Picture the scene. It's a couple of years ago, mid-morning and Pat Kenny, the housewives and old piss-stinking granny's favourite, is in the middle of his insipid radio show on RTE Radio 1.

He decides to play a tune from The Beautiful South called 'Don't marry her'. However, instead of playing the song from the CD single Pat foolishly chooses to play the album version.

See if you can spot the slight lyrical difference:

CD single: "...don't marry her, have me."

Album version: "...don't marry her, fuck me."

hahahaha - suck it down Kenny, you gormless cunt.

I read today that Gardai are afraid a mini-Mafia is developing in Limerick City as organised crime in the town gets stronger and stronger. There was been an upsurge in stabbings, shootings, robbery, rolling people up in carpets and the only people happy about it are the cement manufacturers who can't keep up the demand for concrete boots for the lackies and stool pigeons that get dumped in the Shannon each day.

Of course there's a very simple solution to organised crime in this country, just kill the cunts. Seriously.

The Gardai know who all these people are; in Limerick, in Dublin, in Cork, all over the country. They're not the type of people who skulk in the shadows, they're usually quite blatant but possess enough criminal smarts not to have their fingersprints (literally and figuratively) all over what they do.

So bearing in mind these people are well known what's to stop a well trained Garda unit being sent out to assassinate these fuckers? Just take them out one at a time. I don't know what nicknames they have these days - The General, The Viper, The Goat Fucker, whatever. Just shoot them in the head as they come out of their house and then run away really fast. Poison them as they go for a slap up meal in Beshoffs. Wait for them in the toilets of their local and stab them in the eye with a syringe full of insulin. Blow them up in their cars. It doesn't matter if their kids are with them, nits make lice and all that.

After a while even the stupidest criminal will know what's going on and will either cease all unlawful activities or they'll bugger off to Spain where they can be terrorised by red-tape and dodgy workmen as they try and buy a retirement villa in Alicante.

And that's how you solve organised crime in Ireland. QED, no?

There are days when I have very specific subjects I want to talk about.

That might be something current in the news, it might be the latest staggeringly hypocrytical piece of crap to come from the Government, it might be the behaviour of my fellow Dubliners (not Ronnie Drew the beard copying cunt), or just some piece of bile that's burning a hole in my stout addled brain.

But this morning I'm blank. I feel nothing. I have nothing to rant about. I'm not angry about anything in particular. I was going to write something about how you can buy the new U2 CD for €11 cheaper in Tescos than in Golden Discs but then I realised I didn't give a flying fuck. If, after all these years, there are dimwitted cunts who still shop in Golden Discs then that's their own fucking fault. Who am I to try and battle against such lack of logic and reason and common sense? No doubt the same people who shop in Golden Discs will also buy music by Brian McFadden and Ronan Keating and therefore should be exterminated by extreme force.

What about George Bush phoning up Gerry Adams to talk about peace? It'd be like George Best phoning up Ernest Hemingway to talk about what non-alcholic drinks to serve at a party. Still, I'm not bothered what the chimp does, or what the buck-toothed Grizzly Adams does. A pair of liars and cheats, but we all know that already.

Anyhow, today I will walk the streets of Dublin, ignorning the chants of '5 for 50 de wrappin' paypooooorrrrrrr' and breathe in the essence of the city. If that doesn't make me sick to my stomach and back to proper grumpy form tomorrow nothing will.

If Sunday is God's day of rest why do priests show such disrespect by making it their main working day?

I know lots of you, like me, wonder what's happened to some of your favourite pop stars of the 1980s. In the first of what's probably going to be an endless running gag here's some news of a number of 80s tunesters.

This batch of former chart toppers have decided that changing their names would be a bad thing, so Bruce Hornsby and the Range now run a golf range just outside of San Diego, California, Blancmange now provide a huge range of desserts to restaurants across the north of England while The Blow Monkeys retired to Diane Fossey's Gorilla haven and are extremely popular with the Silverback males.

More another day.

Espresso Stories is a website where you can contribute stories of no more than 25 words.

Here's mine.

- Get very drunk and then agree to drinking a pint of custard in 10 seconds or less as a bet. The €5 you win won't make your stomach feel like it isn't gestating some kind of multi-toothed, entrail eating spawn of Satan.

- Put your hand up in class and call the teacher 'Mum'.

- Rush into a public toilet because you're desperate to sit down, so much so you're touching cloth, without first checking to see if there's any toilet paper.

- Pass wind during a meeting at the exact same time as one of those inconvenient silences happens. If this occurs it is imperative that you turn and stare incredulously at the person beside you.

- Send an email to which you've accidentally replied to all, rather than just the sender, calling your boss and his bosses 'Piss drinking cocksuckers.'

- Trip up a little boy as he's running up the stairs in your school causing him to crack his head off the marble steps and knock himself out.

