In related news, my 1,400 page magnum-humpus, The Insatiable Necrophilic Blood Lusts of Saint Teresa of Ávila,¹ should be in the shops in time for Christmas. Perfect stocking filler…if you've got a stocking the size of a bin bag and some extremely broad-minded relatives. Slurp!

In not-so-related news, the event of the season – the 4th annual Manky Toy Show – is almost upon us. Every year I ask for donations to the cause. And every year you let me down – like the disorganised horde of doe-eyed bastards that you are. So this year, please shovel your X-Factor addicted arses off the couch, go to your nearest emporium of 2 Euro tat, pop said tat in an envelope, and address said envelope to me.² Your offerings will be discussed – in wild, unscripted, and thrillingly live fashion – on the night itself. It's a kind of immortality.

1. It's got a bit of everything. Mysticism, boobs, zombies, charming period detail. [back]
2. Address available on request [back]

"Rose Petals and Horse Dumps"

Part 1

The woods were particularly lovely that day. That summer’s day. As Eileen Battersby strolled, contemplatively, through them. She was (today, as everyday) a messy-looking, plaid-shirt-clad woman. The kind of messy-looking, plaid-shirt-clad woman who could service an automobile single-handed in a few hours. Before rewiring an entire house in an evening.

Though the woods were (as previously mentioned) lovely, her mood, on this summer’s day (as she walked through the woods), was sombre. “You know”, she mused, “I can’t imagine that my skills – in the areas of house rewiring and single-evening automobile servicing – will ever compensate, in the relationship stakes, for a lack of physical allure. Libraries of scientific data exist confirming exactly that. How unfair life sometimes is – how rotten!”.

A squirrel dashed past on the path (through the woods) before her, dragging an inflamed penis along the twiggy ground. Nearby, a pigeon rutted the carcass of a dead tree. Overhead a dragonfly masturbated on a bee. Male creatures all, whose chemical response to sexual stimuli (unseen by Eileen, but surely present) was at the core of their various beings.

She shivered (though the woods were lovely that day), pulled her plaid shirt tighter about her, closed her eyes, and focused on the voice penetrating her ears (through the miracle of a portable audio tape player). It was that wonderful (obviously hugely intellectual) voice of all the Harry Potter audio tapes – pouring mellifluously into her cochlea and coating her auditory nerves like a lovely melted Werther’s Original. Yum.

Her eyes fluttered open…and she saw him. Up ahead on the path, shadowed by the o‘erhanging trees. A man? Yes. A dishevelled eccentric man? Yes. A man incapable of changing a plug and given to wearing odd socks? Quite possibly. A man, she estimated, of between five and six foot in height. To her left a hedgehog grunted in sexual ecstasy. And she pressed on.

1. Via Facebook: "LEGAL TENDER CHALLENGE: maybe won't trade joyless boom boom for floral arrangements and chick-flick DVDs but will trade one real dollar for some Eileen Battersby slash. C'mon, you know you want to". [back]

I shall treasure it always.

A quick explanatory note on “slash fiction” (in case anyone’s rigid sense of moral propriety makes them unfamiliar with the term). “Slash fiction” – which first appeared in its contemporary form in the 1970s – was (and is) amateur, not for profit, fan-made-fiction (often written by women incidentally): focusing on romantic/erotic relationships between same-sex fictional characters. The original (and most important) of these pairings being Star Trek’s Jim Kirk & Mr. Spock.

And to set the mood I’ve got a tasteful fan-produced slide of them to show you…

There they are – relaxing and luxuriating in a nice bubble bath, in front of a gorgeous backdrop of airbrushed gas clouds, stars and swirling nebulae. By the way, if you’re thinking that this represents a twisted, perverted and wholly re-imagined version of the Kirk/Spock dynamic then you’ve obviously never seen the show or subsequent films. Slash fiction writers (and artists) weren’t inventing subtexts, they were accurately representing the text.

Here’s another…

…where they’re both manacled and topless in a prison cell – having just been brutally tortured and whipped. By Nazis. Amazingly enough, that one’s actually real.

Now, Trek creator Gene Rodenberry, may have intended the relationship to epitomise some kind of 23rd century Platonic ideal of male love (and it’s certainly moving on that level): but in giving Spock so much Vulcan restraint and stiff-upper-lippiness, he (perhaps accidentally) created a pulsating Costume Drama style vibe. As in most costume dramas, unarticulated passions heave and seethe just below the surface – held (just about) in check by Spock’s Vulcan cool and their mutual professional obligations (this is, after all, a workplace romance).

