Amazing picture of New Orleans
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Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Up your cunts, spammers and NIMBYs
I believe this is what they call a result. Thank you all for your help.
You might have noticed I had to turn that image protection thingy on for when you make comments. These cunts just wait for a new post then they run some kind of script. The first one to spam the blog yesterday was this bunch of Godless cunts and I sent an email to david@christcentereddating.com to complain about it. He hasn't replied though. Somehow I'm not surprised. Wonder if he'll reply to you?
Anyway, I see the NIMBYs in North county Dublin are moaning about the new jail and mental hospital being built there. They say their concerns are the huge cost of building the place and moving everyone from Mountjoy and the Central Mental Hospital. They also claim that it will have "untold consequences for our community, environment and heritage".
What a load of shite. These people spent a huge amount of money on a front page of the Irish Independent, inexplicably Ireland's best selling daily paper, to object to the project on these grounds. They would have won a lot more friends if they'd said "Right, don't know about the rest of you but we really don't fancy living so close to the murderers, thieves, rapists, child molesters and junkies, not to mention the criminally insane who eat their own poo like modern day Renfields. Yes, we know the place is going to be locked up tight but we still object because these cunts are proper cunts. You wouldn't like to live beside them, would you? Exactly."
I'd have been right behind them had they been honest but by feigning concern over how taxpayer's money is being spent as well as some old horse bollocks about the environment makes me wish the council make compulsory purchase orders on all their houses, build the new jail on top of them and make them live in a trailer park just outside the front door.
Personally I think the Government should just build a wall around Blanchardstown and airlift in newresidents prisoners once a week. That's just me though.
You might have noticed I had to turn that image protection thingy on for when you make comments. These cunts just wait for a new post then they run some kind of script. The first one to spam the blog yesterday was this bunch of Godless cunts and I sent an email to david@christcentereddating.com to complain about it. He hasn't replied though. Somehow I'm not surprised. Wonder if he'll reply to you?
Anyway, I see the NIMBYs in North county Dublin are moaning about the new jail and mental hospital being built there. They say their concerns are the huge cost of building the place and moving everyone from Mountjoy and the Central Mental Hospital. They also claim that it will have "untold consequences for our community, environment and heritage".
What a load of shite. These people spent a huge amount of money on a front page of the Irish Independent, inexplicably Ireland's best selling daily paper, to object to the project on these grounds. They would have won a lot more friends if they'd said "Right, don't know about the rest of you but we really don't fancy living so close to the murderers, thieves, rapists, child molesters and junkies, not to mention the criminally insane who eat their own poo like modern day Renfields. Yes, we know the place is going to be locked up tight but we still object because these cunts are proper cunts. You wouldn't like to live beside them, would you? Exactly."
I'd have been right behind them had they been honest but by feigning concern over how taxpayer's money is being spent as well as some old horse bollocks about the environment makes me wish the council make compulsory purchase orders on all their houses, build the new jail on top of them and make them live in a trailer park just outside the front door.
Personally I think the Government should just build a wall around Blanchardstown and airlift in new
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Tuesday, August 30, 2005
You better not mess with Major Ron
We all know Major Tom's a junkie, David Bowie told us so back in 1981 in his number one single 'Ashes to Ashes' but Ron the Barman's cousin, who was also called Tom, was also a junkie. A proper skaghead so he was and we used to have great fun with him.
Ron used to get really pissed off with him because he was a filthy, sneaky thief who would rob from his mother who was Ron's mother's sister. Every once in a while Ron would call myself and Jimmy over to the bar and tell us we had to do him a favour. As Ron did us many favours like stashing stuff in his cellar, locking us into his pub and helping us dig holes for putting ...erm... stuff in and countless other things, it was never a problem to help Ron out.
Once we went round to the house where Tom had arrrived home twisted out of his face and fallen asleep in a pool of his own vomit at the kitchen table. Ron had a van so we put on gardening gloves and lifted yer man into the back of it. Off we drove up the mountains, up the Mount Venus Road, parked the van, stripped him naked and dumped him on the 7th green of the pitch and putt course up there. Of course he had no idea how he got there and it took him ages to get home because he stole some clothes off a clothsline, got spotted by a neighbour and got arrested before he'd gone 500 yards.
Another time, again while he was passed out, we shaved his head, drew a clown's face on him with permanent markers and painted him with Hammerite.
Then there was the time Ron got someone to sell him a bag of of baking soda mixed with ant poison but he got too fucked up on his own gear, passed out and some other fucker stole it off him. Worst thing he, and his three mates, ever did. Their bodies lay bloating in a flat in Drumcondra for a couple of weeks before they were found.
The best one though was when Tom's poor mother came home to find he'd pawned all her jewellery to get his fix. Her engagement ring, a necklace that had been handed down from her grandmother, a charm bracelet and lots of other things with huge amounts of sentimental value. She was, as you'd imagine, absolutely gutted. Ron got a call from his mother in the pub that night and thunder-faced he called me and Jimmy over. He was furious and told us we had to come with him right now. He was so angry he left Stinking Pete in charge of the bar and Ron has only left his bar one other time and that's a story I'll save for another time.
So we went round the usual places looking for Tom. It took a while but eventually we found him in the old Pierrot snooker club on the quays. He was sitting at an arcade game and the minute he saw the three of us he tried to run away but being a fucking junkie cunt he slipped and fell on his snot. He was told to shut up and he came with us without too much trouble. We got a few stares on the way out.
"What the cunting fuck are you looking at you pricks?", Jimmy asked a couple of blokes playing Bubble Bobble. Turned out they weren't looking at anything.
"Where are we going?" asked Tom.
"Don't speak", said Ron. Tom didn't. Ron was never a man for shitting on his own doorstep so we drove north, out past the airport and towards Corballis golf club near Donabate. Small country roads not far from the city, but it was dark, quiet and at that time of night there's hardly any traffic. We pulled over near an empty field and Ron asked us to hold him while he had a talk to him.
And by talking to him I mean punched him in the head. He smashed his face in, Tom was spitting teeth and wailing like a banshee. Tom slumped to the ground.
"Leave him", said Ron. We did. He didn't though. He proceeded to boot him up and down the field. You could hear the cracks as his ribs gave way. Tom was just groaning rather than screaming though. He made some spluttery cough sounds too. Ron is not a small man either so when he jumped on Tom's ankles they couldn't bear the weight. Me and Jimmy just stood watching.
Eventually Ron was finished and we left him there and headed back. Ron drove to his home, gave me and Jimmy the keys and told us to lock up the pub and drop the keys back through the letter box later which we duly did.
Now, I know that all sounds like a horrible story but there's a happy ending. Tom never took any drugs ever again.
He died you see.
Ron used to get really pissed off with him because he was a filthy, sneaky thief who would rob from his mother who was Ron's mother's sister. Every once in a while Ron would call myself and Jimmy over to the bar and tell us we had to do him a favour. As Ron did us many favours like stashing stuff in his cellar, locking us into his pub and helping us dig holes for putting ...erm... stuff in and countless other things, it was never a problem to help Ron out.
Once we went round to the house where Tom had arrrived home twisted out of his face and fallen asleep in a pool of his own vomit at the kitchen table. Ron had a van so we put on gardening gloves and lifted yer man into the back of it. Off we drove up the mountains, up the Mount Venus Road, parked the van, stripped him naked and dumped him on the 7th green of the pitch and putt course up there. Of course he had no idea how he got there and it took him ages to get home because he stole some clothes off a clothsline, got spotted by a neighbour and got arrested before he'd gone 500 yards.
Another time, again while he was passed out, we shaved his head, drew a clown's face on him with permanent markers and painted him with Hammerite.
Then there was the time Ron got someone to sell him a bag of of baking soda mixed with ant poison but he got too fucked up on his own gear, passed out and some other fucker stole it off him. Worst thing he, and his three mates, ever did. Their bodies lay bloating in a flat in Drumcondra for a couple of weeks before they were found.
