UNBELIEVABLE EH?

People believe what they want to believe even if they know, deep down, that what they believe is entirely unbelievable and that they don't actually believe it at all. I'm not sure why this is. Maybe it is more efficient to believe the unbelievable or perhaps it is advantageous. Either way, belief seems largely to be a matter of choice.

Let me explain why I (choose to) believe this:

A few months ago myself and a few mates (Corbo, Duggie, Phlegmo, Aine Manning and her fat sister whose name escapes me right now) staged a chemical attack. We rented the gymnasium at the local recreation centre and took footage of ourselves weeping and wailing over sheets with bunched up coats, bags and cushions arranged under them so as to make the sheets look like shrouds draped over dead bodies. We made it so that some of the 'bodies' were smaller than others, like little kids. We put on a pretty good performance. Then we uploaded the footage to the internet saying that it was a recording of a chemical weapon attack in some hot country. I'm not sure what hot country we picked but it was one of those places they mention a lot on the telly.

Well, let me tell you, there was a right 'to do' altogether. Our video went viral and got on the news. Some people said that the footage was staged and didn't even originate in the hot country, pointing out that two of the people in the video were wearing O'Neills Dublin tops (oops, messed up there). Luckily these doubters also suspected that we were members of the Illuminati or giant lizards or something so no one took their suspicions seriously. In fact, most people chose to consider the footage genuine so as not to be associated with the nutters that didn't. World leaders bought it too and went on the telly saying that it was unacceptable for such a thing to happen and threatening to bomb the hot country in question, which I'm not sure would have helped but anyway...

Next came phase two of our experiment. We released a second video on the net that featured us pulling back the sheets to reveal that there were no bodies under them and just a load of bags and cushions and that. It was always our aim to demonstrate to the world how easily it could be duped – for the LOLs like, you know - and this is where it got interesting. Imagine our surprise the next day when the world's media reported that the hot country in question had developed a weapon that could transform people into bunched up coats and bags and cushions. The 'international community' (whoever the fuck that is) demanded that the hot country surrender its 'Clothes/Bag/Cushion Tranformo Weapons', which, of course, the hot country couldn't do because it didn't have any such weapons and no such things even exist. Inevitably the hot country was bombed to shit and lots of other videos appeared online featuring the grieving citizens of the hot country weeping and wailing over shrouds. This time no one was wearing O'Neills tops and this time there weren't bunched up coats and bags and cushions under the sheets, no, there were actual bodies under there. These videos didn't get anywhere near as many hits as our original one did. That's when I realised that people believe what they want to believe.

The hot country was continually bombed to such an extent that the entire place was turned to dust and then the searing heat of further bombings melted that dust into glass and then that glass cooled and the whole place was turned into a gigantic skating rink, the largest ever, and people from all over the world travelled there and paid top dollar to enjoy themselves and myself, Corbo, Duggie, Phlegmo, Aine Manning and her fat sister whose name escapes me right now bought shares in the skating rink going forward. Oh, and I got a job with a massive public relations firm.

Unbelievable eh?

Join me next time for more of this compulsive bullshit.

THE RETURN OF THE LATE LATE

Great to see the Late Late back on our screens after the Montrose holidays. Tubbs got things off to a cracking start when he interviewed the essence of Amy Huberman. Amy couldn’t actually make it herself but in her place was an ethereal avatar that was released, genie like, from a bottle. It formed into a sort of solid shape, almost like the real Amy, and it spoke in this weird echoey voice. It seemed really lovely though and Tubbs reminded viewers that it is available from all good perfumeries now. He actually used the word ‘perfumeries’.

Next Tubbs covered the talk of Dublin 13. I am of course referring to the astonishing discovery that is Clongriffin Man – recently unearthed from pyrite and said to be at least several years old - or thereabouts. An expert Tubbs was talking to said the well-preserved corpse might have met its end as some sort of sacrifice or maybe after leaping in front of the DART. ‘Either way’, said the expert, ‘he’s had it’.

Then Tubbs had a child on and interviewed her. She said her schoolbag was very heavy and that she was very fond of sweets. Tubbs asked the child what she wanted to be when she grew up and the child replied that she was only eight and had no idea. She suggested that maybe Tubbs could give her a break.

After the child came the dogs. A fella from Meath was breeding invisible dogs. They couldn’t be seen and they didn’t make any sound either. The breeder said that this made them perfect pets – no hairs on the furniture or late night barking. Someone in the audience roared out that the invisible dogs were an abomination against God but Tubbs got the boom mic away from that nutter quick enough. Then Tubbs awarded an invisible puppy to everyone in the audience. Some people said that they couldn’t feel any weight or fur or anything and then the breeder said that the puppies were not just silent and unseeable but also intangible. ‘For a while there I was worried we’d been sold a pup’, quipped Tubbs and everyone pretended to hold and stroke the non-existent puppies for the rest of the show, such is the power of the telly – peace be upon it.

