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........in
which Dusty repents for causing Ivor's damnation.....
A chairde,
Father Megson was trying
to stay warm by playing keepy-uppy in bed last night when
Dusty dropped in.
"Bless me Father", she
chirped, "and how's yer belly off for spots? Isn't it
a lovely evening to be happed up under the goose feathers?
Hope ye don't mind me droppin' in only yer skylight was
open. Holy mackerel, Father, that's a fierce big bed
you've got there. Isn't it an awful waste of space
with you bein' a celibate man? If ye were a proper
Christian, ye'd share it with the poor people of the parish
and them less well endowed than yerself.
"That's a great game
you're playin' there, Father.....don't stop on my
account.......away ye go again and I'll do the countin'.
One, two, three...........nine, ten, eleven......oh, hard
luck, Father.....that was brilliant altogether, Father....
Mr Dusty would be awful jealous; his personal best is still
seven.....and that was achieved back in the torpid summer of
'59.
"But enough about you,
Father. Let's move on to more important matters.
Listen Father, would ye ever wipe that disgustin' sweat off
yer manly torso and then we'll kneel down and say the rosary
for poor wee Ivor and his broken team. Have ye not
seen the table? Sure the History Men are lower than
the beasts of the field. If it wasn't for them
Johnny-come-lately Punks, they'd be bottom of the pit.
'The last rusty dodgem in the fairground of futility', to
quote the Venerable Bede.
"Kneel down beside me now
Father - not too close, I'm a happily married woman - and
we'll begin. We'd better make it the Sorrowful
Mysteries, Oh Father, it's no use, me conscience is
killin' me even worse than me corns.....ye'll have to shrive
me here and now. Get out of that bed, ye lazy pup and
give me absolution.
"Ye see, Father, it's all
my fault. Picture the scene. There I was a few
months ago stuck for hours in the chiropodists while he
pared me corns. I'd read all the CHESHIRE LIFE
magazines twice over so I was forced to get out me copy of
PARADISE LOST which I normally save for visits to the Post
Office. It was written by a protestant, Father, so I'm
sure ye didn't have it in the seminary but it's a fierce
good yarn. It's all about a shower of big-headed bad
angels who get on God's goat by sayin' that they're just as
clever as He is and they join a Trade Union demandin' equal
rights for angels. Then God really loses the bap and
He shouts in a big loud voice 'Ye have me nearly astray in
the head with yer constant caterwaulin', feck off the lot of
youse and go and live in saecula seculorum in a fiery
furnace and give me head peace'. So they did what they
were told for once and that's when Hell was invented.
Not many people know that. I should be on the
Eggheads, shouldn't I Father?
"So far so good, Father,
but guess what I did then. When I was gettin' me corns
pared I shut me eyes and prayed to God that he would cast
them aul hoors from the Griffin into a fiery pit as well and
bad cess to them. I know that was a fierce
uncharitable thing to do but I get awful fed up with them
winnin' every week and their egos the size of Co. Roscommon
and anyway, how was I to know that God would bollox it up
and send the wrong team down into the fiery pit? It
makes you think Father, if He can't tell the difference
between Ciaran and Ivor, he can't be all that omniscient,
can He? Maybe them bad angels had a point after all.
"Anyway Father, what's
done is done. Just tell me what the penance is for
sendin' the wrong team down and then I'll toddle off home to
be Mr Dusty's obedient handmaid......and wouldn't it be a
hoot if God gets it right next season........it'll take more
than a mid-season change of name to fool Him next time." |