Impure thoughts

I was at the 12 o'clock mass last Sunday. Normally I hang around at the back for the quick exit. As soon as Fr Collins says 'In the name of the Father ...' it's my starting gun to head to Magowan's for pre-prandial pints.

Last Sunday, Peggy came with me and I was escorted to the front. She wouldn't normally go marching up there either, but she has a new frock. Paddy Mulhall came and sat beside me. He doesn't like Collins and likes to get up close so that he can show Collins how bored he is.

At the communion, I couldn't help noticing young Emily Shannon as she swayed past me. There was the cloud of perfume and talcum powder before I got the full visual effect. She must have been planning on going to a night club after mass. She was wearing a tight-fitting top that was a compliment to God's creation, and a skirt that was no bigger than a tea towel. The hair and make-up were film star class and must have had her up at dawn to get it together.

She swooshed by with her curves swinging left, right, up and down. It was like watching a play in an American football game - so much happening at once that you're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at. I settled on the legs. They were long enough on their own, but propped up on six inch heels, they went on forever, until eventually they disappeared under the tea towel.

If there was a man in that church who didn't have an impure thought, it wasn't me.

As she passed me on her way back to her place, something went wrong in the shoe department, and she went over like a felled pine. I didn't trip her - I swear.

As she lay in the aisle with her modesty compromised, Father Collins, who was still miked up, said: 'If any man looks around at that poor girl, may he be struck blind.'

Paddy nudged me and whispered: 'Will we risk one eye?'

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Charity begins at home

I had one of them charity outfits on the phone this morning, looking for me to sign up for a direct debit.

First he tried the old guilt-trip tactics: He told me that even ten euro a month would feed a family of four, or buy them a herd of goats, or something. When that wasn't getting him anywhere, he tried a different tack.

'Mr Flynn, I notice from the Shared Charity Database that you don't seem to be supporting any charitable organisation at all.'

That annoyed me.

'Did ya now?' I said.

'An' did yer database tell ya tha' I have a son-in-law out of work, an' him an' me daughter are tryin' to feed four children on fresh air? Did it?'

'An' did it tell ya tha' me wife has chronic arthritis an' needs medication tha' costs a hundred an' fifty euro a month - jus' to relieve the chronic pain and help her to walk?'

'Or tha' me best pal's car is off the road, and withou' a loan from me, he won't be able to fix it an' get to his job?'

'I'm sorry Mr Flynn,' says yer man - backin' off rapid like. 'I didn't realise...'

'No, ya didn't, did ya?' I said.

'An' if I'm not givin' them anythin', you're sure as hell gettin' nothin'.'

I hung up the phone.

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Foot in Mouth Disease

For the past few weeks I've been sufferin' terrible with the oul feet. Or to be more pacific, in the toes area on one foot - the left one. The itch was so bad at mass on Sunday tha' I had to take the shoe off an' have a good scratch. Father Collins had been sayin' somethin' about the lame an' infirm an' I think he thought tha' I was takin' the piss.

Fearin' tha' I had trenchfoot or foot an' mouth disease I took myself into the pharmacy in Dorset Street. They're always tellin' ya tha' it's the thing to do - not to be annoyin' the doctor or the A&E people. There's even a sign in the place sayin' tha' they have a private room for examinations an' consultations.

So tha' I wouldn't be mortified by a couple of big yellow cheesy feet, I went to the trouble o' washin' me feet (both o' them), an' I made sure I was wearin' clean socks.

I was glad to see tha' the assistant wasn't a young dolly bird only interested in floggin' perfume. The woman behind the counter was nearly as old as meself, an' she had a white coat so she must have known somethin'.

'Can I help ya?' she asked, an' I prepared to give her me full medical history in case some tiny detail might be important.

'Well, it's a bit of itch between the toes ...' I started to explain.

'Athlete's foot,' she said. 'This is wha' ya need.'

She pushed a tube o' gunk across the counter at me.

