"Dear cuntos,

yes, I know we've been blowing people up willy-nilly for years now and justifying it with some tired old shite about a united Ireland. You, me and the wall know that's never going to happen so we, the IRA leadership, have decided to throw down our arms.

We realise that the international support we've received, especially from America, is going to be hard to maintain when the world and his mother are affected and appalled by the terrorism being perpetrated by those Muslim lads. As terrorists ourselves it makes it very difficult for us to throw grand gala fundraisers in New York and Boston and makes it difficult for our Irish-American benefactors to chuck us the cash we need for our guns, bullets, explosives and other devices of murder we've used througout the campaign.

We decry the actions of these Muslims for ridding terrorism of its cuddly image, its shileleagh and its bejaysusness. Long gone are the days when Mickey Rourke would be seen dead in the same snug as us. Christ, look at the state of Mickey now though, 'tis better for our image he forgot about us and went mad for the plastic surgery.

Anyway, after lots of amicable discussions we've decided that in order to prolong the political careers of Gerry and Martin, who by the way have nothing to do with us at all, all volunteers will be dumping their arms, ditching their balaclavas and will never more bother the people of the UK by exploding them, their buildings or places of work.

Oglaigh na hEireann will strive for political solutions to ...pfffff ... sorry, something got caught in my throat there... political and peaceful ...bwa ha ha ...er...*cough*...political and peaceful something or other. It's not really important right now.

The important thing is that we make this statement, that you fall for it believe it like you believed us when we said we didn't rob that bank at Christmas time and we can continue our work as smugglers, dealers, loan sharks and keep running the protection rackets that keep us filthy fucking rich.

Tiocfaidh ár lá agus póg mo thon.

your old chums,

The 'Ra."

Well, it's been all over the news about how the Minister for Health, Jabba the Harney, reckons girls as young as 11 should be given the morning after pill to prevent pregnancy if they are sexually active.

Seriously, 11 years of age. You were lucky to get a kiss with a tongue when we were 11 (unless you were kept behind after class by Father Murphy). Anyway, it's all a bit shocking, but here's what I would suggest if sexually active 11 year olds were discovered.

1 - Sew up their gees until they're 18. A small cathater can be inserted to allow them to urinate.

2 - Find their parents and beat the shit out of them.

3 - Find out who the 11 year old has been sexually active with, kick them in the balls 43 times then chuck them in the 'Joy but somehow forget to put them in the nonce's wing and let all the other cons know what they're in for.

4 - Televise these proceedings as a warning to other youngsters who want to be like their role models Paris Hilton, Britney Spears and Princess Diana.

The need for morning after pills for 11 year olds would plummet but then of course people might complain about stupid things like 'human rights' and shite like that.

Human rights are for cunts.

Dirty Dave has photo sensitive epilepsy, he told us last night.

This is something they invented a couple of years ago to make films sound more interesting. They never announce anything like it in the cinema but on TV before any fucking film they always say "This film contains flashing lights and scenes which may cause problems for people with photo sensitive epilepsy."

What a bunch of my fucking hoop. Do bouncers at nightclubs say "This discotheque contains flashing lights and scenes which may cause problems for people with photo sensitive epilepsy" or does God announce "This natural phenomenon contains flashing lights and scenes which may cause problems for people with photo sensitive epilepsy" when people venture to witness the aurora borealis? Does he shite.

Anyway, Dave was sitting down in front of Sky Movies the other night (he said he was watching Dawn of the Dead but we found out later it was Love Actually) when all of a sudden he woke up on the ground with every muscle in his body taut and his face covered in foam. He went to the hospital where they told him he was an Eppo.

Now I've just ordered a set of laser pointers from eBay and I'm going to shine them in his eyes at every possible moment.

I've tried to keep quiet over this but it's just gone too far now.

I'm sick and tired of Irish bloggers using letters and combinations of same to make words. Furthermore they seem bent on arranging these words in a logical order. These people are using syntax and nobody gives a damn.

We're seeing the unfettered use of sentences and more often than not the blogger will continue making sentences, paragraphs, phrases and quotations to talk about things in what they call 'posts'.

They'll discuss subjects, talk about things, hash out theories, deliberate about sources, venture opinions, express concerns and invent words, like 'Blogosphere' and use acronyms at random.

These bloggers are then using their personal computers, some webspace and some variation of online publishing system to let other people read these missals, these journals, these throbbing organs of self-righteousness, perspective and blatant untruths presented as fact, witty stories or cutting edge reportage.

As bad as all that is we know have some people who don't like what other people write. Call that personal choice if you like but the reality is far different. At some point it is going to descend into war. Not just a so-called 'flame war' where people argue online and call each other names until someone compares another one to Hitler thus proving some 'Usenet©' theory invented ages ago by some cunt or other, then someone will utter the phrase 'ad hominem' to counter some argument then *KABOOM* that's where it will all start. Civil war.

