Tuesday, May 08, 2007

Amergin Bergin

My beauty crown befriender
Sound short, sweet or silent
Sequential night succintly pass
Luna flame lighting the message
Love is peace and running space
A Goidelic tribal song of Amergin.


D.S: Stardate: Highgate Wood, Captain Dante tugging in the bushes with gods of trade, rented cabal of dossers soliciting her utterance, wanna tip?


Not just space and style, but a whole way of seeing
Small press independant publisher Captain Dante
Getting ahead in a fantastical world more galactic
Undisputed star of the Medieval bore-scape, lingua
Franca decanted to Algiheri's universal word-trough
His comedic logo lettering art, hefts in poetical gravitas
On an island of resident windbags hacking their duty
To dance the eye and profess from a public pulpit
Secular poems to cyber flocks founding a split
In the virtual cosmological core myth
Of the Florentine popinjay, Dan's Art.


Dan-direach is the most complex of Irish bardic meters to work in and translates as "art-straight" and inverts to the "straight art" bardic meter filidh poets composed in, after at least five or so years spent in what was the Irish universities, the bardic schools that trained the secular writers or filidh who inherited the modified role of the druids after the first Culdean monks came in the 4C. These language workers were/are the forgotten Algiheri flock of "knowing ones," and they were/are the faithfull and highly trained poets reaching for a full capacity in the fictional field, hoping the pool of language can be accessed from the neighbourhood of self where they have chosen to learn and practice.

Quest for their wind to star in cyberspace
War, draw the light on lettered practice
With others in the of Manannan mac Lir,
Fand, Aine and Niamh location of Tir na Og
Dante's place for the underwater plebisite.


"Freedom of speech a fundamental right"
Rote the dreamer scribing the islands'
Literate history, recording events routed
Through millenia to search the earliest
Utterance in proto-Old Irish. Oh eye?

Goidelic Ogam orthography (letters)
Not Latin but of the the "I" spiral
Mad Brittonic tourists tattoo
On coccyges above their arses after
A weekend in Whelans drunkly imbibing
Fascinated by the simply obscuring alphabet
Of sheer crossover, in a voice-oil running
Tribe and clan Goidelic in the culture


A thousand waves of inavsion on Sir
John is in Norwich Ogham inked on his neck
Link between modern Druidry and ancient
Seers who weave the vernacular
Voice, rent not its fabric, island life Harry
Potter executed by the queen of memory to the most astonishing levels.


I am Goidel, Brythonic for "Raider" and "Culture Show" is on RTE radio and in full fantastical flight Derek Mahon is reading, speaking his voice in verbal bubble, murmering in my right ear, Deggsy blathering live from Aidan Higgins ouvre:

"..unadorned as the town of Trim, not a stitch to spare her blushes.."

"Trims a nice town, but it’s the words he’s after.."

Mahon explains, the instinvtive linguistic search for an acoustically felicitous femminine parsing word to reign and slap into place - in double-matting upward effervescent force - the simple mathmatical object of aural premise, his utterance as close as it gets to oral perfection on the page.


There is a very intricately rendered tall tale - or joke told-straight - in the 14C Book of Ballymote Ogam manuscript, recounting a clearly made-up event about Fenius Farsa a mythical king of Scythia in classical antiquity, in the Pontic-Caspian Steppe and the northern Caucasus, which is currently Kazakhstan, Southern Russia, Eastern Ukraine, Azarbaijan, Belarus, and some of Poland.

With two Irish men called Goídel mac Ethéoir and Íar mac Nema He gathered together 72 scribes and went to study the confused languages at Nomrods Tower on the Shinar plain in Mesopotamia, only to discover that the Tower of Babel had collapsed and the poets dispersed.

Fenius scattered his flock of penmen to study with the original linguists and stayed at the tower co-ordianting the retreival and ten years after his literate quest was complete, and 25 centuries later Wikipedia , the new and improved Library of Alexandria states:

"...and Fenius created in Bérla tóbaide "the selected language", taking the best of each of the confused tongues, which he called Goídelc, Goidelic, after Goídel mac Ethéoir. He also created extensions of Goídelc, called Bérla Féne, after himself, Íarmberla, after Íar mac Nema, and others, and the Beithe-luis-nuin (the Ogham) as a perfected writing system for his languages. The names he gave to the letters were those of his 25 best scholars...."