The best one though was when Tom's poor mother came home to find he'd pawned all her jewellery to get his fix. Her engagement ring, a necklace that had been handed down from her grandmother, a charm bracelet and lots of other things with huge amounts of sentimental value. She was, as you'd imagine, absolutely gutted. Ron got a call from his mother in the pub that night and thunder-faced he called me and Jimmy over. He was furious and told us we had to come with him right now. He was so angry he left Stinking Pete in charge of the bar and Ron has only left his bar one other time and that's a story I'll save for another time.
So we went round the usual places looking for Tom. It took a while but eventually we found him in the old Pierrot snooker club on the quays. He was sitting at an arcade game and the minute he saw the three of us he tried to run away but being a fucking junkie cunt he slipped and fell on his snot. He was told to shut up and he came with us without too much trouble. We got a few stares on the way out.
"What the cunting fuck are you looking at you pricks?", Jimmy asked a couple of blokes playing Bubble Bobble. Turned out they weren't looking at anything.
"Where are we going?" asked Tom.
"Don't speak", said Ron. Tom didn't. Ron was never a man for shitting on his own doorstep so we drove north, out past the airport and towards Corballis golf club near Donabate. Small country roads not far from the city, but it was dark, quiet and at that time of night there's hardly any traffic. We pulled over near an empty field and Ron asked us to hold him while he had a talk to him.
And by talking to him I mean punched him in the head. He smashed his face in, Tom was spitting teeth and wailing like a banshee. Tom slumped to the ground.
"Leave him", said Ron. We did. He didn't though. He proceeded to boot him up and down the field. You could hear the cracks as his ribs gave way. Tom was just groaning rather than screaming though. He made some spluttery cough sounds too. Ron is not a small man either so when he jumped on Tom's ankles they couldn't bear the weight. Me and Jimmy just stood watching.
Eventually Ron was finished and we left him there and headed back. Ron drove to his home, gave me and Jimmy the keys and told us to lock up the pub and drop the keys back through the letter box later which we duly did.
Now, I know that all sounds like a horrible story but there's a happy ending. Tom never took any drugs ever again.
He died you see.
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Monday, August 29, 2005
I hate midgets
It was a normal Saturday evening in Ron's. I was sitting with Jimmy the Bollix and Stinkin' Pete who had both been at Croke Park to see Tyrone knock the ever-living shite out of Dublin in the football. They'd arrived back from the game at around 7.30 and we'd been at the bar since.
Ron was in rare old form. Sometimes when he gets in the mood he's a story-teller to beat all others. Forget Kenneth Williams, forget Peter Ustinov. Mere amateurs compared to Ron and at around 10 o'clock he was in the middle of a fantastic tale about a time when he was working as a barman in Paris and he made Jim Morrisson a Caiparinha mixed with industrial bleach when in walked Dirty Dave.
"Howyiz, lads?" he said.
He got the usual grunted responses as we were all enjoying Ron's story and he was at the part where he was getting ready to flee Paris when Dave piped up again.
"Lads, dis here is me cousin, Archie."
I looked and there was nobody at all with Dave.
"What the fuck are you on now?" I asked him. "Seeing things again, I bet, you cunt. Didn't the hospital tell you not to stop taking those pills? You'll have another episode and I don't know if me and Jimmy can sort things out with Colin Farrell's ma like we did the last time."
"No, Twenty. I'm not taking the piss. Me cousin Archie is here", he said and took a step to the left.
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!", I said as the hideous sight of dwarf smacked me right between the eyes. Dirty Dave's cousin was about 3'8" high and had an enormous head on a teeny tiny body.
Now, I'm not sure if this is something I've mentioned before but I don't like dwarves. I know they say Ireland is the home of the little people but at least leprechauns stay out of your way until you find them and their pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They certainly don't come in to the pub on Saturday and make me want to vomit out of my nose.
Anyway, it couldn't get up on one of the stools so Dave gave it a boost up and it ordered a pint of Giunness.
'Good choice of drink' I thought to myself, 'Maybe this gnome isn't as bad as I think it is.'
So it waited for its pint to settle and licking its lips it picked it up - WITH TWO HANDS BECAUSE THE GLASS WAS TOO BIG - and proceeded to glug down that delicious beer. I think the thing I hate most about ooompa-looompas is their hands. Their stubby little hands. Seeing two of them wrapped around a pint of Guinness, in my local, at the same bar I was sitting at having a good time not 5 minutes before, was just too much for me.
"Dave, c'mere!" I said. Dave come over.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Look, here's the story, man. I'm allergic to dwarves. Do you not have somewhere else you can go with that thing?"
"Here now, Twenty", he said. "That's family, I wouldn't talk about your family like that."
"My family aren't fucking circus freaks, Dave."
He got in a bit of a strop then and wandered off. He and the midget finished their pints and left. He had a right puss on him when he lifted it down off the stool.
I'm not sorry though. I just hate those little fuckers and one of the best stories of rock'n'roll excess I ever heard was the one where Freddie Mercury had a party and he hired a load of dwarves, strapped trays to their heads and put bowls of cocaine on the trays. The little people wandered round the party all night and whenever anyone wanted another line they just stopped a dwarf and snorted away. That's what we should use them for. For serving drinks/drugs at an easy to reach height, for unblocking chimneys and for rescuing children that fall down wells.
We don't even need lots of them for films anymore. The new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory just used one real life pygmy and made all the Ooopma-Looopmas in the film by regenerating him with computers. We could also paint them with make-up, dress them with funny costumes, give them a fishing rod and a stool shaped like a mushroom and we could have a whole new line of living garden gnomes but you wouldn't catch me touching one of them in case I caught the small.
Despite my terrifying encounter with the abominable Lilliputian I lived not only to tell the tale but to skull another 6 or 7 pints before picking up a large single of chips and a battered, not cocktail, sausage on the way home.
Down with dwarves.
Ron was in rare old form. Sometimes when he gets in the mood he's a story-teller to beat all others. Forget Kenneth Williams, forget Peter Ustinov. Mere amateurs compared to Ron and at around 10 o'clock he was in the middle of a fantastic tale about a time when he was working as a barman in Paris and he made Jim Morrisson a Caiparinha mixed with industrial bleach when in walked Dirty Dave.
"Howyiz, lads?" he said.
He got the usual grunted responses as we were all enjoying Ron's story and he was at the part where he was getting ready to flee Paris when Dave piped up again.
"Lads, dis here is me cousin, Archie."
I looked and there was nobody at all with Dave.
"What the fuck are you on now?" I asked him. "Seeing things again, I bet, you cunt. Didn't the hospital tell you not to stop taking those pills? You'll have another episode and I don't know if me and Jimmy can sort things out with Colin Farrell's ma like we did the last time."
"No, Twenty. I'm not taking the piss. Me cousin Archie is here", he said and took a step to the left.
"ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!", I said as the hideous sight of dwarf smacked me right between the eyes. Dirty Dave's cousin was about 3'8" high and had an enormous head on a teeny tiny body.
Now, I'm not sure if this is something I've mentioned before but I don't like dwarves. I know they say Ireland is the home of the little people but at least leprechauns stay out of your way until you find them and their pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They certainly don't come in to the pub on Saturday and make me want to vomit out of my nose.
Anyway, it couldn't get up on one of the stools so Dave gave it a boost up and it ordered a pint of Giunness.
'Good choice of drink' I thought to myself, 'Maybe this gnome isn't as bad as I think it is.'
So it waited for its pint to settle and licking its lips it picked it up - WITH TWO HANDS BECAUSE THE GLASS WAS TOO BIG - and proceeded to glug down that delicious beer. I think the thing I hate most about ooompa-looompas is their hands. Their stubby little hands. Seeing two of them wrapped around a pint of Guinness, in my local, at the same bar I was sitting at having a good time not 5 minutes before, was just too much for me.
"Dave, c'mere!" I said. Dave come over.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Look, here's the story, man. I'm allergic to dwarves. Do you not have somewhere else you can go with that thing?"
