THE DUKE'S COMPLETE GUIDE TO IRELAND
Please Note - The Following Has Been Compiled With The Help And
Guidance Of Several Intelligent Persons, Some Of Whom Have Very
Long Names, And One Who Has Outlandish Facial Hair. Also, They
Sometimes Smoke Pipes.
It happens every summer. The Duke takes a walk down the street,
maybe to pick up some obscure horror shenanigans with which to
assault mine taste-glands and also to serve as weaponry for my
verbal assaults on the world of Filmic Affairs, and there,
standing in the pouring rain, clutching maps and little books
that tell of the lineage of McKillop or Greer or O'Donaghan,
stand soaked and disgruntled tourists, pointing at the site where
their Great Uncle Garret once lived, a site now inhabited by a
lingerie store. And then, just as I walk past, they look at me,
and their eyes tell horrific tales of transatlantic voyages and
hours spent surfing Mormon websites in hunt of their ancestry,
and this is the result. The spot which once held their Great
Uncle Garret's marble collection is now replaced by some
attractive underwear, sometimes with bits cut out the front so as
you can get all horny and such.
They look at me, and without speaking, they say, "Why, Duke? Why
have you let this happen?" As if it was The Duke's fault that
their Great Uncle was raised on a shitty street in the arse-end
of nowhere. As if it was my fault, like I travelled back in time
and impregnated their Great Great Granny Beth, just so they would
end up trekking around the globe in order to stand knee-deep in
puddles looking at a mannequin decked out in red pants.
It's not The Duke's fault, man. Don't unload your genealogical
angst on me, motherfucker.
But The Duke has never been one to just let things pass by
without offering a solution of some kind. You may recall my
efforts to end apartheid, or this time when I pulled a few walls
down in Berlin. So here, then, is my guide to Ireland, so that
you might not be torn apart with the force of your hopes
deflating, upon setting foot on mine street.
Ireland, contrary to popular belief, isn't all leprechauns and
terrorists and rainbows what have golden nuggets at the end of
them. Chase rainbows all you want, be you in Killkenny or
Kilraughts, but all you're gonna end up with is shit all over
your over-priced Wellingtons. Once The Duke trekked across four
mountain tops in order to lay his digits upon such a shimmering
reward. Did I get it? No, I got piles on account of falling on my
arse in the middle of a slurry-drenched field.
Guidance Of Several Intelligent Persons, Some Of Whom Have Very
Long Names, And One Who Has Outlandish Facial Hair. Also, They
Sometimes Smoke Pipes.
It happens every summer. The Duke takes a walk down the street,
maybe to pick up some obscure horror shenanigans with which to
assault mine taste-glands and also to serve as weaponry for my
verbal assaults on the world of Filmic Affairs, and there,
standing in the pouring rain, clutching maps and little books
that tell of the lineage of McKillop or Greer or O'Donaghan,
stand soaked and disgruntled tourists, pointing at the site where
their Great Uncle Garret once lived, a site now inhabited by a
lingerie store. And then, just as I walk past, they look at me,
and their eyes tell horrific tales of transatlantic voyages and
hours spent surfing Mormon websites in hunt of their ancestry,
and this is the result. The spot which once held their Great
Uncle Garret's marble collection is now replaced by some
attractive underwear, sometimes with bits cut out the front so as
you can get all horny and such.
They look at me, and without speaking, they say, "Why, Duke? Why
have you let this happen?" As if it was The Duke's fault that
their Great Uncle was raised on a shitty street in the arse-end
of nowhere. As if it was my fault, like I travelled back in time
and impregnated their Great Great Granny Beth, just so they would
end up trekking around the globe in order to stand knee-deep in
puddles looking at a mannequin decked out in red pants.
It's not The Duke's fault, man. Don't unload your genealogical
angst on me, motherfucker.
But The Duke has never been one to just let things pass by
without offering a solution of some kind. You may recall my
efforts to end apartheid, or this time when I pulled a few walls
down in Berlin. So here, then, is my guide to Ireland, so that
you might not be torn apart with the force of your hopes
deflating, upon setting foot on mine street.
Ireland, contrary to popular belief, isn't all leprechauns and
terrorists and rainbows what have golden nuggets at the end of
them. Chase rainbows all you want, be you in Killkenny or
Kilraughts, but all you're gonna end up with is shit all over
your over-priced Wellingtons. Once The Duke trekked across four
mountain tops in order to lay his digits upon such a shimmering
reward. Did I get it? No, I got piles on account of falling on my
arse in the middle of a slurry-drenched field.
Ireland - As Seen From Saturn
See, couple years ago, round about 1998 or something, folks
realised that loads of houses had sprung up all over the damn
place. Meetings were called. What the hell are we gonna do about
these houses and streets and general modernisation, they asked?
