Giving Back the Six Counties

All these celebrity visits have our heads in a right old tizzy.  Everywhere I look, dyed-in-the-wool Shinners are crying into their beer and asking themselves how they could ever have been so unkind to the nice old lady.

It got me thinking about the part of Ulster that constitutes Northern Ireland.  Give back the Six Counties!! as the saying goes.   Aye.

I think that’s fair enough, as long as the six counties go back to the people they were taken from.

And who would that be?  Well, inconveniently for the modern patriots, Ireland was not a democracy at the time of the  Tudor Conquest.  It was, in fact, ruled by, I’m afraid to say, monarchies.


Yep.  Monarchies just like the Brits.

And how much say did the ordinary Joe have in the running of these monarchies?

Bugger-all, that’s how much.

Now, this presents us with a small conundrum.  When the Brits finally give the Six Counties back to the people they took them from, who exactly will they hand them over to?

Well, it won’t be me and you anyway, unless your ancestors happened to be ancient Irish aristocracy.  If your great-great-great etc grandfather happened to be a small farmer, he had exactly the same freedoms under the local monarchy as he did under the Brits.  None.

So who, then?  Who should get the Six Counties?

I’ll tell you, will I?

We’ll have to head for France and Spain, looking for the descendants of Aodh Ruadh Ó Dómhnaill agus Aodh Ó Néill, na Tiarnaighe Uladh.  We’ll find them in their chateaux and in their vineyards.  They’ll be called Armand O Neill and Roberto O Donnell, and they’ll happily resume the birthright so cruelly torn from their ancestors by the evil Tudor Queen.

We might as well.  France and Germany are going to own the whole island soon anyway.



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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Politics Religion

Light and Darkness

Today, in Ireland, we have both light and darkness in equal measure.


So this is where it ended.

Today, in scenes none of us ever thought we’d live to see, the two most hard-line and intransigent parties in the North came together as equals .

Ian Paisley – Unionist firebrand, bigot, Protestant supremacist – joined cordially with Martin McGuinness – Nationalist firebrand, ideologue, former head of the IRA – and together they undertook to form a government for the peace and prosperity of their children and their grandchildren, in mutual respect.

At long last. Finally they all got sense, and now the war is over. The thing that blighted our island for generations is finished and no more innocent people will be murdered in the name of some spurious ideology.

Every decent person should celebrate.


So this is where we’ve ended up.

A 17-year-old girl in the care of the Health Service is four months pregnant with an anencephalic child. Anencephaly is an appalling condition in which the child in the womb develops with no brain and such children are alive only in the sense that their heart is beating. They are usually stillborn.

This poor girl is waiting for a court to decide if she can terminate this pregnancy, or if our State will force her to go through with another five months of pregnancy knowing that she carries a brain-dead child which will be stillborn.

Why? Because of our much-celebrated constitutional provision vindicating the right to life of the unborn. Forced into the Constitution in a series of hugely damaging national convulsions by our Catholic Taliban back in the eighties.

And this is where our Christianity has led us to:  a poor, frightened 17-year-old waiting to find out if she must carry a poor anencephalic baby to full term in order that it might be delivered dead.

Why? To satisfy a mad Catholic ideology – and we have the nerve to call the Northerners backward.

Every decent person should weep.

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Trevor Brennan 3

Well there you have it. Trev’s been banned for life.

Personally, I don’t see why it’s such a terrible thing to be thumping unpleasant little prats who scream sectarian abuse at you. Let’s not forget that rugby followers in these islands are overwhelmingly peaceful people. You will not see a fight at a rugby game (except, perhaps, on the field). But Ulster, unfortunately, has a very unpleasant minority within it, who are both sectarian and racist. This is a pity.

A dear friend of us all died a few years back. Jock Hunter was born in the Western Isles of Scotland and was one of the great raconteurs: a man whose stories were so good, you didn’t care if they were true. Anyway, Jock blundered into Limerick in his late fifties. He was a bit of an oddity. Jock had what the Brits confusingly call a “public school” education, meaning an extremely expensive education, and he was the son of some Scottish lord. Though he sprang from their ruling classes, he was also a wild man, a chancer, and a thoroughly decent fellow, loved by everyone. Though he grew up in a Free Presbyterian household, he ended his days a true Munsterman, and his proudest boast was of an incident that happened when Ulster came to Thomond Park to play Munster.