Unlike most costume dramas, one half of the couple (namely, Spock) suffers from the Vulcan affliction of Pon Farr, which means he has to mate once every seven years or else he’ll actually die. Talk about pressure. So even if they never actually shared a sensual cosmic bath together (onscreen at least): every loaded look, and potent touch, and awkward (pregnant with meaning) silence suggests that they definitely both considered it.

Anyway, where once such tales were distributed through hand-stapled and crudely photocopied fanzines – they’ve now, unsurprisingly, found a perfect and sympathetic home on the internet. Expanding and exploding online to include not just slash tales of same-sex encounters – but heterosexual, bisexual, pansexual and (somewhat alarmingly) interspecies ones as well.

Not all fictional universes, however, are evenly or equally represented. Over on the indispensable adultfanfiction.net, for example, the clear market leaders (with thousands of tales devoted to each of them) are Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lord of the Rings, and (slightly upsettingly) Harry Potter.

The convention is for each story to synopsise itself through a use of codes indicating the relevant genders involved and themes explored. Here’s one perplexing – and mildly terrifying – example of said codes taken from a Buffy story called “My Own Demons”.

Obviously, there’ll be a few even the most chaste of you will recognise there: Anal, Oral, Trans, Bond and…um…Other¹ – but unless you’re a particularly open-minded crowd, I’d wager that the bulk are unknown, and possibly unknowable. I’m not sure man (or woman…or other) was ever meant to know the meaning of HJ. Or AU/AR. Or UST, WAFF, WIP and Yuri. It’s like trying to fathom a mind-bogglingly complex equation, cataloguing the inner workings of outré human passions and sexual depravities. Stare at it long enough and you might just go mad.

Go down through the code-heavy lists on adultfanfiction.net and you’ll soon find yourself venturing into fringe and niche waters. Who’d have thought, for example, that Black Books could produce 10 texts? Or that Greatest American Hero would warrant 7? Or that Jurassic Park might spawn 11? – one of which (by noted author “bighardwang”) tells the alarming tale of how the…

“Professor dude who gets eaten in a bathroom finds a really pretty dinosaur before he gets eaten”.

Then there’s Dawn of the Dead’s six pieces (with one featuring the immortal line: “The zombie squeezed his balls between its gripping fingers”), Captain Scarlet’s one (wherein Captain Scarlet touchingly admits to his beloved Captain Blue: “I may be indestructible…but my heart isn't”), a lone Goonies story (I didn’t dare look) and two on…um…Schindler’s List.

Keep probing and exploring, and still weirder treats make themselves known.

Serving the deranged Mechanophile, or obsessive Top Gear follower (who foams at the mouth at the thought of polished chrome and thrusting pistons) is the surprisingly popular Transformers category. Which contains, to my human eyes at least, some of the least erotically-charged prose ever dreamt up by the human imagination. A few choice examples:

“The port was still dry, indicating that he wasn’t aroused. This made it a difficult situation since inserting his transfer into an unaroused mech would not be pleasurable for either one of them.”

“Slowly, Prime began to move his hip servos. Arching up against Soundwave…His aft port became slicker…”

Further down the rabbit hole of bonkers-ness are two understandably neglected categories – serving and servicing the proclivities of, I’m not sure who or what exactly. Exploring, in unflinching furry detail, the “erotic” adventures of Care Bears and My Little Ponies.

First up is the delightful “Belle of the Ball Until Dawn Comes…” the lone tale in the My Little Pony archives. Although…one My Little Pony story is still one more My Little Pony story than one might expect to find.

Here we’re invited to experience, with slack-jawed and agog faces, an account of a night of passion between Star Catcher and Twinkle Twirl.

That’s Twinkle Twirl there on the left, and the rearing and magnificent Star Catcher on the right. After an enchanting ball in magical Ponyland they tenderly get down to business.

"Star Catcher?" Twinkle Twirl whispered, shaking a little from the newness of things. She was aware that he had taken off her skirt and she was a little shy.

Now, I freely admit, I’m no My Little Pony expert, but I wasn’t aware they wore skirts. I guess without something to remove there’s less of an erotic frisson. As my father always says: If you want to eroticise animals, put clothes on them. Naked animals are, simply, animals. You wouldn’t want to bang a duck unless it had a pair of pants you could whip off.

Back to the story…

"Close your eyes… It'll be more pleasant that way. Relax and breath deeply of the cool night air", Star Cathcher instructed Twinkle Twirl as she complied. He began to massage her neck muscles softly… allowing her to loosen up as he went along. "How does it feel?" he queried.

