A Man’s Work is Never Done!

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Why Book Burning was Invented!

I have never been a great fan of Do-It-Yourself, also known as D.I.Why, both for practical and for ideological reasons. In the first place, it is an attitude which is synomynous with anarchism, exemplified by the punk rocking, fanzines, blogging, and masturbation. It reach its apogee in the late 1970s, when all across Britain and Ireland there was open all these megastores such as Virgin, B&Q, Homebase, Allied Carpet Bombings, Atlantic Homeboy, Home Despot, and, in Ireland, Hoodies. Also on the television were such shows as Home Improvement, Tomorrow’s World, Practical Anarchist, Kitchen Impossible, and Upstairs and Downstairs, all of which was intent on turning the men and women of Europe into atheist communist autonomous revolutionaries. Every Sunday, which is God’s day, I remind you, men and women with hate in their eyes and dogs in their cars would drive to these suspicious out-of-town meeting places where they would congregate, plot revolution, buy nailguns and grout, and then return to their homes and put honest decent Christian small businessmen out of work. For this was their devious plan, the Why in the D.I.Why: A noxious conspiracy to break the petty bourgeoisie and draw them back into the seething proletarian mass, thereby polarizing society into decent God-fearing wealthy hacienda owners on the one hand, and, on the other hand, the scum. Everybody else.

Out of principle therefore I have never done a proper day’s work in my life, choosing instead to employ others, lackeys of some sort or another, to do it for me. I am thereby generating employment, gratuitude, indebtedness, droit de seigneur, and a sense of noblesse oblige which is only proper and fitting and which keeps society stable and moving in the right direction, which is nowhere. I have deliberately avoided learning how to turn taps on and off, change a plug in my bath, how to empty my jacuzzi, how to open the oven (or close it, obviously!), how to exchange lightbulbs, or how to flush a toilet. These are all jobs for someone else. It has therefore been a bit of a wrench to find myself last week standing in my kitchen with, in my hand, a bit of a wrench. And a bit. A drill bit. Which was because I have had the decorators in. Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage, my old friends who I was mention last week and have found me my new bachelor pad in Dun Laoghaire, have been getting the place “done up” for me, and it is turn out that they are dab hands at all manner of activities that involve screwing, nailing, banging, and plumming. And also teabagging.

My natural manliness was felt a little threatened by this broad knowledge, so in order not to be intiminated by them, I snuck out one of the mornings last week while they were still assembling the lowering apparatus in my bedroom and took a walk down to the Dun Laoghaire public library. I have never been in such a place before, again as a matter of principle. Libraries should be privately owned and books rented out to those willing to pay for them, not communally owned and given to all and sundry, whether they can read or not and who might get God-knows-what ideas out of them. And who-knows-what infections off them. At least with a private library you know whose pubic hairs they are. Neverthenonetheless, I made a member of myself (although I used a pseudoname so as not to leave a record or to be embarrass at a later date for overdue fines and the likes).

I find myself now however in two minds about the value or lack therein of the public library. After I was a member, I then say to the library lady, “Now perhaps you will help me, library lady. I am somewhat retarded in the ability to do the crafts around the house, and therefore I am needing some books that will enable me to feel better about myself, especially in the presents of other sex members.” The library lady was just stand there for a minute contemplating me and stroking her moustache, and then she was take my hand and say, “Come with me, dear,” and lead me to a shelf where she pull off two books which she give me:

“I think you will find these perfect for your special needs,” she said.

I did not want to make her look like a fool in front of all the homeless people and snoring pensioners sitting around us, so I didn’t not say anything at the time to dispel her of her mistake. A man must show courtesy and discretion on such an occasion so as not to humiliate a woman until he gets her home, so I just nodded and said thank you to her and then when she had her back turned put the books in a small boy’s satchel hanging on the back of a chair. It was already apparent to me that all library staff are morons, probably volunteers left money in a feeble-minded aunt’s will and therefore at a loose end and with a desire to confuse the aged, so I therefore ventured further into the library on my own in order to satisfy both my curiosity, which is very small, and my hunger, since they had also a cafe.

After two hours of meandering and doughnut munching, I was finally able to find books of some merit. Thus, even though I would instinctively feel that all public libraries should be burned to the ground, I was also force to ask myself where else in the Greater Dublin area I would be able to find books so perfectly tailored to my needs:

This is just a refresher course for me. Making coffins was part of my training during National Service. Like the SAS, we in Spanish intelligence always know where the bodies are buried. Because we buried them ourselves!

Actually, I took this book for Miss Whipcream, who has a couple of boas. Furry ones. They do not look well at all. They just lie there on the back of her sofa.

I am not disabled, but I do sit around all day doing nothing, so I am figure that clothes for the disabled will not be much different to clothes for the lazy. Mostly tracksuits, pyjamas, and slankets. I do not have much confidence in the contents of this book, however. The cardigan on the cover has buttons on. Who can be arsed doing up buttons?

NOW we are talking! Since part of my agenda is to take Ireland back to the days of the burro, this book will be invaluable in providing tips on feeding, beating, overworking, and insulting donkeys, all part of the traditional rural Irish way of life that disappeared when the Ford plant opened in Cork (2005, I think).

You see now why I am ambiguous about public libraries? They are a source of some of the most treasured and valuable works in the English language, but they are also open to the malodorous hoi polloi. It is very important therefore that they are saved and treated properly, preferably by being bought up by someone who will look after their contents for posterity. I always say that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, so it is better that the rabble have no knowledge whatsoever, and the little knowledge provided by libraries is shared amongst policemen, soldiers, and the secret service and intelligence agencies: the people we want to be dangerous.

Anyway, when I got home, Miss Whipcream and Jane Bondage was fast asleep in my bed with smiles on their faces, and the batteries in my adjustable sander was all dead. I wouldn’t not mind, but they had still not erected my pommel horse. Is a big disgrace!

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