- Tell anyone your real name on the internet. You'll get stalked.

- Put your cat in the tumble drier.

- Watch the Eurovision Song Contest whilst tripping on acid.

- Underestimate the awesome comedy powers of monkeys.

- You certainly shouldn't find out Michael McDowell's address and send him pizzas, Chinese meals and leave flaming bags of poo on his doorstep. That would be wrong.

No, it's not an annoyingly homosexual little red haired puppet. BOSCA is the Bewley's Oriental Saved Cafe's Alliance.

No doubt there were countless committee meetings to come up with a name as garbled and ridiculous as that, but yesterday top Dublin celebrities like Ronnie Drew, Pauline McGlynn (will ya help save Bewleys, Father? Go on, go on ...etc) and somebody called Dav McNamara (never heard of him) 'regaled crowds and called for the famous coffee house to be saved from becoming another chain store premises.'

I wonder how they regaled crowds. Did Ronnie Drew show off the nest of starlings that lives in his beard? I hope the cunt wasn't singing, because that's not going to do Bewley's any good. Did Pauline McGlynn 'do' Mrs Doyle? Did that Dav bloke do whatever it is he does (I suspect he pulls condoms through his mouth and out his nose or something)?

"We will be trying to save this for the next generation," Bosca organiser Paul Quilligan told the crowd.

Save what, exactly? Overpriced coffee that tastes like mud? Shit food? What? Are they going to put a huge amount of money into ensuring Bewley's remains open and then just carry on as before, oblivious to the fact that if it wasn't a third rate service they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place?

I'm all for keeping traditions alive. Every Bloomsday I enjoy getting stociously drunk and trying it on with Senator David Norris only to be carted off to Pearse Street Garda station. On Christmas Eve I enjoy the tradition of getting rat-arsed in The Bailey, buying a bunch of flowers from one of the gorgeous women on the corner of South King Street and waving them around and singing on the way home so by the time I get there the flowers are wrecked. And I also enjoy the tradition of getting hopelessly drunk on Hallowe'en and throwing fireworks at little children.

What I don't understand is how anyone can enjoy the tradition of going into Bewley's, getting a mug of the witch's diarrhea that they pass off as coffee and paying through the nose for it.

But maybe that's just me.

My plans for world domination are going much more slowly than I had envisaged.

So if it's not too much trouble could anyone reading this today please take just a moment to tell a friend about this site. Whether that's via email, a link on your website, carrier pigeon, courier or by spray painting the URL on Dubloon's wall.

Next time I see you I'll shout you a pint. Cheers.

Twenty Major

I see Michael McDowell has launched a whole new breed of Gardai to deal with the carnage on Irish roads. Almost 4345 people are killed daily in road accidents, many of them fatally. So we're going to get Traffic Cops, which will be like CHiPs, except instead of Poncharello and Baker we'll have Flanaganarello and O'Shaughnessey.

This new police unit is going to cost somewhere in the region of €30m every year on top of €11.7m to purchase the fleet of vehicles needed for these guys and that doesn't include the €2.3m needed for teeth whitening and Ray-Ban sunglasses.



The introduction of this new unit is yet more proof that the points system is working...*cough*....

Old people are scared to drive above the speed limit and young people are going mad trying to overtake them. Since the points system was introduced deaths on the road have increased but fines for people not driving in an exact straight line have made €34bn for the Government.

Once again I have a much better solution to these problems, one that would save us all money and with these savings they could make a pint of stout affordable in Dublin 2 again.

Let's say the highest speed limit in Irish roads is 70mph. All you have to do is ensure that no car can travel more than 70mph. Easy, no? It would eliminate ridiculous speeding, joyriding would become far less attractive if you can't lash around in a Micra going at 110 and accidents on the roads would decrease almost instantly.

It's so simple even I thought of it. Of course the Government are too busy trying to put old ladies in jail for not having dog licences (I'm happy to report she's been spared 5 days of lesbian sex as her family paid the ridiculous fine) and trying to think of new ways to spend the €2bn budget surplus that they claim to be surprised at receiving.

Give us some of it back then, you robbing cunts. Anyway, Traffic Cops. Watch out for them, they're just another money making exercise. The Government don't care about people dying for the same reason you or I do, they want to keep people alive as long as possible so as to maximise the tax income they receive.

Screw the Government today. Drive into a wall.

Hey, Irish Government, I have an idea.

Let's find a 76 year old woman who can't afford to pay a €200 euro fine for not having a dog licence and let's, for the laugh, chuck her in jail for a week.

At the same time let's find a number of men every week who download and distribute child pornography and, this is where it'll be really funny, let's just fine them a meaningless amount of money and let them stay out of prison to continue downloading, wanking to and sending on this kind of filth.

What do you think? You like the idea! Great.

Regards, you utterly clueless fuckwits.

Twenty Major.