"Heavenly…" Twinkle almost purred, except that ponies don't purr.

You have to give the author props for self-correction there. Instead of anticipating objections about the outrageousness of the material, he/she imagines incredulous readers saying: “Look, we can suspend our disbelief and buy all that stuff about magical equine fucking in a colourful fairyland, but purring ponies! Come on! That’s ludicrous!”.

Moving to the climax…

"Star Catcher!" She breathed. "HARDER!" She panted in a breathy equine sort of way, shivering.

He thrust into her harder still, gasping as he did.. IN and OUT…. in and out… back and forth… faster and faster… "Oh! TWINKLE!" He called out heavily. "Twinkle Twirl… you're wonderful…!!!!!"

I should point out that “you’re wonderful” is followed by no fewer than five exclamation marks² – so I fear my drab delivery isn’t really doing justice to Star Catcher’s punctuated enthusiasm.

We'll finish with “Morning Reflections” – a surprisingly affecting and sensitive Care Bear tale from the sex-mind of “Mana Angel”. Here are the relevant couple…

Proud Heart Cat there on the left, and the angst-ridden/sexually-repressed Brave Heart Lion on the right.

Brave Heart Lion knew about sex, of course…but he hadn't heard about it from his cubhood guardians, True Heart and Noble Heart. He supposed they figured it was a non-issue with them being what they were. But when he was younger, he had discovered by accident that when he touched a certain part of his body a certain way, good feelings resulted from it. Because of the private nature of that body part and those feelings, he had kept it to himself, but he had always wondered why. Then, one day, he had caught himself staring at Proud Heart Cat, and he’d almost had a serious social disaster when his penis began to swell. He had excused himself from tummy symbol practice,³ saying he didn't feel well, and walked towards his home with his hands folded in front of him to hide his condition. How embarrassing!

We meet him again, a little later, after a moment of painful intimacy…

Proud Heart had touched his most secret place, where her paw encountered nothing but silky fur. Their genitals were always masked by their fur, and for the males, their penises were hidden in a sheath; you'd never know they were anatomically correct…but they were.

Audience members of a certain vintage will undoubtedly remember the scandal and outrage caused by Kenner Toy’s 1982 range of anatomically correct Care Bears. If you cuddled them but a little they’d chuckle and lecture you on the merits of sharing. If you cuddled them a lot a fur-lined phallus would unsheathe itself, creep out, and poke you in the belly.

Moving on and wrapping up…it’s later still and Brave Heart Lion is shampooing his mane in the shower.

His balls drew up close to his body, and he emitted a roar as he ejaculated. He had the sense to aim for the drain as his penis spasmed and his testicles emptied themselves of his seed…

He felt awful. It was a dull, hollow pain in his chest, as if he had committed some grievous sin. His member had shrunken and retreated to the safety and obscurity of its sheath. He sighed, shut off the water, and dried himself off. It was late enough as it is, and he still had to eat before he left the house. He pushed his guilt away, and went down to raid his fridge. It was his secret. No one would ever know.

Now, Brave Heart may only be a Care Bear, or a Care Lion (or whatever), with a jolly red heart adorning his chest – but that’s one of the most eloquent and heart-rending articulations of pubescent masturbatory guilt I’ve ever read.

Though I can’t quite relate to the mane, and the silky fur, and the sheathed cock – I can readily identity with the shame and the emptiness of covert, feverish wanking in the shower. Not only that, but when I was 13 I regularly brought myself to orgasm by humping a Masters of the Universe bean-bag (while dreaming of the Cadbury’s Caramel Bunny), so I retain a certain warm and fuzzy nostalgia for eroticised cartoon universes.

So, in conclusion, while there’s not much in the way of sexy pleasure to be had from the boggle-eyed reading of these tales – they do serve a purpose: namely, to remind us (in brain-scalding terms) of the rich, mad, endlessly perplexing tapestry of human sexualities. On adultfanfiction.net and its sister sites, nobody’s really a weirdo…because (of course) everybody is.

1. Catch all term there [back]
2. Bit of a redundant point in print, but there you go. [back]
3. I don’t know what that is, but it sounds hilarious. [back]

This is why ad agencies should be paying me the big massive bucks. But they're afraid. Too afraid…

The damn spineless & hidebound fools!

No more gif(t)s for you tomorrow. You've had enough.

Clouds are nasty and evil. See here:

More tomorrow.

