CHAPTER SIX: THE FALL OF CHARLES STEWART PARNELL AND THE NATIVITY OF THE PORNOGRAPHIC INDUSTRY (PART FOUR)

AN EARLY CHILDHOOD BY PADDY FLANAGAN

Continued from Chapter 6 Part 3.

CHAPTER SIX: THE FALL OF CHARLES STEWART PARNELL AND THE NATIVITY OF THE PORNOGRAPHIC INDUSTRY (PART FOUR)


                But the release of the first hardcore pornographic film not to feature Charles Stewart Parnell, discovered in Pompeii and analogically re-mastered to the earliest possible twentieth century standards ever, also added to the depravity of the early twentieth century. When the film reel hit the bookshelves and the newsagents’ storefront windows, no video libraries being available, I was working in one of Lord Pembroke’s franchised chain of newsagents. Six members of the R.I.C. burst in one day while I was pricing the magazines. Peelers, they were called, on account of their predilection for moonlighting, when they weren’t employed as an unarmed force, as kitchen porters. One of them removed his helmet to address me and in so doing revealed a wispy yet strangely full head of hair but when I blew on it, it all blew to the other side of his head and he was bald save for the really long strands on the other side.

                “What are you doing?” he asked me with an angry look, withdrawing a comb from his breast pocket and combing the strands over his head again.
                “I was just seeing what the story was with your hair,” I mumbled, a hint of apology in my voice as he fixed his hair to make it look full but wispy again.
                “We are seizing all of the films on display in your window under article 12, clause 7, paragraph 6, subsection 2 and under the till as well,” the police officer insisted.

                So the Peelers took all the films in the winda, as well as the two left to me under the till and they seized all of the copies in the parish of Luh Premiey Feeme Pornographeekeh as it was called, and they moved from one shop to the next, sometimes encountering violence, at one stage having to hammer the excitement out of an inveterately developed eleven-year-old boy in the throes of proto-pubescent activity while watching the offending footage.

                The film itself, originally in the form of a children’s flick book many of which have been discovered by archaeologists in abundance, detailed an encounter between a Roman citizen and Pan the Goat-God. I can remember it all like it was yesterday. The film was banned by the Film Board after the flick-book was transferred to cellulite. Or An Bord Scanala, as it was known all those moons ago.

                And me following those police officers all around the town until they’d seized every single copy, and then they went to the Police Quarterdeck, and they threw all the offending film reels into the metal shkip outside of the barrax before entering the barrax. I watched them from the window as they gathered round in the Police Quarterdeck in a circle; each of them had a copy of the film in his hands in its flick-book format. One of the officers placed a biscuit on the floor in the middle of the circle and they all started looking through the flick-books. Well, I can’t tell you what I did then, but except to say that with the policemen occupied I was able to sneak up to that shkip, reach my hand into it and slowly but surely make a withdrawal of approximately seventy-seven film reels, one stacked atop the next, and I then made subtle passage, armed with the films, to the censorship sanctuary at the beginning of Main Square, where the gay liberal writer and wit had lived, but him in prison at that point in time. And perhaps by far the worst locksmith in the parish was Ben Deakey, and he arrived at the safehouse and thereinstalled a vault wherein I placed every copy of the film. And I wrote a cutting, jibing, scurrilous letter to the Censorship Board detailing what I’d done, my motives, and my desire to make a bit of money out of the enterprise.


                And indeed, I did make a pridey toffit, and I earned a reputation so good on the black market that Mad Leopold Cassidy approached me with the photos he had taken on our night of breast watching, and we edited together another flick book involving Charles Stewart Parnell, and made fierce profits from that as well.

                In the end result, I sold each and every copy of that film, making a small fortune, which would have helped, of course, towards a trip to America, had I wanted to emigrate. But sure, there was stuff to do at home; I had a gradually diminishing family to support, and what with a lot of the money going towards all the health care I’d received on account of my illness, I wasn’t left with all that much.

                And some of the money did count towards my trip abroad years later, when I was enlisted in an officer’s capacity to fight when that Munich bother, as a literary colleague described it, resulted in the dawning of the Second World War.

                Which happened a few chapters from now, and when Father, incidentally, received the position of child replacement in London during the Blitz of the Luftwaffles, which wasn’t, as I thought at the time, the name of a night club. And naturally, as a perk of the job, he became what was known as a “civil servant”, thus permitting him to become “in line for the throne”. He asked for, and received, by post, an application form requesting that in the unlikely event that the post of Head of State and Commonwealth become available, it would be incumbent on him to take the position. He signed all the legal documentation with a flourish and next came four truckloads of paper to the house of his surrogate family, all of it addressed to him. It was what was known as “red tape”, being a long and detailed list of people’s names, also known as “the line of precedence” which posed an obstacle towards his assuming the limited power of the throne in that constitutional monarchy. It all came to nothing in the end – whether Queen Victoria had been dead four decades or not, Lord have mercy on the soul of that black clothed old biddy that she was – but Father did note with pride that he was two names in front of Colonel Cousin Barney, him having desserted the British Army with strawberry mousse and returned from South Africa to Ireland in a calorific tizzy. However, I digress from the principal events of my own life, and return to them now, in the next chapter.

