So I've noticed on other blogs how people link to their cool and groovy photos which show parts of their life that are interesting and other parts which are wearisome, boring and not fit for public consumption.

So like any good blogger I've jumped on the bandwagon. Now, I'm sure all of us have been handed a packet of 236 pictures of Mary and Toby's FAB weekend in Dingle, or had to sit through a slide show of cousin Mickey's trip around the world or 'ooh' and 'aah' over wedding pictures where the groom looks like a fucking cunt in a rented suit and the bride, despite all her dieting and make-up, still looks like Kelly Osbourne on crack.

Well, fear not. For my pictures are not the usual kind. It's a world tour, yes, but with a difference. This tour features pictures of me defecating in all the great locations worldwide includng Mount Kilimanjaro, 10 Downing Street, the Cliffs of Moher, Stonehenge, the Falls Road in Belfast and many more, with comments about each place too!

Just click here to see 'Pooing around the world with Twenty Major. For the squeamish among you I should point out that there are no stool shots, merely me in the same hunched, squatting, going for a poo outside pose.

Dangermaus fans - rejoice for the new issue has been published featuring stories about Brendan Grace, dismay in Dublin's newsrooms and they keep the Pope alive Schiavo style (although there'd be uproar if they kept wheeling her out to sit in the open window) and more. Go now.

You might remember a few days ago I wrote about the utter cunts that are the Irish-Palestine Solidarity campaign and how they made complete fuckwits of themselves by using something they knew nothing about to make a protest.

Basically they were using the Israeli number 10 shirt as part of their misguided quest when, as we all know now, the player who wears that shirt is a Palestine Arab.

Now, nobody can accuse them of not learning from their mistakes as they've simply Photoshopped out the 0 on the shirt but they've obviously got someone with Parkinson's disease to do it because you can still see parts of the erased number. Picture here.

Message to Jim Bowen, the spokesman, and the rest of his Irish-Palestine Solidarity Campaign cunts: You're still cunts and this latest piece of cuntery makes you bigger cunts than you were to begin with. You cunts.

I don't know if you saw the story about the Philipino woman who was working for Irish Ferries for €1 a week or something like that. Apparently she's been given a €25,000 pay off and sent back home. That makes her the wealthiest woman in the Philippines now and it reminds me of when Jimmy the Bollix decided he needed some home help. He interviewed lots of candidates from all over the world. There was a Ukranian woman but she didn't get hired because of her whiny voice. There was a Romanian woman but there was no way Jimmy was going to let a thief into his house. As he always said "If these snanky bitches are so fucking poor why don't they just sell one of their fucking solid gold teeth, the cunts?'.

You should ask Jimmy to tell you about the way they drug their children so when they go around begging we're supposed to think they're asleep but in reality they're unconscious and off their tiny little faces.

Anyway, in the end Jimmy found a website where you could bring over your own Phillipino woman for just $100US and all you had to pay her was $50 a month. He ordered and a couple of weeks later a crate arrived at his house. When he opened it up he found 'Asunción' who cleaned his house, washed his clothes, prepared the dinner, did the shopping, mowed the lawn, darned his socks, cleaned out the gutters and did all those things a wife would do but for a fraction of the cost and she lived out in the Barna shed at the back of the house. Sadly, one night Jimmy left the side-gate open and she went exploring, got lost and nobody has ever heard from her since, but Jimmy was proud of the fact that he rescued her from poverty and gave her a chance to live in the real world.

Jimmy also advocates the re-introduction of slavery and has been on many trips to the Ivory Coast and Burkina Faso looking for Gladiators, home help and construction workers.

For those of you awaiting the lastest edition of Dangermaus fear not. It should appear soon. As soon as a legal challenge to one of the stories is sorted out. I can't say any more than that, nor when the edition is published can I say if the offending story has being published or not. Suffice to say some people on this fair isle have no sense of humour.

There's been lots of talk about this Rate my teacher site with students loving it and teachers hating it.

Teachers hate everything though and who can blame them? I think you have to have a special vocation, or be a total masochist, to ever want to become a teacher. What in the name of God would make anyone want to spend most of their working day in a small room full of stinky children?

It's even worse now. Back in the day there was a certain respect for teachers as they were your elders. You didn't really dare do anything too bad but nowadays kids are cheeky, disrespectful little cunts and long gone is the day when you could get a good battering if you behaved badly.

In my school if you did something wrong you had to stand at the front of the class, put your hands out and you'd get a leather strap right across them. It hurt a lot. Sometimes you'd pull your hands away at the last second and the priest would strap himself in the thigh or, if you got really lucky, in his oversized gonads. If it wasn't a strap it was a bamboo cane. It really did make you think twice about making that smart comment or throwing that brick across the room at that kid you hated. We had teachers who would pull you up by your sideburns or thump you in the arm if you got something wrong or forgot your homework.

But now where's the deterrent to bad behaviour. If a kid does something wrong how are they being taught not to do it again? A good tongue-lashing (and let me tell you tongue-lashings were different in my day too, especially in a school full of priests)? 100 lines - I MUST STOP BEING A LITTLE CUNT? If they get a letter sent home and they get grounded then they just stay in their room with their DVD players, iPods, PCs and Playstations and such.

The only answer is to bring back coporal punishment. Kids today have to realise that if you do something wrong you've got to suffer the consequences. Shouting at them means nothing. It's in one ear and out the other ear. But what if you stuck a knitting needle in one ear and out the other ear? I think the child in question would think twice about his or her bad beahviour in the future.

Straps and canes need to make a comeback and I'd encourage the use of nipple clamps for unruly rascals who constantly disrupt class. In boys schools if a kid is talking or messing in class then he should be made come up to the front of the class and then kicked, as hard as the teacher can, in the bollocks. If he vomits he's got to eat it up.

Playing with mobile phones in class should be punishable to inserting the mobile phone up the student's hole. Singing in class = three hours detention listening to that 'Can't take my eyes off of you' song by Damien Rice over and over and over again. Passing notes to classmates, are you? Well, then the teacher takes the note and reads it out loud to the whole class but makes up something completely different. "Johnny's note to Davey says 'You're hot. I want your cock in me now."

