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CORK, JAN 25th 2008

The Whipping Post FREE

The Whipping Post

Issue 4 EDITOR Frank Kapowski

EDITOR Trent Goldstein

DESIGN Steve Johnson

Credits Words Barrytron, Goldstein, John G, C.Beston, A Lansbury, Donal Mcgee, R.Jacobs, E. B, E. Tek, Doc.Jennings, D.D.Deedy, The Beat, Stiv, Johnson, Johnson, Kapowski, Nicky Marks, Valerie Gunning, J Ree.

Images L. Mcmullan, Branigan, Mboy, Abraham, Ben Murphy, Dodgy Dave.

Sound Emma White, Ian Gallagher, The Kid, Andy G, Stivo, Colm, Sharon, E.Kierans, B.Mack.

Letters x To Whom it may concern, I have just finished reading the last issue of your despicable rag and would like to inform you that Cheers was set in Boston and not New York. Am I to presume that this magazine is run by a pack of Monkeys, or was this a deliberate mistake? I’m an American and in my great country this shit would not wash, god damn it I’ve had enough of Ireland and your backward ways. I’m going home to work on the new series of Becker which unlike your publication is funny. Your Faithfully Ted Dansen Dear Jerkoff Editor, I couldn’t help but notice that you put me, Kevin Spacey at no.1 in the top ten worst Irish accents. Although I was delighted to see you wrongly titled the film “Ordinary Irish criminals” I was still disgusted that I was even considered for the list. I’m an oscar winner and a critically acclaimed theatre actor. Your pathetic little island should be honoured to have had an actor of my calibre playing a paddy. I take any criticism of my acting ability as brazen slander so you’ll be hearing from my lawyers. The Oscar winning Kevin Spacey. To the Editor, Although I do enjoy reading your low brow mag I can’t help but notice it’s got typos oozing out of every orifice. What’s the story? Get it together, If not for your readers then for yourselves. The potential is there, you just need some proof readers in on it or something. Fucks sake. Ben

it’s crap! it looks nuddin fuckin’ like’m” RICHARD HARRIS THE STATUE

The 7th of September last year saw the unveiling of a new piece of shit on Limericks Bedford Row, where Local legend Richard Harris was commemorated with an unintentionally hilarious statue, depicting the veteran actor in full King Arthur garb from the 1967 musical “Camelot”. The Harris of memory tends towards one of three archetypes: The youthful, athletic strap from his ‘This Sporting Life’ era, hanging by his tits in “A Man Called Horse” or the gaunt, imposing Bull McCabe of ‘The Field’. Ask a film fan to picture Richard Harris, and they’re not likely to imagine a piece of fucking lego. However Limerick City Council seem to have had other ideas when they unveiled a statue that resembles, upon passing inspection, a rather squat version of Graham Chapman circa Monty Python & the Holy Grail. Google it, and comparisons abound, with the debate ranging from the aforementioned Graham Chapman, to Captain Birdseye, to the dude from the Burger King ad. But everyone can agree on one thing- it’s not Richard Harris. It’s meant to be life-sized, which, unless Harris cameoed as a hobbit in LOTR, I sincerely doubt. On the ‘positive’ side, its location (Supermacs to the left, Dunnes to the right, conspicuously close to a €multimillion hotel development) means that plenty of locals and tourists alike have and will see it. Reportedly, the intention of the statue was twofold: (1) to provide a fitting memorial to one of Limerick’s first citizens and (2) to feature someone who personified the positive aspects of this town (rugby and drinking, apparently). Ah, another cluster-fuck of epic proportions then… Despite the fact that I was beside myself with apathy on the day, I recall that the actual unveiling proved immensely entertaining. The then current identikit-mayor-version 2.0’s wheedling speech came a close second to the monologue of some

Ah the unmitigated candour of youth. That said, the scamp in question wasn’t far off the mark. Groundswell opinion has deemed that perhaps another individual would have made a better subject- many believe a replica of the late Limerick politician Jim Kemmy would have been more appropriate. Now there was a man who embodied the fierce rebelliousness that makes us great, founding the Limerick Family Planning Centre in 1975, at a time when the Catholic Church’s moribund grip on Irish society made the selling and distribution of condoms illegal.

As long as we’re on the subject of immortalising our demagogues, why not have a Willie O’Dea statue? Surely there must be an old Groucho Marx monument on a scrapheap somewhere? Stick a pistol in his hand and voila! No doubt the menacing presence of our Minister for Defence, aka Willie Knuckles, aka Willie the Kid, would strike fear into the hearts of any malcontents lurking around O’Connell St. at 3am on a Sunday morning. Personally, I think we commemorated the wrong Richard; you want to erect a tribute to a Limerick-born man who singlehandedly revolutionised his chosen field? Try Richard (Aphex Twin) James. Though it may not have been intended so, his “Come to Daddy” video does capture the Limerick of

In the interests of a fair and balanced argument we feel that it’s only right to present the defence of the much maligned sculptor Jim Connolly. It would appear that the Whipping Post are not the only parties to voice there disapproval and many of Jim’s contemporaries in the Limerick art scene have chipped in with their twopennies worth. Painter John Shinnors described the statue as ‘Touristy Kitsch..... an opportunity lost; an opportunity thrown away by the town.’ Thomas Delohery was more expansive ‘I think it’s absolutely awful. Number one it’s too small - Richard Harris was six foot three. They should have built it higher. Harris was bigger than life...... His nose is wrong, basic, simple stuff they should have gotten right.’

track-suited urchin at the back of the crowd… “Yeah he’s still fuckin’ talkin’… I dunno whadees sayin’… bullshit anyway… it’s crap it looks nuddin fuckin’ like i’m” etc.

The real issue raised here is our atrocious approach to public art.


Harsh criticism indeed, Mr Connolly is not, however, a man to take such things lying down. Just before Christmas in an open letter to the Mayor of Limerick, Ger Fahey, and the rest of the council, Jimbo claims his ‘personal and professional integrity were torn to shreds on the alleged statement of some members of the literary and artistic community in the city.’ So one wonders on what grounds will he start rebuilding this personal and professional integrity? How about refuting the claims of touristy kitsch by reminding everyone that Harris was a Limerick luminary and his image is for the people of Limerick more than anyone else? No.

today, with hideous gurning children vandalising a wasteland of urban nihilism, set to a soundtrack of torturous anger and ennui. One could continue to wax cynical on the subject ad infinitum. The real issue raised here is our atrocious approach to public art. “Look Ireland! We’ve got money! And jobs! And immigrants! Let’s splash out on a poorly executed, badly placed, pile of bronze crap!” Our civic fathers’ deep-seated anxiety over their own tenuous shelf life has bred social myopia, which in turn has led to a ‘let’s-get-it-done-while-I’m-still-inoffice’ attitude. “No time to find a real artist, we’ll just bung a King Arthur costume on an old statue, give it a spit polish, call it Richard Harris, then wait for the kudos to come flooding in… What, no kudos?” Shouldn’t public art be exactly that? Art for the public? An artistic reflection of the Zeitgeist? Instead we’re left with

Let’s splash out on a poorly executed, badly placed, pile of bronze crap! the Shitegeist. Then again, according to Project Gutenberg, which analyses the frequency of a words particular use in the modern English language, ‘art’ ranks #477, right after the word ‘paid’. Make of that what you will… J REE

How about a defence of the realism of the facial features by offering the images the artist worked from and asking people to draw their own comparisons? No. How about confronting the idea that the statue if nothing else is ‘absolutely awful’? No. It would appear that the true measure of a sculpture is an accurate representation of height. In a fiery attack in which Mr Connolly brands his critics as ‘idiots’ he defends his statue with the single claim that it is apparently an accurate 6ft tall. Case closed. Limerick should be proud to sport such a realistically tall slab of bronze. We at the whipping post would like to thank Jim for making us realise that the ludicrously tall Michelangelo’s David (a ridiculously massive 4.5 metres) is utter shite. Fuck the nobility of the subject, fuck the grace, strength and power of the figure. There is no way that he was 4.5 metres tall, that Michelangelo eh? fucking chancer. The Whipping Post would like to point out that the majority of it’s articles, art work, and advertising fit the page quite well and therefore are of an unquestionably high quality. 03

Escape a



I had been hitting it with a new bird, and my cock had come up ( know what I mean). It had come to the attention of "various people in management" that I could have anything crawling around on my bell-end and it was my responsibility to have it checked out. I figured it was fair enough. Girls go to the gynecologist, dogs and hamsters go the vet, and so then should Barrytron take his handsome ass down to the local GenitoUrinary clinic and get raked over the coals in the name of sexual health. Hollaback if yall can hear me!

ALL OVER IT LIKE A BAD RASH Word. So I got in touch with my buddy Dermot who had repeatedly ‘dipped his wick’ without strapping-up and checked himself out a few times. He was none too clean either, and had gotten treated for chlamydia at some point, but assured me it was no big deal. "A couple of tablets lad - you’ll be back up in no time" - up someone’s vagina or arse, I reasonably presumed. He gave me the number of the crowd in the South Infirmary and I gave them a bell. "Hello, I’d like to find out if I have any sexual disorders please" - a sentence I hope I’ll never have to sincerely utter again. "Certainly sir", etc. etc. the lady down the line began. "The waiting list is three weeks long as it’s a free service". I sorted all the details in a handsomely capable fashion, thanked her and hung up. I then began clutching my crotch and sweating profusely.

