Still stuck in Knock

 Posted by on June 8, 2006  Add comments
Jun 082006

OK. It’s tomorow.

Anyway, that was Knock. I didn’t go to the Basilica because there wasn’t time, and also because I was afraid they’d kill me if I tried to enter their church while wearing my Laugh at that, ye Dublin 4 Fuckers T-shirt, which I had made after Munster won the Heineken Cup at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff (attended by myself and my beloved son the Bullet. Hahahahahahaha!! Sorry. Very sorry, but I just couldn’t help it, y’know?) Not really that sorry.

I thought maybe they might miracle up an old apparition or something. Do you know what I reckon they have in the Basilica, now that I think about it? I’d say they have a Stargate. I’d say they go to planets with names like P5C-768 where they meet and converse with new and interesting people. And kill them.

In real life, the SG-1 team are constantly finding themselves in caves where fuckers pop up out of tables and stone walls and the like to deliver some sort of Hail Stranger speech, and after a while they realise it’s a hologram put there by the Ancients, or some other crowd. So I think these people who saw the Virgin Mary were either

1. Very drunk
2. Very stoned
3. Both of the above
4. Members of SG-1.

I have to admit, I wasn’t entirely up to speed on the Knock story, and I had to look up the details, so let me just bring you up to date, in case maybe you’re a little hazy on the subject, like me. The apparition took place on the evening of August 21, 1879. Two women, going home in the rain, passed by the back of the town church, where, against the wall, stood Mary, St. Joseph, St. John the Evangelist, and an altar with a lamb and a cross on it. The women called more people who all saw various things. One boy even saw angels flying around the altar. Interestingly, the figures didn’t speak to the people, gave no message, and didn’t identify themselves.

Here’s the photo the villagers took:

OK. Where are we going here? This kind of thing happens in just about every Irish town in the middle of the night to an increasing number of people. It’s happened to me. Twenty years ago I saw the Red Army’s tanks hiding behind a ditch in Avoca after Gerry Doherty’s wedding. I saw bouncers in the disco made of wax! I saw nuclear fallout on the pavement outside the chip-shop. Basically, what I’m trying to say is, don’t tell me hallucination, already. I KNOW hallucination!! What I don’t know, however, is how the fuck anyone could identify St John the Evangelist. Do we have a passport picture of him or something?

– Look Mary – there’s an apparition at the back wall of the church.

– Well, Mary, so it is. And that beautiful European-looking woman in the blue rig-out must be the Queen of Heaven.

– It must surely, Mary. And that European-looking fellow with the spokeshave and the gimlet must surely be St Joseph.

– That’s right, Mary, and look at the lovely coffee table he’s making. But who’s the other European-looking chap?

– Oh, Mary, don’t you know by the gimp of him he has to be someone important. ‘Twouldn’t surprise me if he was the man who wrote the very Bible itself.

– Do you mean Edmund Rice, Mary?

– No, Mary. I’d say ’tis the beloved apostle himself. And can’t you see ’tis tattooed on his forehead for all the faithful to behold? Saint John the Evangelist, it says, clear as day.

– Well, Mary, isn’t that a caution, entirely?

‘- Tis, Mary. Run up to the pub now and call down all the people till they get a good look at this. Its like won’t be here again.

That’s a grand European-looking goat they have up there on that European-looking altar, Mary.

– Oh, Mary, that’s a little European-looking lamb, what ails you at all at all?

Fuck it, let’s leave Knock behind where it belongs with the spuccers the League of Decency and all the fucking rest. Good luck to them if they think they’ll find a miracle cure there. I spoke to a man recently who seems to have fought back against a major illness, and he didn’t need to see Saint John the Evangelist. He only needed to see his son achieving wonders on the field of sport, and feel as proud as a man can be. So what exactly is a miracle, and since when did the Catholics take it over?

Let’s get on the road to Donegal.

  2 Responses to “Still stuck in Knock”

Comments (2)

    In regard to apparitions and the like, here is a word for word rendition of a converation between two good friends of mine.

    I apologise for the following: The background to this is important, so bear with me as I bore you with trivial detail; The Divvil is in the details auld stock….

    There was a time whereupon a former Crew (note previous post in the Dickler blog) that used to do various jobs at particular times during the year (Bank Holiday Weekends to be exact). At the time most of the crew would travel to the location of the wet work in Small commercial vehicles (Or Vans). The reasons for this is common knowledge to anyone who started their driving in the late eighties at the usual age (around 17 or so) but I’ll list the mains ones::

    1. The insurance on a two seater van like a Peugeot 209 or Fiesta Van (or for those more upmarket like meself the Ford Escort van) was a hell of a lot cheaper than a car for most young male drivers starting off.

    2. Because if all else failed in regard to accommodation you could sleep in the mattress in the back provided you were upmarket enough to have the escort (or even heaven forbid the most luxurious Hiace or Transit….)

    3. Those of us who couldn’t afford a car got the work vans from our parents rather than the family car to get away on weekends like this.

    The net result of all this was that a convoy of up to six vans of varying shapes and sizes used to travel to these remote locations prior to the commencement of the wet work.

    These Away wet jobs usually involved the consumption of copious amounts of various liquids for as many hours as possible before collapsing into the vehicles in question.

    On this particular away wet job, the hit took place during the Cork Jazz Festival weekend in October, Location was Kinsale where we had developed a rapport with the locals to give us a reasonable alibi. This particular job had involved bringing various girlfriends wives etc. as cover (We were also beginning to settle a small bit to the extent that said “Wimmin” inevitably stirred up enough shit that they had to be brought along, anyway it was of the age where Hormonal influences made most of the decisions, or in other words the small head was doing the thinking….It was a wise woman that said once to me that males had two major organs but only enough blood to run one of them at any particular moment…). Because of the female element, accommodation in a B&B had to be found for the weekend. The only one available at the time of booking was in the Village of Ballinspittle, approximately 5 or 6 miles from the town of Kinsale. Now Ballinspittle is a most dull godawful spot, known to most of our “aykwals” (to coin a traditional phrase) for one reason and one reason only, A Bloody Moving Virgin Statue thingy.

    The following conversation takes place after a rip-roaring session lasting approximately three days at approximately 11:00 in the morning of the fourth day. The two lads in question, A lieutenant named “Sir Jester” and “The Slats”, a lowly private at the time, had been dragged out for a walk at that ungodly hour, by their respective “Wimmin” to see the famous statue, for the purpose of which only “Wimmin” will know or understand but mainly I presume to keep the lads out of the pub for an hour or so. The two lads ended up standing in front of said famous bloody moving Virgin Statue, gazing up through weary bloodshot eyes and the conversation goes summat like this:

    “Boss, so that’s the famous moving statue ha?”,
    “Tis man, Tis…”,
    A 30 second pause…..
    “Jaysus I don’t know boss, It’s not doing too much jumping now”…..
    “You’ve no faith man…, Christ shut up I’m dying….”
    Another pregnant pause…..
    “Jaysus boss, she’s starting to talk to me..”, N.B. THIS WAS SAID IN INTONATION MOST DEEP AND SERIOUS…..
    “What, WHAT? What in the fuck are you goin on about, SHUT UP for fucks sake….”
    “Honest Boss She’s talking to me….”
    “What’s she saying sham,?
    “She says that’s its time for a cure……”


    Don’t knock Knock.

    Read the business plan.

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