I've been indulging in the Christmas spirit. And stout. And whiskey. Forgive my non-appearance yesterday and for the coming days.

To all my readers who are not cunts I wish you a splendid Christmas and a great 2005.

To anyone who's a cunt and might be reading this I wish you salmonella, distemper and the pox.

Take care.

Twenty Major.

...is the heart of my mortal enemy - 80s pop star Daryl Hall.

Not many people know that he started his singing career here in Dublin. He left his native USA in the early 70s and was backpacking around Europe before he found his way to Dublin. Whilst here he fell in love with a beautiful young girl from the inner city. Sadly she broke his heart and stole everything he owned forcing him to take to busking at the bottom of Grafton Street. He was literally singing for his supper.

Anyway, one day I was passing by when I heard this remarkably soulful voice singing 'Waterloo sunset' by The Kinks. I stopped to listen, looking at this straggly haired blonde American boy. 'That boy has got something, the cunt', I said to myself and over a cup of coffee he told me his sad tale of a love gone wrong and a robbery that went totally right (for the robbers).

Well, what could I do? At that time an old pal of mine was the head of talent for the Braemor Rooms, home of great cabaret in Dublin. I used to do the odd turn but I'd always dreamed of being a great duo, like Simon and Garfunkel, Sonny and Cher or Foster and Allen. So I convinced my pal to give me and Daryl a spot on a Thursday night.

MAJOR AND HALL, as we were known, soon became very popular with the discerning cabaret public of Dublin south and soon there was talk of record deals, major tours and even getting our gig moved to Friday night.

Then one night I met up with Daryl for a few beers in Mulligans on Poolbeg Street, he always said the smooth Guinness helped coat his vocal cords which gave his voice that vibrant timbre I had come to love. When I arrived to meet him he was standing with a little dark haired chap with a moustache.

"Hey Twenty," said Daryl. "This is my new friend John Oates"

Turns out Oates was another backpacking wastrel who had decided to stop for a few days in Dublin, or Waterford. Had he stopped in Waterford he'd have become victim of the Dungarvan Hostel fire which claimed the lives of so many unkempt youngsters, but as fate would have it he chose Dublin.

Soon they were fast friends, two Americans, and I, the poor auld Dubliner, was oft shunted to the side as their conversations became uninteligible to me. What were sidewalks, faucets and wasn't fall something you did after too many pints? One day Daryl came to me and said he'd earned enough money to go back home and John Oates was going with him. He promised to send for me, that we'd be MAJOR, HALL AND OATES, but he never did. I even wrote a song called 'He's gone' which I recorded onto a cassette and mailed to Daryl. I think we all know what happened then.

My dreams of being Ireland's first white soul star were in ruins and when Johnny Logan came along I knew my chance had passed me by.

Ever since then I've sought revenge - mostly by sitting in the pub and telling this story to anyone who'd listen - so if anyone has Daryl Hall's phone number, home address and details of the security at his mansion, please let me know.

And that's why I'd like Daryl Hall's heart for Christmas.

Gardai were shocked this morning when it emerged that a man had not been shot in Limerick City last night.

At around 10pm last night Derek Walsh was walking towards his home in the Prospect Avenue area of the city when no shots were fired. He was not rushed to Mid Western Regional Hospital in Dooradoyle where he did not die or suffer serious injuries. He is not in a stable or critical condition and family are not by his no bedside.

The non-existent shooters, who are well known to Gardai, are believed to have no problem at all with Mr Walsh and there is no history of family feuds. A Garda spokesman released a statement saying "At this time we have taken nobody into custody to not help us with our no enquiries."

Local residents were appalled that a night had passed peacefully. 87 year old Bridie O'Byrne said "I couldn't sleep at night knowing that nobody was killed. The sooner things return to normal around here the better", while neighbour of the not victim, Shakey McDonagh said "It'll be a sad day unless somebody gets knocked off. This town has a reputation to uphold and unless the crims start killing people again the ordinary people of this Limerick will have to go out with their revolvers and put things straight."