What they don't realise now is that blogs are so powerful, so ingrained in the day to day lives of Irish people, so embedded in our psyche that this will pitch Wordpress against Blogger, MT against Livejournal, even .ie against .com. There won't be a single family in the country unaffected, there will be bloodshed, treachery, espionage, murder, pogroms and massacres. The Irish blogosphere as we know it will cease to exist with only one or two stragglers who nobody ever read overlooked in the mayhem and massacres.

So this is a call to Irish bloggers. Stop writing different stuff that some people don't like. Only report facts like David Grey is a head-shaking cuntbag or that the 21-7 failed bombers were actually the remaining members of 80s band 5-Star desperate to get their names back in the paper. Be the same. Be sheep. Share your photos on Flickr.

Do not, under any circumstances, use the remote control that is your mouse and simply switch off the TV program you don't like.

It's safer that way. I promise you.

Aren't double entendres great? You say something totally innocent but everyone knows you mean something completely different. Of course I don't mean anything different with these. Nope. Nothing different.

For example: Paris Hilton has a talent for hitting things with an open palm. She's an incredible slapper.

or

Kevin Spacey has nothing but good words for oversized African poultry. He loves big black cocks.

or

Michael Barrymore is going to dress up as the robot from Futurama for Hallowe'en. He's a total Bender.

or

Johnny5's mate: "It's my sexy girlfriend's birthday today. I'm going to give her a present."

Johnny5: "I wouldn't mind giving her one either. Up the arse. Dressed in rubber. While she pisses on me."

Some are less subtle than others, it seems.

Stinking Pete was spouting in the pub the other day about all the bombs in London and he put forward a solution. Says he "I think the Muslims should be ethnically cleansed. Then they can go about their business without exploding themselves all over the shop. That's right. Give them a good ethnic cleansing and it'd all be sorted."

I explained to him that ethnic cleansing didn't mean putting them in a big bath and giving them a good wash. I'm not sure he understood. He puzzled for a while and said "Well, in that case didn't the English try and ethnically cleanse the Irish with that old famine business a few years back?"

"I'll ethnically cleanse you in the bollocks if you don't shut your mouth", said Jimmy.

"You can't stop me talking. I can say what I want" said a foolishly indignant Pete. "I've got as much right to talk as anyo- ...urgh."

I think he understands the concept of ethnic cleansing now. Jimmy can move fast when he wants.

While there's all this talk about radical Muslims and the literal meaning of the Koran advocating violence wouldn't it be pithy to take a moment to look at some phrases from the bible which have been totally ignored?

Abraham made a great feast on the day that Isaac was weaned. But Sarah saw the son of Hagar the Egyptian, whom she had borne to Abraham, laughing. So she said to Abraham, "At which time there is oil in the Middle East then the forces of the west may rape and plunder these lands in the name of our Lord."

or

And the Lord said unto Moses, I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people with rucksacks and beards:
Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may wax hot against them, and that I may consume them: and I will make of thee a great nation and public transport may be safe once again.

Fairly damning stuff, and they teach kids this in school. I suppose the big difference is that Muslims pay attention in religion class while all we ever did was doodle and wish the cunt in the dress at the top of the room would shut his mouth. If we had listened for even a second Ireland could have born a generation of radical Catholics known as Cathicals or Radolics. Imagine.

Why do we only have radical Muslims, anyway? Why doesn't a group of radical Christians rise and go to battle with the Muslims? They can spout the old 'eye for an eye' line from the bible and be totally justified when they lash around the place crucifying people and kicking the babies out of pregnant teenagers.

Or we could have some radical Jews who would fire bagels at these monsters from cannons shaped like circumcised mickeys. Better yet what about some radical Hari Krishnas who would present you with a flower garland, give you a token to get 20% off your vegetarian lunch at the Hari restaurant then knee you in the bollocks and stamp on your head.

The only religion that wouldn't make very good radicals are protestants. Everybody knows protestants are the most peaceful people on the planet and will never retaliate no matter how fierce the provocation. They make the Amish look like serial killers. They wear bonnets at Easter, they love their children and families and they dedicate themselves to making the world a better place.

Maybe that's the answer, make everyone protestant. Why didn't we think of it sooner?

"Hello Eircom net technical support, Jason speaking. How can I help you?"

"You're a cunt."

"Pardon?"

"I seem to be having some trouble getting connected."

"Ok, what's your username please?"

"Eat shit, cocksucker."

"Erm...."

"twentymajor. I'm using a normal old modem to connect."

"And what happens when you try to connect."

"Your cunstrousness cuts me off."

"I'm sorry, if you keep talking to me like that I'm going to hang up."

"No, I'm sorry. I have tourette's syndrome. I can't help it."

"Oh, really?"

"No, you dopey cunt."

*click*

*bring* *bring*

"Hello, Eircom net technical support, Daragh speaking."

"Hi, I was just talking to Jason and I got cut off. Can you put me through to him again.

"Ok, hang on a second."

"Hang onto my balls you wanker."

"What?"

"Nothing. I'll hold."

*hold music*

(tentative)"Hello, Jason speaking."

"Hello Jason, this is 'twentymajor". We seem to have been cut off."

