CUT 3! Irish Bar & Controversial Kate

I love Controversial Kate. I nearly managed to sell her as an idea for a TV drama to a guy who looks for new writers at the BBC but I missed a big emotional hit idea by a few seconds and really don’t know how to write a screen play.  However this is a section I spent a lot of time on but in the end was cut.  It explores this cross dressing Irish Republicans stand-up comedian characters some more.  I also had to make up a sectarian song to replace the real ones so that there were no copy right problems.  I never put it into this version in the end so it is listed at the end.  I’ve never actually been in an Irish Bar unless you count bars in Ireland.  (last time I was there I broke a chair, but that’s another story.)

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Outside and alone he could breathe again and find a quiet corner in which to empty the last of his guts.  From his top pocket fell his mobile.  It would have smashed but for landing in the softest part of the jellied dinner he’d just spewed up.  It started to ring.  CC was not keen attempt to answer it but he didn’t know the number flashing up and that’s always a bit exciting.  He kicked it free of the main lump of tummy juice and lay flat by it, holding his nose and lightly touching buttons to get it answered and on to loud speaker.  “Hello?”

“Hey!  It’s your friend from the theatre.  The black guy.”  He still didn’t give himself a name.  And CC didn’t remember giving him his number.  “I’m here with Controversial Kate and he wants to meet a real life wife killer.”

“Terrorists are ten a penny!”  The phone was obviously in the hands of the comedian now, “You used proper passion my sweet, none of this political angst killing.  Come on, come out and play with us a while. We’re going to the Irish Club.  Are you coming?  Oh pretty dinglydangly please.”

“Yeah.  I feel a bit better.  I’ll come.”

“Meet us there.  Ten minutes.  I knew he’d come Coalman.  I told you.”  The phone didn’t go off but it muffled up.  CC wasn’t going to switch his off either, in fact he wasn’t going to touch it ever again.  There was no one he wanted to hear from and no one he wanted to call, and anything else is shit on the small screen.  He left it there and got to the Irish Club in time to see Kate having a very one sided argument with the bouncer.  “Union Jack door mat?”  Kate scoffed.  “You’ll have the BNP in here next.  Is it a UKIP Open Day?

“It’s for wiping your damned feet on joker.”

“Yes I am a joker, that’s my job.  Controversial Kate.  ConKate.  Not concave or convex or complex.  No definitely not complex.  I am but a humble stand-up comedian with ambitions to situational comedy.  A renaissance man, a brutal bohemian, a libertine, a new romantic, an old romantic, a lover, a dancer, a soldier in the war against dullards, such as your fair, masculine self.  But a big man like you can just call me Kate.”

“I know who you are Cane, and I will call you what you were born with; Cane.  I know your mother.  What would she say to state of you?”

“Everyone knows my fucking mother.  Why is that?  So important that even her famous, genius son, lies in her infamous shadow.”

“Best thank her Cane or your sort and your sort of friends wouldn’t get in here.”

“You have a problem with spades?  You got a problem with wife killers?”

“Wife killer?”


The bouncer softened slightly down to pressurised steel at the excitement of meeting a killer.

“Now what does a fairy have to do to get a Guinness round here?”

“Go on then,” The bouncer gave the stage manager a firm look, “Don’t ask for rap music,” and CC an even firmer handshake.

Kate lead them in.  “Follow me comrades and leave all thoughts of the Empire at door.”

The black friend whispered to CC, “His Mum’s very high up in the, you knows.  Oh this is great. You don’t know what’s going to happen if you’re out with Kate.  Shall I go to the bar?”

A country singer was sat on a slim stool on the tiny three inch high stage with a Stetson and a shiny new looking electro-acoustic guitar.

Drinks were hardly started when Kate shouted, “Rubbish!”  CC drank at his obligatory Guinness with more speed than normal, sure that he only had seconds before they’d be out of the door.  Mum or no mum.  “Honestly!  Country and Western!  I am here for some Prodi bashing music!”  The song stopped and Kate turned to his new friends in satisfaction that the tunes were about to change.  “Oh you’ll love this material.  It’s the stuff I grew up on and the stuff that made me want to learn the guitar.  And I will yet!  So are you church or chapel dear friends?”

Both CC and the black guy spoke together “Baptist,” and giggled at their matching answers. “Jinx!” The black guy shouted.  And then punched CC whenever he spoke.  CC giggled again, remembering the stupid school game.

“Church!  Both of you Church.”  Kate stood up to address his increasingly hostile crowd.  Not many of them looked like fans, “I dedicate this next song to my new Prodi friends CC and Spade.  Let our triple A gods be against you.”

“Shut up.  Sit down,” said the singer in an accent that was neither Irish nor American but from somewhere in Wales. The singer appeared to know him too, “And Cane, if you can’t manage that, then fuck off.”

He didn’t shut up or fuck off but took over the singing himself, “Roamin in the Gloamin with a shamrock in my hand.  Roamin in the Gloamin with St Patrick’s fuckin band.  Oh it’s great to be a Roman Catholic.”  Kate and his song were lifted off his chair.  The song left by the backdoor kicking at tables and smashing pints. North men, South men, comrades all.
Soon there’ll be no Protestants at all
.  The song didn’t stop until he got outside where you couldn’t mistake Kate’s switch of allegiance at this insult to his person, “My father wore it as a youth, In bygone days of yore and on the twelfth I love to wear the orange sash my father wore.”

CC and his new friend were alcoholically merry and still giggling, but CC did manage to say, “Will he be ok?”

His friend punched him four times on the arm.

“He’ll be fine,” said his friend, “His mother wouldn’t let anything happen to him.  Not much anyway.”

“And us?” Two punches.

“Drink up I’d say.”

CC didn’t wait to finish his Guinness but took it with him to the front door.  The bouncer blocked his way.  “Can’t take drinks outside.”  CC downed it and then to his surprise the pint glass was instantly re-filled, as he vomited back in to it.  He handed it to the bouncer, who was so stunned, it allowed them a moment to skip past and retrieve their safety.

Outside his friend started to head round the back of the pub.  “I think I’m going home,” CC said.  Five punches.

“Oh really?  I’m going to pick up what’s left of Kate and take him to a proper house party with music and women and drugs.  You don’t want to dump out now.”

“I’m not well, I keep vomiting.” Six.

“Oh yes.  I had clocked that.  Best go home.  My friend doesn’t mind cum or cocaine on the carpet but he draw the line at sick.  Send my fairest wishes to your wife, whenever you see her again.  Chow chow.”


Alternative anti-Protestant song:

From the walls of Derry, the Huns bang their drums,

But they’re are full of pish and shite!

By the shores of Lough Neagh we’ll shaft the Earl of Shafesbury,

And fuck your Queen tonight!


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