03 March 2013
638
R. Linda:
I went out and had spicy Mexican food, something I know not to do too often, but I thought to meself, Cinco de Mayo isn't for another two months or so, so why not? The 'why not' be evident to me today since the belching and heartburn are prevalent and making me life as I know it, unusually miserable. More so, me two kiddos get a kick out of me misery. They laugh and point and imitate me like this be some wonderful pantomime. I tell ya!
But the worst of this was last night's nightmarish dream that took on a crazy life of its own it did. I remember the whole of the evening's self-inflicted, homespun head movie vividly. I was standing in Cluan Place in Belfast and I don't know why I'd be there, but I was. That alone was strange for a Catholic lad to be by his lonesome in a neighbourhood he wouldn't usually find himself ALONE or at any time for that matter.
The sun was dim on the red brick walls and there I stood with a grey brick in one hand and a bottle of Corona in the other. Where I got the Corona from I haven't a clue, but just that I had that brick that didn't match the ones that were there spelt trouble.
Quickly, I dropped both items, the brick on me blasted toe and the bottle -- oh my god what a racket that made when it broke. I looked around hoping I was unobserved holding me foot and hopping around from the pain, biting me tongue to keep from screaming. For sure that grey brick would be a short fire give-away I was from Beechfield Street and what the bloody hell was I doing in a Prod neighbourhood, I ask ya.
As I gently put me foot back on the pavement to test the pain level so I could run like hell out of there, a voice from behind me said, "Ah and for sure will ya look at dis will ya."
I swung around and there was a man in a balaclava, and if that didn't put the fear of the Almighty in me, I don't know what would. But the voice was familiar and I realised it was me contacting Simon (you remember him from me story of 25/02/13 Oh Sure "NOT TO WORRY!") and there was me, eyes bulging out of me head wondering if he be friend or foe, but I didn't have long to wonder because he said, "Coom on let's get a bite." And taking me by the arm had me limping down the road to some Proddy eatery.
Now I must say I was hoping this was Simon by the sound of his voice, and as luck would have it, he was wearing an inside-out balaclava and I couldn't see his face, but the name tag on it said Simon G. Armstrong. I guess his mam still put name tags on his outerwear so he wouldn't get his balaclava mixed up with another Prods. ANYWAY, he sat me down at a table at some Proddy hole in the wall, and the waiter (also wearing an inside-out balaclava with the name tag Roger Avery) came over and took our order for two English breakfasts. I wanted to say, "Make mine an Irish breakfast," but really it seemed somehow not a good idea if you get me gist.
And before I could say a word there it was two full English brekkies, and the whole of it sported Union Jack flags on toothpicks. I was thinking to meself, what the feck? and when I started picking the toothpicks out, Simon and the waiter would put them back. Oi!
"Roger, dere's a rather sizable hole in me toast," Simon said to the waiter.
"So there be," Roger said holding up the toast to the light, a big hole in its middle, "Sorry bout dat Simon da lads got a little frisky wit da new guns and were shootin' in da back when da bread delivery came."
Oh yeah, that explained it!
It was then it seemed the place was filled with men wearing inside-out balaclavas. I could just read some of the name tags and there was not an O'Sullivan, O'Connor, Duffy, or Mullin among them.
"And who be dis?" A beefy fella who's name tag said, "Colin Murphy" on it asked.
"Oh dis be an O'Sullivan, I caught me one up on Cluan," Simon said as if I was a captured haggis out of season.
There was a general murmuring throughout the place and the name O'Sullivan filled me ears more with the O as it went from lip to lip in stunned verbal thought that there was . . . wait for it . . . a Catholic in their midst! And worse it was ME!
Thinking a wee bit too fast on how to save meself, I realised I had me butter knife gripped tightly in me fist and me piece of toast in the other. It was then an idea came to me. While they were beginning to mill about pushing each other aside to get a look at the "Caatlick" I made like I was unconcerned and concentrating on buttering me toast.