I’ve finally made it, he used to laugh. I’m finally a real Munsterman.

And then he’d break into his great wheezing bellowing laugh before flinging back another gulp of Guinness.

D’you know what they shouted at me? They said Fuck off you Fenian Bastard!! Me! A black Prod!!

Unfortunately, that isn’t the only kind of black they tend to abuse.

Back to Trevor. Many are wondering why he got such a savage sentence, but I think there’s little enough mystery in it. Trevor is from the wrong side of the tracks as far as the alickadoos are concerned, and they’re delighted to put him back in his rightful place. Here’s what Zucchini says:

I have been present [in Thomond Park] when he played for Leinster against Munster and the abuse that he got from his own supporters was actually a lot worse than anything we could throw at him. Saying things along the lines of “Go back to your working class roots Brennan where you belong” were hurled at him by a crowd of D4 gobshites one night in T.P. fuckit did they not know where they were for fucks sake.

You think that’s not true? Here’s something I wrote last year. I didn’t make it up.

True Story


Trevor Brennan 2

Trevor Brennan

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Favourites Humour Politics

My gift to loyalism

Watch carefully now. This is what the loyalist politician of the future – or even the decent loyalist in the street – will be using for all his daily requirements. I’ve designed a handy electronic gadget that acts as an auto-prompter for heckling political opponents, and contains seven hundred different ways to say NO! At the push of a button, it will play the complete works of Wild Willie McCrae, say for example at a tea-party, or in a Shankill drinking club. It can also hold the entire body of speeches by the Rev Ian Paisley since the day he was born, which I think could be very useful for terrifying their opponents during a game of darts. It contains a complete Ulster-Scots dictionary and a simulated Lambeg Drum sound which can be very useful when parading through somebody’s housing estate when you don’t want anybody to know. The patterns for several thousand tattoos are stored inside it and a tiny laser can engrave any pattern on any part of your body in seconds. Additional patterns can be downloaded from the website.

For ease of use, it will be shaped like a bowler hat with the headphones discreetly hidden in the brim.

This I’m certain is the future of loyalism: welcome the iProd!


Trevor Brennan

What about Trevor Brennan? For those who don’t follow such matters, Trevor is a six-foot-five 220-pound savage, a former Ireland international rugby player, latterly of Leinster and now with Toulouse.

Trev played exactly thirty seconds of rugby for Toulouse against Ulster on Sunday. First, he charged into the crowd and beat the shit out of an Ulster supporter, although in fairness to Trev, the same supporter was a smirking shifty little cunt who deserved a good beating just for looking like an unshelled tortoise. Apparently, Trev claims that the Ulster supporter, Patrick Bamford, made disparaging remarks about his mother, which is a thing that will get you going every time.

I remember once playing a soccer match and this bollix on the sideline kept shouting things about my mother.

Oy, Bock! he screamed. Your mother never changed the engine of a tractor!

Fuck you, I thought to myself, but said nothing.

After I’d nabbed a nice in-swinging floater from Mebbs McCarthy and nodded it into the back of the net, the same fool had another go.

Your mother is older than you!

Again I let it pass.

Then, right on the button of ninety minutes, just as I latched onto a sweet pass from Knackers McGonigal, your man piped up again.

Oy, Bock. Your mother couldn’t boil winkles in a big winkle-boiling thing for winkles.

That did it. In one fluid motion, I volleyed Knackers’s ball past the keeper while at the same time producing the trusty old Colt .44 Magnum I always keep in my knickers, and plugged him straight between the eyes.

I’d say it was the same for Trevor. Here was this cunt saying bad things to him, and Trevor decided there was only one thing for it. Jump into the crowd and pummel the living shit out of him with a fist the size of a medium ham. As you would. Anyway, the pounded one is an accountant and he’s wearing a stupid Santa hat at the end of January. In France, the courts will accept that as a sound defence. Remember, France is the land where Eric Cantona and Zinedine Zidane are national heroes, and fair play to them.

