THE FLOG CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

(Last year's Christmas story was a confusing and wholey un-christmassy tale about the origins of Santa Claus, where St. Nicholas was actually kidnapped by eleves on behalf of consortium of global pagan creatures, and exiled to the north pole, all in an attempt to dechristianise Christmas. Yes. That was it.

This years tale comes courtesy of Crapman, who either wrote this tale or found it circulating on the net somewhere. Crapman, being an even bigger geek than yours truly, has access to the darkest sweatiest crevices of the world wide web, and has the knack of pounding out the most useless crap from the internet's layered fibres like an aul wan pounding her old hallway rug to expunge some of the generation-spanning dust particles. What I'm trying to say that Crapman could spam you more times than the word is written in the script of that Monty Python sketch. And this is just one example.
Enjoy, and Merry Christmas to all my readers, I hope you both will be very happy.)

The Story of the Knack-tivity

Dere's dis boord called Mary, yeah? She's a virgin (wha' de fook is
dah?) She's not married or nuttin', but she's got dis felleh, Joe,
righ'? He does joinery an' all dah. Mary lives with him in a flah
dowwen in Nazareh. One day Mary meets dis yungfelleh Gabriel. She's
like `Wha are yeh bleedin'lookin' ah?" Gabriel just goes "You're
fookin' pregnant so yeh are". Mary's scarleh. She gives him a fookin'
earful: "Are you bleedin' startin'? I'm no fookin' sluh. I never bin
wih no one!"

So Mary goes and sees her cousin Liz, who's six months gone herself.
Liz is on a mad buzz, bud. She's filled with spirits, Barcardi
Breezers an' all dah. She sez te Mary " Ah howeyeh, Mary, I can feel
me chiseller in me stummick and I reckon I'm well blessed. Think of
all deh money we'll be getting from deh social." Mary goes "Yeah,
s'pose you're righ'" Mary an' Joe haven't goh a fookin' bean so they
have to po nse a donkey, an'go dowwen the Behlehem on dah. Dey get to
dis boozer an' Mary wants to stop, yeah? To have her yungfelleh an'
all dah. But there's no fookin' no roohem at the inn, righ'? So Mary
an' Joe break an' into this garridge, only it's filled wih animals.
Cowis an' sheep an'all dah.

Then these three lads tourn up, lookin bleedin' rapih, wih crowens on
der heads an' all dah'. They're like "Ah Jaysis, howeyeh!" an' say
dey're deh tree wise men from de East Wall. Joe goes: 'If you're so
bleedin wiyis, wha de fook are yizzer doin' wih dis Frankenstein an'
myrrh? Why didn't yeh just bring gold, 20 Blue and Boorberry?' It's
all about to kick off when Gabriel turns up again an' sez he's got
anudder message from dis Lord hardchaw.
He's like 'Deh coppers is comin an' they're killin all de chisslers.
You better fook off to Egypt.' Joe goes 'You must be fookin' off yer
bleedin'rocker if yeh tink I'm goin' te fookin' Egypt on a fookin'
donkey' Gabriel sez 'Suit yerself, bud. But it's your look out if yeh
stay.' So they go dowwen teh Egypt till they've stopped killin deh
foorst-born an' all an' annyways it's safe an' dah.

Then Joe and Mary and Jesus go back to Nazareh, an' Jesus turns water
into Dutch Gold.

HEADWRECKED

[warning: this review contains spoilers and nut traces]

In my recent bout of celeb-spotting, my flatmate Kieran went one up on me. Walking down Bridge Street, Cork, he saw Ed Harris. Unable to resist he went up and tapped him on the shoulder.
"You're Ed Harris." He said.
"Yeah I know." He replied.


There's nothing sexy about smoking, Ed. Haven't you seen that Nico guy?

Ed (I think first-name terms are appropriate here, having met someone who once met him and therefore a special unshakeable bond is thereby forged) was in town for the world premiere (no less) of Neil La Bute's play Wrecks, a one-man play in the form of a monologue dramatising Eddie's (I think I can call him Eddie, considering our newly-formed friendship by association) inner thoughts during his wife's removal.
As Eddie-baby (I think I can call him Eddie-baby, considering how close we've become) sparked up a herbal cigarette whilst reminiscing about his wife, some stupid person behind us - some auld biddy philistine - turns to her auld biddy philistine friend and says in a squeaky Cork pitch: "What about the smoking ban?"
Thankfully she didn't pipe up again, apart from some HRT-induced sighs at Eddie-woo-woo's (I think, after all we've been through I can call him that) most charmingly witty utterances.
But wait - what was that? An elephant had somehow acquired a hoover and was cleaning in the room behind the auditorium, clumsily banging the back-room skirting boards with about as much care and soft-touchedness as Mike Tyson playing tiddly-winks. Well, that's my theory anyway. While the audience ignored the incessant humming and thudding from somewhere outside the theatre, trying not to get some disturbing natural mental picture of whatever they associate with humming and thudding together, like Daniel O' Donnell having it off with a fridge or something, Eddie woo-woo-peach-pie-snuckims (that's my special love-name for him) broke his monologue to address the audience:
"Does anyone else hear that noise?"
Thankfully the elephant finally hoovered up all his empty peanut shells - or broke through the back wall, you know, whatever happened first, and the play could continue. There were no further interruptions, apart from one ambulance sirens a-wailing flying past our theatre, an airplane apparently flying out of control above our heads and a fart flying out from some fellas arse.
Oh yes, the fart I'd almost forgotten about that. Now, I loathe to demean the performance with this incident as one of my biggest memories of the night, but it was bloody hilarious. It was a comedy fart, you see: it manifested itself as a high-pitched squeak that sustained itself for just the right amount of time that you can't pretend it didn't happen and it actually becomes part of the show. Still, it least it'd be better than an SBD. Mind you, the perpretrator could at least blame that on the elephant next door.
The play's oedipal twist has received some mixed reviews. An Article in the Observer said that the revelation is "wholly unconvincing and cheapens" the play, when in actuality the sense of naturalism about the incest makes us question the relationship between morality, the ideal of love and the pursuit of happiness; although the only review that I could think of as I left the theatre was: "So... Ed Harris is a motherf*cker..."
I think I'm entitled to call him that. Us being such great buddies now and all.