Unspecified location.
Atticus writes:
An Iona Alarm…It goes off every time the word ‘abortion’ is mentioned on RTÉ…
Handy, in fair.
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Everything. As It Happens.
Unspecified location.
Atticus writes:
An Iona Alarm…It goes off every time the word ‘abortion’ is mentioned on RTÉ…
Handy, in fair.
It’ll be blaring every afternoon so from 3pm!
Dad Joke Alert
“Iona Road”
“I own a mobile in Wexford but I’m not going on about it….”
Iona by the Skids. YouChoob it now, thank me later.
thanks
Nice!
To every cow its calf, to every woman her babby
To every season, turn turn…
Context: Colmcille fled Ireland for the island of Iona and founded a monastery there, in what had been a holy place of the pre-Christian religion. The reason he fled was that he caused a slaughterous battle when he was in a pet over a legal decision stating “Le gach boin a boinín, le gach leabhar a leabhrán” – “To every cow her calf, [therefore by analogy] to every book its copy”, which used Brehon agricultural law as a precedent for a judgment saying that a beautiful illuminated manuscript Colmcille had made, a copy of a book owned by his mentor, Finian, belonged to Finian because it was a copy of Finian’s priceless manuscript.
Iona called their organisation after Colmcille’s monastery, traditionally the holiest place to Irish Catholics.
Sorry for the laborious joke.
Yes and up until a decade ago Isis was an Egyptian goddess.
As well as Sterling Archer’s main source of money, whiskey, guns and cashmere turtlenecks.
They had a good thing going with the coke until Pam ate it all.
Pam is a goddess.
And a young Spanish facade engineer of my acquaintance.
#escarlata
And the bit of the river Thames flowing through Oxford.
what am I supposed to be looking at here?
Blueshirts Dav!
oh, an attack from the alt right. hi, laugh at many homeless people today, eh?
No. They make terrible comedians.
but give ye a good feeling that the blushirt war against the poor is going well, eh?
No matter, no matter what you do; IONA wanna be with you
A glowing intra-uterine David Quinn, singing to my foetus. “‘Cause you’ve started something, oh, can’t you see? That ever since we met you’ve had a hold on me.” Tuneful bubbling on the ultrasound. The nurse hides her worry.
“Dr Staunton, could you look at this? I’m picking up something that sounds like… singing.”
Deep inside me, the gurgling coheres into a viscous, echoing croon. “It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do. I want to spend each moment of the day with you. With you. With you…”
Poo.