"Here now, Twenty", he said. "That's family, I wouldn't talk about your family like that."
"My family aren't fucking circus freaks, Dave."
He got in a bit of a strop then and wandered off. He and the midget finished their pints and left. He had a right puss on him when he lifted it down off the stool.
I'm not sorry though. I just hate those little fuckers and one of the best stories of rock'n'roll excess I ever heard was the one where Freddie Mercury had a party and he hired a load of dwarves, strapped trays to their heads and put bowls of cocaine on the trays. The little people wandered round the party all night and whenever anyone wanted another line they just stopped a dwarf and snorted away. That's what we should use them for. For serving drinks/drugs at an easy to reach height, for unblocking chimneys and for rescuing children that fall down wells.
We don't even need lots of them for films anymore. The new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory just used one real life pygmy and made all the Ooopma-Looopmas in the film by regenerating him with computers. We could also paint them with make-up, dress them with funny costumes, give them a fishing rod and a stool shaped like a mushroom and we could have a whole new line of living garden gnomes but you wouldn't catch me touching one of them in case I caught the small.
Despite my terrifying encounter with the abominable Lilliputian I lived not only to tell the tale but to skull another 6 or 7 pints before picking up a large single of chips and a battered, not cocktail, sausage on the way home.
Down with dwarves.
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Saturday, August 27, 2005
Simple maths
Beer = good
Work + beer -food = drunk
Work + beer + food = less drunk but still drunk.
Work + beer + food + Jameson's = really quite drunk indeed.
Work + beer + food + Jameson's + old LPs = really quite nostalgically drunk
Work + beer + food + Jameson's + many old LPs + comfy chair = sleep
Work + beer + food + Jameson's + many old LPs + comfy chair + 7 hours sleep - water + strange angle of neck = pain
Pain ÷ 1200mgs of Ibuprofen = less pain
Less pain + hunger = breakfast beer
Beer = good
Work + beer -food = drunk
Work + beer + food = less drunk but still drunk.
Work + beer + food + Jameson's = really quite drunk indeed.
Work + beer + food + Jameson's + old LPs = really quite nostalgically drunk
Work + beer + food + Jameson's + many old LPs + comfy chair = sleep
Work + beer + food + Jameson's + many old LPs + comfy chair + 7 hours sleep - water + strange angle of neck = pain
Pain ÷ 1200mgs of Ibuprofen = less pain
Less pain + hunger = breakfast beer
Beer = good
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Friday, August 26, 2005
Blogger's block
"What are you gonna talk about on your blog tomorrow, you fag?", asked Jimmy the Bollix.
"Dunno, you wanker", I replied.
"Must be a pain in the hoop trying to think of something to write every day", says he taking a gulp of his pint.
"Not really", says I.
"You mean you always, always have something to talk about?"
"Yep."
"But what if, and I know that with a headful of shite like you have and pair of lips that flap more than Dana's gee it's hard to fathom, you just couldn't think of anything?"
"That'd never happen though, Jimmy. Quit talking shite."
"I'm not talking shite at all. At some point there will come a time where ... Pete, I'm talking to Twenty. Can't you see that I'm in the middle of a conversation? Exactly. Now fuck off and come back when I'm finished talking. No, I don't know when that will be but when you see me not talking it'll be around that time.... Fucking stupid cunt, he is. Anyway, what I was saying was that at some stage you're going to sit down to write your blog and your words will be like food in Niger. Fucking non-existant. Then what are you going to do?"
"I've got loads of stories though. All those crimes I haven't mentioned yet. All the other nasty, mean things we've done to Dirty Dave and Stinkin' Pete. I could tell them about the Aer Lingus pilot with the stupid name that Lucky Luciano has in his sights. There are politiicans and celebrities doing things they shouldn't. Damien Rice is bound to pop up again soon. The weather is shite. There's no shortage of things to talk about."
"Right, I never said there wasn't stuff to talk about. The point I'm trying to make is that despite all that stuff going on your mind is going to blank one day and then... I'M STILL FUCKING TALKING DAVE!...then you're going to look like a right cunt. People are used to you prattling on with your shite on your fucking website and the day you can't think of anything to write is going to be the day I laugh my fucking head off. Honest to God, I will."
"I wouldn't worry about it, Jimmy. I'm not worried at all."
"Why's that then?"
"Because when that day comes, if it comes, and I doubt that it will, I'll just relay this entire conversation as a piece of dialogue thus making a whole post out of the fact I can't think of anything to write about."
"You're a smart cunt, Twenty, so you are."
"You're just a cunt, Jimmy. Pint?"
"Don't mind if I do. Now Dave, what was on your mind?"
"Dunno, you wanker", I replied.
"Must be a pain in the hoop trying to think of something to write every day", says he taking a gulp of his pint.
"Not really", says I.
"You mean you always, always have something to talk about?"
"Yep."
"But what if, and I know that with a headful of shite like you have and pair of lips that flap more than Dana's gee it's hard to fathom, you just couldn't think of anything?"
"That'd never happen though, Jimmy. Quit talking shite."
"I'm not talking shite at all. At some point there will come a time where ... Pete, I'm talking to Twenty. Can't you see that I'm in the middle of a conversation? Exactly. Now fuck off and come back when I'm finished talking. No, I don't know when that will be but when you see me not talking it'll be around that time.... Fucking stupid cunt, he is. Anyway, what I was saying was that at some stage you're going to sit down to write your blog and your words will be like food in Niger. Fucking non-existant. Then what are you going to do?"
"I've got loads of stories though. All those crimes I haven't mentioned yet. All the other nasty, mean things we've done to Dirty Dave and Stinkin' Pete. I could tell them about the Aer Lingus pilot with the stupid name that Lucky Luciano has in his sights. There are politiicans and celebrities doing things they shouldn't. Damien Rice is bound to pop up again soon. The weather is shite. There's no shortage of things to talk about."
"Right, I never said there wasn't stuff to talk about. The point I'm trying to make is that despite all that stuff going on your mind is going to blank one day and then... I'M STILL FUCKING TALKING DAVE!...then you're going to look like a right cunt. People are used to you prattling on with your shite on your fucking website and the day you can't think of anything to write is going to be the day I laugh my fucking head off. Honest to God, I will."
"I wouldn't worry about it, Jimmy. I'm not worried at all."
"Why's that then?"
"Because when that day comes, if it comes, and I doubt that it will, I'll just relay this entire conversation as a piece of dialogue thus making a whole post out of the fact I can't think of anything to write about."
"You're a smart cunt, Twenty, so you are."
"You're just a cunt, Jimmy. Pint?"
"Don't mind if I do. Now Dave, what was on your mind?"
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Thursday, August 25, 2005
The fucking cunting Cranberries
Last night I was in a bar where I had no choice but to be. I could not leave. Normally this is not a problem for me but in this particular establishment they were playing the greatest hits of The Cranberries.
I truly despise the Cranberries with all of my heart. Not just because they're from Limerick but because Dolores O'Riordan sings like a fucking tinker. I hate tinkers.
The word is 'child', Dolores. One syllable. It is not 'choy-eld'.
And that 'owah, owah, owah' thing she does for about a minute in Zombie. Fucking jesus. She is so horrible that if you asked me to choose between having sex with her and having sex with the gangrenous arsehole of an AIDS riddled camel I'd be humping the one with the humps.
And that other song. "My father, my father, he raped me, and I liked it, does anyone care?"
No, I really don't care.
Singing should break down all barriers, you can be from anywhere, unless you sing like a knacker which is what she does. She doesn't even try to hide it. My God it was one of the worst evenings I've ever had. There are eleven men that owe me big time for staying so long.
Away from Dolores to that girl who is running a thingy called 47 hours on her site. Basically a story starts and you continue with the last line of the previous person. I'm part 3 but you might want to start at the beginning.
I truly despise the Cranberries with all of my heart. Not just because they're from Limerick but because Dolores O'Riordan sings like a fucking tinker. I hate tinkers.