Where have the wee white houses gone what had thatched roofs and
such like, and wee women that stood at wells and carried buckets
of water on their heads? Where are they?
See, the Irish government realised that if folks started noticing
how, well, normal Ireland was, they might not fancy sailing half
way around the world to dig up the bones of Alfred McGinty, only
to discover that poor Alfred now has an off-licence weighing down
upon his decomposed bollocks.
They got The Dubliners to do a tour or something, so that folks
would think Ireland was all Guinness and no electricity or
nothing. That'll do the trick, they thought.
But the result of this fabrication was that The Duke had to see
these poor voyagers looking like they'd just been shagged by a
rabid goat as they hold up postcards depicting the town of
LoughShelalaagh, comparing the green hills and white houses on
the cardboard to the much less appealing Virgin Megastore they
were standing in front of.
So, then, in order to arrest this unpleasant development before
matters get out of hand, The Duke presents his Guide To Ireland,
of which this is Part One, being the First Of The Partitions, and
concerning itself with Irish History.
Because if its history you're after, then The Duke can provide
plenty.
History, as stated by the Decree Of Historicalised Information Of
1809, refers to stuff what happened a while ago. Sometimes this
stuff is wildly entertaining, like the time a gentleman sitting
next to me on the bus shit himself, but then there's other
history, what has to do with some king or other deciding to tax
folks for cattle-fondling, and that really is excruciatingly dull.
Here then, is a bit of History from the Ireland.
Back in the day, sometime around 16 something or other, there was
a land by the name of Ireland, which is Gaelic for "small
reservation to the left of Britain". Uproar abounds.
"Would you ever get to fuck", says one native to another,
throwing bones and sticks by way of bizarre pagan rituals. "No,
y'bastard, I wouldn't", says the other. Also, many snakes cover
the land, writhing about and hissing.
These pagans did ridiculous things like worshiping stuff someone
just made up, and then singing songs and so on about things they
knew nothing about. Really bizarre behaviour.
So to sort these fools out, a man called Saint Patrick arrived,
and tried to get rid of them all. He didn't succeed initially,
but he did manage to wave a wand and get rid of the snakes or
something, and then led the children of Hamlin into a cave. In
honour of this, the Irish Government invented Saint Patrick's
Day, which fitted somewhere in between Tuesday and Wednesday, but
fucked up the calendar no end, so they relegated it to just once
a year.
Saint Patrick was very upset by this, but was consoled when the
pagans all converted to Christianity, on account of they were
killed if they didn't, and things went swimmingly for a while.
A young man, perhaps by the name of Seamus or Mick, was out in
the fields one day when suddenly the British invaded and declared
Ireland to be their own. As if to prove this, they produced maps,
upon which it was clearly marked that Ireland was part of the
United Kingdom. The population were very upset, and went off to
Wicklow to invent republicans.
In Germany meanwhile, Martin Luther King was leading the civil
rights movement and invented Protestants somewhere along the way.
He nailed 95 Feces to a church door, and Marilyn Manson was very
impressed. The Pope, however, was not.
"76 Faeces", he said, "would have been OK. 95, however, was just
taking the piss."
Then a man by the name of Oliver Cromwell came along, and noticed
that these Irish lot were all Catholics, and he didn't like that
one bit. Cromwell, by the way, cut off the king's head a while
back, so when he waxed theological, you damn well listened.
So Cromwell came over and said "Ye Motherfuckers, it's high time
you were all in the business of being protestants."
But The Irish weren't at all pleased, and screamed "No! We don't
want your running water and your sanitation and your wealth. Be
gone! And leave us with our sticks and bones and chapels." But
Oliver Cromwell didn't go. Instead, he hired Vincent Price to
come over and burn them all for witchcraft. This became known as
"The Reformation".
Around this time, Ian Paisley was invented for a laugh.
Meanwhile, Oscar Wilde was born, and wrote hilariously witty
plays about drinking tea in the garden. The Irish were very fond
of Oscar, and praised him with aplomb, until James Joyce arrived,
and wrote stuff so incomprehensible that the only option was to
hail him a genius, lest the people of Europe think that Irish
readers were thick.
But thick was the last thing they were, if one is referring to
the strength of their national defence, because before anyone had
time to concoct a retaliatory bombing, Britain had declared that
it was illegal to be Irish. Being law-abiding people, the Irish
went off to America instead, but some stayed at home, and
threatened to protest in an anti-social manner if such barbaric
laws were not repealed.
One such protest involved starving oneself, and so the land of
Ireland refused to bear crops for many weeks. Unfortunately, the
British were quite pleased by this development, and so another
plan had to be devised.