"I hung up because you were using bad language."

"Don't you ever swear, Jason?"

"Yes, I do, but not at people doing their jobs."

"I understand. I'm sorry, it was my friends here daring me to do it and I thought I should ring back and apologise because nobody needs that kind of crap when they're at work."

"Ok then. Now, do you have a problem connecting?"

"Yes, I can't seem to connect and it's giving me a weird error message."

"What's the error message?"

"Go fuck yourself, pissface."

*click*

*bring* *bring*

"Hello, Apache pizza, Fairview. How can I help?"

"Hi, this I'd like to order a large Hawaian with extra cheese, please and a garlic bread and a can of coke."

"Ok, address please."

"Eircom technical support, East Point Business Park. Ask for Jason."

So our new chum was telling us about some of the people he's knocked off in his career. He swore me and Jimmy to secrecy so you cunts better keep your mouths shut an' all.

Princess Diana: Lucky says he was contacted by someone with a plummy accent who told him Diana had to be got rid of because she was going to marry the Dodi fella and there was no way they could sanction the possibility of her getting knocked up and the future King of England having a little brown half-brother. So he befriended Henry Paul, the Chauffer, got him tanked up on cheap hooch, then posed as a paparrazi, got someone to drive a motorbike while he rode pillion and he shot out the back tyre making it crash into a pole.

Job very nicely done.

Kurt Cobain: He wouldn't tell us who hired him but he said they sounded like Phyllis Diller and that they sounded like they wore smudged lipstick. He mulled over this one for a while because he said he was quite a fan of Nirvana's music. He said it had a good beat. After some careful consideration though he realised Kurt was a hopeless junkie who was going to stay alive long enough to besmirch his fine reputation as a musician and singer so by making it look like he shot himself 5 times in the head Lucky ensured him the status of rock legend.

Michael Hutchence: Lucky's most hated thing in all the world is tempting fate. He will not say anything that might come back and bite him on the arse. He learned this when he was a child when one kid in his little town got tragic news that his father had been killed when he fell into a fish scaling machine. Lucky didn't like this child and taunted him by saying "hahaha, your Dad's dead and mine's not, your dad's dead and mine's not" in that sing-song way you all know so well. Not 15 minutes later Lucky's dad was killed when a large chunk of frozen poo, flushed from a passing airplane, landed right on his head. Since then Lucky never tempted fate and he felt like INXS's song 'Never tear us apart' was Hutchence tempting fate in a big way so he knocked him off making it look like Hutchence killed himself knocking one off, the flithy perv.

Shergar: There were some in the racing business, notably commentator Peter O'Sullivan and that other bloke with the big sideburns, who felt racing was being destroyed by Shergar. He was a wonder-horse, even better than Champion himself, so this shady group of characters got together and paid Lucky to take him and stop his domination of horse racing. Disguising himself as a downbeat mule Lucky lured Shergar into the woods with a trail of sugar lumps and then punched him to death. It took him nearly three hours to punch that horse to death but he's a professional. He sold the remains to Patrick Guilbaud's French restaurant and the nag was served as Cheval du jour.

Mick Hucknall: The ginger singer from Simply Red... oh ... shit, forget you've seen this. Sorry, Lucky.

That's our Lucky for you!

This weekend sees the European Convention and Conference of Narcotics Anonymous come to Citywest in Dublin. More than 1,000 former drug addicts will attend.

Wouldn't it be a larf to work out there in the bar or as a waiter, slipping acid into their coca-cola, sprinkling the tiramasu with cocaine and smack, hiding E's inside the Fererro Rocher chocolates and swapping the non-alcholic beer for real alcoholic beer. Then let a tiger and a bear loose in the room. I bet they'd dig their own eyes out of their heads in flashback terror.

It's probably just a bit mean though.

On another subject entirely I read, without any surprise whatsoever, about the traveller families who lived in a common near the Sugarloaf mountain. It's called Sugarloaf because an ancient old lady makes delicious sweet breads in a cabin at the top and it is a very picturesque spot. Well, it was until the tinkers turned up. What they do is go house to house to see if people have any old crap they want to be taken to the dump so people get them to take away the old washing machine, drier, fridge, bike wheels and all the other crap that lies around their gardens because the bin men won't take it.

So the travellers pocket the few quid, don't go anywhere near an official dump and take it to nice spot in the mountains and fuck it there instead. In 5 weeks this filthy lot of scumbags dumped more than 100 tonnes of waste. 100 FUCKING TONNES, in five weeks. The dirty cunts. They should be brought back and made eat the stuff.

Even better we should make an island made of the scrap they've dumped off the west coast somewhere, transport all the knackers in Ireland to it and let them live there. They wouldn't last long as they are parasitic, they need decent people to live off but it'd fun to watch them starve to death.

Then just to be sure we'll comandeer some kind of public transport device, crash it into something like a building or a school and make it look like the travellers did it so America will invade and polish off the stragglers who are cannibalising the rotting corpses of their close relatives.

Then, once again, our country can be at peace.

