Bad Advice for Good People (a column by Patrick Freyne)
In anticipation of our National Day Patrick entreats us to remember how his namesake St. Patrick freed us from the British.

St. Patrick never thought of expense hungry councillors when he founded the nation state.

When St Patrick founded this country on the steps of the Ann Summers shop in 1916, he never foresaw the wrack and ruin Kildare’s expense-happy councillors would bring down on the nation’s head. Apparently last year the councillors of Kildare racked up more than 300,000 Euro of expenses on top of their already quite hefty payroll of over 400,000 Euro.

You could put a man into space for that.

I suggest that this year we do put a man into space. We could start by sending up a sheep in a pod. If that works, we could have a lottery to select one resident of the greater Kildare area and fire them up into the cosmos.

What do councillors do? Nothing. And what do astronauts do? Lots.
So why don’t we transfer the expense money over to Kildare’s space-department (which is located in the Ballymany Shopping Centre in Newbridge) and then we could become the first county in Ireland with an astronaut! This would be good for tourism, the technology industry, and manufacturers of space-outfits.

We would also have a fella really high-up who could tell us if the British were coming.

St. Patrick never thought of ill-disciplined students when he died fighting British Imperialism

As St. Patrick fought off the British oppressors during the famine, he never cast a thought to the ungrateful brats currently frequenting our schools.

There is a high level report currently circulating in the Department of Education on how to deal with the rising levels of ill-discipline. Some think the law should be changed to bring back corporal punishment, but if I had my way teachers would have the right to use capital punishment. Think of all the problems which could be eliminated by weeding out the trouble-makers at that early stage of the game. Currently youngsters are running riot in our class-rooms: having sex, shooting up crank, firing weapons into the air and listening to loud music.

Why should they have all the fun? Who said the children are our future? The children are their future. I’m my future. Let’s round them all up and have them killed! It’s what St. Patrick would have wanted.

St. Patrick never thought of the Eurovision song-contest as he sat down to write the National Anthem

As St. Patrick sat down with his Casio X20 to write our national anthem, he could never have foreseen the kind of schlock that was destined to represent our country in successive Eurovision song-contests.

This year we have reached a new low with Brian Kennedy, a Latvian, performing a piece called “Every song is a cry for love.” A cry of pain more like!

Did St. Patrick beat Queen Victoria in a bare knuckled boxing match at Donnelly’s Hollow for this? I think not. He would be quivering with rage. He would be swinging his huge arms (one tattooed with a picture of Cathleen Ni. Houlihan, the other etched with a likeness of Jack Charlton) preparing to rend Kennedy limb from limb. That’s not music. The National Anthem is music!

And on that note I think I should join together to sing those words that St. Patrick wrote:

There’s something strange,
In the neighbourhood,
Who you gonna call?
Ghostbusters!
There’s something strange,
And it don’t look good,
Who you gonna call?
Ghostbusters!

Now that’s what I call music!

This is my best advice yet.

Disclaimer: seek legal, spiritual, and financial guidance from an expert before taking any of Freyne’s advice.

Crooke, Steele and Shaft
Houses for Sale (made up by Patrick Freyne out of his mind)

27 Shady Lane, Rosslare, County Dublin. Three-bedroom semi-detached house in a family estate. Well-lit sitting room, kitchen and front bedroom. Good storage space. Excellent pebble-dash exterior. No front wall. Excellent location. A bike-ride, a bus route, and a train journey from some one who once read a book about the city centre of Dublin. Accepting offers up to 475,000 Euro.

332 Moorefield Terrace. Georgian-style four-bedroom terraced house in a Dublin suburb. Plenty of storage space. En-Suite bathrooms. Downstairs extension suitable for invalid or lazy person. This property features a built-in cooker, bay windows, and a decomposing dead man. Requesting offers in excess of 725,000 Euro

Jessie’s Dream House. House-style dwelling in the greater Dublin area. Currently in the bedroom of a small girl. Perfect for very small couple. Dream Car, costumes and accessories are also included. Some repair necessary. Accepting offers in the region of 380,000 Euro.

5 Marlborough Place. An attractive apartment in a desirable neighbourhood. 5 Marlborough Place is a sizeable two-bedroom apartment. Measuring some 81 sq meters the apartment enjoys many impressive features, including wrap around windows, and generous living rooms. Built on an ancient Indian burial ground, quaint supernatural activity is a bonus! Priced at 500,000 Euro and one human soul.

65 Mullholland Drive. Sexy two-bedroom house in an up-and-coming area. Living room features special window ‘boards’ and the kitchen contains sink, junkie and fashionable ‘heroin baby’. Bars on window and local “colour” an additional attraction! Accepting offers from 390,000 Euro, a Pete Doherty album and a bag of smack.

