I once knew a man who could play the tin whistle through his arse. He was extremely adept at this practice and was well-received at many local talent contests. Judges were wont to remark upon his ‘incredible dexterity’ and ‘impressive range’. He could play a variety of styles on the instrument including classical and jazz.

There was another man I knew. Well, not knew, but I seen him often. But, this man, he was the best dancer ever known to have walked the streets of Belfast. He had a convulsive style that gave the impression that he was taking some kind of an epileptic fit, but these were actually carefully controlled movements that he practiced a reported eight hours a day in order to be able to reproduce upon request. He worked for a while in a factory where he would keep his workmates in stitches by busting out moves at regular intervals, keeping rhythm with the clinks and clanks of the machinery to comedic effect. He was later fired for this practice.

There’s a woman who lives not too far from me with two sets of knees. This peculiar condition lends to her legs a certain articulation which allows her to walk up walls. She went in for an operation to have them fixed, but while she was out cold with the grey old senior surgeon leaning over, her right leg began to kick out at him violently, causing the man considerable distress. The damage incurred would not have been such had she not been wearing clogs at the time.

Late one Christmas Eve, as a young child, I sneaked downstairs to have a peek into the living room to see what was going on. At the bottom of the stairs I put my eye to the gap in the door and who did I see but Santa Claus himself. I was stunned, but quickly snapped out of it lest I should miss the magic of his workings. I looked him over: Santa was looking a bit rough this year, it seemed like his beard was falling out, and his costume was in shite state. I watched as he sniffed at the plate of mincemeat pies then sank the tumbler of brandy in one gulp. He proceeded then to produce his sack from the back pocket in his trousers, with less grandeur than I had hoped for. It was of the black plastic variety, the same kind my mum used for clearing out the bedrooms. After breaking into a cracked, hacking cough, he began putting all of the presents back into the bag. I don’t know, there must have been a mix-up of some kind: his appearance led me to believe that he was a man prone to accident and confusion. Anyway, I’d seen enough, Santy was real all right, all too real. I returned to my bedroom and dreamt of turkeys that talked.

There are one hundred and eight varieties of cornflour for sale around the world. There is an insectoid with seven legs known as the bitch-that-won’t-bite-back, she lives in Bolivia and isn’t very well regarded. There are too many people in the world, a friendly old man will one day come and remedy the problem. The island of Ireland is known to Bolivians as El Gringo’s Modella, for no particular reason. Seven hundred and forty three make-up retailers and I’ll never get to see the inside of one of them. What is the female equivalent of penis enlargement and why isn’t it being marketed more freely? If you had two pence in one hand and somehow managed to balance a sovereign on the underside of your middle toe, what makes a deer say oink? Grizzled grumblings for the mean meat-eating produce only grass please I’ll have four stomachs for my dinner tonight.

To finish, I’d like to make a proposal. I propose a toast to the unfortunate. To the underprivileged. To the suffering many. To little piglets all lost blind in a sty. To the tinkerings of water works unwelded. To the daily grind of a thousand forgers fencing. To the bog-rotten. To the lame. To the lime-filled. To anybody else that wants it really.

So long.