Finally, Tubbs had someone on who had undergone a terrible ordeal of some sort and come out the other side with a few observations about life and a publishing deal. As Tubbs spoke to this person his voice was gentle and deferent. Then, when that interview was over, Tubbs called someone on the phone and gave them a car. The person on the other end of the line said he was over the moon with his new car and that he was going to bundle the whole family into it and, I quote, ‘drive it straight off the nearest fucking pier’.

Then, to close the show, The Knights of Saint Columbanus House Band performed the following song and everyone started moshing about and absolutely wrecked the place as the credits rolled.

THE MEANING OF TREES

Wooden conundrums. Dendritic enigmas. What is the meaning of trees? Are they keeping something from us within the spawning syntactic mess of their leafy linguistics? Is there something to be read in the sky lit script of their bendy trunks and crooked branches? Is it a novel or a poem? Is it a love letter? Could it be a warning or even a scream sustained?

If I eat these mushrooms I might comprehend the secret of trees. If I wolf down these psilocybinetic grammar guides I might be able to read the world. That is what I wondered and that is what I did. A heap of shrooms, from belly to brain and boom …I saw it clearly. The trees were laughing. Their arms raised high. Regaling in their incredulity at the sight of us. Us - always trying to get somewhere. Never staying still. Dragged around by a misnomer of progress. Determined to be lost. Running further and further from home. Always running, like a running joke. The trees spoke to me, I could read them as words, and what I read was this: ‘Ridiculous bunch of wankers, ridiculous bunch of wankers, ridiculous bunch of wankers.’ That is all they said, over and over and over again.

A shrieking, echoing, endless tirade of abuse; I ran around with my fingers in my ears, trying to block out their mockery. It was bad trip. I was insulted, both personally and on behalf of us all. Our genus was not a joke and I swore I would prove it. When I recovered my reason I shared my knowledge with others of my species. We made our plans and we set about our revenge. We had the fuckers felled and pulped. We turned the trees into things we could readily understand, value and appreciate. We gave the trees a new meaning. We turned the trees into money and we made them into coffins. We lay down in our funerary finery and we choked to death, wealthy.

TALKING ABOUT A SKELETON ON THE INTERNET

They were talking about a skeleton on the internet all week. They said that someone found a skeleton. They all seemed very excited about the skeleton and got quite worked up about the skeleton. They had arguments about the skeleton. They competed to see who knew the most about the skeleton. They attempted to successfully guess whose skeleton it is (who the skeleton used to be). They said they felt sorry for the skeleton. They went to great lengths to prove that it was they who pitied the skeleton the most. They exhibited the depths their skeletal compassion and earned 'likes'. Then they turned against the skeleton. They said that it was probably an immigrant's skeleton. They said the skeleton should be fined. They said the skeleton should be privatised. Then they spread a rumour that the government was going to introduce a skeleton tax. Then they said that they wished the government were skeletons. Then they added that skeletons couldn't do a worse job than the current government. Then they got worried that the country is actually run by a secret cabal of skeletons. Finally they said they were sick of hearing about skeletons and they asked what kind of country it is anyway, what with all the skeletons everywhere. They seemed angry that there was even a skeleton in the first place. Or maybe they didn't really care about the skeleton and were just a bit bored and unhappy. It's hard to say. They might have been skeletons too.  

THE WORLD IS A RIDE

The world can be a bit of a ride at times. The sea undulating, heaving, sighing. A lovely wet thing stretched out under the moonlight. Tresses of foliage, rustling. A sensual breeze whispering in your ear. Limbs of wind and kisses of rain, embracing and caressing you. Both teasing and giving at once. A terrestrial tart, in the nicest possible sense you understand. An irresistible expanse, open, welcoming, waiting… OK, I better stop myself there. Jesus though, it’s a wonder we can manage to put the constant and overwhelming presence of the world to the backs of our minds so as we can get on with the mundane aspects of living.

Don’t get me wrong, the attraction I’m describing is purely aesthetic, well mainly. I don’t want to fuck the planet or anything. I don’t want to dig a hole in the soft earth and slip the lad into it. That’s not my thing at all. I swear. But a ride is a ride and the world can be a bit of a ride at times. That’s all I’m saying. You won’t find me in some forest wrapped around the plants, indulging in some kind of agrestal amour. Ah no. That’d be like dogging. It’d be sleazy. I don’t want to seem sleazy. I just want to delight in the whole situation. You know, nothing wrong with that. Just to enjoy the surroundings, the interplay betwixt earth and organism. Maybe wipe myself off on a leaf after. No one will ever know. No one will see.

