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Rottweiler Soup: The Quality of Mercy

Posted August 1, 2012 by McManus in Ramp Archives

Put Your Clothes On. It’s the Fuck Police!

Why do so many high court judges love to be penetrated anally by large-breasted women wearing unfeasibly large strap-ons? It’s a perennial (and perineal) question that has plagued psychologists ever since Psychopathia Sexualis was withdrawn from the shelves of Irish libraries by Dev’s League of Public Decency (aka the Fuck Police). Even in these inegalitarian times it’s rare to find a social scientist with the cojones, the imagination, or the funding to explore the differences between the classes when it comes to sexual preference. One has to rely on unreliable anecdotal sources such as the Daily Star, Twitter, and stories relayed by brothel keepers on a Friday evening in Sandycove in order to construct some kind of picture. And it’s not a very pleasant picture either much of the time.

My colleague, rival, and opposite number at the Spanish embassy, Manuel Estímulo [Editor - possible pseudonym], believes that the answer to my opening question lies in judges’ sense of fair play and decency. Rather than satisfying some sado-masochistic desire to be punished, he says, they feel the need to be on the receiving end of the punishments they mete out purely for professional reasons. If they are sentencing a single mother to be stripped naked and birched for failing to pay her water charge, he argues, they are able to pass such a sentence with the necessary equanimity only because they can point to their own personal experience. ‘I’ve been stripped naked and birched on many an occasion and frankly it isn’t the unpleasant ordeal that ignorant peasants in the media and civil liberties organizations imagine.’ Similarly, if he is condemning an adolescent to 20 years in Mountjoy for possession of skunk, His Honour needs to know what it feels like to have his ass stretched by a priapic overweight prison warden on a regular basis (hence the large breasts preferred by judges, mimicking the warden’s stomach). This is also why, Estímulo says, brothels such as his are so rarely raided by police. They understand the role that brothels play in upholding Ireland’s judicial system and making it possible for judges to sleep soundly in their beds at night after a particularly difficult day of hangings. Judges’ wives in particular should be especially grateful, he feels.

I don’t know that I buy this argument, not least because so many high court judges appear to relish punishing offenders. It isn’t like they need any encouragement. My suspicion is that they’re just so decrepit, so incapable of feeling, not just emotionally but also physically, that the only way they know they’re having sex is if it involves laceration, bruising, or tearing of delicate tissue. Their butts are so calloused by years on the bench, their hides so leathery and tanned by port, Stilton, and Montecristos that they need sensations of such intensity to feel alive that the only options are extreme pain or Class A drugs. And Class A drugs rarely reach high court judges because they have to get past the Chief of Police first.

You may think it odd that the head of Spanish intelligence in Ireland should be running a brothel in Dun Laoghaire. Doesn’t he have anything better to do, you might ask, such as… such as spying on Spanish students clogging up Dame Street every summer or discrediting the Spanish ex-pats who seem to be behind every worthwhile protest movement in Ireland? Well that’s just conspiracy theory talk, my friend. Since when has any Irish protest movement resulted in anything that threatens the state? You’re avin a larf. It’s a much better use of his time to run a knocking shop wherein the influential and powerful are provided with services which, were they made public, would result in resignations, scandal, a change of government, a couple of faked suicides, and a run on the euro. Given the pressure they’re under, all TDs need to let their hair down now and then (not Mick Wallace, obviously), and what better place to do it than one that won’t show up in expense claims and which promises discretion, decorum, and deception?

Deception because it goes without saying that señor Estímulo does not advertise the fact that his fine hostelry is run by Spanish intelligence (nor that he shares his intelligence with me, his supplier of various sexual devices and the aforementioned Class A drugs that high court judges so very rarely see). Instead, the establishment is run by two very efficient and respectable middle-aged madams named Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage [Editor - these are probably pseudonyms as well. Jane Bondage? Surely McManus is taking the piss here]. In fact, it was these two very professional ladies of the evening who contacted Estímulo to begin with, figuring that a Spanish ultra-Catholic fascist would be the perfect cover for their establishment while also providing the necessary security (not muscle—he’s only five foot tall after all—but political) should the Chief of Police turn up on their doorstep looking for something other than an Indian helmet massage.