"Forgot to do your homework, little Jimmy? Oh sorry, I forgot to not punch you in the face, you little cunt."

Teachers complain about stress and burn-out and ulcers and all sorts and I don't blame them. All the while the government and parents expect these people to educate our children but will not allow them to teach them anything about discipline. If they learn to associate bad behaviour with physical and mental pain then maybe they won't grow up to be the horrible little cunts that we're plagued with now.

Essentially we've got to write off everyone who left school after about 1983 and focus on the new generation. This is our last chance. I'm writing to my TD now.

I suggest you do the same.

Last night in the pub we were talking about that young Kunle chap being allowed back into Ireland. Opinions were divided, one person thought he should be allowed back to do his leaving then fucked out again, Jimmy thought he shouldn't have been allowed back at all, Ron the barman thought we should make him dance naked up and down O'Connell Street to see if he really wanted to come back and Dirty Dave (who thankfully had had a shower in recent days) put his spoke in.

"I think we should only let him back in on a swap basis. That's to say that Kunle comes back to Ireland but we get to choose some cunt to go live in Nigeria. We could start with criminals, then registered sex-offenders, travellers, politicians, Damien Rice fans, people from Bray and so on. Eventually we get rid of the dregs of our society and we get people who can improve Irish life so much. Think of how much our basketball teams will improve and when's the last time Ireland had a top 'soul' group in the charts? These people can sing, you know."

For an absolute twat it was a nice piece of thinking, I have to say. I've already got a line on importing cases of 'soul glow' hair spray. Oh yes.

This made me laugh (via Tim Worstall).

Finally, as you might have noticed I've had the painters in so the site looks more authentically 'Major'. That dried up snot green that we all love so well. Till tomorrow.

Probably Dublin's most famous hotel, The Shelbourne, on St Stephen's Green is to close for 18 months for refurbishment. No doubt they're flying in the best of stuff from Ikea and MFI in the UK.

It was never really my kind of place for drinking. Too expensive by half. I never understood the cunts in there drinking a pot of tea for €7 when you could go round to O'Donoghues and get it for €1.50 but then there's a lot less sawdust and piss on the floors of the Horseshoe bar in the Shelbourne.

Jimmy the Bollix, being a rather big fan of Robert Ludlum, used to the call it 'The Jason' after Ludlum's most favourite character, recently brought to life on the big screen by Matt 'Strength of ten men' Damon.

Anyway, the best story I have from that place is the night Jimmy and I were coming back from a football match at Lansdowne Road. Can't remember who we were playing but it was around 6pm on a Saturday evening. For a laugh we decided to stop into the Jason for a pint and see who was toffing around inside trying to look more important than they really were.

Eamonn Dunphy was there and we had a bit of a laugh with him taking great delight in calling Jack Charlton a 'big, thick, ugly cunt'. Eddie Jordan was there as well and a couple of no-mark politicians but when Jimmy saw celebrity gossip columnist Terry Keane I could see his eyes sparkle. Terry Keane was at that stage only rumoured to be the mistress of Charles Haughey - Ireland's most famous politician, prime minister, gun runner and all round crook.

I could see Jimmy start to shuffle on his heels and I knew he was going to do something. Casually he went over to her and whispered something in her ear. Bedlam followed. She jumped up, threw her drink on him, called the bar manager and we were asked to leave. No big problem because we were going to Ron the barman's anyway.

On the way out I asked him 'What the fuck did you say to her, you mad cunt?'

Says he "I asked her 'If, as we all know, you talk out of your arse, how do you whisper sweet nothings to Charlie when he's got his cock up it?'"

"heh", I said. "I love you, Jimmy" and we went off and got pissed.

So it seems Michael McDowell has a heart. He's letting Nigerian student, Olukunle Eluhanla, back to Ireland to finish his leaving certificate exams after deporting him just days ago.

Or is it just a big PR stunt. Let's face it, McDowell couldn't give a rat's arse about Kunle or any of the others he deported. And why should he? The rules are the rules and for every happy little Nigerian like Kunle there are 20 more involved in scams, bank machine cloning, credit card cloning, sending emails pretending to be a high Priest with €34,095,450 hidden away in a secret bank account and playing football for West Brom.

Still, I saw the news last night and they interviewed Kunle on the phone who expressed his delight at being allowed back - on a 6 month temporary visa at which point he'll be deported again but this time he'll have his leaving certificate which will no doubt open many doors on the mean streets of Lagos. Anyway, listening to him and then listening to some of his classmates talk outside their school in Palmerstown it struck me that letting him back might not be the worst thing in the world. He might teach a couple of them how to talk English.

There was one big fat girl interviewed whose grasp of the English language was as good as her grasp of not being a gluttonous pig. "Yeah, loike, we's all dead happy, loike, dat he can, y'know, come back an' all, coz, loike it wudda after been brutal if he'd a stayed in Nigeria an' all. Y'know?'

There are fucking Chinese immigrants who've only been in the country three hours, who have never spoken or listened to English, who could speak better than this lot.

I think McDowell let your man back just so he would't have to hear these cretins savage the English language in public anymore. Anyway, the main point is wouldn't it be a laugh if Kunle failed every single exam?

Away from immigration today is Good Friday. For those of you outside Ireland outside the Catholic faith you might wonder what's good about it because 1 - You cannot get a drink in Ireland today because all bars and off-licences are shut by law, and 2 - being nailed to a cross and speared in the bollix like Jesus was isn't what anyone would consider 'good'.

There were some queues in the off-licence last night. I went down with Jimmy the Bollix and we bought 72 beers, two bottles of Jamesons, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of gin, a bottle of rum, loads of mixers and some ice. Me and Jimmy and Stinkin' Pete are going to have a card night. Some games of poker and some drinks. Hope we don't run out of booze and go on a rampage round to Ron the Barman's house to get him to open up the pub. Like we did last year. He made his money though.

