There’s too many Nuns in that boat. They’ll be in if they’re not careful. They pretend to be Irish you know, with their soft, sing-song voices, looking like dirty great big pints of Guinness.
It’s all a big con to make you like them, so you give them stuff for free.
Bastards they are, with rosary beads and rock-hard pointy-toed Rosa Klebb shoes, that really, really, hurt when they kick you.
Look! One of the buggers has fallen in, and another. Ha. Serves them right.
What do you mean cormorants? They’re Nuns. Hundreds of them.
They force feed you with slimy green liver and onions and when you’re sick as a pig they tell you you’re the ungrateful brat of a harlot because there’s babies dying in Biafra and it’s all your fault because you didn’t go to mass on Sunday.
A sandwich? No ta, I’ll just wait for my ‘99’.
When your mam has no money for the Bishops Fund you get sent at playtime to hand-brush the pulpit steps and when your knees are red raw and you ask for a hoover your bare legs get smacked to the slapping beat of You. Will. Waken. Jesus. Up. In. The. Tabernacle. and they spit on their hands first to make their smack marks better than their friends’ because they show off.
Listen, they’re screeching now. Falling in like lemmings. Is that little Sister Jude trying to help? Hey Jude, don’t make me sad; leave them floundering. They treated you as bad as us, worse maybe. Didn’t give you the lickings of a dog did they?
Toilet? No, I’ll hold it until we get back. It’s been my best birthday ever. A lifetime of nightmares swept out to sea.
It is my birthday today, isn’t it?