If there's one person you shouldn't have nicked your material from it's Bane. Luckily for you he's thousands of miles away but if you ever tour America I suggest staying away from his home town.

What town is his home town, you ask? Not telling. It'll be like Russian Roulette comedy touring.

This morning I have just a bit of a hangover having gone out drinking with Jimmy the Bollix last night. Nothing funny happened at all. We sat in the pub drinking pints until it was time to go home. I went home and had a few more cans of beer. Then I went to bed. When I woke up this morning my mouth was dry and my stomach was churning.

Have I told you before that I have a dog? Well, if not, I have a dog. His name is Bastard Face. "Get him, Bastard Face!" is one of my favourite things to say as we walk through the kiddie's playground in Bushy Park. He doesn't like children though. I should clarify that. He doesn't like eating children. Actually he's a very good natured dog. I can't tell you what make of dog he is. He's sort of a mix between a Doberman, a West Highland White terrier and a pony.

He can breathe fire and climb trees and he always poos in the same part of the garden.

And that's the end of the story about my pet, by Twenty Major, age: Old.

So should I say that I've got nothing to say or just not say anything at all?

Actually I should say thanks to Kev who told me the two unfunny blokes on that RTE show were Jason Byrne and Kevin Gildea. Having just turned on the TV to catch the news this morning who should I see but Byrne on TV3 making a joke about the Pope being dead and his kid saying "Oh no! What happened to santa?"

Now, a quick Google shows up this thread on some kind of Scottish nerd forum from April 3rd - more than three weeks ago. And this thread from another forum on the same day.

So not only is Jason Byrne not funny he steals his material from the internet.

Apparently he's playing at Vicar Street soon. Are you allowed heckle somebody with a baseball bat?

I know I should know better but I watched TV again last night and it was some show called 'Reverb' which looked at RTE's music archives. There was some funny stuff on it, especially Dickie Rock but most especially the Boyzone goons dancing on the Late Late show all those years ago. How any of them can show their faces in public after that is still beyond me. No matter what happens to any of us for the rest of our lives we should take comfort that nothing even half as embarassing as that could befall us.

Anyway, this show is like so many others in that they get D-list celebs to make comments about what they're showing. The problem is in Ireland your D-list celebs are like Z-list celebs elsewhere and I didn't know who any of them were. Now, you might find this hard to believe but the unfunny twats they had on were even less funny than the unfunny twats they have on The Panel on RTE2.

There were two in particular. One ginger bloke with glasses who told stories which were about as funny as AIDS but which he seemed to find hilarious. He talked about being a loungeboy in the Braemore Rooms and apparently all the women would say "You're coming home with me."

The only reason I can think they'd want to bring him home is to drown the cunt and put him out of his misery. Not even the most desperate housewives would go home with a ginger loungeboy when they could just do the taxi driver, right Tommy? He also told a story about wearing his brother's Iron Maiden jacket to a Mama's Boys gig. It might have been funny had he lost the jacket, vomited on the jacket, torn the jacket or caused some sort of damage to the jacket but he didn't. He came home and his brother was angry because he wore the jacket. Well pardon me as I try and stop my sides from splitting.

The other bloke was another bespectacled chap with funny stubble and bleached blonde hair (I think). He told a story about being the first person in Ireland to ever see The Smiths. It was so obviously made up I wondered why he bothered. Then I realised it was because he was a sad, lonely cunt. Looking at him, with his horrific face and reedy, boyish voice, I understood that he was just desperate for some sort of acceptance and credibility. That doesn't mean he isn't loathsome though.

What I need from you, dear readers, is for you to identify these people for me so I can put them on my list. Quite what I have planned for the people on my list I can't yet say but if no-mark celebrities around Ireland go missing only for their flayed corpses to turn up months later I want to state here and now that it is nothing at all to do with me.

Nothing. at. all.

So who are they?

Ever see Hollywood men in films when they do their nudey bit? They always have an arse that's a smooth as a baby's bottom but if you stuck a pair of glasses and a set of buck teeth on mine it'd look like Gerry Adams.

Do these guys have baby smooth buttocks or do they actually shave their arses and if so isn't that the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard?

I know sportsmen, particularly cyclists and swimmers, shave their legs/bodies because it helps them in their competitions but is there any reason at all for a man to shave his arse cheeks?

And what happens when their nude scene is over. Do they continue to shave their holes or do they let the hair grow back? Imagine a stubbly arse.

Quite frankly it's a disgrace and any man who shaves the hair off his arse should be put to death at once.

I just got an email with a joke and at the end of the joke it said:

<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> If this doesn ' t make you laugh, you're having a really bad day!!

Erm, no. If this doesn't make me laugh, and it didn't make me laugh, it's because it wasn't fucking funny and you're a cunt for even thinking I'd find something that unfunny amusing. I prefer to get proper spam for Viagra and cheap fags and other wonder pills than the shite that some cunt gets sent and then that cunt decides to send it on to every single person he knows.

Out of that group there's at least one other person who'll send it to every single person they know and soon the same email is being sent around the world forever and ever because that one cunt in every group will always, without fail, exist.

The fucking cunts.

Bernie is advertising for aliens on his blog and recommending Callan in County Kilkenny as the perfect safe haven.

Now, if you've never been to Callan then take my word for it when I tell you it's the most deeply unsettling town in Ireland. It's like something out of a Stephen King novel. There's an air of foreboding and not exactly menace but something just a bit sinister. You wouldn't want to be wandering around on your own after dark like.