WORRIED Oh hell. I’m not good in this situation. If things are uncertain, I’m a dead man. I suppose, to put a positive spin on it, I’m really excellent at being fucking terrified. I started to trawl through all my sexual escapades from days of yore, and rate them on a scale of ‘itchy’ to ‘knob falling off’ to ‘winding up on the TV’. I’m no Gene Simmons by any means, but I still managed to convince myself that I had Gonorrhea through sheer anxiety. I started thinking that my cock was looking a little redder than usual, and so on. The more I talked to people, the worse it got. Words like ‘symptomless’, ‘sterile’ and ‘death’ were bandied about with callous enthusiasm, my mates heedless to my worrisome expression and wheezing, sweaty gait. The three weeks seemed to become unusually long... 04


So the day finally came and myself and my bird busted down to the Victoria hospital and parked ourselves in the waiting area. There were about six or seven other worried-looking individuals, fidgeting and shooting darting eyes in all directions. One or two false moustaches present too, at a glance. I was given a number and told to wait. And wait I did. After a good thorough blast through Good Housekeeping, Vogue and Classic Car, I was eventually brought into a room to detail my sexual history. A pleasant middle-aged woman asked me how many people I had in any way penetrated and if I had strappedup while doing so. After every rather eyebrow-raising question, she had a cute little ‘of-course-not’ chuckle. "Any intravenous narcotics? Of course not, ha ha". I returned to my waiting area and was just getting my head around things when I was called for the physical exam. My balls shot up into my body. "Oh dear!" I thought.

WHO DOESN’T HATE THE WORD ‘SWAB’? I was lead into another room, which held within an examining-table and another pleasant-looking woman ("where do they find them?" I casually mused, before returning back to my familiar terrified and knock-kneed state). She donned a pair of rubber gloves and looked at me with a calm but expectant expression on her face.

heard this and that about what I was actually going to have done to myself, but my amazingly dramatic brain blew it all out of proportion as usual. The woman reassured me that everything was cool, and swabbed me a few times with a cotton bud. I didn’t feel a thing! Nothing! I had visions of a big telephone pole with a grappling hook being forced down my penis, my bowels prolapsing and my head exploding from the horrific pain. But it was nothing! I couldn’t believe it. I made sure my pants were back on and I blasted out the door, a very VERY relieved man.

GOOD NEWS MR TRON! Next up was more waiting and a blood test with yet another middleaged woman. I’m not great with needles, but after the relief of the previous room, I was so relaxed I almost walked in with a few cans and a DVD. "Hit it babe" I announced, landing my arm on the table. I made some jokes that she didn’t hear/understand and was on my way in no time, busting down the hall to the next room to fill out a few forms and have a chat with a sexual health advisor who was - you know it - a lovely middleaged woman. We had some casual back-and-forth banter about cocks and whatnot, and before you could say "burns when I pee", I was out the door with a lollipop and an ‘all clear’ from yet another lovely woman. (clicks heels) Yahoo!

"Well, let’s have a look at the area in question",


- she said sheepishly, pointing to my pants.


"Of course", -I bellowed confidently. Dropping my pants and whipping my scads away to reveal my enormity, I stood there dangling like a sculpted fable. The woman then did something I still don’t really understand. She glanced over and said nervously "oh no, ha ha, you can cover yourself with this!", and handed me what seemed like an oversized piece of kitchen paper. I took it and scratched my head for what must have been a minute "but you’re - aren’t you - my cock er...anyway - er - what?". I mumbled confused for a while, then eventually covered myself up and hopped up onto the examining table. Sure enough, she removed the large piece of paper behind which it was hiding and started looking my knob. I just didn’t understand. So this is the part that most people would get squeamish about. I had

Advice and information on sexual health and STIs, Confidential screening, diagnosis and treatment of STIs, HIV testing and counselling. No referral is necessary from the medical profession. You must make an appointment.

CORK: South Infirmary – Hospital, Call: (021) 49 66 844


CLARE: Ennis General Hospital Call: (061) 482382 LIMERICK: Regional Hospital Dooradoyle Call: (061) 482382 TIPPERARY: Nenagh general hospital Call: (061) 482382 Tipperary Hospital Clonmel Call: (051) 842646


Regional Hospital Call: (051) 842646

CLANCYS BAR 15 &16 princes st.cork tuesdays & wednesdays

Situation In this crazy age of gun crime it’s best to be trained in the arts of survival. Here are a few pointers to help you in the highly unlikely event of being taken hostage.


Makes Britney Spears look like a nun.... DIRTY


Just when you thought that America had the monopoly on out of control starlets on a one way track to self destruction, The Whipping post brings you the unbelievable truth about Westlife’s squeaky clean poster boy Kian Egan. In a press conference in Dublin yesterday Egan made many startling confessions.....

‘If you saw us on the late late show you’d have thought we were saints. But nothing could be further from the truth. I remember after one gig on our last tour I crashed out after drinking one too many West Coast Coolers. I woke up the next morning and put the SAME underpants back on again. That was the state I was in, it was crazy; we were awful mad altogether.’

I HAVE SOMETIMES BEEN TO THE TOILET AND THEN NOT WASHED MY HANDS AFTERWARDS’ In a less than exclusive interview the Irish pop legend revealed he has been less than scrupulous with regard to personal hygiene hundreds of times; something even the cocainecrazed drink driver Lindsay Lohan wouldn’t mess with.

CRAZY Kian, 27, said: ‘Touring with Westlife was such a wild roller coaster that by the time Brian left the band, i was regularly eating biscuits before bedtime.......AFTER brushing my teeth.’

FISHY In an amazing outburst the singer confessed: ‘everybody thought Fadders was the wild man of the band just because of that night he drank five pints and a baby Guinness, but that’s all tabloid hype. He may have had a few mad nights on the booze but once I didn’t wash my hair for a whole week.’

CAKEY Millions of shocked Westlife fans will be shocked by these shockingly frank admissions from the «squeaky clean» pop star. However Kian is keen to shed his choir boy image and reveal his true bad boy nature. Despite receiving stern warnings from Louis Walsh and the other members of the band to clean up his act, Kian feels it’s important that his legions of fans are exposed to his wild side.

NUTTY During a robust exchange of opinions a source close to the band revealed that he overheard Kian telling Louis to ‘go suck an egg’. the source went on to say ‘It has been such a shock, for years we have hidden his dirty nature and now he wants it all out in the open’. One night before going on stage he boasted to everyone that he had just wiped his arse and his finger had gone through the toilet paper. During his solo in uptown girl I saw him distinctly sniffing the offending finger. We all fear he’s spiralling out of control, and what’ll happen to the band after that?. Well Westlife watchers all you can do is keep glued to this space and see what dirty Kian, Irelands very own carcrash celebrity, gets up to next. GOLDSTEIN

TOBLERONE TERROR Kraft food corporation has been hit with news of an imminent court case being brought forward by a group of dissatisfied toblerone customers.


onsumer rights groups are already drawing parallels between this and the multi-billion dollar cases brought against the tobacco and fast food industries. The law suit filed by over one hundred regular Toblerone users alleges that prolonged periods of consuming the triangular chocolate has left there mouths scarred and bruised, and there pockets empty. “Taking a bite of a refrigerated Toblerone is like chewing on a ball of barbwire.” - says Emil Bauman, spokesman for the Toblerone Victims Committee. He went on to add that the spiralling cost of oral local anaesthetics such as Bonjela has meant that many sufferers have had to do with out basic necessities such as schooling for there children. Mr Bauman went on to add that the T.V.C. were looking into clandestine links between Kraft Foods and Reckitt Benckiser Healthcare, Bonjela’s distributors, a claim that this publication has been unable to substantiate. I put it to Mr Bauman that the recent McDonalds obesity case, which was thrown out of court as it wasn’t deemed a corporate responsibility to protect customers “against there own excesses”, would be a major stumbling block for the T.V.C. “That was entirely different, that was the fatties against the fat cats. This case is far more like the case the tobacco industry had to answer, whereby a major corporation has knowingly been concealing the harmful effects of an addictive product. Kraft Foods has for years been sprouting the line that the triangular shape of Toblerone is a representation of the Matterhorn in Switzerland, this is simply just not

the case. The distinctive triangular shape is a money making exercise; the cardboard packaging looks big but when you open it up it’s half empty. It’s a classic case of greedy corporations putting the dollar ahead of the welfare of the general public.” Current litigation here in Ireland and in the U.S. is attempting to put a cap on portion sizes in an attempt to curb the obesity problem in both states with current focus on fast food giant’s “supersize” portions. However Emil Bauman was keen to point the finger once again at Kraft Foods. “Have you seen the size of those giant Toblerones you can buy in duty free? They’re 4.5 kilo’s for god’s sake. Do you think that any court in the land would be able to justify such a recklessly large portion of chocolate? That’s without considering the more sinister side to all this. Duty Free is past all airport security, so any Jihadist out there is free to pick up a 4.5kilo clubbing weapon and stroll straight on board and that’s at its most basic level. If you break up that bar into pieces and stick them on to the end of pencils you’ve got twelve lethal weapons. You’ve already seen the damage a normal size bar can inflict on to the inside of a persons mouth, imagine what a giant piece thrust into a pilots eye ball would do?” It seems clear that the coming weeks and months of legal action will open a can of worms that could cost Kraft Foods dearly. This reporter would also like to add that a refrigerated Yorkie bar is no walk in the park either. You can share your confectionary related mishaps at: GOLDSTEIN

