Ciaran’s Peculier [sic] Blog

A view of the world from an Irish hole

Category: Sex

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Headshops in Cavan

The phenomenon of headshops has introduced us to retail outlets selling legal or quasi-legal highs for the first time. This has of course met with the disapproval of the killjoys in the government, as well as established drug pushers who have seen some of their market segment shrinking. Not surprisingly the one has responded with legislation (which may or may not ever be enforced), while the latter has responded by setting fire to headshops, whenever members of the Gardai have their backs turned.

 These headshops are somewhat irresponsible. It’s all right for people of my age group, and maybe a bit younger. We’re responsible. But what about young teenagers who may be goaded into these places by peer pressure. They may be cajoled into experimenting with substances that could be both unpleasant and dangerous. It’s a bit like a teenager going to the whorehouse for the first time. He’s egged on by his friends and feels really grown up, but he may be robbed, beaten up or pick up a VD. People of my generation of course know that you get the best sex at home.

 Personally the biggest high I could get would be to hear that minister for health Mary Harney, along with her party of officials, had just vaporised during their visit to New Zealand, or that the minister had insisted on going bungee jumping, but the whole thing had just gone horribly wrong …

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Cavan Drama festival

I see that the Cavan International Drama Festival is about to get going again … yawn! I used to go there a lot many years’ ago. I was very interested in drama. I still am (I am currently re-reading some of August Strindberg). Really, the reason I went there was that there was this bird that I was kind of like interested in like, sort of, you know what I mean. However, she wasn’t interested in me and so I looked around at the crowd of poseurs, some of them sporting monkey suits that made them look like dodgy nightclub bouncers and so I stopped going.

 And I’m not going this year either. For one thing I can’t afford it. I see on the leaflet that admission is 12 euro but there is a special concession for students and OAPS. I’m in neither category anymore – I might have been thought of as an OAP, but Mary Hanafin reclassified last December, and there is NO way I’m paying out good dosh to mix with the new generation of mushroom men and women. It’s interesting that there are no concessions for the disabled or for the unemployed, but the people who traditionally control the Drama festival wouldn’t want that sort anyway. I mean, cripples and the work-shy who are bleeding those middle class paragons dry through taxes. Let’s be serious.

 I remember in the good old days when Frankie-goes-to-Hollywood McKiernan would strut around like a peacock expecting everyone to kiss his ring and how at the intermission those of us who had paid full whack would be shepherded into a room where we were expected to pay for cold, “wake tay” and even coulder and wayker chat, while TDs, ministers and their wives stepped to the left to the VIP lounge where the refreshments were always free.  I remember how I kept here snatches from Mozart’s Serenade for Strings K 525, better known as  “A Little Knight Music”.

 And I see that the age-old connection between the Drama Festival and the Catholic Church continues to this day. The whole week-long wankathon is being opened by Cavan’s ADM while not so long ago his religious ancestors would have been banning anything which smelled of secular humanism or fun.

A cynic might see a reason why the Catholic Church is so interested in drama. After a few years many of their rituals must begin to seem like mere theatre.

 But as for many of the laity they wouldn’t know good theatre if it jumped up and bit them on the … finger. It’s all about acting all right: their role as middle class respectable types for whom the old amateur drams have always been a bit of harmless fun.

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Minister on his back

Yeah ... that's SO good M...

Say a wee prayer now won’t you for poor Minister Martin Cullen who is crucified with back pains. The minister thought that he was Bill Clinton and so fantasised about having his cock sucked by a woman called Monica. Those who have blown him off were apparently so physical and strong that they have dislocated some of the bones in his back, leaving poor Martin in a horizontal position.

 The poor minister has had to cancel a trip to the US west coast. Maybe, like Borat, he was going there in search of Pamela and, like Borat, he had heard that she sucked a lot of dick.

 Instead Martin “Patsy” Mansergh is going, though if he meets Pamela it is possible she would blow him away. I knew Martin Mansergh’s father, a kind, erudite gentleman, the epitome of a scholar.  They must have found Martin under a bush. Otherwise he is living proof of the phenomenon mentioned by Lady Wilde in the mid 19th century of the changeling.

 So another of that accursed crew of a cabinet falls ill: my curse is gathering strength. He saw  at cabinet and approved benefit cuts including that to the blind pension, and so he must share in my righteous wrath ….

 PS. I would like to take this opportunity to reiterate in the strongest possible terms that I never believed any of those stories about minister Cullen buying expensive presents with public funds for PR people in return for oral sex, though I accept he splashed out on a dress.

