WEE WILLY WINKIE

Carrie Kabak

My brother Billy had a three foot willy
And he showed it to the girl next door.
But she thought it was a snake,
So she hit it with a rake,
And now it’s only two foot four.

—Our Lady of Sorrows Playground

. . . Clara had taken her First Confession, too, and we were comparing notes.

The visiting priest has a voice like honey, we conclude. He’s immaculate, he’s spick and span, and he’s the spitting image of Kookie from 77 Sunset Strip, so no wonder half the girls in our class are in love with him.

And then the church door creaks open, and Kitty Dooley stands before us in the corridor, and we can’t wait to hear what she has to say about Father Durkan.

“Well?” says Clara.

Kitty puts her hands on her hips. “He did nothing but play with himself,” she says. “He started at Bless me Father, and was still at it when he gave Absolution.”

“We don’t believe you!” says Clara. “Do we Carrie?”

I shake my head. “You’re disgusting, Kitty Dooley,” I say.

“Priests don’t do things like that!” says Clara, wagging her finger. “They are vessels of Christ.”

Kitty stomps her foot. “Yer a pair of amadáns,” she says, “because I’m telling the truth!”

Our Lady of Sorrows church and school sit bang in the middle of England, but the community is, without doubt, very Irish. Most of us live in the suburbs, but Kitty comes from the Dingles, which is riddled with streams and dirt paths. And she lives in a caravan, and she owns a pony, and she eats hedgehogs for supper.

 “Arrah, shut up,” Clara tells her. “We saw nothing going on behind that grille, did we Carrie?”

“You’re a born liar, Kitty Dooley,” I say.

And with that, Clara takes my arm, and we march off, with ponytails swinging and fingers snapping and us singing, Seventy-seven, Sunset Strip! Doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo-doo.

“Hoi!” Kitty shouts after us. “Just to let ye know. Your Father Kookie has a John Thomas the size of an earthworm.”

But priests are like angels, I think to myself. They are born without genitalia.

“Kitty Dooley is so full of gobshite,” says Clara . . .