The first thing to do is get friendly with your abductors, you might think that they wont trust these kind of actions but think again. Stockholm syndrome is a plausible condition as long as you play it cool, be subtle and don’t act too chummy. It’s a known fact that hostages often show sympathy towards their abductors when affected by this psychological condition so by mimicking the Stockholm you’ll set a good foundation.

see All the games live

9pm • wednesdays quiz

Turn a fellow hostage into a target. The hostage takers might want to prove to the cops that they mean business, in order to do this they need to blow a hostages head off and throw the corpse to the surrounding cops and media. You obviously don’t want this to be you, so you choose a hostage to turn into a target. The best way to do this is engage in conversation with one of them in a discreet manner. Once they are relaxed you can cut it short by exclaiming "No way man your fucking crazy, they’ll kill us if we try that shit." Then move away from them before they get a chance to respond. If the siege is going on for a long time the hostage takers might want some food, recommend the best restaurant in town, not the places that you usually frequent. Applaud their choices of food but be subtle, no one likes an arse licker. If your Stockholm bluff is working then you might get a chance to conduct some chit chat with the hostage takers. Be sure to point out that hostages in the form of women and children will be more valuable negotiating tool than common men. The authorities are less likely to come storming in all guns blazing if tiny Tim and his mum are still being held hostage.

10pm • Liquid Lounge

When it’s time to release the first of

MAGNETIC TAPE ELECKTRICKERY the hostages start searching through your pockets frantically while exclaiming "my pills, my pills". Then explain about your bowel and bladder problems and the results of not taking said pills. If the description of your horrible bowel movements is graphic enough you should be the first hostage released, guaranteeing your survival and the chance to spread your cowardly, unscrupulous seed. E.B

UCC Dj society presents it's new years revolution; To administer some seriously sick tunes and dangerous beats to bamboozle the brain. With a mixture of 'Ouse Techno agus Electro, Wednesday's as you knew 'em will never be the same again....

See for lineups damage €5 wednesdays at the liquid lounge marlboro st. 05

“You never see people on telly go into a room, forget why they’re there, and walk back out again” Tony (Neil Morrissey) from 90’s british sitcom men behaving badly.


eality Television: a cultural revolution in the broadest sense. Having existed in various guises for decades, it really began backing itself into our driveway in 2000 with the first of many Big Brother seasons. A plethora of assorted formats soon popped onto our screens in a frenzy of tedium, with airport baggage handlers, bin men and struggling actors all snatching their fifteen minutes of fame. One is astounded at how accurate Mr. Warhol really was. How, in seven years, did reality TV embed itself so rigidly into our culture? Where will it take us in the future? To attempt to summarise in detail would take another big pot of coffee - there’s simply too much out there. COPS, Fox’s famed real-life police show, is in its 20th season. Big Brother, since Channel 4’s launch in 2000, has been syndicated throughout the world, and has already ploughed headlong through another obnoxious gaggle of narcissistic inmates on its 7th consecutive run. Americas Next Top Model persistently hangs in there polluting the airways with what seems like an endless stream of back to back series. MTV has belied its original Music Television moniker by replacing all videos with reality shows like “The Real World”, ”Dirty Sanchez” and “Viva La Bam” which provide the added revenue of DVD sales, spinoffs and product placement. We’ve seen dating-based shows such as The Bachelor and Flavour of Love, where people compete to win a partner for life, with the moral ramifications seemingly low on the priority list. We’ve watched shows where contestants are placed in a special environment, such as a desert island or jungle (albeit without any man-eating animals close by – although it’s only a matter of time). And who could avoid the myriad of so-called “Celebreality” 06

stars like Hulk Hogan, Jordan, The Osbournes, Anna Nicole Smith, Tom Sizemore and a big steaming stream of others. Reality TV has become something big. To take in its impact entirely, we must look beyond mere program listings and into print media. Since the 80s, tabloid journalism and trash TV have formed a seemingly cohesive bond, with television franchises such as “I’m a Celebrity Get me out of here!” acting as a companion show to the many ‘celeb’ magazines and red-top tabloids scattered across hairdressers and staff rooms countrywide. However, though glossy magazines are intended for mild, inconsequential browsing,

Will television eventually become just one huge public forum? our serious book-buying habits have also changed. Bestseller lists are now not complete without a ghost-writerpenned celebrity biography topping the pile. Ex-Coronation Street actors telling us about their alcoholic past, footballers retelling the moment of their first Premiership goal, and IT girls trawling through the harrowing details of their parents’ divorce. Chest-tastic media-junkie Jordan inflicted two books in as many years on a salivating public. I firmly believe it is thanks to reality TV’s stranglehold on our collective consciousness that the book-buying masses have reached a stage such as this. Importantly, humour has changed dramatically since our voyeuristic viewing habits created an appreciation for the awkward and inappropriate. The trailblazing “Larry Sanders Show” from the mid90s took its cue from Spinal Tap and

similar “mockumentary” formats and brilliantly lampooned the ego-heavy prime-time chat show giants of the time. Other popular and influential shows such as “The Office” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm” followed, finally bringing a mercifully refreshing alternative to the sitcom into our homes. So what now? Reality TV, in all its forms, has been around long enough to have permanently tattooed itself onto my generation. The internet, having been popular and accessible for about the same amount of time, will have a huge part to play. You can see it already - would we have Bebo and Myspace if reality TV had not come first? I sincerely doubt it. Apparently, one in seven British teenagers aspires to reality TV stardom, seeing it as a viable and worthwhile career option*. The notion that one can and should be famous without having any special skill or quality is perpetuated by the likes of Paris Hilton and Jodie Marsh, who are household names for no reason other than being constantly filmed and photographed. The idea that a normal person living in a conventional fashion could be of great interest to the general public could only have come from the reality TV. It is only acerbated (or aided, depending on where you stand) by the technological advancements which make digitally projecting yourself across the globe really very easy. What will become of television as we knew it? The sitcom has already began to shuffle off, and game shows, soaps, talk shows, documentaries, and glamour formats have all been given the reality treatment in some shape or form. Will television eventually become just one huge public forum? It’s not beyond the boundaries of possibility. My only worry is – will it be any good?

Bertie "had the weirdest dream" last night


ublin postman Bert Ahern awoke from his sleep to inform his partner that he had "the weirdest dream" last night. Mr Ahern’s subconscious apparently played out a fantastical situation whereby the mild-mannered delivery man was suddenly facing huge problems and in charge of a government. "God it was a terrible nightmare," Bert told his partner Celine, a newsagents assistant. "It was all set in this really weird place called The Dáil," he explained, massaging his head as he awoke. "It was totally bizarre. So crazy." Other elements the longtime native of the capital felt seemed slightly unreal were the way The Dáil seemed to "take everything up, I mean they were taking everything so seriously" and how there was a great bar nearby. In this fantasy world Bert Ahern found himself no longer a humble village postman but instead "the King or something of the country". Looking back Mr Ahern was able to point to many clues that should have hinted that he was in fact dreaming. "The first was that I was an accountant before all this and then I was put in charge of the country," he mused, "that should have rung alarm bells - I mean how does being a great accountant make me an ideal manager of a country?" "That sort of thing just wouldn’t happen in real life," he added.

Yet what could have been a relatively pleasant dream about enjoying a position of power would take on a nightmarish twist. "It was great being what they called the ‘Taoiseach’," he said. "I had a really plush office and nice big house to live in free of charge but then things went horribly wrong." A host of financial problems would make this dream a terrifying sequence of problems and dilemmas. "We got really short of cash but the horrible part of the nightmare was that I could just do nothing sensible to put it right," he explained. "The sensible strategy would have been to fire my incompetent financial team and then work closely with my colleagues to formulate a mutually accessible plan, but instead I was isolating myself and coming up with these unfeasible and high-handed reports." "It was like I was someone else and it was so frustrating to watch myself be so idiotic and insensitive to the needs of those I ruled over," he whimpered. At 5.00am Bert Ahern woke up screaming, after realising that in his dream he had condemned the country to crippling bills, and totally destroyed the morale of his staff setting them the impossible goal of maintaining high standards whilst engaging in what he called ‘cost-cutting measures’. Bert Ahern is still asleep.

Oh I’m sure they tell you they do, but at the end of the day there’s only one way to know for sure and that was when the presents came out from under the tree at Christmas. Use our Whipping Post love chart to find out what your parents true feelings were.





friend of mine was on the lash with a couple of Spanish birds in Limerick recently. The pubs had finished serving so they decided to stroll down to an inner city nightclub. When they got to the doors a huge simian looking bouncer let all the Spanish girls through and then stopped my mate. "Not tonight" - he said, looking away down the street indicating that the conversation was over. "Why not" - my friend protested, knowing that he wasn’t that pissed and was looking as respectable as was necessary for such an establishment.

It’s good, very good, all you need now is some friends to play it with.


"Don’t get smart with me sunshine, I don’t know you and your intoxicated, you should head off and get a cup of coffee for yourself." "Do you want to come with me" - my mate replied "Then you could get to know me better." DONAL M



Good wholesome family fun, but you won’t be able to shake off the feeling you were jipped when your playing your mates PS3

Golf Manager LOVE RATING


“This was the height of technology when it came out on the N.E.S. in 1992, but your parents picked it up in Oxfam for €2.50, need i say more?”


gift voucher LOVE RATING

€40. This is a good present from your aunt, not from your folks it says they know nothing about you and couldn’t be bothered finding out.