...let them know it's Christmas time and that you're inside with a roaring fire stuffing your face with delicious roast turkey and ham, with all the trimmings, taking great pleasure from the expensive gifts that you didn't really need while they bake in the sun and try and to catch and eat the flies that keep landing on them.

How Band Aid could have been improved, Part 3

...in Palmerstown this Christmas time. The greatest gift they'll get this year is lice.

How Band Aid could have been improved, Part 2

...but you're too afraid to go out because you suffer from acute agrophobia and the thought of stepping outside your front door is enough to make you want to shit your pants, piss yourself and vomit at the same time.

How Band Aid could have been improved, Part 1

I am going into town now to do some Christmas shopping. Grafton Street is my destination.

I wonder if there'll be Carol singers and if so I wonder if they'll be Irish or will they, following a recent trend in most other service industries, have been replaced by swathes of Chinese people.

We wish you a melly clissmas but as new year not for many weeks we not say anything about tha' ok?

It does get a bit annoying though at this time. The city centre is busy enough without do-gooders rattling change boxes under my seasonally red nose. Yes, I know the price of a pint would feed a starving donkey/child/refugee for 12 years but you know what? I'd prefer the pint, thanks. Now piss off.

Then there are the queues. Last year I rememeber queueing in one particular shop for about 15 minutes. Yes, there were a lot of people but the shop in question appeared to have imported its workers from some asylum or special school somewhere. Each transaction took them ages. Anyway, we were standing, patiently waiting, until one woman, who saw queueing with plebs as being way below her station, decided she'd march to the front and get served first.

Irish people being the courteous, kind and lily-livered sort that they are stood aghast at the cheek, whispering "Ooooh, did you see that?" But not one of them would say a word to her. It was time to stand up for the rights of my fellow queuers. I cleared my throat, scratched my arse then bellowed "OI! THERE'S A FUCKING QUEUE HERE YOU OLD CUNT. GET TO THE BACK OF IT OR FUCK OFF!"

I love sharing the Christmas spirit with my fellow Dubs.

A caller to Liveline in RTE Radio 1 became an instant legend in my book when he was discussing Environment Minister Martin Cullen and his controversial PR adviser Monica Leech. Calling himself Norman and saying he was a member of the PDs from Cork he took full advantage of there being no in-studio delay so any inappropriate comments can be filtered out by producers.

Here's what he said: "We really don't know what she's been doing anyway. Maybe she's been doing other things for him besides constituency work - maybe she's sucking his cock"

A very astute point, you'd have to say. Naturally Joe Duffy, the presenter, was morto and cut to an ad break. All I can say is well done, Norman, whoever you are. Keep up the good work.

It put in mind of a couple of incidents when I, Twenty Major, used to be a popular radio presenter. It's true. Obviously I can't give details about my illustrious past as too many people would talk but I can tell you what happened.

It's a lunch-time radio show, just after the farming news (obviously this station was outside of Dublin, that's as much as I'm telling you), and the pre-planned playlist had me doing some kind of 'play some songs, read some news headlines, let the listeners guess the year' type shite. Anyway, one of the songs was Shout by the dwarfy little ginger cunny, Lulu. So instead of saying 'Lulu had a hit' I said 'Lulu had a shit....' then, for the first and only time in my radio career, collapsed into a fit of giggling. The more I tried not to laugh the more I laughed. Eventually I just played the song but that didn't occur to me for at least 30 seconds and the audience was treated to me 'tee-heeing' like a schoolgirl.

The other story involves me doing a link into a song, then leaving the microphone up whilst I told the person in the studio all about the tendency the Head of Programming had of putting his hand on my knee in a way that wasn't just 'hahaha I'm Terry Wogan'. That made for a fun week or two at the station, let me tell you.

I also got into a bit of trouble once by suggesting Elizabeth Hurley was so-named because she liked to anally pleasure herself with a hurling stick.

But that's a whole other story.

