Oh my God! Have you heard? They have sold the fucking Ilac Centre. Some shit head company have bought the jewel in the crown of Dublin. Like a beautiful golden crown nestling in a dirty matted hair.

Bequothed to the city by the illustrious Count Reginald von Clovis, the Ilac center was originally designed to host the great Peace conference of 1923. Following the League of Nations inspection, however, it was felt that the Centre was too glamorous a venue and the conference was moved to New York. As a direct result of this the USSR pulled out. I do not blame them.

Following a sell out show in both the west end of London and Broadway, the Ilac returned to its humble routes in Dublin. For years the Ilac was reputed to be not only the inspirational character behind the Great Gatsby but also the Supertramp song, You’re So Vain.

In recent years the Ilac has released a string of hit singles, following its massive win in 1998 Eurovision, and is due to go on tour later this year to support the release of a greatest hits album.

Three words. Sir Tuesday Peregrine-Archer. As I waited back stage at the Venetian, I realised I hadn’t been this nervous since Mel Gibson called to my home to critique my review of Apocalypto. Nothing I’d read about Sir Peregrine Archer’s meteoric rise, from minor member of Dublin’s first family of journalism to international superstar, could have prepared me for this moment. His one man show ‘Gandhi, the Brooklyn Cabby Years’ has traveled from the Edinburgh festival to London’s West End, Broadway, to it’s current home as a top selling Vegas attraction; proving that far from being a untalented, sanctimonious, one trick non entity, Sir Peregrine-Archer is amongst the great comedic visionaries at work today. With his rapier wit and distinct, effeminate lisp, Peregrine-Archer has become a latter day Coward, the boast and terror of the highest echelons of London, Tokyo, and New York society. Rarely seen without his once shabby, now ultra fashionable, nouveau boheme fleece and fox fur ushanka, and always sweetened by the latest in a string of dizzying arm candies, Sir Peregrine-Archer cuts an elegant yet iconoclastic figure.

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Have you ever fallen over and not wanted to get up again, ’cause like in a few minutes you’ll only fall over again, but harder this time? Do you ever wonder why you’ve botherd to get up, to open your eyes, why you just don’t lie on your bed pretending and lying to yourself that your asleep. That you could be happy. Really? Jeez, sort yourself out.

I’ve no time for this moping laugh. Get up and out into the sunlight. Grab a drink, that’ll perk you up. Have another sip there and pass the can. There’s good boy. Now let go, I know a pitch up by O’Connell Bridge, you can make like €30 in twenty minutes, and I’ve a pack of rich tea that’ll tide us over. You know that burning hunger, the feeling like you’ve just been punched in the stomach? Like it? I love it. It makes my brain real sharp.

Here we are. Have a drag on that. Benson’s are the best aren’t they? Real strong flavor. So, whats up? Want to go halves on that cider? Go on, I’m going to the offie in a wee while. Legend. See, we’ve barely sat down and we’ve got a couple of quid already. You stick with me child. I’ll see you through. Winters past. We’ve months of this, balmy blue skies. Drunk young lovers out for a night. We could be lovers.

Wild eyed publicity whore Bobby Sands has declared his intention to release a new diet book based on his wildly successful weight loss program. Since he took up the scheme it has become very popular in his work place, with colleagues literally keeling over themselves to join the plan.

Indeed the weight has been falling off Sands, and although his latest fashion and interior design tips are perhaps not going to be making a splash on the high streets, fashionistas are already talking his Milan show to be highlight of this years calender.

When asked whether his new role as life guru to Rene Zellweger, amongst other higher profile celebrities, was inspired by some political goal he said, “Absolutely not, politics isn’t sexy!”

Bobby Sands new book, ‘One Day in My Life’ is available in all good nutritionists.

Breakfast started calmly enough. I’d risen after solid sleep to snorkel the welcoming bodice of Sunday afternoon. I’d splashed links of pig meat into steaming sizzle, smirking at the pock sting leaping tics of lard. In a pot I’d placed a ham for lunch, set it to boil in hearty flame broiled majesty, what meat!