I never even knew it existed but apparently there was a kid's theme park called 'Poga's World' in Goffs, Kill, Co Kildare. Not for much longer because it's closing down. Probably because nobody knew anything about it. I wonder if it's too late to save the day, because if not I have a list of new attractions that might just turn the fortunes of the place around.

Virtual Playstation: The latest in high-tech wizardry sees kids don virtual reality glasses and enter a world in which they control a kid playing a games console.

Virtual outdoors: With rapists, kidnappers and child molesters lurking at every corner it's no longer safe for the children of Ireland to outside and play. This marvellous new attraction sees the kids don the VR glasses again but this time it takes them into a world of wonder. Green grass, blue skies, birds singing, the lot. They can play football, chasing, kick the can and even do knick-knacks on the virtual houses. What greater thrill than ringing somebody's doorbell and running away as fast as your little legs can carry you.

Punch an owl: Vicious barn owls are tied to fences and the kids have to try and punch the owl in the face before the owl tears their face off with his talons

Joyride dodgems: To prepare them for the rigours of teenage life the kids have to steal a car then drive it like mad around a specially designed urban track. Points will be awarded for hitting pedestrians and achieving paralysis when they crash into a wall.

The Ghost train: Similar to the old classic but instead of ghosts, skeletons and vampires the kids are terrified by priests, Darina Allen's husband and Gerry Ryan asking them to do another series of School around the Corner.

Ring toss: No, nothing to do with anal masturbation, but another variation on the ever popular fun fair game. Illegal immigrants are made stand on a platform which revolves clockwise. The kids then throw large hula-hoops (plastic ones, not potato based snack) and if their hoop makes it over the head of the immigrant and ends up lying flat on the ground they get to keep the immigrant as a slave.

Resident evil: The kids are sent to an exact replica of a 1950s residential home. First one to make it out with being beaten or sexually abused wins a prize.

Merry-go-round: Only for under 12s this attraction sees the kids drinking a flaggin of cider then they have to go round with their mates being destructive and trying not to vomit the minute they get home.

I think with these new rides and attractions in place there's a bright future for Poga's World. It's just a shame no fucker ever asks me for my opinion before they build these things.

Cripes. I can remember paying £15 to see U2 in Croke Park in 1985 and thinking that was pretty expensive, but €130 to see washed-up old cabaret star Elton? That's mental. Here's my list of things I'd rather spend €130 on than Elton John tickets:

- I could get 13 haircuts at my local barber.
- I could buy a pair of top class gardening shears in Atlantic Homecare then pay a tramp the balance to cut my ears off with them
- 13000 fizzy cola bottles
- I could sponsor 2 donkeys for a year and have the donkeys fight to the death in a donkey death match
- I could buy a large bag of coal, start a fire and then catapult the hot coals towards Elton's head hopefully setting his wig on fire
- I could pay a Taiwanese photographer to follow Elton around all day screaming 'Yerrow blick load' at him, making Elton go mad
- I could buy enough sleeping pills to kill myself
- I could get two grammes of cocaine and then kidnap Elton and make him snort the cocaine whilst drinking lots of alcohol setting him a path to destruction from which he'd never recover
- I could purchase the archive pages from The Daily Mirror for the day when Elton married a woman and the whole world laughed out loud.
- I could bribe his chauffer and instead of driving Elton to the concert venue I'd take him Jury's cabaret and make him perform there in the place of Tony Kenny or Red Hurley.

So many things you could do with €130 rather than spend it on Elton John tickets. Come on people. Spend your money on something good. Not Elton.

Sorry about my enforced absence yesterday.

What happened was this. Wednesday night I went out to the pub to have a couple of swift pints and a look at the England v Spain football match. I met my old friend Charlie down there and he was feeling a bit down in the dumps. Charlie keeps racing pigeons and it turns out he lost his star racer when it flew into the side of Liberty Hall and broke its neck. Someone contacted him via the tag on the pigeon's leg to tell him the bad news. As well as that his wife had insisted on Charlie giving her some good loving before he was allowed out of the house. God love him. Charlie's wife is a lovely woman but there are places I'd never put my tongue, like up a goat's arse, into a roaring hot fire and anywhere near Charlie's wife.

So he needed more than a few to get himself straightened out again.

Then along came Dirty Dave, another regular in the pub, who's so fucking dirty he's like that character from Charlie Brown with all the flies around him. Not only does he stink he has a foul mouth and likes to tell the most offensive jokes you ever heard. I won't give you an example but the site of Mary Harney with a strap-on raping a kitten would be less offensive. So in order to counter the smell and to drown out Dave's rancid waffling we had to follow each pint with a Jameson's.

At some stage much later on we found ourselves at the local chipper. I decided to have a large bag of chips and a battered sausage. I now know the sausage was not a sausage at all but was the deep fried penis of some plague carrying whale. That's the only way I can explain the explosive diarrhea and projectile vomiting I suffered all day yesterday. Suffice to say my stomach is now filled with nothing but stinky air and acid and my arse is glowing red like a baboon's due to the hot lava that erupted from it.