Have a good Friday wherever you are. Unless you're a Goth in which case you can go fuck yourself, you cunt.

Apparently the £2.5m jackpot was won by a ticket bought in Dublin last night. Sadly it wasn't my ticket. I do play the Lotto every week but they keep picking the wrong fucking numbers.

Stinkin' Pete got 5 numbers plus the bonus number aout 18 months back. He won about €14,000 which he spent on a holiday in Marbella. He rented a swish apartment, flew down first class (having a curtain block you from people sitting in exactly the same kind of seat as you makes all the difference, you know) and proceeded to spend all the money getting locked every night.

He came back six weeks later with hardly a shilling left but with a fantastic tan and some wonderful stories about girls, ex-pat Brits, vomiting in places he shouldn't have and waking up naked on the beach (which is amusing if you just take it for what it is and don't actually imagine Pete naked on the beach - a site that could burn the corneas out of your head).

Sadly Mrs Stinkin' Pete wasn't too impressed at a) him going missing for so long and b) the revelation that he'd blown €14,000 going on a bender when they needed new windows in the house. She went off to live with her sister in Skerries and nobody's seen her since. Certainly not Pete.

Anyway, I hope the person in Dublin who's won this jackpot is young enough and sensible to enjoy it and not one of those old cunts from down the country who always seem to win it.

'87 year old Tadgh O'Riordan says he won't let the 5 week, €8m rollover jackpot change his life and will continue to get up at 5.30am to milk his cows every morning.'

Fuck off, Tadgh and give the money to someone who'll use it properly. I hate those cunts. Even if you're 87 you can buy top of the range colostomy bags or zimmer frames. Look at that old cunt who was married to Anna Nicole Smith. He looked like a prune but he was still getting some from a Playboy model. Millions of euros will attract beautiful women who might screw you to death and I'd say at 87 there are worse ways to go.

'It won't change my life' - get the fuck then and give it to someone who'll appreciate. Would €100,000 change your life? Sure. So 20 times that is bound to have some impact. Unless, of course, you're a cunt, which these people are.

Right, I'm off to do my numbers for Saturday's draw and if I don't win I'm going to get drunk. Either way it's a winner.

I spoke a little while ago about the need to rid the world of certain kinds of people. One of those kinds of people were 'Goths', miserable, Marilyn Manson looking cunts who every now and then go a little bit mad and shoot up their schools like the kid in Minnesota this week.

He was a 'Goth' apparently. This is final proof, if any were needed, that there's a genetic flaw with all Goths and for the greater good of the world we've only got two choices:

1 - Find an island somewhere, or reclaim some land from the sea, and create a new country called 'Gothland'. All the Goths in the world will be sent to live here. Any stragglers who try and hang on in the real world will be flame-throwered in the face. They can have their Goth schools, Goth radio stations, Goth supermarkets, Goth gun shops and so on. When, inevitably, one of them flips all they'll do is kill other Goths so real people can not care and be safe at the same time. If that, for whatever reason, isn't a runner, then we have to move on to point 2:

2 - Kill them all now. Round them up, dig a big fucking hole, dump them in it, watch them die (perhaps a reality TV show on Sky - WHEN GOTHS GET PUT IN A BIG FUCKING HOLE AND RESORT TO CANNIBALISM BUT EVENTUALLY THEY ALL DIE) and that's that.

I predict that if we go with one of those plans school massacres will drop by a 99.65%. There's still the small risk that a healthy child could be partly Goth, perhaps one of their parents were Goths in their youth and have infected their son or daughter, but unless we carry out invasive and painful DNA testing on every single kid that's a risk we're just going to have to live with. Reducing the amount of school massacres also has a direct effect on the amount of films that fat, crumbs down his jumper cunt Michael Moore makes. Less killling = less spouting off from a man who should never go swimming off the coast of Japan lest they mistake him, quite easily, for a fucking whale.

Of course other people will put lay blame for these school shootings at the fact that it's easy to get guns in America. I don't subscribe to that point of view. Guns don't make Goth kids go on shooting rampages, guns just make it easier for Goth kids to kill people. I'm sure you all remember the Belvedere College massacre over when an angry young student went on the rampage with a plank of wood with a nail in it. 8 people were treated for puncture wounds. It was a dark day in Irish schools.

But really, if a kid wants to go to school and kill a few students, the janitor and a teacher or two, he could go with a carving knife, an axe of some kind, a homemade garotte, a baseball bat (see Al Capone in the Untouchables for proof of its effectiveness), a bomb made from the fertiliser found on any farm, a spade, a large scalpel, a scythe, attack dogs, specially trained panthers, the list is endless. Of course it would take a bit more time but then Rome wasn't built in a day.

And that's the main reason kids use guns - they have no attention span these days. BLAM BLAM BLAM - DEAD DEAD DEAD. There's no craft in senseless killing any more.

What is the world coming to?

So the McCartney sisters have received some death threats after their heroic campaign to bring the IRA killers of their brother to justice. Opening their mail to read letter after letter giving them support and praising them for their courage they were shocked when they opened one particular envelope and found a terrible message inside. Don't ask me how I know this, for I will not divulge my sources (Stinkin' Pete), but this is the petrifying missive they were subjected to (imagine the letters are cut out of newspapers such as this week's Sunday Tribune and Sunday World):

dEaR McCarTney SistErs, maKE iT stOp or yoU'rE deAd. iF thAt cUnt of a DAd of YoUrs relEaseS anY moRe RecOrds liKe MuLL of kInTyrE or thAt cUntiNg FroG SoNg wE'll KiLL yOu to DeaTh.

YoUrs etc

StiNkin'...er...BoB

My unnamed source always did have a way with words.

Brand new Dangermaus out now featuring stories about Dundalk space travel, Brian McFadden and Chapelizod's failed bid for the 2012 Olympics. Tell your friends. If you have any. I told Jimmy the Bollix about it and he said to me "Twenty, we've been friends a long time and it hurts me to say this to you, but you're getting too into this auld computery shite."

