I WAS thinking of making a movie. It's either that or sell a kidney to pay the taxes and the bank and the colleges and the suppliers and the bill I've forgotten about. I doubt if my kidneys are worth very much. Come to think of it, a kidney of mine is probably worth no more than the invisible slice of offal in a steak and kidney pie.
There should be some sort of legislation covering steak and kidney pies. The ones I tend to get have hardly any meat inside the pastry case. It's all sauce. Now, I know there are wonderful pie makers in this country, artisans, but sometimes you have to dredge the murky gravy in the bad ones to find any meat lurking underneath.
There's an EU law that states sausage makers must print the percentage of pork meat on the back of sausage wrappers. It varies a fair bit. If you've noticed a momentary lack of flow in this piece, it's because I've dashed over to the shops to check. The lowest is about 40pc and the highest is around 70pc. I forget the exact amount because I didn't bring a pen and it's too cold to go back out again.
The kidneys I have for sale – take your pick – are a bit like a sewage plant. All sorts of stuff have been through them. Mostly stuff like drink and every kind of shite that has been banned by the World Health Organisation and Darina Allen.
The plot is coming to me as I type here in bed with my socks on. I get cold toes. I just put that bit in to get in the mood for the type of gritty dialogue so beloved of our filmmakers.
The hero. Good-looking chef type, like Kevin Dundon. Checks out the meat content in steak and kidney pies. Not sure if it's actually steak and not cow's udders or ovaries or bull's privates. He goes on food crusade. That's the start.
Neil Jordan and Bono or even Jim Sheridan might be reading this and say to their people: "Get this guy signed up now. And I mean now." Just thinking. Bono isn't really a movie maker. We could let him write the music.
The plot comes from the time I met a man from the Midlands in our pub, when I was eight or nine. He told me he worked in a beef burger factory and they poisoned half the country with mince made from unmentionable ox parts only ever eaten by the French and some Cork people.
Dundon discovers the fiendish pie makers have been hiding human remains inside the puff pastry. Mostly bits stolen from plastic surgery clinics specialising in breast reduction and liposuction. Which is even more than shocking. Because it makes us all into cannibals. The price of beef falls and the farmers in the movie are very upset, what with this scandal down on top of the bad weather and all.
The car chase is when they block the entrance to the Dail with tractors.
I know it's all a bit gruesome. Gory will do nothing for the sales of popcorn. How could you eat a feed of ice cream when all that sickening stuff is going on on the screen in front of you?
It might not bother the kids much. They're used to blood and gore on PlayStation, what with zombies snacking on body extremities and five-year-olds butchering 60 Taliban with flamethrowers as a reward for getting a double A in spelling and colouring in.
VIOLENCE sells, but sex is the clincher. There would have to be a hot babe. A taster in the pie factory who has big boobs from all the hormones in the meat. Maybe we could have a bit of tying up and licking or whatever it is they do in 'Fifty Shades Of Grey' and its sequels and imitations.
It's not just sausages we research here. Judging by the number of dirty books bought by Irish women as sex education manuals, it's beyond all doubt that the locals haven't a clue how to satisfy their ladies.
Most Irish lads think the clitoris is a perennial bloom that thrives in the shade and sandy soil.
We might even make a documentary. There was this video out back in the 90s called 'The Joys Of Sex' or something like that and it had loads of explicit sex in it, but the masterpiece wasn't banned, because it was deemed to be educational by the censor. There was no sex in Ireland before that video.
The Department of Education might give us a grant.
The set would be a giant vagina and we could get Sir David Attenborough to walk through it pointing out erogenous zones and G spots in that educated, excited but hushed voice he puts on when he spots a stripeless zebra or a new species of armadillo.