The Hoar Of Ages
Monthly Mumble.

Entry 2 of me Monthly Mumble…and I’m fit to be tied! (Turn yer speakers on!)

Another week, another wart under me oxter! I’ve feckin’ tried everything now, down to dosing myself up with all sorts ‘a lotion and remedies…even a bright pink thing-a-me-jig for scabies mites! But still…the feckin’ thing rises triumphant from under me arm like Mount Saint Helen…oozin’ its vile stench even after bathin’! I was sure the feckin' thing was talking to me this morning at the stove! Ah feck it…might as well leave it there. Adds character, I suppose. Call it a third tit.

So, what ‘has’ The Hoar been up to this week? Well…loads, me pigeons, loads!

As per usual, various chores for The Vampire Kildare had me sweatin' about Dublin from noon till nightfall...three diggin’s…endless trips to the pharmacist…and I even made him a big pot o’ stew for a group of people he was having over for dinner at his rooms in  Christchurch. One of them, some tart in a skimpy black frock, choked to death on the ‘surprise!’ (I always plant a small sharp stick in the middle of me stew…’tis me ‘mark’, ya see.) And so, Kildare and I were up all hours tryin' ta figure out a hassle-free way to dump the poor soul. Eventually, we did what we always end up doin' when it's too feckin' late in the night ta bother...in she went, with all the others, into the River Liffey. Poor cow.

Gettin' on, for time's a sly bitch! By chance, ya might have read me last lodgement in me Monthly Mumble? Well if not, get yer arse down the feckin’ page and entertain me by readin’ it for yerself (Entry 1), why don’t ya?!

I ‘had’ mentioned that Freake was sendin’ on his New Letter to Kildare…and of course, me like the diligent handmaiden that I am, (sometimes I wonder am I not just a feckin’ eejit!) ‘Twas back and fourth I was to the damn post office, seeing if Freake’s Letter had arrived yet. That was Monday, then again on Tuesday, two times on Wednesday…and even yesterday I trawled me arse up to Baggot Street! No feckin’ sign nor sight of The Letter! Be Jazuz…I’m blue in the tits goin’ back and fourth for it! Sure I might as well have taken out the Flyin’ Jalopy and headed out for New York to pick the Letter itself up! I’d have been back in me armchair by now I’d say…sure enough. Thing is…the Flyin’ Jalopy is in for a few spell-checks…feckin’ thing nearly gave out on me over Dublin over the weekend! Good thing I was wearin’ me jumpin’ umbrella!

Of course, when the feckin’ plane started to heave, and those cumbersome old engines suddenly began to spit and wrestle with the high winds, I swung the hatch open and nipped out like a shite from a well-oiled arse-hole. The pilot never saw me go!! Good thing too…he probably would have followed suit…and that would have been the ‘very’ end of me flying around in the Jalopy. I landed well enough, somewhere in the Phoenix Park, and amidst a heard of feckin’ reindeer! Had to climb across a few ditches to meet with a road. Been scraping’ the shite off me flyin’ boots since! There ya go…one for the annals!

Right then…what has me ‘vexed’ this month? Well I’ll tell ya Pigeons. It’s the service. That’s right…the feckin’ service! What service? Well ‘EVERY FECKIN’ SERVICE!’ 

The service in the shoppes…the service at the post office…even the service on the bleedin’ telephone! SERVICE ME ARSE! I’m drained to a husk from it all…’tis so inadequate and out-dated, sure even the tourists are scramblin’ for their return tickets the minute they realise how thoroughly rude people in positions of service have become in Ireland! Here’s an instance…

