Is wearing a wristband going to make poverty history? No.

Is a bunch of self-serving rock stars led by a rubber-lipped, woolly haired loudmouth playing a load of concerts going to make poverty history? No.

Is Bono asking people to send txt messages 4 Africa going to make poverty history? No.

Will me putting some HTML code on my blog which will put a Make Poverty history banner on the top corner make poverty history? No.

There are only two ways of making poverty history.

1 - Kill all poor people, then there will be no paupers so poverty will cease to exist.

2 - Kill everyone but the poor people so they immediately go to the top of the class.

Personally I'm more in favour of the first option. Poor people are generally quite unhygenic and have no qualms about approaching you in a public place looking for money. That kind of behaviour deserves a good killing. Also, they seem to be more sickly and infirm than non-poor people so governments would save fortunes on health care.

As well as that if lots of people in a family are poor and die early you get lots of poor orphans on whom you can do experiments, such as firing them out of enormous cannons to see if different races of people travel further than others and what percentage of the bones in their body they break when they land.

Poor people often speak in strange dialects and are not very good at reading and writing so even if they did become less poor they couldn't help society by writing books, obeying road signs or even contribute something as basic as graffiti. The poor tend to be quite dirty too, they live in filth and squalor which is no good for your health and when you have friends over for tea they won't want to come back when they find your shanty town hut a total state.

What about their dress sense? They all seem to have no taste in clothes at all. Tracksuits, string vests, soiled nappies or just tattered rags. How are they ever going to find a job dressed like that? The poor of Asia are quite gifted when it comes to manufacturing top quality clothes for Nike and companies like that, as well as knocking up quite authentic looking fake Tommy Hilfiger sweatshirts and Loius Vuitton bags and stuff. They could easily spend their evenings and weekends making better clothes and accessories for themselves.

The worst thing about the poor is that they all live in places like Africa and the so-called 'Third World'. You don't need to be a genius to work out that your chances of being poor are greatly reduced if you live somewhere like Ireland, America or other western countries. Why don't they just move? Their lack of motivation is just baffling, it really is.

So, as you can see the only real way of making poverty history is to make poor people history. Do your bit this weekend. While the world and his mother are watching Live8 on their 42" plasma TVs, sitting on their Habitat sofas, drinking Saturday afternoon G&Ts while the kids play Streetfighter XXII on their X-Box go out and kill a poor person.

You'll be doing them, and the world, a favour.

What noisy little cunts they are.

There's an ad on the telly at the moment for Dubliner cheese. It involves two cunts sitting on a sofa in a clothes shop and eating Dubliner cheese. A guy cunt and a girl cunt ignoring all around them and nibbling lovingly on cheese and crackers. At the end a shop assistant cunt comes up and says in a really high pitched voice "So the couch fits then?"

What the fuck? Imagine a group of so-called creative people sat around for hours and came up with this as a concept for selling cheese. It's fucking ludicrous. It's possibly one of the worst ads I have ever seen, and I include the Big Al "Is this a burger I see before me" and the Abrekebabra ad with the lookalikes of famous people who don't actually look like famous people while a shit song about having the whole world in your hands irritates your eardrums to point of where you wish you had tinitus.

If your job is to be creative then be fucking creative. Don't be a fucking twat. Two cunts eating cheese on a couch in a clothes shop is dimwitted twattery of the highest order. I don't know which agency it was but I hope somebody knows and leaves a comment so we can associate the name of the agency with the words 'clueless shite'. They should be ashamed of themselves, and to be fair the people at Dubliner cheese who said 'Wow! That's really great. What a marvelous way that is to sell our company' need a good kicking as well.

Advertising is supposed to make you want a product or service. It's not supposed to make you give out about it on a cheap website. I for one will never eat Dubliner cheese as long as I live and I suggest you do the same. Stick with Kilmeaden or Mitchelstown cheese simply because their advertising does not suck a big donkey cock like Dubliner cheese.

And moving away from Dubliner cheese what about that wanker who goes climbing a building because he's drunk some kind of power drink? There's another bunch of cunts. He gets all the way to the top and the girl says "What kept you?"

What a bitch. What kept him was the tiny ledges, impossible foot-holds and sheer height of the building in question. I bet she came up in the fucking lift, which, while it's definitely a more sensible and secure way to scale a building does not give you the right to ask 'What kept you?'