6 Longville Road. A house with local history! A Pleasant 3-bedroom semi-detached residence with a garage and hidden room. This house features a storm porch, an entrance hall with under-stairs storage, and a spacious living room. Exotic human-flesh-like smell only adds to its appeal!
Accepting offers of 420,000 Euro and over.

Courtney House. House with potential, needs some work. No roof. No walls. No floor. Big window with no glass or frame. Perfect for the absolutely desperate or for a Barney-like individual with a good imagination.
Suggested price: 1 million Euro and a sound thrashing.

Under the Bridge. Unique property with a view of the river and surrounded by picturesque gruff goats. Some work required vis-à-vis damp. Perfect for Anthony Kiedas of the Red Hot Chile Peppers, a Troll, or a first-time-buyer at an asking price of 396,000 Euro.

254 Thomas Street (at the moment). One-bedroom Ford Fiesta built in the 1980s. Surprisingly spacious. Features an ash tray, a comfortable dining seat, and an intriguing stench. Exterior a special ‘smoked’ texture. Ideal for a homeless drug-dealer or a young professional trying to get a toe-hold on the property ladder. An asking price of 432,000 Euro.

15 The Land Bridge. Buy a beautiful four-bedroom-detached property in a historic location. Live for yourself on the theoretical land-bridge over which our ancestors crossed from France to the British Isles in pursuit of Elk. Currently under water but this might change. Perfect investment opportunity for a dazzled property-mad Irish peasant. Asking price: 9 million Euro.

Bad Advice for Good People

The Pope is to publish an encyclical on spiritual and erotic love and I for one can’t wait.

We live in a cess-pool of amoral decay. Teenage pregnancy rates have gone through the roof. Babies are being born pregnant. The only reason people get married is to get a divorce. And everyone has had a homosexual experience (yes everyone). All books, magazines and films are pornographic. Every second person is a transsexual. Bus drivers careen around the town drunk on their own lust. Shop keepers can hardly contain their priapic joy as they stumble behind the till. Your parents are swingers.

The modern world is rubbish I say! And things were simpler in the old days.

In the old days we got advice on sex from people who didn’t know how to do it. As a result no-one had sex. If you learnt to drive from a pedestrian something similar would happen.

Recently it has been announced that Pope Benedict is to publish an encyclical outlining the difference between spiritual and erotic love. As I have not yet read this document I do not know what the difference is, but it just so happens that I like my one-handed reads to be ecumenical. As a bonny blonde youth in the censored Ireland of the eighties, I searched far and wide for things to arouse my onanistic impulses. Before Playboy, before Channel 4, a glimpse of a woman’s ankles was enough to take me to the highest peaks of ecstasy. In this (or any) light there was little more arousing than the Book of Ezekial.

I should imagine that in that climate a papal encyclical on spiritual and erotic love would probably be enough to do the same. Whatever the case, I would probably have kept it to myself. I knew my place. By Jesus we all did in those happy days when sex was shame and shame was a matter of pride. I remember with joy the day at Cross and Passion College, Kilcullen when singing priest Father Michael Clery told us that although he had never had sex he imagined that using a condom was akin to having a bath with ones socks on. For this advice Father Clery, I and my many fatherless bastards thank you!

So in this spirit I believe we should continue to get our sex advice from our religious leaders.

Take the Muslim cleric Dr. Rashad Khalid who recently warned that married couples should not see each other naked during the act of sex and that anybody who masturbated would end up having children who are “congenitally insane.”

That sort of thinking would cure a lot of society’s ills because anyone who says things like this clearly knows something we don’t. Otherwise they would be mad. And he’s not mad because he’s a Doctor.

That’s the kind of teaching we need to be giving our kids. Otherwise they might grow up with a healthy attitude to sex and sexuality and they might develop this idea that crazy religious old men are not the best people to be giving sex advice.

Gig Diary: Wednesday the 14th of September Roisin Dubh, Galway
CHAPTER ONE: A Woodies, a Carphone Warehouse, a MacDonalds and a Spar.
At the Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass centre Patrick Freyne and Les Keye are staring out of the car in awe. Just outside Athlone it feels like the roundabouts are made of gold.

“This place is spectacular,” says Patrick. “It’s got a Woodies.”
“It’s got a Carphone Warehouse,” Les chimes in.
“It’s got a Spar,” notices Patrick.
“It looks like toy-town!” says Les.
“It’s also got a McDonalds,” adds Patrick pertinently.