Whilst this was all going on, a man called Eamon De Valera was
running around praising the fascists and trying to separate
Ireland from Britain. The British agreed, and gave a chunk of
land over to him, but he was less than happy, and demanded the
rest.
"Y'all are black bastards" cried De Valera, and invented the IRA
to deal with the oppressors. Soon, the IRA were getting quite
good at the old oppressing themselves, and so the government
invented the B-Specials to oppress the IRA once more.
In support of De Valera's antics, some songs were written, many
of which said "The British are a pack of old bastards", and, "Up
The Ra!". Few British officials agreed with these sentiments, and
the Musicians Union Of Ireland was famously disbanded as
punishment.
One individual was heard whistling such a tune outside a tavern
in Broughcrannashan, and was fined heavily.
Shortly afterwards, a man arrived in Ireland bearing guns, and
said, "These here are the answer to your problems." Everyone
agreed, and were soon shooting one another gleefully. The fun
came to an abrupt end, however, when the participants realised
they were no longer in Ireland, but in Liverpool, laying railway
tracks and so on.
As a result of these territorial disputes, the people of Ireland
divided themselves into two groups. The two groups are as
follows; Loyalists and Republicans. Republicans believe the
country is theirs, and is the land of their fathers, and should
under no circumstances be confused with The Loyalists. The
Loyalists, by way of contrast, believe that the land is actually
theirs, and that it was the land of their fathers.
Republicans decorate their houses with pictures of The Pope,
whilst Loyalists prefer commemorative cutlery marking the
anniversary of The Queen's first visit to Blackpool.
Both have terrible taste in fashion.
In the years following the proceeding months, much debating was
afoot, with folks wondering what the hell they should do about
these Loyalists and Republicans killing each other.
"Whatever will we do about the Irish problem?" asked The Queen.
The Queen was very influential, and was something of a celebrity
on account of her appearance on money. Even she, however, could
provide no sensible solution.
Suddenly, as storm clouds gathered and mournful music played in a
mournful fashion, Margaret Thatcher was created in a laboratory
filled with rabid monkeys and Alsatians with three eyes. The
proper thing to do seemed to be to throw her into parliament, and
hopefully no one would notice. But with little or no fuss, she
quickly became Prime Minister, and once again the Irish were
annoyed. Some went to prison and rubbed shit all over themselves,
and others refused to take salt with their dinners, all as
protest against Thatcher.
Eventually the people who rubbed shit on themselves grew beards
and became murals, and somebody succeeded in getting rid of
Margaret Thatcher.
But still the IRA was far from happy. Not content with the land
they had, they demanded more. "The British came in here and took
our land by violent means", they explained, as they bombed their
way into towns were they weren't welcome.
Then, as if by magic, a man became Prime Minister who could play
guitar. He played guitar to the IRA, and they agreed that he was
a fine character all round. They agreed to stop shooting people
if they could be allowed to speak on telly again.
Because sometime in the late 1980's, Republicans were banned from
speaking on telly, and had to have their voices overdubbed by men
who said exactly what they had said in the first place. Sometimes
they would be overdubbed by women, by way of making them seem all
the more hilarious. On occasion, they were banned from television
altogether, as the government decided that only that which
appeared on television was real, and therefore the way to get rid
of the IRA was to keep them off BBC2.
But disaster loomed around the corner, as far as The Loyalists
were concerned, when America decided there was nothing better in
the world to be than a third-generation Irish person. Martin
Sheen appeared in Belfast saying "Up the Ra!", and R Kelly
released an album of soulful interpretations of rebel songs.
Then, a new dawning dawned on the land. People suddenly realised
that they didn't particularly care for either government, and
settled on protesting about things that were more important. The
politicians were terrified by this development, and attempted to
start the conflict anew, but the people saw through their
theatrics, and relegated them to live coverage on BBC Radio 3,
in-between excerpts from some Opera or other.
realised that loads of houses had sprung up all over the damn
place. Meetings were called. What the hell are we gonna do about
these houses and streets and general modernisation, they asked?
Where have the wee white houses gone what had thatched roofs and
such like, and wee women that stood at wells and carried buckets
of water on their heads? Where are they?
See, the Irish government realised that if folks started noticing
how, well, normal Ireland was, they might not fancy sailing half
way around the world to dig up the bones of Alfred McGinty, only
to discover that poor Alfred now has an off-licence weighing down
upon his decomposed bollocks.
They got The Dubliners to do a tour or something, so that folks
would think Ireland was all Guinness and no electricity or
nothing. That'll do the trick, they thought.