*ring ring*

"Hello, Hughes and Hughes books. How can I help you?"

"Hello. I'd like to speak to Mr Hughes or Mr Hughes, please."

"Erm...who are you looking for?"

"Mr Hughes or Mr Hughes. Proprietors of your fine establishment"

"Well...er...Hughes and Hughes is just a name."

"What?"

"Erm...uhm...Hughes and Hughes is just a name. Like HMV. You wouldn't ring up HMV and ask for Mr HMV, would you?"

"So what you're saying is that neither Mr Hughes nor Mr Hughes actually exists."

"Exactly!"

"Or maybe you're just saying that. It could be another version of 'He's in a meeting right now'"

"No Sir, I assure you that there are no Mr Hughes' here for you to talk to you."

"You people make me sick."

"Well, if I could jus-"

*hang-up*

*ring ring*

"Hello, HMV. Can I help you?"

Last night I had a kind of Christmas get-together with some old chums. Seany the Skank, Tommy 'The cuntbuster' McNamee, Lyrical Liam and I quaffed expensive champagne at the Morrisson Hotel then took in an excellent dinner at the Merrion and topped it off with a night of entertainment at a private gentleman's pub. Or we had a rake of pints in the Foggy Dew. Believe what you want.

Anyway, as I was sitting on the couch this morning waiting for the coffee to percolate (or the kettle to boil) I happened to switch onto TV3. Ireland AM, their morning show was on, and I was lucky to catch the fashion segment with the presenter who looks like a 50s movie star (but who scares me because she looks like she's 6'7") and some woman in a dress which can only be described as being the colour of vomit mixed with oil and water with some old horse piss throw in on top of it.

Anyway, they were showcasing some of the latest fashions from vom-dress's boutique (which I can't remember the name of). I find it hard to believe they weren't taking the piss. Vom-dress says "This beautiful combination is the embodiment of chic-bohemian style merged with comfort and elegance" as the model came out wearing what could only be described as the kind of get-up a bag lady with cataracts might wear. Jeans, a purple top, some other kind of skirt (I'm not Jonny Fashion but I know skirt over jeans = lame) and a rather wanky looking bag.

Other beautiful outfits included a purple dress with shoulder pads so wide they'd make Crystal Carrington come in her pants just look at them, a green silk thing which just looked like it needed a good ironing and a metallic gold dress which made the model look like a mermaid with a giant arse. All the time Vom-dress is simpering and talking about how beautiful and unique they are. Newsflash sister, the only reason they're unique is because the designer made one, realised it looked like shit and gave up. More cunture than couture, let me tell you.

Then there were the shoes. I don't think there was a pair under €420. What's wrong with a good pair of Clarks? They're comfortable and you get plenty of wear out of them. Instead they want the ladies of Ireland to suffer frostbite on their feet as they go out with a couple of gaudy straps attached to a sole and they want them to pay through the nose for them.

Fashion really is a load of old bollocks. The only way this could have been any worse is if they'd had Mark Cagney commenting on the models or that fat cunt from the sports news on the catwalk.

After posting an email address to which readers of his mypoic blog can send feedback, Dubloon posted a couple of emails which were very positive towards his site (and it is a he), then to balance it out he posted this, somebody who doesn't appreciate what he writes.

However, instead of just publishing her letter he proceeds to attempt humour (I assume he thought the 'Normans' gag was quite clever but I'm sorry to say it was about as funny as cancer of the spine) by dissecting her mail in a childish rebuttal. Pretty lame, you'd have to agree. Remember, Dubloon closed the comments on his own site because, and I quote, "...visitors who come to read bad things about Dublin are not interested in total strangers bickering.".

So what makes him think visitors are interested in Dubloon taking apart an email sent to him about his site? If he's going to bicker surely he should give the person he's trying to belittle the right to reply. Not just in another email, because he can edit those to suit himself, but in a real time way, in a comments system like another blogger worth his salt would.

