A Seasonal Keats and Chapman Moment

With all due respect and admiration for the Keats and Chapman vehicle invented by Flann O’Brien aka Myles na gCopaleen, here is a seasonal offering:

Glutted on the over-indulgences of the festive season, Keats and Chapmen were enjoying a bracing and healthful tramp across the countryside when they were overtaken by surprisingly inclement weather with its attendant early darkness.  Spying a renowned country hotel nearby, they repaired thereto for shelter and an early dinner.  The dinner was exquisite, the service impeccable and the desserts left nothing to be desired, well, almost nothing.

“Gentlemen, may I offer you a little digestif, compliments of the house?” inquired the waiter solicitously.

“Why!  That is most kind!” exclaimed Keats who had already enjoyed most of the second bottle of Borgonne de Mueilly ’79 by himself.

“What a capital idea!  I have a hankering after a tot of the Fontenabra Quebro ’68,” said Chapman.

“Ah, I’m afraid Lady Quisling-Mulberry had the last of that on Christmas Eve,” replied the waiter, a little crestfallen.

“And well she might!  Fret not, a glass of the Quinta de Sobaco ’82 will serve just as well,” interjected Keats, eager to spare the waiter the pain of this embarrassing shortcoming.

“Alas, the proprietor will not stock the Sobaco since the incident with the ’76,” explained the waiter regretfully.

“Seems perhaps overly cautious and a little disappointing,” remarked Chapman a little tersely.

“Well a glass of the Shafts Floodgate Tawny ’77 will do the trick and let’s speak no more of it,” suggested Keats struggling to conceal his own mounting disappointment.

“I’m afraid we don’t have the ’77 but I am in a position to offer you a glass of the ’79,” ventured the waiter with growing trepidation.

“I will accept that suggestion in the helpful spirit in which it was offered and refrain from screaming at the top of my lungs that I would not use the ’79 to clean my boots,” snapped Chapman.

“Let us not sour the good spirits of the evening with all this quibbling.  A glass of the Norbesforth ’82 and we’ll say no more about it,” suggested Keats

“It pains me to tell you that our cellar boy stumbled into the shelf and left every bottle of the Norbesforth in a pungent pile of broken glass on the floor.”

“Well, confound his clumsiness!  Could you at least give us a Figueroa “83 and let us have done?” pleaded Chapman

“That I can certainly provide tout suite.”

“Fine.  Then it is settled,” sighed Chapman.

“One really mustn’t grumble,” added Keats, as the waiter left to fetch their order. “After all, any port in a storm.”

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The Thing About Christmas is…..

As a bonus gift for readers of The Brothers’ Lot, we are proud to present this second solstice-related seasonal spin-off in which Lar Lawrence and Con Conway, still in the employ of Brannigan Brothers, discuss the spirit of the Rare Aul Dublin Christmas while standing, yet again in Dublin’s Westmoreland Street.  You can refresh your memory of last year’s installment here https://thebrotherslot.wordpress.com/2012/12/20/it-never-really-feels-like-christmas-til/

Lar: It’s bitter cold.

Con: It is.  Mind you it is much colder in Nova Scotia this time of year.

Lar: It is, now?

Con: Oh yes.  And darker.

Lar: Is that a fact?

Con: Oh you wouldn’t believe how dark and dreary it can be.

Lar: Were you there?

Con: Jesus no!  You’d have to fly to get there.

Lar: Well, yes you would…

Con: …and what would I want to go spending nine hours in a plane only to end up in somewhere even darker than this place?  As if Christmas wasn’t bad enough without adding more darkness to it.

Lar: Ah now, in fairness…

Con: …all them feckin ads on the telly with everyone smiling and opening presents and sitting down to perfect dinners that look like they came from a hotel.  And them all enjoying one another and wearing new jumpers!  Well that’s all filmed in the early part of it.  You never see ads filmed around four o’clock on Christmas day, do you?

Lar: I can’t say as I’ve ever noticed but…

Con: …You never see anyone on ads asleep in the armchair with the lower dentures threatening to fall into his lap every time he breathes out. You never see the daughter of the house under the stairs drinking Harvey’s Bristol Cream by the neck or the son texting pictures of his presents to his friends with all of them tagged “another shite gift” including the phone he’s using to send the feckin things!!

