So you think you're Myles?

The Irish Times received almost 500 entries to last month’s ‘So You Think You’re Myles?’ comic writing competition. Here is a selection of the final shortlist, as chosen by our judges. The winner is announced tomorrow

ONE OF A KIND

By Barry McKinley

My mother bought a “strange” full-length fur coat at a tag sale in Hacketstown in March. It has proven to be very controversial.

Of course, she loves creating a bit of a stir. Twenty-five years ago she fell off a balcony at a U2 concert, dressed as Lieut Uhura from Star Trek. (Bono gamely tried to catch her. For his trouble he ended up with three broken ribs and a Phaser wedged so far up the wazoo he had to write a song about it: I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.)

People are pointing in the street. The local newspaper has received countless letters of complaint. The coat has driven some to fury, and others to tears, but mother is not in the least upset; in fact, she seems to relish the scorn and the enmity.

My sister, Carolina Moon, confronted her on the matter. She asked her, straight up: “Why are you wearing that thing?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Nobody in town likes it.”

My mother nuzzled the coat and laid on her best Zsa Zsa Gabor accent. “Well, I think it’s rather fabulous, dahrlink. What do you not like? Is it the shape?”

“It’s not the shape.”

“The buttons?”

“The buttons are fine.”

Mother flounced in front of the mirror and narrowed her eyes, so that she might see a younger reflection. “Does it make me look fat?”

“No. That was the children and the chocolate.”

Mother seemed genuinely baffled. “I’m confused. So it must be the colour?”

“The colour is part of the problem.”

“Which one bothers you the most? Is it the black or the white?”

At this point, Carolina Moon could take no more; she exploded in rage. “Mother,” she screamed, “Don’t you understand? The coat, it’s panda! PANDA!! P-A-N-D-A!!!

“Yes,” replied mother, stroking a sleeve, “and probably virgin too. You know what they’re like. It’s definitely not a reproduction.”

Carolina Moon collapsed in a tearful heap on the floor. Mother, whether out of honest hunger or sheer badness (the truth may never be known), went to the local Chinese restaurant, dressed in her best, and, in full view of the horrified locals, ordered a triple portion of bamboo shoots.

A CUP THAT RUNNETH OVER

By Katy Hayes

The holy grail, for the woman runner, is a good sports bra. It must contain the perfect cup. And so the quest begins; you certainly don’t want a cup that runneth over, when you runneth.

To the sports shop, where the bras all appear to be designed for sparrows. My chest size is 34 FF, and for those of you not good at the lady-maths, that’s the size Katie Price was before she had her breast reduction.

The young male assistant gamely embarks on a conversation about chest sizes, but soon finds himself out of his depth and runs out back for air. A woman colleague appears.

“And what size are you looking for?” “34 FF.” “We don’t stock anything that large,” and she shakes her head sadly.

To the lingerie shop. Here, they have every type and size of bra imaginable. They have a balcony bra up to “industrial size”. They have wonder bras you could install a fridge in. They have frilly, lacy halter-necks that could accommodate fire-trucks. The larger lady who might want to go pole dancing will not find herself scantily clad.

But the sports-bra section? All ladybird sizes here, too. Women with large breasts do not exercise, apparently; they just lie around all day, pleasuring themselves.

“Sorry, love. The only larger ladies looking for sports bras are the horse-riding ladies, and we don’t get many of them.”

So, on to the internet, along with all the other perverts whose extreme tastes in niche underwear are not accommodated by the high street.

The crossover purple contraption I buy requires the skill of a circus contortionist: you must pass your head through one hole, your arm through another, stand on your left leg, pass your right arm over your left shoulder, and somehow join the tiny hooks and eyes that are hidden in a seam. After all this, I end up with the dreaded uni-boob. For those of you not good at lady-physics, a uni-boob is when the garment has insufficient structure to prevent constant collision.

But this sorry tale has an uplifting ending. My local lingerie shop phones me to say there has been a breakthrough in particle physics and a Swiss/French initiative has developed a bra with silicone-coated underwire, which will give structure to mass. I part with vast piles of cash, try it on and voila: no more hideous bosom.

WHO NEEDS CHEMISTRY?

By Eddie Lennon

The brother is going through a mid-life crisis.

Is the disquietude in question exasperated by bachelorhood?

It is.

What is the main bother of it?

He has suddenly become invisible.

Come again?

You and I can see him. But young women can’t.

Ah! You mean they no longer regard him as a romantic possibility.

No. They do not regard him at all.

That is very disconcerting.

Happily, he is still visible to some young foreign ladies.

That’s good. Takes some of the sting out of it.

Last week he went on a blind date with a lady from one of those Slavic countries. Very pleasant visuals.

I have seen men salivate slavishly over Slavs.

But the brother comes on a touch too strong after a few scoops. And you know what that means, don’t you?

An excessive effusion of laudatory verbiotics, strategically disastrous.

“I envy the people of your locality,” he declares to her, “because every day they can look at you.” Oh, very flowery with the verbals from his pulpit down the local. And he’s not finished yet. “If beauty was a colour, you would be a rainbow.”

