Bad Joyce Competition 2001
Number Eight O’Connell Street
And phwat are we to make of this modren whorl, with Himself princeprancing the tillhops from hence to thence like a mounting goat with a yard on him full of inches? One thong leading to a nuzzle. Believe me, Tis the tit of the iceberg. Can you not hear the clap of Doomsdaddy, desolute with the sins of the faders. Ochoi and ochoi veh! Moe is we! But burnish these thoughts from your mound, I bring tidyings of great Joyce. Yes, of Himself, a badtime story.
The flour of literature was walking down O’Connell Street bridgewards when he glimpsed from the cornea of his eye, a sign, perhaps a poortent, inviting him to descend into the bowels, if buildings can have something so alimentary, of an establishment he could not recall in the Dublin of his youth (S.Daedelus). This coffee shop, for so it proved to be, was manned, and womanned, by students strangely garbled in rough denim, the mark of canes on their brow. Lining the walls were diabolical machines, bleating and burping.. Crossing himself, his atheism forgotten, the Master fled. A pity that, Ulysses would take no time at all on a word-processor.
© copyright 2000 H.St.V.Beechey