Lar: Ah, I wouldn’t know I don’t watch that much…

Con: Terrible depressing time of year it is.  Wojus!  Can’t stand it!

Lar:  I suppose it strikes different people different ways.  Takes all sorts.  I suppose you’ll be skipping the Christmas party on Friday then.

Con: Are you mad?  Open bar and running buffet upstairs in Dillons of Little Crimea Street?  I’ll be there all right.  I already got one of those little screwdrivers with the interchangeable heads for me secret Santa gift.  Damn right I’m going.

Lar: Ah right.  Suppose I’ll see you then.  Here’s me bus.

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Outtake from The Brothers’ Lot

I have been thinking lately about the whole process of rewriting and editing as I chip away at a second book and still find myself working at sections that I know will probably have to come out in the final edit.  I make my peace with this by thinking of scaffolding that allows me to build the rest of it and then gets taken away but without which I could never do the job.  This is one such piece, a bit that was in a way too much fun to write and  it took me ages and some excellent editorial advice to see that it told nothing that moved the story and was literally and figuratively a diversion.   How true is the find your favorite bits and cut them maxim?  My experience is: fairly true.

Anyway here is a little glance at where the mysterious guild-like Janitors (who by tradition must all conform to the X McX naming convention) come from.  The Oratory has just collapsed and the janitor has quit.  Here beginneth the outtake:

The Monday after the Christmas holidays Dermot McDermott didn’t turn up and sent his youngest son with a note to say he would not be coming to the school any more because they were moving to Drogheda.  Now the task of repairing the Oratory ceiling would fall to Ray McRae.  It had been photographed, mapped and measured to bits by Fathers Cronin and Mulcahy before they went on their way with a promise to Brother Loughlin that they too would be “in touch.”

“Do you think you can manage it, Mr. McRae?” cooed Brother Loughlin.  “After all, you’re the janitor now, it’s a big move up for you.  A fine start to the New Year, eh?”

“You’re the janitor now.”  The words sang themselves joyously inside McRae’s head.  This was a big step.  This was the beginning and it was a good beginning.  In only two months he had gone from janitor’s apprentice to janitor.  He could already feel the chafing rub of a National Gallery Attendant’s green serge jacket on the back of his neck. Unlike most apprentices, McRae was not a young man.  Most apprentices were in their late teens but McRae had just turned thirty-eight.  After many years in the Department of Transport, with special responsibility for hump-backed bridges, he had decided to change his life.  He had a dream.  He was going to be an attendant in the National Gallery.  He knew it was too big a leap to make immediately, so he was going at it via janitorial work, hopefully leading to Park Attendant and, with a lot of work and application, on to custodian of engravings at the Municipal Transport Museum and then to Attendant at the Museum of Natural History and finally to Attendant at the National Gallery.  He stared at the gaping hole in the ceiling, seeing in it the portal to the Dutch Masters room.

“Of course you’ll need an apprentice or two to help you with this.  It’s a big job, even for a senior janitor.  You should get on to the Brannigan Brothers and see what they can do in the line of apprentices,” added Brother Loughlin skillfully.  He could read McRae’s thoughts by the light streaming from his eyes.  Here was a little man with ambition.  There was nothing easier to mold and direct.  Brother Loughlin patted McRae fraternally on the back and walked away whistling a joyous little tune celebrating the removal of the noisome presence of Dermot McDermott from his school.  It was a good start to the New Year.


Ray McRae cycled into the yard of Brannigan Brothers Amalgamated Services.  He parked his bike behind the horse trough filled with stagnant water, slime and pigeon droppings and entered the austere redbrick Victorian building.  It had the unmistakable look of something that had once been either a mill or a mental asylum.  He walked up the shallow steps and into the draughty vestibule.

With the new-found aplomb of a senior janitor he pinged the little brass bell that sat on the ledge at the hatch marked “Inquiries” and waited to be danced attendance upon as befitted a man of his station.

He counted to thirty and still there was no sign of movement among the shelves of files and boxes beyond the hatch.  He raised his hand to ping the bell again.

“You touch that bell again and I’ll have yer guts for garters!” hacked an ageless sexless voice from somewhere in the labyrinth of towering files beyond the hatch.