But the result of this fabrication was that The Duke had to see
these poor voyagers looking like they'd just been shagged by a
rabid goat as they hold up postcards depicting the town of
LoughShelalaagh, comparing the green hills and white houses on
the cardboard to the much less appealing Virgin Megastore they
were standing in front of.
So, then, in order to arrest this unpleasant development before
matters get out of hand, The Duke presents his Guide To Ireland,
of which this is Part One, being the First Of The Partitions, and
concerning itself with Irish History.
Because if its history you're after, then The Duke can provide
plenty.
History, as stated by the Decree Of Historicalised Information Of
1809, refers to stuff what happened a while ago. Sometimes this
stuff is wildly entertaining, like the time a gentleman sitting
next to me on the bus shit himself, but then there's other
history, what has to do with some king or other deciding to tax
folks for cattle-fondling, and that really is excruciatingly dull.
Here then, is a bit of History from the Ireland.
Back in the day, sometime around 16 something or other, there was
a land by the name of Ireland, which is Gaelic for "small
reservation to the left of Britain". Uproar abounds.
"Would you ever get to fuck", says one native to another,
throwing bones and sticks by way of bizarre pagan rituals. "No,
y'bastard, I wouldn't", says the other. Also, many snakes cover
the land, writhing about and hissing.
These pagans did ridiculous things like worshiping stuff someone
just made up, and then singing songs and so on about things they
knew nothing about. Really bizarre behaviour.
So to sort these fools out, a man called Saint Patrick arrived,
and tried to get rid of them all. He didn't succeed initially,
but he did manage to wave a wand and get rid of the snakes or
something, and then led the children of Hamlin into a cave. In
honour of this, the Irish Government invented Saint Patrick's
Day, which fitted somewhere in between Tuesday and Wednesday, but
fucked up the calendar no end, so they relegated it to just once
a year.
Saint Patrick was very upset by this, but was consoled when the
pagans all converted to Christianity, on account of they were
killed if they didn't, and things went swimmingly for a while.
A young man, perhaps by the name of Seamus or Mick, was out in
the fields one day when suddenly the British invaded and declared
Ireland to be their own. As if to prove this, they produced maps,
upon which it was clearly marked that Ireland was part of the
United Kingdom. The population were very upset, and went off to
Wicklow to invent republicans.
In Germany meanwhile, Martin Luther King was leading the civil
rights movement and invented Protestants somewhere along the way.
He nailed 95 Feces to a church door, and Marilyn Manson was very
impressed. The Pope, however, was not.
"76 Faeces", he said, "would have been OK. 95, however, was just
taking the piss."
Then a man by the name of Oliver Cromwell came along, and noticed
that these Irish lot were all Catholics, and he didn't like that
one bit. Cromwell, by the way, cut off the king's head a while
back, so when he waxed theological, you damn well listened.
So Cromwell came over and said "Ye Motherfuckers, it's high time
you were all in the business of being protestants."
But The Irish weren't at all pleased, and screamed "No! We don't
want your running water and your sanitation and your wealth. Be
gone! And leave us with our sticks and bones and chapels." But
Oliver Cromwell didn't go. Instead, he hired Vincent Price to
come over and burn them all for witchcraft. This became known as
"The Reformation".
Around this time, Ian Paisley was invented for a laugh.
Meanwhile, Oscar Wilde was born, and wrote hilariously witty
plays about drinking tea in the garden. The Irish were very fond
of Oscar, and praised him with aplomb, until James Joyce arrived,
and wrote stuff so incomprehensible that the only option was to
hail him a genius, lest the people of Europe think that Irish
readers were thick.
But thick was the last thing they were, if one is referring to
the strength of their national defence, because before anyone had
time to concoct a retaliatory bombing, Britain had declared that
it was illegal to be Irish. Being law-abiding people, the Irish
went off to America instead, but some stayed at home, and
threatened to protest in an anti-social manner if such barbaric
laws were not repealed.
One such protest involved starving oneself, and so the land of
Ireland refused to bear crops for many weeks. Unfortunately, the
British were quite pleased by this development, and so another
plan had to be devised.
Whilst this was all going on, a man called Eamon De Valera was
running around praising the fascists and trying to separate
Ireland from Britain. The British agreed, and gave a chunk of
land over to him, but he was less than happy, and demanded the
rest.
"Y'all are black bastards" cried De Valera, and invented the IRA
to deal with the oppressors. Soon, the IRA were getting quite
good at the old oppressing themselves, and so the government
invented the B-Specials to oppress the IRA once more.
In support of De Valera's antics, some songs were written, many
of which said "The British are a pack of old bastards", and, "Up
The Ra!". Few British officials agreed with these sentiments, and
the Musicians Union Of Ireland was famously disbanded as
punishment.