He should have pushed her off the top. That'd teach her, the sassy-mouthed cunt.

Some three or four years ago I purchased a whole rake of scientific equipment that Jimmy and Pete had lifted from a consignment headed for a children's hospital.

There were test-tubes, beakers, computers, particle crunchers, atom smashers, bunsen burners and lots of chemicals and stuff like magnesium, beryllium, copper and that stuff like plastecine that explodes when you when drop water on it.

The most important thing of all was the blackboard on which I scribbled theories, equations and doodles of men with their eyes really close together and strange chins.

I totally gutted the garden shed and made this my lab and it took me about two months to get the first blueprint together. Biting my nails I used a guinea pig for the first attempt but things did not go quite according to plan. Instead of ending up with a tiny, shrunken guinea pig I ended up with a hideous melted corpse with its organs on the outside. Shocked by the cruelty to animals I decided to never again to use a cute, cuddly creature and instead used refugees and orphans.

So I continued with my tests and soon I had created a great big pile melted corpses. Also soon I had perfected the process and saved the country hundreds of thousands of euros in social security payments. So I got my stuff together and arranged for Jimmy to come by and collect my post, look after my trusty hound Bastard Face, pick up the weekly settlements from my clients and administer the required beatings should they fail to provide the money on time. I had a farewell pint with Ron and the lads and the night of June 27th I entered my lab and set things in motion.

I made some last minute adjustments to the computer program, twiddled the zeeble just a touch to the left and walked into the chamber. I took a deep breath and using the control panel I'd made from a Kensington joystick I set things in motion. Things zapped, crackled, and quite literally popped. Success! It had worked. I was now miniscule like in that film about that bloke who shrunk himself and lived in the inner space of Dennis Quaid and in that inner space he had to make some adjustments to the workings of the inner space before getting out of the inner space at the very last minute. I think it was called 'The really small man in a tiny spaceship.'

Amazingly enough I had also constructed a small spaceship but it wasn't spaceship because I wasn't going into space. I clambered aboard and soon I was speeding my teeny-tiny way across Dublin. I headed out towards Sandymount and then hugged the coastline, passing over the gorgeous sandy beaches, pausing occasionally to ogle the bevy of beauties sunbathing topless in Ireland's glorious tropical climate.

Not long afterwards I came to Dalkey, an area in the very south of Dublin which is home to the most expensive houses, with beautiful views of the radiation poisoned Irish sea and a galaxy of stars like Lisa Stansfield and some bloke who used to read the news on the BBC.

It's also home to a couple of members of the most famous Irish rock band in the world. I don't think I need to tell you the name. I circled over the house of the singer but that wasn't my target. It was the guitarist I was after. I swooped down, went in through an open window and went round the house until I found him. He was sitting at a desk reading a book and singing 'What if God was one of us' in a vibrant falsetto voice. I cruised in, did a couple of laps of his head and landed on the back of his neck.

Within my "space" craft I had brought supplies to last for at least a month. There was dried and canned food, water and toiletries and, of course, cigarettes. The first day or two I got accustomed to my strange and microscopic life. It's amazing how quickly you get used to things, no matter how unusual they are. When he had a shower I took shelter internally, mostly entering through a nostril or perhaps the mouth. Once I had to fly down his Jap's eye which is something I would not recommend to anyone. I went where he went, I saw what he saw, I avoided his calloused fingers when he went to scratch the parts of his body where I was roaming.

So for a little under 4 weeks this was my home. I ate, I smoked, I slept, I kept notes in my iddy-biddy notebook, I weed and pooed all over him and I watched him at work, at play, as he wrote songs, as he made phone calls to Bono and Larry. He never once called Adam but did send him a couple of emails and a text message calling him a 'cunt'. He didn't use an exclamation mark or any kind of smiley.

Anyway, as my supplies ran low it was time to head for home. I did one last poo on his shoulder and set off on my merry way. My ship was a bit spluttery on the way back so I didn't go the scenic route. I just went straight back to the lab and into the chamber where my remote control embiggened me once again. It felt good to be my normal size again and I was absolutely dying for a pint. I went inside, had a shower and headed down to the pub for a reunion with the lads.

I marched down the road, pushed open the door and I said "Howya, lads?! Give us a pint there, Ron. I'm fucking gasping."