Stop being a coward, Dubloon. Settle down with a nice cup of java and turn your comments back on. It'll make your blog a better place, as it is you're just making yourself look (more) like a petty, sore and spiteful individual.

I read yesterday that the Spencer Dock development is to get underway at last. New offices, shops, restaurants and apartments will be built and will transform what was once the sort of place you'd go for a knife fight into one of the most desirable locations in Dublin.

The buildings will be restricted to just 11 stories though as permission was not granted to build a 37 story 'skyscraper'. It's a bit of a shame really. I'd like to see some skyscrapers built. Dublin does not really have any kind of set architectural style. There are fine old streets like Dame Street which have been ruined by new buildings. There are some nice Edwardian and Victorian areas, but they're out of town mostly. The city centre is a hodge-podge of poxy design and brown envelope purchased planning permission. What difference would a couple of really tall buildings down the quays make? In fact it would add something to the city, that's for sure.



The new skyscrapers would be tourist attractions, great for sniping people from the roof and a whole new area for people to commit suicide on New Year's Eve. Bord Pleanala need to get their fat arses into the 21st century and instead of trying to maintain what's a pretty uninspiring city, architecturally, they should give Dublin a chance to develop it's own style with flashy glass and chrome cloudticklers.

One small point about redevelopment in Dublin. The pictures of Spencer Dock show blue skies with speedboats resting outside a posh apartment complex. Speedboats I can live with, if you want to go up and down the Liffey in your Miami Vice boat then more power to you, but something should be done about the blatant false advertising. Blue skies and the sun shining, what are they thinking?

...and he said 'You cunt.'

I said, "What?" He said, "You cunt".

I said 'Do you think you're Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, you fucking cunt?'

Anyway, this went on for some time until I said "Look son, I've had enough, now fuck off you fucking cunt, would ya?".

Here are some other people I would like to say 'Fuck off you cunt' to:

Barry Egan: He's ginger, he thinks he can write, he looks like a pissed up old tramp. Fuck off you cunt.

Eddie Irvine: Going to Café en Seine only makes you more of a cunt you fucking second rate playboy. Fuck off you cunt.

Celia Ahern: Just what Ireland needs. Another writer of fluffy, insipid chick-lit. And we used to be well known for our great writers. Fuck off you cunt.

Clare McKeown: Leave some of the fucking pie for the rest of us you fucking blimp. Fuck off you cunt.

Tiger Woods: Stop being such a fucking cunt all your life and enjoy yourself. Try smilng now and again. Fuck off you cunt.

The bloke from Coldplay: You'd think with all his money he'd get his teeth fixed and buy himself a decent gansey. Fuck off you Paltrow licking cunt.

James Nesbitt: Norn Irish actor with a bulldog's jaw. Why the fuck are you on the TV every time I turn it on? Fuck off you power-cunt.

That's enough for today. Those cunts are getting me down.

Not many people know this but Nik Kershaw has shrunk to the size of a common Elf and now lives under a toadstool at the bottom of my garden.

Amidst all the flashy MP3 players, Playstations and Xboxes, DVDs and other hi-tech wizardry wouldn't it be great to see some of the toys our generation grew up with make a return to their rightful place underneath the tree this Christmas?

Obviously we'd have to make a few small modifications but I think these toys and games could be a winner again:

Simon: In the old version coloured lights flashed and made a tone, you had to repeat the sequence for as long as possible. In the new version the principal is the same. The lights flash, a tone is sounded but if you get it wrong you have your name changed by deed poll to Simon and you have to run up and down your street and yell 'Everyone, MY NAME IS SIMON!' but you have to do it with your tongue stuck into your bottom lip like a spazzer.

Twister: To sort out the problem of illegal immigrants and bogus asylum seekers each new game of Twister comes with 2 Bosnians, a Ukranian and a Nigerian. Kids make their new slaves play the game and when one fails to display appropriate suppleness the others twist his neck until he dies. The winner of each games gets Irish residency. Spare 'fugees can be bought separately.