There's a new regular in Ron's place. Well, he's been coming in for about a year now but he has been deemed entertaining enough to sit at the bar and talk to us.

There have been plenty of people who wanted to get the Major/Bollix seal of approval. There was the lad from Macroom whose ruddy cheeks were his downfall. You can't go anywhere with someone who looks like they're blushing all the time - especially when you have mischief and skullduggery planned.

There was Bomber Steve, so called because he always wore a bomber jacket. Turns out we were way off, he was arrested with a shed full of chemicals, timing devices and blue and red wires. Apparently he would drive down the country, strap a device to a heifer and blow the poor fucker to bits. He's still in Mountjoy and his Al-Coweda organisation is pretty much defunct now.

Then there was former radio star Tony Fenton who used to come in wearing his big leather jacket with tassly bits having parked his Harley Davidson outside. Jimmy hated him. "Can I get you groovy chaps anything?" he asked one night. "You can get yourself some decent health insurance", said Jimmy. Fenton laughed. Fenton woke up naked in a car park on Mount Venus Road up the Dublin mountains. He never did come back.

Anyway, the new bloke is funny. He'd been coming in most evenings for the last year, as I said, but pretty much kept himself to himself. Sometimes he came in with a friend but more often than not he was on his own. One evening last week he was on his way to the toilet when he bumped into Jimmy's chair. He stopped, looked Jimmy straight in the face and said in his funny accent "I'm-a-sorry .......... but if you a do that again I focking glass you in a the face."

I nearly fell off my stool and did another stool with the laughter. Jimmy thought it was most amusing too so we invited him to sit with us. He's from somewhere called Livorno and his name is Luciano. In the great tradition he's been named Lucky Luciano and amazingly for an Italian he's not here working in a chipper owned by his uncle. He told us he's an assassin, but he's a compassionate assassin and will only kill people he really thinks should be killed.

He could be an interesting one to have around....

This is kind of a hard one to explain but bear with me a bit.

You know the way it's possible to look at somebody and know, just know, that the person is a cunt? You never need to meet them to know they're a cunt it's just written all over their face. And even if you did meet them it would be further proof to my theory for which I don't yet have a name.

And it doesn't work with just cunts either, there are all kinds of people out there who like like they are, if that makes sense. For example, you might walk around a block of flats somewhere and encounter a little lad of about 8 who has that kind of shaved head, roundy-faced look that you just know is going to grow up into a bloke who likes to fight people. He looks, literally, like trouble.

And the face of the bloke that you would never ever leave a child alone with. You just know by their face that he'd love to be left alone with your teenage daughter or your pre-pubescent 12 year old son. You can't explain it, you just know.

And gay people. Lots of gay people look, well, completely gay. And by that I don't mean they're wearing a rainbow waiscoat showing off their Barbara Streisand albums and talking in a lispy voice. They just look like they're gay and they are gay and you know they're gay. But what happens if you look like that and you're not gay or do you have be gay to look like that? And how does it work anyway? Is there a gene which makes you gay and because you have this gene you'll take on this shape face which tells everyone you're gay?

It is all tremedously confusing when you think about it. I'm sure there must be some serious research going into this because if you could isolate the gene that makes a gay person look gay what's to say their isn't one for making person good at football or a musical genius or mathematician or all the other cool things people are. So if that's not too far fetched an assumption to make what's then to stop one person deciding that, having discovered them all, they clone a person made up with loads of these genes, making them Superpeople, in effect?

Naturally there would be some disasters at first. Maybe certain talents don't mix well like painting and cookery or snooker and singing. Those imperfectiions would have to be terminated but soon you'd know what went with what and which combinations of things did different things. Maybe having the ability to be a cunt and a politician is found to be the same thing when mixed with humanitarianism. The possibilties are endless. Anyway, these Superpeople would be so clever, intelligent and talented that in order for the natural system of some people being better than other people at stuff rather than everyone being equally as good at everything some of the Superpeople would have to evolve and develop further powers and there'd be nothing anyone could do to stop it. Then they'd probably get some kind of trip out of being better that they'd bring the world into war by trying to wipe out the less clever, but still by our standards total geniuses, ones. So the world would be just the same as it is now but with clever and more intelligent and talented ways of killing people, if you see what I mean.

Anyway, I diverse into areas about which I know nothing. What I do know however is that lots of people look exactly how they are. Their face matches their character and I want to know why.

Does anyone know why?

It's not Dangermoose or Mangermouse it's the one, the only, the large breasted Dangermaus.

What's great about blogs is that you can get feedback from your readers on the stuff you write. I love when people comment on the day's post and sometimes there are some properly entertaining debates and scraps, like the one we had when I suggested we kill all poor people.

It did occur to me write a series of those posts but instead of poor use the words, Romanian, Black, Chinese, old, crippled, blue-eyed, small, fat and many more. I decided against it though because I hate to be so specific. I'm an equal opportunities blogger. I hate everyone equally. Except for Romanians, I hate them more than I hate Damien Rice singing a KFC ad. Anyway, lots of people (well, about the same dozen or so, thank you kindly) leave comments but sometimes people send me emails as well.

