Villages that are worse than Lisgoold

I have, of late, come under some degree of pressure to write scene 17. Rest assured loyal readers (Sarah and Aoife) that it is on its way. In the meantime I have taken the time to compile a list of villages that are worse than Lisgoold. For, as someone once put it to me, Lisgoold may have produced Crystal Swing, but where is producing their audience? I will mention that these places are being judged mainly on aesthetics and my impressions of them don't reflect on their inhabitants, who should only receive sympathy and moral support.

1. Whtechurch

Whitechurch is a commuter village just east of Blarney. The first issue here is the fact of what it is: A commuter village. What a strange country where that type of thing actually exists. That adjective and that noun should not go together. Here is a list of things that co-exist quite happily with village:

Rustic village
Fishing village
Charming village

Commuter town? Grand. Commuter village? No. That belongs to a list like this:

Microsoft village
Industrial village
Scientologist village

Whitechurch's only charm is that its parish priest is a bona fide nutter: http://www.irishexaminer.com/ireland/kfauqlcwkfql/rss2/

To describe Whitechurch to the outsider. Imagine a few half-empty estates, an estate consisting solely of showhomes, an unfinished housing estate and one church and one petrol station, the latter's deli leaving much to be desired. Nevertheless, if you like aesthetic distress and negative equity, Whitechurch is the place for you.

2. Grenagh

Another fucking commuter village. To be fair to Grenagh, most of the estates are quite nice and are compacted into a single area, rather than sprawling all over the place. At first sight it might even seem like a nice place to live.
Wrong.
Once you have been in Grenagh for more than ten minutes you notice something hard to describe but utterly chilling. There are many, many houses, but no fucking people. You suddenly get the feeling that Cillian Murphy gets in 28 Days Later. Except that at least if you were in London after a zombie apocalypse you could at least seek comfort in the modern infrastructure and ease of access to the British library. Me and another person were there in the middle of summer after both the secondary and primary schools were out, but there were no young people. No teenagers chattering loudly about...whatever teenagers talk about (probably sex and amphetamines and that type of thing). No children's laughter. Nothing. Just one middle-aged man staring at me through a second floor window. To be fair to Grenagh, it is the only town in the world that seems to have been designed by Franz Kafka and Samuel Beckett, but even they wouldn't want to live there.

3. Dromahane

The pick of the litter. The most godawful place I've ever came across.
I think there are advantages to both living in the counryside and to living in the city. The former is generally nicer what with cows, fields, mountains and that type of thing. While the latter has better services and infrastructure, though usually a higher crime rate and a more stressful living situation. Dromohane combines the worst of both. It is as if someone took a few streets from between Harbour View Road and Mark Caroll drive and plopped them in the middle of nowhere. Dromohane is ugly. Very, very ugly. Here is the grey hopeless mass of stone they call a church:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/7/70/DromahaneChurch.jpg

That, frankly, is one of the nicer parts of the place. Dromohane's other problem is very different from that of Grenagh. While Grenagh was weirdly empty and had an almost Silent Hill quality about it, Dromohane seems to be almost entirely populated by roving gangs of feral children. I know I said I wouldn't mention the inhabitants but in this case I feel I must.
To give an idea of the kind of people who live in Dromahane, look at this guy:

http://www.bebo.com/Profile.jsp?MemberId=1670275795

Yes people, they still use Bebo for some reason. I imagine they reject facebook as some sort of withchcraft.

According to Wikipedia: ' Thomas Russell is referred to as the “The man from God knows where” and, as it happens, he was born in the village on November 21, 1767.' I wonder why, when asked his hometown, he replied 'God knows where'. My theory is he blocked out all his memories of Dromahane to maintain his sanity. Russell was hanged in 1803 in Downpatrick. His last words were: 'Better the gallows than Dromahane'.

Oh also, being within an hour of the city, it has three ghost estates, because what would a commuter village be without fucking ghost estates.

Dromahane. Depressing, ugly and shit, it is the winner of this week's Golden Turd award.

L.C, the writer, is chief researcher for 'Drisceoil's Graveyard Tours of Ireland' and is currently working on his own travel guide 'Worse Than Lisgoold: A Bastard's Guide to shit villages'

Scenes 15-16: The Thick Plottens!