Then feigning shocked surprise to get the focus off meself, I looked at me toast and made like I saw something that made me shout, "Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! Wouldya lookit dat! It's da Virgin Mareee!" Everything went silent and chairs scraped the floor as the Proddy patrons all got up to gather round me table and look down as I used me knife (yes, at least I had a weapon, okay it was a butter knife, but it was something) I pointed out the outline.
This bought me some time as they all muttered it, "Sorter looks like it could be," and "Nah, I doont see it," and finally I piped up, "We could sell it on eBay!"
I ran with that last I did. I held it up to the light and said, "Well, I'll be a bloody bollocks but I tink we can git at least 500 quid."
That got them arguing about selling a Catholic piece of toast on the Internet, and then once they resolved there was money to be made off the "superstitious Catlicks," they argued over how much to make the starting bid, who's eBay account was going to advert the sacred toast and who the rightful owner was. That last stopped the arguing because all eyes were focused on meself.
"Uh, well in fairness," I stammered, "the toast belongs to da joint here since I have not taken a bite, so it still belongs to . . ." I looked around and then quietly said, "Roger."
"Oh noe, noe, not me," Roger said, distancing himself from anything with a Catholic connotation.
I held up the toast and pointed to it with me butter knife and then at Roger and nodded.
"Noe, noe, noe . . . " he stammered moving back as if to get away from the incriminating toast.
"Oh for sure, gimme dat," Simon said swiping it out of me hand. He held it up for them all to get a good look. "Now any of ye boyos doont wanna make some easy quid offin' da Caatlicks?"
There was a tremendous shout of unity on that and he threw the toast back on me plate as they pounded him on the back and congratulated him on his entrepreneurship. Yeah, I knew it was me idea but they weren't going to go along with a Catholic idea and I knew it. Pictures were taken of the sacred piece of "Caatlick" toast and they pulled up chairs. More English breakfasts were ordered and the table was full of the sound of cutlery and Proddy's talking with their mouths full. I decided once the Union Jack toothpicks were off plates and in a huge pile in the centre of the table, I could calm me jangled nerves by unloading the ones on me plate and eating me brekkie.
By the time we finished, it was agreed that Simon would put the toast photo on a new eBay account since he didn't think the seller name "Raise the Flag" would tempt many Catholic customers. So they came up collectively with this gem: The Shawn Fin Gift Shop. Yes, they did. I almost choked on me last bite of toast when I heard it.
They were pounding each other on the back and exchanging high fives when the toast was asked for. Roger had got the equivalent of a Ziploc baggy and was going to store the sacred piece of toast on the shelf over the counter for display. But . . . well, in me zeal to disappear into the crowd and breathe the air, I . . . I . . . uh . . . ATE THE SACRED PIECE OF TOAST!
It was bloody awful after they realised what I had done, they dragged me from me chair and took me down the cellar and all I can remember was it was dreadfully dark down there and I just knew this was the end of this Catholic boyo. But they had an idea, a dastardly idea that was worse than anything I could think of for meself, they chained me to a toaster and had me churning out sacred toast knockoffs!
I was in bloody tears saying I couldn't make anymore, I had three piles of hundreds of knockoff Marys and I was exhausted. Roger had come down and told me they had sold a sacred piece of knockoff toast to every single Catholic in the world so I had to get back to work and grind them out. I stood there in bloody stunned silence, trying to remember how many millions of Catholics populated the world. When I got to the number 2,025 million pieces of knockoff Marys, that is when I half woke in breathless horror that I had to get downstairs and start toasting bread.
And in me anxiety ridden half sleep I slept walked down to me humble kitchen and it was about three hours later me wife found me with a load of toasted bread all sporting me own homespun version of knockoff Mary toast. Eee-yah. Thank heavens she came down when she did, I do NOT know where I stole all that bread from, but we have literally hundreds of pieces of toast in me kitchen. You can't move for all of it cluttering the place. Maybe I SHOULD sell it on eBay!