That leads me to believe that either: a) Aliens have already landed and are using shapeshifting and other x-filestastic stuff to live on earth or b) Aliens landed and the people of Callan simply ate them after some kind of Whicker Man style ceremony.

Either way my advice to you, humans and aliens alike, is avoid Callan at all costs and if your car breaks down there just don't bring it to the mechanic whose garage is close to the GAA field.

You have been warned.

I like music as much as the next man. When it's good it's really good but when it's bad there's nothing worse. Apart from stuff like eating poo or someone else's sick but you know what I mean. Anyway, there are some musical instruments that I just hate. And they are as follows:

The bongos: The instrument of the crusty or Hippy©®. Often they just sit in circles smoking joints while one cretinous cuntbag bangs away at these things like he's in tune with the heartbeat of the world or something. Bongos have their place in 15-piece Latin American salsa bands but in the filthy grasp of dreadlocked dog fuckers they are a plague and need to be inserted firmly up the anal passage of the wretched beatniks until they wail for mercy. It's the only way they'll learn.

The accordian: Popular amongst Romanian gypsies they play standard songs while you try and have a beer outside on your holidays anywhere in Europe. It's now estimated that each outside terrace supports the livelihoods of up to 20 of these disgusting cunts who play you music while their sidekick picks your pocket. A call to arms - if you don't give them any money they will starve to death. It's harsh, but fair.

Bagpipes: Yes, we all know the comparisons to a bag full of cats having the life squeezed out of them but it's just something about the pitch of the bagpipes that makes me want to start killing things all around me. It's the same with a lady soprano singing opera. It hurts my ears. The bagpipes are generally played by men in dresses and that kind of shit hasn't been popular since Roxy Music in the early 70s.

The Harpsichord: There's a very simple equation worked out a long time ago by medieval mathematicians. If you play the harpsichord a jester will appear within minutes and start going around the place jesting like a cunt. Jesters are old fashioned clowns and I fucking hate clowns so any instrument that summons the fuckers has to be bad news.

The recorder: Has anyone ever heard a beautiful piece of music played on a recorder? No. And I'll tell you why. The only people who play the recorder are children in school who are made play it for music class. It's rare to find a recorder prodigy, the equivalent of Mozart or Richard Clayderman on the piano, so what you get is a wall of noise from 30 kids trying to play 'Three blind mice', all of them playing different notes at different times. Just stop.

Harmonica: Yes, you're in prison. Yes, you're sitting around a camp fire. Yes, you've just thrown your bag up onto one of those open trains and you're going to travel across America running away from your troubles. But that's no fucking excuse to play the mouth organ. At it's very worst in Bob Dylan songs or Piano Man by Billy Joel this instrument should be outlawed at once for making people feel 'blue'. See how blue you are when I ram it down your cunting throat Mr I-Can't-Breathe-Anymore.

And those are the instruments I hate.

Italy. What a strange place, so full of Italians and mopeds and people driving like they want to die as soon as possible.

I was there once, this was in 1978 or so. I was in Rome just sketching about, like you do. Taking in the architecture, soaking up the history, eating lots of pasta and pizza and drinking bottle after bottle of delicious red wine.

So anyway I was sitting in the Piazza Navona enjoying a calice di vino when all of a sudden a police van screeched into the square and pulled up alongside me. Out jumped about 8 Paolo Maldini looking blokes with helmets, rifles, grenades and designer sunglasses.

One of them came up to me and shouted something like: "Ay! Vino bianco. Spaghetti carbonara, calzone, Quando arriva il treno da Roma? Mi hanno rubato l'orologio."

Says I, "You what?"

He starts waffling again and then they bundle me into the back of the van. I didn't even have time to settle my bill. They bring me to a police station and leave me sitting in an interrogation room. I sat in there smoking for about half an hour. Then some top cop kind of bloke came in.

"A-tell a me, for what a you visita Roma?" he says.

"For a de fucking sunshine and a fucking wine-a", I reply.

"You-a think a you so smarta" he says. "We a know all abouta you plana. Is a better for you to say truth a now and we don't a hurt you. a."

"What aplana?" I ask.

So he starts waffling on about how I know 'a fine a wella' whata my plan is. I'm a bit baffled at this stage and while I'm enjoying the smoking I'd much rather be out in the Piazza getting drunk and watching the pretty Roman girls go by.

Eventually they get someone from the Irish consulate down to talk to me having checked out my passport and so on. He comes in and tells me they think I'm Carlos the Jackal, the world's deadliest assassin. Something to do with my beard and shifty eyes.

So the cop guy comes back in. Says I "You think I'm Carlos the Jackal? You're off your box man. I'm Seamus the Panther, Ireland's best and most ruthless assassin. I'm here to assassinate the King of Spain."

The cop is confused? "What-a you say? What a box? Not the Jackal but a panther? King of a Spain? You a make a my head hurt!"

The consulate guy then explains everything in Italian and tells them I'm just a normal Irish citizen going about my holiday style business and they agree to let me go if I leave the country at once. I agree but only if they pay for me to go home in first class. Which they did.

I've never been back to Italy but the cop was so convinced I was Carlos the Jackal he moved his entire family over here to keep me under surveillance using a chain of chippers as his cover.

All the staff of Silvio's chip shops around the south side of Dublin are specially trained to listen for any reference to the Jackal and report back to Mr Silvio himself if they hear anything. There's one quite close to me.

No matter how drunk I am when I'm getting my battered sausages and chips I make sure not to make any reference to all the people I've killed.

So my application for Pope was, as you might have gathered, unsuccessful.