 

CHAPTER SIX: THE FALL OF CHARLES STEWART PARNELL AND THE NATIVITY OF THE PORNOGRAPHIC INDUSTRY (PART THREE)



AN EARLY CHILDHOOD BY PADDY FLANAGAN


CHAPTER SIX: THE FALL OF CHARLES STEWART PARNELL AND THE NATIVITY OF THE PORNOGRAPHIC INDUSTRY (PART THREE)




                Down the lane we went, and under the window of the home of the Chestertons. Well Holy God, we looked up at that bedroom window and wasn’t Melissa Chesterton only de-robing in her gaslit room? Climbed up the ladder against the back wall in the laneway, so we did, one foot each to the top rung, the other leg hanging loose as we started to rub our cadgers staring at that window.
                Next, the shocking twist to the whole affair happened quick smart, with another woman appearing in Melissa Chesterton’s window. And indeed it was an affair because wait till I tell you now: She was none other than Kitty O’Shea her very self! Wife of an army officer, suddenly acting fierce lesbianic, so she was. And who turned up in that bedroom then? Charles. Stewart. Parnell. Like, WTF, like?
                With big thick cigars, handing them around, so he was, all flahoolach, asking the two women to “Lewinsky these babies!”



                They had their fun, in full view of ourselves, a-kissin’ and a-canoodlin’. They drew over the curtains to continue their cooourtins. A great veil of shame will be drawn over the entire incident, were it not for the fact that Mad Leopold Cassidy had been using his new Daguerrotype Picture Capturer – the very earliest, most up to the minute twentieth century technology – to capture the whole incident. I had thought the CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! had been some foostering on Leopold’s part, but he hadn’t had a hand to his part at all at all the entire time.
                Now, the fact that CSP was a Protestant meant that he could do whatever immoral divilment he chose. Having watched the Protestant goings on, we departed the scene after throwing a blind cat in the window to observe what would happen, Mad Leopold Cassidy That Jewish Bastard continuing to take his phothos. CLICK CLICK CLICK! The moggy started shrieking and running around, leaping atop Parnell’s head and tearing his hairpiece off, before scarpering into the night. And then Melissa’s uncle GK Max Chesterton showed up in that bedroom, and all hell broke loose what with him being something of a member of the fourth estate. Or the third estate or whatever it is. And the scandal hit the papers the very next day.
                And I remember with cerebral acuity the very day Charles Stewart Parnell was toppled from grace by the Catholic hierarchy – it being the following day. PJ Bán Ceagher, as the knee pipes musician, gathered us all around Main Square tylet and knocked out an old Irish lament on his knee pipes while he sang in sean nós, adapting the air and lyrics of an old Gaelic lament, and he didn’t sing in the vernacular, but used English as he let loose, full of emotion and voice quavering whenever he hit his falsetto, and his song was unsurpassed in its advocacy of commercialised Redmondite debauchery:
                “The bearded Irish Protestant ponce
                Was playing around with an officer’s wife
                In a love-nest in Wickla he is ensconced,
                I hope he stays there for the rest of his life.
                Avondale, Avondale, Avondale.
Refresh your day, the healthy way
Drink more, drink more, drink Avondale
The fresh, fresh taste of which you’ll avail.
                PJ Bán Ceagher was paid two shillings and sixpence by a dairy for that little jingle, which was a lot more money than it sounds in those days, but he was shot dead two days later by a stray blind cat that had been fiddling around with a pre-Revolutionary American antique Wesson, Enfield, Stills, Nash and Young rifle that was lying on the ground at an antiques auction that actually turned into a Redmond/Parnell dichotomous bifurcatory incident in which a number of people were killed by the cat. And Crosby.
                Of course, the likes of PJ was the exception rather than the rule, as many a tear was shed because of C.S.P.; he had done a lot for the country, sordid affair or no, but when he denied having an affair “with that woman, Miss O’Shea”, we assumed it was the truth he was telling. But all the phwackin’ psychologists point out today – after the fact, indeedy aye oh – that they KNEW just by the look of him in the documentary footage – that he was telling fibs. Either that, or through the images that Mad Leopold had taken. On discovery that his lies were a load of old hocus bunkum, there was something of a ferrari. But enough about his sponsorship by an Italian car manufacturer in order to fund his court costs, anti Papist upbringing or no. Or no indeed!




