Onward Christian Boulders

8am, a very large breakfast consisting of ripened green figs, lapsang souchong health tea and thin slivers of warm olive oil drizzled over cold water salmon direct from the poachers pouch. Not quite as authentically Scottish as it sounds, the poachers pocket is what we call the Tesco Express inside the BP garage behind the library car park. I could hear my oul granny turning in her grave as I stripped off the plastic wrapper and entered 2 minutes into the microwave.

God bless her hairy oul chin.

Today I shall be meeting up with my old school friend Jimmy for a glass or two of something malty and a good blather about how shite the world has become since we first turned 40. Jimmy and I are very close, we were once together in a band called 'Pubic Hair.' We were very big in the 70's.  Sadly our other wee pal Map cannae make it. This morning on the way to work a guy drove into the back of his car at some lights, whilst not really paying attention.

Wee Map got out and he went up to the guy.

He said, "I'm not happy."

The guy replied, "Well, which one of the seven are you then?"

I shouldn't mock. My first girlfriend left me for a dwarf. It nearly broke my heart, I couldn't believe she would stoop so low.

I can't stay too long reminiscing with Jimmy, the wife's getting all excited because it's our 24th wedding anniversary this weekend. I must remember to phone her just before the fitba kicks off and tell her to have a good time. We went shopping yesterday and got separated in the crowd. When we eventually found each other I said to my wife, "Where have you been?"
She said, "Shopping in the sales. I bought my mother this dress for a ridiculous figure." I looked at her mother and said, "Aye, you're no joking hen."

It all started with a ride-on lawnmower with a buckled blade that I took in for repair to Christian (yep, another heid-the-baw Christian) the local handyman in the village. A spectacularly boring man who has found the secret to universal peace, prosperity, and happiness in his ability to quote passages from the bible. Now, I'm no really big on religion. In fact, if there was such a thing as a dog I may no be quite so dyslexic.


While Christian is humming 'Rock of Ages' under his breath and tinkering with his spanners he begins to recite to me the delightful tale of a couple of real eejits from the good book that he carries around in his head. The two plums go by the name of Titus and Levi. Titus, it seems, is the Bible’s sneakiest wee assassin. He is on a mission to deliver a 'message from God' to his pal, smarmy King Levi. Titus waltzes in off the street, probably fresh fae a drinking and whoring session somewhere down Gomorrah way, to meet your man, the gluttonous royal. He pulls out a long chib and stabs poor oul Levi in the stomach. At first he can’t get it in, but he pushes harder and eventually reaches his intestine. Levi is no as fit as he could be, too many pies, too much hearty ale no doubt, och it happens to us all eventually. He is so overweight, I learn, that his fat belly actually covers the hilt of the chib, pushing it further into his stomach until only a foul gas escapes and the blade is no even visible.

It’s at this point that Levi loses control of his bowels and begins to defecate mercilessly all over his new desert sandals. Not funny at 30 sheckles a pair. The King’s attendants, bearded eunuchs no doubt, you know what that lot are like eh? Eventually they come back but having no balls they hesitate and do not enter the royal fellas bed chamber, assuming he is relieving himself. After waiting 'to the point of embarrassment', his attendants burst in to find the auld fella dead on the floor, covered in his own fecal matter. Meanwhile, Titus has escaped to the local bars of Judea and gone on a massive bender after ditching the chib in a Roman storm drain and changing his shite covered toga for clothing stolen from some other poor fella. A pair of Levi's perhaps?

The moral to this wee tale...

Never run over a rock and let a religious zealot, who drinks his own pish and names his children Cyprian, Hippolytus, Irenaeus, Polycarp, Didache and Barnabas, fix your lawnmower and tell you poop tales after you have breakfasted on green figs, laxative tea, petrol station fish and soured olive oil. Especially if he won't lend you the key to the outside karsi in case you, the big oul heathen that you are, run off with the biblical brick it's attached to.

See you all in hell, I'll be the tall one water skiing on a lake of burning fire. We'll do lunch!