One individual was heard whistling such a tune outside a tavern
in Broughcrannashan, and was fined heavily.
Shortly afterwards, a man arrived in Ireland bearing guns, and
said, "These here are the answer to your problems." Everyone
agreed, and were soon shooting one another gleefully. The fun
came to an abrupt end, however, when the participants realised
they were no longer in Ireland, but in Liverpool, laying railway
tracks and so on.
As a result of these territorial disputes, the people of Ireland
divided themselves into two groups. The two groups are as
follows; Loyalists and Republicans. Republicans believe the
country is theirs, and is the land of their fathers, and should
under no circumstances be confused with The Loyalists. The
Loyalists, by way of contrast, believe that the land is actually
theirs, and that it was the land of their fathers.
Republicans decorate their houses with pictures of The Pope,
whilst Loyalists prefer commemorative cutlery marking the
anniversary of The Queen's first visit to Blackpool.
Both have terrible taste in fashion.
In the years following the proceeding months, much debating was
afoot, with folks wondering what the hell they should do about
these Loyalists and Republicans killing each other.
"Whatever will we do about the Irish problem?" asked The Queen.
The Queen was very influential, and was something of a celebrity
on account of her appearance on money. Even she, however, could
provide no sensible solution.
Suddenly, as storm clouds gathered and mournful music played in a
mournful fashion, Margaret Thatcher was created in a laboratory
filled with rabid monkeys and Alsatians with three eyes. The
proper thing to do seemed to be to throw her into parliament, and
hopefully no one would notice. But with little or no fuss, she
quickly became Prime Minister, and once again the Irish were
annoyed. Some went to prison and rubbed shit all over themselves,
and others refused to take salt with their dinners, all as
protest against Thatcher.
Eventually the people who rubbed shit on themselves grew beards
and became murals, and somebody succeeded in getting rid of
Margaret Thatcher.
But still the IRA was far from happy. Not content with the land
they had, they demanded more. "The British came in here and took
our land by violent means", they explained, as they bombed their
way into towns were they weren't welcome.
Then, as if by magic, a man became Prime Minister who could play
guitar. He played guitar to the IRA, and they agreed that he was
a fine character all round. They agreed to stop shooting people
if they could be allowed to speak on telly again.
Because sometime in the late 1980's, Republicans were banned from
speaking on telly, and had to have their voices overdubbed by men
who said exactly what they had said in the first place. Sometimes
they would be overdubbed by women, by way of making them seem all
the more hilarious. On occasion, they were banned from television
altogether, as the government decided that only that which
appeared on television was real, and therefore the way to get rid
of the IRA was to keep them off BBC2.
But disaster loomed around the corner, as far as The Loyalists
were concerned, when America decided there was nothing better in
the world to be than a third-generation Irish person. Martin
Sheen appeared in Belfast saying "Up the Ra!", and R Kelly
released an album of soulful interpretations of rebel songs.
Then, a new dawning dawned on the land. People suddenly realised
that they didn't particularly care for either government, and
settled on protesting about things that were more important. The
politicians were terrified by this development, and attempted to
start the conflict anew, but the people saw through their
theatrics, and relegated them to live coverage on BBC Radio 3,
in-between excerpts from some Opera or other.
Explosions - "Increase The Peace, Motherfucker"
CHAPTER TWO - THE MOTHERFUCKING FOLLOW-UP
Following the publication of The Duke's Guide To Ireland Part
One, what dealt with the historicalised history of The Ireland,
an email popped in The Duke's inbox from the esteemed Dr. Terry
Hughes, who knows all about The Ireland and the politics, maybe
even as much as The Duke, although, granted, that's a bit far
fetched, really.
So what Terry Hughes had to say was this here - "How could you
forget about the United Irishmen, Duke? These motherfuckers were
the real thang, dogg." I'm paraphrasing, and it's unlikely Dr.
Hughes would use the term dogg to denote anything but canines.
But the point is clear - The Duke left out a damn important part
of the old history.
However, there's a reason for this, and the reason is as follows;
The Duke was keeping those United Irishmen for this second
instalment, what deals with the political shenanigans and such.
The Duke's Guide To Ireland Part Two
The Political Shenanigans And Such
Much is made by reporters in the media and various other clubs
about the whole political turmoil what is festering away over
here in Northern Ireland. They talk about the folks what blow up
the village square, and then the other folks what shoot the
first folks on account of they want some vengeance.
These folks take the Charles Bronson route to justice, being the
route that requires a big fucking baseball bat and various
firearms.
But what's behind all this bombing and shooting and sundry
despicable actions? The answer is that it is the politics what
is behind it all.