'Nine euro seventy,' she said clearly implying tha' this was the end o' the consultation as far as she was concerned. I have to say tha' I wasn't completely confident in her lightning diagnosis. I didn't feel tha' the problem was gettin' the attention it deserved. It wasn't like I was askin' for blue lights an' a helicopter, but she might at least have had a feckin' look. The feet washin' an' the clean socks were a waste of time. I felt miffed. I began to suspect tha' her white coat came from her other job in a pork shop.

'Are ya sure?' I asked.

'Yeah - Athlete's foot,' she said.

'Well, if me leg falls off, I'll be back to complain,' I said.

'Grand,' she replied. 'Hop in any time.'

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Goodwill to all men and women

At this time of year I remember a story that Joe Horgan told me. Joe got it off a postman who drinks in the bar in Kinsella's.

It was a few weeks before Christmas and the lads in the sorting office got a letter addressed to Santa. They opened it and found that it wasn't from a child but from an old woman living over near Oliver Bond flats.

'Dear Santy,' the letter said. 'I'm in a bit of a bad way. I'm behind on me rent and I'm afraid that they'll cut off the gas and electric if I don't pay them something. I haven't a friend or relation left alive to me, so the Christmas is going to be miserable. If I had £100, it'd be the difference between having some kind of a Christmas and ending up in the poorhouse. I'm at me wits end, and I don't know who to turn to for help - but you Santy. You're me last hope. '

The lads in the sorting office in Sheriff Street are as tough a bunch of desperadoes as you'll meet, but tears were shed when they read that letter. They immediately got up a collection between them and sent the woman £90 with a little card from 'Santa' thanking her for her letter and wishing her a very Happy Christmas.

The first week of the New Year they got another letter addressed to Santa in the same shaky hand.

'Dear Santa,' it said. 'Thank you very much for answering me last letter. It was really very kind of you to help me, and it made all the difference to me over the Christmas. I was able to get in a bit of food and a few bottles of stout, as well as paying a bit off what I owe on the rent, the gas and the ESB. I just wanted to tell you that the robbing bastards in the Post Office took a tenner out of it.'

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The power of silence

Peggy sometimes goes to the bingo with a woman called Carmel Behan. Carmel is married to a big lug known to one and all as '5 Seconds' because that is the approximate length of his fuse. He is one of the few Dubliners I've ever come across who was born without the ability to debate and discuss at length. After drawing on his limited vocabulary to issue his point of view, he rests his case. If a counter-argument is put forward, he seethes silently for about five seconds, and then belts its proponent.

On more than one occasion poor oul Carmel presented herself at Dr Lawlor's suffering from contusions and abrasions inflicted on her when 5 Seconds came home from Magowan's. Lawlor started off giving her his usual combination of blue, pink and brown tablets, but when that was having no effect, he decided on a different approach.

'This is what I want you to do, Mrs Behan,' he said. 'When your husband is coming back from the pub, as soon as you hear his key in the lock, take a mouthful of warm sweet tea, and swish it around in your mouth.'

Carmel was confused. 'Tea, Doctor? Drink a mouthful o' tea?'

'No,' said Lawlor. 'Don't drink it. Keep swishing it around your mouth. Whatever you do, don't swallow it. Not until your husband has gone off to bed.'

Carmel was bemused, but she gave it a go. And guess what? Peggy says that he hasn't laid a finger on her since.

So if you come into Magowan's and see me and the lads swishing stout around our gobs, while 5 Seconds is talking, you'll know why.


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Jem Kennedy RIP

I was at a great funeral last week. It was the best day out I've had in ages. The dearly departed was Jem Kennedy, who will be sadly missed by the publicans of the Daymo. Possibly by his missus, Rose, too, who seemed oddly fond of him - probably because he didn't come home very often. I often think this is the key to a happy marriage, as absence makes the heart grow fonder, and familiarity breeds contempt. My own dear wife, Peggy, worships the ground that I walk on, but only on the strict condition that that ground is as far away from her as possible.