So Ron poured me a Guinness, I waited for it to settle. It seemed to take a long time but soon I had a good long gulp and it tasted really, really good. Naturally the lads were full of questions.

"Where have you been Twenty?" asked Stinking Pete.

"Wait till I tell you" I said, and I explained where I'd been and what I'd been doing.

"That's mental!" they all said, and they gasped and ooohed and aaaahed when I told them about the stuff that I'd seen, at the remarkable and unprecedented insight into the world of a rock musician's life.

"But Twenty", said Dirty Dave, "What on earth made you do it in the first place?"

"I'm not really sure", I replied. "I think I just felt like living life on The Edge for a while."

What a bunch of cunts they are. "Shut up" they sing/rap. Well, if only they would take their own advice and close their fucking mouths forever. That singing girl's voice is more irritating than Stinking Pete's little brother who comes into the pub sometimes and tells jokes. Except they're not his jokes, he just rehashes the material of Brendans Grace and O'Carroll and every time he's about to tell a shite joke he says "Do you know wha'? You know wha'?'

Sometimes I say, "Yes, I know wha'. If you continue talking I'm going to get Jimmy to hold you down while I jump up and down on your already grossly mishapen head, you fuckbag."

Black Eyed Peas and Stinking Petes brother. I fucking hate them.

The world has been full of wonderful partnerships, in sport, on screen, in music and crime. It would be funny to imagine some of these people with other partners though, wouldn't it. Here are some newly created teams that could go far, in my opinion.

Cagney and Lacey: Ireland AM presenter Mark Cagney and Tyne Daly in her role as gritty NY cop Lacey fight crime for about three minutes until Lacey has enough of Cagney's simpering, beats him to death, fillets him and takes him home for 'HAWWVEY" to make burger meat out of.

Foster and Alan Partridge: Traditional Irish music mixed with toe-curlingly awful early morning DJ-ery. It'd be a sure fire hit. "I wish I was in Carrickfergus. Ahhhh-haaaaah!'

Laurie and Hardy: Weak chinned actor Hugh Laurie forms a madcap duo with portly black and white film story Oliver Hardy which would have been just about different enough from the original to be worth pursuing.

50 and Garfunkel: Top rapper teams up with top folk/pop singer Art Garfunkel to become the world's greatest Pap or Rolk combo in history. Songs will include 'Mrs Robinson (you cheap ho')', 'The sound of silencers' and 'Bitch over troubled water'.

Bono and Clyde: One would preach about world poverty and harangue world leaders before getting his picture taken with them while the other would carry out a series of daring and increasingly dastardly bank heists. There's no question who the world would prefer to get shot to death by the police. It's Bono. Just in case anyone was in any doubt.

Morcombe and Wise: Wonderful comedian ditches his former partner to team up with former Chelsea player Dennis Wise. Wise by name, not in any way by nature, dissolves the partnership when his partner refuses to beat up a taxi driver for no reason whatsoever.

Pig and Zag: Kids TV puppet joins forces with Victoria Beckham.

Lennon and McCarthy: The ex-alive, ex-Beatle gets together with former Republic of Ireland football manager Mick McCarthy. While big Mick contributes some fine Yorkshire brogue to Lennon's tunes, the speccy Liverpudlian turns out to be worse than Bernie Slaven and Alan Kernaghan put together. That doesn't stop Mick making him a first choice each international week though.

Ben and Gerry: Incredibly wealthy ice-cream maker Ben finds himself on skid row after teaming up with RTE radio leviathan, Gerry Ryan, who consumes the company's entire stock in less than an afternoon, the enormous arsed behemoth.

I did have a good old larf at the Tom Cruise thing this week. It does show how shallow and superficial our world has become when a pint sized actor getting a modern version of the squirty flower trick you used to get in the joke shop beside the Gaiety theatre gets so much coverage. It was on the RTE news at 6pm and 9pm for fucks sake. Does anyone really care that much about Tom cunting Cruise?

And as for the twats that did it, what sort of pussies are they? I mean, if you going to go to all that trouble why wouldn't you have chucked a custard pie or some cow poo, or made a tribute to Mark Chapman and shot the fucker in the head? Some years ago Dennis Pennis made lots of celebs look like the wankers they are with his questions. These muppets couldn't even make Tom Cruise look like a cunt and that's a fairly tall order (no pun intended).

