Tonight, more so than every other night, a great cloak will be thrown over the heavens and darkness will fall. It will be the time of Nyx, the Goddess of night, and she will slide up from the depths of our sleeping minds and crawl like a colossal spider across the land, casting a shadow blacker than a starless night.
Animal headed children will twirl and shriek in the air amongst spinning dead leaves and the psychic transmissions of disturbed rests. 'Mummy is here! Mummy is here!' the children will scream with malign delight and then unmask to reveal themselves to be the offspring of Nyx. The goat faced girl is Lyssa, the Goddess of Madness, the ravager of reason and comprehension. She takes the mind, every individual's only true haven from her expanding realm of unreason. She will slip into your head and stomp and whirl until nothing is where it should be. She will ensure you never again escape the grip of Phobetor, the pig faced boy, her nephew and the God of Nightmares, who bangs remorselessly and senselessly upon the shrill keyboard of rational cognitive processes.
Some of us will perish this night when the rabbit faced Thanatos unmasks, a monstrously deformed child, the God of death, who will drag us forever into a great unknown where science and empirical determination mean less than nothing. Where you are but a frequency in a hissing static discord of paranormal incomprehensibility.
And this night will howl and rage forever and we will all be its victims for the Sun is dead (kicked to death in a shop doorway as it slept a drunken vagrant's sleep). Screaming cats and birds will join every car alarm in the land, singing a panicked song of despair, an eternal cacophonous nocturne, a permanent soundtrack to this Hell on Earth. The agencies of the state will weep. Holy men will plead to a God long since murdered and then, worst of all, Nyx will crack open the Universe like a rotten egg and her summoned army will come oozing out.
Maybe you've seen the foot soldiers of Nyx, creeping from the dark recesses of your room and looming over your frozen bed bound body. The Old Hag, the Shadow People or maybe the Hat Man. Now they are here to stay, released forever from the nocturnal parole of sleep paralysis, defying the left hemisphere of the brain. These Archetypes of Twilight, these members of the Jungian Collective Unconsciousness, will become the new cops, the new teachers, the new doctors, nurses and priests. Un-Civil servants in a new state of infinite chaos.
It is happening in my town and will happen in yours. I warned you all. I wrote letters to both the Irish Times and The Herald, but it did no good. People scoffed, some mocked, Madame editor saw fit not to publish my missive . . . and now it has happened. The Twilight that ruled our pagan past has re-emerged. The shadow of the spider is spreading and soon it will swallow reality whole. We are all to be dead deranged dreamers and Nyx will rule this dominion for eternity.
One day, like every other day, the Sun climbed up over the edge of the Earth, heaved his big burning body into the sky and made it morning. The cats all stood on their rooftops to greet him, the flowers lifted their pretty heads to see him and the birds sang his praises.
As the Sun continued to clamber up higher into the sky, people awoke and the Sun's celestial progress gave temporal cohesion to their lives. 'Now it is time to go to work', said the watches and clocks and they knew this because the Sun told their forefathers, the sundials, and the knowledge was passed down over the generations. 'Now it is time for lunch,' said the watches and clocks later that day, 'now it is time for the news to be on the telly' and so on.
All day the Sun would roll up over everyone's head until it came time to slide back down the other side of the Earth. What the Sun did when he vanished behind the horizon no one knew but I'll tell you. Every evening, when the Sun's work was done, he went and got pissed out of his mind. 'I'm f**king parched' the Sun would say and tumble like a big scorchy ball toward a hostelry that resides in the gloomy cosmic depths beneath our wonderful flat world. All the planets of the solar system would be there, drinking, playing darts, chatting each other up and complaining about Fianna Fail. On this night, the Sun glided into the bar and took a seat next to his best pal Jupiter, who the Sun thought was wonderful fun. 'You're a gas planet' the Sun often told Jupiter, causing Jupiter to say, 'tell me something I don't know' and everyone would laugh except Mars who was usually just in the bar to start a fight.
That night, Venus was sitting at a nearby table and the Sun occasionally glanced over at her because he fancied her loads but was a bit shy. Sadly, Venus had no regard for the Sun. 'Mr. Hot Stuff over there thinks the world revolves around him,' said Venus of the Sun to Pluto, who was always happy to hear a bad word said about somebody because he was bitter after being demoted from his status as a planet and relegated to being a mere floaty thing, no better than that eejit the Moon. Anyway, the Sun overheard what Venus said to Pluto and his heart sank. He decided to drown his sorrows in copious amounts of booze.