                Everyone was saying that he’d been economical with the truth in order to protect his own image; others still said that he’d lied so that he could continue the green struggle irregardless of his private life; some in the minority talked about the way in which he said “that woman”, as if to denigrate Miss O’Leary or Miss O'Shea, or whatever that bint's name was, to the status of “durt-bord” or “said-table” (it doesn’t translate well from the Irish). Ahem, excuse me Lord bless us and save us Ahem Oh Holy God excuse me but believe you me, the press really had a field day going to town on him. Which was ironical, given that fields are not as often found in towns as in the countryside.
                C.S.P. should have, in my view, remained at the head of the movement, rather than be tarnished as a lascivious moral cad. If anything, he died a broken man, if only because he was too good a person with a heart of gold and a beard.
                Well, the Victorian era came crashing round, down on its ears around the turn of the century, in 1901, to be correct, when it was forced to an end by the nine hundred year old Queen Vic her very self.


Part 4 of this chapter is here.

Republican National Convention shows the way



Politicians and celebrities alike made their speeches at the Republican National Convention Labor Day, denouncing the “ass in the room” – the Democratic Party, many members of whom were conspicuously absent from the convention. Recent criticisms of the Republican Party as being too right wing were addressed head on. Here are some of the many soundbites.

“When the Gay, Lesbium and Trans…what are they? What are those ones called? No, the word that I can use. Transepticle…? When the Gay Lesbium and Transpectual community comes a-knockin’, don’t…answer…your…door. And here’s to why, folks, here’s to why: It won’t be a ‘social issue’ if you simply watch them outside through the little jackeye in your door, watching them having their Gape Ride Parade. Because social means talking. So leave them outside and don’t talk to them. Let them gape at each other, and then let them ride each other, in their special leathers and their Carnivale gear, and then you...watch...them...leave your neighborhood through your jackeye till the following year. Watch them. Through. That. Jackeye. In. Your. Door. Just look them in the jackeye and don’t answer that door.”
- Awawawa Senator Steward Brooker

Mister Fantastic himself, Reed Richards, made a speech at the convention.
 “Folks, this, dark, niggardly misstep we have taken – a small misstep, folks, a small misstep – indicates to me that we need to make a course correction – and once we do, we can set off on maximum warp – around the galaxy. The time for kissing Uhura has passed. That was the 60s. This is now. Let’s hope Neil Armstrong is looking down on us NOW, giving us a thunderous clapping.”
- Canadian actor Stryke Chambers, whose most famous role to date is as the white-cloaked Vulcan, Councilman Derek, in Episode # 302 of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine.

 “We’ve got the Democrats in our crosshairs. All we have to do is pull the trigger. So let’s pump their brains out!”
- Leader of the Riflemen of the Confederacy, a Tennessee chapter of the NRA, Harlack Macker

The voice of Kermit the Frog in the recent Muppet movie even made an appearance.
 
“I don’t know if what we’ll end up doing to the Russians…I don’t know if you’d call what I have planned a squirmish. I do know that the Polynesian Twenty Ten poisoning of former KGB agent Alexandra Litnitnitniko from a few years ago – in Londing, England – Sergeant Bilko? known to his friends and family as Satchel, this good man, this killing – cannot stand. And the Christmas underwear bomber cannot stand. He cannot stand because he nearly burned his entire legs off. That is why we must ratify the bill to remove all items of Christmas underwear off the shelves before Thanksgiving.”
- Anti-Terrorist Committee Member Chunt Twitty.

“People ask me if I’m a token minority Republican, because of my color and because of my disability. I tell answer back to folks: I tell answer back quicksmart that I’m a Black, Jewish, Latino, Gay, Blind bit of difference!”
- Partially sighted Cleaning lady Rhoneequa Beezelburg-leJeffriez

CHAPTER SIX: THE FALL OF CHARLES STEWART PARNELL AND THE NATIVITY OF THE PORNOGRAPHIC INDUSTRY (PART TWO)

An Early Childhood by Paddy Flanagan



AN EARLY CHILDHOOD
The first part of Chapter 2 is here.
The second part of Chapter 2 is here.
The first part of Chapter 4 is here.
The second part is here
The third part of Chapter 4 is here.
The first part of Chapter 5 is here
The second part of Chapter 5 is here.
Chapter 6 begins here.



And now, the continuation...


CHAPTER SIX: THE FALL OF CHARLES STEWART PARNELL AND THE NATIVITY OF THE PORNOGRAPHIC INDUSTRY (PART TWO)

                 

Later that same evening, well into the early hours, Mad Leopold Cassidy That Jewish Bastard came up to me and looked at me with the one good eye on him from Prussia. With the gruffness to his voice, he told me that Melissa Chesterton, the local Protestant foreman’s daughter, would be taking off her bra with her curtains open at midnight, in full view of the neighbourhood, and would I join him up the ladder for a peek of her unaware bosoms and a sixpence piece and a bit of a self fiddle?
                Not one to turn down a good ogle at a byoootherful young Proddy woman, I agreed to be joining him, providing that he help me to fly my own self-made kite, for want of a better metaphor.