And while I understand Cruiser's reaction to particularly lame stunt couldn't he have come up with something better than "You're a jerk ... jerk ... you're a jerk ... you jerky jerk."

If that was me I'd have been like "Is that the best you've got, you poxy wanker? Come on, man, I'm one of the biggest (in terms of popularity, obviously not stature) stars in the world today? Who the fuck are you? Some cunt with a shitty camera and an ancient joke, that's who. You're a shit-eating cockgoblin. I'm going to find out where you live and pay some travellers to park on your lawn and make shit of it. They're going to sing they knacker songs all night long. And when you've had too much and move house I'm going to move them as well. They'll be your personal itinerants for the rest of your life. Oh, and while we've been talking here my personal assistant has paid your girlfriend £100,000 - which is a fucking pittance to me, by the way - to leave you, your parents have been killed in their sleep and my personal practitioner has injected you with AIDS and Hepatitis B. Now I'm going to press charges and while you're sleeping in the jail cell tonight I'm going to pay the warder to let me in and I'm going to curl out a massive turd into your open mouth as you snore you snivelling little shitebag. And while you're choking on my shite I'm going to break your ankles with this lump hammer in the style of Kathy Bates in that film Misery and when they're broken I'm going to hit them backwards and forwards with a tennis raquet. All that for squirting a squirt. Bet you wish you had taken a custard pie or a cow pat or a semi-automatic now, don't you, you badger rimming gaylord?"

Truly an opportunity lost for young Tom.

I went the other day to H&M, a 'trendy' clothes store, because I needed to buy some underpants. I hate buying underpants because I feel like I'm being ripped off each time I do. Maybe it's just me but I feel like I shouldn't have to pay for underwear, it should be a basic human right. Nearly €10 for a pair it was. And some daft cunts will spend €30 on a pair of Calvin Klein boxers. That's more than 6 pints worth of underwear. Outrageous.

The government should provide standard issue boxers for men. Nothing too lycra-y or swish, just standard cotton jocks and we should be given around 6 pairs a year. Anything other than boxer shorts are totally gay. Y-fronts or briefs end up going up your hole and if there's anything more gay than something going up your hole I don't know what it is.

Having to spend my own hard earned money on underwear is just wrong. Of course if some people want fancy briefs or thongs then that's fair enough, they can go waste their money on them, but I think most people that weren't complete and utter ponces would have no problem with the government issue pants.

And I think razor blades should also be free. We're not like Afghans or Muslimians who chop your bollocks off unless you have a lengthy beard. We are, in general, a clean shaven nation and Gillette and Wilkinson Sword have been screwing us for years. €10, or thereabouts, for four fucking blades which last about 2 shaves each. That's €1.25 a shave. What a fucking rip off. Why should I have to pay to shave? It's stupid and annoying.

We pay social welfare, taxes, stealth taxes, tithes and make countless other contributions to the country's kitty, the least they can give us in return is some free underwear and a few scabby razor blades.

Of course I have a beard and go commando so you can feel free to ignore all that.

Despite the fact they are incredibly useful, alarm clocks, in all their various guises are complete and utter cunts.

Nothing makes me want to commit acts of physical violence more than when I hear my alarm go off each morning. The sickening tune, the repetitiveness, the 9 more minutes of snooze, the sickening tune again.

I hate alarm clocks more than I hate Damien Rice.

Go now, read, enjoy, cry, laugh, shoot your load, wet your pants, then read the new Dangermaus. Out now!

FOR SALE

2 tickets for Live8. Starting price €250, will sell to highest bidder and will personally send a picture of me spending the cash on pints and fast food to Bob Geldof, the wanker.

Naomi Campbell's quim. She had her old one removed in 2003 and Stinking Pete found this one whilst rummaging through a bin in a bin in Kensington. mint condition well used €2.99 o.n.o

An Etch-a-Sketch with an incredibly complex picture of a rectangle.

12 Chinese orphans. Will sell individually or as an entire lot. Please remember, an orphan is for life, not just for Christmas dinner.

Spiderman comic #0. The little known precursor to the much collected Spiderman #1 which most people believe to be the original. This one is slightly darker as Peter Parker gets his spider powers after being raped by an enormous, radioactive tarantula. The penetration scene is actually quite disturbing. €100 for the original, €5 per Xeroxed copy.