The word is 'child', Dolores. One syllable. It is not 'choy-eld'.
And that 'owah, owah, owah' thing she does for about a minute in Zombie. Fucking jesus. She is so horrible that if you asked me to choose between having sex with her and having sex with the gangrenous arsehole of an AIDS riddled camel I'd be humping the one with the humps.
And that other song. "My father, my father, he raped me, and I liked it, does anyone care?"
No, I really don't care.
Singing should break down all barriers, you can be from anywhere, unless you sing like a knacker which is what she does. She doesn't even try to hide it. My God it was one of the worst evenings I've ever had. There are eleven men that owe me big time for staying so long.
Away from Dolores to that girl who is running a thingy called 47 hours on her site. Basically a story starts and you continue with the last line of the previous person. I'm part 3 but you might want to start at the beginning.
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Wednesday, August 24, 2005
The Rose of Tralee
What is the point?
Beauty contests should be about hot chicks in skimpy outfits. This horror show decides who is the best of the plain and dull girls they get to enter. It's like being crowned the best player at Birmingham City.
Not so long ago Dirty Dave entered a beauty contest of sorts. A local bar was doing a lookalike contest and I have no idea how he discovered it but he realised that if he put on right kind of jeans and t-shirt, tossed his hair around a bit and let his arse-crack hang out a bit he was the spitting image of annoying teen soul singer Joss Stone.
He didn't win that night because nobody really knew who Joss Stone was in that pub. The winner was a lad from around the corner who stuck on a shiny, curly wig, attached Barbie's husband Ken in a school uniform to the end of his cock and walked away with it as the most convicing Michael Jackson anyone had ever seen.
Beauty contests should be about hot chicks in skimpy outfits. This horror show decides who is the best of the plain and dull girls they get to enter. It's like being crowned the best player at Birmingham City.
Not so long ago Dirty Dave entered a beauty contest of sorts. A local bar was doing a lookalike contest and I have no idea how he discovered it but he realised that if he put on right kind of jeans and t-shirt, tossed his hair around a bit and let his arse-crack hang out a bit he was the spitting image of annoying teen soul singer Joss Stone.
He didn't win that night because nobody really knew who Joss Stone was in that pub. The winner was a lad from around the corner who stuck on a shiny, curly wig, attached Barbie's husband Ken in a school uniform to the end of his cock and walked away with it as the most convicing Michael Jackson anyone had ever seen.
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Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Get your own email address you witless cunts
On a daily basis I have to deal with emails of various descriptions and there are some email addresses that make me want to hunt down and kill whoever it belongs to. I'm sure you've all come across them at some stage but for those of you who haven't they're shared email addresses. Like between a guy and his girlfriend or a husband and wife.
Email addresses like: daveandbarb@aol.com or gaznshaz@yahoo.ie
What the fuck are you sharing an email address for you stupid cocks? For the most part email addresses are free and you can have as many of them as you like. Why would you share? Why not just make another one? These are the kind of cunts who make Christmas cards with a picture of themselves on it and send it each year and you put it above the fireplace to keep the kids away because they are usually such fuck-ugly munters than looking at the card too long could turn you to stone.
What a whacky, zany, together couple we are. We share everything.
They probably share a toothbrush and save the bog roll for the next one to have a go after they wipe themselves. I hate them.
And what about this? - thesmithfamily@eircom.net
A whole fucking family sharing an email address. Get with the times people. This isn't old Ireland and email addresses aren't like fucking tenement buildings with as many people crammed into them as possible.
Shared email addresses are like Romanians. They're life-long thieves who beg poverty despite having a mouthful of gold teeth.
Or, to put it another way, they're for cunts.
Email addresses like: daveandbarb@aol.com or gaznshaz@yahoo.ie
What the fuck are you sharing an email address for you stupid cocks? For the most part email addresses are free and you can have as many of them as you like. Why would you share? Why not just make another one? These are the kind of cunts who make Christmas cards with a picture of themselves on it and send it each year and you put it above the fireplace to keep the kids away because they are usually such fuck-ugly munters than looking at the card too long could turn you to stone.
What a whacky, zany, together couple we are. We share everything.
They probably share a toothbrush and save the bog roll for the next one to have a go after they wipe themselves. I hate them.
And what about this? - thesmithfamily@eircom.net
A whole fucking family sharing an email address. Get with the times people. This isn't old Ireland and email addresses aren't like fucking tenement buildings with as many people crammed into them as possible.
Shared email addresses are like Romanians. They're life-long thieves who beg poverty despite having a mouthful of gold teeth.
Or, to put it another way, they're for cunts.
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Monday, August 22, 2005
One good deed...
It was a late December evening when the man called to the door.
"Hello" he said, "would ya have a few bob spare for an old man like meself to get a couple of pints. I tell ya, even a nip of scotch would do me on a night as cold as this."
His clothes were dirty and in need of a good wash. He was unkempt, dirty grey beard, terrible sallow skin, his eyes sunk back in his head and he stank of stale piss. As I formulated a response he proceeded to tell me all about himself. I tried to interrupt but he never gave me a chance. I'd 'Erm...' or 'Ahh...' while looking back over my shoulder in an attempt to shut him up but he didn't take the hint. I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands together as it was bitter that night.
All the while he kept on talking, telling me about the time he'd spent in London, in Manchester, in America, some in the North of Ireland. He then started looking over my shoulder into the house. I knew he was angling for an invitation and there was only one way of getting out of it.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fiver.
"There you go" says I, "get yerself a naggin of Paddy."
"Yer a gentleman" he says, "I won't forget this" and he walked off down the path. As I closed the door I looked at him heading out into the icy night, the rainclouds forming overhead and the breath coming out of his mouth like smoke in the cold. I looked inside at the fire, at Bastard Face my trusty hound basking in front of it, my glass of Laphroaig and a good book on the table beside my comfy chair, and I called after him.
"Hey" I said.
He turned around, his face expectant.
"You're a cunt, George Best, and if you ever call here again I'll batter the living shite out of you."
"Hello" he said, "would ya have a few bob spare for an old man like meself to get a couple of pints. I tell ya, even a nip of scotch would do me on a night as cold as this."
His clothes were dirty and in need of a good wash. He was unkempt, dirty grey beard, terrible sallow skin, his eyes sunk back in his head and he stank of stale piss. As I formulated a response he proceeded to tell me all about himself. I tried to interrupt but he never gave me a chance. I'd 'Erm...' or 'Ahh...' while looking back over my shoulder in an attempt to shut him up but he didn't take the hint. I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands together as it was bitter that night.
All the while he kept on talking, telling me about the time he'd spent in London, in Manchester, in America, some in the North of Ireland. He then started looking over my shoulder into the house. I knew he was angling for an invitation and there was only one way of getting out of it.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fiver.
"There you go" says I, "get yerself a naggin of Paddy."
"Yer a gentleman" he says, "I won't forget this" and he walked off down the path. As I closed the door I looked at him heading out into the icy night, the rainclouds forming overhead and the breath coming out of his mouth like smoke in the cold. I looked inside at the fire, at Bastard Face my trusty hound basking in front of it, my glass of Laphroaig and a good book on the table beside my comfy chair, and I called after him.
"Hey" I said.
He turned around, his face expectant.
"You're a cunt, George Best, and if you ever call here again I'll batter the living shite out of you."
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Saturday, August 20, 2005
Wedding Photographers Northampton UK
I've noticed recently that some comment spam has been appearing on this blog. People who link to things like Viagra and that crap just so they can boost their rankings in the search engines.
The same thing happened yesterday when somebody left a comment so they could boost their search results for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.
The company it was advertising was gilesphotography.com.
They obviously want to get to that coveted number one spot on Google for the very specific search - Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.
However, I think it's fair to say people who spam comments on blogs are fucking pissbags. No question about it. They're the same as the cunts who spam all of our email addresses dozens of times each day. They're using this blog, and other blogs, to pimp their product or service. Nobody asked me if it would be ok to mention the fact that gilesphotography.com were specialists for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.