                The kite competition took place after the cat murthering festivities, and those lovely kites swooped and whirled all over the sky – each kite’s string being lopped by its rivals, till two kites remained – Jarlath Wogan’s kite, and John Fisherman O’Reilly’s kite.



                What neither of those clever eejits expected was a spot of parasailing off the local cliff. I stood atop the cliff, launched myself off with a good punch in the head from Mad Leopold, who held onto my string so that I was well within the rules and regulations, and before those two kite running competitors could say boo to a goose, I roared at a whole feckin’ flock of geese.
                These geese often streaked across the sky giving everyone the V-sign, so they knew they had it coming, surprised as they were. So here I was sailing through the sky, smacking at them and hitting them and roaring and snatching at them and all sorts.

                In their horror, they got themselves wrapped up in the last two kites, and the two kites themselves got knotted up in each other, and quick as lightning I got out my Red Bull scissors and with a quick snip, my two final rivals’ kites collapsed. Unfortunately I didn’t pull the ripcord quick enough after all of this, and I landed in a tree, sending plenty more birds skywards into the scattered confusion, and a fierce row broke out between the magpies, the pigeons and the geese up above us.

               I scrambled out of the tree, a half broken arm on me, and sprinted into Main Square where the twelve adjudicators, led by Judge Rarely Smyled, sat at a table before the pilastered entrance into the town hall. The town hall with its broken clock, stuck at 10.04, struck as it was thirty years earlier by the lightning in Hurricane Charlie. The judges took a look at my wings under the arms, hewn from Lycra and nylon by my own feckin’ grandmother, but they said there wasn’t enough of a “kite effect” given off by the flying squirrel like Bingo wings for them to even think about considering awarding me the top prize.
                But I got a Highly Commended from the judges an’ anyway, despite my disqualification for the lack of a kite.
                Next thing, Mad Leopold shows up in Main Square, tearing along the street, panting and out of breath with the snots pumping out of his harelip. He holds what looks like a cable in his hands so thick it was, but it was – in case of fact – thirty one of the thirty two kites entered into the competition. The thirty-second being me my very self, as a kind of a man kite – and ironical, given that I had spent less than thirty seconds in the air.
                Mad Leopold Cassidy That Jewish Bastard had been collecting all of the kites, racing through the alleyways and lanes, and they were being dragged along behind him. And he put them into the middle of the square in a big heap. And because Leopold was my kite rudder, and he had been successful in collecting the kites where all the other kite rudders had failed, he stood there disappointed at me, grunting through his harelip. Kite rudders gave your kites direction during flight while you held the string. Because I was more of the kite itself, Leopold had done an awful lot more of the back work as he had been controlling the kite (me) and acting as kite rudder.
                Once Leopold’s breath caught up with him, he started talking all sorts of shite about being buggered, and how he had a child inside him now that he knew for a fact would be born in 1985, and I’d have to look after that baby when Leopold was killed later in my biography after a really tough life picking off Tuberculoids with his Enfield rifle with the fancy mail ordered cross hairs. From Prussia.
                But I decided to take the moral high ground over everything, in true style and class, and the whole thing descended into a bit of a soap, excellent characterisation in the first half of the story being what it was, coz I was a bit of a total dick in all fairness to me. A reflection of what we all are, and none the worse for it, I have to add.
                And the judges had a chat among themselves and they turned to myself and Leopold, and they told me that although we were worthy winners, they couldn’t award the prize this year because of the lack of a kite. I pulled at what I thought were the braces keeping up my trousers in frustration, but of course I accidentally pulled the ripcord, the parachute flapped into the air in a quick burst, and it almost covered the crowd of onlookers in its entirety if they hadn’t stepped out of the way of the bloody thing.
                “Féach!” I shouted with a burst out of me, or to translate: “Look!”
                But Judge Rarely-Smyled didn’t even have to look at the other adjudicators. He picked up the two gold rosettas – hewn out of limestone, so they were, it being the cheapest material available, and coloured a glossy gold – and pinned them into my chest and Leopold’s chest with a beaming grin, as we shrieked in pain at the pinning. And everyone roared laughing and cheered. We got 25 bonus points as well, as I’d kept my kite well hidden and I’d exposed it in a big reveal as Gywaylga.
                “Speaking of big reveals, let’s go see some boobies,” Leopold whispered in my ear with a wink of his one good eye on him from Prussia.
                “Nice link,” sez I, and off the pair of us went with our Rosetta stones to the Chestertons’ house.

Part Three is here.