How did she react?

Gave him the red card.

How did the brother take it?

“I expected nothing,” says he, “and my expectations were fully realised.”

Exceedingly philosophical.

But then what do you think but he invests in a cook buke.

The connection is not apparent.

“Sublimate the desire in a rewarding new hobby,” says he.

Why not?

Sadly, the first recipe he reads contains a very unhelpful direction.

Is that so? “Rub the bird all over with olive oil.” Unfortunate, that.

The buke is barred.

Understandably.

End of that chapter!

With a bit of luck, he’ll meet someone nice.

Fingers crossed.

Very presentable when he wants to be.

Whoever she is, there’s one thing certain.

What’s that?

He won’t disappoint in the passion department.

Why so?

He hasn’t hit the jackpot since 2010.

That is disturbing news. His mind must be a bubbling cauldron of lust.

Then he gets a brainwave. They come to him sometimes, like a letter sent to the wrong address.

What was the substance thereof? Raise the target age.

Very sensible.

And drop the standards.

What was the source of said epiphany?

A long, sober squint at the prevailing culture.

So no more looking for the bit of chemistry? Who needs chemistry when you’ve got biology?

A PET THEORY

By Fintan Moore

It’s long been accepted as an established fact that dogs come to resemble their owners and vice versa. This has never been scientifically proven but hundreds, if not thousands, of years of empirical evidence has been gathered detailing the phenomenon. Even the cave drawings by the earliest men known to have domesticated the wolf show that they were as hirsute as the newly adopted best friends, but as humans gradually evolved, so too did their canine companions.

However, the rapid physical changes which occur to both parties in an owner-dog relationship cannot be explained by Darwinian theory. It is of course to be expected that a dog that is lean and fit gets taken for lots of walks by a similarly trim and athletic human, but the convergence in appearance that occurs is much more comprehensive than that.

We can predict with near certainty that if the waif-like Keira Knightley were to take possession of an English bulldog puppy, we would see her gradually come to resemble Winston Churchill, while the bulldog would begin to look like he had “work done” and would eventually drool no more in Ms Knightley’s presence than its male human counterpart.

The mechanism by which this metamorphosis occurs has been the subject of much debate but I would like to proffer my own theory. I contend that a constant flow takes place from dog to man along the conduit of the dog’s lead of a sub-atomic particle which is the fundamental essence of the canine species.

I have been subject to much ridicule by the so-called scientific community for my hypothesis but I believe that the advances made in our knowledge by the Hadron Collider have brought us closer to finding what I refer to as the Dog Particle.

I am convinced that this mysterious quark, or as it should be known, “bqark” will soon be revealed. I have dedicated my quest for its discovery to the memory of Roy Keane’s faithful Labrador, Triggs, who walked at his side for mile after mile when he returned prematurely from the 2002 World Cup. As the weeks and months went by, the dog’s features gradually came to look as lean and gaunt as his owner’s.

In honour of this loyal companion, when the existence of the Dog Particle is confirmed I would like its scientific name to be The Triggs Bison.

400 HILARIOUS WORDS.

By Gertrude Windei

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FIFTY SHADES OF INDIGNITY (ON A MOVING TRAIN)

By Simon Tierney

The next erotic novel I read will be on a Kindle.

Feeling rather abashed at the counter of Eason’s bookshop when buying Fifty Shades of Grey, I decide to butch up my purchase by requesting a copy of the Monthly Sporting Rifle to go with it. Judging by the sales person’s expression, this suggests I have a combined niche interest in erotica and violence. My wink to diffuse the situation compounds matters.

The book has generated a reputation as the preserve of unsatisfied middle-aged women. It starts off tamely but soon becomes a torrent of romantic set-pieces, which become racier as the novel develops. I use “romantic” in its broadest definition. This is no picnic on a rug.

The central character, Anastasia, experiences a sexual awakening when she meets the billionaire Christian Grey, who has a strong propensity for sadomasochism. The book is desperately difficult to put down, and this becomes a problem while I am travelling on the Dart.

A swarm of priests enters my carriage at Sandymount, having spent a few pious hours at the Eucharistic Congress. They clutch their bibles while I clutch its antithesis. In normal circumstances I would have discreetly put the book away. But on this occasion I simply can’t stop reading.

I suddenly become aware that the page in front of me, which is clearly visible to the elderly priest sitting next to me, contains sentences which, upon viewing, would probably send him into a coma. Something to do with kneeling before the altar of his manhood, if I recall. I turn the book towards the window and shield the title at the top of the page with my thumb. Then I become aware that a siege of nuns have also boarded the train. This causes me to bend forward over the book. At this point my body is contorted in such a way that suggests I am suffering from a bowel malfunction. I still can’t stop reading.

As I bring the book lower towards the floor, I glance to my right to find a child at eye level, his face mere inches from a page containing enough filth to damage him for life. To shield his eyes, I pull my feet up on to the seat. This sends me into a sort of rocking motion.

Thankfully, my rapid state of decline causes my neighbouring passengers to slowly create space around me. They leave me to my own sinful devices. I relax and finish my chapter.