Irish Elastic Airways.

It happens I had to go up to Dublin recently and chose a cheap flight with Irish Elastic Airways. With oil prices fluctuating and the globe hotting up, public transport faces ever-increasing challenges to get us from A to B cheaply and in a way that won’t leave polar bears selling the Big Issue on street corners. So news that people are commuting from Cork to Dublin and back by giant catapult, comes as no surprise. The man behind Irish Elastic Airways, Bernard Kerr met me on the docks in Cork. I have to say, I’m obviously not the only one to get butterflies about flying. Behind a vast iron ‘Y’ bolted to the quayside, a line of prospective catapultees were laughing nervously as they watched a man clamber into a pouch. As the elastic was winched back, I asked Bernard about his enterprise.
     “Hang on, there’s one just taking off........”
There was a colossal twang, then a whoosh.
     “Arrrrrrgghghgghggh!!!!!”
As the man vanished like a missile over Cork City, Bernard turned back to me:
     “Yes?”
     “Bernard,” I asked, “Is shooting people from one side of the country to the other by giant catapult really the answer to our transport problems?”
     “Well it’s fast. Dublin to Cork takes twenty five minutes. It’s cheap. The elastic only needs changing after every ten thousand flights. We can send people for five euros return, and there are family flights, up to six all in the one pouch. If you don’t mind getting a bit wet at the other end, it certainly beats the traffic jams. Basically people are fired off in life jackets and land in the sea at the other side of the country. It’s perfectly safe, as there’s no sharks off our coastline. Catapultees from Cork land in the Irish Sea and face a ten minute swim into Dublin.” 
    As we watched a young couple clamber into the large pouch together, I asked Bernard about the safety of the system and talk of fatalities.
     “It is safe,” he assured me, “We tested the system by firing mice in lifejackets, then dogs and chimpanzees before moving on to humans. Last month a circus was late for an engagement in Galway and we fired five elephants over. That made a bit of a splash in more ways than one. You get fatalities on the road. And with us you’ll never crash at the top of a mountain and have to eat your crew, which happened with one airline. You have to accept that if you step out of your front door you could be run over. Hang on, there’s another.........”
     There was a double scream as the catapult twanged again. Bernard continued:
     “We’ve had a few people fall short of the Irish Sea, it’s true. But they weren’t holding their arms out properly. You see, you have to stay streamlined, make yourself aerodynamic or over several hundred miles you’ll create wind resistance and fall short of the target. We did have to change the colour of our lifejackets from red and blue, because people by the sea were complaining of a plague of Supermen. But though we’ve had a couple of pavement pancakes, a few collisions and fatalities from people trying to scramble round in mid-air and turn back, we think Irish Elastic Airways are flying in the right direction for the years ahead.
     “Any plans for the future.” I asked as I clambered up into the hot seat.
     “Oh definitely.” Bernard assured me, “Once we’ve got stronger elastic sorted from our suppliers we’ll be starting transatlantic flights – people will be fired to New York for 25 euro.”

Once I got over the feelings of terror the flight was unexpectedly pleasurable, though in trying to write the first draft of this article as I flew, I unfortunately dropped my laptop somewhere over County Meath. Hopefully there was nobody underneath. I have to say the lads at IEA probably won’t really get their project off the ground until problems like that are sorted out. However, don’t let my experiences deter you from giving IEA a twang.

The Banshee in the Bath

Excerpts from a children's poetry collection

The Banshee in the Bath 

with illustrations by  the peerless Davy Dummigan

The Banshee

in the Bath

We moved into an old house,

On the west coast of the isle,

My Mam and Dad and Aoife,

Who’s my sister - I am Niall.

My bedroom had a perfect view

And we could see the sea,

Everything was wonderful

Or so it seemed to me.

But when we turned the bath taps on

We got an eerie noise,

A scream of water hit our ducks,

And other bathtime toys.

“There’s something wrong inside the pipes,

An airlock.” Father said,

But when the tub filled up a bit,

A screechy old voice said:

“I’m the banshee of the bath,

Don’t think you’re climbing in,

Nobody shares the bath with me,

Unless they make a din!”

And then she kicked her bony legs,

An old hag made of steam,

She splashed the water with her hands,

And gave a piercing scream.

She screamed and screamed and splashed and splashed,

Till father pulled the plug,

And as she gurgled down the hole,

She gave his hair a tug.

“We can’t have this!” My mother said,

“Run the bath once more,”

But when she turned the hot tap on,

We heard the banshee roar:

“I’m the Banshee of the bath!

It’s mine this ancient tin,

Don’t even try to wet a toe

Unless you make a din.”

Again she screamed - the toothbrush glass

Just shattered into bits,

We stuffed our fingers in our ears

As she had twenty fits.

She splashed us all and threw a duck

Which hit dad on the chin,

He pulled the plug and down she went,

Wearing a ghostly grin.