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The European elections

Paschal Moonpig

Paschal Moonpig

I’ve been looking at some of the candidates for Connacht – Ulster. They include Paschal Mooney. Did you ever write to Paschal’s Lonely Hearts Club? I did – twice, but neither letter was broadcast. If I remember the first one went:

Dear Paschal, My name’s Gordon and, putting it in the mid Atlantic lingo so beloved of your fans I’m looking for a guy to keep an eye on my ass. In particular I’d like a big, strong, butch male to share my little cottage with who I can play Hide-and-seek with through the Glory-hole. I’ve no trouble getting some rough trade, mostly still in the closet, but I want somebody delicate and sensitive who’ll come with me to Knock.I’ve always been strictly “non scene”. I’ve never camped it up, as I’m anxious not to offend the locals. That’s why I’m big into religion. I’m a pioneer and I’ve designed a special Pioneer butt-plug for long serving members.

My second letter went:

Dear Paschal, Your listeners can call me Declan. I’m a fellow county man of yours, and God it gets horrid lonely up here on the side of the mountain surrounded by nothing but bog and forestry, and if it wasn’t for shaggin’ the odd sheep I’d go off me head. There was one sheep that meant more to me than all the others. She had a lovely cute black face. We were goin’ to get married in Rome. Father McGilafinnan had given his blessing, but the hoors wouldn’t let her on the plane. It was the saddest day in me life when I sent her off to the abattoir and I haven’t ate a lamb chop since. Now I’ve got some sort of oul’ infection, and I don’t know whether to go to the doctor or the vet. My perfect partner must have a bit of class, a merino maybe, who’d like GAA and going to the pub and who wouldn’t bleat unless spoken to. Ya couldn’t play us an ou’l request could ya? I love that Jim Reeves number “I love you ‘cos you’re ewe.”

Other candidates include that Declan Ganley. I just don’t trust him. He has had business dealings in Albania, and the only time most businessmen ever have business dealings in Albania is if they are rash enough to go there to try and get their BMWs back. And then there’s that blue whinger from Mayo Jim Higgins.

Actually I will vote, but I’m not going to tell anyone how. Suffice it to say that I owe the candidate in question a deep debt of gratitude for something he did a few years’ ago.

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Ministers in the sky

The Irish people have learned that our dear, grasping and incompetent government ministers have spent 1.6 million euro in travel by air force helicopters and planes since last October. Ireland is not a big country and distances are not great, so it seems rather ostentatious.

God be with the days when they were satisfied with being “lorried around” in state cars (usually Mercs or Peugeots) driven by a member of the gardai, or if they deputy ministers, a relative. The state car was a worthy political prize in itself, as a Dail Deputy returning to his constituency after gaining ministerial promotion could exhort his constituents to come out and “see the state car”. There was one junior minister who reportedly had his state car modified so that the calves couldn’t lick the back of his neck when he was bringing them to the mart – they wouldn’t fit in a helicopter.

I recall the story about the late Sean Lemass who, when taoiseach, got lost while driving in the Kerry Mountains. Seeing an old man standing beside a ditch he told his driver to ask him for directions. The guard rolled down his window and asked:
“Excuse me, do you mind telling us where we are?”
The man looked quizzically back at him and, after a few moments replied: “Sure aren’t u in a car.”
Lemass burst out laughing, adding “That is the perfect answer to a Dail question: It’s short; it’s entirely accurate; and it gives absolutely no new information.”

Our ministers no doubt quail at the idea of having to travel on the ground, alongside all those horrible, scruffy, shitty, poor people known as the general public. I know for a fact one person on the list always used two words for such people in the past. These were “whingers” and “fuckers”. Sadly, they are known by others as “the electorate” and they are, when all is said and done, these ministers’ employers. Travel by air allows them to stay out of touch and not to see the mess they, their friends and relatives, are making of the country.

But air travel suits the superstar image they have of themselves. Word may have got round that oral sex is so much better when you’re off the ground, not to mention sniffing white powder.

I remember a friend of mine from long ago called John Buckley who still owes me two pints – I never forget things like that. Well on one occasion a friend of ours called P.J. was annoying John. P.J. had just started to learn how to drive and John said to him: “Ya better mind yerself P.J. or it won’t be drivin’ lessons you’ll be takin’ but flyin’ lessons.”

Anyone know where I can lay my hands on an old Sam 7?

