1724 BORN: Arthur Guinness, Irish brewer, in Kildare, inventor of stout, founder of Guinness brewery
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| Local hero, 1724 |
09:07
Whew weew weeew. It's the first winter's day, the spiked wind and dolloped rain drags across the sullen sky.
10:28
People are so politically correct, they can't hear a word spoken. It's PC angst. I don't mean an'thin' by it.
11:25
Democracy under fire: not enough seats in the Dail for certain constituencies, not enough councillors per town in the counties. Needs more politicians.
11:33
So much time tinkering with electric voting fail they forgot to redraw the electoral district boundaries to represent the true state of affairs, or rather, how they'd prefer them.
11:49
Rain slams the window pane.
18:03
Didja get the bag, Seelia?
- Oi did, Bert-helemew.
Alright. Hit it. Keep an eye out for de bleedin' cops.
18:08
Everything he said is changed/proved wrong. He says he is innocent of charges/allegations he took money from a building-trade buddy. Yet there is no evidence that he didn't.
18:41
From Krusty the clown to the Teflon Tee-chips. What channel are we watching? Kids throwing eggs. A lardy caricature ranting and raving in a funny voice.
18:57
Tomorrow's weather not as bad as today. You can google all the showers on the satellite map. Here you can see Ireland here outlined with a green highlighter at 10am. Here it is again at twelve with no clouds. Here it is at one-fifteen, submerged. Then the wind blows the satellite off course but just before it does, it spots a glacier starting to form over a bog in Limerick so turn on the heat, light the fire, make some tea.
19:08
Couple of Dub kids, brothers, Romanio-Hibernio tradition, skateboard on the hill, the eleven year old and his six year brother. Giggles.
23:54
So they take the canary, Gilhooley, and they puts him on ice, see? They gets a piano wire and a nail bar, see? Ice him. Hang the stiff upside down in a meat locker, see? Leave it hanging for sixteen weeks, you know, until it matures. Proper conditions, cool, dry, ain't get no flies at it or nothing. By the end, the flesh is covered in a soft green growth. All the fat is pushed up in the heart and head. Drippings collect in a drip tray tied to his forehead with butcher's twine.
Then Shivvo and Bertsculoni, Obruno and Ocalliglioni and their soldiers all come in, see? Shivvo reaches into his jacket and comes out with a pack of fags and a twelve inch butcher's blade, used but sharp, borrowed from a good friend of his, if you know what I mean.
While the others watch, a smoking Shivvo trims the algae from the skin, cuts around the outside to expose the seasoned flesh beneath. He plates it up like an Italian barman and serves it with greenn olives and red wine. The Big Man is like poetry in motion. The made men murmur approval.
Shivvo expertly slashes out the giblets and offers the canary's heart to Bertsculoni, known to the men about him as "The Taxi" because of all the people he carries. Bertsculoni smiles narrowly and with respect to Shivvo, his anointed heir, says “Yer grand.”
One of the button men opens the door and the hungry hounds rush in. The Taxi flings the marbled heart of the canary to the baying dogs. They devour it greedily, scratching and snapping each other as they do. Shivvo opens the neck and cuts out the 40-inch tongue of The Canary and with the help of his butching blade, sticks it where the sun don't shine. They let the dogs eat while they celebrate with a fine whiskey chased away with beers. Bertsculoni raises has glass of ale. "Gentlemen. There's land to be rezoned, lads. Taxes to break. Let's go get a burger.”
For de burghers.
