Dublin Priest Aims to be Ireland's First Pope

A recently-promoted clergyman from County Dublin has gone public with his ambitions, declaring that within the next 45 years, he will be crowned Pope.

Father Diarmuid Fitzgibbon-Lopez, a 17-year veteran with the order of Jesuit Brothers in Lucan, made the claim last Thursday to a group of onlookers jeering him about the George Michael t-shirt he was wearing on his way to mass.

According to Jimmy 'James' Burke, who was (allegedly) selling marijuana outside the town's parochial center on the day in question, the popular priest is said to have shouted; 'Will yiz ever get a life yeh pack of useless b***ockses. Come see me in forty years, when I'll be calling the shots in the Vatican'.

Another witness, Dessie 'Desmond' Higgins, who asked that we not use his name, and who hails from 'one of the new estates behind the chippers near Tesco', said of the alleged incident; ''This carry-on is nothing new to us, sure last November, Sister Frances-Mary and Sister Xavier-Rose were throwing stones at us from the roof of the convent, with one of them, I'm not sure which, calling us a gang of Presbyterian arseholes'.

Father Diarmuid, well-known throughout the holy lands of Clondalkin, Lucan and Blanchardstown due to his role as accordionist with the all-priest band, 'The Gorgeous Avengers of Saint Francis', and as a coach of the Lucan under-7s hurling team, is no stranger to controversy.

In 1977, before entering the priesthood, he and his uncle Edmund, a one-time runner-up of the All-Ireland Altar Boys Championships, were handed suspended prison sentences for attempting to hijack floats on the village's St. Patrick's Day Parade. Evading the local Gardai for almost twenty minutes, the master-criminals were apprehended by then-legendary Superintendent Dan Sweeney (now Ban Garda Esther Dominguez), who said; 'The priesthood saved him, if it weren't for his calling, he'd still be acting the gobshite round the village today'.

He was twice suspended from duty in the 1980s, once for vomiting ('mostly accidentally') near Bishop Stevie Casey of Sligo, and another time, for being caught on tape saying that the Bible was; 'Brilliant, apart from all that Noah's Ark stuff, sure that's a load of oul' shite'.

Having risen in the ranks to Assistant Parish Priest in West Dublin, which means he'll now be able to leave mass before communion, the ambitious Father Diarmuid has made no secret of his career hopes. With two of his uncles having been parish priests in the '60s, his grandfather having shared a cell with the infamous Cardinal Basil Grimes in the late '40s, and his own father retiring from the priesthood while still a teenager, history, ambition and a love for holy things, could well see this Irishman reach the Vatican before the end of the century.

Words by Bosco Coppell, Pictures by Samantha's Cufflinks and Cupcakes Emporium. 

Mammy, Mr. Men and a Sickness That Never Was

It all built up towards 1.45pm. By that key time, just one thing could transform a magnificent afternoon into a delightful day. The tummy-ache, if it did indeed exist at all, had long since faded into memory, joining the stuffed nose, hoarse throat and sore back on the junkyard of fabricated childhood ailments. The day would have begun with sniffing or coughing, at least loud enough to be heard, for if they weren't heard, then what was the point?

This led to a little groaning, grumbling, moaning and mumbling, followed by some at-first skeptical comments and looks from a concerned mammy, then yells of disbelief and cries of treachery from incredulous siblings. How come he gets to stay home? The storm would pass though, the Dad was long gone to work, hours before the rest of the house awoke, and the brother and sisters all trundled off to school, looking over their shoulders not in sympathy at my supposed ailments, but with one of those 'We know what you're at' looks. Leaving me at home, with Mammy, the packed lunch she'd already prepared for me, and one would hope, at 1.45pm, 'Mr. Men' on BBC1.

It was a time before the Internet, Smartphones and Google. If you wanted something you had to move more than your thumb and palm to find it, obtain it, achieve it or give it a nasty review because your calamari was soggy and the waiter forgot your soup. The newspaper didn't appear in the house until the Dad arrived home much, much later, so until then, it was a lengthy, nerve-wracking wait until 1.45pm. Would it be 'Mr. Men'? Perhaps, because if it were, then life, or at least that particular sick-day, would be complete. Just me, Mammy and the 'Mr. Men'. Who needed a hammock on a sandy beach, with a cocktail in hand? Not me, because I was six.

At 1,30pm, nerves would reach reasonably worrying levels. So concerning, that perhaps a fake doctor might be needed, my morning-time illnesses had long since passed, but the worry connected with what was about to appear on our television screen was, well, doin' me head in. Who knew what the BBC Director of Programming had in store for us? He could go for 'Mr. Men', and be a perfect human being. He could also decide upon 'Jamie and his Magic Torch', 'King Rollo', 'Mr. Benn' or 'Bod', all acceptable substitutes, but lacking the big game experience of the wonderful antics of Messrs Bump, Tickle, Strong, Sneeze and the guys. But what if there was no children's show at all? Maybe there'd be a news bulletin, that'd happened before, my friend Liam had told me about it, what was, without a doubt, the worst day of his young life.

At 1.44pm, I'd sit alone in the living room, enjoying the lunch that really I should be having in the playground with my schoolpals, instead snacking while mammy would have her umpteenth (that's not a real number, but I used to think that it was) cup of Lyons Tea, as she listened to Gay Byrne and did the ironing. Our ironing, the clothes of which she'd later often say; 'What's the point of me ironing that if you're just going to wear it?'. We'd hear the magic words from the BBC announcer, speaking from Shepherd's Bush in London, but right in front of me all the same. 'And now for our younger viewers, here's 'Mr. Men'. Arthur Lowe's voice would come creeping through the airwaves, and for the next fifteen minutes, life was perfect. Me, Mr. Men and Mammy. School could wait.