I reckon he's just jealous as the only thing he can do with his computer is download the latest blockbuster films, top up his bank account by siphoning funds from people's Paypal accounts and get free flights anywhere in the world. What a cunt.

I read with delight yesterday about some group of fucking hippy, do-gooder cunts who have objected to Ireland's football team playing a match against Israel next week.

Now, we all know there's a little bit of tension between the Israelis and the Palestinians - something akin to the problems that exist between the northside and southside of Dublin but obviously not quite so intense. So anyway, these witless twerps launch a campaign with a picture of an Israeli number 10 shirt with the words 'Say no to apartheid' on it as a stinging rebuke of Israel's policies.

What Jim Bowen (not the presenter of TV's favourite darts show Bullseye but of University College Cork), spokesman of the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign didn't realise is that the number 10 shirt is worn by a bloke called Walid Badir who is a Palestine Arab and one of the most popular players in Israel.

He also didn't realise that 30% of the players in the Israeli league are Palestinian Arabs, that an Arab team are the current champions and that football is one of the only things that Israelis and Palestinians do together which doesn't include plastic explosives, buses and cafés.

Displaying heretofore unprecedented levels of asinine cuntery he said "To be frank I don't follow soccer. I am not interested in individual details."

So he's making a protest about something he obviously knows something about using a medium he knows nothing about. Now that's some good thinking right there. Bowen, who obviously is studying for a degree in 'How to be a stupid bastard', went onto say the inclusion of Arab players on the Israeli team was "window dressing" and described Badir as a "token Arab".

So after admitting he knows nothing about football he somehow thinks he's in a position to comment on the make up of the Israeli national team? Arsewipe.

People like the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign do my fucking head in. I bet they're a bunch of crusty cocksuckers with fuck all else to do. If you're that fucking worried, Jim Bowen, get fucking over there and do something about it in person instead of sitting in the computer room in UCC releasing badly Photoshopped pictures of football shirts.

I can never bring myself to trust a man who doesn't like football. What the fuck did they do when they were kids then? Played with dolls or wrote poems or some other less than male stuff, that's what. Men who don't like football are not real men. Men who don't like football and launch campaigns against shit that really has nothing to do with them are fucking stupid arsehole cunts.

It's like those fucking twats who crawl out of a hole in the ground whenever somebody wants to build a new road. These so called eco-warriors pipe up "Oh no! You can't build a road through there. This is the breeding ground of the Triple-shelled arse-snail."

Did anybody give a fish's tit about the Triple-shelled arse-snail before? No. Does anybody care now? No. So what's the fucking problem? If these cunts continually get in the way of schemes like this then they should be bludgeoned to death and then we tarmac over them. Problem solved. People can go back to not giving a shite about the Triple-shelled arse-snail and we can get to where we want to go quicker because of the fantastic new road.

What about those urban crusties who hate globalisation and all that stuff? All those idealistic, shoot their mouth off wankers who complain about sweatshops and homogeny and they all stand around in their Nike trainers, Calvin Klein boxers and stop off for a Burger King or McDonald's after a hard day of bongo playing, picking the lice out of their mini-dreadlocks and smoking spliffs. Gobshites.

The shitebag do-gooder was never more prevalent than after the Tsunami©®. Yes, it was terrible, but the odious cretins out collecting made you wish it had fucking had the legs to cross Europe and drown a few of them as well. "But Ireland is a nation that likes to help people because we have a connection with every bad thing that ever happens in the world because of our own famine" they bleat.

Yes, what a caring nation we are. We welcome foreigners who want to live here with open arms and help them integrate into society (well, the girls from Ballymun do anyway when you look at the amount of mulatto babies). Do we bollocks. I saw Ardal O'Hanlon (a not terribly funny Irish comedian famous for his role in sitcom Father Ted) talking on a chatshow once about how Ireland, proportionately, gave more to Live Aid in 1985 than any other country. His shining comedy moment came when he told the chat show host "We didn't expect them to come over and thank us personally though."

Anyway, I'm straying away from the point here, which is that the Ireland-Palestine Solidarity Campaign is typical of all these various types of do-gooder cunt that infect the world today. Ill-informed, oblivious to making fools out of themselves in public and would be far more useful if they were beheaded, ground down into some kind of food and sent to Africa to feed famine victims.

So there.

What you need to do is talk quietly and not make too much noise this morning because my head hurts. Ron the barman hates Paddy's day because, as he says, 'All the cunts in the world are out making even bigger cunts of themselves than they already are.'

So around 8pm last night he decided he'd had enough and fucked everybody, except his very best customers, out of the pub. Some people were most unhappy, one foolish fool, who had been drinking all day, told Ron that he was going to get him for chucking him out the pub early. The only thing he actually got was a nosebleed as he landed on his face outside the front door. The twat.

So we had a lock-in. Stinkin' Pete went round the chipper and brought a vast assortment of chips, battered sausages, cod and spice burgers back with him and we all carried on sinking pints for another couple of hours before going home at a reasonable hour. Of course other bars were still open serving the, by now, slack-jawed shitehawks the last of their Paddy's day booze before they went out on the streets to fight each other and cause problems for emergency services and emergency room doctors.

I, naturally, woke up far too early with a blinding headache but staring at a computer screen makes me feel better. Oh yes. How was your Paddy's day then? Did you fight anyone? Bite somebody's ear off? Hit someone with a plank of wood? Have rough anal sex with a man you shouldn't have? What a joyous day it really is.

That aside I have decided the new comments thing I installed is gayer than a room full of Graham Nortons and I have reverted back to the default blogger system.

Now, I think I need a good fry.

Some Saint Patrick facts:

- Someone once told me Saint Patrick was Welsh. I told him not to be stupid and that Welsh people weren't real.

- Saint Patrick got rid of all the snakes in Ireland but he seems to have missed Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness (boom tish).

- Saint Patrick got a nun pregnant, killed her and threw her body off Bray head.

- Over 245,000,000,000 Americans celebrate Saint Patrick's day claiming Irish ancestory of some kind. President George W Bush is 1/4 Irish having spent 26 hours here last year.