When closing time came the Sun tumbled out of the bar and tried to find his way home but he couldn't because he was so drunk. He span off one way and then another but it was no use, he was utterly lost. 'I think this is Ranelagh' said the Sun to himself upon spotting a familiar Spar, but it was not Ranelagh it was . . .well who knows where it was. 'This is awful' thought the Sun about his efforts to discover his whereabouts and he took out his mobile phone to call a taxi but his mobile was f**ked. 'Oh no,' said the Sun, 'my mobile has melted in my pocket because I am such a hot fellow, I'm up sh*t's creek for sure now'. Eventually tiring of futilely spinning this way and that, the Sun decided to settle down for a wee sleep in the doorway of the Spar.
The next morning on Earth (or what should have been the next morning on Earth) found the cats, birds and flowers all eagerly awaiting the Sun's return but return he did not. The creatures and plants did not know what to do and grew quite worried. The humans were less worried, awaking and going about their usual business with the help of the watches and the clocks that no longer needed the advice of the Sun. As it turns out, the Sun was kicked to death as he slept by two random weirdos who were good at sport, went to private schools and took amphetamines (this often happens to people who sleep in shop doorways and is said to be frowned upon by the law but I've yet to see anyone arrested for it - LOL!). The Sun never visited the Earth again.
The end results of this rambling chain of events were that The Big Issue magazine ran an article on how shop doorway dwellers really should not be kicked to death and someone mentioned what happened to the Sun on the telly. Some arty types and the odd child said they missed the Sun and environmental whingers started a panic about how no more food would grow but the food did grow, hydoponically, and everything was grand because the human race are a great species that can overcome any problem except perhaps each other or their petty neuroses.
As for the solar system, well that dispersed with Jupiter and the other planets going roughly in one direction and Earth spinning off in another. 'I never liked that guy anyway,' said Jupiter of Earth and the other planets all agreed except for Mars who was just contrary and Venus who secretly thought the Earth was gorgeous.
Garganex Chemicals Corp. has bought out the Catholic Church.
Due to scandals involving the harbouring of demented sex criminals, market insiders have long believed the Vatican to be merely dragging the once lucrative Jesus franchise through the mud. Needless to say, shares have plummeted. However, like an ever vigilant carrion bird, the Garganex Corporation has swooped down.
The advantages of this new acquisition to the Garganex Corporation are many. The riches of the Vatican bank are an obvious windfall, not to mention the rights to all of the characters that appear in the Holy Bible. You can soon expect to see Noah, Moses and even Jesus Christ advertising Garganex related goods. The Pope, former CEO and money-changer in chief of the Catholic Church, said that he is happy with the buy out as it provides him with the revenue required for a multitude of out of court settlements. These settlements will save his holiness from a long term in prison for facilitating the world's largest ever paedophile ring. 'It's a liberation really,' said Pope Benedict, 'now we can quit wasting time pontificating about theological mumbo jumbo and spend more time doing things we really enjoy, like putting the boot into the queers, all that stuff'.
I don’t know about you readers, but I am very much looking forward to the impending demise of Kerry Katona. Mourning her promises to be even more cathartic than judging her has been. In a year when we have lost both Jade and Jacko, Kerry’s death would make 2009 a hat-trick year for Celebrity Bereavement.
I heard about Celebrity Bereavement on one of those afternoon TV shows that are watched by home-keepers with a moment to spare, elderly viewers, the chronically unemployed, or those too horribly disfigured to leave the house. A psychologist was on (I’d seen her on Big Brother and she’s pretty insightful) explaining the phenomenon of Celebrity Bereavement. She said that, unlike the grief caused by normal bereavement, Celebrity Bereavement (or CB) causes a kind of super grief. In fact, the amount of grief caused by CB is directly proportionate to the height of the celebrity’s media profile at the time of their passing. For example, Super Grief (or SG) can be caused by the loss of someone extremely high profile like Diana Spencer (a.k.a. the Princess of Hearts) whereas personalities that rank lower on the celebrity scale merely incur a kind of Extra Grief (or EG). Imagine if Kevin Keegan died, EG would be a bit like that.
The psychologist on the afternoon TV show said that perfect conditions for CB include the celebrity in question’s death being sudden and dramatic, perhaps with a tinge of mystery to add a lair of intrigue. ‘Something to make us cock our eyebrows as the tears run down our cheeks,’ was how the psychologist put it. Was Diana murdered? Was Jacko given too much OxyContin with his cocoa? Was Rod Hull pushed? . . .that type of thing.