So, who fancies a pint tonight then?

Parents groups are complaining that the latest offering in the GTA series, San Andreas, is full of violence as well as images and situations unfit for young children.

That'd be why it has an 18 rating slapped all over then. The other thing to bear in mind is, IT'S A FUCKING GAME! I don't buy this crap about games influencing kids. Not normal kids anyway. You didn't see me try and jump over pixelated flowers and and walls whilst humming 'If I were a rich man' when I played Manic Miner on my trusty ZX Spectrum. Nor did I suddenly find myself surrounded by insects in some kind of Ant Attack. I was unable to Jet Pac either.

I played the games though. I've also played the GTA games. They don't make me want to steal cars, shoot people in the face, go on rampages with rocket launchers or anything else. That's what games are for. So you can do stuff you'd never do in real life.

Anyone who plays a game like GTA, San Andreas and then thinks 'Hey, wouldn't it be cool to steal a cadillac, pick up an UZI and do a drive-by shooting outside my local Tescos' has something wrong with them to begin with. It's not the game's fault.

Anyway, there's an easy solution for parents who don't want their kids to be affected by these things. Simply lock your children in the attic until they reach 18, then let them out into the world where they'll instantly adjust to all the terrible things that happen in real life which you can't just click 'restart' and make better.

Problem solved. Idiots.

You can't help but have noticed that the Band Aid song 'Do they know it's Christmas?' was re-recorded over the weekend with modern pop stars. And Bono.

Can't help but thinking it's a bit of a rip-off. It's the exact same song, just sung by bigger cunts than 20 years ago. You don't need me to tell you that Sting, Spandau Ballet and Paul Weller are absolute cock-knockers of the highest order, but was there any need to replace them with The Darkness (I'd love to show them darkness and lock them in a dungeon for a 100 years the screechy wankers), Coldplay bloke (who you just know is going to release a book of baby poetry or something) and Damon fucking cunting wanking shitbag pissface snoteating bastardneck Albarn?

No, I don't think there was any need. A bit of PR, a re-release of the old single and everyone would be happy. It's all well and good for Bob Geldof and Marge Ure to tell us to 'BUY DA FOCKIN' RECORD' as they sit in their mansions with their butlers and foot masseuses and Indonesian love slaves. We already bought the 'FOCKIN' RECORD' 20 years ago.

If you want me to buy a new 'FOCKIN' RECORD' might I suggest you 'WRITE A NEW FOCKIN' SONG'.

Anyway, the saddest thing of all is that all these people were in the one place and nobody had any semtex lying around. Truly a missed opportunity.

I had a friend who used to go to nightclubs and vogue. He stopped when I punched him in the testicles one night. It was no less than he deserved.

I had a friend whose Dad was the manager of the Republic of Ireland football team. He took us to the cinema one day to see Ghostbusters and made me pay my own way. I was 11.

I had a friend who was cycling along and got a bee in his mouth and the bee stung him and he crashed into a wall.

I had a friend who stole a giant ice cream cone from outside a newsagents one night. He walked from Terenure to Templeogue then got stopped by the police who made him walk all the way back to return it.

I had a friend who punched a horse in the face and hurt his hand.

I had a friend whose father told us he was an assassin and he'd kill anyone we wanted for £50.

I had a friend whose father went mad at me for teaching his son swear words like 'cunt', 'fucker' and 'shitbag'. In hindsight I suppose it must have been awful hearing your five year old use words like that.

I had a friend who ate a centipede. Then vomited on a girl.

I had a friend who tore his scrotum open on the gear stick of his Raleigh Chopper.

I had a friend who got his winkle stuck in the top of a shampoo bottle whilst masturbating in the bath.*

I had a friend who was an altar boy. He had fun by deliberately ringing the bell at the wrong time during mass.

Did you have any friends?

*Not a friend per se. He was in the same class and the story was legendary. For the last two years of his school life he was known as 'Bottler'.

This weekend it emerged that yet more sea creatures were callously killed off the south west coast of Ireland.

Gardai believe they now have a sealial killer on their hands.

D-d-d-dear Ya-yassar,

Oi'm terrible sorry yer after dyin' an' all dat. It must be ...erm...bleedin' rotten, so it must. A-a-anyhow, on behalf of de people of Oirland ..er...Oi'd just loike ta say best of luck wherever it is ya end up...er...whedder dats heaven or ...erm...hell, loike.

P-p-p-peace, brudder.

B-b-b-bertie.

After a pathetic and failed attempt at the Presidency it now appears Dana, former Eurovision winner, is hoping to make a new career in the media.