Politics, as defined by the Decree Regarding Politicalised
Politics Of 1879, deals with that which some folks think we
should all be thinking. Some of these lot, with regards the
Ireland, think that Northern Ireland and Southern Ireland should
get down together and get on with the sexing and so on, and have
nothing to do with those British lot.
For a thorough examination of those British lot, see Part One,
above.
Then there's others, sometimes not so far away from the first
bunch, maybe just across the table, and they think that the
North should having nothing to do with the South, like Patrick
Swayze thought back in the day on the television. They say The
North is British, and should remain so, and should have nothing
to do with the papacy or the Irish government.
Nobody, incidentally, seems to give a flying fuck about the East
or West.
The ones that want Northern Ireland to remain independent and of
British stock, are known as The Loyalists. These folks like
nothing better than to march about in the streets playing on the
drums. Some of them do a nice Hey Jude. Sometimes they do this
every day for two months, a time which is known as "The Marching
Season", and has all but knocked Summer off it's pedestal as
Best Season Between Spring And Autumn. These Loyalist types are
very fond of a man by the name of Dr Ian Paisley, who is a
Reverend in his spare time, when he can fit a sermon in between
mouthing off about The Pope Is Satan and so on.
Anyone who has seen The Pope, however, will know that he looks
nothing like Al Pacino.
The other crowd are known as The Republicans. These folks tend
not to march on the street very much, but they do have a virtual
monopoly on Pub Karaoke in the country. They are very fond of a
man by the name of Gerry Adams, who, whilst not a Reverend, has
at least got a fair selection of weaponry. Also, he has a beard,
a fact which has shamed The Loyalists to submission on many
occasions.
These lot, The Republicans, are in fact very fond of The Pope,
and probably don't think he has anything to do with The Black
Arts, like the Hip-Hop or the Breakdancing.
Fuck The Police, Dogg.
What has happened, on account of a thing by the name of The
Religion, is that one group tends to stick very close to one
branch of Christianity, and the other tends to go for a
different one.
Loyalists, for example, seem to be very fond of The Protestant
Religion, founded by Martin Luther King in the 1960's. Ask any
Loyalist about their top 5 religions, and chances are
Protestantism will be in the top three. By way of contrast, they
don't like The Catholicism one little bit.
The Catholicism, in fact, tends to be the religion of choice for
The Republicans. They have sermons very similar to the
protestant ones, except sometimes the performer of the ceremony,
or "Priest", will sing a little song or two in Latin. Sometimes
it might be a Prince number, sometimes it's something to do with
God. Whatever the ditty performed, it always manages to be
highly entertaining.
Thing is, back in the day, the Catholics and The Protestants
joined up for a couple of weeks, to form The United Irishmen, a
popular beat-combo from Enniskillen.
The United Irishmen took their name from a group of like-minded
Catholics and Protestants who decided they wanted to be in
charge of their destinies and so on, and so sued God for a time.
The case fell to an arse, however, when no jury in the land
would convict The Lord On High on account of he would smite them
like fuck if they ever dared, so The United Irishmen instead
turned their attentions to the government.
What they wanted was Home Rule, and wanted to sever all ties
with The British Lot.
Some other folks, however, didn't like this at all, and they
said "Oi!" and also, "Home Rule is Rome Rule", a reference to
The Pope, a man whom The Irish were very fond of, as stated
above.
The United Irishmen didn't prove to be very successful, but as a
sign of Working Class Solidarity despite religious differences,
they at least inspired several articles in The Socialist Worker,
something which even Martin Scorsese cannot claim.
And what of those socialists? Where are they amidst it all? They
are to be found in barrooms in Belfast, debating The Oil War and
so on. One of these groups took the initiative and decided to be
a real grown-up political party, known as the SDLP.
The thing about the SDLP was that they claimed to be a socialist
party and such, but really tended to just stick very close to
whoever was getting the most votes, and then repeat stuff the
prominent party had first stated. Sometimes they would add the
prefix - "I agree with what my good friend in the DUP / Sinn
Fein / UUP said when he said…"
What happens is that voters tend to vote SDLP in second place,
after casting their first vote for the party they actually give
a shit about. Much like a fan of Nirvana going to see Nearvana
or The Kurt Cobain Tribute Experience or such. There's no brain-
work going on, but at least you're gonna hear stuff you like.
On the opposite side of the whole Political Spectrum from The
Socialist Lot are The Nazi Lot. Some times The Nazi Lot try to
pretend they're not Nazi's, and that they don't even own any
Rammstein albums. A close examination of their policies reveals
that they are certainly not Nazis, for whilst they indeed hate
blacks / gays / Asians / Catholics / women / humanity, they have
no uniform of any kind. Most of them might not even have a
moustache.