The Lost Ark of the Covenant. Forget Indiana Jones or that Dan Brown cunt who reckons it's under the floor of some church in Scotland. Scotland for fuck's sake. Me and Jimmy lifted the fucker from Martin Cahill's pigeon loft before the Criminal Assets Bureau got hold of everything. The perfect gift if you need to melt the face off of a load of Germans.

A black panther. This former vigilante can be yours for a mere €29.99. Comes with a free black panther and 24 cans of Whiskas.

Ryle Nugent's lisp. Makes even the butchest voice camp like a row of tents.

The lead singer from Alphaville. He might have been 'Big in Japan' but he's certainly not 'Forever young', especially having been locked in my basement since 1986. Would make a good pet. €10 and I'll throw in the 'Wonderful life' bloke as well. Can't say fairer than that.

A home sex tape featuring the girl who does the Eircom broadband ads, former Eircom chairman Alfie Kane and Father Brian D'arcy. It's pure filth.

Looking for a new pet, apart from a washed up, skeletal 80s pop star? I've got love cats, hounds of love, a canary in a coalmine and Mary Harney's tapeworm. €45 the lot, got to get rid.

A Victorian suppository mould. What could be more fun than making your own? Why not see how many you can fit up in one go?

Finally, a Sodastream with 4 bottles, two gas cannisters and three bottles of the delicious, original Cola flavour. Mmmmm, remember how good it was with its pissy mud taste? To this day I don't know how the Coca Cola corporation survived.

Feel free to call by any time, we're open all day.

There are some new people on my list.

1 - Darina Allen was Ireland's most popular TV cook. Now she keeps a low profile after her husbands rather unsavoury brush with the law a year or so ago. Rachel Allen is, I believe, her daughter. Rachel Allen is a dippy cow. Having, for research purposes only, watched her cookery show last night she wowed us with her culinary skills as she made a hamburger, a steak sandwich and chips. No, really, she did. None of that workaday Sardian lamb with fennel and tomatoes, or your run of the mill freshly made gnocchi with parmesan and garlic sauce, oh no. Next week she'll be showing us how to fry a fucking egg and pour our milk over our cornflakes.

She even told us that to heat up bread she was going to put it in a hot oven. Amazing stuff, simply amazing!

Quite why anybody thought it would be a good idea to spend money making this TV show when 30 minutes of watching a retard pick his nose and eat his own bogies would have been far more entertaining. And informative.

2 - The people who were marching through the streets of Dublin to raise awarness of HIV and AIDS yesterday. While I have no complaint with the motives of their march I do strenuously object to their use of cunting bongos and whistles. Whistles should only be used during sporting events. Referees should use whistles. People marching down the road should not use whistles because they're really fucking annoying.

Even in the E-fuelled early 90s 'ravers' out of their tiny minds on ecstasy that came in capsules and kept you up for days were driven to the point of murder by those cunty fuckers with whistles. And as for bongos, anyone who tries to make their point with bongos needs to have their bongos shoved up their arse and given an ASBO banning them from ever owning bongos again and if they do buy bongos again they forfeit their right to life.

3 - The waitress who wouldn't serve me. I sat down in the café. She came over and served the people in front of me. She looked at me. Walked back and got their drinks. Then she came back and looked at me again before serving the people to the right of me. She brought their drinks and was little more than a couple of feet away from me before she turned back again and walked off without serving me. This meant by beautiful companion, obviously not Jimmy or any of the usual suspects, had to go to the bar and ask for our beverages. I got my own back by accidentally knocking the bottle over so it smashed all over the floor which meant a completely different waitress had to come over and clean it all up. That'll teach her.

4 - Former Irish footballer Paul McGrath's wife's brother's friend's father. We're sworn enemies since late yesterday afternoon for reasons I can't go into but rest assured he's a big old cunt and one day I'll tell you why.

It's the list that just keeps on growing.

Why did Michael Jackson cross the road?
It certainly wasn't to masturbate the 13 year old cancer victim, that's for sure.

Knock Knock
Who's there?
Michael Jackson
Michael Jackson who?
Michael Jackson who paid off a boy $18m because he didn't molest him.

Michael Jackson, Archbishop Bernard Law and Jonathan King walk into a bar. They order some drinks and chat for hours and hours.