A second pan then, fried bread it’s happy game. Another pot for eggs, a third for kippers in a tin (I’ve learned a trick to boil em in).

Avast, another pan, for breckies but a puny snack, that lacks the sticky puke of sausage black. A problem then, each flame is occupied, and hunger like a thrashing asp is in me grub. Aha thinks I, and grill grows hot and in goes pan, take that! And all is frying and meat punge, and ready plate, knife, fork and spoon (never to the spork could I commit), and dance then over to me feed. Toss in slo mo, rise the eggy bread and catch him pan, good lad!

But then me turn and Tracy’s in the room, red face and shaky shake, and crying and the meat goes in the bin, and out the flames go one by one, and me shouts and she shouts, and me slap slappy at her meaty maw and think of feed on face, but still the pung of burny pig!

‘Wait’ she say, ‘the idiot’ and ‘where’s it coming from?’, and ‘not the cat!’, and I is sad but happy too and think of wee puss, course not dead, she silly open grill and out pour black, and handle slippey red, and screaming Tracy hands all bony wet. Punchline.

In a sudden storm your car has skidded off a mountain path on a patch of black ice and you’re plummeting to a fiery death hundreds of feet below; that adorable toddler you’re babysitting has reached up to the kitchen counter top where the until a moment ago the kettle hungrily bubbled, yanked its dangling power cord and over balanced the fuming contents which are right now falling in a great steaming flash toward her unblemished skin face; you’re in bathroom of Le Bernardin, congratulating yourself at how perfectly your evening with Shakira is going, and just how great her new implants will look tonight, spayed and tweaked in your leatherdungeon, when the first twitch of a hard knocks off your aim, geysering an unavoidable piss jet toward your bunched Armani trousers.

Whom to blame? Fate? Zeus? Gravity? You can shake a mental fist at hades if you please, but it’s puss blooded denizens will merely screech, and paraphrase Ice-T. ‘It wasn’t me babe, it was that motherfucker linear time!’

Down, down through the ages of mankind’s agonizing infancy, plague, famine, senescence, death. Which of these I ask you, which horrors could have happened but for the steely grip of that heartless, bloodless, mindless, soulless, fearless, fucker, linear time.
If you’ve ever spent a moment (a moment which has cruelly passed leaving it forever lost) contemplating the death of legends, the assassination’s of Abraham Lincoln, Jack Kennedy, Reverend King or that nasal four eyes from the Beatles, then you’ve known its merciless power. If you’ve lost friends or relatives to death, abandonment or carelessness, and remember them fondly, remember this. Those timeless memories aren’t timeless at all, but fading illusory flickers in an inevitably withering cranium, lives you could be living, stolen by the thief of history.

Shit kiddo, in time you took to read this, one seven millionth of your life has passed. Does that seem so little? You’ll never get it back.

Amy Winehouse has long been a controversial figure. Derided and adored in equal measure, yet blessedly immune to public opinion, she stands in stark contrast to our expectations. Amy was born in Egypt in 1942 to Greek Orthodox parents, moving to the East London borough of Clapham at the age of eight. As a child Amy experienced prophetic visions and witnessed the souls of the newly dead rise from their mortal corpuscles, however at she grew to adulthood, religion became unimportant in her life.

Amy could have been any normal married woman, ignoring the message of Jesus and embracing sin and godlessness. However Jesus had a special place for her in his plan.
Beginning in 1985, Amy was granted a series of visions of our Lord God Jesus Christ. Soon after this, she was approached by the guardian angel Holland, who began to write holy scripture through her vessel. After a time of testing, during which Amy received messages from a variety of souls as well as Abandon himself (may he crawl through flame till the end of days), Jesus judged her worthy to receive his scripture and testament.