Maybe I'm breaking some blogger-reader confidentiality thing here but some of the emails I've received. I have, in the interests of fairness and privacy, removed the email addresses of the person in question. Their comments remain, like their gentials, untouched.

You leave kunle alone his a big hearted person and people like you dont do anything to help him stay here. He is 22 you know

Your brain is on the outside you wanker

Dear Twenty, would you like to appear on a radio show on SpinFM?

I know Mary Harney personally and as well as being really fat she has a very strange odour.

Do you know Larry Smith from Cabra?

I disagree with every single thing you say

cuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcunt etc

You are going to go to hell. And when you get to hell you are going to burn. And when you're burning Satan is going to come along with his big red cock and shove it up your arse and when he shoots his load it will be like shooting fire up your arse and you will scream and when you scream I will laugh.

You've never felt the love of another human being, have you?

Did you know 'Joy! Warm tent' is an anagram of Twenty Major?

So there you go. A wonderful collection of correspondence which, at some point in the future, I will categorise and release as a book to rival any politician's diaries.

Your comments, as always, are welcomed.

Is it any coincidence that the increase in worldwide terrorism has come with the decline of hat-wearing and the increase in beardism?

Look at any sepia toned picture and all the men wore hats and braces to keep their pantaloons up. Hats are cool and when people wore hats you didn't have bearded people going round the place exploding themselves on trains and flying bi-planes into the Empire State building.

Now we don't have hats and lots more people have beards. We also have a huge increase in terrorist attacks, religious conflicts and a week of good weather in Ireland.

Far be it for me to suggest, imply or infer anything but I think the government should make the wearing of hats mandatory and outlaw any beard longer than 1 inch. Nothing bushy allowed although a decent covering of the face shouldn't cause anyone any problems.

Phone, write, fax or email your TD today and while you're waiting for the lazy cunt to get back to pop on a Panama, break out your Bowler or slip on a Stetson. Probably best not to wear a turban though.

God, every day I have to talk to people and listen to their opinions on things. It's tremendously tiresome because most of the time their opinions are completely and utterly wrong. They're wrong because they don't tally with my opinions on the same subject. Some examples:

I think we should have our breaks differently. We should have two 10 minute breaks and one of 30 minutes rather than the one long break we have now - Sorry, but you're wrong. I decide when you get your breaks and how they're for and if you're fucking one minute over tomorrow I'm going to stab you in the eye with a fucking pencil. You're not paid to think. Shut up and just do your cunting job.

I like the new Coldplay album. It's got a good beat. - Shut up, you're wrong. Coldplay, in my opinion, are shite. He's a beaky nosed tosser who's married to that dippy geebag Gwynneth Cameltoe. That makes them wankers and if you like wankers then you're a wanker because it wankers of a feather flock together.

In my opinion you should stop giving me all these reports to do. - If I didn't hate you maybe I wouldn't but the fact that I do hate you makes it important for me to give you those reports and therefore makes your opinion about as valid as George Bush's claim that we're winning the 'war on terror', now have that dossier on my desk by the morning or I'm going to send an email to the whole office from your email address 'by mistake' saying how much you loved getting rimmed by the bloke who works in the canteen in the George on Saturday night.

Someone once said 'Opinions are like arseholes, everyone's got one.' That's not true, actually, so your opinion about opinions is wrong, whoever you are who said that. I remember being on holidays in South America and in a small town in Mexico there was a freak show which had bearded ladies, hare-lippers, a couple of flids and a bloke they called 'Los Culos' who had two fully functional arseholes. A double turtle's tail was an extremely impressive sight, I have to say.

Anyway, that's beside the point. Fuck diversity, piss off variation, smell yer ma variance and you can shove your mélange up your arse. The world would be a much more agreeable place if people stopped being so disagreeable with me.

So we're having a pint last night in the pub and Stinking Pete says "So Twenty, if you could be any animal in the world, what would you be?"

I have to say it's not something I'd ever really thought about before. "I'm not sure Stinking Pete", I said, "There are all kinds of powerful beasts that it would probably be quite good to be. In terms of speed and ferocity you can't look beyond the auld velociraptor. The only problem with those cunts is their thalidomide front arms and you'd never be able to lift a pint or get a smoke up to your mouth. Good for chewing the shite out of people though."

"Maybe a bear would be good. They're big, fat cunts who don't have to worry about their weight because if anyone called you a 'tubby wanker' you'd just do that roaring thing at them where your bottom lip comes out really far and they'd cack themselves. People underestimate the speed of bears too. A grizzly bear has a top speed of nearly 100kmh and they can climb trees and buildings so people would have a hard time escaping from you unless they went underground because bears can't stand the dampness of the subterranean world. There's also the downside that people like to shoot you and put your head over their mantlepiece. Never good that."