The ladies had spent many years in the high-end escort business, cultivating a regular clientele of the powerful and influential by blowing bigwigs, felching financiers, fellating fat cats, bumming bankers, masturbating magnates, milking moguls, cockvaulting carpetbaggers, muckdiving mugwumps, tugging tyros, tromboning tycoons, chandeliering chancers, and pissing on politicians. All of which they have on film. And they don’t want their highly profitable business (or associated website) troubled by God-bothering pinch-faced spinsters from Roscommon with nothing better to do than write letters to the Indo complaining about lax public morals.

But that’s by the by. A brothel isn’t primarily a place for blackmail, although it can serve that purpose too. It’s a place for gathering intelligence, a first-rate source of information. You’d be surprised at the names that some TDs shout out when they come. It isn’t always ‘Mommy’. So we have a very comfortable modus vivendi, Manuel and I. I give him a knock-down price on the nose dandruff I get from Delia, and he fills me in on the latest gossip from the closets, bedrooms, dungeons, and whatever other chambers for specialist services he provides on the Glenageary Road. Hence our meetings in Sandycove every now and then to arrange an exchange.

Not that I got much out of him that made any sense this time. Spending two hours on a freezing bench by the Martello tower with a Francoist dwarf complaining that he has to read the Koran to train in ‘the new girl’ because some rich cunt wants to shoot his load over a niqab isn’t really my idea of a Friday night out. Nor yours, probably. Unless you’re a high court judge.


Hey, here are the latest clippings from Sally, my right-hand woman (I have a left-hand woman too, but that’s between me and Miss Whipcream):

The ten lowest-selling books of 2012 on Amazon:

10: Apple-Peel Trousers, Banana-Skin Hat: Total Self-Sufficiency for Fruitarians

9: Mahler’s Fifth Symphony: A Pop-up Guide

8: Can a Musulman Touch the Bible?: Twelfth-century Theological Disputes Placed in Their Politico-Economic Context

7: A to Z : The Kalahari

6: Pole to Pole: Transcripts of Pope John Paul II’s Conversations with Tomaszewski, Szarmach, Deyna, Lato, and Other Members of the Poland 1974 World Cup Squad

5: My Tuggle: Russell Brand’s Journey Through the Private Porn Collection of Adolf Hitler

4: Made Was I Ere I Saw Edam: Cheese-related Palindromes, a Catalog Raisonné

3: Wise Words: The Thought of Dennis Wise

2: Teach Your Child “The Knowledge”

1: My Great Big Genocide Colouring Book


And from Astrology Today magazine, readers’ superstitions for the 21st century:

  • It’s bad luck to use the same razor to shave your balls as you use for your face.
  • It’s bad luck backstage at the X Factor to mention Susan Boyle. She is to be referred to as “The Scottish Singer.”
  • If you press channel 13, 13 times, on your remote, whoever appears on the screen will be dead within the year. Unless they’re already dead, in which case YOU will die.
  • If your ears are burning, your iPod’s on fire.
  • Premature ejaculate should be flicked over your left shoulder.
  • It’s bad luck to see 10 dogs and no owners.
  • If you have an itchy nose, it means you’re going to have an argument. With your dealer.
  • A webcam placed in a children’s bedroom means you will soon have a visitor in uniform.
  • Never open a packet of cigarettes indoors.
  • On the first day of every month the first thing you should say is “Sub me a tenner.”
  • Imbibing a sports drink before 12.00 noon is bad luck.
  • It’s bad luck to let your kids eat two different flavours of Pringles on the same day.
  • If a soldier’s funeral cortege passes you in the street, it’s a sign of bad luck and you must spit on the ground and turn your back.
  • Bending over to in public pick up a dropped glove means you’ll soon get an unpleasant surprise.
  • If two Jehovah’s Witnesses come to your door and you manage to kill one but the other gets away, that’s bad luck.
  • Hear of a birth, hear of an abortion.
  • Tread on a crack, sue the council.
  • Sign up for a iPhone on O2 and you’ll have 18 months of bad luck.
  • See a PIN and punch it in, take the cash, card in the bin.
  • Step aerobics on crack, break your back
  • When your laptop crashes, somewhere in America a programmer dies.
  • To wish someone good luck before they play an online video game, you should say, “Break a wrist.”
  • It’s bad luck to find a horseshoe still attached to the hoof.
  • If you see a priest being beaten up, make a wish!

About the Author


Philosopher. Bon Viveur. Trying to Get Divorced. Living in a Shithole.

  • http://www.lisamcinerney.com Lisa McInerney

    Manuel Estímulo is a shortarse?
    This both changes and ruins everything.

  • http://twitter.com/Fearganainim Fearganainim

    I lost it at My Tuggle…

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