The psychologist also said it's preferable if the death of the celebrity rehabilitates their reputation to some extent. ‘Everyone loves cutting celebs down to size, it’s natural and there is no shame in it’ said the psychologist, ‘then, when the celebrity is suitably humbled, all we have to do is wait for them to die and we can wail about how they were just like us or how they were misunderstood and so on, it’s great’. Jade Goody went from racist oik to patron saint of the smear test, Michael Jackson went from being a kiddie fiddler back to being the King of Pop, Diana Spencer went from being a right royal strumpet to England’s Rose and Kerry Katona will go from being a coke snorting hussy to an understandably flawed young woman who temporarily overcame her difficult formative years to become both Queen of the Jungle and Mum of the Year, not to mention the face of the Iceland frozen food retail chain. Oh yes, Kerry’s death is going to provide 2009’s third CB emotional work out. Pity it couldn’t have been Britney, bit of a lost chance there although she’s not out of the woods yet. Anyway, I’ll be happy to make do with our martyr to mumdom Kerry Katona.
Incidentally, when asked how the death of someone like Martin Bashir would rate on the CB index, the psychologist said something like, ‘no one will really notice except maybe his wife or people who expect him to show up at work, . . .and even that’s a maybe.’
OK, things have gotten out of hand and I've been forced to send strongly worded letters of complaint to both the Times and the Herald concerning this previous post and the post directly below this one .
Here is the letter I sent to The Irish Times:
Madam, I would like to join intellectual dreadnaught John Waters in his lamentation of John Charles McQuaid’s Ireland, an Ireland where the young respected their elders. It may be unfashionable in these days of rap music and political correctness to assert the old adage ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ but, in light of recent events, unfashionable I must be.
I live in a peaceful coastal town. We are a respectable community that plies its trade during the summer months ensuring visitors feel at ease, enjoy their chips and have ready access to change for the slot machines. Welcome as these revenue generating visitors are, I wish to take issue with the behaviour of their offspring. Our gentle community has recently become besieged by levitating children in disturbing animal masks who worship Satan and have the power of telekinesis. These children have taken to floating into our homes in the dead of night and rearranging furniture in a topsy-turvy and somewhat poltergeist like fashion. Now, this may be all the rage in the cosmopolitan Educate Together crack dens of Dublin, where I presume these children originate, but here we call it trespassing or, worse still, haunting.
As if that wasn’t enough, these paranormal bowsies have taken to reviving the dead from the local cemetery and sending them bewilderedly staggering into the town. I myself received a knock on the door and opened it to discover my late Aunt Dotty in a confused state of advanced decomposition. I brought the poor dear in, gave her a cup of tea and then drove her back up to her final resting place and reburied her. She took some convincing when it came to getting her to lie back in her coffin and let the soil cover her up. The experience was more than a little distressing for both of us. I can still hear her muffled wails as I pass the graveyard on my way to Super Value. The hoodlums are there too of course, revolving in the air above the church, pointing down at us and laughing. Our parish priest, one Father Jim Fondle, did intend on having ‘words’ with the youngsters but, as you will note from the enclosed photograph (blog readers see above), things did not go well.
The authorities seem intimidated by these little monsters and become strangely withdrawn when requested to address the situation. I have been in touch with social services and they are currently endeavouring to track down the parents. Incidentally, should not these juvenile occultists be back at school by now as holiday season is over, or is school attendance considered ‘square’ by the wife-swapping sodomites of D4? . . . but I digress.
As a perpetually persecuted and neurologically beleaguered victim of PC Ireland, Mr. Waters would no doubt concur when I say that the time has come to call a halt to the libertarian social experiment of recent decades. An experiment that has given rise to such evils as rampant drug abuse, gay marriage, strident women, levitating Satanic children and Montessori. Would this rot have set in had we not lost sight of McQuaid’s Ireland?
I’ll finish my missive with a suggestion, perhaps we should introduce the birch like they have on the Isle of Man? I saw some pictures of the Isle of Man in a brochure once and not one levitating, animal headed, devil worshipping delinquent was to be seen.
Is mise le meas, yours in indignant outrage, etc. (Name and address with editor)
And here's my letter to the Herald:
Dear Herald, Your paper is deadly and I think we should hit kids with sticks.
Cheers lads, (Name and address with editor)
Now, as letters to the paper so often are, that should put a stop to things. Otherwise we'll have no alternative but to talk to the mother directly.
