THE JUDGEMENT BIRD

Do you remember the Judgement Bird? Remember? It was in Dublin Zoo. It was a huge thing with dark grey feathers and deep set eyes that peered straight into your soul. It usually just stood there with its wings all folded up but when it extended them it was a sight to behold. The span was enormous, like some mighty cloak it could wrap you in and you'd never see the sun again. It was night time under those wings. It was the world before light.

We all made the pilgrimage. We'd queue up and watch the Judgement Bird as it watched us. Judging us. Silently calling us to account. Feelings of great guilt would befall all who looked upon the Judgement Bird. There would be sudden sobs and confessions. 'I slept with your missus', 'I diverted the funds', 'I cogged me maths ekker', that sort of thing. Politicians and various establishment figures seemed reluctant to visit the zoo around that time. There was even an attempt made on the Judgement Bird's life but the assassin broke down and took his own life instead. I heard John Charles McQuaid curled into a ball and rocked to and fro for four days just after seeing the Judgement Bird on the telly.

There was something in the Judgement Bird's eyes. Something primeval, something pure and atavistic, irrefutably authentic and devoid of mercy. Something that spoke of a world lost to us or perhaps even rejected by us. The Judgement Bird seemed to be from an angry Eden. No one actually knew where it was from. It wasn't captured or anything. It just landed in the monkey enclosure. The monkeys were quite deferential where it came to the Judgement Bird and shared their food with it. The zoologists didn't have a clue what type of bird it was exactly. They guessed it was some kind of crane or a stork but who knows? It looked a bit like a giant vulture to me. An ornithologist lost three fingers approaching the Judgement Bird so it was left alone after that.

Even people who didn't do anything wrong felt guilty when they met the gaze of the Judgement Bird. They said that they felt incriminated for behaving themselves in the wrong way, in the way of man, a corrupted way. 'You are not good', the Judgement Bird seemed to say to them, 'you are just scared, obsequious and indoctrinated.' Only very small children enjoyed visiting the Judgement Bird. Everyone else dreaded it but felt compelled to return to it again and again. 'It's like confession', said one visitor, 'only it's God on the other side of the grille and not some dreary old hypocritical bollix'.

The day came when the Judgement Bird took off. First it did a dance of sorts, stretching out its legs, moving around in a staccato fashion and throwing its head about. Storm clouds, great and black, gathered above as it performed. Then the Judgement Bird opened its wings and lifted up and soared away. It was swallowed up by the premature night it had summoned. It never came back.

The Cosgrave government had all footage of the Judgement Bird immediately destroyed. The only thing rumoured to remain of the Judgement Bird is a long streak of silver shite it left behind that was smuggled from the zoo by one of the lads that cleaned out the enclosures. If you know who to ask, you can get brought to a secret place where you can look at the Judgement Bird's shite. They say there's a queer smell off the shite and when you inhale it you're left with the tremendous sensation that we've all let ourselves down. This sensation is said to be accompanied by another feeling, a premonition of sorts is how it is described. It's said that upon smelling the shite of the Judgement Bird you are possessed with an unnerving certainty that the Judgement Bird will return and, when that day comes, it will not be alone.

STUPID WORMS

I'm in a coffin and the coffin is in the ground and it is dry and warm and I have wifi access and I really can't complain. I was issued with a compulsory demise order by the government and I didn't mind complying. These are difficult times and I wasn't bringing much to the fiscal table. Being the anomic type, I was merely a drain on exchequer funds. Put simply, I was surplus to requirements. Actually, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't mad on the demise idea initially but as Lucinda Creighton recently said on a current affairs programme, 'if the freeloaders amongst us don't agree to die today they'll wish they were dead tomorrow'. I know that sounds like a threat, so much does these days, but really it isn't. Lucinda's indisputably keen mind was just cutting through to the truth of the matter. The state can no longer give so it is time for those who take to go. So I went.