I just hope I don’t get my heart broken though. I just hope the world doesn’t tire of me or turn its back on me or suddenly start rotating in a new direction - throwing buildings, roads, and cities up into the air. Leaving the remains of our wonderful union scattered and floating in cold space - artefacts of a profound romance diminished to space trash - fading signals of sweet nothings reduced to faintly echoing recriminations. I’d hate for the world to come to regard me as little more than an expeller of carbon emissions that it once made the mistake of getting involved with. It’d be truly tragic if the planet only recalled my presence when it came across one of the many landfills left in my wake and thought to itself, ‘oh Jaysus, what was I thinking getting mixed up with that prick?’ I think that would be a sad end to our cosmic coupling. Yeah, I think I’ll start making an effort to leave the world with more to remember me by than a dirty great footprint. I hope something good comes of our time together. I hope it’s not too late. After all, if it came to a break up the world could always move on but me, well, like the rest of you, if the world finished with me I’d be truly finished.

JOB BRIDGE

Work Placement - Restructuring Agents (West Asia, North Africa, Middle East regions)

Duties include the propagation of global chaos, subjugation of women, execution of sundry infidels, enforcement of illiteracy, social media campaigning, customer relations and the development of new market bases.

Opportunities to sever heads, slit throats, and take bites out of human organs while roaring Allahu Akbar.

Salary: Whatever you find, take it!

THE FOREST OF WORDS

There once was a little boy who loved words so much he spent all his time in the forest of words, where words grew instead of trees. The little boy would pick words from the forest and press them into his little book where they made lovely patterns and formed sentences and paragraphs. One day the little boy got lost in the forest of words. It was a very confusing place and he could not find his way out. The little boy's beloved words were not much help. Some of the words said 'come this way' and other words from a different direction said 'no little boy, come this way'. Some other words that were in the forest didn't make much sense at all but the words that did make sense seemed to want the little boy to go in circles, around and around and around, forever. The little boy knew that he could not rely on the words to get him out of the forest. 'If I follow the words I will never get out of here and I might die', said the little boy to himself. The little boy felt betrayed by the words that he loved. He was very upset and missed his family and his dog very much.

Then the little boy had a very clever idea. 'I know', said the little boy to himself. 'I will leave a trail of shite and that way I will know if I am retracing my steps and going back into the forest'. Then the clever little boy pulled down his britches and deposited a tiny shite on the forest floor. The little boy continued to do this as he made his way through the forest. When he saw a shite or smelt one nearby, the little boy knew he had doubled back on himself and he would change direction. The little boy did not run out of shite because as he made his way through the forest the little boy picked and ate the words that grew there. Then the little boy would shite out the digested words, a bit like most people do when they are talking but the little boy made the shite come out of his little bottom instead of letting a load of shite pour out of his mouth.

The little boy eventually found that he was not in the forest of words anymore. This was not because the little boy had found his way out, oh no. This was because the little boy had eaten all the words in the forest and turned the forest into a big heap of shite that the little boy stood atop. This was the biggest heap of shite that ever was and from the top of it the little boy could look out upon the whole world. From where he was standing, the little boy could see words everywhere, telling people to do this and that and confusing them and playing tricks on them. The little boy called out to warn the people below but it was no use. The little boy could not be heard from way up on the mountain of shite that had all come out of his clever little bottom. This made the little boy sad and he began to cry. The little boy cried and cried and his tears made the shite soft and the little boy began to sink into it. 'Oh no', said the little boy, 'I am being swallowed up by my own shite', and so he was and the little boy was never seen alive again.

The mountain of shite then calcified in the hot sun and became so hard and stiff that the people of the world were able to build upon it. The people built a library on the shite and named it after the little boy who had vanished to where they knew not. They put all kinds of books in the library that had all kinds of words in them that said all kinds of confusing things. Little did the people know that the little boy would not have liked this because the little boy had learned not trust words and had decided that even shite is more dependable; as long as the shite doesn't go soft and swallow you up.

One day, the little boy's dog was sniffing around the mountain of shite and began digging a hole in it. The little boy's dog then discovered the little boy's skeleton and started to chew on the bones until the little boy's father discovered the dog and shot it in disgust. Then the little boy's father wept over the little boy's remains and later he wrote a book about the little boy's life and the book was full of words and do you know what readers? Yes, that's right. The book was a load of shite.

The End!