This is because they've elected a new Pope. Cardinal Ratzinger becomes Pope Eggs Benedict XVI. He is a healthy 78 years of age.

Maybe it's just me but I'd have to question the logic of electing a bloke who's already got one foot in the grave. I'm not Johnny Churchalot but I think there's a general feeling that the Catholic Church needs to change, become more progressive, more in tune with the modern world.

With the greatest of respect what does a 78 year old know about modernisation? Could he install a wireless router or programme his Sky+ box to record Desperate Housewives each week? No chance.

Would he be able to beat Brazil in Pro-Evolution Soccer 4 playing with Scotland on 6 stars? My scabby hole he would.

Would he be able to tell you the names of more than 3 of Girls Aloud? Uh-uh.

Could he, if he travelled into the past, harness exactly 1.21 giga-watts of electricity to power his Delorean time machine back to the future? I think not.

At that age you're just battling to keep things the same because they're comfortable and nice and change is terribly, terribly scary. How can you fully concentrate on the needs of your flock of 1.1 billion people when you're waiting for prostate troubles to kick in?

The Cardinals should have gone with somebody younger, somebody with the time to implement the changes and ensure they're carried out. Somebody with lots of youthful spunk. Like Michael Jackson or Gary Glitter.

But seriously, it's all terribly underwhelming and I don't think his appointment will get people back into the churches whereas I, had I been elected, would have. Probably at gunpoint, mind you, but nevermind.

Finally for today yesterday I was thinking it was a long time since I heard somebody reply 'Up your hole picking daisies' to a question about where something was.

e.g 'Jimmy, you bollix, where are my fucking cigarettes?' - 'Up your hole picking daisies, Twenty. You beardy old cunt.'

I miss the old days, our old sayings, when things were 'gift', 'epic' and 'capital' and people were called 'wallys' and 'joeys'.

Can you think of any childhood slang which could, nay should, make a return to the common use?

This online poker is all the rage, so it is. I'm quite the card shark myself but I like to play amongst my friends. There's nothing sweeter than going home with a big pile of money while Jimmy the Bollix, Stinking Pete, Ron the Barman, Dirty Dave and old pigeon loving Charlie sit glum faced at the table plotting my painful demise.

Of course there's nothing I hate more than losing to those cunts either but that's all part of the fun. I was looking at the Indepenent online website and in one of the stories they had this ad for online poker:



Now seriously. Where's the fun in playing poker with mentally handicapped people? I know the chances of winning are seriously increased but even I have some standards. I have to admit that one time, when I was very young I should add, we did rob a mentally handicapped guy of his money tin as he went door to door in our neighbourhood and spent the money on flaggins of cider, but I've made my retribution for that many times over.

Anyway, it's probably all a trick. VC Poker are trying to lull you into playing their poker by putting a picture of that special needs guy on their ad but all the while it'll be proper poker virtuosos ready to take your money.

Elsewhere I saw a story about how a town in North Carolina is taking down a statue of Martin Luther King so they can put up a more 'African American' statue. Problem is nobody can figure out what to put to make him more African American. So, to the people of Rocky Mount, here's what you do:

A statue of Martin Luther King dressed in baggy pants, unlaced trainers, a basketball top on (with his own name and number 68 on the back), dripping with gold jewellery, eating a huge bucket of fried chicken with 'biscuits', with a ghetto-blaster at his feet, break-dancing, singing sweet soul music, being wise in Hollywood films like Morgan Freeman and with a posse of guys with their arms folded all around him.

Is that it in a nutshell or am I watching too much MTV?

So the man who brought down Baring's Bank has now got a new job as commercial manager of Galway United Football Club. Sounds like a marriage made in heaven, doesn't it? He can use his wisdom and knowledge of the markets to invest the club's money in futures and bonds and soon they'll be able to finance signings like Ronaldo, David Beckham and Gary Breen.

It put me in mind of some other career changes people might make. Like these:

Michael Barrymore - he can do some ads for safety in swimming pools, reminding people not to take lots of cocaine and get bummed to death.

Lee Bowyer and Jonathan Woodgate - these two footballers can launch a new scheme designed to help stamp out (pun intended) racism and advocate the use of Pakistani owned corner shops.

David Blunkett - he can set up a chain of private detectives called 'Eye-spy' who specialise in finding out if the woman you're having an affair with is actually having another affair with someone else.

Jonathan King and Gary Glitter - they can set up a kids play centre where parents can leave their children for birthday parties or when they go shopping safe in the knowledge they'll get lots of special attention from the owners themselves.

OJ Simpson - OJ can open a leather goods store specialising in gloves which don't fit so you can get away with murdering your wife and her lover in a vicious frenzy of stabbing and stuff. His partner in this business might be the husband of Rachel O'Reilly.

Roman Polanski, Billy Wyman and Jerry Lee-Lewis - these guys can set up a finishing school for girls under 15 years of age.

Woody Allen - need help with starting an affair with your adopted daughter that you've had since she was a toddler? Damn the morality of it - Woody will teach you how to get stuck in. Just send $99.99 and you'll receive a full instruction booklet packed with Polaroid pictures.

George Best - his new work out DVD 'How to care for your new liver' will be available soon. It includes great new moves such as 'Get pissed all day long', 'Beat your wife' and 'Drinking meths when the pubs close is no big problem'.

Bertie Ahern - He can become a stuttering fool of a politician whose main concern is ensuring none of the shit his government gets up to ever reflects badly on him. Wait a minute...

Where does a male snake keep his mickey and where does the lady snake have her opening of love for the male snake to put his mickey in?

