valorous idylls chapter 23

Home Is The Sailor Home From The Sea And The Hunter Is Home From The Hill And Er Heelers Is Home From Tallaght Hospital And Well Okay Sir Alec Douglas Home Has A Name With Home In It

Alone again.
From the corner the television watches me warily.
The ghosts of Paul Simon and the other one enter and set up their instruments.
They being to sing as follows:

"Hello TV my old friend.
I've come to sit with you again.
Because a neighbour softly epiglottal
Left you here while I was in Tallaght hospital
And the words of the slandering climate change pornographers are written in RTE halls
And Brexit Bawls
And whispered in the fake orgasms
Of Babe Station."

An appealing little lyric.
I switch on the sexevision.
A girl pretending to diddle herself greets me.
Ah yes.
If I want to watch that sort of thing I'll go to the Costa Cafe at Smithfield where the IRA have laid on a nice little honey trap for me who waves her booties and struggles manfully to get me to look at her magnificent silken clad thighs while I console myself with a caffe latte, thinking wryly of Professor Eddie Murphy's dictum: If the bitch is in the mafia there's something wrong with the pussy.
Grammer fans will note that pussy in this instance is a metonomy, ie the use of a signifier in place of the related actuality which is signified. or as the humorist James Thurber explains it, the container for the thing contained, his examples being "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears," (Anthony doesn't want their actual ears, he wants the function contained in them which is hearing) and a wife saying to her husband: "Another word out of you and I'll hit you with the milk," (She is not threatening to hit him with the milk really but with the container that the milk comes in.)
In all probability Professor Murphy's assessment of a mafia girl's pussy does not refer to the girl's vagina but is a pessimistically speculative reference to the quality, sincerity and communicable diseasiness of her love making contained therein.
I flick the channel.
Ner ner, ner ner ner ner.
Dinging music. (Kildare colloquialism for really catchy music.)
Why it's UFO the old 1960's series.
Here's larfs.
This is the sort of thing I would watch.
It's so ridiculous it's brilliant.
Good shoot em ups too even with the pre Star Wars special effects.
Lots of louche oddly innocent sexiness.
The staff of the early warning station on moon base are mostly sexalacious women with purple hair and scanty work uniforms.
The blokes on the underwater submarines wear string vests which do not cover their pecs in any meaningful sense.
Their may be a realistic explanation why moon base girls have purple hair and short skirts and why submarine fleet guys all wear string vests, but I've yet to hear it.
The plot is a howl.
Earth is under attack from space aliens.
To prevent panic the governments of the world have joined together to fight the aliens in secret.
So the public must be prevented from knowing that aliens are attacking and every dog fight in the skies must be explained away as a meteor shower.
What a shower of old meteors!
It gets better.
The earth based defences are hidden under a film studio in London.
The guy who heads up earth's defences also heads up the film studio.
Ha, ha, ha.
Right there.
That's a doozie.
A top secret all earth anti UFO base under a British film studio.
The luvvies would run to the media, and blab the story in a movie minute.
I flick the channel.
Judge Judy is shouting: "Madam, Madam. I'll kick you in the bawls Madam."
I believe she would too.
I like Judge Judy and would willingly watch her or turn her loose on the Irish get out of jail free card for mobsters justice system.
I wonder what she'd make of Judge Martin Nolan last week refusing to jail a woman who'd smothered a three year old little girl.
Flick.
Lots of retro stuff.
The Prisoner, that McGoohan chap, is still trying to escape from his island.
More dinging music.
Great classic ham acting.
But just a tinge of nastiness that I wouldn't have about the place.
A secret agent resigns form M15 and is kidnapped by his former employers and imprisoned on an island from which for the next sixteen episodes between intermittent druggings and odd pyschological underminings, he will try to escape.
There's an avant garde 1960s surrealism to it that is quaint but the tinge of evil is ever present too.
I don't like it.
Although I do doff my cap to a stark touch of realism. a glorious homage, in the credit sequence each week as we're given a recap of the original kidnapping which shows the hero going home having just resigned from M15 and being followed by a ruddy great black limousine that is effectively the most noticeable car in London.
Whoever advised on that scene, knew the British secret service for real.
I flick.
Violence.
Flick.
Mind numbing music channels.
Ho hum.
Desperation calls.
When all else fails.
I think it's time to have a look at RTE, the Irish national fraudcaster.
After all I've just paid a hundred and eighty quid of my neighbour's money for the privilege of doing so.
Flickatullo.
And lo!
The RTE station on this television is blocked.
Amid all the oddly charming clapped out retro channels, amid the inane cloned debauching music stations, amid the violence and porn dross, amid the conformist Russian propaganda of Putin's Russia Today and the fervourless leftist climate change Brexit Bawls propaganda of Murdock's Sky News, amid all the unthinking crap of the world on tap, the one piece of worthless fervourless unthinking pornographic propagandist State sponsored violent atheistic, abortionist, contraceptivist, euthanasist, crap I can't see, is the piece of worthless fervourless propagandistic State sponsored violent atheistic, abortionist, contraceptivist, euthanasist, crap I've actually paid for.