Scene 15

Interior, night. The kitchen of Lord Fannyweather. Squire Moore and Salmonella wait anxiously for the Fannyweathers to finish their cake. This is a difficult and tiresome process. The cake is eaten slowly and with great affection.

Squire Moore: FOR THE LOVE OF ST. BERNARD HURRY UP! EVAN COULD BE DEAD ALREADY!
Lord Fannyweather: Back when I was a fireman, I left a maternity ward burn down so me and Herself could finish a raspberry sponge. What is Evan's life to an entire maternity ward?
Moore: (Angry mutterings)

3 Hours Later

Squire Moore and Salmonella have fallen asleep on the couch. Fannyweather loudly deposits his plate on the sink, waking them both.

Herself: What did you think of the cake dear?
Fannyweather: Bit shit actually
Herself: Yeah, I'd nearly have skipped it.
Moore: Can we go now?
Fannyweather:...................................................okay.

END SCENE

Scene 16

Exterior. Dawn. Salmonella, Squire and Fannyweather walk towards the pirate hideout to bring great justice. They carry a large arsenal of weapons in a burlap sack. They see the well-defended hideout at the end of the road.

Salmonella: At least eight men on sentry, probably a lot more inside.
Fannyweather: Do we have a plan?
Squire Moore: Yes. We charge wildly towards the hideout, firing bullets at the bad men.
Fannyweather: I see you have studied Napoleonic strategy.
Squire Moore: Yes. I just hope we don't get blownapart!
The trio laugh hysterically at the witty joke. The audience too are enthralled and titillated by the sophisticated witticism.
Fannyweather: Well, funny jokes aside. We'd better get to it.
Moore: Hold on, we'd better check ourselves for testicular cancer first. We don't want to come down with cancer in the middle of a firefight.
Salmonella: Good idea.
The trio grope themselves and ensure they have no lumps on their scrotum. Moore, being meticulous, asks a passing woman for a second opinion. She politely declines.
Moore: Well, I'm not entirely happy about this. Is there maybe a way we can sneak in unnoticed?
Mysterious Voice: Well, it just so happens there is.

Our heroes turn to find themselves face to face with Miguel Sanchez. Sanchez stands seven feet tall. He has an indefinable wildness in his eyes, that speak of wild moors and windswept islands. He is ludicrously drunk.

Squire Moore: Ah Miguel, what is you speak of?
Miguel: There is a secret entrance. See that nightclub over there? In the wine cellar there is a trap door that leads to the basement of the pirate hideout. Come on, we'll go in together.

The four men head into the nightclub, except for Miguel who is halted by the bouncer.
Bouncer: Sorry, you're too drunk and posessing of a certain wildness. I can't let you in.
Miguel: Awwwwwwwwwwwww. But why? I'm not drunk, leave me in. Why are you so mean? Stop being mean. I hate you.
Bouncer: Sorry bud.
Miguel: Well, we'll see what Fris Bafroth has to say about this!
Miguel makes a phone call.

2 hours later

Fris Bafroth, a young and dynamic heart surgeon, arrives at the scene, still wearing a medical gown and covered in blood.

Fris: Miguel, what's the emergency? I was in the middle of open heart surgery fifty kilometres away.
Miguel: He won't let me in. He says I'm drunk (hiccup).
Fris: Okay....What does this have to do with me?
Miguel: I thought you would have wanted to know.
Fris: .....you were wrong.
Miguel turns again to the bouncer: C'mon, let me in.
Bouncer: No.
Miguel starts turning bright red. His eyes turn yellow and strange bulges start appearing all over his body.
Bouncer: What now?
Fris: His whining is reaching critical mass and when that happens....
Miguel suddenly morphs into a moaning velociraptor.
Fris: He becomes Sulkosaurus!
Sulkosaurus lets out a might roar
Sulkosauras: C'mon...let me in.
Bouncer: I wouldn't let you in when you were slightly sloshed. Why would I let you in now that you're a bloody dinosaur?
Sulkosaurus wets himself in frustration.