Of all the many wild 'n' wacky notions entertained and promoted by orgainsed religions, few can be as amusingly bonkos as the idea that (human) earthly adherents of a deity have a responsibility to protect their God from "offensive" criticism, satire, or name-calling. God may be infinitely wise, loving, and compassionate but He¹ gets a right hump when the ingrates he created in his image start taking the piss out of him. If I were omnipotent and omniscient I'd like to think I'd be a bit more thick-skinned.²

Luckily for him, many of his earthbound flunkies dedicate their wretched lives (in this vale of tears) to stopping any of this nasty criticism from floating into his ethereal earholes. Sometimes, alas, portions of the slagging do make it across the void separating the earthly and the divine and God goes totally mental. He gives us AIDS. He causes hurricanes. He makes our lives miserable – opening giant cans of whupass until we learn our lessons and re-meek & un-deprave ourselves.

Lesson to be learned? Here's a guy you don't want to offend. He's like a drunken Godzilla with nappy rash and a mouth full of bombs. He's mad, bad and dangerous to upset (and there's no escaping his gaze). He makes Galactus look like a total pussy.

Let's be grateful then that the previously dormant & slumbering prohibition on blasphemy in our constitution is currently being reignited and made "operable" by Minister for Justice, Dermot Ahern. As it stands, blasphemy (as an offence) is impossible to define. This lack of definition has rendered it fuzzy and amorphous – extending an open invitation to demented God-haters to "blaspheme" with impunity. You think the recent May downpours are evidence of climate change and global warming? Think again, unbelievers! The showers are actually Our Lord simultaneously weeping wounded tears and slashing enraged jets of holy piss down on our constantly blaspheming heads.

Once the legal fuzziness has been removed (by the giant Fuzz-Buster of state) we'll see the shape and outline of blasphemy clearly once more. Even more impressively, we should soon (DPP willing) be able to fling cough-softening fines around and licence the Guards to boot in doors and seize inflammatory material – hopefully before God has a chance to flick through it and go ballistic.

The benefits of a less tetchy and irritable God are obvious. The weather would improve (we might finally get a summer). "Natural" disasters would all but disappear. Outbreaks of frog & locust plagues would be significantly reduced. Anti-social teens loitering on street corners would be replaced by caroling angels and chortling nekkid cherubs. It would be a fine world. A better world.

Why would anyone, other than creepy avant-gardey weirdo artists, want to scupper such a future?

1. Surely a "He" in this case. [back]
2. I speak throughout of Christian things, as that's what I know (and all I know well). [back]

A NEW crime of blasphemous libel is to be proposed by the Minister for Justice in an amendment to the Defamation Bill.

After heaving your jaw off the floor, restoring your popped-out eyes to their parent sockets, and unscrambling your brain matrix, you proceed (with growing horror and dread) to read more.

Sound familiar? I hope so. "Picturegate" now appears to have been merely a censorious aperitif for the four-course, slap up meal of governmental cuntitude to come. The throbbing in my temples either indicates the early stages of swine flu, or I'm choking on my own rage. I'm sure I'm not the only one.

Here's more:

Minister for Justice Dermot Ahern proposes to insert a new section into the Defamation Bill, stating: “A person who publishes or utters blasphemous matter shall be guilty of an offence and shall be liable upon conviction on indictment to a fine not exceeding €100,000."

“Blasphemous matter" is defined as matter “that is grossly abusive or insulting in relation to matters held sacred by any religion, thereby causing outrage among a substantial number of the adherents of that religion; and he or she intends, by the publication of the matter concerned, to cause such outrage."

So many questions.

a) What's the difference (legally speaking) between regular (common or garden) abuse and gross abuse? Does the latter involve mickies? Or poo?

b) Aren't the people most likely to be outraged by such "matter" of a type that wander about in an almost perpetual state of outrage anyway? In other words, is a small bit more outrage likely to make any appreciable difference in their lives? And, doesn't semi-permanent outrage actually shore up their sense of self-righteousness (in the face of a world of godless scum)? Blasphemy might actually be doing them good.

c) Isn't one of the (important & legitimate) functions of art & satire to poke "matters held sacred" with a barbed stick? Precisely because such matters are sacred?

d) Isn't it a typically Irish "out" that you're invited to try and duck the charge by saying any offence caused was unintentional? "Eh…sorry 'bout that lads. I didn't mean to upset anyone with my Blu-Tak sculpture of the Virgin Mary puking into a urinal. I'd meant to depict her saving some lovely babies from a fire. I'd drink on me when I made it and…eh…it went a bit wrong".