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Nollaig shona

Another year is drawing inexorably to its close. I always count as happy and worthwhile any year in which I add to the number of my friends and I consolidate existing friendships. Many of these contacts have sprung from my work and my writing; I believe that such friendships are the most important result of my work. Many have flowed from my contributions to the Cavan Echo, and I am cheered to know that I have a loyal readership many of whom I’m able to reach though I haven’t yet met them.

And then there are the friends I’ve made through the book on Co. Cavan. One friendship stands out; that with artist Jim McPartlin, whom I had not met until we were brought together on such a rewarding journey. Then there are the wonderful people in Cottage Publications in Donaghadea, with whom it was a true joy to work. I will never forget the night the book was launched.

For all my friends, both those I have the pleasure of knowing, as well as the many I have not yet met, I hope you have a really wonderful and peaceful Christmas and New Year marked by enjoyment and contentment, which will be marked by the pleasantest of memories.

For me writing is a pleasure because it is a means of expressing how I feel about things. It is also a medium of communication, for I always see my words and phrases as not being pieces of waste paper thrown into a void but being meant for an audience. It is very frustrating when I try to communicate with people and they are too rude to reply. I use two of the most common forms of communication available today, e-mail and standard mail (often referred to snail-mail), yet nothing can apparently penetrate the indifference of some. Am I to use pigeon post or maybe talking drums? Of course I know it is outrageous to think that important people like county managers or TDs should have the time or inclination to even think of replying to a mere cripple whose father is not a member of even a town council.

I have a special message for them. I hope they have a really miserable Chrimbo, that they get the skitter for three days and that they’re not able to get off the jacks until the New Year.

But remember girls and boys, don’t drink and ride this Christmas; it’s dangerous and it’s far more fun when you’re sober.

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December 19, 2008

Cavan lads with the horn

December was a time when some Cavan lads got the oul’ horn on them. No, this did not mean that they were lustier than usual, or that they had any less fear of approaching the opposite sex when sober. It refers to the practice of some youths who climbed hills from which they sounded horns. This was noted by among other the late Tom Barron, and seemed to be especially prevalent in the Cornafean and Bruise Mountain areas. It was obviously linked to Christmas. The horns used must have been fairly simple, no doubt of the hunting horn variety and the cacophony produced must have been ear-splitting. It would seem that this was somehow linked to the notion of the winter solstice and that the whoops of the horns were an attempt to try and summon the forces of life and light from their dark slumbers.

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November 21, 2008

Taking stock

Like lovers of truth and fair play everywhere we must all be delighted at the successful conclusion to Monica Leach’s libel suit against Associated Newspapers. They had made the insinuous allegation that she had used her position as a special adviser to Minister Martin Cullen to gain business, that she and Minister Cullen had been having an affair, and they had given currency to the claim made by a so-called member of the PDs from Waterford on radio that Minister Cullen was having his cock sucked by her. Associated Newspapers have had to make a well-deserved grovelling apoiogy to Ms Leach and pay a hefty out-of-court settlement. In a statement made outside of the court Ms Leach said that this settlement should allow the newspapers to take stock of the situation, and think twice before attempting to besmirch the haloed reputation of those happily-married good family men whom God has placed over them with vile and hideous claims.
These allegations were so grotesque as to hardly warrant a serious rebuttal. They obviously came from people who were not having their cocks sucked sufficiently often.
The dogs on the street know that no special adviser has ever used their position to enrich themselves or gain public contracts. No government minister has ever had an extra-marital affair and I can state emphatically that, to my knowledge, no government minister has ever had his cock sucked – by anyone; they are all buttoned-up icons of probity. Furthermore not every government minister has a cock – why would they, they’re a crowd of pricks anyway.

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November 20, 2008

Flying high with Allah

A Muslim is sitting next to Felim from Cavan on a plane. Felim orders a whiskey.
The stewardess asks the Muslim if he’d like a drink too. He replies angrily:’I'd rather be raped by a dozen whores than let alcohol touch my lips!’
Felim hands his drink back & says ‘Me too, I didnt know we had a choice!’

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Blanket on the ground

Felim brings his luscious blond bride back to the bridal suite on their wedding night where he strips her naked. She flops on to the bed and lies spread-eagled, leaving nothing to the imagination. She looks at Felim and says: ‘I think you know what I want big boy?”‘
‘Aye’ answers Felim ‘The whole shaggin’ bed by the looks of it!’

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