- Saint Patrick invented the Etch-a-sketch

- The Saint Patrick's Day parade is a pickpockets dream. Jimmy the Bollix made over €3,500 last year.

- If you run around the Spire twelve times saying the Hail Mary backwards at midnight Saint Patrick will appear and give you a leather drink pouch filled with ancient and delicious whisky.

- Saint Patrick once had a bare-knuckle fight with the champion of the traveller's bare-knuckle fighting circuit and beat the crap out of him so badly the traveller crapped his pants and left the country. This was the first instance of an Irish traveller going to England. More were to follow as Saint Patrick punched his way around Ireland.

- If you are born on March 17th Irish law states your parents must give you the name Patrick. Or Trevor.

- Saint Patrick used to lift his cloak and flash at housewives on Middle Abbey Street.

- Before he died Saint Patrick was summoned to Rome by the Pope. Saint Patrick made the treacherous 4 week journey and when he arrived in the Vatican he called the Pope a cunt and told him to 'feck off'.

- I am currently writing a book called 'Da Diddly-eye code' in which I fabricate evidence about Saint Patrick being the anti-christ backed up by examination of Jack Yeats' paintings and the lyrics of Neil Hannon from the Divine Comedy.

For a Saint Patrick's day quiz go visit Diarmuid Geezer. Now, it's just about time for a pint. See you, hungover, tomorrow...

People called Roy - what cunts they are. I once knew a bloke called Roy who was the biggest cunt of all time anyway but then he did a sponsored blindathon where he lived like a blind person to raise money for something or to get his name in the papers which made him an even bigger biggest cunt of all time. While I don't wish him dead I do hope he's in his fifth year of a terminal and excruciatingly painful disease.

Griffins - just because.

Hilary Swank - she makes me sick. Is she a man? Is she a woman? Nobody knows. I say kill it now before it breeds.

Cloves - what is the fucking point of cloves? They taste like the discharge from Satan's cock and if you ask me how I know what that tastes like I'll have to just point to my great age and experience. I've been through a lot. The worst are those clove rock sweets - red and white and looking delicious. However, they taste vile. They should be banned so as not to offend me any more.

People who play accordions or trumpets on public transport in Europe - you're trying to read a book while you travel to your destination. Two fucking Romanians get on and ask you pardon their behaviour before launching into a fucking cunting bastardy medly of cunty songs on their ancient instruments. Fuck off and get AIDS and give it to your daughters you rotten cunts.

Damien Rice fans - don't you realise if you ignore him he'll go away? Stop buying his records and going to his gigs. He'll disappear like a common Steven 'Tintin' Duffy.

Other people's farts - my farts are entertaining and hilarious, often loud and nearly always sweet smellingly good. Other people's are vile and obnoxious and stink like Terence Trent D'Arby's second album. I hate them.

Clouds - Clouds are gay. I don't need to say any more.

Cockroaches - with all the technology we have in the world these scuttling cunts are still the only things that will survive a nuclear war (apart from Dubya and his fuck-buddies in their underground bunkers). Surely there must be some chemical, pesticide or poison that will get rid of them once and for all. If not why don't we recategorise them as food for starving Africans which will mean they'll run out all of a sudden and cause a massive famine. Problem solved.

Trying to scratch an itchy hole by just moving your arse on a chair - Social niceties demanded that we do not scratch our holes in public, especially in mass, so you were forced to wiggle your arse cheeks around to try and ease the itch. Now I just have a good root around till comfort comes but I hate the years I was forced to spend wiggling like an altar boy in the presbetery knowing his turn for a private audience with the priest was next.

Southern Comfort - Alcohol should taste like alcohol and not a child's lolly. A drink for cunts.

Paedophile dwarves - Dwarves are disgusting enough as it is but paedophile dwarves like the one sentenced to four years in prison yesterday are sick beyond words. Imagine the trauma of being sexually abused and then having to come to terms with the fact it was a dwarf with his iddy-biddy little hands and massive head. Drown the cunt, I say.

What stuff do you hate?

Have you seen this story about counterfeit condoms?

I know there's a huge market for counterfeit goods - whether it's DVD, fake sunglasses and watches, Fendi bags (whatever the fuck they are), clothes and so on but who the fuck decides to manufacture counterfeit jonnies? Apparently the easiest way to tell if you've got a dodgy batch is to check the colours. If they come in a range of colours and can be made into different types of animals when you inflate them then you should send them back.

What's next though? Counterfeit food? Chinese take-aways selling us cat and pigeon instead of duck and chicken?

Counterfeit suntans? People smearing on a brown paste to make themselves look like they have a tan when everyone knows it's as fake as Ryan Tubridy's niceness on TV.

Counterfeit hair? Maybe people will have hairpieces made to hide the fact they're as bald as coots. Where will it end?

Speaking of bald and coots - the latest edition of Dangermaus rolled off the cyber presses last night and features stories about Dickie Rock, St Patrick's Day and the Taoiseach's Sea-Monkey problem. Click here for Dangermausy goodness now.

Finally there should be (he said fingers crossed) a new comments system in place this morning. Blogger's comments were taking ages to load, if they loaded at all, so I was forced to look for an alternative. If you would all be so kind as to christen the new pop-uppy system and say hello (or fuck off you beardy old cunt, up to you) this morning that would be great. Comments will be listed as 'major'. eg. 1 Major, 2 Major. Who will be lucky enough to get the first ever mythical prize-winning* '20 Major'?




*Prize does not exist.

My goodness, what a busy weekend it's been for the people, and politicians, of Ireland. But mostly Meath. The county that nobody cares about was centre stage as by-elections took place. Enda Kenny and Fine Gael were happy as they won a seat while some no-mark Independent was happy as she won a seat.

Fianna Fail weren't worried though as communications minister Noel Dempsey did the talk radio rounds on Sunday saying "Fianna Fail good. We not sad. Next time better. Fwaaaaaaarrrrggg."

Gerry Adams is finding life more difficult now that someone has said in public what everyone has known for years. His annual cap in hand trip to Washington seems a bit cheeky when himself and Martin McGuinness have spent the last few weeks discussing how to spend £26.5m.