The Whipping Post


juggling balls LOVE RATING

They’re clearly trying to get you off their backs by paving the way for you to run away with the circus.


dart board LOVE RATING

Don’t blame your parents, what else could they buy an ill educated, fat, slob.




It doesn’t matter how much you kid yourself that you like reading, this is a shit present.

"I don’t know you" - the bouncer barked, still maintaining his non eye contact stare. "You don’t know any of those other girls you just let in ahead of me either."






No doubt about it they love you plenty, there is the danger however that they’re using the car to soften the blow when they tell you you’re adopted.

cup and ball LOVE RATING


Even though they made it themselves from an egg cup and a ping pong ball, unless you live in Bangladesh, your parents hate you.

LAUNCH PARTY Join us in celebrating the new Whipping Post, pick up some copies of the latest issue & get some free merchandise. Thursday the 7th of February in the The Liquid Lounge.


THE LIQUID LOUNGE 15 - 16 Marlboro St. Cork


SPLEEN Barbecue.




n April 2005 R Kelly released the first part of ‘trapped in the Closet’ his Hip Hopera. It centres around a Jerry Springer-esque tale of adultery, midgets, and guns. If you haven’t seen them you should get on youtube immediately. The ‘opera’ is 22 parts long and incredibly R Kelly seems to take the whole thing seriously. In combining a monotonous R&B rhythm with ridiculous rhymes and a ludicrous set of circumstances he has managed to come up with one of the funniest things ever to grace the internet. Take these excerpts from chapter 1 as an example: I said, “Why don’t I just go out the window?” “Yes, except for one thing, we on the 5th floor” “Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet” And now I’m in this darkest closet, tryin’ to figure out Just how I’m gonna get my crazy ass up out this house Next thing you know, a call comes through on my cell phone I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate But from the way he act, I could tell it was too late He hopped up and said, “There’s a mystery going on and I’m gonna solve it” And I’m like, “God please, don’t let this man open this closet” Right now, I’m sweating like hell Checks under the bed Then under the dresser He looks at the closet I pull out my Baretta He walks up to the closet He goes up to the closet Now he’s at the closet Damn he’s opening the closet… The one thing that strikes you throughout this is the sincerity with which R Kelly delivers such nonsense, his real life is even more bizarre than the goings on in ‘Trapped in the Closet’. The singer was due to face trial over Child Pornography / statutory Rape charges on September 17th, proceedings were delayed due to surgery on a burst appendix. The Prosecutors’ case revolves around a home video which allegedly shows Kelly engaged in various sexual acts with a 14 year old girl. It also includes footage of the singer urinating on the girl. Previously Kelly had to have his illegal marriage to then 15 year old singer Ashanti annulled. Clearly the singer has a predilection for young girls, a subject strangely absent from his opera. KAPOWSKI 08


few years ago Roy Keane walked off a football pitch in Saipan, which he said was more like a car park, and not like a proper multi-storey car park, like in Mahon Point. Anyway we lost the world cup, but better still we lost Mick McCarthy shortly afterwards. Worse was to come when a former car park attendant, Steve Staunton took over as Irish manager. The Saipaniards later claimed that the contentious piece of land was neither a car park nor a football pitch, but a cinema. Like the Kino Cinema. It’s wholly disingenuous of the people of Saipan to make such a tenuous connection between a shabby car park and a world-class cinema – when the only obvious association is that Roy Keane has walked out of both of them. Apparently when he was younger, Keano (like most of us) thought the Kino was a porno cinema; he stormed out of a Hungarian flick that was actually about carpets.

of the most pompous nation on earth, got a grant from City Hall and started showing French cinema. It was immensely popular with five people living in Sunday’s Well – everyone else could see that it was porn without the sex, and stayed away.

For a few years the Kino lay idle, the wall running along Washington Street serving as a long urinal for students pissing their way back towards the university. The Kino had fallen on hard times. It was barely recognisable as a car park. But then with all the razzmatazz of a Hugh Grant feel good film, a group of Belgians set up the International Cork Film Festival in 1998. Suddenly the cinema was transformed. It showcased films from Hollywood and Luxembourg and Cork was put back on the cultural map, near Bandon. But it’s success was its downfall, and like the fairytale Prince walking round bollocks naked without knowing it, a caller from a caller from St. Luke’s to

Kino Is the German word For Porn The Kino, in spite of popular misconception, is not named after Roy’s family name, but is instead the German word for porn. It was originally set up by a group of German research scientists from UCC in the eighties desperate for some good porn, in fact any porn, because before that there was only Saturday night sex in Ireland, and the Germans as we all know are purveyors of porn – hence the outbreak of two world wars and Channel 18. For a few years through stealth and surreptitious methods the Germans managed to pull it off, that is, hide the fact that they had a porn cinema right in the middle of Cork. Foolishly they believed porn had come mainstream and announced on 96fm what was really going down in the Kino. They were all deported. It was about this time, 1992 that Alliance Français, the cultural arm

Live Line announced that ‘that Kino is like a shaggin’ car park.’ And so today towards the university end of windswept Washington Street lies the car park/Kino cinema. Forlorn and gloomy and still showing Cafe Paradiso four times a day. But despair not for the Kino; there are whispers of change in the wind that shakes the barley crossing over the Shaky bridge on the way to the brewery. The Kino’s going to get a website. And March of the Penguins. And people who talk about car parks should shut the bloody hell up and go back to Saipan. R. JACOBS

“I snorted it, bathed in it, I even made love to it.” One man’s story of a frenzied addiction to canned meat.


avid Gray has recently returned home after a short stay in rehab. The English born singersongwriter has managed to triumph in the face of adversity yet again. Still bearing the mental scars of the whole experience he talked frankly with us in attempt to exorcise his demons. “It all started after a concert a few years ago, I was going through some problems at the time and was feeling a bit low. Somebody offered me some and I’d never tried any before, I was curious and I let my guard down. It didn’t seem like a big deal at first, a little bit now and then, just a little treat after my gigs.” What seemed like a bit of harmless fun soon took a more sinister tone, as the singer’s appetite grew so did his addiction to processed meat. The odd can of Spam turned into a constant excessive abuse of canned meat. David, like many artists, felt that the spam helped his creative process. «I wrote most of White Ladder under the influence of spam, something in it really opened my creative flood gates and the songs just came pouring out’ It wasn’t long however before it was taking its toll on his career and his family life. “Like many addicts I started just eating the Spam, two or three cans a week, but after a while it wasn’t having the same effect on me so I started snorting it. After a concert I would snort seven or eight cans of high grade Spam. I had a lot of yes men around me at the time and no one would stop me abusing myself. In the mornings I’d feel terrible and the only way to deal with it was to microwave a few cans and down the lot, during the day I’d carry a thermos full of liquidised Spam just to get me through. During this time I wrote A New Day At Midnight, which was slated by the critics. Whatever creative spark the spam had brought

to me had died. The spam was ruining my career but I just couldn’t stop. It really went down hill when I started mixing it with corned beef, at my lowest ebb I was bathing in it daily.” The side effects became obvious to his family and friends when David became morbidly obese and clearly suffered from chronic diarrhoea. His bank balance was also suffering from his $3000 a week habit and it was evident Dave was losing the plot. He cancelled his tour in May and stayed at home in an attempt to change his lifestyle. “The final straw came when my mum caught me in the bathroom with a can of corned beef. I was so a shamed I knew I had to stop hurting myself and those who loved me. It took a lot of strength to confront my problems but with their help I got through it, there were ups and downs but my family have always stuck by me.” David like many addicts has suffered relapses but he sees it as all part of the healing process. «I was walking through Tesco’s, thinking about the show i had done the previous night, when i found myself in the canned goods aisle. Before i knew it i had grabbed a can and was struggling to open it. Thankfully security staff mistook me for a shop lifter and escorted me from the premises.» David knows that with Spam, like any addiction, the most important thing to do is seek help from an organisation of trained professionals. ‘When I went to my first S.P.A. (Spam Perverts Anonymous) meeting I felt ashamed that I had let it get to this point, but they helped me see that I didn’t have to face it on my own, there were people out there who could help.’ We’d like to wish David continuing success in his musical career. FRANK KAPOWSKI

Jesus Loves s everyone except queers

An Irish girl in New York.... So here I am, 2am and I’m as perky as Picachew! Why, I ask my empty room, am I suffering this newly intensified bout of insomnia that has afflicted me since my arrival in New York (AKA The city that never sleeps…is it contagous I wonder?) I would consider the bright lights and the sound of the city’s underbelly hawking its nighttime wares, but I live in Brooklyn South and it’s as lively as a Connemara village in November, but without as many drunks. Prehaps my sleeplessness has to do with recent events that have left me as high as I can get sober.