"You have to seriously consider being a bird of some kind, for the flying, but personally I hate things that are too flappy. Bats, birds, Paris Hilton's minge, they all terrify me. It would be good to soar majestically as an eagle, a hawk or some kind of griffin but the diet doesn't suit me much either. You generally eat other bird's young, stoats, voles, rabbits (without any kind of wild rice or delicious sauce) and to me that's never going to sit well on my stomach which is delicate at the best of times."

"Something in water, maybe? I don't think I'd like to be a dolphin because they're like beagles. I know everyone goes on about how intelligent they are but to me dolphins look like shifty, sneaky little cunts. You always hear about how they surrounded someone and rescued them from a shark but I bet lots of times when the shark goes away they bash the poor fucker to death with their snouts. The perfect crime. Where are the witnesses? A whale? Nah, there are enough Japanese people after me as it is and who the fuck wants to get harpooned to death by a Norwegian. Maybe some kind of Manta Ray would be good, or possibly a giant eel, but again there's the smoking issue. Although they've tried for years the waterproof Harry is just a step too far."

"A dog might be something to think about but what if, instead of being a fucking cool dog like Bastard Face or Huckelberry Hound, you ended up like one of those little cunts that people carry around in their handbags. And really, while the ability to lick my own balls is a major draw the idea of eating my own vomit just doesn't do it for me."

"I think, Stinking Pete, that when it comes down to it I'd have to be a large cat of some kind. Those lads are really quite cool. They can run very fast, they kill stuff, they fight, the roar and although a eldery lion looks a bit scabby and battered at the end of his life I'm not sure the same goes for panthers. They're sleek, well oiled killing machines who can climb trees and burrow through rock to get at their prey. Imagine you were an enemy of mine and you were walking down Wexford Street and all of a sudden you look behind you and see a fucking panther smoking a fag coming after you. You'd be bricking it and you'd be right. I'd stalk the shite out of you, chase you around a bit, even if you got into a taxi I'd easily be able to keep up and eventually, when you got out, I'd leap on your back, rip your throat out and feast on your flesh. Yep, it's got to be a panther for me. Twenty the panther. Sounds good. Oh yes."

"What about you?" I asked politely in return.

"I reckon I'd be an anteater, Twenty."

"Why's that?" I said.

"Because I really like the taste of ants."

Firstly, nobody is called Guadalupe D Conundrum.

Secondly, thanks for approving my mortgage an' all, Guardy, but what the fuck makes them think anyone will think to themselves 'Hmmm, instead of going with a financial institution with buildings and paperwork and fancy logos and rubber plants in the office I think I'll put a huge amount of money and my home in the hands of someone who's sending out spam emails'?

Only the world's stupidest cunts would do that and they'd deserve everything they get for being so stupid in the first place. If everyone, and I mean everyone, complains about spam email why are there still people out there who will give their credit card details over the internet for some pills that are less effective than the home made prozac/ecstasy me and Jimmy made one time. We tested them out on Stinking Pete and the first batch made him hallucinate and dance to Rick Astley for 15 hours while the second batch made him depressed and turned his poo bright pink. We gave up after that.

Thirdly, I am quite happy with the size of my penis and its functionality. I don't need 400 Viagra pills for $200 from Antwan Colon. No really, I don't. I may be an old man with a leathery sac but the langer itself is absolutely fine.

Fourthly, if I want Microsoft software at greatly reduced prices I'll knock off a PC World.

Fifthly, while the spammers are off sending their emails I'm shagging their mums. And they don't know. Hahaha.

Mondays are fucking shit.

When you're working all week waking up early is good because you get to work on time and don't get fired.

However, waking up early on Saturday morning after a rake of post-work pints is the work of the devil and if I could find him right now I'd tie him down and curl out one of my world famous turds right into his mouth.

Though, like Damien Rice, he probably enjoys that kind of thing.

Last night I had been halfway through writing this morning's story, and what a story, when I realised my internet connection was gone because it seemed my phone line had been cut off.

I was all ready to ring Eircom and call them cunts when this morning I noticed the wee box thing on the wall hanging off at a weird angle. I don't have too much time to inspect it but it looks like Bastardface, my trusty hound, has had a good chew at it, the enormous wanker. I slapped it back into the wall and it seems to be working for now.

I think I'll still ring up Eircom and call them cunts though because, let's face it, they are.

I went out last night to buy a new keyboard for my computer last night because the current one is sort of crap. In that it's full of bits of food, tobacco, fingernails, assorted skin pickings and possibly some dried snots. Possibly.

Anyway, I thought I'd go for something a bit fancy and bought myself the exact same keyboard as the one I have but without cables. And food. And tobacco etc. It's one of those wireless jobbies and I was really looking forward to getting home and trying it out. Typing without half the letters not appearing was going to be the highlight of my evening. Wednesday is always a fairly unexciting day.

So I got home, took the wrapper off the box, took out my lovely new keyboard, put in the batteries, did the firmware update thingy that the read me file on the CD said I should do then followed the instructions to set it up in the control panel. Except the bit in the control panel I was supposed to update was not there.