Martin - "I'd love a weekend at a top spa, so I would, Gerry. Relax my old bones a bit."

Gerry - "Aye, I think I might hire those 'Queer eye for the straight guy' fellas. If they can revamp the image of a mullet-headed, Achy-breaky heart loving redneck think what they could do for me. Tee-hee!"

Wasn't it funny that Ted Kennedy called off a meeting with Adams? God knows he couldn't ever be seen to meet with killers. Expect him to call off all meetings with himself after he remembers he drives like Princess Diana's chauffer.

Finally it's Saint Patrick's week and parade organisers in Dublin are pissed off because the Luas cables mean no float can be larger than 5.5 metres tall. In the past some of them have been 12 metres high. If this doesn't spark them into being more creative and inventing some floats that actually fucking float then I don't know what will.

Sad news today about the death of comedian Dave Allen. He was quite groundbreaking really, making fun of things nobody else did, especially the catholic church, and swearing more than anyone else. He was cool and he was missing bits off his fingers which made him cooler.



His TV show also had a really groovy theme tune which I'm happy to make available to you here (mp3 - 740k).

It's true, I promise you. My brother has a friend called Joe Jackson (no, not the steppin' out pop star) and his cousin is called Michael Jackson who freely admitted to us one night that he likes to have anal sex with baby goats. The sick fucker.

Did I ever tell you that Gerry Adams is an IRA killer? 'strue. Honest. Gerry Adams from Ballinteer once got into a fight with an IRA man in the pub and killed him to death with a series of right-hooks and uppercuts.

Have you heard that Brian Kennedy is gay? I swear to God. Brian Kennedy, who lives in Clontarf, has had a number of torrid affairs with men.

And how about the news that Michael McDowell has a shrine to Hitler in his front room and talks about the 'great scheme' in which he'll cleanse Ireland from the immigrants that are 'diluting our population'. Yes, that's Michael McDowell who works as a taxi driver and lives in Artane.

Finally, I'm sure you've all heard that Brian McFadden is a talentless, insipid, bland, vapid cunt.

This morning I have a very bad hangover after a night of pints with Jimmy, Pete and Bob the chef (I'll tell you about him another time). As it is each tap of the keyboard is like an explosion in my head. I just can't blog this morning.

So instead of me writing something to entertain you I want you to write something to entertain me. Please leave a comment to tell me about the worst hangover you had or how you did something really stupid when you were drunk.

Thanks and does anyone have any Nurofen handy?

Gerry Adams today released a statement in which he offered to maim, torture, rape and kill those IRA members responsible for the death of Robert McCartney. The bearded Sinn Fein leader said “Justice must be done. Sinn Fein in no way condones violence and we will not accept the behaviour of these IRA men that we have no connection with anyway.”

It’s believed the men will be sodomised first, with Adams set to go bareback and lube-free to really teach them a lesson, before a serious beating is administered. After a number of hours of being tortured both physically (with sharp and blunt instruments) and mentally (with Phil Collins music) the killers will be put to sleep by a local ‘Ra friendly vet.

I read this morning that McDonalds are introducing a new line of happy meals for kids. One of the things that's supposed to make them happier is that these new treats will have 30% less salt. Nice one - that's bound to make any kid happy because we all know how concerned children are with their salt intake.

Here are some suggestions to make McDonald's happy meals happier for kids:

- Instead of a toy give them a weapon of some kind. A sharp stick, for example, a garrotte, or possibly a ninja star. Kids love weapons.

- Introduce new lines of milkshakes, such Strawberry-amphetamine and hallucinogenic-vanilla. Strawberry kids will be full of self-confidence and energy, for short periods, while the vanilla kids will be happy to sit in a room and stare at a blank wall. Kids love drugs and the addictive qualities of these delicious beverages will ensure repeat custom.

- Let the kids slaughter their own cow to get the meat for their burger. Kids love to kill animals. Return customers could use the weapon they received on a previous visit.

- Make it obligatory for kids to swear when ordering their happy meals. Kids love to swear. "I'll have a fucking happy meal, you poxy cunt, with a Strawberry-amphetamine milkshake and a large cunting fries. You goat-fucking bastard."

- Make every 100th happy meal poisonous. Kids love to vomit and adding an element of danger to their snacking will keep their enthusiasm up.

- Give coupons which entitle the user to a day off school. Kids love days off school. Then on their days off they can take their weapons, drop in for a happy meal, kill an animal, swear at a grown-up and get absolutely wankered on drugs. Nice.

And that's how to make McDonald's happy meals happier.

The latest edition has just been published with exclusives about Johnny Logan, Mick Lally, Colin Farrell, duck butter and much more.

Check out dangermaus.com

I was in the pub last night with Stinkin' Pete and Jimmy the Bollix when over came Lightweight Larry.

We call him that because he was a former lightweight boxer. He also can't drink more than three pints without getting absolutely scuttered. Which is bad because when he's drunk he likes to sing the songs of spiky-haired 80s synth wizard Howard Jones.

Now, I'm a man of eclectic tastes and have no real problem with Howard Jones but Jimmy the Bollix hides a terrible secret which I am now going to reveal to you. In the video for Howard's breakthrough hit, New Song, there was a wibbly-wobbly dancer in a weird costume (chains and stuff) dancing alongside Jones' synth rack. Back then Jimmy the Bollix was struggling over in London. He'd been working with a criminal gang which operated around the Seven Sisters Road area but he'd become disillusioned with them after one raid on a petrol station in which his gang mates announced their names like Ninja Turtles:

"I am Achmed Wallbongala" - shouted one.
"I am Davey Murphy" exclaimed another.
"I am Sven Svenson" said the third man.

"I am leaving" said Jimmy the Bollix. "You are the most stupid cunts I have ever met."

So he left and while his former gang chums were easily caught by police he had to lie low. One day, while in an alley counting the money in a handbag he'd stolen, he heard someone crying. He looked and saw a strange haired young man sitting at the back door of a recording studio.