Crap Irish Bands Complain About U2 Giveaway

Some U2-type lads, a few years ago.

As The Heraldy Press was going to print, or at least, online, a week ago last Tuesday morning, nine bands, most of them fairly useless, had complained about U2 hogging all the headlines with their free album giveaway to anybody with an iPhone, iPad, iPod or iHairdryer. The Irish act's latest album; 'Songs of Innocence', was given free earlier this month to the approximately 2.5billion owners of products beginning with a small 'i' (excluding but not exclusive to: ingrowing toenail removers, imitation mustache growers, illiteracy-conquering manuals etc).

A spokesperson for 'Irish Artists Occasionally Opposed to Bono and The Lads', Fernando O'Hagan, from Ballyjamesduff, County Cavan, who asked to remain anonymous, said; 'Ah jayziz, sure that's desperate carry-on'. The band's 13th studio album is the first with which they've chosen to go such a route, though a spokesperson for the band claimed that they'd inquired with iTunes back in 1979 for a similar such venture, but it took 24 years for some bloke to think up the idea for the company, then another few minutes to get around to answering the phone to the lads.

Jason Flavin, part-time trombonist and exotic dancer with Leitrim's ninth biggest-selling jazz/funk outfit, The Hounds of Desire, claimed that it was a clever move by U2, but not an original one; 'They're a fine band, and I said ten years ago that they were destined to be big, but this idea is not new. We gave away copies of our first album, 'Sensual Adventures in Eastern Offaly' to most of the local petrol stations and garden centers in the midlands and parts of Donegal back in the late '60s'. When asked whether this was a successful venture, Jason said; 'Nah, most of them were f***ed in the bin and the band split up'.

U2, a four-piece rock act from Dublin, though often claimed by Cork-folk to hail from Bantry, Clonakilty or Mallow (an early song, 'Stranger in a Strange Land' was misread by a former Cork lady mayor as 'Langer in a Strange Land', hence the confusion) are not expected to comment upon the issue, due mainly to the fact that most of the artists who have voiced their concern over the issue, being, as one fan, Seamus De Vasquez-Burke, from Edenderry, said; 'A bag of oul' shite'.

The band's move has also been criticized by other individuals, in particular, those guys you see in Starbucks with no coffee, because they've just finished their Vendi Half-Frap Pumpkin Lightly Foamed Fully Skimmed Soy Latte, writing their screenplays on one of their eleven Apple devices. We asked one such individual for his opinion, but we didn't really know what he was on about so we pretended a pebble from a passing cement truck had gotten lodged in our ear and we ran off crying.

Words By Bosco Coppell, Picture by Harriet's Street Lighting and Crumpets. 

Gays Allowed in NYC Parade But Brits Banned

A Flag Waved Fabulously by Some Gays

Gays are to be allowed march under their own banner at New York City's Saint Patrick's Day Parade for the first time, following a landmark agreement between the parade's organizers, officials from the city's Gay Pride movement and the Woodlawn branch of The Pet Shop Boys fan club.

Before now, members of various Irish-themed gay and lesbian groups had to march underneath other organizations' banners, which caused much embarrassment to all concerned, especially when the gays had to march underneath the Brooklyn Plumbers Union banner, or worse, alongside the Roscommon Ladies Gaelic Footballers.

The agreement however, does come with a price, and that is, while gays will be allowed march, British people, or indeed, individuals who look, sound, smell or act British, will not. That means that Geordies, Scousers, Mancs, Cockneys, Mackems, Brummies and folk from the more glamorous regions of Doncaster, Rochdale and Scunthorpe, will be forced to either to hide their accent and pretend to be gay, or just wait for the St Finbarr's Parade in 2031 instead. Finbarr, a semi-skilled carpenter from Mayo, is scheduled to become the patron saint of The Bronx, but as we were going to press, he was still alive.

The anti-British sentiment is thought to have originated several weeks ago when Irish members of the clergy in New York realized that an English lad invented Protestantism and Presbyterianism, while another discovered the Spice Girls.

The parade, which is the world's second most attended, after the one in Beijing (it's a city in the Asia/Africa region), has been in existence since 1977, the time of disco, and the year that the first gay Irish man is reported to have arrived on Manhattan's lower east side. That man, Bernie Hodges, has since left New York and relocated to the more gay-friendly east coast of Donegal, after a successful career as an accordionist with a Frankie Goes to Hollywood tribute band.

The Heraldy Press spoke with one of the parade's chief organizers, south Wexford native, Hector Dominguez (19), who claimed that it was an important step in homoerotic relations between Irish men and women, and their gay counterparts. Said Hector; 'To be sure, aye, 'tis a time of craic and sure if anyone knows anything about havin' an oul' bit of craic, sure it's the gays. I don't personally know any, and I'm definitely not a gay, I love women me, and I never had Ricky Martin stickers on my gym locker neither, so there's no point even checking. No seriously, don't check'.

Gays are now the fifth-fastest growing sub-section of New York life, just behind cupcake stores, Mexicans, those annoying people who jog on the spot at traffic intersections in Manhattan, and people who bum smokes off you even though they don't smoke normally. Meanwhile, news of this historic event has reached all corners of the globe (even though the globe is round), with The Heraldy Press receiving congratulatory emails from gay organizations from Sligo, Wicklow, Leitrim (both east and southeast) and Kuala Lumpur. Even though we're not gay ourselves. No seriously, we're not, sure we used to watch Baywatch and everything.

Words by Bosco Coppell. Picture courtesy of Earrings and Trinkets by Deborah.