In his younger days, Jem's interests and pleasures were wide and varied. He was always fond of the drink, and would eat all around him. If he couldn't eat it, he would set fire to it and smoke it. He liked to play cards, and would back horses, dogs, cats ... in fact he would have a bet on anything. Most of all, Jem Kennedy was a renowned ladies' man, known as the Gary Cooper of the Coombe. They used to say that he'd get up on the crack of dawn, whatever that meant.

In his latter years, Jem became a pale shadow of the man he once was. He came to look more like Gary Glitter than Gary Cooper, but he still tried it on with any female who came within range.

He spent his last few weeks in hospital suffering from some form of galloping dysentery. I'm not sure if he died or dissolved.

Back in Magowan's pub, after his remains had been poured into the grave, we were lining up to offer our sympathies to Rose.

'Ah, God love ya, ya poor craytur,' said some old Crone, who had shoved in ahead of me.

'Thanks very much,' said Rose. 'I'll miss him. I will.'

'Ah ya will o' course,' said the Crone. 'Ah bu' isn't he at peace now, the poor man, after all his pain.'

'Tha's true, it is,' sniffed Rose. 'He suffered enough.'

The oul-wan drew herself closer to Rose, and asked in a lowered voice:

'Tell us this - is it true tha' he died o' the diarrhoea?'

Rose jumped up and at the top of her voice said:

'He did NOT die o' diarrhoea. He died o' GONORRHOEA. Jem was an OUL SPORT - not an OUL SHITE!'

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Frankie's early career

When I was a young fella there was very little work going in Dublin and you had to be willing to turn your hand to whatever was available. I blagged my way into a plumbing job once, but that ended in tears - well, not tears exactly - more of a deluge when I turned a nut left when I should have gone right. I was a fishmonger, a bike repairer and a lorry driver's mate. I even thought of joining a convent except I didn't think I'd get through the medical. But the easiest job I ever had was in Dublin Zoo.

I replied to an ad in the Herald looking for a general assistant. I was interviewed by the man who looked after the apes and monkeys.

'Wha' I'm goin' to tell ya is highly confidential,' he said.

'Whatever ya have to tell me will go to the grave with me,' I assured him.

'Well, it's like this,' said he. 'Our male gorilla - Buster - is after dyin'. He's very popular. If the word gets out tha' he's brown bread, it'll do awful damage to the gate receipts.'

I thought he was going to ask me to bury or stuff the poor animal.

'Wha' I want ya to do, Mr Flynn,' he said, 'is to put on a gorilla suit, go into the compound, swing aroun', eat a few bananas... Ya know the kind o' thing.'

I did and to make a long story short, I took it on. And if Buster was popular before, I don't mind telling you that he was a big hit now. Real gorillas are all well and fine, but they're lazy bastards. They sit around all day scratching their arses and not much else. As a conscientious employee, and in all fairness a bit of a show-off - I threw myself into it. I made faces. I pranced around. I swung off the ropes like feckin' Tarzan. The kids in particular were delighted with me. There was even a spot on RTE television when they discussed breeding from me.

It all went great until one day, I got a bit carried away swinging on the ropes. I let go at the top of a swing, flew over the fence, and landed on my head in the compound next door. When I could gather myself, all I could see was a bloody great lion bearing down on me.

'Help! Help!' I yelled, trying to get the gorilla costume off. The lion pounced and pinned me to the ground. He was all teeth, claws and hot breath. I said my last Act of Contrition and committed my soul to my maker.

'Shut up, ya feckin' ejjit,' said the lion, 'or ya'll get us all sacked.'


You can buy the hilarious new comedy novel 'It's a Desperate Life' as a paperback or e-book from Amazon and all other good book sellers - especially the excellent Owl Bookshop in Kentish Town, London NW5, and through http://peterhammondauthor.com