"What are you crying for?" asked Jimmy.

"Oh, it's terrible" said the young Howard Jones. "I'm recording my album but I'm worried about my girlfriend."

"What's the problem with her?" asked Jimmy.

"Well, I'm not sure our relationship is on an even footing. I love her whether or not she loves me. I love her even if she thinks that I don't. Sometimes I think she doubts my love for her..."

"I wouldn't mind that," said Jimmy. "What is love, anyway? Does anybody love anybody anyway?"



And with that a hit song was made. The two got to talking and when Howard Jones found out his new friend was down on his luck he gave him the dancing job for his single. Jimmy was well paid and soon became a fixture in the London clubs hanging out with top starts like Kajagoogoo, Gary Numan and Men at Work.

The problem was at this exact time Vincent Hanley caught the hearts of a nation with his hit TV show, MTUSA, which showed music videos. 'New song' was a regular on the show and we, Jimmy the Bollix's closet friends, immediately recognised his distinctive dance moves which we'd first seen around Dublin's top discos.

When he came back to Ireland a few years later he got an unmerciful slagging leaving him extremely sensitive to any mention of Howard Jones or any 80s synth pop for that matter. So when Lightweight Larry came over and started singing 'No-one is to blame' things got a bit ugly. And by things I mean Lightweight Larry. He was no looker before but fuck me you should see the cunt now.

Poor Jimmy though, his Howardaphobia once cost him a torrid affair with top actress Kim Bassinger who was visiting Ireland on holiday. She saw him in McDaids one afternoon and was captivated by his swarthy good looks and air of menace. Plucking up the courage she went over to him and said "I'd like to get to know you well."

Luckily there are many good plastic surgeons in Hollywood and nobody could tell the difference after a few months.

So if you see Jimmy the Bollix in the bar never put Howard Jones on the jukebox for he will break your arms. He quite likes Nik Kershaw though.

Noreen and Ballbag hate stuff and it's fantastic. I hope they can keep up this level of hatred and not have strokes and die, the vicious cunts.

Emerald bile.

There's been some talk on some other Irish blogs about what exactly makes an Irish blog Irish. Is it Irish if it's hosted in Ireland? What about if the blogger is Irish but the subject matter isn't especially Irish? What if the blogger is not Irish but the subject matter is Irish related? Can we apply the 'granny rule' to Irish bloggers as we do to Irish footballers? Who is the Tony Cascarino of Irish blogs then? Who will the goalscoring John Aldridge and who will be the 'Why did we bother with him anyway' Bernie Slaven?

To end the confusion once and for all I have designed a set of easy to distinguish criteria which will make it easy for people to see if their blog is Irish or not.

Edit: To avoid debate about how many of these criteria need to be fulfilled to attain Irish blogger status I spent some time researching and analysing my post before choosing a number at random. Which is 3.

1 - It must be written in an Irish 'voice', if you will. By that I mean it should roll off the tongue like Sean O'Casey dialogue, there should be a hint of a Guinness fuelled Brendan Behan, sparkle with wit like Oscar Wilde and be full of authentic and not at all stereotyped, oh no, characters like any Roddy Doyle novel.

2 - The blog can be considered Irish if it's immeasurably improved by reading aloud in the voice of Tom Cruise trying to do an Irish accent in Far and Away.

3 - If the author has ever considered murdering any of the following people then it can claim to be an Irish blog: Shay Healy, Dana, Christy Moore, Julian on Friday, Oliver Cromwell, former football manager Eoin Hand and behemoth Commitments star Andrew Strong.

4 - The writer must use some Irish colloquialisms such as 'Bejaysus', 'begorrah', 'tooralooraloorlay', geddusapint' and 'Feck off ya cunt.'

5 - Given a choice between an insipid European or American lager and a delicious pint of Dublin's finest export the blogger must always choose Guinness if they are to be considered Irish.

6 - The type of food the blogger chooses to eat on the way home from the pub is a defining factor here. Anything other than a single of chips and a battered sausage or spice burger will immediately rule them out of the Irish category. Choosing curry for example would make them English, take away haggis would make them a Scottish blogger while roasting a wild boar in the forest with their enormously strong sidekick would make them a Gaul blogger.

7 - Obvious amount of green would immediately disqualify the blogger from being Irish in the same way that wearing an Aran jumper and taking pictures of the Molly Malone statue make 'Irish-American' tourists not Irish at all, at all.

8 - Owning any U2 album before The Joshua Tree came out is a qualifier. If the blogger has ever sung 'Don't forget your shovel' by Christy Moore then they cannot be included for reasons of public safety and utter bollickery.

9 - Nothern Irish bloggers can be included if they do something good and interesting but if they are boring or offensive (in a bad way) then they must be considered UK bloggers. This is the 'Reverse McGuigan ruling' based on boxer Barry McGuigan who was considered 'British' by UK media when he was world champion but immediately became Irish when he lost his title.

10 - If the blogger is abroad but of Irish nationality he or she can only be considered if they talk publicly of Ireland's verdant hills, whisper softly of the rainy days and speak fondly of the 'craic' and the wit of the people but privately moan about the weather, the immigrants, the traffic, the price of a pint and give out shite about the begrudgers and feckless thieves in government.

Using these criteria should now make it easy for anyone to classify their blog as Irish or not. This is the word of the Lord Twenty.

irishblog

So yesterday evening, after a couple of beers, inspiration hit me. I thought of something for today's blog that was not only topical, current and cutting edge - I'm not afraid to say it was probably one of the top 5 jokes of all time.

This was something that would have had you laughing all day. The sheer wit and genius of it would have made my name far and wide. Forget Oscar Wilde, forget Stephen Fry, forget Quentin Crisp and other top heterosexual wags, this would have put them all to shame.

'Such perspicacity', people would have exclaimed.

'Where has this sagacious highbrow been all our lives?' others might vociferate.

'I don't get it,' giant-hootered model Jordan would have bellowed.