Of course, it didn’t help Trev’s case that he then went onto the pitch and immediately became involved in a full-scale fist-fight with Justin Harrison before being sin-binned. After that, his manager wisely chose to substitute him and he took no further part in the game.

Good man, Trev.


Also here

and here

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Leinster 20 Ulster 12

Leinster marked the end of the old Lansdowne Road with a fine victory over Ulster.

I’m sure our recent correspondents won’t mind if I point out that the Man of the Match award went to a Munsterman, Stephen Keogh.


Ulster Scots

ulster scots

It’s claimed that Ulster Scots is a language in the same way as Irish or English, or Serbo-Croat. Well, here’s the introduction to the web site of the Ulster Scots Agency.

Aboot Worsels

Tha Noarth-Sooth Boord  Leid is cum aboot frae tha Bilfawst Greeance as yin o tha Noarth-Sooth boords. Tha Boord o Leid taks in twa faicteries, Tha Boord o Ulster-Scotch an Tha Boord o Gaelick (Foras na Gaeilge). Ilka yin o thir twa faicteries haes its ain boord quhilk thegither maks tha Noarth-Sooth Boord o Leid. The preses o ilka Boord is baith Claucht-Preses o tha Boord o Leid.

Tha Boord o Ulster-Scotch bis gart unner tha laa guide tha “forderin o mair forstannin an uise o tha Ulster-Scotch leid an o Ulster-Scotch fowkgate daeins, baith ben Norlin Airlann an athort tha islann”.

Tha Boord maun gie answer til tha Noarth-Sooth Cooncil o Minnysters, an maist o aa tae tha twa Minnystrrs, baith in tha Norlin Airlann Semmlie an Dáil Eireann, as taks adae wi tha leid an tha heirskip o Ulstèr-Scotch fowkgates.

Tha Boord is ootbye govermenn minnystries, but haes laa-makkin pooers in baith kintras on tha islann o Airlann.

Tha Boord wull hae its heich offis in Bilfawst, an an unner-offis in Dunnygal.

Got that?

Ok. Here’s my glossary of the Ulster Scots words in that introduction.

Aa : All
Aboot : about
Ain : Own
Airlinn : Ireland
Athort : Athwart (?)
Baith : Both
Bilfawst : Belfast
Boord : Board
Claucht : (?)
Cooncil : Council
Cum : Come
Daeins : Doings
Dunnygal : Donegal
Faictories :
Forderin : Furthering
Forstannin : (?)
Fowkgate : (?)
Frae : From
Gie : Give
Govermenn : Government
Greeance : Agreement
Haes : Has
Heich : High
Heirskip : (?)
Ilka : Each
Islann : Island
Kintras : Countries
Laa : Law
Laa-makkin : Law-making
Leid : Language
Mair : More
Maist : Most
Maks : Makes
Minnysters : Ministers
Minnystries : Ministries
Maun : Must
Noarth : North
Norlin : Northern
O : Of
Offis : Office
Pooers : Powers
Preses :
Quhilk : Which
Semmlie : Assembly
Sooth : South
Taks : Takes
Tha : The
Thegither : Together
Til : To
Twa : Two
Uise : Use
Unner-offis : Under-office
Unner : Under
Worsels : Ourselves
Wull : Will
Yin : One

Ah, lads. Come on now. At the absolute outside, that’s a dialect of English, no? And I’m being kind there. It’s an accent, not a language! It’s a phonetic representation of the way people pronounce English. I know there are some words I haven’t been able to explain, but on the basis of this, I could make a case for Limerick Knacker, or Dublin Gurrier, or even Portmarnock Golf! In fact, one of these days, I’ll make up a glossary of Roadwatch Rand-Abangt, and let’s see if we can get it accepted by the European Commission.

Hould on there, boys. Wid youse ever ketch on til yersels? Some-yin’s takkin a haund at youse!