I, dilligent blog owner that I am, could have just deleted the comment but I think I have a duty to let people who are looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK that gilesphotography.com are lowlife, comment spamming cunts. So if you're looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK it might be an idea to choose a company that doesn't use comment spam to promote themselves.
To my fellow bloggers who might be reading this if you felt like linking to this particular post might I be bold enough to suggest that you link to it with the following phrase: Wedding Photographers Northampton UK just so we can protect the people who might be looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK from gilesphotography.com who are comment spammers.
That is all.
The same thing happened yesterday when somebody left a comment so they could boost their search results for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.
The company it was advertising was gilesphotography.com.
They obviously want to get to that coveted number one spot on Google for the very specific search - Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.
However, I think it's fair to say people who spam comments on blogs are fucking pissbags. No question about it. They're the same as the cunts who spam all of our email addresses dozens of times each day. They're using this blog, and other blogs, to pimp their product or service. Nobody asked me if it would be ok to mention the fact that gilesphotography.com were specialists for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.
I, dilligent blog owner that I am, could have just deleted the comment but I think I have a duty to let people who are looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK that gilesphotography.com are lowlife, comment spamming cunts. So if you're looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK it might be an idea to choose a company that doesn't use comment spam to promote themselves.
To my fellow bloggers who might be reading this if you felt like linking to this particular post might I be bold enough to suggest that you link to it with the following phrase: Wedding Photographers Northampton UK just so we can protect the people who might be looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK from gilesphotography.com who are comment spammers.
That is all.
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Friday, August 19, 2005
Starbucks is for cunts
So Starbucks is coming to Ireland and not everyone is happy. They're opening a shop in the Dundrum Town Centre and there are plans for one on College Green but some people say having a Starbucks amongst the historical buildings there would not be right. Yes, that historical newsagents just down from the Molly Malone statue where the historical One Hour Photo used to be. It's shocking, it really is.
I'm not sure people have their priorities right though. The real reason we should object to Starbucks is not because of a tacky sign, nor because it's a giant corporation who probably use undernourished children to pick their coffee beas, nor because it increases the homogeny of the world we live in but because it serves shit, and exceptionally gay, coffee.
Soon Ireland will be introduced the 'Mocha-frappa-halfcaf-latte' and 'Choca-doodle-doo-decaf' and the 'No-caf-double-mocha-chocalata ya ya!' and franlky it's the last thing we need in this country.
There's enough pretension and cunts with more money than they know what to do with. The last thing we need is Starbucks language and Starbucks coffee.
I was travelling recently and was in a European capital where they have a Starbucks overlooking one of the most important historical sites in that city. You look around and you see pictures of the death and destruction that was wrought there. You stare in awe and wonder how the bits that survived actually survived and then you see Starbucks. Oh, goody.
I was with an American colleague who insisted we go in. I ordered a black coffee from the bloke while he ordered a triple-spunky-spume-latte. They have this system where they have two people on a till who ask you what you want, you tell them, they write it on the side of the paper cup and hand it to some poor Pakistani bloke who makes all the coffee while they stand there looking at the pretty girls.
Anyway, we sat down. I took a sip of my coffee and it was like drinking a cup of mud filled with Satan's armpit sweat. It was fucking minging and that's why we should be objecting to Starbucks. The names of the coffees are stupid and the coffee itself is like stewing your Guinness powered black shite in a cauldron of old toenails and dishwater.
After I took my sip I made a point of loudly spitting it back into my cup and shouting "Jeeeeeeeeeesus. What the fuck is this shit?"
Lots of people looked at me so I pointed at the cup and made a vomity mime at them. Then I left and I will never, never go to a Starbucks again.
When will somebody realise that a really good coffee shop in Dublin would actually make some money? I'd do it myself but that cunt McDowell wouldn't issue those café bar licences and if you think I'm going own a place where people come to drink and there's no booze then you can think again.
In short, Starbucks is for cunts.
I'm not sure people have their priorities right though. The real reason we should object to Starbucks is not because of a tacky sign, nor because it's a giant corporation who probably use undernourished children to pick their coffee beas, nor because it increases the homogeny of the world we live in but because it serves shit, and exceptionally gay, coffee.
Soon Ireland will be introduced the 'Mocha-frappa-halfcaf-latte' and 'Choca-doodle-doo-decaf' and the 'No-caf-double-mocha-chocalata ya ya!' and franlky it's the last thing we need in this country.
There's enough pretension and cunts with more money than they know what to do with. The last thing we need is Starbucks language and Starbucks coffee.
I was travelling recently and was in a European capital where they have a Starbucks overlooking one of the most important historical sites in that city. You look around and you see pictures of the death and destruction that was wrought there. You stare in awe and wonder how the bits that survived actually survived and then you see Starbucks. Oh, goody.
I was with an American colleague who insisted we go in. I ordered a black coffee from the bloke while he ordered a triple-spunky-spume-latte. They have this system where they have two people on a till who ask you what you want, you tell them, they write it on the side of the paper cup and hand it to some poor Pakistani bloke who makes all the coffee while they stand there looking at the pretty girls.
Anyway, we sat down. I took a sip of my coffee and it was like drinking a cup of mud filled with Satan's armpit sweat. It was fucking minging and that's why we should be objecting to Starbucks. The names of the coffees are stupid and the coffee itself is like stewing your Guinness powered black shite in a cauldron of old toenails and dishwater.
After I took my sip I made a point of loudly spitting it back into my cup and shouting "Jeeeeeeeeeesus. What the fuck is this shit?"
Lots of people looked at me so I pointed at the cup and made a vomity mime at them. Then I left and I will never, never go to a Starbucks again.
When will somebody realise that a really good coffee shop in Dublin would actually make some money? I'd do it myself but that cunt McDowell wouldn't issue those café bar licences and if you think I'm going own a place where people come to drink and there's no booze then you can think again.
In short, Starbucks is for cunts.
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Thursday, August 18, 2005
Leaving cert pissed up vomity teenagers
I'm writing this the night that the leaving certificate results came out. For those of you outside of Ireland the leaving certificate are the exams you do before, funnily enough, you leave school.
Then late in the summer comes the fateful day when you discover your results. You have to go back to the school whose gates and front door you pissed on on the way out after the last exam to get a piece of paper to show you your grades. Then you count up the As, Bs, Cs and Ds (and Es and Fs and NGs for people from Tallaght and Coolock) and calculate how many points you get so you can see which university course you can do.
In my day it was something like 5 for an A, 4 for a B, 3 for a C and so on. Now your grades are like A+, A or A- and each one is worth around a million points like the multi-ball on Addams Family pinball. So even the spazzer kids these days get more points than I got. Anyway, they all jump around and say "Wotcha get in Maths? Wotcha get in Biz Org? Wotcha get in Irish?" for a while, then the fun begins.
Sometime in the early evening the 50 or 60,000 teenagers that sat the exams go out on the town. They want to celebrate, commiserate and let down their hair. And why not? The problem is they get very, very drunk indeed. How drunk? Imagine George Best drinking a pint of Oliver Reed's blood then washing down with a gallon of methalated spirits. Drunker than a Muslim after a pint of Guinness. Drunker than Eamonn Dunphy kissing a bouncer on Leeson Street.
And when you have all these teenagers that drunk things happen. Some of them fight each other, some of them will fornicate in public, many, many of them will vomit all over the streets, quite a few will end up in hospital having their stomachs pumped and undoubtedly there'll be one or two twats who will walk out in front of a bus or fall in a river and drown. It's natural selection, I know.
Then later today will start the bleating, the recriminations and the giving out. They'll be ringing up that beardy cunt Joe Duffy and saying "Oh Joe, I never seen anytin' loike it. It wasn't loike dat in my day. We'd a been battered be our parents if we'd a carried on in dat manner' and then some fucking do-gooder cuntbag from some alcohol awareness group will call on the Minister for something or other to do something about 'binge drinking' and one of these days one of the politicians might actually do something about it and that might affect my ability to drink what I want whenever I want and if that happens I will personally call on every single leaving cert student and kick them in the balls, or in their well used vaginas, for fucking it up the witless little cretins.
