Banking Economy


It’s Wallowe’en, the dread night when a veil slips between our world and the grim otherlife, that half-lit place where shades groan and pookas flit, where untrod boards creak as dark falls and ghastly ghostly ghoulish goblins jump at you from tombstone and tunnel, with cackle and catcall.

It is that awful time when creatures from an occult realm, a place so foul no human mind dreamed nor heart feared, crawl from the slime and drag their suppurating corpse-looking bodies to your door,  to call for alms. 

For alms.  For alms.  Save us from the Pit of Hades.  Save us from the Seventh Circle of Hell.  Save us from Doom,  from eternal fire,  from torment with the deevils and the boiling tar and the pitchforks.  Rescue us from Yog Sotthoth, from Beelzebub, from  Azaziel, from  Behemoth, Chemosh and Eurynomos.   Save us from Kasadia, Oromas and Yeter’el.

We beseech thee to save us for we did not know what awaited us in the pits of eternal damnation.

That’s right.  It’s the time when we pay back the unsecured bondholders of the Irish banks.


Now that I think about it, this story seems appropriate: sinners


Bock's People


Last night was the feast of Saint Halloween, patron saint of feral children.

This is the day, every year, when urchins gather by the roadside to practise the traditional art of flinging eggs at cars, and when their parents stand around a huge bonfire drinking Dutch Gold and freeing the spirit of the god, Dioxin.


Once a year, on this day, even hardened atheists pray: for rain, and our prayers were answered last night when it started to rain heavily at about 11 o’clock, sending thousand of disappointed pyjama people home, too sober and too early, their celebrations in ruins, a heap of half-melted wheelie-bins and smouldering mattresses.

Our prayer wasn’t answered too early though.  The day started bright, crisp and sunny.  Just the thing for a walk by the river, followed by a browse around the market004

People-watching and nibbling little treats before wandering off for a coffee and a read of the paper.009

This is the last time we’ll see the market  in its present form, open to the elements.  It closes for six months while they put  a giant umbrella over it.


Traders have mixed views about this, and I have misgivings myself but we’ll have to give it a chance.


Time for a coffee in Nancy’s and a chat.

The world’s funniest German is in good form.  He kills us with his latest joke: Hello.  Can I help you?


Things are looking grim here too.  A harsh disciplinary regime means that cheeky customers can expect no mercy:


It’s a busy day.  We’re off to Thomond Park to meet Ulster in a Magners League match.  Bullet and myself got lucky and secured stand tickets through a kind friend.



Ulster are tough opposition, but Munster grind out a good victory, securing a bonus point for four tries and winning 24-10.  How bad?


After that, what else can you do only get down to some serious partying?  Saint Halloween delivered, bless him, providing rain, music and drink.

What more could one ask from the patron saint of feral children?


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Customs Humour

Halloween Beggars

The big night approaches fast, but I’m on it.

I’ve stockpiled large quantities of goodies to hand out to the little trick-or-treaters when they knock on my door, though I haven’t yet had a chance to add the drugs to them. I’m hoping Bullet will give me a hand tomorrow to lace the sweets with minute amounts of PCP and psilocybin. And perhaps strychnine, depending on how the mood takes me.

Let’s see now. Do I want demented-running-around with visions from the pits of Hell, or do I want agonised writhing with foaming at the mouth?

Hmm. Not an easy choice. Never easy. Pits-of-Hell / agonised writhing. Agonised writhing / pits-of-Hell. Gnnyyaaahhh!!‚  What to do?

I know! Let’s have both. We’ll mix a little strychnine with some arsenic, some ricin, a bit of cyanide, some Polonium-210, hemlock and botulism. Take that, you botulist bastard!! Now we’re cookin’! Let’s mix it all in with some lysergic acid, the old PCP, psilocybin, a bit of peyote for sudden jumping up on mountains, a little bit of sensemilla. Throw in some DMT, 2C-B, mescaline, DOM, some skunkweed and a healthy lump of old-fashioned DOPE.

There. I think we’re finished. Get to work, Bullet.

I’ve also bought dozens of eggs to pelt the little fuckers’ parents with because I hate these smug yummy-mummy holier-than-thou bastards that shepherd the kids from door to door and stand back there on the footpath watching you in case you abduct the little vermin and cut them in half in front of their smug, horrified middle-class pushy-parent eyes. As if you’d be bothered. As if they’d be any loss.

Fuck you!! I’ll howl at them while my beloved son feeds their little middle-class spawn a fistful of sweets laced with psychoactive chemicals, deadly poisons and radioactive isotopes. Then I’ll pelt their SUV with rotten eggs. Clean that, you condescending fucker!

I have the dogs wound up to a crescendo of rage — achieved very simply, by showing them pictures of people in furry gloves and then kicking them, hard. My plan is simple. Any child that won’t accept the psilocybin-laced sweets will have to run the gauntlet of starving, maddened dogs (mine and all my neighbours’ — we’ve banded together this year). Any survivors will be shouted at in unison by a phalanx of enraged householders: Fuck off, you horrible little prick. You’re ugly and you’ll never amount to anything. And you won’t get into that fee-paying school your crawling slithery furry-hatted parents wanted for you, so there!! Mwooohahahaha!

We’re practising this chant, and it’s starting to gel. Actually, it’s a great way to bring a neighbourhood together.

I’ve also bought a number of catapults for our teenagers to shoot nuts and hard little crab-apples at the children when they see them crying.

With any luck, I’m hoping we can mentally scar even more of the little bastards this year than we did last year.