A devout Christian and utter loony, here are some shows that Dana could present:

Dana's Micro Quiz-m: Dana invites families to appear on her quiz show during which she wears a micro-mini skirt with no knickers, a pair of knee length leather boots and no top. The first family to make either of her nipples erect wins a luxurious two week stay in Corballis caravan park in North County Dublin.

The Late Late Show: Dana spends 3 months having sex with total strangers across the country and then appears on the television. Shown her newly forming bump viewers have to guess how late her period is.

Wanderly Wagon: Dana is injected with morphine and dumped somewhere in the country. A camera strapped to the top of her head beams back her endless wandering to the studio with hilarious results.

Den TV: Dana is flown north and in reality TV style is made live in a den with some arctic foxes and Aonghus McAnally. Whichever of the two celebrities lasts longest without suckling from one of the mother foxes for sustenance wins the grand prize of a two week stay in Corballis caravan park in North County Dublin.

The Riordans: Dana meets Seamus, Tadgh, Caoimhín, Peadar and Cormac Riordan, a group of traveller brothers. She sets out a series of physical and mental challenges for them which involve basic addition, slicing each other open and pounding each other with great planks of wood. Dana marries the winner and lives in the Mansion House for a year with Osbournes style TV footage going out nightly.

Bosco: Two teams are given a 2'x2' box each. Whichever team manages to cram the most of Dana into their box wins the star prize, a two week stay at Corballis caravan park etc etc.

Kenny live: Dana joins MOR and light jazz star Kenny G in a musical extravaganza by playing the oboe with her minge.

RTE Guides: RTE is evacuated and fenced off. A lunatic serial killer is let loose in the grounds with an arsenal of weapons and his mission is to hunt down Dana and the troop of Girl Guides hiding somewhere in the complex.

School around the corner: Dana greets a group of 5 and 6 year old children in a small hut. Not 200 yards away is the front entrance of their school, it's just around the corner. But along the way the kids will encounter Komodo dragons, wolves and Darina Allen's husband. Will any of the kids make it to school? Tune in to find out.

That should keep her busy for a while, don't you think? Any other suggestions?

I see two men from Naas, Co.Kildare have been detained by Gardai for having €70,000 worth of drugs in their apartment. A serious enough crime, but you have to bear in mind that this discovery was made in a town beginning with N, which everyone knows is the worst kind of town in Ireland.

These towns lack basic sewage facilities, the schools are mastered by ex-convicts and paedophile priests, wild beasts (often referred to as 'females') roam the streets and are a particular danger in bars at night time and the men of these towns live in underground caves playing dominoes and Hungry Hungry Hippo to pass the time.

Look at the list: Naas, Navan, Newbridge, Newbridge, New Ross, Newmarket, Newcastle, Newbliss, Naul, Nenagh, Newtown Mountkennedy - the list goes on.

These are places where you should never venture, and even stopping to relieve oneself on long drive can cause problems.

When requisitioning goods or services you should always find out where the person you're dealing with comes from. If they say they come from a town beginning with 'N' you must say "Oh, please excuse me. I appear to have dialled the wrong number. This isn't the clinic for dealing with prolapsed rectums, is it?"

Lastly, never buy drugs from anyone who comes from an 'N' town. These people hallucinate on the white stuff that comes out of the stalk of a dandelion. What the fuck do they know about real drugs?

You have been warned.

I saw that somebody came to my site having searched Google for this phrase: how to fucking clean the dublin spire.

As it was a random collection of words on this site which gave me first position for such a search I feel I have a duty to provide the searcher with the answer he or she was looking for.

So here goes: With a big fucking ladder and a cloth.

You're welcome.

I see my old chum, and by 'old chum' I mean 'fuckwitted cocksucker', on Dublin Sucks has disabled comments on his blog. That leaves him free to say what he wants about the town without giving anyone the right of reply. He seems to have totally missed the fact that the comments are by far the most interesting and entertaining thing about his site.

Still, he should consider himself lucky. There are plenty of worse places he could be living in Ireland. Here are five places in Ireland that are far worse than Dublin.

Drogheda: There's a big river and some hills. The people talk like cartoon characters and there's an underlying stink of piss which gets into your clothes, your hair, your long grey beard. The people are friendly enough when they can spare a few minutes. They spend most of their time plotting elaborate schemes regarding the invasion and capture of Dundalk. So far they've made no firm plans and although Sticky McNamee once laid a curly turd outside the ESB shop in Dundalk's main shopping street there's still a lot of work to be done.

Clonmel: Walk into a pub in Clonmel on your first visit and it's like going back to the old west. Not Galway, but goldrush times. People with less teeth than feet will stop and stare, adjusting their tracksuits and stamping on the ground like unsettled horses. The people of Clonmel exist soley for the purpose of growing apples to make Bulmer's cider. Every single meal involves apples in some shape or form. Fried, stewed, baked, roasted, sauteed, poached - and as much as Drogheda stinks of piss, Clonmel's people have an almost green hue to their skin from their consumption of the fruit. They hate the French and think Granny Smith should be Minister for Justice.