I hope they have a good night though and I hope Dubloon, long lost blogger but long time reader, is suitably appalled when he discovers his car windows smashed in and the seats covered in puke and Kunle's jism.
Then late in the summer comes the fateful day when you discover your results. You have to go back to the school whose gates and front door you pissed on on the way out after the last exam to get a piece of paper to show you your grades. Then you count up the As, Bs, Cs and Ds (and Es and Fs and NGs for people from Tallaght and Coolock) and calculate how many points you get so you can see which university course you can do.
In my day it was something like 5 for an A, 4 for a B, 3 for a C and so on. Now your grades are like A+, A or A- and each one is worth around a million points like the multi-ball on Addams Family pinball. So even the spazzer kids these days get more points than I got. Anyway, they all jump around and say "Wotcha get in Maths? Wotcha get in Biz Org? Wotcha get in Irish?" for a while, then the fun begins.
Sometime in the early evening the 50 or 60,000 teenagers that sat the exams go out on the town. They want to celebrate, commiserate and let down their hair. And why not? The problem is they get very, very drunk indeed. How drunk? Imagine George Best drinking a pint of Oliver Reed's blood then washing down with a gallon of methalated spirits. Drunker than a Muslim after a pint of Guinness. Drunker than Eamonn Dunphy kissing a bouncer on Leeson Street.
And when you have all these teenagers that drunk things happen. Some of them fight each other, some of them will fornicate in public, many, many of them will vomit all over the streets, quite a few will end up in hospital having their stomachs pumped and undoubtedly there'll be one or two twats who will walk out in front of a bus or fall in a river and drown. It's natural selection, I know.
Then later today will start the bleating, the recriminations and the giving out. They'll be ringing up that beardy cunt Joe Duffy and saying "Oh Joe, I never seen anytin' loike it. It wasn't loike dat in my day. We'd a been battered be our parents if we'd a carried on in dat manner' and then some fucking do-gooder cuntbag from some alcohol awareness group will call on the Minister for something or other to do something about 'binge drinking' and one of these days one of the politicians might actually do something about it and that might affect my ability to drink what I want whenever I want and if that happens I will personally call on every single leaving cert student and kick them in the balls, or in their well used vaginas, for fucking it up the witless little cretins.
I hope they have a good night though and I hope Dubloon, long lost blogger but long time reader, is suitably appalled when he discovers his car windows smashed in and the seats covered in puke and Kunle's jism.
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Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Reeling in the years
This is a program they show every evening on RTE and it's one of those shows where they show old TV snippets, play some songs of the year in question, show some newsreels with subtitles while the music is on (e.g Bridge over troubled water is playing while the subtitles say 'In Belfast 15 people were shot in the nose in revenge for IRA actions' - it's very moving) and they go through the years.
It's all very nostalgic really. The conversion to metric, Offaly winning two all-Ireland football championships running and the slithery rise of Charlie Haughey is all very interesting to look back on now.
They had Ian Paisley on the other night from the arse end of the 60s or early 70s. It's still amazing that he's survived until now. He can count himself lucky that the general apathy of the Irish people for acts of assisination is far removed from their get up and go when it comes to emigrating and drinking pints.
Tonight they had Kevin Myers reporting from Belfast on the day that the IRA let off 22 bombs in a little over an hour. Imagine. 22 bombs and that fucker managed to escape without even a scratch. Jammy cunt.
Those were days when you could still smoke in bars, of course. Now you can't smoke anywhere and reading this cranky old southern fucker it seems he's taken exception to a new law in America which says you can be fined $500 for smoking within 25 feet of a public building. Who the fuck is measuring though?
Is there a line on the ground marking out the distance where it's ok to smoke? Do they have smoke monitors going around on mini-golf carts looking for smokers? If they catch you do they make you stand still while they take out a measuring tape and make a chalk mark on the ground where you're standing? Cunts.
If I worked in there and I had my break it'd be like this:
Go outside 25 feet - light cigarette - inhale deeply - drop cigarette - run inside building - exhale. Go back to 25 feet - pick up cigarette - inhale deeply - drop cigarette - run inside building - exhale. Repeat until cigarette is finished. I might take to smoking two or three at a time so the exhalation would be super-powered.
Nobody could say a fucking word to you because you're not actually smoking within the 25 feet limit nor are you smoking inside the building. It would also be good exercise for me as well and being a heavy drinking, heavy smoking old cunt God knows I need it.
Actually, fuck the exercise. It's the mischief that makes it.
It's all very nostalgic really. The conversion to metric, Offaly winning two all-Ireland football championships running and the slithery rise of Charlie Haughey is all very interesting to look back on now.
They had Ian Paisley on the other night from the arse end of the 60s or early 70s. It's still amazing that he's survived until now. He can count himself lucky that the general apathy of the Irish people for acts of assisination is far removed from their get up and go when it comes to emigrating and drinking pints.
Tonight they had Kevin Myers reporting from Belfast on the day that the IRA let off 22 bombs in a little over an hour. Imagine. 22 bombs and that fucker managed to escape without even a scratch. Jammy cunt.
Those were days when you could still smoke in bars, of course. Now you can't smoke anywhere and reading this cranky old southern fucker it seems he's taken exception to a new law in America which says you can be fined $500 for smoking within 25 feet of a public building. Who the fuck is measuring though?
Is there a line on the ground marking out the distance where it's ok to smoke? Do they have smoke monitors going around on mini-golf carts looking for smokers? If they catch you do they make you stand still while they take out a measuring tape and make a chalk mark on the ground where you're standing? Cunts.
If I worked in there and I had my break it'd be like this:
Go outside 25 feet - light cigarette - inhale deeply - drop cigarette - run inside building - exhale. Go back to 25 feet - pick up cigarette - inhale deeply - drop cigarette - run inside building - exhale. Repeat until cigarette is finished. I might take to smoking two or three at a time so the exhalation would be super-powered.
Nobody could say a fucking word to you because you're not actually smoking within the 25 feet limit nor are you smoking inside the building. It would also be good exercise for me as well and being a heavy drinking, heavy smoking old cunt God knows I need it.
Actually, fuck the exercise. It's the mischief that makes it.
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Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Junkies
How to deal with junkies. Remember, before reading this you have to realise you're dealing with people, and I use that term lightly, who will steal from their own parents, from their own children and from your parents and your children as well. They'll beat up an old woman who has €34.59 in a old jar in the kitchen and instead of just taking the money they'll beat her up or maybe rape her. They'll steal your mother's engagement ring and handbag as she's walking along a quiet residential road. They'll do anything to get money for their fix.
For me methodone programs and those places where they give them clean needles are not part of the solution. They just keep the problem going. Let the cunts share the filthy needles and whither away from AIDS and Hepatitis. Counselling is a load of old shite too. Put a bunch of ex-junkies in a room together and it won't be long before one of them becomes a dealer. That's just the kind of beast you're dealing with. Anyway, to my mind there's a very simple solution to the problem of drug addicts. Forget your 12 step programs, this is the 3 step program.
Step 1 - Take the junkie and put him into a cell in a special institution. Let him or her go cold turkey. Leave them in that room for two or three months providing them with the food and drink they need to survive. Let their need for human contact and the need to see the outside world outweigh their need for drugs. Sure a few of them might die during the process but they're the weak ones. They'd never have made it and step 3 will show you why.
Step 2- Let them out. Implant a chip in them which takes blood samples and sends them via some kind of transmitter to a monitoring centre. Hopefully most of them will have learned their lesson but those that reoffend, even the slightest bit, one line, one hit, go to step 3.