What could we do? For every night

Our bath-time she would stymie,

And shriek with laughter at our skin,

And say: You’re getting grimy!

Trying to reason with her, Dad said:

“Banshee, tell us why

You’re not screaming under windows

When some poor soul’s going to die!”

But all she did was splash him,

And throw flannels with a “Wheeeeeee!”

“You’ll have to smell you unless you yell

When you get in with me!”

We really had no option,

So we all agreed at lunch:

We’d leap in the bath that evening

And scream in one big bunch.

The four of us squeezed in with her,

That spooky wraith of steam,

Dad shouted: “All together!

Teach this banshee how to scream!”

We splashed the water in the air,

And threw ducks with a yell,

Her toothless mouth laughed wildly

At each rising decibel.

She slapped us with a flannel,

Whilst we screamed till we were blue,

And then most unexpectedly,

She bellowed: “That’ll do!”

And vanished in a vapour,

Not a hair or silver comb

Remained, and then we all felt sad

Our banshee had left home.

We dried ourselves and went to bed,

Then first thing in the morning,

We ran downstairs to turn the taps

And hear her cackled warning:

“I’m the banshee of the bath!”

But nothing trickled out

Apart from lots of water,

There was not one single shout.

“Never mind,” said Mam, “At least

From now on we’ll be cleaner,

Niall, feed the cat she’s at

The back door - I’ve just seen her,

The Puddle Jumpers

  

Beside a puddle, waiting,

Three sweet children stand,

When I pass they leap as one

And splash me when they land.

I gasp and feel cold dribbles drip

from chin and mouth and nose,

I look down in dismay to see

My saturated clothes.

‘Lads, why did you do that?’

I ask each wellied one

The littlest grins up at me and says:

‘Because it’s fun.’

Illustration for The Silly Sea

Spiders were

Frightened of Mary

Spiders were frightened of Mary

Her legs were incredibly hairy

She had twenty six, like twiggety sticks

That under a dress looked scary.

She had a despicable laugh

that made spiders leap out of the bath

when she hung from the ceiling it sent them all squealing

for help down the garden path.

For lunch she ate spidery pies

and crunched all the spidery eyes

with horseradish sauce, made from horses of course

and applauded by thousands of flies

“When I’m older I think shall wed

that spiderman guy” Mary said

We won’t have to make a three-tiered cake

Cos I’ll probably eat him instead.”

 

Tarantulas would shout at her shoooo!

Black widows would hide in the loo

but it wasn’t just spiders that couldn’t abide her

Humans were scared of her too!

The Blarney

Stone’s Revenge

One night up in Blarney,

The stone jumped off the castle,

Hopping mad, that humans had,

Been giving it such hassle.

In horrid grating grumblings,

It said: I’m going to clobber,

The next big twit, to coat my grit,

With all their slimy slobber.

The stone rolled through the parkland,

And kissed a little toad,

“Tell me muddy little buddy

Where’s the Dublin Road?”

Next it kissed a motor bike,

“Gerroff yer soppy brick!”

“I want a ride,” the stone replied,

“To Dublin, make it quick.”

Weird reports that evening,

Hit Gardai in a spate:

“Bits of rubble causing trouble,

On the Cork N8.”

The Gardai laughed but drivers,

Were forced into a field,

By a boulder at their shoulder,

Ordering them to yield.

The stone that Dublin morning,

Went kissing here and there,

Lampposts, grids and dustbin lids,

“I want the Street Kildare,”

The Minister of Tourism,

That afternoon at four,

Screamed with shock, as a great big rock,

Came crashing through his door.

It broke his desk and grabbed him,

By the collar and said: “Oy!

Here have this, a great big kiss!

That’s what it feels like boy!”

The Minister’s nose got very squashed,

His spectacles all broken,

And since that day, I’m sad to say -

Not one word he’s spoken

Twit Language

Please be very careful

Whenever you say HELLO.

It’s rude in language of the Twits

I’m fluent in Twit so I know.

If twits were in this room right now,

You could say to them HI or LOW,

You can call them a stupid fungus-face

But just don’t say HELLO.

They’ll chase you round the table

In a horribly angry mood,

Throwing custard and hitting you

with a haddock for being rude.

I know it sounds ridiculous,

But to say HELLO is to curse,

However, in Twit language

There are several words much worse.

NICE, for instance, they maintain

Is a foul four letter word,

YOU is even nastier

And if you’re overheard

Muttering TO or SEE the Twits

Will stand in a sink and scream

And try to pull their ears off

Which are pouring jets of steam.

However, one word’s worst of all

Worse than any disease,

Say this to a Twit and they’ll 

attack you with Swiss Cheese.

Its ITS. It’s fatal to utter Its

to Twits. It’s incredibly rude.

Even just to think of ITS

Is ruder than being nude.

(In fact most Twits are embarrassed

or go right up the wall

if they think you’ve seen them wearing a suit 

Instead of nothing at all).