The link between Ogam and Goidelic to the casual reader flicking through the Book of Ballymote cannot be grasped in a skim-read, if at all, and even from this short explanation, you will appreciate how a full study of the orthography of Gaelic is not a five minute job for those of us working to write in the perfect tongue using tricks found in language retrieved from the Tower of Babel.

Whatever the truth about the roots and evolution of the Goidelic language is, the material holding the clues is voluminous and proved impossible to crack.

Robert Graves, like Dante and Yeats, had a go at tackling Ogam and dilineating the holy grail of Western European language, but after a short way in the poet realises that Graves is only juggling a million snatched pieces of myth from the pan-European corpus, and offering us the blaze of sheer intellectual invention, lots of spark but no purchasing flame or single logical thread of extrapolation to convince any but those who wish to be led by his charisma alone, trancers lacking spiritual sustenance mistaking his his mumbo jumbo for literate druidic "wood utterance" or "fiodhradh," a tree-letter divination rite performed by druids using magical Ogam and a few twigs.

Graves whole premise starts shaky and is founded on very tenuous connections based on what his imagination wants to believe, asking an illogical amount of faith from us, and is too daft to amount to an argument whose startling blaze is in place of the absent knowledge his instinct sniffs but his eye failes to deliver in print. Although he knows his stuff, being a know all on Greek myth, one suspects a lot of smoke and mirror and bluffing, as by the end (if you reach it) he has juggled so many ifs and buts that we no longer follow (or care) as he lost us long before once we realised his blather was not about conveying knoweldge to a reader, but his poetic own-search and trawl, his theory much like Yeats' or Dantes' and thus the personal belief system each single poet constructs if they are to write serious critical prose on the subject of the straight art of faith called verse.

The White Goddess is his imaginative go at proving his knowledge of Ogam to himself and his father, an Ogam expert. Graves wanted to be the main know all on "wooden utterance," which is the invisible and silent tongue so tantalisingly unknown and misunderstood by most, the verbal shade all poets spend their career of ritual ram-raiding in the word-hood, seeking wordic booty and spoil in the life long prayer to reach and cloak their art crafty, unseen by the competition they closely watch and observing what knowledge within the rough weave and pool of self-hood can be tousled and osmosis out to be woven and washed in to a different composition.

A medieval poet, when compiling any set of texts, in the attempt to add - in his time and culture - academic weight to a deity who makes the poetry gig happen will voice from behind the many masks covering the gag of his oir her life and tell whoppers in the straight art spun with metrical yarn in a narrative stitched to such logically mindboggling lengths, that only the very committed reader can hope to unpick the thread of logic or unravel any sense from them, other than them being the gobs to cause contemporary ears to gasp in greening amazement at the pointlessness beauty of their sound.

Approaching the Book of Ballymote Ogam trieste illiterate, deaf and without some awareness of the wider Irish corpus, the poet is left with a confused impression; the half-glimpse a mild prod may not direct to understanding, as full cognisance involves a lorra intellectual ossification for the skeleton outline of a literate history to dilineate within the ollamh's intellect, these men living on forgotten pages only those seriously committment to he whose name stems from the Brythonic word for "raider," eye with any coherent cognisance of what Mangus was scribing on about.

The astonishing and incredibly complex Ogam de-coding procedure is so rarely done some claim the intellectual mechanism must be "inbuilt" (as well as anal, the Goidelic sound-raider might say) and this de-bars all but the most committed of Goidelic groupies to discern what incrediblely sophisticated level of cultural skullduggery went on in these Bard's minds, for the thousand years of Goidelic letters, life and practice.

The bards' business was fact, incredibly tall stories, needed for all the illigitimate children to an official pedigree when pledging to fight for the right to be a sweet singing wordy git.

Ogma is the poetry god who invented the Goidelic alphabet and gag-kitty, and secret knowledge of his letters lie in the mythical cranebag of Mannan mac Lir, a sea god - "Mannan son of Lir" - Lir being the shadowy ruler of time and deep space in the Goidelic pantheon. The magic bag from which the secret formula of the Goidelic language is supposed to spring out from when the the lucky druid got a grip of this slippery thing, made from the skin of Mannan's daughter Aoife, and containing nine articles that appear elsewhere in the myth:

"..Manannan's house, shirt, knife, the belt and smith's hook of Goibniu, the shears of the King of Alba, the helmet of the King of Lochlann, the belt of fish-skin, and the bones of Asal's pig which the son of Tuirenn had been sent to fetch by Lugh. The treasures were only visible at high-tide, at the ebbtide they would vanish. The bag was passed from Manannan to Lugh, then to Cumhal and finally to Fionn. The contents of the crane's bag correspond to the Hallows of Annwn and to the treasures guarded by Twrch Trwyth...."