So before I close and go back to cleaning up all the crumbs here is Simon's picture of the original sacred piece of toast.
R. Linda:
I went out and had spicy Mexican food, something I know not to do too often, but I thought to meself, Cinco de Mayo isn't for another two months or so, so why not? The 'why not' be evident to me today since the belching and heartburn are prevalent and making me life as I know it, unusually miserable. More so, me two kiddos get a kick out of me misery. They laugh and point and imitate me like this be some wonderful pantomime. I tell ya!
But the worst of this was last night's nightmarish dream that took on a crazy life of its own it did. I remember the whole of the evening's self-inflicted, homespun head movie vividly. I was standing in Cluan Place in Belfast and I don't know why I'd be there, but I was. That alone was strange for a Catholic lad to be by his lonesome in a neighbourhood he wouldn't usually find himself ALONE or at any time for that matter.
The sun was dim on the red brick walls and there I stood with a grey brick in one hand and a bottle of Corona in the other. Where I got the Corona from I haven't a clue, but just that I had that brick that didn't match the ones that were there spelt trouble.
 |
| Right there that's where I was |
As I gently put me foot back on the pavement to test the pain level so I could run like hell out of there, a voice from behind me said, "Ah and for sure will ya look at dis will ya."
I swung around and there was a man in a balaclava, and if that didn't put the fear of the Almighty in me, I don't know what would. But the voice was familiar and I realised it was me contacting Simon (you remember him from me story of 25/02/13 Oh Sure "NOT TO WORRY!") and there was me, eyes bulging out of me head wondering if he be friend or foe, but I didn't have long to wonder because he said, "Coom on let's get a bite." And taking me by the arm had me limping down the road to some Proddy eatery.
Now I must say I was hoping this was Simon by the sound of his voice, and as luck would have it, he was wearing an inside-out balaclava and I couldn't see his face, but the name tag on it said Simon G. Armstrong. I guess his mam still put name tags on his outerwear so he wouldn't get his balaclava mixed up with another Prods. ANYWAY, he sat me down at a table at some Proddy hole in the wall, and the waiter (also wearing an inside-out balaclava with the name tag Roger Avery) came over and took our order for two English breakfasts. I wanted to say, "Make mine an Irish breakfast," but really it seemed somehow not a good idea if you get me gist.
And before I could say a word there it was two full English brekkies, and the whole of it sported Union Jack flags on toothpicks. I was thinking to meself, what the feck? and when I started picking the toothpicks out, Simon and the waiter would put them back. Oi!
"Roger, dere's a rather sizable hole in me toast," Simon said to the waiter.
"So there be," Roger said holding up the toast to the light, a big hole in its middle, "Sorry bout dat Simon da lads got a little frisky wit da new guns and were shootin' in da back when da bread delivery came."
Oh yeah, that explained it!
It was then it seemed the place was filled with men wearing inside-out balaclavas. I could just read some of the name tags and there was not an O'Sullivan, O'Connor, Duffy, or Mullin among them.
"And who be dis?" A beefy fella who's name tag said, "Colin Murphy" on it asked.
"Oh dis be an O'Sullivan, I caught me one up on Cluan," Simon said as if I was a captured haggis out of season.
There was a general murmuring throughout the place and the name O'Sullivan filled me ears more with the O as it went from lip to lip in stunned verbal thought that there was . . . wait for it . . . a Catholic in their midst! And worse it was ME!
Thinking a wee bit too fast on how to save meself, I realised I had me butter knife gripped tightly in me fist and me piece of toast in the other. It was then an idea came to me. While they were beginning to mill about pushing each other aside to get a look at the "Caatlick" I made like I was unconcerned and concentrating on buttering me toast.