Since her first experiences with our Lord Jesus Christ, Amy has filled over 107 notebooks and spoken more than 800 times in 63 countries. Jesus’s words as handed down through Amy have been collected in a volume entitled ‘True Life in Winehouse’.
Initially the church rejected Christ’s messages in Amy. In 1995 the congregation for doctrine of the faith warned the faithful that Amy’s message was to be treated as her creation rather than the WORD OF GOD, many false apostles including the artist of bealzibub and producer of heretical tracks ‘Jack Chick’ took this opportunity to condemn Amy as a false prophet.
But legions of the faithful who had been touched by Amy’s message approached the holy see and in 2004 cardinal Ratzinger, today consecrated as his holiness Benedict XVI, received Amy into the arms of the church as a messenger of our Lord God Jesus Christ, as she has successfully answered any questions relating to her life before the holy message of the baby Jesus Chris. Through his messenger Amy, has many important messages for us. He condemns the godlessness of Europe and America where the holocaust of SINLESS BABIES continues even as I write this, and godless Canada who’s LIBERAL government prevent schools from teaching the TRUE WORD OF JESUS, and where divorce, homosexual, unmarried mothers and sexual relations outside the sacrament of marriage are rife.

Little baby Jesus, Tearful ladyboy Jesus, and Wise Old Man Jesus as he is in Heaven, together provide the prophetic scripture of Amy Winehouse, which foretold of the collapse of the devils two fingered salute to sin in New York, and predict a joyous reuniting fo the Christian churches, True Life in Winehouse!

There can never be a more succinct joining of family get togethers as when we held our Christmas dinner in the clinic. Whilst cousin Cathy was having her womb scraped clean of her fathers mistakes, in the cold sterile chamber beyond, we sang carols and drank sherry in the bright yellow waiting room. We listen to Kate Bush and bite big marks off a fresh cooked turkey which Father is handing arround. Juice and fat run hurriedly over our chins. When she emerges walking bandidly on week legs, tears streaming, we cheer and laugh. Aunt G, who’s a Papist shouts abuse and throws a bag of flour on her. But its a prank, soon hugs drown out the laughs. The carols resume as our celebrations continue, presents are given and received. Our family has never been this close, our joy as complete. Later we drink the useless little smudge of human flesh my brother removed.

The gentle Nazification of the soul is explored in that most 21st century of forms, the book. Deep yellow, its pages thick and smelling, almost, like their fish glue binding. The Beach is the classic erotic novel, with little to no poon, but with every suggestive leaf painted in violent arousal. Every tree penetrates the sky to bleeding joy, and the deep dark pits of the soul echo anus. Garland effortlessly crafts visions of tribal life onto a cast of meaningless nobodies. I doubt anyone could give a fuck by the end of the first few pages and most will not finish the book, after discovering anything else to do. Grumblestiltskin! By now you must realise this whole exercise is futile. I’m off to make the tea.

Hey.

You know you’re kind of cute. Whats your name?

Wait. Don’t tell me. Lets keep it a sexy mystery. Like the things your parents do in the bed.

I’m sorry. I was being gross. I do that sometimes if I’m nervous. Please ignore it. I’m really quite lovely.

If you read this you’re a black.

Ha. I did a joke just there. Actually I’ve nothing against God’s chosen people.

.. That was really pretty what you just did. Kinda wrinkled your nose.

So. Are you em. Seeing anybody?

I’m just asking cause you have this like.. Light.

I sort of want to get to know you better. Don’t worry I’m not a gay or anything. I just believe in being really honest.

You’re blushing! Aww shit.

So. You think we could. Em. Hang out at some stage?

There’s actually this really cool show on in Lemonstreet gallery. My friend’s got a few pieces in.

Well we went to school together.

Sir said I was actually a better drawer. But I never took it seriously.

You know you’ve got really really lovely hands.

Really. I’m not being weird. Your cuticles are like little moons.

I’d love to touch them with my own hands. But they’re so big and ugly.

I have to go.

Look I’m going to have to give you my number.

You don’t have to say anything.

Just don’t call at night. Cause my parents are asleep.

Bye love.