McRae cautiously pulled his hand back from the bell and put it in his pocket where he figured it would not get him shouted at.  He tiptoed to the other side of the vestibule and eyed the notices in the glass case.  Public Meeting to discuss the struggle for equal shoe leather allowances for bicycle messengers.  Hospital Porter, Grade II, Open Examinations, application date three months passed.  Confederated Nightwatchmen’s Annual Snooker Tournament, Mondays, Dillon’s of Lower Crimea Street, South.  International Brotherhood of Boiler Repairmen, outing to Greystones, Sunday 14th.  Ha!  They had it good, those boiler repairmen, thought McRae, held the country to ransom they did!

His musings on the unfettered political power of organized boiler repair were interrupted by a disturbance in the file room behind him.

From the depths of the office behind the hatch came an unholy racket.  First a rasping coughing that sounded like someone throwing rocks into a shipwrecked trawler followed by a flurry of wheezing curses.  When the wheezing and swearing subsided, there was a short pause and then an intermittent scraping of leather and nails on stone interspersed with hoarse exhortations of “Come, leg, or I’ll drag ye!”

McRae went to the hatch and peered down the narrow passage between the files that was all he could see through the narrow hatch.  The wheezing, cursing and scraping grew louder and McRae felt himself involuntarily draw back a little from the hatch.  He steadied himself.  After all, he was a senior janitor now and well able to face the world.

The cursing and scraping drew closer, so close that McRae felt sure he should be able to see whoever or whatever was responsible for it.  He strained and leaned into the hatch and peered to his left down a narrow passage between the wall and the filing shelves.  Nothing.  But the scraping seemed to be all around him now.  He turned to his right and jumped back so hard that he banged his head off the side of the hatch.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” he exclaimed.

“You can take yourself and your fucking filthy language out of here, if you’re going to talk like that!” barked the old woman in the black serge dress favored of those who had got their posts in life through their contributions, real or alleged, to the 1916 Easter Rising.

McRae recoiled before this hoarse embodiment of superannuation and confrontation.  She glowered at him, making it very clear that she had much better things to do than attend to him.  “What do you want?” she snapped.

“I need a couple of apprentices.”

She sighed resignedly to convey that everything was exactly as she expected: some piffling nobody with some insignificant request to waste her time.

“You’ll only get one.  Fill these out and go up to the third floor.  Room D9.”  She smacked a yellow, a blue, a pink and a white form down on the ledge and slammed down the shutter on her hatch just missing McRae’s fingers.


Ray McRae walked proudly past Hangman’s Corner on his way back to the school.  He listened to the precise well-oiled ticking of his bicycle behind him and pictured with delight the inspiration he must be providing for those around him: the revered Senior Janitor of Greater Little Werburgh Street, North being followed at a respectful distance by his new apprentice dutifully wheeling his new master’s bicycle.  He felt ennobled by taking an apprentice out of the yard full of apprentice janitors, welders, boiler repair men and the like all standing around the vast interior quad of the building every day like convicts, waiting to be assigned.  After all, it was not all that long ago that he spent interminable day after interminable day standing in that yard with the other apprentices waiting for the call.

Gonagle McGonagle (his real name was Dermot Rohan but he badly needed the janitoring work) had other ideas at that very minute.  The ticking of the bicycle’s back wheel reflected the speedy calculations in his head: if he were to hop on the bike right now and pedal away, would he get away with it and, if he did, how much would he get for the bike and would that compensate for being debarred forever from Brannigan Brothers’ operations?  Sadly he realized that even with the patent-pending Brindley-Cromwell three-speed mechanism, the bicycle would not fetch nearly enough to compensate for his trouble in stealing it.  He resigned himself to being apprenticed to this total fool McRae.

“Don’t slouch along like that back there!  It’s bad for the school’s reputation and it’s bad for your kidneys as well.  Posture is very important.  A young lad like you should take care of his posture.  You don’t want to be a martyr to your back like my good Father, God rest him.  Could barely get out of the bed in the mornings.”

Gonagle McGonagle straightened up a little but began to scuff his heels in compensation.  McRae continued on in an orthopedic vein.

“Nearly everything comes down to the back.  Lumbago, now that’s a terrible curse.  You should be very careful about sitting on damp walls, terrible for giving you lumbago that, not to mention the piles but of course them lads is a whole other days work…”

McGonagle wondered if he would not be better off back waiting in the stultifying tedium of the yard with the others than here listening to this idiot blabbering on at him.

