|The 32 county tour of Ireland continues and gets better and better..|
A few weeks back, I was up the road in Leitrim, dodging cops, performing comedy, and creating my delightful new norm. My venue was up a hill, past the caper van, in a cottage with 30 human beings all cuddled up together with simple, smiles of joy upon their faces. The audience was a sexy gathering of humans who shared food and homemade dandelion wine. The audience spent more time worrying about whether the last freeze would harm their seasonal garden plants than whether their bodies would be harmed by the seasonal flu. They didn’t care if nosey neighbours complained about their unhidden faces, but they did care if nosey neighbours complained about their hidden hand-built homes, masked behind trees and polly-tunnels. Who needs planning permission when you have an eco-toilet, anyway?
I loved that gig. My host was a sexy seaweed bath-loving goddess who shared her world with me and took me to visit Moytura, which is where the great battle of the Fomorians and Tuath De Dannon took place 1000’s of years before Mary convinced Joseph that and angel called Gabriel put a God in her belly. Fair play to Joe! If my bird turned up with a story like that, I think I would love her even more for it. However, I wonder if I would still be as loving if I had to ride a donkey to escape a mad murderous baby-killing king. Anyhow, Moytura was filled with large rocks, left there from the battle. Some say they were left there by giants, but scientists say they were left there by glaciers. Judging by the nonsense I have heard spouted out the mouths of ‘scientists’ over the last year, it was definitely the giants.
Twenty something shows later, I was back to do another show in bordering county – county Sligo, the county that Yeats wrote poetry about when he was not drowning in unrequited love for his future wife’s mother. Many of the same audience to turn up, which made me nervous, ‘Do I have enough new material?’, ‘Shall they realise that I don’t come up with this hilarious banter on the spot and consider me a fraud?’, ‘Will they see my flaws and realise I am a mere mortal, just like them, and love me even more for it?’ Their group had grown, like a virus, a joyful virus of positivity – they had grown from 30 to 45 humans. We even had to use upstairs as a balcony – like a real theatre, but better. Cars were parked in the schoolyard carpark and a fellow with a van was taxi driver for the night, bringing loads of 8 at a time to the ’theatre’.The pre-gig laughter and buzz was good, so good it was intimidating. Could I compete with this happy buzz, or would my ramblings be in the way of an otherwise delightful gathering? My shows are good but there is greatness if in the coming together of humanity in the name of togetherness. We Shared food, hugs and laughter with a few drinks thrown in for good cheer.
I went up a day early and stayed with a feisty woman with power in her eyes who wouldn’t be big into the idea of a school forcing the theft of breath upon her child. In her food-packed garden, she had badly-behaved, bully chickens that decided to gang up on one particular chicken and pecked her in the neck until she had a featherless patch. What a bunch of female cocks! I wondered why, was there bullying masking their own fears, greed, jealously or insecurities? Was it gang mentality where one started being a bully and the rest just went along with the silliness or maybe the victim chicken just has a very pickle neck? Who knows, maybe victim chicken was into it and begged the other chickens for Hickeys. I have heard it clucked, there is nothing better than a chicky hicky. My sexy host protected the chicken with the peck-able neck and let her roam free while the other bully chickens remained in the chicken cage. If only they could realise that it did not need to be like this. At any moment they too could be free. If only they could learn not to behave like that,they too could choose to be free. they could be free too. Hmmm. Hey chickens, take off your masks.
Sexy host liked her chickens and the desire to be self-sufficient. A single mother with a good-humoured child who has already gained wisdom and general sense of self as he enters his teens. He came home from school, and I listened to him and his mum hang out. The kid does not wear masks, but the possibility loomed that at some stage would the school force it. As they had their mother-son moment, my head listened to Pink Floyd, “Hey teachers, leave those kids alone.” Home schooling seems to be a running theme on my world tour of Ireland. The options seem to be home-schooling of leave them with the anti-facer, mask enforcers. When I have chickens, I shall home school them for sure, now I just need an unvaccinated chick to want to have an unvaccinated chick with me. Maybe, I should start by not referring to them as chicks.
Myself and a humble Seanachaí by the name of Sam went up a hill with about 299 steps through a blue bell forest with well over 299 blue bells. He had a sword on his back, as you do. A replica of the Claíomh Solais, aka King Nuada’s Sword of Light, well, I presumed it was a replica but who knows for sure? Seanachaí Sam told me a story of about Queen Meabhdh, Finnbarr, Fiachra, love, dragons, demons, and the pursuit of knowledge which seemed to connect all stories from all times into one story that left me in awe, with a wallop of wonder and a lust for more stories. I mumbled through my beard, ‘cool story’ and he asked me if I wanted to be a High King of Ireland. I said, ‘yeah sure, that’s cool’ and he whipped out his sword. Please put joke here _____ . Gay.