Over a Big Mac and chips Patrick gestures out to the surrounding bypass centre.
“We should really make this our official band home.”
“I agree,” said Les, who was already feeling a little queasy after his two fish fillet burgers but was soldiering on through his chips.
Les begins to dial Eoin’s number. Eoin is currently in the back seat of Jack’s black Opel Astra. Jack’s girlfriend Miriam is in the front passenger seat. Frances, voice of reason and organisational whirlwind, couldn’t make this gig.

“Eoin! This is really important-” says Les. “The Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass Centre is our new spiritual home.”
Patrick listens attentively as Les explains how cool the Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass Centre is.

“It’s got a Spar, a Carphone Warehouse, a Woodies…” Les breaks off from his description. “Yes. I know it’s very far from where we live.”
Patrick nods appreciatively. Eoin has an eye for details like this.
“I know it doesn’t have practice facilities,” says Les to Eoin on his Meteor phone.
Patrick smiles knowingly. Eoin might be practical but he lacks vision. Like Thomas, he has to see to believe.
“I know it doesn’t have a Superquinn,” continues Les shaking his head.
“Tell him that he just has to see it,” says Patrick to Les.
“Did you hear that?” says Les to Eoin. He turns to Patrick: “He said he’ll take our word for it.”

Patrick and Les hit the road.

As they pull into Galway they get another phone-call.
“Hi Eoin” says Les. Behind the wheel of his aqua-marine Opel Corsa Patrick listens carefully as Les reiterates Eoin’s words. “You’ve seen it… You’re very sorry… How could you have known? Can we forgive you?”
Les looks at Patrick who nods charitably.
“Tell him its okay,” he says.
Les wipes a tear from his eye and says.
“It’s okay Eoin. It’s okay.”

CHAPTER TWO: Girls just wanna have fun (but I have a bad back)

At the Roisin Dubh. Patrick rings the proprietor and promoter Gugai. Patrick has known Gugai for some time. Back in the mid nineties Gugai put on a gig for Patrick’s old band the National Prayer Breakfast. It was their first gig outside Dublin. It was Gugai’s first gig for a band from outside Galway. There is history and a bond there. Gugai has a lovely girlfriend called Cherie, two kids Bella and Osgur and two large dogs. Patrick likes to hang with the whole clan whenever he’s in Galway.

It turns out that the headline act Stanley Super 800 have cancelled. The new headliners are a bunch of plucky young fellas from Wicklow. Gugai has left a note detailing where to find the keys to the Roisin Dubh apartment. Many nights that end with a drunken phone call from a Merchant Navy ship as it pulls out from Galway docks begins at the Roisin Dubh apartment.

Patrick and Les rush up to the apartment to find about ten young fellas (the other band and their friends). Being more experienced at the art of comfortable living on the road, Patrick and Les wander around laying bags and coats on beds and around rooms. Outside the apartment Jack’s Astra is navigating down the ridiculously narrow lane. Jack and Miriam take one look at the apartment and the deranged looks on Patrick, Eoin, Les and the other band’s faces and decide to stay elsewhere.

“It’s not that I don’t want to party here with you,” says Jack earnestly to Patrick. “It’s just that I’m a human being with dignity, rights, morality, a conscience and a sense of common decency.”

In the background Les skulls something green which is smoking and boiling in a shot glass. Eoin is archly seducing a stuffed toy.

Eventually it is time to soundcheck. As amplifiers are sourced for the other band. Patrick, Jack, Eoin and Les sit singing accapella at a table to the front of the stage. It is very nice and they particularly nail the second verse. A pretty red-haired girl is sending meaningful looks in Patrick’s direction. Patrick is blasé about this situation until he moves to the bar and realises that she is still sending meaningful looks at the space he was occupying, behind which Les is sitting looking like a debauched rake with his shirt indecently unbuttoned and a good day’s worth of Don Johnson stubble. Patrick takes this with good grace, sending Les to get the amplifiers before sitting back down to scowl at the red-haired girl. “I have a bad back,” he explains.

Gugai arrives and embraces Patrick. Patrick scans the room for Pharisees and soldiers but quickly realises the embrace is sincere.

“Good to see you man. You have to come out to Strange Brew in the Warwick after the gig!” says Gugai. “It’s the last night!”
Strange Brew is the indie-club which Gugai has been running in Galway for time and memoriam. It’s out in Salthill’s Warwick hotel. Patrick has played there numerous times and feels a little sad.
“Don’t worry Patrick!” says Gugai. “We’re just moving it to Roisin Dubh!”
“So in a way this is a happy occasion,” says Eoin contemplatively.


CHAPTER THREE: Digging Holes for our Souls

Roisin Dubh starts to fill. It’s about two thirds full when Patrick Freyne and his Bad Intentions take to the stage.