Those bloody kids (see August 21st) were back at it again last night, playing hopscotch on the main thoroughfare at 3am if you please. Needless to say, the people living above the places of business in that vicinity were awoken by this nocturnal delinquency. The gardai were eventually called and approached the trouble makers. However, it turns out that one of the youngsters whispered something so appalling into a garda's ear that he returned to his squad car and began to weep bitterly. He's still there now, we can't get him to unlock the doors.
The chalked out hopscotch game remains also. Instead of squares and numbers, like they used have in my day, turns out these ne'er do wells were hopping and jumping amongst occult symbols and diagrams. 'That'll be the heavy metal', I said to the local butcher and he agreed. The butcher then told me that the youngsters were reciting a rhyme as they played. Something about some one's mother, perhaps theirs. The butcher's eyes then glazed over and he started saying the rhyme himself. In a sing song voice, that was most unlike him, he went:
Say your prayers to the man upstairs. He can't hear you coz we cut out his ears. Mummy killed God and Mummy ate the sun. Now it's time for Mummy to come.
The butcher then regained his composure to some extent but seemed very much discommoded by his involuntary recitation. I attempted to distract him by mentioning how every dog in the town seemed to be howling that night and how everyone discovered they were without electrical power when they went to turn on their lights. Putting talk on the butcher didn't seem to help. His limbs were shaking and there was quite an accident as he chopped me a leg of lamb.
Anyway, this used to be a nice town but it seems to me that the young people are getting out of hand. I've a feeling things are only going to get worse. To be honest, I've a good mind to write to The Herald about this or maybe even go so far as to drop a line to madame editor of the Times. I blame the parents myself, ...whoever they are.
Splat! It landed on top of the city centre, like an immense blob of black jelly. It consolidated, congealing into a huge pyramid of, what looked like, pulsating wet tarmac. Roots ran out of its base like dark tentacles. Some spread out onto the surrounding motorways, subsuming and rerouting them, making them the arteries of its throbbing black triangular heart. Other roots bore deep into the earth, why they did this we did not know, or wonder, or care.
It wasn’t long before an exploratory team of brave candidates sliced into one of these rootways and entered it. We saluted them as they left and we apprehensively awaited their return. Their communication devices failed and their families fretted until, one day, a snowy signal was picked up and we travelled to the base of the pyramid. Fissures slowly appeared in the pyramid’s glistening flesh and then an aperture opened up. Figures emerged. They turned out to be our team. The team were wide-eyed and short of breath. When asked what was inside, they feverishly grasped our lapels and exclaimed 'bargains, incredible bargains'.
Soon everyone was regularly entering the pyramid via one of its motorway arteries or other orifices. Inside we found the bargains. Items of utmost desire, going cheap. It was bizarre how we wandered throughout that throbbing space-mall, feeling a want for items we never saw before. The place had a way of invading your consciousness and directing you to an object that would make you feel fulfilled, at least temporarily. The objects were strange, some were like lampshades but couldn’t be used as such and others were like hats you couldn’t actually wear. We could not guess the purpose of these objects, all we knew is that they were there and we wanted them and it all seemed worth it. A strange liberation was felt by those of us too burdened by the onus of autonomy or self-definition. This place told us what to want and who to be. What we actually needed didn’t seem important. To concern oneself with such matters in this heavenly environment would be the contrary stance of a killjoy or chronic malcontent.
Some of us began working in the pyramid, to pay for our purchases, and eventually all of us were doing this. We were never told the prices of the objects, we somehow just knew them. Despite this, we could rarely tell if those prices increased or decreased, the objects just always felt like bargains. We also knew, psychically, that there was a new currency, the Zonk, and we exchanged all our earthly cash for that. The Zonk came in the form of a large black lump of mucus and varied in worth depending upon its density. The hard heavy Zonks were actually of less worth than the lighter ones. We worked hard to earn our Zonks and we happily spent them.
And that was the way things continued for many merry months until the chill morning we awoke to find the pyramid gone and in its place a barren crater. Examining the immense tunnels left by the roots, we discovered that all nutrients had been sucked from the earth and it could no longer sustain any sort of life. We realised we would starve and so immediately set about the only course of action we had left to us. We sent a distress signal into deep space and hungrily awaited a response. A signal eventually came from a distant civilisation, one evidently far more advanced than our own. When deciphered by our team of experts, the signal was revealed to be a message offering us just one word of advice: 'Diversify'. We did not know how to do this and were struck with horror when we realised we had been left with nothing but despair and a load of useless old Zonks.