This wizzards sound-satchel ended up in the hands of Fionn MacCumhal in the time he is supposed to have lived in the first few centuries after Jesus. Finns name translates as - Finn "son of slave-women," a "cumhal" being a female slave, worth three rare gold coins from the royal Tara mint, in a time when bartering greased business.

Like Cuhullain, Sean the Proud O'Neill Mor, but unlike Finn, Ogma - Father deity of the Tuatha De Dannan - was a shagger with lots of kids by different women and the de facto cosmic dictator, playing his role in the history of the Goidelic lingo and letters that route to a druidic order, who invented the Ogam orthography (precursor to proto-Oh ey) first writ on twig, branch, rock and which morphed into Old Irish in the 5-6C.

Ogma's name means "honey mouth." Hmm, Goidel is an oily shaping shade and deity innit? Sibling song of Gual, alive in the "oil," one of the "yes" in three languages Dante picked to mix in his trilogical three card trick he tried to construct the tower of babel with, much like the later magus Yeats did with his apologia "The Vision," which "I" Goidel bets is one of the most impenitrible poetic texts ever assembled, with a side pot in short odds that only silly Willy himself could poorly articulate - if at all - to the uninitiated poetry bore looking for canonisation, what he meant.

A Butler vision silly Willy never realised or finished writing, thus his final thought on the whole wordplay thing ultimately stopped at the point of his passing.


Did that play the butler wrote
Send men to their utterance
Casual or in full ceremonial
Saffron battle dress perhaps
As he waited for a wit to crack
Silly butler spacer-man moaning Sligo Amigo whose mind contained

Maghnus mac Melaghlin Ruadh O Duibggeannain - Manus "son of Melaghlin Roe O'Duigenan" - a "fili" or poet trained to scribe at Goidel High - Bard School, an oak in the wood of the tree Universities who wrote the Book of Ballymote.

Osborn Bergin knew Magnus well as he was a Dante shedding the Celtic Twilight literary movement on which an island founded itself at the revolutionary start of the 20C. Bergin was a man who connected to the spirit of Amergin, the founding professional historian, poet and genealogists who came with the final wave of invaders, the Milesians, and Amergin's number was glueing the various fictional strata of contemporary myth, to strands in the cultural cloak of Goidelic society, whose spiritual bond was literately snipped, as plantational fury pinnacled with the unleashing of Cromwell, champion of the common herd wishing only violence be brutal and swift, teach the scumbags no trick of "civilisation" to low to turn and murmer from the existential poetic cauldron of Amergin and Algihieri.

Magnus Roe O'Duigenan was from a clan of post-graduate professional historians and wood centric scribes, pledging fealty to a sept from the MacDermot kings of Moylurg in Roscommon, NE Ireland.

The etymology of Ireland is unclear. Whether it is Ir, brother of Amergin, or Eriu, daughter of war goddess Ernmas is unclear, as there are so many competeing blocks of data and fantasy that evolved during the thousand golden years of literature in the Goidelic civilisation, and Magnus was but a tiny cog scribbling along, in and through his span, weft in a tradition drenched in - and printed by - filidh poets tied to the iron age mindset, their ancient language a dinosaur, and nearing the final flush of it's maturity during Magnus' Medieval era.

To digest and yield a track leading to difinitive linguistic proof on the nomenclature of Ireland, leads the shadow chaser to the ghost of a potentially non-existent Ir, generally considered by the spacers in the know, as an interlopation by a poet on the make, claiming lineage to someone he made up who didn't exist in the official myth of a tribal history situated in the topography of outright fiction, created by an honorable bunch in the scam to explain how a swan seeded the bun in Ir's wife's Goidelic oven.

The essentiall bollix wrapped in an enigma posing as myth masquerading as truth depending on how daft an audience can be led to believe existence can be, is or descend to. One two three, the metrical diamond trilogical daemons in the O.I. card trick, one for each base, another for now and a spare to direct the readers inner pyschological floe, gettit?

