Scene 19

Scene 19


The tunnel beneath the pirate hideout.

Squire Moore: Well, now that that interruption has been dealt with, we may proceed.
Salmonella: Wait! Something else approaches!
Lord Fannyweather: Ah Christ....

Enter Dorian Mammeri, a tall man with aesthetically pleasing features many a mile removed from those of Squire Moore, who is a vole. However, these features seem to hide an indescribable darkness. He is dressed in a poncho, aviator sunglasses and an ironic t-shirt. On his shoulders he bears a backpack full of frisbees and the internet. He is followed by a gaggle of starving children.

Squire Moore: Why! If t'isn't me old pal, Dorian Mammeri! How goes it chum?
Dorian: Really cool man, what are you up to these days?
Squire Moore: Well I...
Dorian: That's totally interesting man. When I was in Nepal, this really wise old man.....

Several hours later

Dorian: . . . . . and I was like 'yeah, I'm totally trying to find myself too.'

Lord Fannyweather wakes from his doze.

Fannyweather: Hang on sorry, could you repeat that last line again?
Dorian: Gladly. I said to him 'Woah! dude! I'm like totally trying to find myself too.'
Fannyweather: Why do you hate the english language so much? What has it ever done to you?
Dorian: Look man, if you saw what I saw in East Wyoming, you wouldn't be asking me that.
Fannyweather: The phrase 'trying to find myself' means absolutely nothing. It is a massacre of meaning conducted by western backpackers on a collection of words, each individually containing some sort of meaning, but when grouped together meaning sweet fuck all. In fact, that phrase means less than nothing. It actually drains meaning from a conversation, rendering all involved lesser for the experience. It is a phrase that is born not in the brain, but in the bowels, from whence it emerges, dripping with excrement, to fling itself into an unexpecting and undeserving world like a malformed foetus from some sort of horrible experiment, a creature that manages to survive, despite posessing neither face nor brains.
Dorian: . . . . . .
Fannyweather: So matey, have you found yourself? Or should I say: Herble gerble murple?
Dorian: No, not yet, I think that . . . .
Fannyweather: Well, have you tried the kitchen? Hmm? Maybe the attic? Did you leave yourself there and then forget about it? Maybe you gave a loan of yourself to a friend? Or maybe you're under that pile of dusty textbooks in the office?
Dorian: Uhhhh...

Chaucer, Shakespeare and Dickens suddenly materialise from the aether. They look upon Dorian with disdain, piddle on him and fuck off.

Squire Moore: Well, crimes against communication notwithstanding, what brings you here?
Dorian: These things.

Dorian indicates a number of children, all younger than nine, wearing rags over their emaciated, nearly expired bodies

Squire Moore:  Urgh! Yuck! What are they?
Dorian: The lower classes. Some of them followed me here. I thought you might find some use for them.

One of the ragamuffins coughs up blood and pipes up
Ragamuffin: Please Mr.Moore sir, we're quite ill and malnourished. We were hoping that because of your boundless wealth you could perchance spare a shilling?
Squire laughs at the dying child
Squire: Hahahahhaha! You lazy fucking peasant cunt, if you want shillings you just have to get a job, and to get a job all you need is to want one hard enough. Didn't you know that you little commoner oik! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!
Ragamuffin: Sir, we're too ill to work. We used to work for you, in the mine. Then we got scurvy from lack of food because you said we weren't resourceful enough and denied us fruit for over a year.
One of the children dies from his scurvy. Squire Moore's laughing becomes louder and louder. 
Squire: Did you see that idiot? He didn't want scurvy medicine hard enough and now he's dead. What a silly Plebeian. If he'd only rationally chosen to be an aristocrat like me instead of a street urchin! Get these creatures out of my sight before I puke.
Dorian: Yeah ok. Well, at least they might be able to help me find myself.

Exit Dorian and the starving children.

Squire Moore: Also, I hate Davey for some reason.


End Scene

Scenes 17 and 18

Scene 17

Mayfield Garda Station. Detective Fellatio Interlude, feisty female super-sleuth, is hard at work investigating the rape of one Evan Hennessy. She types on a computer. Enter her partner, Vulgate Milfield.