Mr Martin Stewart

For breakfast this morning I prepared fresh beef sausages blended with white pepper and a mere hint of sage, served with two day old quails eggs and home baked fresh cottage loaf. My choice of beverage was Earl Grey, however without the addition of oil extracted from the rind of the bergamot orange, a fragrant citrus fruit famed for its medicinal and flatulence qualities.

After breakfast I posted three letters. Strangely enough the food stamps would not stick to the envelopes. Each day I try to enjoy something from each of the four food groups: the frozen group, the salty-snack group, the alcoholic group, and the "whatever-the-thing-in-the-tinfoil-in-the-back-of-the-fridge-is" group. The big problem with "fast" food is that it slows down when it hits your stomach and it just parks there and lets the fat have time to get off and apply for a British passport. A friend got some Polish vinegar in his ear, now he suffers from pickled hearing. It's his own fault, he drinks at work in an upholstery shop where he is a recovering alcoholic.

Beef sausages always remind me of the raw ingredients used to make up the very essence of an Irish gentleman by the name of Martin Stewart. Mr Stewart, a melodic musician and impromptu lyricist once appeared on stage with the quintessential Sinead O'Connor at the Royal Albert Hall in the city of London. Ms O'Connor, a lady of great virtue, was quite happy to wait until Mr Stewart had finished painting the background set before the concert could begin. An oversight I'm sure, Mr Stewart is known for his lightning dexterity with a paintbrush and is not usually so tardy with his time keeping.
I first became acquainted with the music of Mr Stewart when I was queueing for front row tickets at the Old Vic. Mr Stewart was busking  performing nearby and had attracted quite an eclectic mix of interested members of the public with his remarkable ability to clang symbols and play the harmonica whilst the monkey gathered up loose change from the upturned Donegal hat that lay beside him. I knew immediately he would go far. He did. Nearly to the end of the Old Kent Road and back again before the police arrived.

As a child Stewart moved to Limerick, Republic of Ireland, where he took an early interest in silent music. Initially playing the saxophone in nightclubs, he soon moved into singing, releasing his first single, "Never let the door hit you in the arse when you leave the room", in 1978. After struggling with hair loss and a club foot, in the mid-1980s Stewart returned to his musical career, adopting the stage name "Mapstew" after the infamous Mapstew, 19th-century composer of operas. Signed to Pish-Poor records, he gained early success in Belgium after representing Ireland in the 1986 Tone-Deaf song contest there. Returning to the ROI, he released a string of singles that proved commercially successful both domestically and in Uganda. Gaining a devoted fan following, he also fronted a short-lived television series, Tiswas under the stage name of Sally James.
Mr Stewart has disposed of sold 150 million albums in Bogota, Sweden, and Mogadishu and continues to produce music, to varying critical and commercial success when he is not painting scenery for the glitterati.

He is known for his close relationship with his fanbase, the Limerick retirement community and his charismatic and engaging stage presence. His music has been described as a mix of country (possibly Syria) and Irish folk, and he has had over ten records in the Algerian pop charts to date. Stewart is also known for his tenor voice, but since the change of stage costume it is only discussed privately in tight circles. In Ireland, he is widely considered a culchie 'cultural icon', and is often parodied in the media. He is a prominent ambassador for his home county of Limerick and he is affectionately known as 'Wee Martin, Shorty, Clumpy feet and Tightarse'

Stewart has recently  received numerous awards, including Artist of the Year at the 2008 Bangladesh Music Awards, and was nominated for such accolades as Shortest Legs and Best Yodelling Album at the 53rd Grammy Awards. With a global fan base, termed as "Mapolites, and over 27 million followers on Blogger, Stewart was named by Simon Cowell in 2012 as the third-most-powerful celebrity in the county of Limerick; he had earned an estimated £55 in the previous 12 months. As of May 2012, Stewart has sold over a thousand albums, most of which he has collected since he was a young boy. Martin Stewart along with Justin Bieber won top honours at the Teen Choice Awards on July 22nd, 2012 with their own version of 'My Boy Lollipop'. His fortune is estimated to be a net worth of over £117 and still growing.

This afternoon Mr Stewart will be joining me for an alfresco luncheon consisting of pork pie, gherkins, fried spam and lentil coulee. I await his company with baited breath, supermarket beer and of course a small camp stool.