The intellectual shag-ice a maestro of hocus pocus and wholly fictional non-existential magus in full telepathic powers, can slip on as his pathology collapses in the wieght of a disbelieving ear. The Moylurg of Magnus was itself a sub-kingdom the Connachta ruling dynasty bossed, who along with many competing branches seeking to become the apical founder of all island rule in a culture of continual war raid and invasion on Eriu daughter of Ernmas, sister of Fodhla and Banbha, singular aspect of the triple land goddess the Goidelic kings ritually wedded to when stepping up to the ultimate role of Ri of the tuatha and also sister to the three war goddesses, Badb, Macha, Morrigan aka Annan and with brothers Glon, Gnim, Coscar, Fiacha and Ollom, you can get a flavour of the shifting sands on which the history's written. It is interesting to note however that Eriu is the Norse and Saxon word for "land."


The Ogham trieste in the 14C Book of Ballymote was assembled one hundred years after Dante's "De vulgarati eloquentia" - "On vernacular speech," a work with clear parallells to the Goidelic tongue, also a vernacular which had been in print for seven hundred years when Dante first upgraded his Tuscan from vulgar to official vernacular.

Moylurg in Goidelic is Magh Luirg an Dagda, "the plain of the tracks of the Dagda." The Dagda is the apical deity in the Tuatha De Danna mythology, who are the penultimate peoples or "wave of invasion" strands of the Irish corpus of tall tales, that one finds in the verbal aeroplanes that spell - in lettered smoke - the sky, voiced not in vulgar "lingua d'oc" of Southern Europe Dante co-opted into his failed attempt to definitively blueprint the how and why Babel works, in De Vulgari eloquentia. As the Wikipedia author puts it:

"nam alii oc, alii si, alii vero dicunt oil" ("some say oc, others say si, others say oïl"), thereby classifying the Romance languages into three groups based on each language's word for "yes", the oïl languages (in northern France, Gual), the oc languages (in southern France), and the si languages. The word òc came from Vulgar Latin hoc ("this"), while oïl originated from Latin hoc illud ("this [is] it"). Other Romance languages derive their word for yes from the Latin sic, "thus", such as Spanish, Insubric , Italian , Catalan sí, or Portuguese sim...."


Magnus fits into the oil'ish myth, compiled from the dawn of the Irish printed utterence, and competing dynasties in the wider Goidelic culture - which had shrunken considerably to a small island on the fringe - stressed in femminine upsing and existed through a quirk of time accident and distance from the centre of an imperial force that snuffed out Gual and lit French to a Gallo-Romance language, as Goidel's Brythonic sibling fought it out with the waves of Dane, Saxon, Angel and later Viking culture, all vying for linguistic supremacy at the fringe of Roman speech.

Clients of Ceasar in the time of Caligula fought for a villa and back-up from the status-quo troops, drawn from all over Europe, North Africa and beyond all knowing the shrunken Goidelic spark flamed fierce in the quirky air, one days dangerous sail away, over - what in Goidelic mythology is termed - "nine waves," an apt, pointed shorthand blowing in the wind and whose eytomolgy belies it's simple poetical consistency.

This resolutely natural sounding bit of wordplacement fits the first shoe of metrical everffescent success , founded on the rule of overwhelming physical force in number, like being Irish and it's king a client of the from a apologia, historical ,Dante's ouevre and purpose."authorial artist to lend weight to their claim of being verbal magicians and an indispensible caste of "Nemed" status, their written history a thousand years old when the edifice collapsed after Henry VIII ginger issue began steering the intrique for her forty year ride, the queen king, ace knave and joker of the Northern European Renaissance.

Her face is a card in the poker game of history whose slender corporeal weight was irrelevant when infused with life, when the virgin queen was herself as conscious energy, divine princess no longer but Queen and ruler whose psychic hand dealt and dabbled in chess and specialised in bluff, her illusion conquering all at court with a policy of divide and rule. To her enemies she was an ace of hearts in michief and wickedness, who excelled in the courtly atmosphere of con and counter-con, triple bluff, unheard of skullduggery, but to her servants she was the hefty bluff in their quest for power in her name in the golden age of English letters, when it took its first gulps of air as a living vernacular, 300 years after Dante's essay.