asting around for the one true path in life, Christians often ask themselves: “What would Jesus do?” Apparently, he wouldn’t “make some stuff out of wood” or “cure the sick”, but would walk up and down the high street with a big placard reading “GOD HATES FAGS”. The ‘Jesus as uptight, bigoted sociopath’ reading of the bible is proving incredibly popular with the world’s rising band of evangelicals. Even the born again movements preeminent marketing arm The Alpha Course (which has seen over1.5 million Brits pass through its doors) has raised heckles after Blairish founder Nicky Gumble claimed the Bible “makes it clear” that gays and lesbians need to be ‘healed’. “Although I strongly advise not to say the word healed to them,” he once warned. “They hate that word!” Sound advice. Normal people flicking through The Good Book will find anti-gay sentiments quite tricky to unearth. The New Testament’s ‘no to homos’ message basically boils down to Paul the Apostle’s comments in Romans 1: 26-27 on the sins of the Gentils“God gave them up unto shameful affections”- and depends on the translation of the mysterious Ancient word ‘arsenokoites’ (and I promise that’s actually true) which might mean ‘special gay friend’ or possibly ‘male temple prostitute’ or even ‘gigolo for rich women’. Now there’s a solid bedrock for bigotry if ever we saw one. For others, though, the Bible is just one big old book about hating queers; they’re constantly finding new chapters like when Jesus, After healing the sick and helping the poor, draws together his disciples and tells them how God’s vision embraces everyone, prostitutes, paupers, lepers even tree climbing tax collectors…

..”On hearing this, his disciples pauseth for a moment and said unto him, what about the gays, Lord? Jesus flincheth and spat, Oh no, not the gays. I don’t like them, he ranteth. I don’t like their clothes or their love of gaudy music. And I have it on the highest authority from your the man upstairs that there’s a gay mafia running the Roman Empire. A man with another man? No way! Anyway the lepers….” Does the Big Bad Son Of God ever mentions bum sex or any other gay-

Jesus Flincheth & Spat related issue? Is there a sermon on mutual masturbation? Is it possible he planned his big speech against The Gays right after Easter? What we know is that Jesus spread a doctrine of love to all mankind, not womankind, so if anything we are forced to draw the conclusion that he was a little on the fruity side himself. The evidence is clear; a thirty year old man with no apparent interest in woman who hung around with his harem of twelve diciples. In the face of Jesus’ message of universal love, compassion, and understanding the special treatment reserved for homosexuals by certain members of the Christian faith is baffling. A creed that has time for rapists and murderers to ostracise a man or woman for unorthodox sexual preferences must surely question its values. NIVKY MARKS

But let me explain what has me in such an elated mood. Last Saturday night, yours truly received an invitation from a friend to attend the opening gala of a performance art festival – Performa-Arts, the new biennial to hit New York city and the brainchild of none other than Rose Lee Goldberg, artist, critic, purveyor of performance art in the 70’s, promoting such iconic artists as Carolee Schneeman, Marina Abramovich and Alan Kaprow to name but a few. Anywhoo…, the event featured the performance of Luigi Pirandello’s 1917 play, Right You Are (If You Think You Are), as re-imagined by Italian artist Franceso Vezzoli to be staged in the Guggenheim’s Rotunda. Vezzoli’s adaptation examines the fundamental ambiguity of truth and transformed the play into a meditation on our culture’s obsession with fame and the private world of the film star and it promised a host of celebrities in attendance. So, deliberating for some time whether it would be more torturous to attend alone as ‘The girl with no date (or friends)’ than to not go and spend a fortnight wishing I had, I plucked up my courage, donned the most sophisticated (and only) little black dress and stiletto heels that I own, and braced myself for the hour long, three subway rides to the Guggenheim on 5th Avenue. I arrived to find a queue of people, more emerging from their chauffer driven black SUVs, designer labels tucked under a layer of sheen that oozed self importance, all clamoring for the attention that their VIP status deserves. Luckily, I landed myself beside the only other single person there, a lovely lady called Andrea, who was kind enough not to laugh in my face when I asked politely if I was in the right queue for the Guggenheim. (She confided later that she had restrained a laugh at my innocence – or ignorance, I’m not sure which). Andrea is like every New Yorker I’ve met here in

that what she ‘is’ and what she ‘does’ are two completely different things. When I asked what is it that she ‘is’, she said Actress/Performer/Artist/ Filmmaker but a little later it came to light that what she ‘does’ is work for a catering company for the rich Park Avenue crowd that we were so aptly standing amongst. One hour and a half later we finally arrived at the door only to be told that they weren’t letting any more people into the rotunda and could we kindly enter through the side and be seated in a little amphitheater off-shoot that was set up with two enormous video screens at the top. My enthusiasm was waning considerably at this point as I considered myself as entitled as any New York society set to at least be in the main auditorium. I reluctantly took a seat in the front next to Andrea and settled in for my second rate experience when Andrea turned and said, ‘Well, at least we got Cate’. I looked up and 12 feet away, in a costume designed by John Galliano, sat Cate Blanchette. At that precise moment the screens turned on and right in front of me Natalie Portman’s mustached face smiled out from the enormous screen. Awe struck, I gazed up at what I believe to be the most beautiful looking woman dressed as a man – costume by Prada - I have ever seen. There were 5 other actors, including Abigail Breslin (the girls from Little Miss Sunshine), Peter Sarsgaard and a special appearance by old screen legend, La Dolce Vita’s Anita Ekberg. The play was fabulous darlings, and at the end, my friend and I parlayed our way into the main theatre bumping into Uma (Thurman) on her way out. So here I am, two days later, feeling a little elated at having a rubbed just a bit of shoulder with celebrity, and I can’t help but laugh at the irony in it. We all applauded the spectacle and the performance; we nodded our heads in agreement of its success, understanding the fundamental ambiguity of truth better than anyone because we are all, underneath it all, actors, filmmakers and artists. In this amazing city, everybody gets to be what they are, not what they do, well at least when somebody bothers to ask! Oh New York, New York, how I love your bright lights as they shine in our starry eyes! Adieu, Foreign correspondent, (Filmmaker/ Artist/Bit-part actress and debonair extraordinaire)

Winter is on the way out. This means the chances of me being invited to a barbeque are once again increasing. What the fuck is all the fuss about with barbeques? You stand around all day for an under/over cooked piece of chicken in Dunne’s stores Chinese spices and a dollop of shit homemade potato salad all served on a plastic plate, which you attempt to dissect with a plastic knife and fork. The only good thing about it is the warm can of Dutch Gold you’re clinging onto for dear life cause some bastards stealing any can that is left unguarded in the fridge. Drink outside by all means but cook in the fucking Kitchen.

Cold Air. Why do some hand dryers have cold air? Is this some sort of planet conserving energy saving device? I’ll tell you what it’s not. It’s not getting my fucking hands dry and that’s for sure, so I end up having the thing on for about half an hour burning more energy than ever. I’d prefer if the thing was broken I’m just going to end up swearing and wiping my hands on my pants anyway at least then I’d be doing it quicker.

Free Hugs

Why the fuck would any one want to hug a stranger? Lord only knows where they’ve been. Next time you see one of these fuck wits, go in for the hug and knee them in the groin, they’ll soon learn. The next time I see one of these signs it better be about a political prisoner called Hugs and he better be fucking innocent.

Public Parenting.

Some camp dick head with a self satisfied smile starts beaming at everyone in Tesco’s and roars at the top of his lungs..“Now Finton what have me and your mother told you about that? Don’t stare at the man. He’s just like everyone else but he’s homeless. God didn’t give him a house to live in like you, me, mummy and your sister. Now come along and let’s find the organic humus.” GOLDSTEIN

Emma Lee Teck


Submissions Send Artwork to GALWEGIAN TALENT




MORE INGREDIENTS PLEASE Welcome to ‘Gommorah House’, a whole new experience in dining…


t is common, these days, for ‘celebrity’ chefs to preach to us about ‘simple ingredients’, ‘fresh local produce’ being ‘treated with respect’, as if there was some problem with a little old fashioned over- indulgence. Every fucking restaurant in the world will end up as the same old excercise in good taste with their new pastel shaded walls, original art on display, apologetically premature wait staff scurrying around pandering to one’s every need like broken-down cult members, and the faux rustic, yet apparently fine, cuisine. Yet the critics agree with this subdued claptrap, and are indeed partly responsible for it, by praising it’s boring mediocrity and conservatism. It is time to make a brash statement. People are ready for a new challenge. It is time people were enlightened of their gastronomic ignorance....

uniforms and thick white make-up, girl or boy. Think eighties electro-pop meets Marcel Marceau. They will be forced to speak in a ludicrous european accent. This should cultivate the kind of hostile arrogance I require of my front of house people. The chef in waiting is a titled individual, a Baron, who, in order to keep the family estate after a life of squandering, had to start cooking aged 41. He resents this deeply. He is of course French. His alcoholic rages will be heard echoing throughout the diningrooms. Music shall be techno-electro-operahouse fused together in house by a moody trans-gender cross-dressing d.j. from austria. It shall be played at grating levels. The food will be a violently overcomplicated fusion, using mostly exotic, expensive foreign ingredients