Then feigning shocked surprise to get the focus off meself, I looked at me toast and made like I saw something that made me shout, "Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! Wouldya lookit dat! It's da Virgin Mareee!" Everything went silent and chairs scraped the floor as the Proddy patrons all got up to gather round me table and look down as I used me knife (yes, at least I had a weapon, okay it was a butter knife, but it was something) I pointed out the outline.
This bought me some time as they all muttered it, "Sorter looks like it could be," and "Nah, I doont see it," and finally I piped up, "We could sell it on eBay!"
I ran with that last I did. I held it up to the light and said, "Well, I'll be a bloody bollocks but I tink we can git at least 500 quid."
That got them arguing about selling a Catholic piece of toast on the Internet, and then once they resolved there was money to be made off the "superstitious Catlicks," they argued over how much to make the starting bid, who's eBay account was going to advert the sacred toast and who the rightful owner was. That last stopped the arguing because all eyes were focused on meself.
"Uh, well in fairness," I stammered, "the toast belongs to da joint here since I have not taken a bite, so it still belongs to . . ." I looked around and then quietly said, "Roger."
"Oh noe, noe, not me," Roger said, distancing himself from anything with a Catholic connotation.
I held up the toast and pointed to it with me butter knife and then at Roger and nodded.
"Noe, noe, noe . . . " he stammered moving back as if to get away from the incriminating toast.
"Oh for sure, gimme dat," Simon said swiping it out of me hand. He held it up for them all to get a good look. "Now any of ye boyos doont wanna make some easy quid offin' da Caatlicks?"
There was a tremendous shout of unity on that and he threw the toast back on me plate as they pounded him on the back and congratulated him on his entrepreneurship. Yeah, I knew it was me idea but they weren't going to go along with a Catholic idea and I knew it. Pictures were taken of the sacred piece of "Caatlick" toast and they pulled up chairs. More English breakfasts were ordered and the table was full of the sound of cutlery and Proddy's talking with their mouths full. I decided once the Union Jack toothpicks were off plates and in a huge pile in the centre of the table, I could calm me jangled nerves by unloading the ones on me plate and eating me brekkie.
By the time we finished, it was agreed that Simon would put the toast photo on a new eBay account since he didn't think the seller name "Raise the Flag" would tempt many Catholic customers. So they came up collectively with this gem: The Shawn Fin Gift Shop. Yes, they did. I almost choked on me last bite of toast when I heard it.
They were pounding each other on the back and exchanging high fives when the toast was asked for. Roger had got the equivalent of a Ziploc baggy and was going to store the sacred piece of toast on the shelf over the counter for display. But . . . well, in me zeal to disappear into the crowd and breathe the air, I . . . I . . . uh . . . ATE THE SACRED PIECE OF TOAST!
 |
| Yes, I did. GULPERS! |
I was in bloody tears saying I couldn't make anymore, I had three piles of hundreds of knockoff Marys and I was exhausted. Roger had come down and told me they had sold a sacred piece of knockoff toast to every single Catholic in the world so I had to get back to work and grind them out. I stood there in bloody stunned silence, trying to remember how many millions of Catholics populated the world. When I got to the number 2,025 million pieces of knockoff Marys, that is when I half woke in breathless horror that I had to get downstairs and start toasting bread.
And in me anxiety ridden half sleep I slept walked down to me humble kitchen and it was about three hours later me wife found me with a load of toasted bread all sporting me own homespun version of knockoff Mary toast. Eee-yah. Thank heavens she came down when she did, I do NOT know where I stole all that bread from, but we have literally hundreds of pieces of toast in me kitchen. You can't move for all of it cluttering the place. Maybe I SHOULD sell it on eBay!
So before I close and go back to cleaning up all the crumbs here is Simon's picture of the original sacred piece of toast.
 |
| Selling me similar knockoffs one bay under the heading "Miracle Toast" |
Okay, okay, I know what you're going to say, "Those Prods are certainly stupid or blind or both!"
Oh yeah, and what about all those Catholic orders? I didn't think of that. Well, goes to show we are all either stupid or blind!
Gabe
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