Vulgate: What's the good word Fellatio?
Fellatio: I'm investigating the Evan Hennessy rape case.
Vulgate: Oh?
Fellatio: Yes, it's quite a conondrum. Even claims it was Alec Baldwin but we need another witness to secure the case.
Vulgate: So, why are you here on the computer?
Fellatio: Are you familiar with facebook?
Vulgate: Yes.
Fellatio: Are you familiar with Queefu Nell?
Vulgate: No.
Fellatio: Queefu Nell is a facebook user who is legendary for the sheer quantity of status update that she produces.
Vulgate: How many status updates could she possibly produce?

Fellatio pulls out a massive hardback tome that she can barely lift.

Fellatio: This is the complete St. James bible, old and new testaments, plus apocrypha and several theological essays...large print edition.
Vulgate: Ok...

Fellatio pulls out an even larger book, the size of a large labrador
Fellatio: This is part 1 of the subject index for her status updates, from 'Aardvarks' to 'Bumblebees'
Vulgate: Ah, I see. Well, what's this got to do with the case?
Fellatio: Well, you know the way enough monkeys on enough typewriters would eventually write King Lear?
Vulgate: Yeah
Fellatio: Well, between the 5th and 18th of July she actually did write King Lear by accident. What I'm hoping is that there is such a massive quantity of information on her status updates that, by the law of averages, some of it will help our case.
Vulgate: Well what are you waiting for? Qwanza? You go girl!!!!!

Writer's note: Holla!

Fellatio searches Evan Hennessy, cross-referencing with Baldwin and assault.

Fellatio: Here we go, her facebook updates from the night of the assault:

5pm: Am sad :(
5.02pm: Am super-thrilled :)
5.03pm: Am nostalgic for the days of yore........
5.05pm: Only joking they sucked! But still, a little bit anxious
5.10pm: Had bowel movement (8 people like this)

Fellatio: Hmm, better scroll down a bit...

7pm: I fucking HATE butter (2 people like this)
7.25pm: Had bowel movement
8pm: The Wire is better than the Shield and most of human civilisation (567 people are aware that this is true)
8.45pm: OMFG. Just saw a nude Alec Baldwin running after a fair-haired man with the physique of a small child or an upright grehound. Lads, what is going on? :)

Fellatio: AHA!

END SCENE

Writer's Notes: Yes, you should have been patient shouldn't you?

Scene 18

Interior. Night. The secret tunnel beneath the pirate hideout. Our three heroes advance towards their goal.

Squire: Sh! Did you hear that?
Fannyweather: No, but the air suddenly went cold.
Salmonella: *Sniff* There is a stench of evil...

Enter Von Knutstrom, the embodiment of darkness

Von Knutstrom: Hi lads, heard ye were rescuing Evan. I thought I could lend a hand.
Squire: You? Von Cuntstorm? Embark on a noble mission for good?
Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom and yes, I'd be delighted to.
Fannyweather: What? You? The same Cuntstorm who bathes in the blood of children because you believe it increases your sexual prowess?
Salmonella: The same Cuntstorm who once threw a puppy into a volcano just for the fun of it?
Von Knutstrom: What? No I didn't.
Squire: Just like you didn't surrender France to the Nazis?
Von Knutstrom: Er, that was several decades before I was born.
Fannyweather: A likely story, just like you didn't colonise the Congo?
Von Knutstrom: That was Belgium!
Salmonella: As considerable as your Satanic powers are, we cannot trust you to join us on our quest in case you commit an atrocity. Return from whence you came, Cuntstorm, destroyer of worlds!
Von Knutstrom: It's pronounced Knutstrom.
Squire: Whatever, get thee behind me Satan!
Von Knutstrom: Well I'll leave ye to it.

Exit Knutstrom

Squire: Now, let us continue on our noble quest with no more of these ludicrous interruptions.

END SCENE

Honourable Archive

THERE WILL BE A NEW SCENE BY THE END OF THE MONTH!

Until then, the honourable archive:

The Men of Honour aboard the Orient Express

In the east there is murder, mystery and...Men of Honour.