But if you like being covered in custard

And hit by a Haddock or cheese

If you want to see someone stand in a sink

And scream until they wheeze

visit some Twits in a suit and Tie

shout loud as your voice will go

these words as you shake their hand (or foot)

IT’S NICE TO SEE YOU, HELLO!

Illustration for I'm Deaf in Both Nostrils

Weird Beard

  

A wizard who was very weird,

possessed a never-ending beard,

Whilst he slept his weird beard woke

and went to play strange tricks on folk.

It slithered out of his letter box

a rustling horde of silver locks

floating on the air as if

the tip was having a damn good sniff

for mischief and odd things to do

then to find them, off it flew.

Down a chimney the whiskers went

and swapped round every ornament

inside a room where fast asleep

a mum and dad were snoring deep.

On their bed the Weird Beard rose

then stuffed itself up father's nose

and mother's too! Yet neither woke

Not even when grey hair like smoke

emerged from out their ears in glee

and swapped their brains mischievously

To find that they'd become each other

Mother Father, Father Mother,

how they ran about appalled,

Dad wore lipstick, Mum was bald,

But by then the busy beard,

had looped a loop and disappeared

The night was young, the beard unrolled

along dark streets - as long as bold:

It wound up lamposts, slid down grids

noisily banged two dustbin lids

It broke inside bank and there

making hands of silver hair

turned the combination dial

opened the vault and grabbed a pile

of money. Then it dashed outside

and threw the money far and wide

handing fifty euro notes

to puzzled mice and startled goats.

It picked up cars and threw them high

juggling twenty in the sky

then got bored and put them down

on rooftops all across the town

Through a bakery weird beard stole

threading every donut hole

it mowed the streets, and swept a lawn

until the world awoke at dawn

to find that simply everywhere

was woven with entangled hair.

Whether this one night had got

stretched and stretched an awful lot

like the wizard’s beard, who knows,

I'll only say, as people rose

they found their houses mummified

in whiskers, big grey knots were tied

round chimney stacks and office blocks

Up church towers hair stopped the clocks,

The beard had somehow explored Peru

whizzed up Everest and down each loo

yes, yours and mine, the President's and

The Pope’s, the Queen’s, across the land

The roads were clogged with frizzy grey

Children struggled to school that day

To find their classrooms stuffed. The hair

Had climbed school roofs and written there

In chalk on slates for all to see

a sum saying one plus one makes three

in enormous letters ten feet high!

At last there rose a babbling cry

Around the world in every tongue

to whom does this weird beard belong?

As if it heard each groaning curse,

Weird Beard’s pranks grew even worse

It’s poured Niagara down my sink!

Painted the Eiffel Tower bright pink!

It pulled down politician's breeches

as they made important speeches

like: the beard is out of hand

chop it up and clear the land!

The more they cut it the more it grew

Seen from space, the world once blue

In satellite pictures looked all dull:

a grey and grizzled ball of wool

The Weird Beard grew inquisitive

Wondering where else it might visit? If

Mars for instance would welcome hair

In the wild abundance beard had spare?

And so the whiskers entered space

Floating from earth’s fuzzy face

To join the stars like dot to dots

It tied the man in the moon in knots

Then wending bending to and fro

Wrapped up Venus in a bow.

Singeing slightly on the sun

It amiably went to search for fun

With comets, meteorites, asteroids

Throughout the Galaxy’s chilly voids

A bristly river nought could sever   

Flowing on perhaps, forever,

All this while on earth folk flailed

In frolicsome hordes of locks and wailed

Save us from this beard’s behaviour

who will be our planet’s saviour?

A little boy who lived in Clare

Wrote to the Taoiseach: I know where

A wizard lives – a wrinkly sage

Perhaps his spellbook has a page

On beard banishment – we could ask him

Well, you’ve guessed it, folk went gasping

up a hill to the wizard’s door

the Taoiseach knocked but only a snore

was heard within, for all this time

all throughout this entire rhyme

the wizard had slept – his whiskers growing

from his letterbox never slowing.

Seeing hair push through this slot  

The crowd, a quite suspicious lot,

Opened the door and went upstairs

A waterfall of silver hairs

And tiptoed in the Wizard’s room,

Then stood beside his bed to fume

The hairs that they’d been floundering in

Were sprouting from their saviour’s chin!

They shook the wizard, tugged his nose

Tickled under his arms and toes

Wakey wakey! Time to shave!

Your beard must learn one word: behave!

But nothing seemed to stir the Mage

Regardless of the people’s rage

Shouts they bellowed in his lugs

Poking fingers, oaths and tugs

He snored serenely – maybe still

He’s sleeping there upon his hill

Surrounded by frustrated mobs

In vain massaging bubbly blobs

Of shaving cream across his cheeks

They could be at it weeks and weeks

We’ll leave them to it – life’s too short

For beards and poems never ought

to grow to such an absurd degree,

on that I think we’ll all agree.