Marbles: Everyone had marbles back in the day. The little small ones were common, everyone had a few 'gulleys' but the top o' the line were 'steeleys' (I remember there used to be a fine marbles shop opposite Stillorgan shopping centre). I'm not quite sure what you could do with marbles, to be honest, I really just remembered the word 'gulleys' and wanted to use it. Sorry.

Trival pursuit: Kids form a gang and chase somebody for a minor offence.

Fuzzy felt: A great favourite from years ago, we used to make delightful pictures from pieces of sticky felt. In this game, aimed at priests and swimming coaches kids are given small beakers of rohypnol and felt up. Then, despite their mind being all fuzzy, they have to point out the offender from a line up.d

Etch-a-sketch: Leady goodness in a red casing. This time there's a twist, unless the user makes a perfect circle the unit will self-destruct. Batteries and plastic explosives included.

Sea Monkeys: If you ever had these things you'll know that you dump a packet of powder into some water, wait and you get these little sea monkey creatures swimming about your tank. They ususally last a week or two before they all start dying and nobody realises the incredible agonies of a sea monkey's death, but nevermind. However, what if we could grow real monkeys which we could then use for helping around the house, taking the dog for a walk and representing Ireland in the European parliament. Worth thinking about.

Operation: In an effort to clean up some of the homeless people on the street they're drugged and brought to a massive convention centre where the 2005 Irish Operation Contest takes place. Kids have to remove the funny bone, bread basket, Adam's apple et al before the bottle of Paddy's used as anaesthetic wears off.

So many old games, so many new uses. And I haven't even begun to think about the Spirograph, Stylophone or Action Man.

Can you believe a judge made a pub shut down for 3 days and fined it €150 because Gardai found a drunk and incoherent man inside?

I am shocked by the lawlessness of my fellow Dubliners and I must doff my cap to the Gardai for coming up with such a clever and well-worked sting. Who would ever have thought to go into a pub at 10 o'clock at night to find a drunk person? Judge Gerard Haugton, who we can assume has never once in his life been drunk, has ordered The Confession Box in Marlborough Street to close from Jan 7th - 9th next year and the owner must pay staff for the three day closure.

I'm told that future Gardai operations will include raids on restaurants to find people engaged in gluttony, one of the seven deadly sins; Brown Thomas department store to catch people shooping with intent and parks across Dublin to arrest anybody enjoying the fresh air with gay abandon.

In other news it appears that more than 1000 children were seen begging on the streets of Dublin this year. The report says that many of these children were from the 'Traveller or Roma' communities. In other words they're knackers or gyppos.

My solution to this would be to round up these children when they're begging and put them in a pound like they do with cars. Leave a little sticker on the ground from where they were taken with a phone number so the concerned parents can come and retrieve them if they so desire. When they come charge them €120 to get the kid back, with a €12 per day storage fee if they don't come at once. That should cut down on the number of child beggars almost immediately. If the child is left for more than 30 days it can be assumed that nobody wants it and it can be sent to Africa to be ground down for food for famine victims.

If you had a meeting with British Home Secretart David Blunkett would you be able to stop yourself making faces and doing the wanker gesture at him while you were just talking normally?

Do you ever walk into a Centra or Spar in the city centre and wonder if you've somehow ended up in Beijing?

Isn't it fun when you hear touts say "Anyone buying or selling a ticket?", then you say "Yes, I am", then you just walk off?

Wouldn't it be cheaper for TV companies making programmes like 'I'm a celebrity get me out here' to dump the z-list cretins in Carlow, which is a much scarier place than any jungle I can think of?

Why can't Joss Stone just fuck off, the hefty cunt?

Why can't make Gerry Adams and Ian Paisley fight to death and then have the winner of that fight fight to the death against a bear?

Why are all java programmers absolute cocksuckers?

Would it be possible to annex Limerick City from the Republic and use it as giant prison?

Wouldn't it be fun to set up some kind of charity or awareness organisation, spend some time building up a reputation then get yourself invited on the Pat Kenny show to talk about it and in response to Pat's first question say 'cunt shit fuck cunt cunty cunt cunt bollix cunt'?