A moody transgender cross-dressing D.J. from Austria Welcome to ‘Gommorah House’, a whole new experience in dining… It shall be decorated with the subtlety of a boudoir of a whore to the royals. Think antiques painted over, velvet, real fur, maroons, navies, creams and reds, the epitome of over indulgent vulgarity and bad taste. Fresh flowers will gush from every orifice. Stolen art and badly forged paintings will feature. It will be located in a partially dilapidated country manor house, and will sprawl it’s three floors. Guests will be subjected to a merciless dose of aloofness from the staff upon arrival. Wait staff will be made wear self-conciously avant-garde couture 10

to actually look away, mixing littleused dialects of French and Japanese, alongside Egyptian Heiroglyphics, all in the floweriest, most over-decorated font imaginable. It will be bound in the leather of an exotic endangered creature. The selection will be truly baffling, spanning the five continents with some detail, offering you the kind of vast selection these modern chefs seem adamant that you do not get. An example dish is a Slow braised Vietnamese pony snout strangled in a black rum and juniper jus on a bed of truffles, walnuts, bok choi and ceps. Reading the menu will be like doing a foreign cryptic crossword puzzle, to you ill-educated plebs. It is mandatory that wine accompany each course, and it will be selected for you by the somellier, as you commoners do not have the sophistication to do so correctly. The cognac will be prohibitavely expensive. The coffee will be Unfair Trade. Sportswear will not be permitted, unless worn ironically, the level of irony being judged on arrival by the Maitre-d. Open Thursday at 8 Sunday morning. One sitting, of 28 courses, per week. Prices vary... alot. Known vegetarians may be refused service, possibly ridiculed. A variety of popular narcotics may be purchased at the cloakroom.

treated with the utmost contempt, served up in the most complicated structures, towers and sculptures imaginable... fuck simplicity. Gastroarchitecture will feature alot, the house speciality touching the ceiling from your flowery overdecorated antique plate (yet containing very little actual food). Chef will be given free rein to cook directly from his ego, no expense spared. Expect Beluga caviar to be vulgarly and incessantly bandied about the dishes. There will be meat in almost everything, including the fish.

So maybe someday in the future you will permit me to throttle your senses as my guest, at the most overcomplicated and vulgar dining experience of a lifetime.

Menus will be almost unbearably snooty, to the point that you may need


Or, you can get in on the ground floor, as I am actively seeking investment. There has not been much interest so far, though I cannot imagine why. A lack of imagination perhaps. I have alot of antiques I need to buy and ruin for the dining room. And those Vietnamese ponies are expensive to ship.

3 New Crazes This week I tried out three brand new crazes, pissing sitting, collecting echos and cycling a tandem solo in the hope that I will find a lover to fill my back seat. Pissing Sitting First things first – peeing sitting. No big deal, women - and children under the age of three - do it five times a day. Yeah but I have a penis – and am not German (they do it sitting-men and women together on top of each other) – and there for urinate upstanding. So what the hell, you might venture, am I doing squatting while doing a no.1? In the latest kick in the balls for masculinity, posh housewives in London are training their moneybags partners (I cant’ even refer to them as men) to avoid hovering over the Ikea porcelain toilet bowl when nature calls. Instead they are instructed to sit down so they don’t leave splashes from their kidney pie on the toilet seat. By entering into an arrangement with your toilet, whereby you sit on it, during every visit is a classic representation of vagina envy -the inverse of Freud’s penis envy or Oedipus complex or something. If you find yourself reading this sitting down to the sound of tinkling pee, for God sake get up, Get up. And piss on the floor, and the carpet. This evolutionary regressive demand to sit down is due to the ‘splash factor’. The bottom line here is if you relinquish your human right to piss anywhere standing up, you have failed as a man and listen to James Blunt.

involve real people who do things outside of the internet. Lke going to mass it’s pretty unheard of. This particular community, Echo Echo Sounds Sounds, collects echo sounds from the natural environment on old tape decks. Fascinating. It rained the day we went out, I thought I heard an echo, but Claus said it was just a sound.

Tandem Cycling And then it was nearly Friday and the weekend and I still hadn’t a date. But for the sake of convenience I heard a story about this guy in Sweden who bought a tandem, cycled it round solo, and got shitloads of attention from chicks who were fighting over each other to fill his spare saddle. I went one better – I hired a blow up doll saddled her (Triona) to the back seat, strapped a sign on her and struck off round town on the tandem. The sign on Triona read: ‘This could be you. Do you like cycling in synchronicity? Are you a natural follower? Can you take orders? Do you want to go places in your life? Are you a team player? Would you be up for cycling to the nearest bushes, locking up the bike and going for a proper ride? If so call me –Triona is only up for the weekend – and plus she doesn’t mind sharing?


I still have the internet.

After giving up on pissing sitting (mid stream in fact) I met up with an offline community. Offline communities


was born in Kildare and was raised in Galway. I ate, drank and slept multiplied by 10244 days (approx). Somewhere in between I picked up a can of spray paint and was introduced to street art and art in general. I chose the name “Stix” because of where I threw up my first tag, which was under this bridge that ran over the river Corrib. The river “Styx” in Greek mythology is a river in Hades, which formed the boundary between Earth and the Underworld; my name is just a slight variation on that and seemed to fit. I painted graff for a few years then after clocking some of Banksys work in a mag I started getting interested in stencils. I also started working with oils and had my first solo exhibition in 2005. Almost two years ago a mate of mine gave me an airbrush, and it’s been my main focus ever since. It just felt like a natural progression for me. I experiment with as many mediums as possible from spray paint to oils to acrylics, basically whatever I can get my hands on. I’ve recently started wood carving which is a new experience for me. I think it’s useful to have a broad knowledge base that you can draw from. Although I don’t do graff these days that is where my roots lie and is at the base of everything I do today.

W KEY TO Images A. Mixed Media 8 B. Billie Holiday C. Manic Stencil D. Louis

a B c




Music Film Art Food

YOAV Charmed & Strange


orn in Israel and raised in South Africa, Yoav comes from a multicultural background, but his tunes are by no means «world music»--except in the sense that almost anyone can appreciate them. Ranging from deep, dramatic singing to near-falsetto interludes, Yoav’s strong voice has an impressive, rich variety not often found with many «indie» rock type singers, who tend to take one tone and roll with it, speaksinging their lyrics. Yoav can really sing, and the range of his voice lends great depth to the album. Musically, Charmed and Strange is gorgeously enjoyable, with the guitar noises stretching out to nearly violin sadness at times, and reaching up to vivid heights of happiness at others. The beats that Yoav drums out of his guitar are remarkably solid, and convincingly replicate the feeling of club music. Listening to the album is like diving into a lush sonic jungle with spots of sunshine and sadness, joined by bright colors and dark shadows. At times, it feels like a dark nightclub: acrid smoke offset by smooth drinks. The overall effect is



n 1971 at the height of the Vietnam war, American soldiers based in Germany had a stage band competition. This album was recorded by the runners up of that competition a band called ‘East of Underground’. The band was made up of US soldiers from all corners of America, stationed in Germany that year. It was recorded at the Armed Forces Network studio in Frankfurt and has remained super rare since then. The master tapes for the record were never located and if it wasn’t for a single copy of the LP kept

in a US army office in Germany this gem would have been lost forever.

complex, rejuvenating, and different from almost anything else you’ve heard before. Charmed and Strange is the perfect musical beginning to 2008. Lyrically, the songs leave something to be desired. In avoiding soaring into the cryptic heights of Tori Amos’s words, Yoav’s lyrics often come across as simplistic. In just two songs, several uninspiring phrases show up, including gems like ‘blink of an eye,’ ‘roll of the dice,’ ‘the caged bird sings,’ ‘curled up like a cat,’ and more. It’s as if, to compensate for the engaging originality of his music, Yoav felt compelled to dumb down his descriptions a little too much. Still, his clear conviction and masterful delivery make even the most hackneyed phrases come off all right. Charmed and Strange comes out January 29, 2008 Kapowski

The album is a collection of soul and funk covers done in the bands raw sound style. With songs penned by the likes of Sly and the Family Stone, Funkadelic, Curtis Mayfield, Burt Bacharach and Tito Puente the quality of the songs they chose to cover are all top notch. What really shines through on this album is the quality and talent of the groups members. The snapping tight drums, gritty guitar and soulful falsetto vocal harmonies really capture the spirit of the turbulent times they were recorded in. When it was recorded America were engaged in a questionable foreign war and there was a lot of civil unrest at home(sound familiar). The covers of ‘People get Ready’, ‘Smiling Faces Sometimes’ and ‘(Don’t Worry) If theres a Hell Below, We’re All Going to Go’ give a great insight into the unstable times. Outside of all that the album is superb, in ‘popcorn/Oye Como Va’ they mix the two songs, floating from James Brown to Tito Puente and back again. All of these elements combine to make a really enjoyable album. This reissue is the debut release from Wax Poetics, a killer music magazine that I cant recommend enough to anyone with an interest in Funk, Hiphop, Soul, Jazz or Reggae. Its released on CD and on a limited run of 2000 records. so if your a vinyl junky pick one up soon. THE BEAT


o as an occasional visitor to a second hand shop on the North main in search of some cheap threads I stumbled upon this movie sitting among some other discarded tapes and unwanted thrift. A Bucket of Blood is Directed by Roger Corman who later became well known for The Little Shop of Horrors. The plot takes place in a 1950s world of beatniks, artists, and philosophers, where we’re introduced to Walter Paisley, a waiter at a trendy cafe who desperately wants into the world

of those he waits on. The elusive beatniks don’t think much of him until he accidentally creates a spectacular sculpture called ‘Dead Cat’. The problem is, ‘Dead Cat’ really is a dead cat covered in clay which Walter whilst trying to get his landlady’s cat out of a wall, accidentally stabs it with a knife. We’ll never know what inspires Walter to cover the cat’s corpse in clay, but it immediately becomes Walter’s key into the Art world he admired so much. The beatniks hail Walter as a visionary genius, and it’s not long before they start to notice and respect Walter. All is well and good until a cop tries to arrest Walter for possession of heroin, which Walter had unknowingly received from a fellow artist. When the cop pulls out his gun, Walter pulls out his frying pan and gives birth to his next great sculpture ‘Murdered Man’. Again Walter is hailed as an artistic genius, and Walter starts to kill more and more people and eventually plans to kill the woman he loves in order to turn her into art forever. People soon discover the truth behind Mr. Paisley’s sculptures, and an angry mob sets out to find Walter. So for a low budget picture in 1959 this aint so bad, even though at the time of watching me and a mate took this for an amateurish piece of rubbish that could be laughed at as a colossal testament to the ineptness of the filmmakers. After further pondering over the next few days I came to the realization that this wasn’t half bad. The script was funny, the acting acceptable, the directing and editing relatively good. View a trailer here: watch?v=Tqkewj1XMn8 JOHNSON

