Christ, I’m bollixed.
I decided that the only way to get some sort of shape on that goddam kitchen was to invite a gang of scroungers over for grub and liquor, so I set a date for last Saturday and told them I’d be handing out free food. That’s why I haven’t been here much lately: I’ve been working my arse off to get the kitchen finished so that a crowd of fucking drunkards could come over, take all my food and drink all my beer and all my wine. The grub was great, though I say so myself, and I was particularly pleased with my spare ribs cooked in honey, cider and peppers. I might let you have the recipe tomorrow and you can try it out. Let me know if you like it. I also did them a selection of dips, snacks and a pot of chilli con carne. How bad? It was all a lot of work but on the other hand, I got a lot done to the house, and one of the drunkards – a Warrior Princess – brought me a kitchen-warming gift: a book entitled Dictators’ Homes. Thank you, O Warrior Princess!
They came, they ate, they drank. They drank some more, and then just a tiny bit on top of that to make sure the last of my wine was gone. Then they fucked off.
That left me with a brain-damaged liver, which in years gone by would have somehow recovered on the Sunday, but people like me no longer live in normal times. No indeed. In earlier times, Father’s Day would have involved a couple of cards and a pair of socks. But these days, it involves my daughter taking me out on the piss, which is what happened. And I ended up shit-faced drunk again, singing along to Johnandmurty and giving away the last pint of the night. Not a common occurrence, let me tell you. Oh, and some semi-evolved stoned arsehole tried to start a fight with me. I’m glad to say it came to nothing as I wouldn’t want my beloved daughter to see me in an unseemly scrap. And I wouldn’t want to get beaten up either.
This is why, on Monday morning, once my eyes finally managed to focus on the newspaper, I was bemused to read about yet another set of monk’s bones doing the rounds. Do you know what I’m talking about? You don’t? Well, there seems to be a constant procession of skeletal remains around this fair land, and no shortage of gobshites to come out and Praise Da Lawd!
It started for me with Therese of Lisieux, aka the Little Flower, aka Therese of the Child Jesus. The Child Jesus: that idea must surely have been the creation of an Irish mother, or maybe Italian. No, no, no. Don’t grow up, Jesus. Stay at home with me forever. (That reminds me of the time a teenage boy’s skeleton was found in Stratford-on-Avon. It was Shakespeare when he was much younger.)
Anyway, they brought Therese of Leixlip to Ireland as part of a world tour, except it wasn’t all her bones. It wasn’t even some of her bones. No. It was a knuckle. The Blessed Knuckle of Lisieux. And you couldn’t see it. Now, I’d have imagined that you’d have some kind of a window that you could peep through to see the blessed knuckle, but that wasn’t the case. It was a solid box, with jewels on the outside, and you just had to imagine the knuckle inside, beaming out all sorts of goodness at you. People queued all night long to see the Blessed Box of Saint Therese. All the way around the block from the cathedral, up along Cathedral Place, up Mulgrave Street, the whole way to the lunatic asylum and back down again.
Ever alert to a possible fast buck, there were many who moved among the throng selling flowers so that the faithful could leave them on Saint Therese’s Box, as a sign of respect to the Little Flower. And of course, I thought the same. You know those ribs cooked in cider and honey? Well, it seemed appropriate to roast up a few ovens-full and work the hungry crowd through the night. Barbecued Ribs of Saint Therese. Only five pounds each. They loved it and it was on the success of this that I built yet another enormous fortune.
Now I’d better find out what the latest ossified fucker is called. You have to keep ready.