These Nazi lot, sometimes known as the Far Right, tend to latch
on to whatever political debate is currently taking place, and
then appropriate the facts to fit their policies. For example,
thanks to these people, we can deduce that the problem with the
water system is because of the blacks, and the reason the banks
shut too early is because of the gays, and also the fact that
it's nigh on impossible to get a normal cup of coffee is down to
nothing more than the Jews.
Thanks, Nazis.
You might think these Nazi types would be very fond of The
Republicans, what with Eamon De Valera, the man what invented
Ireland, being very supportive of the whole fascism affair. You
would be wrong though, since these individuals say "Kill the
IRA" and "Scum Republican Fuck" and so on.
Once, to test the non-racist policies of a certain Far-Right
political party, The Duke called their offices, and enquired as
to their motives. The Duke fabricated that he was a black man.
Upon hearing this, the nice man replied as follows. - "You're a
black man? You can fuck off then."
Only a cynic would presume this to be a racist threat. Surely it
is the right of all men, be they black or tartan, to fuck off.
Why should fucking off be the sole preserve of the Aryan race?
Sometime in the 1990's, the political parties all listened to
Wonderwall and decided they loved each other. They set about
producing a referendum which would be known as The Good Friday
Agreement, which detailed how the opposing parties would meet up
now and again and talk.
This talking seems to be very popular, and generally means that
the political types are excused from doing anything.
What this all means is that all you need is love and give peace
a chance, I mean come on, you shot John Lennon, let it go, man,
stop with the hating. Shit, just get a dove or something. Stop
with the hating. Let it go, motherfucker.
Thus concludes today's lecture.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
Following the publication of The Duke's Guide To Ireland Part
One, what dealt with the historicalised history of The Ireland,
an email popped in The Duke's inbox from the esteemed Dr. Terry
Hughes, who knows all about The Ireland and the politics, maybe
even as much as The Duke, although, granted, that's a bit far
fetched, really.
So what Terry Hughes had to say was this here - "How could you
forget about the United Irishmen, Duke? These motherfuckers were
the real thang, dogg." I'm paraphrasing, and it's unlikely Dr.
Hughes would use the term dogg to denote anything but canines.
But the point is clear - The Duke left out a damn important part
of the old history.
However, there's a reason for this, and the reason is as follows;
The Duke was keeping those United Irishmen for this second
instalment, what deals with the political shenanigans and such.
The Duke's Guide To Ireland Part Two
The Political Shenanigans And Such
Much is made by reporters in the media and various other clubs
about the whole political turmoil what is festering away over
here in Northern Ireland. They talk about the folks what blow up
the village square, and then the other folks what shoot the
first folks on account of they want some vengeance.
These folks take the Charles Bronson route to justice, being the
route that requires a big fucking baseball bat and various
firearms.
But what's behind all this bombing and shooting and sundry
despicable actions? The answer is that it is the politics what
is behind it all.
Politics, as defined by the Decree Regarding Politicalised
Politics Of 1879, deals with that which some folks think we
should all be thinking. Some of these lot, with regards the
Ireland, think that Northern Ireland and Southern Ireland should
get down together and get on with the sexing and so on, and have
nothing to do with those British lot.
For a thorough examination of those British lot, see Part One,
above.
Then there's others, sometimes not so far away from the first
bunch, maybe just across the table, and they think that the
North should having nothing to do with the South, like Patrick
Swayze thought back in the day on the television. They say The
North is British, and should remain so, and should have nothing
to do with the papacy or the Irish government.
Nobody, incidentally, seems to give a flying fuck about the East
or West.
The ones that want Northern Ireland to remain independent and of
British stock, are known as The Loyalists. These folks like
nothing better than to march about in the streets playing on the
drums. Some of them do a nice Hey Jude. Sometimes they do this
every day for two months, a time which is known as "The Marching
Season", and has all but knocked Summer off it's pedestal as
Best Season Between Spring And Autumn. These Loyalist types are
very fond of a man by the name of Dr Ian Paisley, who is a
Reverend in his spare time, when he can fit a sermon in between
mouthing off about The Pope Is Satan and so on.
Anyone who has seen The Pope, however, will know that he looks
nothing like Al Pacino.
The other crowd are known as The Republicans. These folks tend
not to march on the street very much, but they do have a virtual
monopoly on Pub Karaoke in the country. They are very fond of a
man by the name of Gerry Adams, who, whilst not a Reverend, has
at least got a fair selection of weaponry. Also, he has a beard,
a fact which has shamed The Loyalists to submission on many
occasions.