Can't Daniel O'Donnell be made illegal?

Why can't we fill we the Phoenix Park with hundreds of Phoenix?

Mary Harney has said it will be almost impossible to trace the source of the variant CJD (Mad cow disease) which infected a man in Dublin.

However, she has assured people she will sample a piece of every cow in the country, the gluttonous behemoth.

- Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee
- Guy Richie and Madonna
- Jude Law and Sadie Frost
- Biddy and Miley from Glenroe

Apropos of nothing I just thought I'd mention these husband and wife teams that are/were also complete cunts.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

There in the garden were three lads from Glasnevin
So I took out my shotgun and sent them to heaven;
I picked up the bodies and set them on fire,
the house was aglow from the scumbag based pyre.

Now every 12 months I do the same thing,
I burn up three scumbags and we all dance and sing;
They're out trying to burgle, never stopping their hunts,
But I teach them a lesson the itinerant cunts.

Over 250 people visited Twenty Major yesterday and may I commend you all on your impeccable taste and distinction. Just need another 5,999,999,975 people to have almost everyone on earth reading me.

Ok, so we don't know if Dubloon is a girl, or Canadian or American, but what we can be sure of is that they're most definitely a cunt and despite having no email address on the site or any other way of people getting in touch they still manage to post ;feedback' from their readers. That makes them a fabricator and a big fat liar, I reckon.

Turn your comments back on Dubloon. They're far more entertaining than the rest of your insipid blog and many people have been in touch with me to say that after reading your site they're now smoking on buses in the hope that you'll tell them to stop so that they can punch you in the kidneys. With some kind of bat.

First up for the Axe Tax is Judge Desmond Hogan who let a man who bought 539 images of children being fucked and buggered and God knows what else go free from court with a €1,000 fine and a suspended sentence.

Fucking shitfaced clusterfuck of a motherless cunt. I can't even count how many times I've seen these kinds of sentences handed out in Ireland. It's bullshit and it's not fucking good enough. They're doing nothing to solve the problem, nothing to deter other sick paedos from paying for this filth and helping the whole industry spew out more and more of the kind of stuff that would quite honestly make me take to castrating to the cunts involved if I ever got near them.

Fucking judges. Now watch as some kid gets 18 months for stealing a video game from HMV. Dicks.

============

A former Glenroe actor yesterday won a court case against a publican who refused to serve him because he was a traveller. I'm sure he's now welcomed with open arms every time he goes into that pub. Wouldn't the fella have been better off getting on his donkey, or stealing someone's car and going somewhere else, stopping to burgle a few houses along the way?

============

Finally, did you know RTE reporter Charlie Bird's name is not actually Charlie Bird? Twenty Major can reveal his real name is actually 'Lorcan McMahon' and that the moniker he uses on television is a nickname given to him because he likes to take cocaine and fuck emus.

True.

So Brian Cowen gave us his first budget yesterday and there was all sorts of stuff in it about raising taxes, increased social welfare payments and other tedious crap. The main talking point was the fact that there has been no increase in taxes on alcohol or cigarettes which means at least somebody in the Government recognises that they're fucking fleecing us already and any increase would be taking the fucking piss.

If I was Minister for Finance though I'd make a few changes to the budget and levy some taxes where they're needed most.

- I'd make homeless people pay €10 a night to sleep in doorways. The wear and tear they cause to pavements is not inconsiderable and it might spark the fuckers into getting off their ringworm ridden arses and getting a job. The same would apply to beggars, they'd have to pay daily for their 'pitch'.

- Anyone caught wearing 'bling-bling' style jewellery would have to pay a surcharge of 110% of the value of the jewellery if they wanted to enter the city centre. State of the art scanning devices would be placed at convenient locations to signal those wearing the stuff. If they refused to pay they would be made fellate a donkey and have their jewellery melted down into a giant statue of me giving the finger to the people of Coolock.

