Stalking Madonna And Other Tales Of Madness

"Oh faithless and twisted generation, how long must I continue with you and put up with you?"
- Luke, Chapter 9, Verse 41

"Oh twisted, strange and demented generation, how mad must you be to stalk Madonna?"
- Gospel of Brady, Chapter 2, Verse 2

By Charley Brady

You know, I just feel like screaming and roaring from the rooftops this week; but I'm not going to. That can wait for another week.

I feel like raging about Sean FitzPatrick, after seeing his sickening face smirking once again as he went to court in his driven-for-him Jaguar. I feel, as does most of the country, like kicking his head in but I won't do that either because I'm the one that would end up in the pokey while he continues to wander untouched through the raindrops.

It doesn't matter that his misuse of his privileged position in Anglo Irish Bank led to many people wondering how the hell that they can make ends meet now. Nor does it matter that many of them are pensioners who have lost every damned thing that they have because of a crook like him.

You see, I'm not going to say anything about him. Except, of course, for the following:

This column first started on the unrepentant swine over two and a half years ago and I can absolutely assure you that nothing that I or any other journalist ever says about him will change a damned thing.

The equally - I'll try to put this as decently as I can - men without a shred of honour will continue to protect one of their own: a man who doesn't even try to hide his skulduggery.

Well, this suit and tie, smug jackass has made life hell for a lot of people while now that he is bankrupt still manages to whine - actually whine - that he is on the poverty line at €188-a-month. And if you believe that then you'll also believe that he hasn't set his kids up for life in various parts of the world or that his wife is not swanning around in her top of the range Beemer.

You'll also probably believe that Hitler made a simple mistake, that I would be safe to leave after hours on my own in a "help-yourself" pub and that India is capable of hosting Commonwealth Games without the roofs caving in and the bridges collapsing every ten minutes.

As a matter of fact if you believe one single word that comes out of FitzPatrick's perpetually smiling gob then you are definitely not like me. If that yoke told me that Hell was black at midnight I'd still have to stick my face out of the window to make sure that the sky wasn't blue.

I hadn't intended to talk about this unredeemable man about town at all, but he is so hard to miss as he plays his usual rounds of golf three times a week (for free of course) and jets off every chance he gets to Spain where he just loves to top up on that perma-tan.

It's just one of those things that has always stuck in my craw: more than two and a half years later he STILL hasn't been banged into a jail cell with a big hairy biker and told how to behave.

And he never will be. Because this is Ireland. The only people who go to jail here are low level junkies and guys who haven't paid their television license.

So for a change I'm not going to talk about pond life like Seanie, I'm actually going to talk about decent people.

I've mentioned this guy in passing before but, what the Hell, I'm going to do it again. He's a Dublin bloke and he probably doesn't have a clue as to what an influence he's had on my life. So if you're reading this Frank, you'll probably kill me the next time you see me. But since you're 81 and, let's be honest, probably lined up for the knackers' yard at this stage I can probably run faster than you can when you come after me with the hatchet.

I say "probably", you'll notice because Frank is pretty fit and could in all probability hunt me down in ten seconds flat.

I wish you could see this guy. He's never drank in his life (some people are weird that way) and yet he looks not unlike Jake La Motta. You know, the beat up face and the nose that looks as if it's gone ten rounds with Tyson in his prime. The only problem is that I wouldn't like to go even one round with him and you know what a loss that would be to the world if I wasn't able to give you these missives from the bat cave every week.

He has - and this freaks me out, the longevity of it - been married to the same lovely lady, Pauline, for more than half a century. When I try to get my head around that it gives me a migraine every time and I don't even suffer from them; well, not unless the nurse hasn't taken my straightjacket off for a while.

What puts me in awe of Frank and Pauline is that they have raised wonderful sons and daughters who have never given them serious concerns; and through them a whole new generation of grandchildren. I'm not saying that they are straight out of "The Waltons" or "Little House on the Prairie" - let's be honest, nobody is that perfect in the Land of the Real - but they're all good people.

The funny thing about Frank is that he should never have appealed to me at all. I mean, you're talking about a guy who was a Fianna Fail councillor (and what a pity he wasn't now, he might do them some good), believes in that ridiculous concept of a God and even goes every week with Pauline to Church. Even worse, they actually are sincere about it.

Yet he is my favourite type of person: totally passionate in his beliefs, with a mind like a trap cage - don't ever expect to win a debate with this fella - and an absolute whiz kid when it comes to computers.

I've often thought that he is a man who was born years too early. He is desperate to see what happens next on this strange planet that we inhabit and is always hoping for another twenty years. To tell you the truth, it wouldn't surprise me if he gets them.

Way to go, Frank. The world would be a lot more tolerable if there were more like you in it.

Oh, by the way, there is one thing to seriously dislike him for: he is a fan of Mario Lanza. Now somebody please tell me what that is all about.

He could be listening to some of my recommendations. The Boss, Springsteen; the great Lou Reed; the equally great Tom Waites or even (heads bowed in reverence now folks) the main man, Beethoven. But no, it has to be, of all people, Mario Lanza. Who is he by the way? Just kidding, Frank.

You go into Frank and Pauline's home and the first place that you hit is the kitchen. It's almost the nerve centre, really. Then the kettle immediately goes on. That's when you know that you are in a home and not just a house.

I suppose that what I'm trying to say in my clunky way is that I'm proud to know Frank and Pauline.

Sean FitzPatrick on the other hand? Before I was ever associated with that man I would be throwing myself from that bridge in India.

And in other breaking news... well, not really breaking but like I said I'm in a good mood today: some retired New York City fire fighter was accused of writing messages telling Madonna - yeah, that Madonna, the world-famous transvestite - how cracked he was about her, on the pavement outside her apartment building and wandering around with an ice pick, as you do. 59-year-old Richard Linhart was charged with graffiti and resisting arrest. Oh and of course criminal possession of an ice pick.

Now exactly how [allegedly, editor, allegedly] warped and twisted do you have to be in order to stalk a daft old bat like Madonna? Hell, man, you're only 59. She and Angelina might take it into their minds to adopt you. How scary would that be?

If you want a barring order against you why not pick a babe like Jessica Lange? It worked for me. Now that is a woman and let me tell you... no, nurse! No! I've only had the straight jacket off for ten minutes! I haven't even stopped talking about Jessica yet and you have the restraints on me already!

If some humourless looper hasn't decided to take out charges against me for something stupid like making fun of mentally challenged people like Mad Muslims, deranged Catholics, Jim Corr and Mel Gibson's father then I hope to see you all next week.

Same bat-time!

Same bat-channel!

You can reach Charley at chasbrady7@eircom.net