Good Loving Gone Baa-aad

SHAME ON you, Ian Paisley! Shame on you, you big jessie!
I could not believe my ears. Sam Snort could not believe his ears, which is a rare occurrence for a man who has been awarded the Best Ears in Rock'n'Roll title, to go along with the Best Nose in Rock'n'Roll, and. of course, a whole plethora of Best Awards for my legendary pecker.
There was Big Ian, after decades of mighty opposition to the evils of Popery, condemning the efforts of socially concerned Protestants to torch a Catholic Church in Newtownards.
If he had condemned the fact that they didn't manage to do the job properly, then I would have been reassured that the mad bastard still had a bit of vitality in his loins.
Instead, I hear a stream of pious humbug to the effect that this kind of thing is against the tenets of Protestantism.
Fucking hell, is the guy losing it or what? To Sam Snort, the sight of flames rising from a Popish Mass-house, flickering against the night sky, all Halloween orange and chimney red, is sweet harmony indeed. Music to my eyes, in fact.
So it used to be for Ian Paisley in the good old days.
Clearly, we need fewer Catholic churches in our midst. So when a bunch of black Prods take it upon themselves to make with the old Swan Vestas against one of the bastions of Romanism, it can only be a good thing for society as a whole. This is the gospel according to Samuel J. Snort. Amen!
There was a time when Paisley would be asked what he thought about burning down a Mass-house, and he would reply, "it's a good start".
Now, no more. Without his fiery bigotry and his unique enunciation of fundamentalist mania, Paisley is just one more ugly bastard from Ballymena clogging up the airwaves with his frivolous opinions.
I condemn the atrocity that he has become.
LAMB CHOPS
The equally atrocious government of Southern Ireland has again made a bit of a hames of its legislation dealing with affairs of the genitals.
In de-criminalising homosexuality, they also managed to slip in a highly questionable provision which has received scant attention in the lily-livered media.
While my gay friends may feel justified in rejoicing, I ask them to temper their jubilation with some concern for another minority, whose chosen path of romantic expression has again come under the hammer of the law.
I speak, naturally, of the outrageous decision to maintain - nay to copper-fasten - the illegal status of bestiality - the love that dare not speak its name save for the odd bleat, bark, miaow, or oink.
Do sheep-shaggers, pig-fuckers, and dog-botherers not have rights too? Do they not contribute in some way to the gaiety of the nation? Can they not pursue the path of leurve in their own sweet way without living in fear of being hauled before the District Court and having their picture in the local paper next to a flock of ewes, with a caption saying "Matty McGroarty and his sheep: Just good friends?"
Legislators will argue that bestiality lacks the essential element of consent between the parties involved. Well, how the fuck do they know? Eh? How the fuck do they know?
Have they received signed affidavits from greyhounds stating that they were taken advantage of? Did a Dail Committee hear evidence from a ewe - or a yo! as it would be properly termed - claiming sexual harassment from members of the farming community?
I'll warrant that they did not.
So then, why do they assume that this unique form of sexual ecumenism is damaging to the quadrupeds involved? After all, a quick shag is probably much less traumatic than being carried off in a truck and pulverised into sausages or lamb chops. You can eat 'em but you can't screw em! What kind of crazy law-making is this?
BESTIAL LOVE
At the very least, there should have been a compromise, with the establishment of an age of consent. A new-born lamb, for instance, would be out of bounds, but a fine big woolly sheep would be expected to be able to look after itself, and choose its sexual partners accordingly.
After all, sheep-worriers are a good deal more considerate than many people in conventional relationships when it comes to matters like maintenance and child support. They are usually present at the birth of their lovers' offspring - indeed of their lovers themselves - which is more than can be said for the fathers of human beings.
They provide them with an adequate home, all the grass they can chomp, and they don't shout obscenities at them when they come home drunk, as many human beings do to their partners.
Of course, the politicians feel free to oppress the pig-fuckers of this world because they do not constitute a powerful lobby in the country. Despite the fact that there are several members of the Fianna Fail Parliamentary Party who call to mind some form of unholy dalliance between differing species, there is still little pressure on legislators to remove the stigma from bestial love.
We are still living in a closed and suspicious society, where a man is afraid to join together with his fellows to declare "four legs good, two legs bad!"
They fear that they would experience pressure in the workplace if they came out of the barn, or the pen, or the kennel, or wherever it is they get up to their erotic shenanigans.
Some of these people are prominent in Law, in Business, in the Arts, and, of course, in Agriculture. They have much to contribute to society, yet they are bound by ancient taboos to perform the act of love in conditions of terrible secrecy, out in all weathers, risking their health and their sanity to placate the Holy Joes.
Sam Snort hereby declares war on these forces of oppression.
Four legs good, two legs bad! Four legs good, two legs bad! The momentum is gathering - it is only a matter of time.