A BIT IRISH (by Medbh Gillard and James Healy)

"I always get upset at the bit where Spock dies..."

ah i mean argh

Ah the passing of time.
Five years ago the most popular characters in my published writings were Uncle Scutch, Aunty Mary's hens, my gambling cousin Vinnie, Calamity Annie Hoddlebun and the Mammy.
Only Hodders and the Mammy have held their positions in my writings.
Where are the others now?
Show business is tough.
In fact out of those formerly top special guest stars in the legendary And While I'm At It humour column, only the Mammy and Hodders are still making regular appearances in my present day creative outpourings.
It is sobering the way these things work out.
And hark even as I type these words for a whole new audience of millions on the internet, it seems as though Aunty Mary's hens Hannah, Harriet and Ethelfrieda, have returned and are perched upon my shoulders, their plumage glowing faintly with ethereal silver light.
"Heelers, Mighty Heelers," they murmur. "All glory is fleeting."

valhalla

a feasting hall of the dead
the place is thronged
with anonymous provincial poets
the walls ring with their songs
and far down sit the few
who won great fame whilst yet alive

and in this place
where triumph and pretention are ripped bare
and fame and fancy torn to dust
yeats and shakespeare
dog the heels of one such
ciaran smith
pleading for his favour
vieing for his attention
he in turn
is kind to them

mannah from doctor barn

Driving along the open road.
This comes on the radio:
"We are stardust.
We are golden.
And we've got to get back,
To the garden."
The lyric is so gentle and so sweet. From the hippy era too. I don't normally search for art in the hippy era. But here it is.
Sometimes art doesn't show up where we set traps for it.
Of course the lyrics don't all stand up.
But really.
This is high art. Keats would have been happy enough with this.
I let it flood my mind.
Back at the chateau I find Doctor Barn ensconced in the kitchen with a coffee. He has a sack of clothes beside him.
"Those are for you," he says benificently.
If benificent isn't a word, it should be.
Ah.
Doctor Barn hand me downs.
The sack contains a treasure trove of designer items.
I'm telling you folks, women go crazy for Doctor Barn hand me downs. It's all: "Oh Heelers. That's an original Doctor Barn. Take me now."
Seriously though.
And look.
A polo neck. A polo neck designed by Mr Thomas Hilfigger esquire. Better and better. Polo necks make it look as if I don't have two chins.
So I thanked the brother profusely.
As if by magic, the Mammy appeared.
She favoured me with that look she uses when she's going to try to say something funny.
"Howya Bin Laden," sez she.
I look troubled and perplexed by turns. The Mammy hastens to explain.
"You complain about me always asking you to bring out the bin," quoth she. "So your new name from now on will be Bin Laden. By the way will you bring out the bin? It's full."
Moments later Paddy Pup has joined me for a stroll on the avenue with the bin.
I am singing.
My singing has an ethereal plaintive air. I am singing for the lost generation. Artists I will never know but who are most assuredly my confreres.
If you had passed the avenue on this crisp Monday afternoon with a strange high coldness in the breeze and a pulse of life surging in the hedgerows, you might have heard:
"I am stardust.
I have a double chin.
And my mother's always asking me
To bring out the bin."

the ineluctable modality of hoddlebun

Ring, ring, ring went the telephone.
"Hi Hodders, what are you at?"
"Er Jamie this isn't a good time. Can you call me back?"
"What are you doing? Are you watching the Gerry Springer show again?"
"It's a thing about penguins."
"You're blowing me off for a thing about penguins?"
"I'm not blowing you off. Ring me back in half an hour."
"Hodders I may never ring you again."
"Okay. In half an hour. Bye."

fire in the night

Returning from Dublin in the dark. Driving up to the old chateau. Parked the car. Waited a moment.
Then it came.
Falling down the sky.
A shooting star. Wide fire trail. Green light becoming white light. Momentous momentary glory. Phosphoring into nothingness.
If only I could hold onto that image.
But the gift is to see it not to hold onto it.
I thought of the hand that flung the stars.
"What does it mean Lord?"
My question hung in the stillness.