Fresh from the battle of Omdurman the Men of Honour (tm) return to Europe. Boarding the Orient Express, the daring pair hope for a quiet holiday in Constantinople. These hopes are quickly dashed as a passenger, the eccentric aristocrat Lord Devonshire Ali Khalifa St.George the third of Galloway, is murdered. Liam and Michael resolve to unravel the mystery.

At first short of funds for investigative material such as magnifying classes, hammers and Dr.Mandels Patented Clue-Finding Apparatus (tm) their progress is hampered. Luckily it emerges that immediately before his death Lord Devonshire left his entire estate to the Men of Honour (tm). Thanks to this bizarre and unexpected windfall the investigation proceeds at pace. One passenger, Dr.Maguire, makes the ludicrous claim that the Men of Honour were responsible for the death of the ageing aristocrat, before mysteriously hacking himself to pieces while taking a bath. The Men of Honour conclude that it was a suicide, resulting from the intense shame of lying about Men of Honour, which also explained why Dr.Maguire left his entire estate to them in an effort to assuage his guilt. Combining Liam's knowledge of early Soviet history and Michael's civil engineering expertise they discover that the murderer was none other than the Tsar, who disagreed with Lord Devonshire's wild theories on structural durability. Arresting Sister Assumpta, the nun-hitman who carried out the attack, the pair retire on their mysterious fortune, building a small villa on the Bosphorus where they played table-tennis and read the works of Anton Chekov for over a decade.

Men of Honour Vs. The Man

In a world of corruption. In a world where fine wine and vinaigrettes can buy you freedom, there are still Men of Honour.

It is the late 1960s. Flower Power has ended Canada's reliance on nuclear energy. The armies of the Caliphate have reached Galway and China boogies to the sound of a hip new groove called communism. But in the west, there is trouble brewing. Tired of being kept down by the white man, the oppressed African Americans turn to their only hope: Liam Cullinane and Michael Kelleher, the fragrant, notorious and dashing Men of Honour (tm).

Despite their admittedly pale complexions and ignorance of every culture, especially their own, the Men of Honour too feel a vigorous loathing for the Caucasian Fellow. After being refused membership by the black panthers, the pair found their own radical movement: the 'Green Armadillos'. Spreading hard-as-nails, tough as tarantula justice throughout the southern states, the Men of Honour send shockwaves through the corridors of power, causing over seventy thousand dollars worths of structural damage. The American president, Chairman Mao, attempts to win the pair over to his side with an offering of fine wine, beautiful vinaigrettes and tasty crepes. But the Men of Honour are beyond even such bountiful offers and call him a philistine, the shock of which kills him instantly, paving the way for Brian Wilson's eight-decade reign of terror. The new president, despite his talk of 'good vibrations', decides to take the men of honour out once and for all. Hounded by a fleet of police cars, the men of honour find themselves surrounded at the edge of the grand canyon. Rather than bow down to whitey, the pair throw themselves off the edges, dying in a mangled heap on the canyon floor. They later recover.

Men Of Honour in da Hood. Summary

Film summary:

The late 1980s. America's inner city crack epidemic is at it's height. All over the nation solutions are sought for. All have failed. Until now..

Knowing the one solution to the epidemic lay in the capable hands of Liam Cullinane and Michael Kelleher, the titular Men of Honour (tm) Ronald Reagan sends for the notable duo with one mission. End the drug war. Returning from their crusades in the east, the pair enter Chicage, the most notoriously drug ridden city in the world.

Deciding to bring the crack trade down from the inside, the Men of Honour (tm) infiltrate the drug cartels by establishing covers for themselves as antique/crack dealers. Being incapable of dishonour, the pair soon establish themselves within the upper echolons of the city's drug dealers as to fail, even at drug-dealing, would be an act of gravest dishonour. Finally their efforts pay off and the Men of Honour (tm) discover the identity of the two biggest druglords in the city, who, because of their incredible and unexpected success, are the Men of Honour (tm). Undeterred, Liam and Michael prepare for a valiant showdown with themselves, taking down their own drug-empires and bringing themselves to justice. The film ends on a high note with the Men of Honour observing the desolate ruins of their own houses which they have just blown up. They lament the immorality of drug-dealers, even though they accidentaly became the largest suppliers of crack cocaine in the free world, and set off on their next mission: To restore Alf to the airwaves...

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'