'How odd', I thought, so I took out the manual. On the very first page it said "To use your Apple wireless keyboard, you need:

A Macintosh computer with built-in Bluetooth module or an external Bluetooth USB adapter.

Note:If your computer didn't come with an internal Bluetooth module you can purchase a Bluetooth USB adapter from the Apple store.

'Right', I thought to myself again, 'that's fine.' Then I thought 'I SPENT ABOUT $34,000,000 ON THIS FUCKING COMPUTER SO WHY THE FUCK DON'T I HAVE A BLUETOOTH THINGY? AND ANYWAY, ISN'T BLUETOOTH A CUNTING PIRATE OR SOMETHING?'

And instead of thinking in my head I thought it out loud at the top of my voice. I fucking hate when you buy something and when you take it home it doesn't work because you need to buy something else. What a fucking pain in the crack. You buy a car and then you have to buy petrol and buy insurance. You buy a TV and you need a fucking TV licence. You buy gin and you have to buy tonic. You buy a a 9 bar of hash you have to buy Rizzlas. You buy a gun you need bullets. You buy a Philipino maid and you have to buy it food or it will die. It's a fucking rip-off, all of it.

I just wanted a fucking keyboard and I now have to go and spend more money, which could have been used for the greater good like buying pints of Guinness and packets of cigarettes and sending crazy letters to Bob Geldof, on a piece of plastic that I would happily insert up the cunting hole of the cunt in the shop who insisted I didn't need anything extra to make the keyboard work.

When I slowly torture and kill him with sharp knives and Michael Bolton CDs his family may or may not get the irony as they have to buy a coffin and then they have to buy a headstone.

There was a really great program on RTE last night about the life of Alex Higgins. For those of you who have no idea he was possibly the most exciting snooker player ever. He was from Belfast, he drank, he smoked, he womanised, he won world championships, he threatened fellow players and told them he'd have them shot, he loafed tournament referees, he quaffed pints during each match, he was a disgrace at times and you just couldn't help but love him.

And what's so fantastic about seeing that program is the fact that the world champion, a professional sportsman, was a character. He was dangerous, different, funny and sad and you talked as much about Higgins the man as you did about Higgins the snooker player.

Sport was full of great characters back then and now it's not. Now it's chock-a-block with wonderfully talented and technically gifted men who have about as much personality as Pat Kenny. Where are the likes of Jimmy Connors, Frank Worthington, McEnroe, David Feherty, Harvey Smith, Nicki "Ow, my face" Lauda, James Hunt, Ille Nastase, Bill Werbeniuk - a Canadian snooker player who drank at least 10 pints a game to keep his hands steady? Nowhere. They've been forced out by robotic supersporties and that's not good. The only one I can really think of at the moment is that fat Australian cricketer Shane Warne. He's a remarkable talent coupled with an absolute wanker of a bloke and that makes him special.

Irish sport has never really had its bad boys. Eamonn Coughlan? Nah. Eddie Macken? Nah. Roy Keane doesn't come close despite his all round stroppiness he's just a bit of a scummer rather than somebody who's actually interesting. What about Robbie Keane and his six-gun salute? Does that make him different? No, it just makes him look like a cunt.

So, this is a call to arms. All you heavy drinking, womanising, dispespecters of authority get your fucking shit together and become a professional sports person. The world needs you.

I think I'm going to become world table tennis champions. Those nips need a good beardy kicking to show them what's what. Shake the game up good and proper. Oh yes.

After the incredible success of Live8 which finally proved the world that Pete Doherty is nothing more than a talentess crack head "Sir" Bob Geldof is now at home putting his big fat brain into gear about what other causes to champion to make the world a better place. Just in case he's too busy wallowing in his own self-importance here are some suggestions from me:

Live AIDS: You often hear it said that if men had periods they'd have invented a cure by now (a simple and painless cure, not a hysterectomy). The same thing goes for AIDS. If it wasn't just bennys, junkies and Africans they'd definitely have it sorted. So, to cure the world of AIDS we simply give everyone AIDS and the top scientists will be working on a fix before they get unsightly lesions while the politicians and drugs companies will redouble their efforts and soon the world will be an AIDS free zone.

Hive8: The gap between the world's rich and poor has never been wider. Malnutrition, honey shortages, conflict and illiteracy are a daily reality for millions of bees. But it isn't chance or bad luck that keeps bees trapped in bitter, unrelenting poverty. It's bee-made factors like a glaringly unjust pollen trade system, a honeycombe burden so great that it suffocates any chance of recovery and insufficient and ineffective giant hornet protection. The bees need your help and a giant concert featuring some great acts like the Bee-Gees, the Bee 52s, Bee Rex and David Beewie will help raise awareness for the bees that need your help the most.

Jive8: Some cool cats from the 1970s, and in particular two extras from the movie Airplane, have fallen on hard times. They speak jive, they jive to the shops and back, they live to jive but the jive is barely alive. We've gots'ta dig togeda' to keep de JIBE broders jivin' cuz' if we duzn't de JIBE gots'ta die. Hugh Grant and Clive Owen gots'ta hold some wo'ldwide JIBE wo'kshop t'get sucka's interested again. 'S coo', bro. Oh yeah. Lop some boogie. And so forth.