Bray: It's not just coincidence that this town is named after the noise a donkey makes. Having spent some time working there in the mid 90s I can safely say it's one of those places I'd never go back to again. It's not so much the place itself, or the people, but just the feeling of wanting to vomit every time I arrived at the DART station. Lots of times I did vomit in the vain hope I'd get barred from the town but sadly the people I vomited on were just regular folk and not important enough to make anti-social behaviour banning orders on me. Luckily for me I got a job picking the corn out of dog's poo and was able to escape.

Mallow: The only reason anyone goes to Mallow is to change trains. Not even the fact the gooey substance used in Kimberleys, Mikados and Coconut Creams was invented there can save it.

Callan: If you've never been to the town of Callan in County Kilkenny you should count yourself lucky. It is without doubt the most horrific town in all of Ireland. It's like something from a Steven King novel. You can't quite put your finger on it but there lurks a sense of menace and foreboding. I once had the misfortune of having car troubles which meant a stop in Callan on a Saturday morning. As we waited for the slack-jawed mechanic to fix the problem myself and my beautiful companion had a cup of coffee in a small pub. I swear I could smell the corpses in the cellar.

After a most uncomfortable two hour wait we got the car and continued our journey, only to realise the mechanic had fixed the wrong thing entirely. We didn't go back and nursed the car to Dublin. Callan is the sort of place people go missing, but you don't hear about it. I suspect the residents feast upon the bodies as they carry out pagan rituals on the GAA pitch. I'm quite sure some of them eat their young too. Avoid at all costs.

So there are five places worse than Dublin. I'd like to see the Dublin Sucks guy move to Callan though. Things would go very quiet on his blog, I'm sure.

In a bid to lure customers back to the pubs it seems Guinness are going to give away up to a quarter of a million free pints. What you do is sign up as a 'Guinness regular' in your local and the publican will then furnish you with two free tankards of the black stuff.

I have to say I'm all in favour of it. Free pints are the best kind of pints there are and quite frankly, given how much we pay for a pint on a regular basis I'm a little disappointed that they're only giving away two to each person. I did some guesstimates as to how much money I've spent on Guinness in my drinking lifetime and it comes to over €20,000. That's quite a lot.

Think of all the other things I could have done: Gone on a round the world cruise, had 4 people killed by Johnny Triggers (our local assassin), bought a car, bought over 2,000,000 fizzy cola bottles, lit 400 cigars with €50 notes, flown to Switzerland and done a poo on Phil Collins' driveway, bought a full page advert in The Irish Times which says "ULYSSES IS INCOMPREHENSIBLE CRAP" and sent dozens of copies to Senator Norris, sponsored a load of kid's football teams with the word 'Cunt' on their jerseys, taken part in one of those 'starving kids in Africa' schemes where I could have bought a load of starving kids in Uganda and fed them to other starving kids in Ethiopia, set up a pirate radio station which played 'Tarzan Boy' by Baltimora over and over again, bought a number of helper monkeys which I could have trained as attack monkeys and annexed Offaly from the Republic.

Considering all the things I've given up for Guinness I think I deserve more than two free pints. Don't you?

You would think with all the medical know-how and science we have at our dispoasal that somebody would have come up with something that would cure a hangover instantly.

Actually, they have. It's called morphine but the poxy government here won't let us have it. In far eastern countries chewable morphine is readily available in chemists and from street vendors, but the Irish government objects to adults having control over their own lives. They'd rather spend the people's money on wining and dining and rent boys than give something back to the people.

I read last week that the tax income this year was €2bn more than they expected? That's rather a lot, don't you think? Those fuckers are ripping us off and I demand something in return.

I want morphine. I want it now and if you don't give it to me, Bertie, I'm going to tell everyone about that time I saw you in the Phoenix Park with Shirley Temple Bar and an industrial sized tub of lard.

I had a fantastic rant all done up this morning but couldn't post it because blogger was fucked. I suspect there were lots of 'heygeorgeisn'tthatbad.blogspot.com' blogs being set up.

Naturally I blame Dick Cheney and the Republican administration for this. And John Noakes. And Larry Gogan. And Father Michael Cleary.

Anyway, I might post it tomorrow. It was something to do with Samantha Mumba. Betcha can't wait.

While the world, and the half of America with a brain, mourns the fact that a second term for Dubya will lead to us to Armageddon, let's try and think positive. Here's Twenty Major's list of 10 cunts who are worse than George W Bush.

1 - Ron the barman: Ron is the barman at my local pub. He is the grumpiest cunt alive and in the 15 years I've been going to that bar I've never seen him smile. Every time I go in it's like the first time. I always drink Guinness but he always asks me what I want. He is also fat and bald and I suspect he takes special holidays to Thailand to 'meet' young people.