It's not a bad deal overall. The state pays for some of the casket and a third of the funeral so your nearest and dearest are spared much of the cost. I think that's fairly generous. All you have to do is show up in a nice suit, get into the box, get yourself loaded into the hearse and be put into the ground. I could hear the soil hitting the lid and a bit of sobbing above. Not too much sobbing mind you. I would've expected a bit more sobbing than that. No one lingered at the graveside for too long either. I heard my Uncle Mick say 'so that's him then, anyone for a pint?' and then I could make out the sound of everyone trudging away. I considered haunting the fuckers but then I remembered that I wasn't even dead. I'm not dead at all really, just decommissioned. I mightn't be around long though. I'm keeping my breathing shallow because of the lack of oxygen and I can hear my belly growling with hunger. I have the computer I was buried with to keep me company but the battery icon is flashing and it's not looking good. I'm not going to complain though. I mean, we all partied and this is what comes of it. I feel I'm doing my bit for the nation. It's like the new advertising campaign says: 'Don't be a numpty, die for your country'. It's a great ad they have on the telly with all these enthusiastic people giving the undertaker a thumbs up as they lay down in a coffin and have the lid slid over them. It's kind of a cool thing to do. It's like dying in a war.

As with dying in a war, no one is really that sure why they have to die on this occasion. All they know is that they must do the responsible thing. I mean, it may not seem fair but since when has life been fair? Life is not about fairness, it's about balance. It's about balancing the books. I'm doing my bit. I'm doing my bit for Ireland.

*******************************************

I can hear it raining above me now as I type. At least I think it's rain. It's like a dim patter on the surface of the mud above my coffin. It might not be rain though. It might be birds. They land on the earth and hammer away on it with their beaks. They don't just do this to upturn the soil, they do it to emulate the sound of raindrops landing. That way the worms get tricked into thinking it's raining and make their way to the surface. When the worms get to the top they are eaten by the birds. I hear it happening every morning. Every morning the birds play the same trick and every morning the stupid pathetic worms fall for it. I can't help but relish the misfortune of the worms slightly. Maybe I resent the wriggling shits because I know it's only a matter of time before they're feasting on my eyeballs. They will feast upon my skull as I lie here doing my patriotic duty. Bastards.

Anyway, I'll have to leave it there. The laptop is running out of juice and I better click the icon labelled 'post' and get this online. Not sure what I'll do then. I suppose I'll just lie here for Ireland and listen to the patter of the raindrops or bird beaks or whatever the fuck is going on up there.

. . .stupid worms, the lot of us.

THAT’S THE LAST TIME I EAT YOUR PIE (or A Mad Nightmare With You In It)

(pictured above: Lionel Stander, he’s in this one)

You know the way birds eat worms? And do you know the way birds eat tiny little pebbles and so on as a kind of roughage to help break down and digest those worms? Well, they do. Now, did you know that if you, yourself, eat worms and tiny pebbles and then go to sleep you have bird dreams? It’s true. You have the dreams birds have. It’s all flying about and crapping on car windscreens. The same trick applies to any creature. If you eat a can of Pedigree Chum you dream the dreams of dogs.

I think this phenomenon might explain what happened in the last post when I thought I was dreaming a dream with you in it but it turned out to be you dreaming a dream with me in it. Do you remember that big pie you baked and left to cool on the windowsill and the way it vanished and then you blamed the local foxes? Well, it wasn’t the foxes, it was me. I pinched your pie and ate it and ever since I’ve been having your dreams and, to be honest, I really want them to stop.

I mean, take the one you keep having about the last days of Joseph and Magda Goebbels? Christ on a bike, what’s up with that? You know the one I mean. The one where Joseph and Magda Goebbels are played by giant 12 foot versions of Earnest Borgnine (him-AGAIN!) and Lionel Stander (who is dressed as Magda) and me and you and four friends of yours are their children, but adult sized and all dressed up in white nighties, and Earnest and Lionel are administering us with cyanide/morphine cocktails in mugs of warm milk and telling us to sleep and singing us German lullabies and gently stroking our hair. Fuckin Hell! What kind of person has a dream like that? What kind of person are you? It’s incredibly disturbing, us lying in our little cots and you looking at me and saying ‘don’t worry Hedwig soon we will be in Valhalla’.

What really bothers me about the dream though is where it goes from there. The bit where we die and they lay us in these weird little glass fronted coffins and put us on conveyer belts and we trundle off to some assembly line where blue and pink bows are attached to our caskets and then we’re loaded into the back of a van and delivered to a white supremacist version of Hamley’s where our corpses are sold as ‘Last Days in the Bunker’ commemorative dolls. . . Goodness be to Jaysus in Christ (as my own mother is fond of exclaiming) what can you say about that? Your subconscious should be ashamed of itself. I don’t think I’ll be able to look you in the eye next time we run into each other in Aldi or wherever. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to watch Hart to Hart the same way again either. Whenever Max picks up Freeway I’ll be worried he’s going to give the poor mutt a mercy killing and sell its dead body to a toyshop. You really want to get your head checked out. Or watch what you’re eating before you go bed. Perhaps you’ve been eating someone else’s supper and have been having their dreams and passing them on to me as part of some kind of psychic daisy chain. If that’s the case, I’d keep an eye on whoever it is whose supper you ate. They’re not right in the head. I hope it’s not someone you’re living with. Lock the doors if it is. Lock the doors.