INLAND EMPIRE 2007 David Lynch


nland Empire is David Lynch’s latest addition to a body of work which has won him critical acclaim since the release of his first feature film, Eraserhead, in 1976. The cast includes Lynch regulars such as Laura Dern, Justin Theroux, Harry Dean Stanton, Grace Zabriskie, as well as Jeremy Irons, Diane Ladd, and special appearances by Nastassja Kinski, William H. Macy, Laura Harring, Jordan Ladd and Ben Harper, as well as the voices of Naomi Watts, Laura Harring and Scott Coffey, from their performances in Lynch’s Rabbits project. This is the first Lynch feature to be completely shot in digital video; it was shot with a Sony DSR–PD150, and the grungy aesthetics of the medium suit the film perfectly. In true auteur style, Lynch comes back to his tried and trusted themes of the corruption of Hollywood, the multifaceted nature of femininity, the uncanny, and of course the ever present “black lodge”. However, unlike the good and evil templates he tended to use in his previous films, Inland Empire is more complex, a blank canvas on which the spectator may project their own interpretation. Arguably his most avant garde and experimental work since Eraserhead, this film is a manifestation of Lynch’s freedom from commercial pressure and true to form the result is as far away from a Hollywood picture as you could imagine. The first third of the film tells the story of Nikki Grace, an aging actress (by Hollywood standards) whose life takes a peculiar turn when she meets her foreboding Eastern European neighbour. This neighbour knows all about Nikki’s upcoming role in a major film before she does and relates to Nikki a series of cryptic predictions in relation to it, clues to the unusual goings on that will be prominent throughout the remainder of the film. Just as the neighbour predicted, Nikki gets the part the next day only to discover the rumour that the script is said to be cursed, and the fact that its previous leads were murdered after they “found something inside it”. As she continues to play the part despite the warnings, the script begins to reflect Nikki’s life, and she becomes more and more consumed by it. To try to discuss any more of the narrative would be fruitless as from this point onward the film becomes progressively more and more abstract. It becomes a series of dreamlike scenes and tonal shifts with little or seemingly irrelevant dialogue. The narrative becomes notably non–linear and relies on images and associations to convey its message, whatever that is! Even Lynch himself has no definitive meaning for the film judging by his reported response to a cast member’s interpretation of it: “So that’s what I meant!”. The final two thirds of the film are dominantly visual and if you can get over the lack of plot and enjoy

GRAND OL PARTY Humanimals it as a piece of pure cinema it really is quite impressive. The major image throughout the film is that of liminal space. Doorways, alleys, curtains and windows are the physical images, wormholes, and indeed rabbit holes, are the metaphorical ones. The rooms are also important symbols throughout the film and their varying visual textures and lighting lend themselves well to an association with human consciousness. The most obvious motif however is that of layers. Lynch thoroughly expands the idea of mise– en–abyme, or the film within the film, using the set, the structure, and the dialogue with impressive results that are compounded by the final shots. Along with the above cinematic representations, Lynch also adds a Bunuelian quality to the film by adding a number of surreal scenes. These include a television show centred on a family of humanoid rabbits and a group of prostitutes performing a choreographed dance number to the locomotion! These surreal elements along with other splashes of humour such as Sue’s monologue about her rhino–like well endowed lover, and the Japanese girl’s monologue about her one legged prostitute cousin whose monkey shits everywhere, are a welcome break from the dark quality to the rest of the film. Despite Lynch’s departure from the glossy hyper–real saturation that made Blue Velvet and Mulholland Drive such visual pleasures, what is gained by Inland Empire’s cinematography is a gritty darkness which is expressive of the overall feel of the plot, or lack of plot as the case may be. On the whole this film is an experience. If you are looking for some light entertainment stay away from it as it’s slow pace and absence of logic can be frustrating. Also it does run a little long at three hours; this however may be Lynch’s way of sorting the men from the boys and separating himself as much as possible from the flashy tripe that has passed as cinema in recent years. Understanding Inland Empire can only be achieved by giving yourself over to its metaphorical associations and by not taking every scene literally. To put it cheesily, to enjoy it you have to “open your mind” (man). Saying all this Inland Empire could never be described as a bad film. Alongside the sheer artistry of the cinematography, the camerawork, and the innovative use of digital video, Laura Dern’s performance is outstanding. Unlike most of Hollywoods’ directors, Lynch always gives his meaty roles to women, and Dern truly gives herself over to this one displaying her best on screen performance so far. All in all Inland Empire is definitely a film worth seeing. Whether you’ll be bored to tears or inspired depends on what you’re into. Enjoy. ROCHELLE KEENAN



Feb 14th The Liquid Lounge

We have the super sexy roxy rhinEstone from (The Tassel Club Dublin) putting on a scrumsious show to get you loved up.

Adebisi Shank


unk is something of an ineffable quality. Sure, there are technical musical definitions, but that’s the equivalent of explaining beauty with quantum physics. Funk is the type of thing that makes you bob your head, raise your eyebrows, and slowly but surely, perhaps even unbeknownst to yourself, break into a strut as you’re walking down the sidewalk. It’s a bit of an attitude, a bite, a pinch, a stiff kick in the ass, with all the best intentions. It’s the smooth shake of a deep guitar and the harsh prick of the beat that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Whatever it is, Grand Ole Party has it. From the opening strains of «Look Out Young Son» the listener receives a jump start in the best sense of the word. A twisted little melody pumps over a pulsing drumbeat that can’t help but capture you. Right from the get-go, the vocals of Kristin Gundred instill a sense of desperate rebellion and sexuality that pervades each and every note. I have to admit that through no design of my own, you will not find too many bands fronted by females in my music collection. That, however, does not detract from the irresistible quality of Gundred’s singing on this disc that puts her up there with some of the best vocalist I’ve heard. She sings with so much emotion and dare I say, snarl, in each lyric and wail that you’ll think the song itself might explode, and then on a track like ‘Nasty Habits’ she’ll throw you a curveball by slowing it down and giving you something slick and sultry. The album moves at a blistering pace, kicking into high gear right from the beginning and hardly stopping to catch a breath anywhere. The instrumentation is sharp and cutting, with a high pitched, dirty guitar twinging on and off with the rhythm, providing a solid, old school rush of sound. The lyrics drip with sarcastic wit, righteous indignation and disgust. Gundred yells out, ‘we had a groove but apparently you couldn’t take it, what a shame I cannot seem to take it’ before she complains of «your redrum heart.’ The words present not so much a lament, but a declaration of independence, and it’s well received. Grand Ole Party has opened for Rilo Kiley and Humanimals features contributions from its guitarist Blake Sennett, who was also the driving force behind an old favorite of mine, The Elected. Sennett produced this album, and his influence can be felt in each hook, lick, and lead. The end result is a thirteen tracks that act as an absolute triumph of the art of funk. Humanimals is available on iTunes, and will be in stores shortly. I highly recommend picking it up and giving it a listen.

Door 8 euro

ADEBISI SHANK ARE MICK - DRUMS | LAR - GUITAR | VIN - BASS Adebisi Shank are 3 people from Wexford who make a loud noise called ROCK MUSIC. Their new EP has just been released by two labels, one called Popular Records, and one called Armed Ambitions. Some people seem to think it’s quite good. They have played lots of places and are about to embark on a European tour in November. They are nice boys who you could take home to your mammy without any cause for worry. Mick and Lar are also in a band called Terrordactyl. Vinny makes bleeps and bloops in his bedroom and calls it The Vinny Club. All 3 help run Popular Records.