There are, if you go look at Planet of the Blogs, literally tens of Irish blogs for you to choose from, dealing with all kinds of subjects. Technology, life in general, drinking booze, not drinking booze, the arts, photoblogs and many, many more.

But the the Irish blogging scene so 'new' (relatively speaking - the first recorded blogs were spotted in 1876 in Nebraska) there are some we're missing in the Irish blogosphere. Or Boggersphere as one witty chap named it. That is good for anyone from outside of Ireland talking about Irish blogs in general but for us Dubs the term 'bogger' doesn't sit very well as it describes only those outside of Dublin with their wellies and ruddy cheeks and donkey jackets. And that's just the ladies.

Anyway, having spent a considerable amount of time thinking about this I believe we're missing some Irish blogs which would cover important parts of our culture. Who will step up to the plate and get them off the ground? List to follow:

foreignworker.blogspot.com: We need a blog from many of the foreign workers in this country. The shop assistants in Spar, the waiters in Dublin's restaurants, the Turkish construction workers, the lounge girls in the the bars and all the others who now do the jobs that Irish people feel are too lowly to bother with.

Example entry: Man come in. Ask for pint. Serve pint to man. He no give me tip. Spit in man next pint.

irishgossip.blogspot.com: There are all kinds of sites for Hollywood gossip but we don't have anybody bitching and sniping, on a regular basis, about Ireland's phalanx of media and entertainment stars. We need somebody to deflate their swelled heads, prick their fragile egos and make them realise that as famous people we're entitled to mock them ceaselessly and they can't do anything about it.

Example entry: Saw Ryle Nugent in Kiely's last night. He was drinking a pint of Smithwicks. Later spotted outside Brian O'Driscoll's house with a mandolin serenading the Irish captain with 'Everybody hurts' by REM.

irishsport.blogspot.com: There are some blogs which cover sport from time to time but there doesn't seem to one dedicated to sport or a particular sport. Given that we play so much sport in this country it does seem odd we're missing that kind of blog. We could have one about rugby, GAA, stabbing people outside pubs or even League of Ireland football.

Example entry from St Patrick's Athletic blog: Went to the game last night. Loada bollix it was. Dem fucking Bohs fuckin cunts from de Nortside fuckin won it widda skanky penno. De bleedin' ref was a load a me hoop, the muppet. Least we borned his fuckin' car outside de Stadium o' Ligh'. Reeeeet.

famousperson.blogspot.com: Other countries have blogs by famous people, such as Noam Chomskey, that wee nerd from Star Trek and Moby. Ireland's famous people are letting the blogging revolution pass them by. Sort it out, famebots.

Example entry: Hi fans. Wrote another dreary song with very few instruments in it last night. It's about a man who loves a girl but the girl doesn't love the man so he writes a song about how much he loves the girl and the fact the girl doesn't love him makes him love her even more. It's called 'I really love this girl but she doesn't love me'. I suppose you could say it's autobiograpical...[continues in this vein for what seems like 200 pages]. Until next time. Damien Rice.

knackerblog.blogspot.com: This Irish travelling community gets a hard time. Perhaps a blog would give people valuable insight into their way of life.

Example entries: Wednesday: Thurles. Went door to door looking for handouts. Robbed some clothes off some washing lines. Went home in a 05 Hi-Ace. Had sex with my sister/wife.

Thursday: Clonmel. Went door to door looking for handouts. Robbed some clothes off some washing lines. Went home in a 05 Hi-Ace. Had sex with my sister/wife.

luasdriver.blogspot.com: We've got a taxi driver's blog, a busman's blog, now we need a blog from a driver of Dublin's newest form of public transport. The Luas.

Example entries: Weds - crashed. Thurs - crashed. Fri - some cunt crashed into me. Sat - crashed. Sun- ran over pedestrian. Mon - ran out of electricity.

So there are just some of the blogs the Irish blogging scene is missing. Can you think of any more?

Yesterday - man imports cannabis, gets caught = 5 years in jail.

A couple of months ago - man who sexually abuses children, gets caught = 6 month suspended sentence.

Yesterday - man downloads hundreds of kiddie porn images = €1,000 fine and 2 year suspended sentence.

Now I'm not saying that importing 27 kilos of grass is all right. Obviously there are laws in place about it and if you risk it you have to be willing to take the punishment. There are those that will say that people who smoke grass will go on to take heroin and end up like that bloke in Trainspotting who's bird discovers their home-made porn video has been nicked so he tries heroin and gets addicted to heroin and ends up dying of cat flu or something.

Of course there are people like that but there are people who can go out and have a drink every night and not become alcoholics whereas there are others who drink a drink then live for drink for the rest of their lives. You never hear of somebody coming out of a nightclub after smoking 12 joints and starting fights. Substitute joints for pints and you'll see the difference. Anyway, the point is that in the main smoking a few joints tends to make people placid, giggly, hungry for stuff they wouldn't normally eat and willing to listen to Pink Floyd.

Now, having sex with a young boy, to me, seems a far worse crime than smuggling some dried plants. Perhaps I'm wrong, maybe my perspective is skewed, but surely an adult sexually abusing more than one child on more than one ocassion deserves more time in jail than the grass man.

I'm not suggesting that the grass smuggler should be given less than 5 years. If that's what the law says then that's the way the judge has got to handle it. What I am suggesting is that the degenerate, perverted, child rapist should be given more than 5 years. Something has to be done about the sentencing for child abusers, downloaders of kiddie porn and so on. At the moment they're getting off with ridiculously lenient sentences while, to my mind, far lesser offences are being punished more.

