Sunday, January 8, 2012


(pictured above: ebony and a big mad ivory lad)

So I was chatting to a few of the blacks the other day. A really decent family of blacks that moved in downstairs. It was a great chat, lovely multiculturalism to be had. They seemed to be in a hurry off. They always do. The blacks must be a busy lot, or maybe it’s just this family. I realise that not all blacks are the same. Bob Marley for example would be a very different kind of black to Robert Mugabe, even though they share the same first name.

Well anyway, the chat was going grand and I was mentioning how much I respected Nelson Mandela, Billy Ocean, and Obama and all that. ‘Oh, you get some quality blacks and no mistake’, I said to the black family and they kind of smiled and nodded. ‘Just like yourselves’, I added, ‘there’s never any trouble out of you lot and I’m delighted, only delighted, that you’ve come to stay with us here in the building’. The father black (I didn’t catch his name, probably Robert, Bob or maybe Rob) frowned in concentration and stared at me like he was really listening to what I was saying, which was great because that meant we were really integrating. Ebony and ivory and all that. I actually sang a few bars of that to their little fella in the pram but he made strange with me and started crying a bit so I stopped. ‘He’ll settle in’, I reassured his parents.

I asked the blacks if they enjoyed the Christmas. Then I stopped myself and asked them, ‘actually do blacks have Christmas because when I was little my mam told me Santa didn’t go to the hot countries?’
The father black narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and said, ‘Santa doesn’t exist’.
I put my finger to my lips and indicated to the little fella in the pram. The father said nothing more on the matter and just opened the door and ushered his family outside.

‘Ebony and ivory eh?’, I shouted after them as they rushed off. ‘Living in perfect harmony’, I added and gave them the thumbs up. Then the father stopped and turned and he beckoned me over. So over I went and doesn’t he give me a right slap on the head.
Jesus, well, I wasn’t sure what to make of that at all. ‘Ah now', I said rubbing my ear, ‘what was that about? Did I say something to offend you?’
‘No Mister Fugger’, said the father black, ‘but you have posted this kind of thing before and we are growing tired of the repetition on your blog. If you can’t think of anything to write maybe you just shouldn’t post at all.’
‘Yes’, piped up the mother black, ‘it’s no wonder you get a fraction of the hits Twenty Major used get’.
‘Twenty Major, now there was a blogger’, agreed the father and then they went on their way.
‘I’m calling the Immigration Control Platform!’ I roared after them angrily.
‘Call who you like’, the father black shouted back, ‘we moved here from Cork you stupid prick’.

Well, in conclusion, I have to say that I've no recollection of writing about the blacks BEFORE and it was a nasty slap that one gave me but at least I got a blog post out of it so I suppose the blacks aren’t all bad, even when they are from fuckin Cork.

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