Begorrah, A Shiteful Bloomsday Ya Bleedin' Bastards

Well, I did have a Bloomsday story I was going to tell you about chasing Joyce's *alleged* Deathmask through the bogs of County Kerry but I don't have time now as me dear old mum (as Irish as the day is short in Bantry Bay in da winter) was on the phone for 2 bloody hours telling me I should be a better communicator and that all this internet rubbish was shite and onions and there's no better way to communicate than like a bloody hoooooman beeeeeen, with da voice talkin' from one person to d'other person, an' all!

An' all, an' all. An' all. (Keerrist, I seem to be channelling Old Bitter Balls - is it yourself?* - here.)

Anyway merry inner organs to all of my readers (beasts and fowls to a man or woman - excepten' the pregnant ones) and if I never write on the intergneck again it's mum's fault. Catholic guilt, you know.

Silence. Exile. All need now is a touch of cunning lingualism

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Tokyo for a few days. Sushi, mmm. No sake, damn it! ~~Uuurpp~~ belch, pardon! Mmm, sushi again...

E@L

* (Joke which I heard somewhere recently (OBB?) but sort of forgot so I'm trying to do it again...)

An Irishman bumps into another Irishman.
"Well, hello! Is it yourself?"
"Ach to be sure, it is. And aren't you Charles Linehan, himself?"
"No, I'm not the man Linehan."
"Then I don't know yourself."
"Well then, here we are and it's neither of us."

Or something like that...