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Brian MacNamara

A spot of argy-bargy in old dublin town
And this is the tale of a big fuck-off scrap that occurred on a Dublin street (outside Abra-Kedabra on O'Connell Street, in fact)...And the participants who fiercely contested the brutal fracas were (a) a poor misfortunate young gobshite, and (b) a big bullying bastard, who was none other than the world himself.
("roll up! roll up! roll up now, folks for this intriguing bout!
in this corner, the street corner, please put your hands together for the champion: poor misfortunate young gobshite! - champion, that is, of his own pride and dignity; a human warrior with an outward display of all the wimpish characteristics common to the average man...
and may the good lord have compassion on his soul today!
for his opponent, in the same corner -, and in every other corner
across the whole of the lands-, is a fearsome brute of a planet,
veteran of a zillion such horrendously mismatched contests ("fix!
fix!") - ("oh no, no. not quite. that's just the way the world
operates."), and, as of yet, -
undefeated! ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to make a lot
and so now, without further adieu, let proceedings commence! and may the best entity win!")
There Poor misfortunate young gobshite was, idly standing by on street corner, cradling gently in his hands, and caressing lovingly that which was most precious to him in his realm of existence, and completely at one with his surroundings, when suddenly, and without any prior warning, Big Bullying Bastard, The World first lashed out. And, though he took that starting monstrous blow on his chin, such was the ferocity of its delivery as to put Poor misfortunate young gobshite to his knees, and cause - Horror of Horrors! - his SINGULARLY MOST CHERISHED DREAM to slip from his grasp, and smash to smithereens on the cobbled pavements around him.
(just then time', a passing referee stood - "break! break" -)
Thence, for a frothy while, an uneasy calm descended upon the arena...and for a magnified moment it seemed somehow conceivable Poor misfortunate young gobshite may yet be able to salvage something of his wrecked designs...but no - oh no! - that was just an illusion - likened to the proverbial carrot that is oft dangled in front a (-hypothetical-) ass's nose, but yet no matter how far, or how fast, that onager subsequently gallops, he simply cannot make up those elusive six inches to claim the prize.
For just as Poor misfortunate young gobshite was about to fasten an anticipatory-trembling grasp about the last precious shard that would wholly restore his vision Big
Bullying Bastard, The World violently re-engaged hostilities, viciously aiming a kick at Poor misfortunate young gobshite's testicles. And it caught Poor misfortunate young gobshite full in the bollocks. And Poor misfortunate young gobshite keeled over, clutching his crotch. And Big Bullying Bastard, The World scoffed, believing it had condemned him to the gutter for evermore.
("bravo! bravo! bravo, oh rapt audience, for this crunching execution of the infamous rlngsend uppercut! bravo! - harder! clap! clap! ye clathe cretins, clap harder! bravo! bravo!)
("- lighters, four for a pound! ...")
( and then murphy, the maker of ( stupid ) laws appeared at my shoulder. and first he shrugged and he intoned: "oh, when the world throws a spanner in the works, they'll be no let up until it falls asunder!")
("- anyone for the last few choc-ices now? ...")
But our wounded friend was indeed made of stern stuff. Oh, he lay there motionless for a long while, chilling. Unkempt follicles streamed from his temples, and grizzly matted beard sprouted from his jowls (and empty beer and wine bottles, and stale encrusted vomit, appeared in his immediate vicinity). And the fickle spectators soon tired of the Street Theatre, moving on, such as rats would swim from a stricken vessel, busying themselves in forgetfulness (all, that is, except for one little boy, -
"Dada! Dada! Isn't he just like Samson was in that book, the Bible, waiting for his hair to grow long again, isn't he, Dada!"...)
And he was merely just conserving his strength...for then...lo! ,to speak from a metaphorical perspective, like the mythical phoenix who can arise once more out of its own ashes, or, from a cinematic bearing, akin to the irrepressible Reginald Perrin, I noticed a resplendent new dream start to form above Poor misfortunate young gobshite...
And the last I saw of that brave soul, Poor misfortunate young gobshite, he was starting to climb to his feet again...
Well, a lop-sided ole Ding-Dong it may well have been, but I guess the moral of the story is that that thuggish blackguard, the world, finds it difficult to keep a good man down...

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