(pictured above: Pádraig Pearse-note the smirk, probably thinking about wee lads in the nip)
Up to recently, Pádraig Pearse was thought to have been homosexual. There was strong evidence for this. A: Pearse was crap around women. B: He founded a school for ‘boys’! C: He spent much of The Easter Rising dancing around the G.P.O. to Depeche Mode’s song Master and Servant (wearing only bicycle shorts).
However, it has since been discovered that homosexuality isn’t evil* and so we must reappraise Pearse because there can be little doubt that the Butcher of 1916 was sublimating dark urges of some sort.
Perusing the new book by Ruth Dudley Edwards, Perverts All: A History of Irish Self-Determination, I was shocked to read Pearse’s poem Little Lad of the Tricks. Considering this piece, one can only conclude that Pearse was a rampant paedophile. Here’s an extract:
Little lad of the tricks, I wanna kiss your mouth: It makes me feel so good Who’s the Daddy now?
Lad of the grey eyes, That flush in thy cheek You’d be white with dread If ya could see inside my head!
Ooh I’m gonna touch ya! Kiss ya and caress ya! Who’s the daddy now? Little lad of the tricks Little lad of the tricks Little lad on my dick Little lad on my dick
-Repeat to fade-
(Courtesy of Alternative Tentacles records, all rights reserved.)
Fairly conclusive I’d have thought.
Respected crypto-historian Marianne Elliot also raises some interesting points about another ‘hero’ of 1916, Michael Collins. In her new book, I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves: The Life of Michael Collins, Elliot asks if Collins was into livestock. You know like, as in riding farm animals. Considering Professor Elliot’s thesis, I can’t help but agree. Collins grew up on a farm after all didn’t he? He did you know. Why did he choose to grow up on a farm do you think? Easy access to beasts? It’s disgusting to think of it, the Big Fellow, cornering some traumatised lamb. God, really, I have to say, I’m ashamed to be Irish. Like Edwards and Elliot, I’m ashamed to be Irish but, unlike Edwards and Elliot, I am not in a position to write of that shame and so will have to forego the compensation of profiting from it financially.
(*if only we could discover another Casement black diary with something really mad in it. I can’t imagine what so I’ll leave that to Prof. Elliot. She’d come up with something deadly.)