LONG PIG

I see you long pig. Head down. Hands in pockets. Negotiating an Edward Hopper meets Mike Leigh landscape. Another round fought to another split decision. You're going the distance but what a distance. You make eye contact with a weirdo who thinks you're a weirdo. You find a tenner but you lost twenty. There might be something on the telly tonight but you know that there probably won't be. The telly's broke anyway. Dieter and Annabelle have invited you to dinner but you're not going because they sound pretentious. A friend texts you to tell you that you're a 'miserable bollocks'. You text back 'so?'. Somebody asks you what time it is and you tell them that it doesn't matter. You'd arrange a protest march against the indifference of the Universe but you know that no one would show up. The Universe wouldn't care anyway. All that can be said has been said except for all the stuff that should be said but never will be. This is getting repetitive. But what's that noise from above? Everyone is standing in the road. Look up long pig. There are crosses in the sky. It's the end of the world ...again.

COINCIDENCE CITY!

I can tell what people are writing just by listening to the faint sound the pen makes when it scratches against the paper. It's the same with the sound of chalk squeaking off blackboards and so on. It's a talent but I'm not sure it's all that useful. It did get me on telly when I was a little boy though. I was all the rage for a while. I was in advertisements for stationary products and everything. You might remember me.

Things went really well until everyone got a bit fed up seeing me do my thing over and over. The bookings stopped coming in so my agent decided we should add a new element to my routine. That's when my agent announced to the press that I could tell what was written on a piece of paper just from listening to it go through a photocopier. That wasn't true but he announced it and I had to learn how to do it. I tried. I really did. But I couldn't. I cried a lot though. 'Those tears won't earn us a bloody penny', yelled my agent, 'now try again you pathetic little pansy'. My agent was the pushy sort. Very pushy in fact. So pushy that he had pushed to gain custody of me from my parents. And so pushy that he had succeeded. I was at the pushy bastard's mercy. I wasn't a happy child, despite the public adulation.

Anyway, I was booked to appear on some primetime show that everyone used watch but no longer remembers. I was stood there in front of a studio audience as a photocopier was wheeled out. Then the host of the show wrote something on a piece of paper and ran it through the copier. The copier started making noises and I listened. I listened in the vain hope that I would somehow be able to perform the trick. My agent was peering at me, mean eyed, from the wings. The pressure was immense. I was silently praying for divine intervention and some came but not in the way I'd expected. You see, as I was stood there hoping for a miracle, I realised that I'd heard the host's pen scratching against the sheet of paper as he wrote on it before placing it in the copier. I had heard what he had written! 'My wife doesn't understand me', I shouted out as the photocopy appeared out the other side of the machine. That was indeed what he had written and I was patted on the back and got a big round of applause. The show then closed with the host inviting his wife on stage to join us and serving her with divorce papers.

I was booked on many more shows after that and could be found endorsing photocopiers and divorce lawyers in magazines and all that. My agent was delighted but, needles to say, this second wind of fame also abated. That's when my agent started making a second round of untrue claims about my abilities. My agent released a press statement that said I'd developed the ability to tell what words were being projected by an overhead projector just by listening to the transparency being placed on the glass. This was utter bullshit. I hadn't a hope. My agent didn't care though. He had me practising every day. He roared and roared and roared at me and when I wept he roared some more. 'Them sissy tears won't land us any juicy new contracts you weak little fuck', he encouraged.

So, as I'm sure you've guessed, I ended up blindfolded with my back to an overhead projector that was pointed at a screen on some bloody show everyone loved watching but no longer recalls. The host of the show placed a transparency on the overhead projector's glass and a drum rolled. After a moment, the host asked me what words were being projected behind me. I had no idea. No fucking idea at all. But, I did have another idea. I had a really good idea about what I could do and what I did was this: I screwed up my face and began to sob. I began to sob and bawl and make bitter tears roll down my little face. 'What's the matter kid?', asked the concerned host and I answered him. I pointed to my agent who was stood in the wings and I shouted out the words 'that man touched my willy'.

Turned out that my tears earned me more than a penny that day, the result being that I was awarded the entire earnings made over the course of my career. I was also returned to the care of my parents. As for my agent, he became penniless drunk. He ended up on the streets and was eventually beaten to death by vigilantes for being a nonce.

And so we have a happy ending to this strange little tale that I invented and wrote in just over an hour (excluding checking for typos) as a challenge to myself. Amn't I great? There's more to me than just being able to tell what people are writing from the sound of their pens. Oh, and there's one more thing that I think I should add. You're probably wondering what words were written on the transparency the telly host placed in the overhead projector. Well, I'll tell you, ...and this is the best part. The words on the transparency read: 'that man touched my willy'. Seriously. What are the fuckin chances of that eh? Coincidence city!