2 - Michael McDowell: Right-wing Irish politician whose campaign headquarters used to be on Rathgar Road in Dublin. Not so much of a crime there but the house he had his office in was a disgustingly modern piece of shit on a road with gorgeous Victorian buildings. He also hates everyone apart from his own family, and I'm told he even hates them sometimes. Allegedly. He will not go out for a meal to a Chinese/Italian/Nigerian/Japanese/[insert any foreign nationality here] restaurant because he knows he'd get a spunk surprise if the chef knew the meal was for him.

3 - Phil Collins: Slap-headed wanker who used to be a drummer with Genesis. When Peter Gabriel left he obviously had pictures of the other two from the band fellating each other as he then became lead singer. He thinks he's a cheeky, chirpy Cockney but he's actually a fucking cunt whose music should be wiped off the face of the earth, with a cloth made from Collins' skin and entrails.

4 - Mark Cagney: Former 2FM DJ and now presenter of Ireland AM on TV3. He simpers, he makes little pursed lip faces when he doesn't like something and he wears immaculately pressed denim jeans. I don't think I need to go on.

5 - God: What sort of a cunt sends his only son down from heaven, where there are large bowls full of peanut M&Ms and naked angels that look like Angelina Jolie, to piss around for 30 years then spend 3 years making everyone think he's as mad as the old lady on O'Connell Street and for him to end up being crucified and tortured to to death? A fucking big cunt, that's who.

6 - Ronnie Corbett: If his name was Derek he'd never have made it. Short-arsed, Pringle jumper wearing 'comedian' who latched onto the genius that was Ronnie Barker. I can still remember the first time I ever wanted to headbutt a television. It was when he was telling one of his little jokes on that show when he sat on his own in the big black chair, chuckling his way through it like some kind of window-licking special school attendee. I regularly want to headbutt the TV now, but that was a first for me.

7 - Jack Charlton: Nearly everyone loved the big, gruff Englishman because he got us to a couple of World Cups with the most motley bunch of players ever seen. What that papered over was the fact he had the manners of a goat, all the personality of a rotting corpse and the football we played was like watching Rotherham crossed with London Irish. His reign also gave way to the cringe worthy "Olé, Olé, Olé" chant which people used to sing everywhere, especially coming home from the pub. The cunts.

8 - Louis Walsh: He 'gave' us Boyzone. He 'gave' us Westlife. He 'gave' us Samantha Mumba. Now he's giving us a new boy band called 'Men R Guyz!'. I'd like to give him Spina Bifida. Bastard.

9 - Brian Kennedy: Norn Irish singer who sings like his bollocks are caught in a vice - although I wouldn't be at all surprised if he liked that kind of thing. His voice has a special quality that makes his songs even more insipid than they were to begin with. Recently wrote a book about some boy who has a gay affair with a priest. I bought the book, used the pages to wipe my arse with after a night of Guinness and a kebab and posted them back to him. I never did get a reply.

10 - Sooty: Yellow puppet cunt who spoke in whispers that only his 'handler' could hear. It's now well known that he ran a crack cocaine ring with Sweep and pimped Sue to Podge and Rodge, Captain Scarlett and countless other puppet celebrities. Now lives on a remote island in the Carribean and spends his days counting his filthy earnings while a bearded man repeatedly fists him.

Thank you Democrats for ensuring Hilary got her run at the White House by choosing Herman fucking Munster as your candidate.

I'm sure another four years of Bush will be worth it.

I don't know exactly how the average psyche of Dubliners is so fucked up, but I suspect that eight weeks of reading Dubloon's weblog is to blame.

Today I offer proof that Dubliners are quite literally starving their fellow countrymen of air. Let's look at the statistic. Dublin has a rising population of 1,250,000 people from a national total of 3,500,000. This means that in this one pocket of the country the people that live there are breathing more than 1/3 of the air required to keep the population alive.

Without blatant disregard for the people outside 'the pale' (a mythical area which harks back to ancient times when Dubliners roamed on all fours devouring babies and little innocent lambs) they continue to inhale and exhale with impunity. It's not difficult to see how this affects the other people of Ireland. Elderly folk, sick people, the poor refugees who comes here to make a new and honest life for themselves and not to milk the system; Dubliners don't care one bit about them, and I have heard rumours that gangs of marauding Dublin youths are making daytrips to far flung villages to ransack the corpses, flay them and wear their skins like trophies, Red Indian style. But I won't comment on that, I can only tell you what I see with my own cataract and pus filled eyes.

This is just one manifestation of a fundamental Dublin trait; irresponsibility. You will understand Dubliners, and what they can do to you, a great deal better if you assume they are wilfully blind to the consequences.

I came across this site yesterday. Not quite sure how but I think it was when I was doing a Google search for 'Hypocritical bigoted blinkered twat', although I can't be sure.