‘Twas Friday night last. I had me kit on by 7.00 pm and was lookin’ utterly ravishin’ as per usual as I stared at me self in the bedroom mirror. Even Juliet would look like a sack-o-pins next to me. But one thing was missin’ from ‘the over-all’ effect, as I planned an outing to my local pub The Wellington on Baggot Street Bridge. Rubbin’ Alcohol! I had no rubbin’ alcohol for me skin! See, ‘tis a great thing that, for the complexion. Did ya know that? Ya probably didn’t…and now ya do. Rub it all over Pigeons…drench yourselves in it! Then wipe it off with a bit of a rag from the jacks, and stand back and look at yerself! Yer skin will light up like the feckin’ Aurora Borealis! And yer muscles will flex nice and tight-like…giving yer ‘over-all’ effect to be that of a Brazen Hussy! The men will be crawlin’ all over ya, believe me! Ye’ll have to fight them off with a lice-comb!

So, there I was, all dolled up, me scarlet boa…me best knickers shown’ at the hem-line…me cocktail gloves pulled up tight around me shoulders…and me hair done up in a perrrrfect bun! But no feckin’ RUBBIN’ ALCOHOL! “I’d have to be quick!” I thought! Cocktail Hour was just startin’! So I nipped out the back door…crossed the Grand Canal at the sluice-gates, headed left on Mespil Road, right on Baggot Street…and into Tosca. Some supermarket I must say. They keep on changin’ the feckin’ shelvin’ in there, so much so that every feckin’ time I go in, I have to trawl the isles all over again to refresh me senses! So…where was the feckin’ Rubbin’ Alcohol?

“Excuse me mister…are you the Manager, perchance?” I said, as this insect-like fella with a cheap blue suit and a plastic badge came into view.

“That would be me. How may I help you…ma'am”? He said, with a most unpleasant showing of his knackered teeth.

“Rubbin’ Alcohol…where is it?! I need a bottle!” I snapped, in me best wordage.

“Rubbin’ What?” he said, as if rubbin’ alcohol was a completely new set of words to him. “Never heard of it…madam.”

“Ya never heard of Rubbin’ Alcohol!? Are ya daft, or what?” said I, “Sure everybody’s heard of that! It’s crystal clear…it comes in a big ol’ bottle…and ya rub it on yerself! Rubbin’ Alcohol! Rubbin’ Alcohol! Ya feckin shite!”

As so…on me words, off I stormed, leavin’ him and every other Ballsbridge twit in there behind me, gapin’ at me as I left. Honest ta jazuz! No rubbin’ alcohol in the supermarkets over here. And me, a true Dub, livin’ and workin’ here all me tender life! That’s the SERVICE I’m talkin’ about! Mean-spirited boggers in behind the counters and walkin’ about the floors of the shoppes and markets, all with their arses where their heads should be, all pretendin’ to be ‘modern’ and ‘hi-tech’ and ‘cuttin’-edge’ and ‘new-fangled’….when, if ya take a closer look at this country, ye’ll see that it’s still a third-rate place to hang! Ireland…you’re a whore sometimes! No feckin’ RUBBIN’ ALCOHOL!!!

Of course, it dawned on me later that night as I sat propped up in me favourite pub The Wellington that…the last time I purchased me self a bottle of rubbin’ alcohol was when I was visitin’ Freake in the ‘wonderful’ city of New York. Found it in a feckin’ local shoppe, I might add. In America, if ye wanted an ostrich egg or a head of Cambodian Lettuce at four in the mornin’, sure ye would find it…somewhere! In Dublin…you’d be lucky to find fresh bread at that time of the night. But still…I love my Dublin…nose-hair and all…dark damp alleys…littered streets…. polluted Canals…miserable, grey evenin’ skies…the lot! But there’s one thing that’s getting’ on me wick about the place…and that’s ‘the change’ in it all. At some feckin’ milestone, passed probably a few years ago…Dublin opened it’s once-fair and silky legs to the world at large. And now?

‘Tis getting’ the Shag of the Century!

That’s is for this week Pigeons! Check back next week for more of Me Monthly Mumble!

The Hoar Of Ages.

Dublin, Ireland. December 3rd 2001.