Yes, they get placed on the Sex Offenders Register in Ireland but then nobody has access to that so nobody knows who the fuck is on it. They get away with fines and suspended sentences and it makes you wonder why.

Don't you wonder why? Doesn't it make you suspicious? I know I feel like that. Like there's something being hidden. Like people are being slapped on the wrist and not punished too serverely in case they open their mouths and implicate all kinds of people. Maybe I'm just being a suspicious Aloysius. Maybe not.

They've got to start getting tougher with these people or people will have to start asking some seriously difficult questions. And I'm sure they wouldn't want that.

Related: Dangermaus - Fiddling the system

So 8,800 people every day get a 'stomach bug' in Ireland and have to take day off work. That's according to Safefood, the Food Safety Promotion Board.

Apparently they've done all kinds of research into it and have decided that Northern Ireland and real Ireland must collaborate over the outbreaks of gastro-intestinal diseases.

What they fail to have taken into account is that at least 75% of these 'stomach bugs' are just people chancing their arm and looking for a day off work.

"Sorry boss, I've got a stomach bug. Yeah, must have been something I ate. Got a sandwich from Centra. I reckon the mayonaisse was off. Been shitting my arse off all night. I'll be better tomorrow though."

It's amazing how many of these stomach bugs only last 24 hours, if they even last that long. It's a dangerous business making up illnesses though. I'm not a great believer in God but I reckon there's someone up there having a laugh.

I remember once, many years ago, trying to get off school by telling my dear old mam that I had a terrible ear-ache. She, being far smarter than me, wasn't buying it for a second so I was packed off to school. Not three hours later though I had the worst fucking ear-ache of all time and had to be sent home. It lasted days. Stupid lesson-teaching son of a cunt.

And the best one of all time was Conor Murphy bunking off school for three days then telling us proudly in the yard what he told the headmaster. "I told him my granny and grand-dad died in a terrible car crash." We all gasped at his audacity while he just laughed.

Later that week his entire family was killed on the Naas dual-carriageway when a truck ploughed them off the road. He wasn't laughing then, I can tell you.

Since then I've been very truthful when I've needed time off 'work'.

"I'm not coming in today."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a cunt and I hate you."

Honesty is the best policy even if it doesn't make for long-lasting employment.

Does anyone else think that there's some link between the fact our Minister for Health is a morbidly obese behemoth who's likely to drop dead from a heart attack or slip into a diabetic coma at any minute and the fact that our healthcare system is completely shite?

We all know about the lack of beds, the lack of funds given to pay the nurses who really fucking earn their money and should be paid twice as much as those cuntbag politicians, and the fact that people being admitted to hospital can expect to spend at least a couple of days on a trolley in a corridor before they get a proper bed.

Now I'm reading about Patients Groups saying the people in the corridors need minders because when they get up to go to the toilet they're having their trolleys and pillows taken by other patients or by hospital staff so they can get more people in the corridors. That's just madness.

And what about the people who come to visit the people lucky enough to have a bed, or those waiting on people in surgery? They're supposed to wait in the corridors that are now full of patients so they have to wait outside which means they get a chill, end up with pneumonia and end up back in the corridor they should have been waiting in in the first place but this time they're a patient. Soon enough there'll be patients in the canteens, the taxi ranks and even the little shop that sells newspapers and cheap flowers.


The minister visits the Mater Hospital, Dublin.

And all the while the government has been stealing money from old aged pensioners to 'pay' for nursing home care. They're fucking stealing money from us all over the place with their taxes for every little thing nowadays. Expect a 'Stool tax' one of these days were you have to weigh your own poo before you flush it down the toilet. Or an 'Air tax' where they measure your lung capacity and charge you every year to help fund their efforts to cut down pollution in city centres.

Anyway, the point is that we all like to think Ireland is a great old place and we're all happy as larry with this Celtic Tiger shite but our hospitals are like bush clinics in Botswana. It's third world stuff.

And what does the Minister for Health do? Fuck all as far as I can see apart from grow large with food.

Hey Harney, maybe if you cut your 'sweets and cakes' budget by 50% we could hire more nurses and build more hospitals you corpulent, swollen, porcine, blimpy, distended, roly-poly butterball of a oversized, meaty, lard-arsed cunt.

This government are a bunch of shysters and spoofers. Nobody should ever vote for them again. In fact, nobody should vote for any of the opposition parties either. That'd rightly fuck up the whole lot of those poxy shitbags.

Ireland needs a benevolent dictator. I've got a few years free....

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New Dangermaus - get yours now!

From time to time I get emails from people asking me their advice. I don't know why but I try and help them and give them the benefit of the wisdom I have accumulated over the years.

Here are some samples of the letters I get and the replies I've sent back:

Dear Twenty,

I used to be in a very famous boy band but now everyone seems to think I'm a fuckwitted cocksucker. Is there anything I can do to improve my image in the fickle world of pop music?

Brian, Dublin.

Dear Bryan,

kill yourself. It worked wonders for the likes of Jeff Buckley. You never hear anyone say a bad word about him. If I could be so bold I suggest throwing yourself under a 15B, preferably when I'm on it.

Twenty

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Dear Twenty Major,

you appear to be a well-connected man. Do you know anyone who might be able to provide forged documentation, such as work visas, leaving cert results etc?

Kunle, Palmerstown

Yes, Kunle, I can, but it's very expensive. I have an alternative suggestion for you though. Have you ever seen a movie called 'Soul Man' where the white guy makes himself black so he can get into college easier?