My Michael Jackson has no nose.
How does he smell?
Like dried semen and Jesus juice.

What do you call a blonde disguised in a black wig with a plastic face and stupid voice who sleeps with young boys?
Michael Jackson.

Yo' mama's so small and boyish looking Michael Jackson prefers her to you even though you're only 12.

Why was Michael Jackson afraid to go to prison?
Because he's a giver, not a taker.

What's the difference between Michael Jackson and a paedophile goat?
One fucks kids and the other...erm...you know...

What's Gavin Arviso's favourite Michael Jackson song?
Leave me alone (the Get your gloved hand off my mickey mix).

I hate my mother-in-law so much I threaten to send my pre-teen sons to Neverland if my wife allows her to stay.

Why does Michael Jackson wear a wig?
Because all his hair fell out worrying about whether or not the prosecution could prove he fiddled with children.

An Englishman, an Irishman, a Scotsman and Michael Jackson walk into an all-boys primary school. The Irishman visibily relaxes knowing that for once he's not going to be be the butt of the joke.

So there I was last night, having returned from my trip, in the bar with the lads, recounting the tales of my time away.

The larks, adventures, escapades, escapes and romantic interludes (which consisted of me being very drunk and asking a life sized poster of Angelina Jolie for a light).

I was cracking wise, enthrallingly entertaining, devilishly wicked and witty (shut your fucking hole, Moriarty) when all of a sudden, just after a slug of my pint, I had one of those burps where a bit of sick comes up. A sicky burp or a vommy belch, you might call it.

Normally you can stop them in time and whatever has come up can be sent back down from whence it came but this time I just couldn't do it and out went this little puddle of puke straight into Stinking Pete's pint.

"Fucks sake, Twenty" he roared.

Stinking Pete hates vomit. It stems from the time when we were younger, much much younger, and having drunk ourselves into near enough oblivion in Tamangoes (famous Dublin nightclub/disco/cattle market) we crashed out in my house. Pete was always smart enough to get a big glass of water before he went to sleep so he filled up a pint glass and passed out.

Me and Jimmy, always looking for a prank, emptied out some of the water and filled it with a cheap bottle of aftershave I'd been given by a relative who didn't like me much as a Christmas present or something similar. At that point we both crashed out as well.

At some point in the night Pete woke up with a thirst on him and reached for his pint of water. He guzzled it down, so far as he can remember, in a matter of seconds and then realised there was something wrong. He spent the rest of the night doubled over the toilet spewing till he could spew no more.

Seeing him on the floor of the bathroom with dried up chunks of barf all over the toilet and around his mouth and nose was certainly one of the most hilarious things I have ever seen, especially considering what it was that made him so ill in the first place. Jimmy the Bollix even took pictures of him lying semi-concious in his own filth. Such good friends we all are.

Now any kind of vomit situation makes him queasy and seeing his pint with a film of Twentyvom on top made him decidedly unwell so he ran to the bathroom, where we found him 20 minutes later, again having puked himself into a near coma.

It's good to be home.

Having been travelling the world in recent weeks it will be nice to arrive back in Dublin later tonight. Persuing my links I found this site via LinkMachineGo which is apparently 'A Guide For The Un-Initated To Buying Guinness In An Irish Pub'.

Despite such bestowing such wisdom as 'do not under any circumstances take the glass before it is filled. Some virgins seem to think that the settling stage is the final stage and walk away with an unfinished pint' (seriously, who the fuck would ever pick up a glass that wasn't finished? Nobody, that's who) - it leaves out the most important rule of all about buying Guinness in an Irish pub - make sure you're actually in Ireland.

Guinness in Irish pubs outside of Ireland tastes like rancid poo mixed with the vomit of a hundred Afghans filtered through a piss stained cheese cloth.

If you don't believe me please take the following test. Go to any Kitty O'Sheas or McFlappery's or The Drunken Pugilist in any town in any city in the world. Ask for a Guinness. Drink it. When the three days of the scuts have been and gone take a flight to Dublin. Get a taxi to Mulligans on Poolbeg Street. Ask for a Guinness. Drink it. Then ask for another one because it will be so delicious you just won't be able to help yourself. After 5 or 6 pints you will feel the need for battered sausages and chips, that's natural.