Step 3 - Kill them. If after successfully coming off the drug they're addicted to, and having been given a second chance, they still choose to take drugs then we have to admit that we're dealing (no pun intended) with a hopeless, stupid cunt and to save the world from more thievery, violence and scabby armed cuntery we simply execute them. I suggest buring them at a stake specially constructed at the top of Grafton Street. Let their fiery and agonising deaths teach them a lesson and act as a deterrent to other junkies from relapsing into their bad old habits.
I'd imagine that pretty soon the junkie percentage would drop quite sharply. I hate junkies. Sometimes you see them passed out on the street. For a while I considered carrying my own pillow around with me so I could smother the cunts without touching them.
Mostly I just kicked them in the balls for an hour or so.
For me methodone programs and those places where they give them clean needles are not part of the solution. They just keep the problem going. Let the cunts share the filthy needles and whither away from AIDS and Hepatitis. Counselling is a load of old shite too. Put a bunch of ex-junkies in a room together and it won't be long before one of them becomes a dealer. That's just the kind of beast you're dealing with. Anyway, to my mind there's a very simple solution to the problem of drug addicts. Forget your 12 step programs, this is the 3 step program.
Step 1 - Take the junkie and put him into a cell in a special institution. Let him or her go cold turkey. Leave them in that room for two or three months providing them with the food and drink they need to survive. Let their need for human contact and the need to see the outside world outweigh their need for drugs. Sure a few of them might die during the process but they're the weak ones. They'd never have made it and step 3 will show you why.
Step 2- Let them out. Implant a chip in them which takes blood samples and sends them via some kind of transmitter to a monitoring centre. Hopefully most of them will have learned their lesson but those that reoffend, even the slightest bit, one line, one hit, go to step 3.
Step 3 - Kill them. If after successfully coming off the drug they're addicted to, and having been given a second chance, they still choose to take drugs then we have to admit that we're dealing (no pun intended) with a hopeless, stupid cunt and to save the world from more thievery, violence and scabby armed cuntery we simply execute them. I suggest buring them at a stake specially constructed at the top of Grafton Street. Let their fiery and agonising deaths teach them a lesson and act as a deterrent to other junkies from relapsing into their bad old habits.
I'd imagine that pretty soon the junkie percentage would drop quite sharply. I hate junkies. Sometimes you see them passed out on the street. For a while I considered carrying my own pillow around with me so I could smother the cunts without touching them.
Mostly I just kicked them in the balls for an hour or so.
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Monday, August 15, 2005
Senseless violence
I like the Sunday papers. I like buying them, going to Ron's, having a few pints and just reading for a couple of hours. Sometimes though I read something and it makes me angry.
Yesterday I read about a man who let two young lads into his house because they were being attacked by a gang of cunts near Leixlip. Because this man tried to help the lads the gang punched and kicked him. His son came out of the house to try and help him but they battered him too. The man later died in hospital.
Now, I can understand violence, and even serious violence when it's needed. If someone, for example, kills your puppy before your very eyes then I think it's reasonable for you to clobber them about the place as an act of revenge.
Imagine you meet a bloke who when you were in school was the bane of your life bullying you at every opportunity. You're alone on a dark street. I don't think anyone would have a problem if you kicked him in the balls, then jumped up and down on his legs until they snapped into many different pieces.
And what if you came across Damien Rice or David Grey? Would it be wrong to take their guitar and shove it up their holes? I don't think it would.
What's common to all these events though is that these acts of violence have a purpose. The school bully needs to learn his lesson, the puppy killer needs to know that killing puppies is wrong and mankind needs to be saved from Rice and Grey because they are head-wobbling, shit song singing cunts.
However, the man who tried to help two young lads from a hiding did not deserve a violent death. The cretinous little pissbags who set upon him now take on the school bully role and most certainly deserve a severe kicking. How vaccuous and insipid does your life have to be for you to go around looking for violence? If you need to take care of yourself then take care of yourself with as much force as is necessary but don't go looking for it just for the sake of it. That's for cunts.
I remember Jimmy once punched a bloke so hard he gave him AIDS, ebola and the black death but that bloke deserved it. He suggested to Jimmy that his taste in music was questionable. Jimmy turned off the Kid Creole album he was listening to to administer the beating in question but nobody could ever say it was for nothing.
These cunts in Leixlip will get theirs at some stage, whether they deserve it or not. Which they do. But when they get it they might not get it for something they deserve. Which will make it funnier.
I hope they all end up as drooling vegetables.
Yesterday I read about a man who let two young lads into his house because they were being attacked by a gang of cunts near Leixlip. Because this man tried to help the lads the gang punched and kicked him. His son came out of the house to try and help him but they battered him too. The man later died in hospital.
Now, I can understand violence, and even serious violence when it's needed. If someone, for example, kills your puppy before your very eyes then I think it's reasonable for you to clobber them about the place as an act of revenge.
Imagine you meet a bloke who when you were in school was the bane of your life bullying you at every opportunity. You're alone on a dark street. I don't think anyone would have a problem if you kicked him in the balls, then jumped up and down on his legs until they snapped into many different pieces.
And what if you came across Damien Rice or David Grey? Would it be wrong to take their guitar and shove it up their holes? I don't think it would.
What's common to all these events though is that these acts of violence have a purpose. The school bully needs to learn his lesson, the puppy killer needs to know that killing puppies is wrong and mankind needs to be saved from Rice and Grey because they are head-wobbling, shit song singing cunts.
However, the man who tried to help two young lads from a hiding did not deserve a violent death. The cretinous little pissbags who set upon him now take on the school bully role and most certainly deserve a severe kicking. How vaccuous and insipid does your life have to be for you to go around looking for violence? If you need to take care of yourself then take care of yourself with as much force as is necessary but don't go looking for it just for the sake of it. That's for cunts.
I remember Jimmy once punched a bloke so hard he gave him AIDS, ebola and the black death but that bloke deserved it. He suggested to Jimmy that his taste in music was questionable. Jimmy turned off the Kid Creole album he was listening to to administer the beating in question but nobody could ever say it was for nothing.
These cunts in Leixlip will get theirs at some stage, whether they deserve it or not. Which they do. But when they get it they might not get it for something they deserve. Which will make it funnier.
I hope they all end up as drooling vegetables.
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Saturday, August 13, 2005
Dear Jack
Hello Jack,
I was alerted to your website by an anonymous commenter on my blog. You can understand how upset and shocked I was to my handsome face smiling out at me on somebody else's webpage.
Jack, your profile says you are 14 years of age yet you use a picture of me, a really old man. Why is that Jack? Do you think using a picture of an old man will help soothe the trouble waters of puberty, take away those horrible spots and stop making your voice do that high-pitched wobble which is so embarrassing when you're talking to girls?
I'm sorry to say it won't help, Jack, it won't help one little bit.
Anyway, this is just to let you know that I know and that I'll be keeping an eye on you, Jack. Far be it for me to suggest you use another picture or something but, without trying to be in any way threatening here, use a different picture or we'll come to your house, cut your lips off and shove them up your arse.
cheers,
Twenty Major
I was alerted to your website by an anonymous commenter on my blog. You can understand how upset and shocked I was to my handsome face smiling out at me on somebody else's webpage.
Jack, your profile says you are 14 years of age yet you use a picture of me, a really old man. Why is that Jack? Do you think using a picture of an old man will help soothe the trouble waters of puberty, take away those horrible spots and stop making your voice do that high-pitched wobble which is so embarrassing when you're talking to girls?
I'm sorry to say it won't help, Jack, it won't help one little bit.
Anyway, this is just to let you know that I know and that I'll be keeping an eye on you, Jack. Far be it for me to suggest you use another picture or something but, without trying to be in any way threatening here, use a different picture or we'll come to your house, cut your lips off and shove them up your arse.
cheers,
Twenty Major
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Friday, August 12, 2005
Life is an absolute cunt
Poor wife of Superman. First her husband falls off a horse and becomes a talking head requiring 24 hour care and attention. Then he lives for 8 more years or something despite all his bedsores, failing organs and whatnot. Then he dies. A sad time for her but at the same time a relief because she's a relatively young woman and can now get on with her life a bit without having to look after Droolerman.
