyways, making eyes at rats/drunken prostitutes, and have awkward overbites, and must smell like slaughterhouses. They’re a vegetarian’s nightmare. They can’t eat solids. They dribble. They’ve got bad breath. They’re terrible kissers. They’re anaemic and touchy. Retractable fangs notwithstanding, they must scab up their lips something rotten. They stay in bed all day, beds made for one with wooden sides, like a baby’s cot. Their salt intakes must be extremely … extreme. All of their seduction techniques are based on the fact that they want to feast on you; what’s the difference, I ask you, between a vampire and a Jack Russell humping your leg? Not a lot of fodder for the wank bank there, surely, even if you’re a skittish fourteen year old with no friends.

I was at the cinema twice over the weekend, and both times there were vampires all over the walls.

No, not crawling about looking for necks to nibble, which is what they would do, not go snogging impressionably passionate young wans in the back row. No, there were posters aplenty for the upcoming Twilight and Darren Shan flicks, both of whom feature pretty creatures with untameable hair and pale, soft smiles and twinkly bits. No predators here, thank ‘ee very much (although those in the know say that the accidental predatory undertones in the Twilight saga are close to an apology for spousal abuse – physical, that is, not rape, coz sex is durrrty and nice, non-threatening vampires don’t engage with anything as filthy as genitalia, even symbolic genitalia … Jesus, the light at the end of this sentence is a misplaced train of thought, hold on a minute … ) They had this problem with the Blade saga, as I recall; they made the bad guys so identifiable and non-threatening that they had to create mutated bad guys for the bad guys to battle.

I miss the bad guys, basically. No one’s going to be scared by the notion that Robert Pattinson is in the back seat of their car, flattening his jack-in-the-box barnet and licking/nicking his lips. Turned on, maybe, if you like them full-lipped with designer stubble, but hardly frightened. Emo vampires that look like Amy Lee are a terrible departure from the monster in the castle on the hill, and I don’t like it one bit. I haven’t seen a decent horror in years. Interview with The Vampire? Angel? Mosquitoes are more threatening, and much cheaper dates.

In summation…

I can’t take credit for that, mind.

I worry for the future, you know. The only fear not beautified out of me now is that zombies will shortly be portrayed as misunderstood, passionate sex gods. Ooh, a gap in the market! See you in six months, fuckers. I’m gonna exploit this one’s brains out.

AMBUSH IN SAIGON

By

Flann O’Coonassa

Page 1 of 564

Charlie’s close. So close I can smell ‘em. I can also see ‘em, which makes the smelling largely redundant. I can hear ‘em too, but the same goes for the hearing as went for the smelling.

Dirty war, this Vietnam tussle. Goddamned Hitler up to his old tricks again, and with his buddy Stalin in tow. This ain’t gonna be clean and swift, like World War 2. It’s gonna be slow and bloody, like The Falklands War, which I’ve gotta hunch will probably take place a couple of decades from now. 

The jungle’s hot, like the bonnet of an overheating 59 Dodge that’s been set on fire for some reason. Nothing stirs but the sound of mosquitos having sex. Endless mosquito sex and searing heat. Squatting in my foxhole, I can’t figure what’s sweatier: my armpits or my testicle. Probably my testicle, because I’m wearing eighteen pairs of Y-fronts. Some folk kiss a crucifix before battle. Others chew tobacci. I like to wear eighteen pairs of Y-fronts. Everybody’s got their routine. 

My other testicle? God knows where. Shot off in some Goddamned rice field south of Da Nang. Wasn’t even a war on at the time. Thought I’d found it, but turned out to be an African American ball. Found several other balls in that field that afternoon. Never did find a match though. Not even close.  

“Jesus, here they come Sarge, three of ‘em,” whispers Leeroy. “We’ve got the drop on ‘em. Permission to fire?” 
 ”Patience,” I tell him. “Let ‘em come a bit closer.”
“It’s a Goddamned Turkey shoot, Sarge,” whispers Danny. “They ain’t seen us yet. I’ve got a clear shot. Now?”
“Patience Danny.”

A shot rings out and Danny slumps to the left, his face largely missing.

“Christ Sarge, the bastards shot Danny in the face. Let’s cut these fuckers in half,” cries Leeroy.
“Patience Leeroy,” I say.

A second shot rings out and Leeroy slumps to the right, also missing a face. Damn Vietcong. They were just too quick for us. With Danny and Leeroy dead, I climb from the foxhole and bravely surrender on behalf of the entire platoon. Hero? Perhaps. It’s not for me to say. All I know is I can’t afford to lose any more men.

