Everyone has heard of the book Fifty Shades of Grey by now. Apparently it has been making mammies the world over hotter than the emersion left on all night and wetter than an Irish summer.
The slow news day that was in it, poor auld John McGuirk was wailing about how awful the book was. I agreed and felt I could write something better with an Irish take on the book. The ensuing conversation created the twitter hash-tag #irishshadesofgrey .
We created a monster.
Here is what I tweeted, my narrative of Irish Shades of Grey.
Picture from the satirical genius of Jim sheridan.
I’d like to lob the gob he whispers darkly……
She thinks to herself, I’m shaking in me boots and he hasn’t he even touched me….
His lips part, ready, he’s coiled to strike, my insides churn like I’ve just drank sour milk….
She can smell his breath on her, he smells like an ashtray and 20 pints of bulmers…..
The Irish catholic guilt thing sweeps over her, he gazes upon her like a big mac about to be devoured…..
I normally don’t do this on the first night she whispers….. He wonders where he has heard that before….
She gasps as his lips meet hers, she feels all moist and gooey in inside…. Like a cadburys creme egg…
She grasps his throbbing hurley…..
He prepares to storm the gates of her love fort with his battering ram….
Do you have protection she whispers… “I’ve a baseball bat in the back but those lads haven’t been round here in a while”.
No, I’m mean for yer willy, the chemist goes to the legion of Mary with me da, so I’m not on anything. Feck he seethes….
The rhythm method was proven by the TV show myth busters he claims…..
She fights back a wave of catholic guilt…. You can have a bit of a feel she whispers….
He’s aching all over, but it could be from the wild beating he took from the bouncers earlier….
He wants her…. He lobs the gob, again she writhes beneath his slobbery kiss like she’s been mauled by an Irish wolf hound.
They break the passionate spaghetti like embrace…. I have something to tell you he moans…. She looks on nervously….
I’m a member of Fianna Fail he wails…. She recoils in horror… But she remembers what her friend had told her about him……She is reminded of her friends tale of his prowess…. “sure he’s hung like a horse and goes like a sewing machine”….He’s not a singer though…..
She don’t care about his Fianna Fail past she wants him, She hasn’t felt this way since the under 16s got to the county final…..
Make love to me she whispers… I don’t make love, I will ride ya like your stolen he grunts….
She knew his pedigree… He was from the kinda place where the men were men and the sheep were nervous….
He lobs the gob, He drops the hand. What is that he roars ? Tis a chastity a belt… Hang on I’ve an angle grinder…
He was grunting now, Sparks flew, it got warmer…. As he cut away at the chastity belt with his angle grinder..
Are you kinky he asks…. What do you want me to do she says…. Put an orange in your mouth & a bag on yer head….
“You love me,” She whispers. His eyes widen, his mouth opens, like he’s been hit with a hurl by Christie Ring….. Ehhh of course I do *awkward silence*
Both naked now… Taking comfort in the fact not even the Hubble telescope could penetrate the darkness…
He groans grunts and sweats like a grave digger. She yells, screams and moans like she means it…
How was it for you he asks?
Best 2 minutes of my life she whispers demurely…..