All you have to do is make yourself white and change your name to Finbar Murphy. You'll save yourself a fortune on dodgy paperwork and with your underlying pigmentation you'll always get a great tan when you go on your holidays.

Twenty

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Dear Twenty,

is it a bit sick that my model girlfriend looks exactly like my pop-star sister?

Jim, Dundalk

Yes, it is. You're a pervert and you should probably kill yourself. If you don't want to go that far I recommend breaking up the band and moving to the Galapagos Islands. As soon as possible.

Twenty

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Dear Twenty,

despite the success of my insipid chick-lit novels I seem to have run out of ideas. Can you help me with a suggestion for my new book?

Cecilia, Dublin

Dear Cecilia,

how about this? 'Crappy author kills herself by throwing herself under a 15B on which a handsome, older man is travelling. After witnessing the suicide the ghost of the young author visits the handsome, erudite, fragrant older man until he calls Ghostbusters and sends the pesky spirit to hell forever and ever.'

I know I'd buy it.

Twenty.

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Dear Twenty,

although I'm a very powerful man my work chums slag me constantly for my Dublin accent and terrible stutter. Should I take elocution lessons?

Bertie

Dear B-b-b-b-bertie,

I think it would be better for all if you took electricution lessons. Up your hole.

Twenty

-----

Dear Twenty,

I've just started work on a national broadcaster (and my own blog) but I'm worried that people won't take me seriously with my zany, 80s, Sunshine101-style radio name. Should I have it changed by deed pole?

Rick, Dublin.

Dear Rick,

yes, I think you should change your name to Ulick Magee or Trevor Felch. Then you will go far, my son.

Twenty

-----

Dear Twenty,

I'm a well-respected gang leader but my men don't seem to have the same adoration for me that they used to. How can I win back their favour?

Gerry, Belfast

Dear Gerry,

here's what you have to do. Find a young father, stab him to death outside a pub, roundly condemn yourself for your actions, offer to shoot yourself as a mark of retribution then you'll find your men will love you again. Especially if you do actually shoot yourself.

Twenty.

-----

So there you go. As you can see all those people will go on to have happy, successful lives if they just follow my words of wisdom and sagacity.

...after having a few pints in the local and me and Jimmy decided to head into town. One of our mates works as a barman in the Clarence Hotel, owned by U2 don'tcha know, so we sketched in there for a few late ones.

Anyway, we were sitting there and I could see this young girl giving me the eye. She wanders over a little later and says "Hey, I really love older men. I'm only here for another few hours. How about a night of passion?"

I clock from her accent that she's Australian but there's no way I'm falling for this trap. So I says "Isn't it past your bedtime, little girl? Look at you trying to fool older men to go to bed with you so the police can arrest them for paedophilia. You're a disgrace and quite honestly the police should be using someone better than you. You haven't even fully grown yet. You're only 5' tall, you've got no breasts and from behind you look like a schoolboy. Do I look like Michael Jackson or Darina Allen's husband to you? Go on, fuck off!"

She's shocked, looks like she's been slapped in the face, then bellows "Nobody treats Kylie Minogue like that!" before storming off.

"Jaysus, Twenty!", says Jimmy the Bollix. "You've rightly fucked it up there. Don't you know who that is?"

"Haven't a fucking clue, Jimmy," I says. "Now get me another fucking pint."

From: The IRA [mailto:paddy1916@ira.org]
Sent: Thurs 07/04/2005 09:13
To: Gerry Adams [beardycunt@sinnfein.ie]
Subject: Re: your statement yesterday

Gerry,

it's with great dismay that I'm writing this, hopefully untraceable, email to you. The lads and me had a couple of pints last night, had a bit of a yap about what you had to say and we decided we'd best make our position clear.

First off we were very disappointed with the wording of your statement. You said "For over thirty years the IRA showed that the British government could not rule Ireland on its own terms. You asserted the legitimacy of the right of the people of this island to freedom and independence. Many of your comrades made the ultimate sacrifice."

It reminded us of that joke when Tonto and the Lone Ranger are surrounded by some savage Indians. The Lone Ranger says "Looks like we're in big trouble now, old friend."

Tonto replies, "What do you mean 'we', white man?"

I couple of 'WE's and 'I's in there would have gone down a lot better with the troops, you know what I'm saying big man?

Leaving that aside for the moment you then go on to say there's an alternative to the armed struggle. Well, maybe for you there is. You go off round the world on your junkets, flying first class, eating in nice restaurants or at nice banquets with world leaders. God forbid anything might come in the way of that.

Anyway, we like violence. Our days are boring enough since this poxy ceasefire and now we're not allowed a bit of argy-bargy, petrol bombing or punishment beatings to keep us occupied? You're away with the fairies and people will think we've gone gay or something.

You ask us to show courage by trying to achieve our aims through politics and democracy. No offence, like, but politics is really fucking boring, so it is. You need to be a special kind of a cunt to not fall asleep when you, or little Bertie or even that loud mouthed God-botherer Paisley are harping on about peace accords and Good Friday agreements blah blah blah. Zzzzz, Gerry, Zzzzz.

What in the name of all that's good and holy makes you think we want to get involved in that kind of shit-witchery? As for courage, well, it might take a small amount of courage to risk being bored to death at another all-party conference but it takes much more courage to plant a wee bomb somewhere knowing it might go off in the back of your car on the way to the gig or in your face when you're sticking it where it's supposed to go.

We noticed as well that you only said to give up violence in our struggle against the British. Does that mean we can carry on our day to day intimidation, racketeering and organised crime activities? Come on, Ger, you're coming across as a bit of a hypocrite there, eh?