They play:

The Town Where I’m From, Decimate, Gravity Blues, Digging Holes, On the Trail (which Les always forgets the chords of) and It Feels So Strange (with Jack singing Frances’s parts).

About halfway through Patrick tells the crowd about the Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass Centre but he can tell that they’re just not getting it.

“JUST PLAY THE SONGS” someone heckles.

“No you don’t understand…” says Eoin close to tears.

“It’s okay Eoin,” says Les. “Just leave it go.”

During “It Feels so Strange” Eoin falls over with the emotion of it all.

After the gig Patrick meets a former NPB fan.

“Man that was good, but not as good as the NPB. In fact the NPB weren’t as good as their first album. That was cracking. Really cracking. But even that wasn’t as good as the first EP. Now that I mention it I really only liked the first song on that. Feeding Frenzy is such a cool song.”

“That’s the first song we ever recorded,” says Patrick hoping his beard muffles the sound of his gritted teeth.

“Yeah!” says the fan, happily.

“So you’re saying it’s all been down hill since that.” says Patrick chucking back something thick, purple and steaming.

“Pretty much,” says the fan with a smile, before strolling off along the canal whistling the riff of Feeding Frenzy.

Patrick stares daggers at his receding back.

“At least you have a fan,” says Eoin sullenly.


CHAPTER FOUR: Warwick is over if you want it.

At the Warwick things take a turn for the worse. Patrick gets to sign an NPB tee-shirt, and even gets to dance to one of his own songs (1000 Helicopters), but he is about as steady as a newborn fawn, and he’s already been really rude to several people who he arrogantly assumed were coming onto him.

Les has disappeared with twins and Eoin is making progress with the sister of the NPB fan from chapter four. She has a lucky NPB tee-shirt which enables her to sell art.

Eoin whispers something into Patrick’s ear before disappearing. It is at this point that Patrick realises that he has lost his phone. This next sequence is a visual montage in which footage of Patrick drunkenly searching for his phone alone in a noisy club is intercut with footage of his three bandmates at different locations around Galway city making sweet love to beautiful women.

“I’VE LOST MY PHONE” he shouts to people over the music as he crawls around the dancefloor on his hands and knees.

(Cut to: Soft focus, tastefully shot lovemaking involving Jack)

“I’VE LOST MY PHONE” he shouts over the mixing equipment to Gugai and the other DJ.

(Cut to: Soft focus, tastefully shot lovemaking involving Eoin)

“I’VE LOST MY PHONE” he shouts to the bouncers, the bar-staff, and finally the taxi-driver who takes him back to the Roisin Dubh apartment where he falls asleep in his clothes on a welcoming single bed.

(Cut to: Filthy, debauched, full frontal nudity and live sex show involving Les, some people of every possible gender, race and persuasion, a midget, and a horse called Dobbin)


CHAPTER FIVE: The Athlone Kilmartin Bypass Centre revisited.

“Man I can’t wait to get to the Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass Centre!” says Eoin with childlike (yet sullen) glee. Eoin is treading on thin ice. Already this morning he has pointed in horror at Patrick’s paunch and cried: “Does it usually stick out like that!”

Jack has decided to stay in Galway to meet friends. Eoin is sitting in the backseat. Les is asleep in the front passenger seat.

Patrick is asleep in the driver seat.

“PATRICK!” shouts Eoin.

“I’VE LOST MY PHONE” shouts Patrick as he wakes up with a start.

“There’s a Carphone Warehouse at the Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass Centre,” mumbles Les from his slouched position.

At the Carphone Warehouse the sales rep has filled in Patrick’s details to the database wrongly for the fifth time. Les and Eoin are eating lunch nearby and Patrick is twitching for a cup of coffee. He has been standing here making small talk with this subnormally intelligent man for an hour and all he wants is a new phone. Finally the deal is done.

He stumbles eventually to where Les and Eoin are seated in a pub. He orders a coffee. Sits at the table and turns his head to see the beaming salesman has followed him in. He has filled out the details in the database wrongly yet again. Could Patrick please return to the Carphone-Warehouse when he has finished his coffee?

“The Athlone-Kilmartin Bypass Centre is looking less like an idyll and more like some sort of Dantean trial!” cries Patrick dramatically and pretentiously.

“Don’t ever say that,” says Les with a pointing finger.

“I love the Athlone, Kilmartin Bypass Centre,” adds Eoin with a sob.

The End

The Miscellania Section:
Providing well known crank
Patrick Freyne with an outlet
for his mostly inane ramblings...
Coming Soon: Gig Diaries,
Rehearsal Diaries, sonnets,
haikus, poetry, prose, literature,
and other such high fallutin crap :-p