That’s the last time I eat your pie and no mistake. And what is it with the gargoyleish yank character actors??? Holey fuckin’ Moley you’re strange one. OK, OK, we’ll leave it at that. I’ll say no more about it.

A SUNNY TALE.

One day, like every other day, the Sun climbed up over the edge of the Earth, heaved his big burning body into the sky and made it morning. The cats all stood on the rooftops to greet him, the flowers lifted their pretty heads to see him and the birds sang his praises.

As the Sun continued to clamber up higher into the sky, people awoke and the Sun's celestial progress gave temporal cohesion to their lives. 'Now it is time to go to work', said the watches and clocks and they knew this because the Sun told their forefathers, the sundials, and the knowledge was passed down over the generations. 'Now it is time for lunch', said the watches and clocks later that day. 'Now it is time for the news to be on the telly', they said later on ...and so on and so on.

All day the Sun would roll up over everyone's heads until it came time to slide back down the other side of the Earth. What the Sun did when he vanished behind the horizon no one knew but I'll tell you. Every evening, when the Sun's work was done, he went and got pissed out of his mind. 'I'm fucking parched', the Sun would say and tumble like a big scorchy ball toward a hostelry that resides in the gloomy cosmic depths beneath our wonderful flat world. All the planets of the solar system would be there, drinking, playing darts, chatting each other up and complaining about politics. On this night, the Sun glided into the bar and took a seat next to his best pal Jupiter, who the Sun thought was wonderful fun. 'You're a gas planet', the Sun often told Jupiter, causing Jupiter to say, 'tell me something I don't know' and everyone would laugh except Mars who was usually just in the bar to start a fight.

That night, Venus was sitting at a nearby table and the Sun occasionally glanced over at her because he fancied her loads but was a bit shy. Sadly, Venus had no regard for the Sun. 'Mr. Hot Stuff over there thinks the world revolves around him', said Venus of the Sun to Pluto, who was always happy to hear a bad word said about somebody because he was bitter after being demoted from his status as a planet and relegated to being a mere floaty thing, no better than that eejit the Moon. Anyway, the Sun overheard what Venus said to Pluto and his heart sank. He decided to drown his sorrows in copious amounts of booze.

When closing time came the Sun tumbled out of the bar and tried to find his way home but he couldn't because he was so drunk. He span off one way and then another but it was no use, he was utterly lost. 'I think this is Ranelagh', said the Sun to himself upon spotting a familiar Spar, but it was not Ranelagh it was . . .well who knows where it was. 'This is awful', thought the Sun about his efforts to discover his whereabouts and he took out his mobile phone to call a taxi but his mobile was banjaxed. 'Oh no', said the Sun, 'my mobile has melted in my pocket because I am such a hot fellow, I'm up shit's creek for sure now'. Eventually tiring of futilely spinning this way and that, the Sun decided to settle down for a wee sleep in the doorway of the Spar.

The next morning on Earth (or what should have been the next morning on Earth) found the cats, birds and flowers all eagerly awaiting the Sun's return but return he did not. The creatures and plants did not know what to do and grew quite worried. The humans were less worried, awaking and going about their usual business with the help of the watches and the clocks that no longer needed the advice of the Sun. As it turns out, the Sun was kicked to death as he slept by two random weirdos who were good at sports, went to private schools and took amphetamines (this sometimes happens to people who sleep in shop doorways and is said to be frowned upon by the law but I've yet to see anyone do time for it - LOL!). The Sun never visited the Earth again.

The end results of this rambling chain of events were that The Big Issue magazine ran an article on how shop doorway dwellers really should not be kicked to death and someone mentioned what happened to the Sun on the telly. Some arty types and the odd child said they missed the Sun and environmental whingers started a panic about how no more food would grow but the food did grow, hydroponically, and everything was grand because the human race are a great species that can overcome any problem except perhaps the problem of living with each other and their petty neuroses.

As for the solar system, well that dispersed with Jupiter and the other planets going roughly in one direction and Earth spinning off in another. 'I never liked that guy anyway', said Jupiter of Earth and the other planets all agreed except for Mars who was just contrary and Venus who secretly thought the Earth was gorgeous.

The End.