END SCENE

Scene 13 (continued) and Scene 14

Captain Hodgers circles the room
Captain: Yarg! Where be Evan methinks?
The crowd parts, revealing Evan
The captain's parrot, in reality a thirty-five year old accountant from Greenwich, points at our protagonist
Parrot: That's him there!
Captain: Yarg! So 'tis. Come with us Evan!
Evan: No! Never! I shall fight you til my bones are ground to dust! I cannot be brushed aside in the manner that Squire Moore brushes aside his various illegitimate children! I shall screw my courage to the sticking-place and do glorious battle! En garde!
Evan pulls a sabre from his trousers and there is a fight scene. It is very entertaining. The audience are thrilled. Evan lies semi-conscious on the floor
Captain Hodgers: Yarg! What a wonderful fight, complete with lasers and explosions. However, you are defeated and I shall kidnap you now!
Squire Moore: You'll have to get through me first!
Captain Hodgers gets through Squire Moore first.
Weakened by venereal disease, Moore collapses onto the floor. Captain Hodgers places Evan in a paper bag and he and his crew flee the scene.
Squire Moore: Shittywankbullocks!
Squire passes out

End Scene 13

Scene 14

Interior. Night-time. Griswell Food Emporium. Lord Bourbon Fannyweather and his mysterious fiancé, known only as 'Herself', are hard at work stocktaking. Lord Fannyweather's eyes are wattery with the softer emotions of the human heart, feelings which led him to give up the hallowed throne of Lichtenstein in order to marry an ordinary fishmonger's daughter.
Lord Fannyweather: How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far, Herself! who, when my being overflowed, Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. All things are still. Alas! how heavily This quiet morning weighs upon my heart
Herself: Uhm. I'm just over here by the beans
Fannyweather: Ah right. How foolish of me. How feelsth thou mine sweet?
Herself: Grand. You?
Fannyweather: I feel that Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark
Herself: That's nice. Where did you put the relish?
Fannyweather: Top Shelf. Oh look, here comes Squire Moore and Salmonella O'Sullivan
Enter Squire and Salmonella. Squire is panting and is carrying a recently purchased stockpile of weapons
Lord Fannyweather: Ah Salmonella! Squire! How pleasant to see you!
Squire Moore: As you can see from my big bag of crossbows and revolvers this is not a social call Lord Fannyweather
Fannyweather: I see. What's the trouble?
Squire: Evan, our good friend who once helped you with that bat infestation in your attic, has beenn captured by Captain Hodgers and his urban pirates. We need to find them and rescue him as Evan has still not recovered from being graphically raped in the bum by Alec Baldwin. A terrible experience like pirate torture could impede his emotional and spiritual recovery even further as, to add to his troubles, his stalwart companion handbag has left him alone in this world. For this reason, you need to join me and Salmonella here on a daring raid on the pirate H.Q before the situation deteriorates further.
Fannyweather: I understand completely. I'll join you as soon as I've finished my shift.
Squire:.......How long will that be?
Fannyweather: An hour or two
Squire: Ok....but then it's straight to the rescue.
Fannyweather: Oh my, no! After my shift, me and herself are having some cake.
Squire: Can't that wait?
Fannyweather: If your soul was filled with tender passion and not the spirit of ceaseless sexual conquest, you would understand that the cake must be eaten.
Squire (in loud, angry capital letters): WE DON'T HAVE TIME FOR CAKE!
Enter Marie Antoinette
Marie: Go on. Let them eat cake.
Squire: Fine. But as soon as they've finished, we mount our daring rescue
Fannyweather: Grand job.

End Scene 14

Writers Note:
And they said I couldn't write romance!