On the flat hilltop, known as O’Rourke’s Table, I was surrounded by mountains with 26 cairns that are 6000 years old, even older than Ireland’s pride and joy, Newgrange. I looked up at Knocknarea, where Queen Meabhdh is buried and the human-shaped ,mountain known as The Sleeping Warrior who protects our sleeping Queen. Under the watchful eyes of Queen and warrior, I stood on a rock, referred to as one of the Destiny Stones of Ireland. Seanachaí Sam started reading Irish from some ancient ritual text with his big Sword of Light in his hand and I felt a bit worried. According toSeanachaí Sam, part of the ritual was that I had to drink blood from the son of a High God – ah yeah sure I have loads of practice at that, but back in the day my mum would give me sweets if I behaved at mass. There was no way I would ask Seanachaí Sam for sweets, it would be far too unkinglike!
I looked at the bowl of blood, it was red but looked more like thick soup than blood. I wondered if there was real blood in the red soupy bowl, I genuinely didn’t know. Who is this Sam fellow which his big sword? I drank it anyway and it tasted like strawberry smoothy. I was grateful and slightly disappointed. The ancient Irish text must’ve written ‘drink either human blood of a High God’s son or delicious strawberry smoothy’, either that or else Seanchaí Sam and his massive, unsheathed sword wasn’t taking my coronation seriously. I repeated the Irish text after Seanchaí Sam, he raised the sword above my head, gently placing it each side of my neck, as I stood upon the Destiny Stone, brave, courageous and filled with confusion. He pronounced me King of The Light. I have no idea how many cases of sniffles announce on the telly today but there was at least one case of man coronated as High King of Light, and just like with all the cases these days, no one died.
This day was way better than staying at home watching the news count cases of people who are healthy but failed a nose test created for failing. Some poor fellow’s day: ‘You are healthy and have zero symptoms BUT after violating your nose cavity we concur that you have a tiny bit of something that resembles something that resembles a flu, we don’t have the flu no more, so get into your cage for 10 days.’ My day: ‘You are healthy, drink a smoothy and now you are a King of Ireland.’
I have had titled before, ‘Ferret’, ‘Gizmo’, ‘Student’, ‘Banker’, ‘Derivative Specialist’, ‘boyfriend’, ‘x’, ‘friend’, ‘comic’, ‘storyteller’, ‘lover’, ‘warrior’, ’anti-mask asshole’ and oh so many more that I shall not reduce my spirit top type, but this new title is my favourite. As King of the Light my first duty was to find out what the Irish words I spoke meant. Guess who didn’t study hard at Irish class at school? This little King of Light, that’s who! Seanchaí Sam informed me, ’You had sworn to ‘protect the land.’ Cool, that should sort out any pollution and top-soil erosion issues we may have. ‘You have sworn to serve Meabhdh, the Devine Feminine.’ Cool, I was happy to swear to uphold my duty to love and protect and serve womankind. And then my coronation facilitator added, ‘..and you have sworn to never leave Ireland.’ Ah balls! Now I can’t follow my dreams of tango dancing in Argentina, live in a cave in Mount Kailasha in Tibet or going to the Quids Inn Pub in the Isle of Man. He saw the look of worry full upon my little kingly face and said, ‘look, Your highness, as long as you stay here in spirit, you will always be on the land.’ Hmmm, first strawberries, now another short cut – is this Seanchaí Sam guy even qualified to be initiating kings on sacred mountains? I suppose with all this PCR and Gene therapy nonsense, I won’t have to worry about leaving this Sacred land, that I have sworn to protect, for some time. For now, I am king who has kept his oath.
Next week, you can hear about the adventures with the Gardai (police humans).
I am on a wee break, which means catching up on the writings, which means, you get even more juice email next week. Next gigs are Wicklow (again), Louth, Cork (again). I still need to book Longford, Tyrone and Derry if you know anyone who wants the best show on tour in their gaf.
Since the beginning of this ‘casedemic’ began, I lost 250 subscribers but they been replaced and upgraded without coercion, which I like to see as a sign that the tides, they are a turning. Love, Laughter and Joy to you all,
Aidan – You humble King.
The High King of Light’s writing can be found here,