Guiness in an Irish pub which is not in Ireland is not real Guinness. And speaking of Irish pubs, why, when I'm in different cities, do people expect me to want to go there instead of somewhere local? I have my pick of Irish pubs when I'm in Ireland, and honestly if Ron the Barman found out I was cheating on him by going to another 'Irish' bar it would not be a pretty sight.

Right, best pack my bags and get ready to see Ron, Jimmy et al later on. I'd say I've missed them but they'll think I'm a big soft twat so I'll leave you by saying they're all fucking cunts who I certainly haven't bought presents or anything. Oh no.

Staring at people makes them uncomfortable. For example, the woman who came into the room a short time ago and said, like she owned the fucking place, "PLEASE OPEN ALL THE WINDOWS."

"NO", I said. There ensued a staring match from which she pussied out after mere seconds. She had to content herself with opening only one window instead of all the windows. I am going to close that window now and if she says anything I'm just going to stare at her until all thoughts of open windows leave her tiny little brain.

I remember once seeing a semi-famous person in a restaurant and because he was someone who was on the fringes of my list I thought it would be fun to stare at them for long periods. He saw me looking at him, then he'd go back to his dinner, and when he looked up again I would still be staring at him. He became very uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck, jiggling his leg up and down and glancing over but every time he glanced I would be staring at him.

Eventually he came over to me and said "Do I know you? Why are you looking at me?"

I didn't reply. I just stared at him. He went away.

I have just closed the window. I gave the girl my classic 'If you have any objections to this I'm going to rip off your legs and shove them up your arse' stare. It worked a charm.

I suggest you all make today staring day. If someone does or says something you don't like just stare at them until they change their mind. You'll be surprised how often it will work.

Supermarket: "That's 24,99 please"
You: *STARE*
Supermarket: "Erm...24,99?"
You: *STARE*
Supermarket: "Just take your things and go."

-----

Boss: "Have that report on my desk by this evening."
You: *STARE*
Boss: "Ok then, Monday"
You: *STARE*
Boss: "I'll get Jones to do it."

Right then, off you go about your business. What do you mean you don't want to?

*STARES*

That's according to 80s pop legend Glenn Frey. Apparently the heat is on, on the street, inside your head and on every beat.

Well, let me tell you, he's a lying cunt. Being accustomed to Irish weather I'm well aware that we don't get scorching summers but last night, waiting for public transport, I was able to see my breath.

Now, this is June, in case anyone hadn't noticed. June is supposed to warm, balmy, temperate and quite possibly sweltering.

So what the fuck is Glenn Frey on about then? The heat is most definitely NOT on here. The streets are quite chilled, inside my head is brisk at best and the beat, well, the beat is positively hyperborean.

I'm tired of being lied to by 80s stars. Nik Kershaw, I've been to many trees by many rivers and there has been no sign of that hole in the ground you go on about, Banarama and Fun Boy Three can go and shite - it is what you do and quite frankly the way that you do is it relatively unimportant and Prince, when doves cry it doesn't sound like a funky guitar and a kicking bassline, it sounds like this "Awwwwwwwwk, Awwwwwwwwwwwwwk, Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwk!"

Fucking cunts.

Theorum 1 - The slopiness of the residue is directly proportional to the amount of paper on the roll/in the bathroom.

That is to say you will always do one of those poos which hardly need any wiping when there's plenty of paper available. Concurrently this also means that a 1/4 roll shite nearly always happens when there's little or no paper in the bathroom.

This second part is especially true when caught short and the need to use a public toilet for a BM is inescapable.

The relief at actually finding somewhere to poo can also lead to temporary blindness and insanity as it's never until after you have erupted the magma (Theorum 2 - the burnosity of the poo is directly proportional to the amount of Guinness and spice burgers consumed the previous night) that will require a 1/4 roll to wipe properly that you notice the empty toilet roll holder.

For this reason alone it is never recommended to go commando as underwear is your only possible saviour in this situation as a hand or newspaper wipe will never suffice.

Theorum 3 - While all poo may be stinky there is none so stinky as the one you curl out while in a friend's house, leaving the bathroom only for his mother or sister that you fancy to greet you on the landing as they enter the now polluted airspace.

Theorum 4 - the length of the turtle's tail divided by the percentage touching cloth will always equal 'Prairie dog'.

