Free Puckoon by Spike Milligan

three men with the dangling Dan Doonan.
    ' Is he
drunk ?' inquired Mr Faddigan.
    'No, no,' said one of Dan's
supporters, 'he's got leg trouble.'
    ' What's his
head hangin' down for ?'
    ' He's got
leg trouble right up to his neck.'
    ' Oh . Just
sit him in the chair.' Doonan slid to the floor. '
    Ups-a-daisy,' said Faddigan kindly.
    ' We want
passport photos.'
    'Is he going away then?' 'Yes.'
    'Where to?'
    'We're not sure, but he's got a
choice of two places.'
    'Just hold him like that, I can see he's an old man. Smileeee ..
. .
    There, that's it. If he's pleased
with the result, perhaps he'll come again.'
    ' Oh , he'll
never be that pleased,' said the departing trio. And they carried dear Dan
away.
    Autumn laid a russet hand over the
county. The great summer trees cried their leaves to the ground; dead, hollow
spiders clung transparently to once geometric webs; swallows enumerate on
wires; the golden penny that was the sun devalued. Wan shafts of sunlight
struck Puckoon like old ladies' uncertain fingers. The fox went farther afield,
his coat thicker, his stomach thinner; the seasons were on their endless march
and the North wind was greening the tree trunks.
    'Tank God the grass has stopped
growin',' Milligan said, as he greased the scythes for their long hibernation. ' Oh dear, dear, dear! Is this the age of the common man ?' If so, no one regretted it more than the common man
himself. Who was the common man? You point to anybody and say, 'You are the
common man,' and you'd get punched in the nose. Liberation from slavery! That was
the cry from Wat Tyler to Castro. What a lot of cock! Any man is willing to
become a slave, as long as he was paid enough.
    There was no such thing as anything,
and sometimes even less.
    'Hello, dere.'
    Milligan looked to the voice. It was
the black-coated Foggerty wandering aimlessly along outside the church wall,
eating an unpeeled banana. ' I'm on me way to the
meetin'. You coming?'
    'The meeting?
    Good God, I forgot! That's right.'
Milligan rushed into his overcoat and made quickly for the Church Hall, on his
bike, Foggerty running alongside.
    ' Why you
holding your head, Milligan ?' ' I got a headache.'
    'Don't come near me den,' cautioned
Foggerty, 'I don't want to catch it.'
    The dead leaves scattered before the
two men. 'I. suppose,' thought Milligan, 'now the grass has gone, the next job
will be the leaves, Nature works hand in glove against the likes of me.' Bein'
alive didn't give you a moment's rest. He felt his legs. They were as thin as
ever.
    The corrugated iron roof of the
Puckoon Church Hall reverberated to the angry shouts within. Every now and then
little cakes of rust fell free and settled on the heads of the assembled.
    It was a very important meeting.
    The whole of Puckoon was there; the
front bench was packed to a fifth full, the flag of the Republic nailed bravely
to the wall behind the Speakers' rostrum.
    'We're not going to put up wid dis,'
said Mrs O'Brien. 'Every time I want ter visit me father's grave I have to be
searched by the customs man and,' she added, 'he's got cold hands. On top of
that, I got to show a passport of meself.'
    Down she sat. Up she stood. ' It's a disgrace.'
    Up she stood, down she sat, 'I've had enough of it!' She whacked her umbrella down flush
on the recumbent head of Mrs Ellis. Up she stood. ' Ohhh !'
she screamed. Down sat Mrs O'Brien, up stood Father Rudden waving a calming
hand, 'Steady now, steady, I know how you all feel. Can we continue with
further complaints in relation to the new frontier ?'
    Mr Murtagh, stinking town clerk and
amnesic, arose with a sheaf of closely typed quarto papers, removed his reading
glasses and began to read.
    'Ahem! Report of an
accident on the
Ballyshag
Bridge
over the River
Puckoon. As we all know this bridge has been divided in two by an
unthoughtful boundary commission.'
    There were three cries of 'Shame!'
and one of 'Bastards!'
    Last week, a motor car containing a
driver and a charabanc of old pensioners