INTERVIEW 20.11.07 POST: Alright Mick, Lar, Vin. SHANK: Hi! POST: So Lads how long you been going? SHANK: About a year maybe. POST: Adebisi Shank, since I’ve heard that name I’ve often wondered of its origins, so where’d you get it, whats it mean? SHANK: It means we are lovely. Vin’s mam came up with it. She loves that program ‘Oz’. POST: Who are your major influences? SHANK: Vin mostly listens to Vanguard era French disco, Mick likes his traditional Inuit nose flute jazz freakouts, Lar <3 Radiohead. POST: Have you had much feedback and interest in your music? SHANK: We’ve actually had a phenomenal amount of feedback at the gigs. Someone said it was because the amps were too loud. Somebody else said it could be a dodgy lead. We’re not sure. We’re trying to sort it out though. POST: Where have you performed? SHANK: We’ve performed in a disused strip club, a scout den, a skate park, a garda bar, a house party, an art gallery, outdoors, indoors, on a rooftop, in a basement, in school, in a hospital, at

a bake sale, at a sports day, in a youth center, at an AA meeting, for little kids, for old folk, and for anybody lovely enough to listen. POST: Who writes your songs? Any recurring themes? SHANK: We think of the most amazing thing we can, then we multiply the amazingness, then we write a song about it. Unfortunately, our most amazing songs will never reach human ears. We forgot to water them and they died. POST: Ever had any crazy shit happen when playing gigs or on the road? SHANK: We found out Lar was a cyborg in Galway, that was pretty crazy. POST: That must have come as a shock? SHANK: We had our suspicions. He has a really rough time in airports. POST: How can we gain access to your music? Do you have a website? SHANK: Neo and Morpheus can access our music by eating the red pill and jacking into the mainframe: ‘Probably the best Irish EP this year’ ‘You just have to watch the three lads together on stage, hear. the positivity in their music, and you’re converted’ Aoife Mc, the Indie Hour


CLANCY’S BAR 15 - 16 princes St. Cork

Wall of Fun

STENCIL winner


Irelands least informed drinking consultant

DR. JENNINGS: Tony, its a 50 50, she could be grand or she could develop canabis psychosis. But it depends on how much plastic is in the hash.


CLASSIFIEDS SUBMIT Your adds printed here, with a circulation of 5000 issues, we make sure you’ll be seen. EMAIL: Hardcore mentalists required for rave in cave near Cobh. A fine selection of Hard House will be showcased as well as an abundance of cheap low quality drugs. Muppets welcome. Contact: Ravey dave: 0873131245

Skaters needed to hang around new monument in the city centre and intermittently jump off your skateboard and look pissed off. Sullen demeanour and shifting the face off each other a real plus. Skate area includes a step and a flat area.

Contact: Ms.P: 0851187700

Contact: B. Ahern 0872465547

Tuff as nails Knackers needed for upcoming underground bare knuckle boxing Tournaments. Cash prizes and medical fees supplied. Pussy willows and college boys need not apply.

Hefty country girl seeks city slickers for regular orgies in farmers barn. Previous experience an advantage but not essential.

Ugly? Fat? Need a nose job. Contact: Jacinta: 0851085577

Contact: Dag: 0877513455

Did you see that thing on TV about baldness? turns out it’s actually contagious like, and in extreme cases can be lethal. As the hairs fall out they leave tiny holes in your head which germs can get in through causing mentalism and death.........

There’s a Polish family living next to me boy. D’ya know what their getting? €3000 a week, I SWEAR to fuck, for doing fuck all, off the government like, tvheir all driving brand new beamers and everything. Thats the E.U for yis now lads. Fucking pack of cunts.

THE HORROR SCOPE YOUR MONTHLY PATH TO DEATH FORETOLD BY MYSTIC MULHOON Swelling up to five times your size and turning blue happens to everyone sooner or later on a trip round a magically quirky chocolate factory. Alas for you this will have little to do with an experimental blueberry treat and everything to do with your lethal peanut allergy.

You’ll need to summon all the grit and determination you have this month as you have no choice but to hack your right arm off with a rock to free yourself from the combine harvester blade it’s dragging you towards. Sadly all the grit and dirt you now have in your bleeding stump will cause a fatal infection. 14

Things are on the up next month. Unfortunately those ‘things’ happen to be deadly space ships, buried millennia ago, hell bent on destroying mankind. On the plus side they will succumb to our earthly diseases in six months or so. About five and a half months too late for you.

You’ll have a far more efficient and productive start to the month as the time saving benefits of that new teleporting machine really start to kick in. Those benefits will start to be overshadowed by the pitfalls of transforming into a grotesque half-human half-fly hybrid.

They say that laughter is the best medicine and it should be some consolation that you’ll be hearing plenty of it during your last hours on earth as the medical staff in the emergency ward try and repair the damage you caused trying to spice up your love life with power tools.

January is a prosperous month for Sagitarians with new opportunities waiting around every corner. It’s also a prosperous month for murderous inbred pikies who will also be waiting around a corner. The dark one you take every evening on your way back from work.

Try to be more objective and rational this month. That termite infestation in your porch may seem like a pain in the ass at the moment but really they’re nothing compared to the 200’000 hook worm eggs that are set to hatch in your rectum next Thursday and eat all of your vital organs by Friday morning.

Sticks and stones make break your bones but words will never hurt you. You’ll have about fortyfive minutes to consider the irony of that as you lie bleeding to death in an abandoned warehouse and become the first victim of the soon to be infamous ‘dictionary’ killer.

Better late than never, or so they say. whether that applies to the gang of flesh eating freaks waiting outside your house at the moment, i don’t know. But you can work that out for yourself when they coming bursting into your bedroom at 4.00am.

You know that creepy looking guy who you thought had been following you around all last week? This month you’ll find out he meant you no harm. Unfortunately the death cult he was trying to warn you about will be the ones to inform you of this, moments before they place your still beating heart on their Demon Lord’s altar.

7 Day Sirloin For €7 ‘Til 7

Ya know your man Hugh FernleyWhittingstall off that River Cottage bollox. He’s all environmental and all that, like. I heard when he started up that T.V. shite they had to build a big mad dual carriage way all the way up to his front door for his whole film crew and his make up vans and all that carry on. How many badgers would that have killed? Exactly boy, fucking loads of them. Self sufficient?, I’ll give Him fucking self sufficient, jerking off all around the vegetable plot that’s where he finds himself sufficient...........

This weeks stencil of the month goes to Rick Walsh for his portrait of Alfred Hitchcock, theres a free Whipping Post T shirt on the way to ya. Please send your stencils to

TONY G: My Granny’s got acute Arthiritis and as a result goes through a couple of ounces of hash every month, shes constantly stoned and does several bongs every day, she says the pain has dissipated and seems a lot happier but im not so sure, are there any side effects to my grannies behyaviour?

You’re going to be on a roll this month: nothing’s going to stop you! Regrettably you’ll see the downside of this during a romantic camping trip to Clare, when your breaks fail and your campervan rolls backwards off the cliffs of Moher during the middle of the night.

Venus is in alignment with Uranus this month and a new and unexpected love will enter your life. At work and school your hard work will start to pay off as you find yourself enjoying the heartfelt respect of your peers. A financial windfall will also come your way this month.

The deal of the year, you scream: can this be? A 5oz (pre-cooked weight) maize-fed, Irish steak, with steakhouse fries, for €7.00, before 7 PM, 7 days a week! Simply buy a drink [soft drink, bottled beer, pint, etc.] and it will be!


ACROSS: 1. Warning (6) 4. The burning of heretics, especially during the Spanish Inquisition (4,2,2) 9. New Years Eve falls on what day (6) 10. Before becoming Emperor, Augustus went on a vacation (8) 12. Having water pumped up the Khyber Pass (5) 13. ‘If a body is stationary, it will not move unless a force acts upon it’,Newtons’first law of...? (7) 15. Breasts inevitably what? (3) 17. Physical ecstasy (6) 22. Liturgical speeches(7) 24. You walk into your local and ask for your (5) 27. Film: ‘To ..., with love’(3) 28. This singer has been stooged (4,3) 31. Asiatic Currency (5) ISSUE 3 SOLUTIONS 32. Medical solution (8) ACROSS: 6. Scrabble, 9. Answers, 10. Velcro, 11. Privateer, 12. Smears 13. Shredder, 33. Supernatural being (6) 15. Goo, 16. Chicken, 18. Beamish, 21. Atom, 23. Visigoth, 26. Cayman, 28. Show 34. Springfields baseball Bob, 29. Whored, 30. Oasis Blur, 31. Prizes team (8) DOWN: 1. Scream, 2. Bachaic, 3. Caviar, 4. Island, 5. Referees, 7. Boots, 8. El Paso,14. 35. Sci-fi hibernation in space Hobo, 15. Gnat, 17. Hairshirt, 19. EMC, 20. Moyross, 22. The Brog, 24. Idolize, 25. (6) Orbits, 27. Abe,Ali, 29. Wise.



Many other mystics sugar coat there predictions with bogus claims of dark handsome strangers and new relationships. Only I, Mystic Michael Mulhoon, tell the real horrific truth. I use a wide variety of techniques to make my divination this month I’ve been reading the future in the entrails of freshly culled piglet’s.

Text FUTURE to 0867327628


DOWN: 1. Micro-climates of greed (13) 2. Blood fueds (9) 3. White chalklike stone used in sculpture (9) 5. Chekovplay,...... vanya (5) 6. Eggs (3) 7. Drummer with ‘Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem’ (6) 8. Castrated male (6) 11. Male escort (6) 14. RNA (3) 18. Reinforcing panel in smalls (6) 19. In vogue place to dump a corpse in the rebel county (6,3) 20. Braces (8) 21. Israeli Prime Minister, is Ehud (6) 23. Chinese leader from 19491976 (3) 26. Type of journalism practised by Hunter S. Thompson (5) 29. Before it became Leningrad this Russian city was called ..... grad ? (5) 30. Rid of impurities, unwanted elements (5)





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The Whipping Post Issue 4  

Monthly Satirical, Subversive freesheet.

The Whipping Post Issue 4  

Monthly Satirical, Subversive freesheet.