Anyway, it's entitled 'Dublin Sucks - Dublin, Ireland. How shall I describe it? 'Crawling with criminal scum.'

It appears to be written by an American of some kind, possibly a Canadian (we don't get to know much about the author), who's living and working in Dublin. He regales us, without any kind of wit or style, with stories of how terrible Dublin is and how vile and horrid Dubliners are.

Here are some of the terrible things he reports>

He takes a number 77 bus and is shocked when he sees somebody smoking on the bus. Imagine. It'd be like going to Harlem and being shocked to see a black person. The number 77 bus goes from the city centre to one of the poorest areas of the city. You take a subway or a bus from Manhattan to a poor area of New York and if somebody smoking is the worst thing you see then I'll be a monkey's uncle

He claims Dublin people are racist. Granted there's some truth to that, but people are racist everywhere and it's a bit rich coming from somebody whose country boasts the KKK, Nascar racing loving rednecks, constant crime against minorities in big cities and whose treatment of the black population continues to be shameful and ignorant

Restaurant prices are too high, he moans. If you can't afford to eat out, don't eat out. You can't complain about it though. It'd be like me complaining that the price of Jaguar cars is too high. I can't afford one but that's no reason to mouth off.

According to the author Dublin seems to have invented petty crime. There's graffiti and vandalism. Of course these things don't exist in any other city in the world. Certainly not LA, for example, where graffiti marks the territory of gun-toting gangs who spend their days shooting indiscriminately at people as they drive around the city high on crack, but a scribbling on a wall or somebody's bicycle being damaged is far worse than getting an Uzi clip in the head.

He pontificates about organised begging. This from a man whose country is home to the largest organised crime syndicates in the world. The hypocrisy is frightening

He has pictorial evidence of somebody dropping litter. Good Lord, how will we ever cope? I totally agree that people who drop litter and ill-mannered oiks, but to try and pass this off as a problem unique to Dublin is a specious argument.

More pictures show an ugly alley located 'just 50 yards from Dublin's main thoroughfare'. Is there some kind of law that says alleys close to main thoroughfares have to be picturesque and beautiful? In most major cities in the world alleys are pretty ugly, full of tramps, 'dumpsters' and mangy cats. It's not just Dublin.

He complains that Dublin has a high crime rate, then mocks as shopkeepers try to make life more difficult for thieves by adding security tags to wine bottles. Moron.

He sees a man who owns a dog in the off-licence section of a supermarket. Indisputable proof that every single person is a hopeless alcholic. We all beat our wives and children too, you know.

He complains that people might miss their bus or plane because a clock on O'Connell Bridge showed the wrong time. I say if people don't have the €5 it costs to buy a cheap digital watch or the inginuity to stop and ask somebody the time then they deserve to miss their flight.

There's more for you to feast your eyes on, if you can be bothered. For somebody who is quick to pour scorn on Irish people for their lack of manners, hospitality and charm his weblog is nothing more than a crude, humourless, one-sided and racist diatribe. Yes, Dublin has problems, but so does any city. That doesn't mean it's the piss-stained hole this half-wit thinks it is.

Maybe he wonders why people are unfriendly but if his attitude in real life is anything like it is on his blog then it's no surprise he's not enjoying his time in Dublin. I suspect he'd find fault with Utopia.

ArchBishop of Dublin, John Neill, has called on the The Lord God Almighty to launch a full scale invasion of Ireland after revealing the Island state has been using and developing weapons of mass destruction for the last 25 years.

He wants God to send his commander-in-chief, Jesus W Christ, back down to earth with some stormtrooper angels to instill democracy belief in The Lord, in Heaven and Hell and awesome and totally radical omnipitence of God once again.

Having done an intensive study in attendances at church every Sunday the Archbishop has discovered that so few people go each week that the collection plates are coming back just about enough to cover the bills for the heating and lighting in the church and barely enough to buy smoked salmon, caviar, champagne and an assortment of amous bouche for the priests of the parish.

He blames technology, the internet, video games and Twink and sees these 'weapons of mass destruction' as things that need to be destroyed with fire and wrath and smiting from on high. He has resisted calls from more modern priests to embrace these things as a way of getting people to come back to church. Kids could play 'Grand Theft Chariot: Jerusalem' to learn about scripture, people could have confession by email and an elaborate plan to crucify Twink in the Phoenix Park was carefully considered before being rejected for legal reasons.

Some of the Catholic Church hierarchy have admitted it's tough getting people to come every Sunday. One source said "Look at The Savoy or The Carlton, they change their showreel every week to get people to come back. We have to tell them the same story week after week after week. Jesus dies, comes back to life, rises to heaven. Where's the 'Crying Game' style shock ending?"

God was unavailable for comment last night but a spokesperson said he was right behind the Twink idea.