Big head
I worked in a Restaurant back in Ireland for a while round 1988.
Long hot hours and an absolute weapon of a Restaurant Manager. She was the bosses daughter and she resented having to do any work at all. Perfect nails though. Perfect.
So she absolutely rode us and sneered. Big sneery head on her. I can see it now. Which brings me to my lunch and how I reckon it was one of the the most unique dining experience that any human could have.
I used to go into a building across the street from the Restaurant and I'd eat my lunch there in peace and quiet. Every day. Cheese or ham. Flask of tea. Sitting looking at the severed head of a human man.
Now that might read strange to you but when I tell you the building was a church and the head had belonged to a Saint you'd probably not be as concerned. St. Oliver Plunketts head is in a glass box in St. Peter's Church, Drogheda, Éire.
"St. Oliver Plunkett was found guilty of treason in 1681, before being hanged, drawn (being tied to two horses and they head off running in different directions!!) and quartered. (Just on a practical point there lovely job to have to cut him in quarters after he's been dragged apart by horses. Short straw day for those soldiers.)
At Tyburn, his body was torched by the bloodthirsty Reformers in an act of depraved zealousness. (The only kind of zealousness worth your time.) His head was eventually recovered from the fire and was smuggled to the Benedictine Monastery in Lamspringe, Germany. Within the next few years, it was passed on to Cardinal Philip Howard OP at Rome, a friend of St. Oliver.
From him, it passed to Oliver’s successor, Archbishop of Armagh Hugh McMahon, who returned the head to its rightful place in Ireland. McMahon brought the head to the Dominican Nuns at Siena, the prioress at the time being Sister Catherin Plunkett, St. Oliver’s grand niece."
Catholics love a bit of gore and sure yes let's pass a dead head around from piller to post. Whoever the man or woman was that grabbed that smouldering head from the fire was some complicated operator too.
The feckin skin is still on it! Had to fairly encourage it id say. I reckon they'd make ten times the money from tourism if they put eyeballs in it but sure nobody listens to me. Look him up. He's only georgeous.
I didn't get where I am today by not putting eyeballs in dead Saints.
Like for example St Valentines actual heart is in a golden box in a church in Dublin called the Whitefriar St. Church Of Our Lady Of Mount Carmel. We love that stuff at home. Relics! Love us a relic.
Anyway back to me and me chewing on a cheese sandwich and I'm looking Olly in the eye and and I've my shoes kicked off and I asked him " Why do my new shoes hurt so much Olly?"
I bought shoes for work, very cheap ones because I hadn't a quid. I was young and broke and tired and my left shoe was absolutely killing me. On my feet all day. Dying and crying.
I look up at Olly and you can call me a liar if you want but I swear on all that's holy I felt a ghostly suggestion coming from the head.
I picked up the shoe and had a real close look at it and lo and behold I hadn't taken the cardboard support out of it.
So next time time you need some guidance from a higher power just seek out the local severed head of whatever saint the Catholics have around and get to know it. Take it out to lunch. Make friends with it. It will look after you. He never asked for a bite of my sandwiches.
Funny thing there actually is when I knew him he was only Blessed Oliver Plunkett. He was promoted up to 'Saint' long after that so I can't really vouch for his soundness any more. The new title might have gone to his head. (BA! BOOM! TISHHHhhhhhhhhh).