The bluffing poet can also extract using the first trick in the book of verbal illusion, by inverting the similarity tool, to expand into uncharted space of poetic meaning, the binary whose fixed, neutral state is always weighted to lilt with upsing or alliteratively positive snag, acoustic barb of immeasurable weight when spoken, but for the anal poetry bore, the grain of agitation at the centre of their search for verbal oyster as they dive, find, prize and methodically discard, extracting a use for whatever turns up, catches the eye, the spoken pearl of singular basic return.


Luminous is the light and dark, a trick of accident and chance, volume, selection and the learner in language tries to cultivate this femminine effevesence and charge for linguistic expansion, as the plough and star in their field of literate force, going red drawf of imploding, absence or coruscatingly "there" in the moment of mimesis, making kicks as an artist shelling their string.

Both Dante's and Magnus' works, to amatuer and bluffing professional alike, convey the polar opposite cultural charges of the tradition in these two men. Dante is the positive, overflowing force who effectively invented modern Italian, by combining the different written Medieval Romance dialects of Latin Europe , the Oil, Oc and Si, to create the template for modern Italian, in his own uniquely literate ideolect, stunningly sensible for imitation as his voice sought any word from an speaker.

As Mahon said, its the acoustic profile a poet tunes to over the years, how the sound of a word dilineates to fit the self-made blueprint of utterance the aural object must specify to for the artists whose names were crushed as Goidelic society collapsed and the "fili" (poet) lineage - stretching back to an originating druidic pool doing all the important talking during the pre-literate iron age, aristocracy, were snuffed in a short sharp slap, the twighlight unbreaking the dip of one

Sunset strip shimmy through window slats
Edging across a bone white wall and beech
Wood floor with mole knots dotting the faded

As dusk draws darkness in
Peeling back the pith of light
Opaque forms appear in pale shadows
And cast a chill spell in the night air.

A ghostly clan seep
From the otherworld through pictures
On brick, visit the room filling the hours
Before dawn with an aroma of spirits
Spectres and long silent ancestors.

Their fuse of flesh life lit and left
As a pyramid of past
We’ve no cognisance of, the human
History, reality chained existence
To an unfathomable entity.

A void of unconsciousness
No man or woman will speak
Of until humanity detaches, sings
No more of distress, but happiness.

Dip header Dereks off again:

"realistic homegrown tradition and something more experimental and cosmopolitan"

Reffering to Higgins and Magahern, saying

"I think maybe Higgins' time has come."

Mahon continues, speaking at home in Kinsale, at the Aidan Higgins at 80 Weekend where his life and work are being celebrated, poetry getting affirmed.


Have a putsch Cull the duffer hack,
please Ms can I make a suggestion?

Ring in the imperial vibe,
enthrall the colonial chavs
let their bitching be the cause of slit psychosis,
the latest mental tick must have, try out lifestyle-tourettes
fashion victim loving scuzzy black dress scag goddess scrummy
scummy septum sniffer, pure image, cosmetic slap, remote con
of the beautiful one, self unexceptional
hanging, awaits love to come calling when detox is over
a back-pocket bung, reward for the long haul, O'Cuiv, O'Higgins, O'Ward O'Daly and literate septs in lettered combat,

poison in satire, outright lies bought and paid for, truth the Gordon knot comrades, the loonies detach, brutal, vicious, rude back-slang patois of chat illegible to the uninitiated of God knows where, some kip in Ipswich

where soul survivors on a lost weekend reunite , Caister on the Norfolk Coast, unattractive Britonic masses go mad, middle aged idots dress as tarts, pimps and traffic wardens for the fun night out spent searching for a craic in their mid-life crisis,

immortalise the memory of fat people wearing next to nowt
dressed for a masque ball of boring Albion soul circa Wigan Casino, '79

Blondie at the height of her power, yeees. ~

Tommy Eliot is stern
Kappa Kappa Gamma media chav slappa
bore I'd not heard of...

"but I have so many squares I want to compete with right now...wait a bit..plan to go right and devour :

Nogzi: The Tweeney Implosion and Wayne: The True Crocky, Mandy Motions new soccer stat. bio on Rooney McLoughlin doing a bitta blue bizz in the hibiscus border

grannie Beeb and a BBC Radio Four tranny locked in a bog in the corrider blowing Andy Crowley's mesmeric allure. What a book!

What a writer! Check out Mandy and learn to avoid offence when care free commenting above the line his art's holiness is tenderly banging on to Joanna about, after not bumming but noting an awareness, adroit and ambidextrous with identity shifting on bank of self.