The three Vietcong bastards frog-march the eighty-six of us through the jungle. Goddamned Vietnamese sun reddens our necks, like nature’s sunbed, or an industrial toaster powered by excessive wattage. The Vietcong offer us sun block, mosquito repellant, shade, water, food and medical attention, all of which I refuse on behalf of the men. Sure, I take my share, so as not to appear rude. But I’d rather die than see my men indebted to these animals.

We march for three days and three nights, losing nine good men to dehydration and four average men to starvation. Morale nosedives further when the platoon’s token pygmy (Lil Joe) is eaten my a smallish snake. Some of the men pray, but not me. God? There ain’t no God in these thickets. Wood Elves? Mabye. Sasquatch? Definitely. But God? The jungle is fresh out of God, and running low on Jesus. 

We reach the secret Vietcong layer, deep within the belly of Mount Vesuvius. Again I refuse rations on behalf of the men, and eat mine in full-view, just to show the Vietcong bastards the true meaning of discipline. Hero? That’s just a label. ‘Lionheart’ would be another label, but labels mean nothing to me, regardless of how snugly they fit.

Having eaten and drank thrice my fill, I set the men doing 1000 press-ups while I grab forty winks. They’re exhausted, but some brisk exercise will keep their minds off the starvation. Barely an hour later an armed minion wakes me.

“Hitler. He see you now. Come. Come,” he orders. Goddamit. Hitler. That’s all we need…..

(tune in tomorrow for the final page of Ambush in Saigon)

Rudyard Kipling/Manuel T. Waiter

There was very little poetic about my demeanour come 1 am on Sunday morning. I was flat out on top of my bed soaked in my own sweat with all my extremities throbbing sore from the endeavours of the previous few days. It was good to be horizontal. Vertical is fine when you are engaged in the delivery of fine food stuffs and beverages, both hot and cold, but when the musics over baby it’s better to be horizontal and have someone turn out the lights.

I lay there for a while wondering how to get undressed without having to move. I could flick one shoe off, that was easy, but getting the other off was proving much more of a challenge than I really wanted at this most ungodly of hours. So there I lay, with one shoe on and my shirt unbuttoned revealing my hairy moobs and comedy tum tum. Obviously I had undone my belt and flies before I even got into the house. Obviously. And there I lay, prone, dead to the world with only the throbbing pian in my legs and the smell from my one exposed, shoeless, foot for company. This is the other side of waitering, the ugly sweaty pain ridden side that the hospitality associations don’t want you to see. They keep these dark secrets out of the brochures you know.

As I lay there, the sweat from my back seeping into my bed clothes, I began to wonder how much longer I can keep on waitering. It’s tough out there on the floor you know. It’s taking longer to get over busy weekends and the injuries are taking longer to heal. For Gordon’s sake I’m still wearing a Mr Bump Plaster (we are out of proper blue plasters) from the nasty paper cut I got whilst shuffling menus on Saturday! I love a good menu shuffle it has to be said. This bout of reflection and self contemplation wasn’t just brought on by the collapsed and rigid position I found myself in but by the fact that I had to give a table away that evening to one of my waiter chums as I was simply under too much pressure to take another table. This was both new and frightening. I’m a taker not a giver!

Waiting is a youngling’s game and I am no youngling. And I’m not French either, mores the pity. If I was old and French I could pull off the fat maître ‘d roll with sublime confidence and untold pleasure. Walking about the place like I was lord of the manner and you, the customers, were nothing more than fleshy dirty people beneath my handmade Italian shoes is something I would be very happy to do. I would also be very very good at it. I can out snooty a Frenchman with ease. Why just the other evening I had a chap gently whisper into my ear a request for ,”a little tub of brown sauce.” He whispered so that the rest of his chums wouldn’t know how uncouth he was. I repeated the request back, loudly and with more snoot and sarcasm than you could shake a pointy Frenchman’s nose at. “Your sauce Anglais sir”, I announced as I, literally, dropped the ramekin of brown goo on his table. See, that was both snooty and rude and totally uncalled for. I’d be a perfect maître ‘d.

But alas whilst I have the gait of a comedic French maître ‘d I am in fact from Belfast and not gay Paris. Which is disappointing. You see having waited tables for so long I am fit for nothing else. I am institutionalised now, no escape, no nine to five for me. Just a long slow sweaty death with occasional moments of joyful snootiness. I got over my self-doubt and hopes for a better tomorrow about ten minutes later and was soon changed and ready for bed. I ate my usual post work meal of curry followed by mini twister lollies (x2) and as I watched Friday night’s Peep Show I counted my hard earned tips from the weekend. Not too shabby it has to be said. I went to sleep with a smile on my face, safe in the knowledge that it’s a waiter’s life, and quite probably death, for me.

“….. Yours is the restaurant and everything that is in it,
And, which is more, you’ll be a waiter, my son!”

Whether you like it or not.