With those four well-proven mathematical equations you can never go wrong. Except when you're walking down Aungiers Street, you fart and have to go home to change your pants because you've followed through (known as the timbo sub-theorum).

I know all God's creatures have a place in the choir but insects are fucking cunts. As I was walking along last night a giant flying pterodactyl of a foreign cunt of an insect flew right into my mouth. Luckily my ninja reflexes kicked in and I managed to spit the little fucker out before he got a chance to fly down my neck and lay eggs in my stomach.

As he flew away I gave him a Patrick Swayze style round kick and as he lay on the ground I stomped him to death. The cunt. Then I pissed on his corpse and left his body there for all his insect chums to see.

Anyway, apart from bees who at least shit honey before they sting you in the eyeball, all other insects are useless cunts.

Spiders - ruthless killers.
Flies - shit eaters.
Beetles - crunchy wankers.
Woodworm - furniture eating shitehawks.
Those little armadillo cunts you find under stuff - little armadillo cunts.
Crickets - cheeping motherfuckers.
Wall mites - the worst cunts of them all.

The list goes on. So as you can see insects, like 2FM DJs, are cunts.

I went to school with a chap who would eat Daddylonglegs for a laugh but he was a bigger cunt than any insect I have ever met.

Croissants? Muesili? Hard boiled eggs?

What the fuck is that about? There should be a code for hotel breakfasts worldwide. I don't want bread rolls with thousands of little seeds on top. Seeds are for birds and possibly for growing marijuana plants, they're certainly not for breakfast.

Breakfast should consist of sausages, rashers, eggs (fried, runny yolk), fried bread, black and white pudding, tomato, mushrooms, baked beans and toast. There should also be proper tea with lots of sugar not fucking camomile or green tea or raspberry tea or any fucking tea with the word 'infusion' in its name. I'll infuse my boot up your arse if you bring that shite anywhere near me.

Anything else is stupid, gay and fucking crap. If we can have McDonalds that tastes the same no matter where in the world you go why can't someone invent O'Breakfasts which would provide these delicious things to every hotel in the world so even if you're in some Godforsaken shithole like I am you can still enjoy a hearty first meal of the day?

The sooner the world is exactly the way I want it the better and quite frankly I blame it all on Italians. Just because, that's why.

I am typing this very quietly while the man at the top of the room with the slideshow, projector and laser pointer is giving a presentation which is, and I'm being kind here, boring me to the point where I want to punch him in the face. With an axe. Made from the femur of his first born child.

He is using phrases such as 'core values', 'going forward', 'knowledge management' and 'think outside the box'.

What fucking box? This is a meeting room with a big fucking table and reasonably comfortable chairs. There is no box to be in and even if there was I certainly wouldn't get into it in order to be able to improve my contemplation skills by thinking outside of it. It is a plate of scuttery shite, that's what it is.

If you all concentrate really hard maybe you can make him drop dead. Please, I'm begging you...

Apparently it's not the done thing to belch and then rip off an enormous, wet, splattery fart after dinner with a table full of people from Japan and South Korea.

I wish someone had told me that before.

Fucking Live Aid 2, fuck off. People just can't come up with an original idea these days.

Bob Geldof said "A lot of the pop people have stayed the course, not the least being Midge (Ure), Bono, Elton and Queen."

Take Frddie Mercury, for example. Apart from the fact he's little more than some dusty corpse bits he's really stayed the course. Maybe they can get Princess Diana's dusty corpse bits to sit beside Prince Charles to make it just like 1985 again.

It's going to be an enormous cunts convention just without Paul Young and Status Quo. I think this time there are going to 5 places where the 'stars' will perform. London, Berlin, Carlow, Dingle and Drogheda. Remember the last time when Phil Cunting Collins flew from London to Philadelphia? If there's even the slightest chance of that happening again we have to get our priorities right. Is stopping Phil Collins playing live more than once in one day more important than starving people? I think it is.

In fact, the only way to make this Live Aid acceptable and in any way bearable is if there were crucifixions of music's top cunts. Collins, Hucknall, Rice, Williams, Joss bastard face Stone...I'd happily pledge money to the people of Africa if I could see these shitebags being put to death. For extra money their own immediate family could hammer in the nails.

It's about time Geldorf the Grey shut the fuck up as well. Band Aid 2004, now this. What's next, a Boomtown Rats comeback tour?

God help us all.