Experience a confused buttercup, let love be its verbal first divination, twig it, the bore behind the comment that's being offered on the box?

Will You Ever Feck Off Out Of it

Whooa donkies bonking ponies
Eddy, just as were getting too cozy.

There is a brilliant writer in Galway (moving to Cork) whose blog The Arse End Of Ireland is on the roll.

She's the psychological front-of-house, ecstatic knowing quotidian power of non-stop slagging, Sweary say:

"fantasise about travelling back in time to Leaving Cert year, just for a week, with the unshakeable confidence and shit-stirring glee that's developed in me since, and I'd create such ginormous ripples in the teenage psyches of my nemeses that they'd be dribbling in wheelchairs by the time 2007 rolled around. Teenagers are vicious. Adults are vicious and much, much more imaginative."

Cooor What A Shocker Sweary Sweary McInerney

"When I reached this place"
It was all very various
All very today,
Verily MacNeice Scowling Graves lost
In thicket-foe of fawn, dawning Doe-eyed Mexican
Genral op Mick and Boston prof Ricks
Affirm the songstress with

"a complex about being... the same kind of tenacious little bitch that all the pretty, damaged girls were, and she'll get great marks in Irish, and wash her hair every day, and get everyone else's names wrong..." not that

"The wit was indelicate
The wind well timed
Eloquently blown from a branch
Of a language tree-spelt and
Rooted in the lingusitic silt
Of a profuse and shrouded past
Elegantly polished silken
Whitethorn blosom, which litter
This wind-drenched land Sidhe (shee)
Shucked empty of myth

"I pulled a nice pint, which kept the ould men happy, and I wore tight t-shirts, which kept all the men happy. I wasn't the chattiest of barwomen, though. You wouldn't have found me huffing my way through hyperbolic scandal like some sort of bedhopping Coronation Street character. I pulled pints, I took money, I gave change, and I watched TV. I didn't really go in for the ould interaction.

Why this, you might ask? Ah. Well, you see, in the Arse End Of Ireland in particular, you have what's known as the locals to put up with. Your regular customers, in the pub trade, are your lifeblood. Grand day, isn't it? It's supposed to stay like this all week. The wind's got a bite on it like a starved Mary Harney on a toffee apple, but it's good for the few blades of grass you call crops, isn't it?"

Oh what a terrible way to carry Denise Riley,

"I don't want absence raw
..this beautiful...rain lyric
..a pool with an eye in it."

Pallster sweary McInerney funnily slagging to us, Connacht people's investigitive gonzo princess with the gob from a cast-list of Viz,

do you remember the day when a ghost
besuited in white offered assistance to Randal
Hopkirk and the figure who re-drawers
the Rubicon

Everyone nodding
No sodden boys
It was all very
Very Tommy Stearns
Viv betrothed to Eliot
Imagine what returns
To sharpen the tooth
God, invert the dog
When glory glitters
Humminbirds bent,
beat meaning God
Ezra looped in the sky
Insanely content believing
Inversion reversed us God
Animals who suffer
The ecstacy
Bolw Tommy blow

"Whispers and small laughter
Between leaves and hurrying feet
Under sleep, where all the waters
Bowspirit cracked with ice and paint
Cracked with heat. I made this, I" may
"Have forgotten
The rigging weak and..canvas
Rotten...my own..garboard strake
Leeks, the seams need caulking
This form, this face, this life .....
The awakened lips...of time
Beyond...speech unspoken
...granite islands toward my timber
And woodthrush calling through the fog"
Comes verily discreet the one who knows

"Irish people won't let anything like the tragic or mind-boggling personal stories of others get in the way of their flapping on about themselves, as in Ireland, no one listens to anyone; they just wait for them to stop speaking..."

Sweary Sweary you shit hot bitching amigo, before switching on to gas under my own identity pedal; do you know the succesfull execution of the island accent is the only true test of a non Irish actor's ability, effable McInerney?

"Sure, how long were the English putting us down and ignoring our heritage? It's no wonder the nation matured into one full of windbags, and each with our own fecking personal geography...."

Tis true I assure you

"regulars.. wear you down, you know, drive Mother Teresa into the arms of heroin, so annoyingly monotonous are we, come in, sit down, get Guinness, and sup it til it solidifies, interjecting every twenty seconds, "Lovely day". Every twenty seconds. Lovely day. Lovely day. Lovely day. the reason I turn out so twisted."

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