Anyway, next time we hook up for a pint and a game of dominoes we can go over these things in a bit more depth. We just thought it would only be fair to give you a bit of a chance to have a think beforehand.

Well, must dash. There are young fathers to be stabbed all over the fucking shop.

yours,

The IRA.

I was thinking last night - 'What if we didn't have beer?'

Can you imagine a world without beer? How dull would it be? How unused would the urinals in bars be? How could we decide who was drinking a manly drink when all around people would be supping Canadian Club and ginger ale, or vodka and tonic or strawberry daquiris?

I mean some of the beer we have is not worthy of the name. Most American lagers are weak and pissy. Ireland has never, ever produced a lager worth drinking although who amongst wouldn't have quaffed a quart or two of Harp if we thought we might get a go of Sally O'Brien and the way she might look at you?

Germans and Belgians make good beers but that's because they have fuck all else to do. I went to Belgium once. You could buy incredibly powerful fireworks in the post offices but letting them off in that square with the statue of the little boy having a slash was no fun simply because we were doing it in Belgium. When your country is most famous for an old cyclicst and some paedolphile cunt who killed girls in his garden shed it's no wonder they have beers that are 20% proof.

As for the Germans, well, what can I say? Their women are large and full of testosterone. I'd drink giant gallon glasses of beer too before I'd dare try and fornicate with one of them. Stinkin' Pete once had a German mistress. He said it was like being ridden by a buffalo on acid. Don't ask me how Pete knows what that feels like.

Ever go to a Japanese restaurant? Order a beer and they bring you a bottle of 'Tiger beer' or 'Ninja beer' or something and it's quite tasty really. It's just not tasty enough to pay twice the price of a normal beer.

English beers. Well. Mmmmmm, warm ales, fizzy bitters which look like TK red lemonade and the unspeakable filth that is Newcastle Brown Ale. The dangleberries of a million Geordies swilled around in some old piss and washing up water then stuck into bottles. It tastes like what your vomit would taste like if you vomited, ate it back up, vomited again, ate it up again then vomited it back into a glass full of mud. Put a little umbrella at the top and you've got a Geordie cocktail. Right, Mosher?



Then there's Guinness. It's food and drink. It's creamy and good. It's delicious and tasty. It's yer only man, as they say. Unless you get a bad pint in which case it's the worst poison known to man. Forget anthrax and germ warfare. If the US military could give one bad pint of Guinness to the insurgents (or locals as you might call them) in Iraq the war would be over in a wash of black poo and stomach aches.

So there you go. That's beer. Giver of life, provider of bellies and source of many loud farts. Mine's a Guinness. What's yours?

Dear The Vatican,

in response to your advertisement in the Irish Independent jobs section on April 4th 2005 I would like to apply for the position of Bishop of Rome, better known as The Pope. I believe that I have the qualifications, experience, spirituality and enthusiam that you are looking for.

Let me begin by saying that although my experience of regular day to day churchery is maybe not quite at the level you might normally consider acceptable for a highly prized gig like this I am quite an accomplished orator as Jimmy the Bollix and any of the lads down at my local will tell you. I have no problems whatsoever with public speaking so if you're planning to take in Dublin on your world tour a million people in the Phoenix Park would be no sweat. I can tell jokes on just about any subject and if there's a problem with the backing tapes or the auto-cue goes tits up I can ad-lib for hours on end.

As you can see from my enclosed CV I am currently working as a shepherd. The Bible says 'The Lord is my shepherd' and I assume the Pope role would put me in the position of Super-Ultimate-Power-Shepherd whilst a billion Catholics would become my biddable flock. If you've ever worked with sheep you'll know they're absolute cunts and don't do a thing you say. Working with people will be an absolute cinch. I would have to give my current employers two weeks notice but I think I could get away with a week if push came to shove.

I know the Catholic Church has had some difficulties in the past and I believe I can bring a new life to the job which would enable us to win back many of the people who have left the Church and bring on board thousands of new converts. Obviously this is something we can discuss during the interview but to give you a brief example I would castrate and put to death all paedophile priests - so nobody could accuse the Church of being soft on kiddy-fiddlers - and at the same time develop a brand of Vatican branded rubber johnnies which we would distribute throughout Africa to help prevent the spread of AIDS.

I realise that mutilation, murder, pre-marital sex and contraception are emotive issues for many people, least of all the Cardinals and Bishops, but weren't these the very things the Catholic Church was built on? Everyone remembers Torquemada but who remembers the liberal Bishop of Down and Connor? Exactly.

Also a new line of homosexual priests would help bring the ever-increasing gay population back to the Church. The pink pound (or Euro in this day and age) would make a huge difference when it comes to collecting our tithes, and let's not forget what their choreography, hairdressing and fashion designing skills would bring to those special occasions.

I have a very well-developed sense of right and wrong, important for someone in a position of such authority, and have previously demonstrated my leadership qualities during countless getaways and burglaries. I'm also very much a "team player" and while I realise the ultimate decisions will rest with me I think it's far better to work collectively and to use "communication skills" which will prevent unnecessary conflict in the 'boardroom', so to speak. That said I'm not afraid to make difficult and painful (for others) decisions when necessary.

It has always been my dream to wear flowing robes, have a gold telephone, know the real secrets of Fatima and have thousands of people kneel before me while I read from an ancient book. With that in mind I hope you will treat my application with the diligence and consideration it deserves.

Please find enclosed my curriculum vitae which provides a more detailed listing of my background and qualifications. I am confident that I possess all the necessary qualifications for the position and am ready to meet with you at your convenience.

