MORE ABOUT THE BLACKS

(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.
Whack!
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.

I Loved a Woman Once.

Like a forlorn gumshoe without a crime to solve, I wandered the streets of this smoggy city, aimless and quite alone. Then I crossed her path and everything changed. She was on my mind every minute and every second of those minutes. I mulled over her every enunciation and then remulled over those enunciations. My inner world became a delightful delirium, an aesthetically overwhelming mash-up: her graceful perambulation, her shoulder blades, her calves, her ankles, her hips, the tinkling bell of her laugh, her lively eye-balls, all that shite. She ruled my mind like a lovely dictator so I asked her out for dinner and then a movie.

She momentarily excused herself in the restaurant, leaving a small number of her belongings on our table. Amongst these belongings lay a hair clip, one that she kept removing and reinserting for some feminine reason that was beyond me. I regarded the clip and my heart swelled at the sweetness of the object. It held her hair in place. HER hair. It was a little baby blue clip and it was there, on the table, resting. It was adorable. I began speaking to it. 'Who's the little clip?' I asked it rhetorically. 'You are,' I answered, 'you are the little ickle blue hair clip'. Becoming absorbed in this reverential interrogation of the inanimate object, I lowered my head closer to the clip and tickled it under its chin (or where it would most likely have a chin if it had a chin). 'You're the ickleist, loveliest, ickle dickle clip in the world, aren't you, yes you are, yes you are,' I said in a somewhat ridiculous voice through pursed lips. I then realised that she (the clip's owner and wearer) had returned from the bathroom and was standing behind me. Looking perturbed, she retook her seat.

No matter how hard I tried, from that point on, all attempt at conversation was futile. She ate quickly and after the meal she made an excuse and stood to go. As she left, I called after her. 'You forgot your. . .' I held up the hair clip, 'this' I said weakly. She looked at me with mild disdain and told me I could keep it. 'I hope the two of you will be very happy together,' she said and then walked away.

I never saw her again but have since heard that she formed an organisation called The Immigration Control Platform. Oh Aine, how the heart makes fools of us all. Lucky break I suppose, I still have the lovely ickle clip and at least that's not racist.

TELLY BINGO, NEW PRESENTER

Congrats to Keith of the Immigration Control Platform Youth Division on his appointment with RTE.
In other news, check out The Covers of the Fuggers That Never Were!