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| In the eye of the storm, 2005 |
2005 Low-lying US city of New Orleans flooded as Hurricane Katrina storm surges burst the city levees
10:07
PAT-PAP: (about the long-since departed Hollywood starlet who married a royal) What was she like a person?
GUEST (not): She fucked like a bunny, legend has it. Four men at a time. Couldn't get enough. Rumour has.
10:42
PAT IMPERFECT: Victoria, do you want to respond to some of the points made?
GUEST: "Veronica".
PAT IMPERFECT: 'Veronica', sorry. Want to respond to some of the points?
VERONICA: I don't think you can blame pollution from the nuclear plant at Sellafield for the cluster of cancer cases. You need to blame people along the East coast for living there. There was no cancer registry until the nineties so there's nothing you can prove about what happened in the fifties.
10:46
PAT POLITICAL: A member of the Green party is known to carry some baggage?
GREENY: It rained over the Irish sea and there was a sharp increase in mortality in the Isle of Man. So there.
PATIOACTIVE: Asian Flu is the cause. Thanks to my guests today on the nuclear issue.
DROGHEDA MAN LIVING IN LEE OF RADIOACTIVE PLUME: Noh-ah-tall.
10:51
GUEST: Child porn is a multibillion dollar industry, it's global, it's expanding.
10:59
Blah. Jingle. Mumble. Pat and guest (dorky, sincere and worthy though he be) chatter over the ads. "That was great." Go to Arnott's. Get some makeup.
11:04
Patsy reckons that Corruption is the middle name of most African leaders. Why, would they not use the word "Bartholomew"?
11:06
Pat Parfait is sure that the Irish bars in Bordeaux will be showing the hrrr-ugger match. The sports plank is like a bois on the line, speaking in ums and aws. He always sounds to me like he wants to get away from Pat quickly as possibly.
11:07
A soccer correspondent states casually that the problems in the Irish international team are "profound". Steady on, old chap. It's hardly Shakespeare.
11:30
PAT PLEASURE SEEKER: He loved the booze. He loved the birds.
18:21
Tired. Forgot myself. Spake. "Dye mind not doing that there, please? I have to live here."
'Foo-ik aww-wuff.'
"How would you like if I came to your street and urinated outside your front door?"
‘Go ahead. Oi-yill joy-yin ya.'
"It's disgusting!"
Looks around him, member draining horsefully. ‘Oye-me not dee furst fella to use this streeh as a toyl-leh.'
He twists off and snaps back the elastic on his tracksuit bottoms. ‘Y'know wha'’ he says, walking away, I'm-a-gangsta arms held outwards from his body, wrists bent, fingers spread, hanging down. ‘Dey should just explo-wid this whole sss-treehh.' He turns on his heel and streaks off.
At this point I should like to call after him, saying: "Grr. Fuck off. This country boy is not afraid of you, dirty Dub. Just because you piss at my front door, threaten people you don't know and haven't a good word to say about anything, you Celtic-supporting, Hill 16-standing Man United fucking prick! Fuck off to the squalid corpo flat where you come from! We'll be up later on to give you all the spay, starting with your scumbag sisters and your scumtit mother."
Instead I suppress a snigger and feign disgust. Cocky is not the word I'd like to use at this moment. I say nothing, turn the key in the door and after fishing out my post, head up to the Green Zone.