Should you need any more information please do no hesitate to contact me.

Yours sincerely,

Twenty Major - Dublin.

Prepare yourselves for a shocking exposé about Irish blogs in the latest edition of Dangermaus which will be published this evening at around 9pm.

It's the story they don't want you to know, the shocking truth that will, quite literally, shock you.

THIS MONDAY AND EVERY MONDAY (mostly).DON'T MISS IT.

I know all of us have made our mark on this crazy old world we live in. Whether that's through an invention, our job, graffiti, a work of art, literature or music, whatever. But how many of you have done something which causes a huge corporation to change a part of its organisation all over Ireland?

Not many, I suspect. I'll tell you what happened.

I'm a much healthier eater now than I used to be and for a while I used to visit McDonald's a bit more than I should. Not enough to turn my liver to paste like that Morgan Spunkcock bloke but I'd go maybe once a week, sometimes twice.

What I ate is not important because that wasn't the best part of my trip to McDonalds. The best part was when I was finshed and I'd get up to dump my stuff in the bin. What I enjoyed though was not merely tipping my emtpy Big Mac carton and drink container in - it was throwing the tray in as well. Everytime I went I fucked the tray and whatever was on it in the bin. It never, ever ceased to amuse me.

Then one day I was in McDonalds in Rathmines. Early evening, I suppose. I got my food, scoffed down its nutritious goodness, drank my cola, ate my chips, scratched my arse, farted, then got up to put the seal on my visit. I wandered over, tray in hand, opened up the bin, breathed deeply to savour the moment and sent it to the arse end of the rubbish container.

'Superb!' I thought. Another classic 'Twenty puts it to the man' moment. That was until a hand caught me on the shoulder.

"Yroo caaaan't pfuut dat in derrrrrr!" said the slightly handicapped young man with a speech impediment I turned around to face.

"What?" says I.

"Yroo caaaan't pfuut dat in derrrrrr!" he said again.

"Put what?"

"De traaaaaaaaaaaay! Yrooo caaaaaan't pfut de trrrrrraaaay in derrrrr."

"Did I put the tray in there?" I asked, shocked as shocked could be. "I do apologise, young man. It'll never happen again."

So I left without the situation going on further and looked forward to my next visit. However, that little cunt obviously told on me because now the bins in McDonalds have these kind of guard things on top so you can only throw the rubbish in. The tray won't fit.

That was the last time I ever got to throw the tray in the bin in McDonalds and I don't go there at all now, really. So you can see, it was thanks to my dispensing of their trays and the vigilanace of a young worker that McDonalds has been changed forever.

Fuck their new range of salads and healthy foods, nobody cares about that, Jamie cunting Oliver, but guard rails over rubbish bins. These are the kind of changes that matter.

Have you ever changed the world in such terrible fashion?

I discovered by using my keyobard like a spacker that when you search for 'oiuygphighgouhy' on Google it finds no documents.

Hopefull this will remedy the situation. oiuygphighgouhy, people. oiuygphighgouhy.

Also, I might have drunk too much. heh - as if that's possible.

So April Fool's day. What larks we used to have when we were kids. Pulling the chair out from under someone when they were about to sit down in school.

"April Fool!" we'd cry when they shattered their coccyx. We used all the old classics, the flaming bag of poo on the doorstep, the top class practical jokes you could get from the joke shop on South King Street, beside the Gaiety Theatre. Itching powder, fart powder, fake blood, nail through finger, snappy chewing gum. Oh the larfs we had.

You always hear about the great April Fool's jokes but so many of them go horribly wrong. From my own acquaintances here are the top 5 April Fool's jokes that didn't work.

1 - My brother once rang up his friend, who lived across the road, and said 'hahahaha - your cat is dead. I saw it splattered on the road outside.' When he ran outside to see his friend come out and not see his dead cat my brother was shocked and then distraught as he found his own cat, quite literally flattened, where he said his friend's dead cat would be.

2 - When we were young Jimmy the Bollix and I thought it would be hilarious to ring up a kid from school who we didn't like and scare the shit out of him by telling him we were police and threatening him with prison time if he didn't confess to the crimes we knew he was guilty of.

Imagine how we felt when we heard he'd hung himself.

3 - Last April Fools Dirty Dave tried to convince Ron the barman that his fly was open.

"Your fly is open, Ron" he'd say.

"Do you think I'm some kind of stupid cunt, Dave?" Ron replied.

"No! Really! It's open!" exclaimed Dave.

"Fuck off, Dave. I'll look down and you'll say 'APRIL FOOL!"

"No, Ron. Honestly. Your fly is open."

Ron looks down.

"APRIL FOOL!" shouts Dave.

Ron broke his jaw with a punch. You don't pull April Fool's jokes on Ron the barman.

4 - Another friend of ours, Harry the Hammer, pretended all day to be his evil twin and went around doing all kinds of terrible, unforgivable things. His real twin brother, Herbert, was then arrested and jailed for 25 years with witness coming forward hither and thither to testify against him. Harry says he feels guilty. Sometimes.

5 - Jimmy's brother's sister's father-in-law's uncle knew a bloke who's cousin had a friend who opened the door to a young traveller boy, who was collecting 'milk for the babby', in a Bertie Ahern mask.

"Da!", says the young traveller boy, "I knew I'd find you again one day!"

Ooops. So there you go, April Fools jokes that have gone terribly wrong. Be careful who you play your pranks on today.

Oh, by the way, your shoelaces are undone...

Finally, I told you some people had no sense of humour.