TV shows, book deals, my own radio station, perhaps an island or two - all these things were sure to follow as I dazzled all and sundry with those two lines. The two lines that this morning TOTALLY AND UTTERLY ESCAPE ME.

Not only do I not remember them I don't even have a vague idea of what the subject matter was. It's like the time Jimmy the Bollix was working as a bouncer in a Leeson Street club and some lad 'forgot' that he couldn't go around groping the girls working there. Jimmy reminded him in the face a number of times and the young lad remembered all of a sudden.

So what to do? Do I give up now and accept that it's gone? Do I try all day to remember and surely drive myself to the brink of insanity? Do I go about my normal business and hope it just flashes back into my head? And what if I do remember? After the hyperbole, the build-up, the grandstanding I've given it here even if I do remember it's bound to fall flat if I do post it.

No! Its quality will stand-up to such embellishment and froufrou. Perhaps I need a beer. Beer made me forget. Beer will help me remember.

It is a bit early but it is Friday after all...anyone else fancy one?

I can't have been the only one who saw the picture of Martin Cahill's son in today's paper and thought this:



It's uncanny, isn't it? I think the police should be on the look out for anyone ordering parts to make a giant, driveable duck and if he runs for mayor we're well and truly fucked without Bruce Wayne.

For those of you who don't know Martin Cahill was probably the most famous Dublin criminal of all time. He pulled off a series of top robberies, lived in a massive house in a very posh Dublin suburb, wore Mickey Mouse underpants on his head outside of court and then got shot to death almost 10 years ago by the IRA.

They made some films about him too. One, which I think starred Brendan Gleeson, was quite good, but the other starring Kevin Spacey was one of the worst films ever made but apparently Spacey had a fine time walking his dog around Herbert Park at 4am each morning.

Anyway, be careful of Cahill Jr. He and his flightless black and white army will be coming to a neighbourhood near you, soon.

You are a priest and a headmaster at a school. You prowl the domitories of the first year boys and sexually abuse six boys. You abuse another two boys on a holiday camp in Cork. You use your position of power to intimidate the boys into silence telling one that his father would lose his job if he told anyone.

As well as that you have previously been found guilty of four counts of sexual abuse on a 13 year old boy and you have spent 6 months in prison.

Now you're in court and you face sentencing for what the judge calls a "reign of terror". Do you:

a:Get a lengthy spell in jail as punishment for your crimes, or:

b: Get off with a 6 month suspended sentence?

If you chose b then you go straight to 'GO', you can collect €200, you can forget about the boys you touched up and you can live with your priest chums in a nice house, with heating, square meals, TV and all other mod-cons.

It's a fucking joke, this country. The judge said he didn't give Father Vincent Mercer (free registration required for link) a futher jail sentence because he'd already served 6 months for a similar offence. Amazing. By that rationale I can kill someone, get out of jail (some time later, of course) then kill someone again and the judge will let me off because I've already done time for killing someone. Can I spend time in jail for robbery then feel free to rob again any time I like because I've been punished before for the same crime? Can I fuck, so why is this cunt being let away with it?

These child abuse cases are being treated more frivolously than people who don't have TV licences. The judges are way too soft on these fuckers. I've made my feelings clear on these cunts before. They treat sexual abuse like it was some kind of national pastime that was okay back in the day but not quite as acceptable now.

They make me sick. The dirty old bastards who have carried out this abuse for years, the religious orders that shield them and move them around knowing fine well they're just dumping the problem elsewhere and the fucking arsehole bastard cuntfaced shitbag pissdrinking wanker 'judges' whose job it is to dispense justice yet fail time and time again to do so.

I hope they all get cancer of the bollocks. And the spine.

He's been sick for ages now with flus, colds, chest infections and breathing problems.

So why do they keep sitting him in open windows? He'll catch his death.

Roy Keane - well done to him for putting some manners on a spotty little oik. The youth of today are so quick to run their mouths off at any opportunity it's about time somebody put an end to it, and who better than a pyschotic footballer? It would be a travesty if Keane faced jail time for what he did. Who amongst us hasn't wanted to clobber a youngster when they think they're so grown-up and brave?

It reminds me of the time my traveller killing buddy, Stinking Pete, had to take a young scout to task for his rudeness. He'd been sitting at home when the doorbell rang and when he answered it there stood before him a young boy scout, resplendent in his uniform with kneckerchief and woggle, who asked him "Bob-a-job, sir?"

Now if you've ever been in Stinking Pete's house you'll know there are plenty of jobs that need doing. The back garden is still full of ostrich shite (he had a get rich quick scheme in which he tried to sell ostrich eggs - his pitch was 'Why buy a dozen chicken eggs when just one ostrich one will do'. It didn't work and he ended up drowning the birds in his coal bunker), it could certainly do with a lick of paint and the front lawn hasn't been mowed in about 3 years. It's like the Vietnamese jungle except with less rifle-wielding gooks.

So Pete got the youngster to clean out his gutters, again this is something that hadn't been done for an age. He gave him a ladder, a pair of Marigold rubber gloves and a chisel to scrape out the really hard bits. Four hours later the scout called back to the door. "Your gutters are now the cleanest in the entire neighbourhood,' he said. "Now, recompense for my hard work would be greatly appreciated."

"Of course," said Stinking Pete. "Hold on one moment whilst I go inside and get it for you."

Just a few moments later he emerged. "Here you go, young man. Here's the partially decomposed skull of former reggae music singer Bob Marley. Don't tell anyone where you got it though!"

As he was closing the door, feeling good about his transaction, he heard the young scout mutter "What the fuck is this? Mad old cunt."

They never did find that scout's body and I have Bob Marley's skull over my fireplace with an apple it its mouth. True.

Finally a word to the audience at the Meteor music awards last Friday. I'm told that when Brian McFadden came onstage (dirty pup, he's insatiable) he was roundly booed. Afterwards McFadden remarked that he was fed up with Ireland, he was moving to Australia and never coming back. What a cry-baby, lump of old shite he is, but well done teenagers at the awards. You've done in 20 seconds what it would have taken me months of threatening phone calls, anonymous emails and stalking to achieve.