Art - You will have to answer to a vengeful and bitter God for starting this thread.

I tried, manfully, to resist the temptations of the "Condom" thread - but failed. To say that condoms are close to my heart is incorrect both in the physical and emotional sense but they have had a very memorable and traumatic effect on my life.

You see, contraceptives were illegal in Ireland for many years and it was only in the first flush of my manhood that condoms became available - but only through a chemist shop. That's not very long ago either, eighteen years ago or thereabouts. So there was childish embarrassment about the purchase of these novel devices when they came on the market. There was also misunderstanding about there use - (many jokes about people chewing them to prevent pregnancy).

Thankfully, I never had to use the much because in my pre-marriage days - AIDs were things to assist old people walk. Unfortunately (fortunately) I did have to use them for a while.
I don't know about modern packaging but I can swear that condoms used to be argon welded into metal containers. Those metal foil packages were bastards to open even in the broad light of day in serene sense of mind. But try opening one in the back seat of a car in complete darkness with your blood lust rising to an unmanageable peak and maintain some semblance of romance - forget it!. So I was moved to songwriting to try and purge those terrible memories from my soul.

Assuming some daft git should want to sing this song - I use the air of the "Pool Song" (Jimmy Crowley version). But those without any respect for great songs have chosen the air to "Barr na Sraide" which is very similar and has the correct mournful "sean nos" feeling. Others prefer to use the air to "Sullivans John" which is faster and you can clip through this long dirge at a pace more acceptable to modern attention spans.
Anyway, I purge my soul one more time - and damn the Mudcat for reminding me.

So here is my revenge.

A song of love, lust, misfortune and
complex poly-hydrocarbon materials.

The Nenagh Singers Circle presents a song by Frank McGrath.
This song is semi-autobiographical. Unlike the character in the song, Frank McGrath survived (unfortunately) to tell this tragic tale. Wise old sayings tell us that truth is stranger that fiction and much more brutal. There is no doubt that Frank McGrath is both very strange and brutal, so his story must be truthful. But we know that it isn't, so therefore, wise old sayings must be a pile of shite. Which aptly describes this song.

First Johnny

Oh, I am oft times told, great stories old,
Of heroes long since gone.
And many a tale of sword and sail
And maidens quite undone.
But History has yet to record and set
The deed of daring done
And to expand on that act confound
How our man put his first johnny on.

Oh this battle great which I now relate
Begins in a Chemist Shop.
Our valiant Knight, his fists clenched tight,
'Waits hustle and bustle to stop.
When the coast is clear and no customers there,
He makes his gallant charge.
To the Alchemist said, with his face all red.
"A packet of 'dem yokes' please; ...size large!".

With his booty in store, makes for the door
With a plain paper wrapper discreet.
Back to his abode, he secrets his fine load.
Save his mammy and them yokes should meet.
Reviewing his plan, our heroic young man
His heart filled with victorious pride.
"Well aren't I cute, for securing the loot.
Shure all I need now is a ride".

To search for romance, our strong knight had no chance.
He excelled in uncommon bad looks.
So he brought his good steed with the greatest of speed
On a tour of the quay side and docks.
There he met a wan and a bargain was done
And they went back to her little home.
From her purse she took out a johnny most stout.
"Girl 'tis all right ... shure I brought me own".

Well our hero advanced with his great shining lance
To his lady, most eager to smote.
"Hold on there me buck, you'll not get your luck,
Save your little maneen wears his coat".
"I'm sorry my dear, your beauty's so rare
My mind with such passion did cloud.
Just hold on there a tick and I'll do me trick
This great charger in rubber we'll shroud".

Well into his pus the johnny packet was thrust
With a terrible tearing of teeth.
His gums got all gashed and his pallet was mashed.
Still no trace of the latex beneath.
'Tween clenched molar and jaw, and powerful gnarled paw
He gave it one last mighty heave.
When out suddenly shot, that condom much sought
Along with his two fine front teeth.

Not caring a toss, for his dual dental loss.
Expectation was numbing the pain.
And there at his feet, like a greasy old teat
Lay this object of sexual gain.
Blood streaming from face, downwards he did gaze
At a yoke not half an inch long.
His mind became fraught, with imperical doubt
"Shure that feckin thing won't fit on!".

With encouraging words, she explains johnnys works
To a student more eager than smart.
And without hesitation, but with much lubrication.
He put to protecting his part.
With the great speed of light, and all of his might
He rammed it right 'round his broad blade.
It flew off even faster, oh what a disaster.
Through his nostril, it entered his brain.

Not caring a damn, for his cerebellum
Shure 'twas only a minor mishap.
He procured a new packet, of smart rubber jacket,
And secured it beside his tooth gap.
'Tween clenched molar and jaw, and powerful gnarled paw
He gave it another good heave.
And to no ones surprise, there was dental demise.
And he lost two more fine healthy teeth.

Retrieving once more his condom from the floor
He took aim with the greatest precision.
He stretched the French Letter above his Red Setter
And launched up with a powerful incision.
His shot it was sure, with successful capture.
"Begob now I'm on the pigs back.!".
He let go with relief, which caused instant grief
It snapped tight round his soft tender sack.

With the frightening grip of a jubilee clip
The johnny cut off all circulation.
His members grew black from the root of his sack
And he viewed this with some consternation.
His parts to relieve, he bent down to retrieve
The condom with urgentful grasp.
It snapped off in the race and pulled over his face
And squeezing his throat with a gasp.

He fell to the floor, the girl ran to the door
Assistance she frantically sought.
To resolve the travail, a doctor she did hail
For her lover so tragically fraught.
With a very quick check, for a pulse in his neck,
The Doc made this mournful diagnosis.
"I hope you've been paid, cos my dear I'm afraid
Your friend has most severe rubber mortise".

Our man met his demise with great bulging eyes
And the coroner made his report.
"Mandibular traumatisation, facial laceration
And then shure the poor fucker choked.
Brain damaged by rubber, and oh yes your Honour,
If alive in great need of a denture".
The judge he was grave, as the verdict he gave
"Cause of death was by mis-condom-venture".

So come all you young boys, when your ladeen does rise
Take care of that condom most cursed.
Use a patched inner tube or a Wellington boot
Or the bag from a corn flakes box first.
Don't let your ambitions create inhibitions
When your maneen protection must don.
And remember the story so frightful and gory
How our man put his first johnny on.

©Frank McGrath - August 1996