In the UK you can (as far as I know) argue that yes, the offence caused was intentional, but that the existence/creation of the "matter" constitutes a "public good" (it serves some interest of science, art, learning etc). No such option here – where many of our influential dullards can't even begin to imagine what possible benefit "aberrant", subversive, fringe, obscene, or absurd thoughts could have for a society where a middle-of-the-road (“Ah now!") consensus on almost everything is assumed (or yearned for).

The rage (or swine flu) is growing stronger by the minute, but so is my tiredness (I wrote this “last night" if you see what I mean). Off to bed with me. Send Suzy some of your most blasphemous, durtiest poems (the secret ones you hide in that box under the bed). I smell another postcard project in all this.

Related Post: Pissing on Bishops: 21st Century Obscenity & the State of the Nation.

Allow me to clarify, again, exactly what's "planned".

1) We want you to buy (borrow or steal) a blank postcard.

2) We want you to then adorn this postcard with your own nude drawing, doodle, collage (etc) of Brian Cowen. These creations can be as "amateur", crude or (indeed) lavish as you see fit. There are no rules. The only restriction being the postcard format. Total freedom is yours. Go nuts.

3) Pop your masterwork in the post to me (address available on request).

4) If/When we collect enough postcards together we'll find a sympathetic gallery space where your creations can be exhibited formally. Hell, there may even be (if it grows into a behemoth) catalogues, guest speakers, wine and cheese freebies etc. We'll see.

All of this is (for me at least) in the spirit of subversive play, satirical mischief-making and artistic absurdity. All joyous things worth preserving and promoting.

The serried rows of cards, each depicting (in their own unique ways) a bollock-naked Taoiseach, will (I hope) both make for an impressive visual, and state emphatically (& amusingly) that the outrageous shit of the last few days will not be tolerated.

Email me (or drop a comment below) for postal address.

Let's get moving and cracking.

Update 01/04/09: I'd appreciate it if people who've already posted cards could tell me a) when they posted them, and, b) If the images were full nudes, partial nudes etc! Reason being, most of the cards that have arrived thus far have either been non-nudey or hidden inside envelopes. This could just be coincidental…but I'd still like to know. Drop a comment or email me (address on sidebar).

Update 02/04/09: I've already sent emails (or Twitter messages) with my address to everyone who's shown interest. If you haven't got yours then tell me & I'll resend. There seems to be an issue with some emails disappearing into the ether…

First port of call was the National Portrait Collection of Ireland, Bourn Vincent Gallery (UL). On its stark white walls I stuck my Cowen/Gravely-ill Badger postcard. Like Martin Luther's 95 theses – only with more dotted lines of piss.

And a close up:

The total absence of FF-sponsored, brutally repressive, security guard goons was a disappointment – but the CCTV cameras that watched my every move no doubt wired their signal straight back to party headquarters. I'll be found face down in a dumpster with a plastic bag over my head before the week's out.

With this job done I flung open the doors and headed out into the wilds (i.e a grassy courtyard): there to share my love of freedom with the myriad spirits of nature. There can be no greater act of communion with Mother Earth than Blu-Tacking a rude postcard to a tree. Behold:

And behold again:

This is a softer, almost (dare I say) touching, Cowen nude. There he is for all the world to see. Stripped of his bullish facade. Stripped of his aura of power. Stripped of his jocks. I could just pick him up, kiss him on his tiny little head, and pop him in my breast pocket. If I didn't hate him for pissing on that poor sick badger. Boo!

Update, 25/03/09, 23.48:
Ok. I hereby want to encourage every single person reading this to send me (via post) a nude Brian Cowen postcard (ask for my address and it will be given). If we gather enough together I'll find a way to exhibit them publicly. If some fail to arrive then we'll also have "postalgate" to concern ourselves with. This is not a joke. I genuinely want to do it.

Might I just add. Cock. Balls. Fanny. And R.I.P. Irish satirical play & mischief-making.

Update: Fergal is asking (via Twitter) that the nation be "wallpapered with naked Cowens". So tomorrow, before breakfast, hell…before anything, get the pens and paper out and create your own hideous nudey portrait of our immortal leader. Then saunter out (whistling a merry tune as you go) and stick it to the nearest public wall, lamp-post, passer-by etc. Do it. For the sake of the nation's children.

Further Update: Damien is demanding much the same thing. Viene una tormenta.

Said beast dug the pens and colouring pencils out of the desk drawer and (after a mere 10 minutes of frenzied work) came up with this minor masterpiece.