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My Keats and Chapman Moment

With all due respect and admiration for the Keats and Chapman vehicle invented by Flann O’Brien aka Myles na gCopaleen, who among us has not had a Keats and Chapman moment? A play on words so contrived and twisted that only Keats and Chapman together can possibly bear its excruciating weight. This is mine:

It so happened that Keats and Chapman were visiting Prague when they ran into the young Franz Kafka. Kafka, though reluctant to insinuate himself into their company happily obliged when Keats asked if he would show them around the beautiful city. After a long walking tour during which they stopped several times to sample the local beers, the three of them found themselves in Prague Castle. Somewhat inebriated, Chapman challenged Kafka to don a suit of armor and bet him ten shillings he could not do so. Kafka, not an avaricious man but one who could not turn his nose up at an easy ten shillings, quickly took a suit of armor from the landing where the three of them stood unobserved. Unfortunately while helping to secure the breastplate, Keats stumbled and sent the unfortunate Kafka tumbling down the stairs and into a case filled with china figurines. The inevitable crashing brought the custodian rushing to the scene. Finding the figure in the armor too stunned to communicate, the custodian berated Keats and Chapman and pointed out the damage and demanded immediate reparations. Keats, taking Chapman by the arm and guiding him towards the exit smiled winningly at the custodian and, nodding at the supine figure on the floor reassuringly promised, “Fear not sir, the Czech is in the mail.”

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Another visit from the landlord

The landlord:   [Simultaneously knocking and opening the door] I’ve come about them eyeballs.

Myself:  Oh, there you are!  Sure I left them out on the landing for you on Friday.

The landlord:  Friday?  Friday?  What would you be doing that for?  Sure wasn’t I away in Thurles on Friday!

Myself:  I told you they wre coming on Friday!  Well there were eyeballs galore on Friday.

The landlord:  There were, were there?

Myself:  There were sure the story was up and all on the internet and twitterverse and all sorts.

The landlord:  Where?  Show me.

Myself:  Sure look at here:


The landlord:  Is that it?

Myself:  It is.

The landlord:  I prefer historical romance.

Myself:  You surprise me.

The landlord:  Don’t get smart with me, me bucko.  Right then, we are all square for June then but don’t you fall behind again.  [Exit leaving door ajar bhind him]

Myself: [sotto voce] Were ye born in a barn or a hospital with swinging doors, ye ignorant muck savage?

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Short Story Month Contribution

Friends/Compadres/A Cháirde:

In case you missed the back-to-back TV ads and the billboards and all the browser popups, the lovely people at Akashic Books are finishing Short Story Month with my short story offering.  If you have ever had the misfortune to work for an enterprise larger than two people and a fax, if you have ever had an hour of your life stolen from you by someone reading a Powerpoint presentation at you word for word or if you have ever been empowered to dynamically leverage your core competencies and utilize them to profoundly impact your holistically integrated fast-paced work environment, this one is for you.


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A visit from The Landlord

The Landlord:  [Simultaneously knocking and opening the door]  Well, there you are.  I was starting to wonder.  You do know you haven’t said a word in here since March 13?

Myself: I do.

The Landlord: Well you know we can’t be having this.  You can’t be in here with the lights turned on doing nothing.

Myself: Is there a piper to be paid in this somewhere?

The Landlord: There is.  If you want to keep this room you have better deliver some eyeballs or you will find yourself out of the street pronto.  This is not a charity we are running here.  Do you catch my drift?

Myself:  I do.  Your drift is clear.  I will see what I can do.

The Landlord: Do.  And be quick about it!

Myself:  Right.  Well.  How about this bit of news?  On May 31st as part of their celebration of the ongoing Short Story Month, the lovely folk over at Akashic Books will be posting a short story of mine here or hereabouts http://www.akashicbooks.com/category/short-story-month/

The Landlord:  That it?  Well you better rustle up some eyeballs ‘cos I’ll be watching the stats.  No eyeballs, no room.  You’ll be out on yer ear.  Do you hear me? [Exit leaving door to bareboard landing ajar]

Myself:  I do.   [Front] Right so, you heard the man.   Send your friends’ eyeball here or I’ll be sharing an attic room with some model boat enthusiasts on blogspot or something.

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