Intermission

7 Steps to Save the Catholic Church

We interrupt this movie to discuss an important contemporary social issue. We all know the Catholic Church to be an organisation of jolly, affable old men wearing silly hats, a bit like Santa Claus and his elves. However, recently it turns out that, for decades, they’ve been molesting children and covering it up, much like Santa Claus’ evil twin brother Rodrigo Derrida and his crew of paedo-badgers. Understandably, this has had an impact on people, who now realise that some of the stuff they were saying, in between the bits about the magic carpenter and nudist garden thingy, may have not been strictly true. To many it seems that they may not be the jolly crew we once imagined them to be. How is the Catholic Church to save itself? This is not an easy question, but, following a papal request, I will outline a few ideas that have occurred to me and which could easily be implemented within a few months:

1. Moving Statues

In 1985, people travelled from all over the country to Ballinspittle Co.Cork to watch some moving statues of the Virgin Mary. This was in the days before Ipods and popular American sitcom ‘Friends’, so it was understandable that so many should travel down to experience this unique event. Of course, we know now this to be a classic case of ‘mass hysteria’ brought on by the stress of economic decline, emigration and constant repetition of the rosary, but it was good PR for the silly hat brigade. So, if people’s minds can move statues, why can we not simply use technology to do the same thing? Imagine: Finding every statue of the Virgin Mary in the country and attaching an electric motor and a micro-chip, before sending them off, zipping along the N25, circling the country as an attached speaker plays ‘Ave Maria’. Not only would this work wonders for the faithful, being reminded of the death of our Lord as his mammy whizzes by at 70 km/ per hour, but it would improve the moral standards of the nation. Would you mug someone, break the speed limit or have a cheeky joint, if there was a small chance of the Blessed Virgin hurtling over the horizon? Didn’t think so.

2. Hat Innovation

Most informed people will tell you that faith is the core of any religion. This is untrue. Silly hats are far more essential. How many religions do you know that DON’T involve silly hats? That’s right, zero. Indeed Catholicism’s historical success was based on particularly ostentatious headwear, which dwarfed the far more mundane headgear of Protestants and others. Therefore, what is needed is even more ludicrous items to be placed on the heads of clergymen. For example, priests should wear twelve-foot conical hats, covered with green polka dots, with a little bell attached to the top. I’d like to see Islam or Judaism top that. Also, constant research should be undertaken to push the limits of silly hat technology, with eccentric fashion gurus roped in to advise the Church hierarchy on what to wear. This would make for great television as every episode of ‘Off the Rails’ would include a five minute segment called ‘Off the Aisles’ where chirpy young presenters would dress the Bishop of Killaloe in the latest trends, draping his 20 foot tower-shaped hat with glitter and rosary beads to the delight of rapt audiences.

3. Sexier Priests

Johnny Depp or Cheryl Cole in a confession box. Enough said.

4. Re-decoration

As many of my 4 and a ½ regular readers will know, I myself have avoided mass for the past several years. This was not due to a crisis of faith, but a crisis of comfort. Simply put, there is no logical need for Church pews to be so ridiculously uncomfortable. Padding and a couple of hundred footstools and I may even have considered running for pope. Call DFS and I assure you that you will see the flocks returning en masse.

5. Deny Everything

The Nixon Defence. Simply refute any and every accusation as the evidence mounts. Insist that your flock must have faith that confessions, leaked letters and DNA evidence are all tools of the devil. If asked ‘Is it true that you swore victims of child abuse to silence?’, the correct response is: ‘No. Those children swore me to silence. They are working for the North Koreans and are trying to bring down society by taking down the church. Besides, I wasn’t even in Ireland that week. In fact I wasn’t on earth. I had spent a week in an alternative dimension where nothing was what is seemed. Then I bought a lolly’. If further probed, simply curl up into a ball until the journalist leaves.

6. Shift the Blame

We are lucky in Ireland that racism is not so prevalent as it is elsewhere. In Irish society racism is just not socially acceptable, except when directed at travellers or the English. Therefore, the Church publicity bureau should begin an immediate policy of shifting the blame for clerical child abuse onto itinerants or the crown, perhaps suggesting a conspiracy of both. For example, a headline in Alive! could read: ‘Queen Elizabeth Visits Halting Site to Spread Lies about Innocent Priests: The Scandal Uncovered’ or ‘Did Prince Charles Travel Back in Time to Abuse Children in Convincing Priest Costume?’. The opportunities for journalistic endeavour here are limitless.

7. Lasers

Can’t really think of how to implement these in an ecclesiastical context, but c’mon people, everyone loves Lasers.

Follow these simple steps and the nation will soon forget what a bunch of hypocritical, lying, child-abusing, preachy, shit-brained, arrogant tit-a-ma-boobs the clergy are.