Those with keenly honed deductive senses will (if they can drag their bulging eyes away from the horse's spurting mickey for a moment) notice that the "canvas" is a postcard. Reason being – I'm sending it through the post. To myself. Using aliases for both sender and receiver.

Here's the cheery, and fairly innocuous, message from the reverse side.¹

How many pairs of hands, I wonder, will it pass through before it returns to me? Will the faces attached to the bodies attached to those hands register shock, bemusement, indifference or delight? Might it be seized before it reaches its destination? Destroyed by censorious objectors or secretly smuggled home by a Naïve art smut collector? We'll see (or maybe we won't).

RE: The bishop's facial expression – not sure what effect I was going for here exactly. Looking at it again I seem to have given him a touch of weary (self-loathing?) listlessness. A jaded ennui brought on by one session of being pissed on by a (cartoon) horse too many. It used to be fun – now it's merely routine. Ho hum.

1. Address partially excised for reasons of privacy. [back]

It may have something to do with a new blogging project that has "cunts" (phnarr) in the title. It may, instead, be related to the fact that I'm reading a book about shit. Or, it could, simply, be all down to the omnipresent recession. Everything else is.

Anyway, it struck me, the other day, that I'd no idea what the legal definition of “obscenity" is in 21st century Ireland. Could, for example, one be fined/jailed for obscene acts & works? Did “obscenity", as a legal concept, even exist anymore?

In a bid to answer these vexing questions I did what any serious researcher and seeker after knowledge would. I asked my "followers" on Twitter. Follower Crehan pointed me in the direction of the 1929 Censorship of Publications Act – a document that contains the following choice nugget RE: “indecency".

the word "indecent" shall be construed as including suggestive of, or inciting to sexual immorality or unnatural vice or likely in any other similar way to corrupt or deprave.

Before you chortle, roll the eyes affectionately, and say “Ah! The old days!", bear in mind that the above definition is (Follower Crehan assures me) still (still!) the law. God bless the state that, in its infinite wisdom, protects us from the corrupting durtiness of sex. With a stabilising and paternal hand it pours cold waters on our raging mickies. Without it we would, surely, be wanking openly in the streets and rutting passers-by like drooling pigs in heat. Christ…we're filthy bastards altogether.

Later that day, Follower McGarr telephoned me as I chewed contemplatively on an elevenses sausage. Between mouthfuls of meat (waaa!) we discussed (among other things) Alan Moore's Lost Girls, The Daily Mail (but of course), and (for reasons I can't precisely recall) the laxity of tax legislation. All very pleasant and diverting but, with appetite whetted, I wanted more.

So, in a half-assed amateur looky-uppy spirit, I opened a few books. First port of call was Murdoch's Dictionary of Irish Law (5th ed). “Obscenity" led on (as it does) to “Indecency" where the following was found.

Indecency – Any act which offends modesty, causes scandal or injures the morals of the community.
[...]
The publication or utterance of indecent matter is an offence and is required to be punishable by law.

Now I've always thought (Satan-worshiping lover of depravity that I am) that one of the functions (nay, duties) of art is to be unsettling, upsetting, challenging, discombobulating etc. There are plenty of community “morals" that I'd enjoy seeing “injured", and let's not forget scandal-causing: one of the most entertaining acts a human/artist can engage in. Yet, it turns out, such things are required to be punishable by law. Take that hippies!

Where's this post leading? Not sure…but I'd like to veer off on a slight tangent and mention Irish satire. One of the maddening aspects of our national “satire" (and other “subversive" forms of expression) has traditionally been how it's reigned itself in in the face of “Ah now!" culture.

“Ah now…you can't say that". “Ah now…that's not on". “Ah now". “Ah now".

Ah now? Ah fuck off.

The perfect response to (and antidote for) fat-necked Fianna Fáil soul-destroyers, banking fucknuts, The Sunday Independent, and all the myriad life-sapping forces that surround us is not cuddly ("Sure, it's all a bit of fun!") mickey-taking, but properly transgressive and (yes) even obscene "art" (define that how you will). Forget whoopee cushions, let's have some proper bombs. Old-timey anarchist ones. Ah now. Ah now. Kaboom!

Tomorrow I'll kick things off by…let's see…uhm wandering around town in a provocative t-shirt. On it will be a cartoon horse, wearing knee high boots and lipstick, pissing on a bishop. You have to start somewhere.

Conclusion: This, I know, has rambled, raved and meandered. But it's merely a kicking off point. An opening for a chat. Thoughts? Questions? Free legal advice? Over to you.