things to come

Ireland in the year 2020.

A gentle afternoon sun rises above the venerable halls of Saint Tony O'Reilly's Post Modern School For Birls (Boys And Girls).

In the headmaster's office near the top of the clock tower, Principal Ger Colleran reviews his staff duty rosters.

He is a grinning bearded slatternly porcine egg yolk of a man.

Since the Catholic Church was driven out of the schools and then banned two years ago, various leading lights of Ireland's liberal atheistic pseudo establishment have taken on the task of educating the proles.

Colleran heard the call and has not been found wanting.

It is perhaps not so suprising that he would end up running a school.

During his days working as editor of The Daily Star for British porn baron Richard Desmond, Colleran had developed a deep affection for children.

He reckons his experience marshalling alcoholic druggie porn addicted journos has left him more than well equipped to run a school.

Colleran smiles at his rosters.

All present and correct.

One of the maths teachers is dying of syphilis but he has arrived to give his class anyway.

That's real dedication.

Basic Maths is still a vitally important subject in this new enlightened era.

The children need to be numerate so that they can dial the phone sex lines in the Daily Star.

Colleran rises from his plush backed executive chair and takes a proprietorial stroll through his school.

In the prefab overlooking the river, Paedophile Ian O'Doherty (who received his nickname after falsely, maliciously and malignly labelling the Catholic Church a paedophile ring in an article in the Irish Independent) is teaching the infant class.
"I am in my prime," he informs the toddlers. "You too will be in your prime someday and you must know how to recognise it, lest it pass you by. Now children, light up your cannabinoids. That's it. Inhale deeply. You're going to need to develop a good technique if you want to pass your exams. Philmore Bates! What is the meaning of this, Sir! Light up that cannabinoid. No you don't have a choice Philmore. What are you? Some kind of Catholic? Who are you to force your repressed views on everybody else? You're dragging down the class Philmore. Light up your cannabinoid or I'll send you to Headmaster. That's it. Light up. Inhale. There you go. Grooooveeee baaaabeeee."

In the science lab, former Irish President Mary Robinson is giving a Biology class to the twelve year olds.

As she speaks she nods.

She nods constantly.

She nods like... Noddy.

The effect is most curious.

"Now girls and boys," she says in her chaming Noddy-esque school Marm manner. "This is what we call a contraceptive pill. It has freed you from the shackles of outmoded Catholic morality. Eat up. You know you have to have had your first official pregnancy and abortion before the end of the semester. There'll be a test. Oh how silly of me. We don't call them abortions anymore. What do we call them? Come on girls and boys. What's the right word? Terminations. That's it. You get a star for that Maisie Baines. Always use a latinate euphemism when referring to anything involving the taking of life. And remember boys and girls if I catch any of you referring to the foetus as an unborn baby, I'll have you expelled. And what do we call the murder of the elderly? Come on now. That's right. Eutha. Eutha. Say it. Euthanasia. There you go. Never say murder of the elderly. It's euthanasia of the excess baggage. That's right. Very good boys and girls. Now take out your Pederasty Primers."

Over at Senior House, Archbishop Diarmuid Martin is giving a History class to the Fifth Formers.

"You don't need to study a lot of this stuff to understand history," he muses flicking through an old text book. "These books are out of date. All this inconsequential rubbish about World War Two, and Hitler, and the Soviet Union, and the French Revolution, and the penal laws in Ireland, and geopolitics, and Marxism, and the clash of civilisations, and so on. It's all inconsequential rubbish. As soon as our exalted Islamic Government gets round to it. we'll have proper text books. Ones that recognise my role in history. If you really want to understand history you have to understand my role in infiltrating the Catholic Church and undermining it so that you children could be free of all the intellectual and moral repressions that Christianity brings. I was the perfect storm for the faith of our fathers. I was the one thing believers couldn't cope with. A traitor at the top. Almost singlehandedly I was responsible for the subjugation of a faith that had defied all oppressors in Ireland for thousands of years. But you don't need to know the details. You just need to know that I liberated Ireland from the vileness of the Catholic Church. Now that's what I call history."

Principal Colleran strolling through the grounds hears occasional snatches of the lectures from his teachers' classes.

He is proud of them.

They have accomplished much in a short space of time.

There had been those who doubted liberal atheists could run the school system which had been built up by the Catholic Church over fifteen hundred years.

Colleran and company had proved them wrong.

His perambulations take him within the ivy clad facade of the Lord Reilly Of Reillingham Memorial Building.

Here a onetime pop singer called Bono is giving Religious Knowledge instruction to the fifteen year olds.

Bono is a congenial old buffer.

"Now," says Bono peering over his pince nez. "There never was a Jesus. Not really. Jesus is just an archaeon. A gnostic teacher. A zogabong. Yes, he's a zogabong. He's not God and he's not the son of God. He's just a zogabong. An emanation of the eternal zogabong. As you all will be if you ascend to the heights of gnostic zogabong spirituality. Zogabongs. You've just got to imagine it to be it. Glorious groovy zogabongs. There's no need for outmoded religious ideas or philosphies. We have zogabongs. The world is a zogabong. The universe is a zogabong. Have you ever thought that all existence might just be a zogabong in the fingernail of some zogabong? I have. Zogabongs are the key to life. Zogabongs are the key to thought. When you can say zogabong, you have transcended all philosophy and all religions. Zogabong is the mantra. Zogabong is the word. Zobabong is the time, is the place, is the motion. Zogabong is the way we are feeling."

Bono looked owlishly around the class and stroked his droopy grey moustache with whimsical relish.

"You know children, you are a most fortunate generation," he murmured. "You live in an age which has laid aside the enslaving predilections of conventional religion. You do not have to worry about abortion being a holocaust. You do not have to question the atheists who have repudiated and annulled a two thousand year old civilisation built around a slave religion. You do not have to care whether euthanasia is a barbarism. You do not have to worry about life being created and destroyed in test tubes. You do not have to concern yourself with whether female hormones from contraceptive pills have entered the food chain, masculinising women, feminising men and sterilising a generation. You do not have to think for yourselves because we think for you. Do not adjust your minds. We are controlling them. You are fortunate indeed. You do not possess the merest vocabulary to assess such things. You will never feel the slightest need for such a vocabulary. For you, it will all be zogabongs."

There was a tremendous explosion.

For a moment the classroom filled with light.

Bono and the children froze.

The large window to the right of the teacher had smashed inwards in a spectacular miasma of irridescent crystals.

James Healy astride a massive death's head Harley Davidson motorcycle careened through the window onto Bono's desk.

As the gleaming fuel injected machine skidded off the desk and crashed into the wall, James Healy stepped smoothly clear.
Standing on the desk, Healy seemed to tower like a Collossus above the classroom.

Bono was aghast.

The power of speech returned.

"You!" he gasped. "Here! Now! But how?"

Heelers gave Bono a root in the bawls, a punch on the snot and a toe in the hole.

The toe in the hole sent Bono sprawling through the door into the corridor outside.

"Goodbye Mr Dips," snarled Heelers, slamming the door.

Heelers turned to face the gaping teenagers.

"Never mind that bollocks," he breathed. "Here's the Catholic Church."