These lot, The Republicans, are in fact very fond of The Pope,
and probably don't think he has anything to do with The Black
Arts, like the Hip-Hop or the Breakdancing.
Fuck The Police, Dogg.
What has happened, on account of a thing by the name of The
Religion, is that one group tends to stick very close to one
branch of Christianity, and the other tends to go for a
different one.
Loyalists, for example, seem to be very fond of The Protestant
Religion, founded by Martin Luther King in the 1960's. Ask any
Loyalist about their top 5 religions, and chances are
Protestantism will be in the top three. By way of contrast, they
don't like The Catholicism one little bit.
The Catholicism, in fact, tends to be the religion of choice for
The Republicans. They have sermons very similar to the
protestant ones, except sometimes the performer of the ceremony,
or "Priest", will sing a little song or two in Latin. Sometimes
it might be a Prince number, sometimes it's something to do with
God. Whatever the ditty performed, it always manages to be
highly entertaining.
Thing is, back in the day, the Catholics and The Protestants
joined up for a couple of weeks, to form The United Irishmen, a
popular beat-combo from Enniskillen.
The United Irishmen took their name from a group of like-minded
Catholics and Protestants who decided they wanted to be in
charge of their destinies and so on, and so sued God for a time.
The case fell to an arse, however, when no jury in the land
would convict The Lord On High on account of he would smite them
like fuck if they ever dared, so The United Irishmen instead
turned their attentions to the government.
What they wanted was Home Rule, and wanted to sever all ties
with The British Lot.
Some other folks, however, didn't like this at all, and they
said "Oi!" and also, "Home Rule is Rome Rule", a reference to
The Pope, a man whom The Irish were very fond of, as stated
above.
The United Irishmen didn't prove to be very successful, but as a
sign of Working Class Solidarity despite religious differences,
they at least inspired several articles in The Socialist Worker,
something which even Martin Scorsese cannot claim.
And what of those socialists? Where are they amidst it all? They
are to be found in barrooms in Belfast, debating The Oil War and
so on. One of these groups took the initiative and decided to be
a real grown-up political party, known as the SDLP.
The thing about the SDLP was that they claimed to be a socialist
party and such, but really tended to just stick very close to
whoever was getting the most votes, and then repeat stuff the
prominent party had first stated. Sometimes they would add the
prefix - "I agree with what my good friend in the DUP / Sinn
Fein / UUP said when he said…"
What happens is that voters tend to vote SDLP in second place,
after casting their first vote for the party they actually give
a shit about. Much like a fan of Nirvana going to see Nearvana
or The Kurt Cobain Tribute Experience or such. There's no brain-
work going on, but at least you're gonna hear stuff you like.
On the opposite side of the whole Political Spectrum from The
Socialist Lot are The Nazi Lot. Some times The Nazi Lot try to
pretend they're not Nazi's, and that they don't even own any
Rammstein albums. A close examination of their policies reveals
that they are certainly not Nazis, for whilst they indeed hate
blacks / gays / Asians / Catholics / women / humanity, they have
no uniform of any kind. Most of them might not even have a
moustache.
These Nazi lot, sometimes known as the Far Right, tend to latch
on to whatever political debate is currently taking place, and
then appropriate the facts to fit their policies. For example,
thanks to these people, we can deduce that the problem with the
water system is because of the blacks, and the reason the banks
shut too early is because of the gays, and also the fact that
it's nigh on impossible to get a normal cup of coffee is down to
nothing more than the Jews.
Thanks, Nazis.
You might think these Nazi types would be very fond of The
Republicans, what with Eamon De Valera, the man what invented
Ireland, being very supportive of the whole fascism affair. You
would be wrong though, since these individuals say "Kill the
IRA" and "Scum Republican Fuck" and so on.
Once, to test the non-racist policies of a certain Far-Right
political party, The Duke called their offices, and enquired as
to their motives. The Duke fabricated that he was a black man.
Upon hearing this, the nice man replied as follows. - "You're a
black man? You can fuck off then."
Only a cynic would presume this to be a racist threat. Surely it
is the right of all men, be they black or tartan, to fuck off.
Why should fucking off be the sole preserve of the Aryan race?
Sometime in the 1990's, the political parties all listened to
Wonderwall and decided they loved each other. They set about
producing a referendum which would be known as The Good Friday
Agreement, which detailed how the opposing parties would meet up
now and again and talk.
This talking seems to be very popular, and generally means that
the political types are excused from doing anything.
What this all means is that all you need is love and give peace
a chance, I mean come on, you shot John Lennon, let it go, man,
stop with the hating. Shit, just get a dove or something. Stop
with the hating. Let it go, motherfucker.
Thus concludes today's lecture.
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