- Girls wearing rugby tops with a jumper thrown across their shoulders will now have to pay an annual €235 stuck-up cunt tax. I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happens if they don't pay.

- I'd increase the tax on all Brian McFadden CDs by 1456,000,000,000,000%

- There would be a special Chris de Burgh tax where the little Argie gnome would have to pay me 75% of all his earnings, past and present, as punishment for Lady in Red and that fucking cunty song about God and the Devil playing cards on a train. Any default in payments will mean that I will continue to hold his Miss World daughter's eyebrows captive.

- Judges who allow child abusers and viewers of child pornography go free from their courts will be subjected to a hatchet levy. The so-called 'Axe Tax' means I get to hack off one of their limbs with a rusty axe. The utter cunts.

- There would be 'Hoynikken' tax as drinkers in D4 and beyond are punished for their ridiculous pronunciation.

- The SIMON community would be charged 50% of all their charity income until they changed their name to something more manly, like the ANTO or FITZER community.

- I would introduce a stammer tax for people in public office. They'd be charged €1000 per stutter. I expect big earnings from Bertie and I'd have to send spies to the European parliament to pick up the millions I'd make off Proinsias De Rossa.

- People from Offaly would have to pay €25,000 a year each for being shovel-handed, pig fucking, muck savages.

- There would be a beard amnesty. People with long grey beards would be exempt from all kinds of taxes. Obvious exceptions to this would be Ronnie Drew (who would be taxed double) and newsreader Anne Doyle (the make-up people in RTE do a fantastic cover up job, but you should see her around Rathmines when she's off-duty. If she wears red she's got a line of kids following her coz they think it's Santa).

- Finally there would be a Gavin Lambe Murphy tax. This tax would involve a one off payment of everything he owns after which there would be a one off rebate which would consist of him being shot in the face with rocket launcher.

Stick that, Cowen. That's how you make a budget.

Today is World AIDS Day. I remember when we first learned about the disease and were subjected to all kinds of horrific adverts on the telly. Wasn't there one with a coffin and a condom? Anyway, years on and we still have no cure, more people are infected than ever before and I'd say awareness amongst young people is much less than it was when I was a teenager (all those years ago).

Of course back then it was easy to avoid AIDS, you just didn't have to anal sex with a man because AIDS was a gayer's disease. It was also easy to blame sailors for spreading it because they went to Africa and had anal sex with men who caught the disease by having sex with monkeys. Another thing you had to make sure was not to share a cup with someone or sit on the same toilet seat as someone with AIDS because it would sit and wait on the toilet seat and go up your arse when you were having a poo. I was never a big fan of Princess Diana, the doe eyed slapper, but the pictures of her hugging people quite literally eaten up with the disease did a lot to blow away the misconceptions about the illness.

"Oh, look. Rock Hudson. Freddie Mercury. Liberace. All masters of the art of cheeky bum sex. So it's ok for me to do what I like."

Nice try, dimwit, but it doesn't work like that. See that gorgeous girl over there with the great body who's been casting you amorous glances all night? She could have it. Is she wearing a YMCA outfit with a big moustache and listening to Barbara Streisand on her iPod? Get real.

Now we're in an era of promiscuity and casual sex. Pregnant 14 year olds, binge drinking and indiscriminate trouser and knicker dropping every weekend and if you're so drunk you can hardly remember your name, where you live or what the girl whose tits you're playing with looks like how likely is it that you're going to remember to use a condom? Kids these days need to be scared about it because I don't think it's even something that crosses their minds before they go to bed/up an alley with someone.

Of course drugs these days can keep the disease is check with much greater effect than even a few years ago, but that's not really the point. We have a whole continent of people dying from AIDS every day and ignorant, obstinate governments refusing to help their people, drug companies who could manufacture generic drugs at a tiny percentage of their branded products refusing to sell, and all the while the epidemic spreads and the statistics become scarier and scarier.

Sorry to be all serious today, but once a year is all right. Isn't it?