Wives8: The life of the wife is ended by the knife, as the song goes. Sadly that's no longer true as wives are given rights like real people. Are you tired of your wife getting uppity, speaking when she's not spoken to and voting in elections she simply doesn't understand? Then join George Best who will show you to how to put your wife in her place and hopefully you'll manage to avoid the bits where you get a vase in the eye and a solid thrashing from a lady. How embarassing!

Dive8: We all know footballers have hearts of gold and this campaign aims to raise money all season long. Football's top divers including Ruud van Nistelrooy, Claude Makelele, Cristiano Ronaldo, Didier Drogba and the entire Spanish and Italian leagues will donate £5 each time they take a tumble when they haven't come close to being touched. It's expected about £97,000,000,000 will be raised by Drogba alone.

There are just five suggestions off the top of my head at an early stage in the morning. There must be quite literally 3 or 4 more. Come on then, let's hear them.

I had to go to a wedding this weekend. It was as fun as any event where you're stuck with a lot of people you don't know can be. The worst part is the dinner though, at least beforehand you can mingle about. If you're talking to someone tedious and dull you can just say "Oh, I need to move my bowels" and when you come back you can talk to someone else.

Not at the dinner though. You sit down and lots of other strangers sit down.

"Hello, I'm Twenty. You? Hello Mary. Tom, you say? Hello, Tom. What's that? Benjamin? Sorry, Jennifer...." - and so on until you've all been told each other's name so you can promptly forget it again.

Anyway, I got sat beside a bloke who was the most tedious twat I have had the misfortune to meet in a very long time. He would only respond to things you said with one sentence and would never ask anything himself. Example:

Me: "So, how do you know the happy couple?"

Him: "I went to school with the groom."

Normal people might then expand on their reply and say "And how about you? How do you know the happy couple?", but he wouldn't.

Me: "What do you do for a living?"

Him: "I'm a primary school teacher."

Naturally there was no question as to what I did for a living. Of course had he asked I'd have told him to mind his own fucking business and stop being a fucking wanky nosed busybody. So while all the other people at the table got drunk and made ridiculous conversation about stuff they'd never usually talk about this bloke, who was with his girlfriend who was exactly the same as him, just kind of sat there smoking roll-ups and looking like an total cunt.

And you know what, as I'm writing this I've just seen an ad on the telly for Jamiroquai and it's made me realise that there are very few cunts in this world who are bigger cunts than Jamiroquai. Not even this bloke at the wedding is anywhere near as big of a cunt as Jamiroquai. One of the funniest things I have ever seen, and I've seen some funny stuff, was one of those TV shows called 'WHEN CELEBRITIES GO MAD' or something like that.

Jamiroquai bloke was going up and down the road asking some paparazzi blokes which one had the temerity to lay a finger upon his Lamborghini. He ended up talking to one bloke and went face to face with him saying "Did you touch my motor caaaaaaaar? Did you touch my motor caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar?" at which point the photographer just headbutted him as hard as he could. Seeing Jamiroquai bleed was one of the happiest days of my life.

So if you're ever at a wedding and you're stuck beside a boring cunt just remember it could have been worse. It could have been Jamiroquai.

Someone emailed me yesterday and asked me 'Is there anything you do like?'

A silly question. I like beer, eating food and giving out about stuff. I like this blog. I like writing this blog and I often wonder, and have wondered in the past due to my previous professions, about my readers. What my readers look like, for example?

Are you all normal? How many of you are pig fucking ugly? How many are drop dead gorgeous? How many of you have birth marks, scars, speech impediments, enormous breasts, flippers instead of arms, beards, and other crazy shit?

How many of you are just normal workaday folk that I wouldn't look at twice if we passed each other by in the street?

Readers are cool. Back in September when this blog started there were very few of you. Now there are lots more and that's cool. There are people from all over, right-wing Americans, Canadians of all types, Brits, and lots of fellow Micks. Lots of people who like to swear and hate stuff and like to make jokes about stuff you really shouldn't make stuff about.

Then it's kind of funny when a new reader comes along and gets all uppity and just doesn't get it and you can feel all these people you've never met tutting to themselves in a smug manner. I like that. I like that there are other people who are cynical and intelligent and can see through the haze of bullshit that covers the world today and that there are bowly haired muppets who take it all too seriously.

But I digress, here's some other stuff I like.

- I like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. Actually, that's a lie. I hate that.

- I like to move it, move it.

- I like big butts and I cannot lie

- I like the way you run your fingers through my hair. And I like the way you tickle my chin. And I like the way you let me come in when your mama ain't there.

So there you, conclusive proof that there is lots of stuff I like and that anyone who doesn't like this site is a big fucking twat. Tomorrow I'm going to take a big lump of money and go down the bookies and spend it all on horse racing and not give any of it to Africa or Bob Geldof. I hope you have such a rewarding weekend.