Not long passes and then she finds out she has lung cancer. Seriously, how fucking cunty is that? Do you reckon God and the Devil swap places once a year and God makes evil people do good deeds and the Devil smites people from on high? It'd be like surviving that fucking tsunami©® and getting deep vein thrombosis on the flight home.
It reminds me of the time Dirty Dave went to the bog just before closing time one night. For a laugh Ron the Barman locked the door leading to the toilets and when Dave was hammering on the door we all pretended we couldn't hear him even though we were only feet away. Ron turned off all the lights and locked the place up. The whole time Dave was banging on the door, shouting 'Come on yiz pack o' shitebags. Let me de cuntin' fuck ourra here. Dis isn't funny, yiz wankers."
About 5 minutes later we went back in, turned on all the lights and Dave shouts "Ah yiz are all right. I knew yiz wouldn't leave me here all night."
"Just forgot me mobile!" shouts Ron and locks up again.
Don't feel too bad for Dave though, it was a nice carpeted area and he's well used to sleeping in strange places. One night while very drunk we decided to go clambering around the rooves of Castle Street in Dublin where Stinkin' Pete used to live. We, and to this day I don't know how we managed it, made our way across a slated roof, not a flat roof I should add, to the terrace of an apartment building opposite.
This place was fantastic, wooden decking, huge big sliding doors leading into the apartment in which there was a beautiful and enormous wooden bookshelf hugging the wall. I got me a first edition Irish RM that night. Jimmy the Bollix nicked Madonna' Sex book and flogged it to some teenagers outside the off-licence the next night. Dave, being the most pissed of all of us, passed out so we left him there. When he woke up the next morning he had no idea how he got there and being terrified of heights was not going back across the roof with the 100 foot drop. So he went into the apartment, opened the front door and let the alarm off as he went out. Dave is not the most sporty of chaps but he swears he broke the world going down the stairs before the police arrive record that morning.
It's at times like this, when I remember the words of that famous song.
"Ya moh be there, up and over"
Not long passes and then she finds out she has lung cancer. Seriously, how fucking cunty is that? Do you reckon God and the Devil swap places once a year and God makes evil people do good deeds and the Devil smites people from on high? It'd be like surviving that fucking tsunami©® and getting deep vein thrombosis on the flight home.
It reminds me of the time Dirty Dave went to the bog just before closing time one night. For a laugh Ron the Barman locked the door leading to the toilets and when Dave was hammering on the door we all pretended we couldn't hear him even though we were only feet away. Ron turned off all the lights and locked the place up. The whole time Dave was banging on the door, shouting 'Come on yiz pack o' shitebags. Let me de cuntin' fuck ourra here. Dis isn't funny, yiz wankers."
About 5 minutes later we went back in, turned on all the lights and Dave shouts "Ah yiz are all right. I knew yiz wouldn't leave me here all night."
"Just forgot me mobile!" shouts Ron and locks up again.
Don't feel too bad for Dave though, it was a nice carpeted area and he's well used to sleeping in strange places. One night while very drunk we decided to go clambering around the rooves of Castle Street in Dublin where Stinkin' Pete used to live. We, and to this day I don't know how we managed it, made our way across a slated roof, not a flat roof I should add, to the terrace of an apartment building opposite.
This place was fantastic, wooden decking, huge big sliding doors leading into the apartment in which there was a beautiful and enormous wooden bookshelf hugging the wall. I got me a first edition Irish RM that night. Jimmy the Bollix nicked Madonna' Sex book and flogged it to some teenagers outside the off-licence the next night. Dave, being the most pissed of all of us, passed out so we left him there. When he woke up the next morning he had no idea how he got there and being terrified of heights was not going back across the roof with the 100 foot drop. So he went into the apartment, opened the front door and let the alarm off as he went out. Dave is not the most sporty of chaps but he swears he broke the world going down the stairs before the police arrive record that morning.
It's at times like this, when I remember the words of that famous song.
"Ya moh be there, up and over"
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Thursday, August 11, 2005
Woman attacked with golf club
I read yesterday a woman in Dublin was attacked in her apartment by a man wielding a golf club.
Gardai have released a description of the man. He is said to be wearing a white Lacoste polo shirt with a light pink Pringle jumper over it, a pair of chequered plus fours, white shoes with tiny spikes and a sun visor. He is said to have made his getaway in a white battery powered vehicle. If you see anything please let them know.
By a strange coincidence both my brother and I (Did I ever mention I had a brother? He's younger but still very old and obviously less handsome. He's not as into pooing in public places publicly. He's a stealth crapper.) have scars on our faces caused by golf clubs.
All I can say is 'Fuck you, Christy O'Connor Junior. Next time we'll be better prepared.'
On a slightly more downbeat note my good old friend Jimmy the Bollix in hospital this evening. He's posing as a doctor to steal possessions from people in comas and on life support.
Gardai have released a description of the man. He is said to be wearing a white Lacoste polo shirt with a light pink Pringle jumper over it, a pair of chequered plus fours, white shoes with tiny spikes and a sun visor. He is said to have made his getaway in a white battery powered vehicle. If you see anything please let them know.
By a strange coincidence both my brother and I (Did I ever mention I had a brother? He's younger but still very old and obviously less handsome. He's not as into pooing in public places publicly. He's a stealth crapper.) have scars on our faces caused by golf clubs.
All I can say is 'Fuck you, Christy O'Connor Junior. Next time we'll be better prepared.'
On a slightly more downbeat note my good old friend Jimmy the Bollix in hospital this evening. He's posing as a doctor to steal possessions from people in comas and on life support.
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Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Confession
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been twenty-six years since my last confession."
"That's a long time but God's mercy doesn't count days and months and years. Tell me your sins."
"I've had impure thoughts. Like the other night I thought about pregnant Britney Spears sucking me off while Christina Aguilera sat on my face."
"I see, well you're not alone there. Father Smyth actually drew a very realistic picture of that not three days ago. And what else?"
"Well, I once thought about doing it with Anne Doyle the RTE newsreader while she was dressed in a school uniform."
"I meant what other sins, not just impure thoughts."
"Oh, right. Well, I've stolen, Father."
"What did you steal?"
"£26m from the Northern Bank last Christmas. Also, Edvard Munch's 'Scream' from a museum in Norway and Robin Cook's heart attack medicine."
"Stealing is wrong. You know that."
"Yes, Father. I just can't help myself."
"Go on, my son."
"I've killed people, Father. I'm a bastarding serial killer and I can't stop. I travel throughout the country looking for homeless people and I befriend them, offering them shelter, money and booze. I get them really drunk then I batter their heads in with a solid silver candle stick my mother gave me on her death bed. Then I dismember the corpses, bury the parts in quicklime filled graves I have pre-dug in the Dublin mountains and play football with the heads around my house. Then I boil the skin off the heads and make authentic Hamlet props which I polish and sell on eBay."
"Erm...well...."
"Also, when people stop me for directions I always send them the wrong way. I've tripped up blind people as they're tip-tapping their way past me on the street. I fart on buses and blame it on other people. I drink too much. I make prank phone calls to victims of tragedies. I'm a radical Muslim cleric. I've sabotaged the peace process. The LUAS was my idea. I made Samantha Mumba a star. I invited George Bush to Ireland. I wear metal tips on the heels of my shoes and follow women across poorly lit car parks. I urinate in public and I don't mean behind trees, I mean in the middle of Grafton Street. If I have to poo when I'm out I always use the ladies and make 'Urrrrrgh' noises. I never flush. I make up stories about people and put them on the internet. I've hijacked the special bus and let all the kids out on the main road. I read the Phoenix. I covet my neighbour's goods and wife, in that order. I've taken the name of our Lord in vain, like this 'WHAT THE JAYSUSING FUCK ARE YOU DOING LISTENING TO ME?'. I've stopped taking my medicine, Father. I've started hearing voices again. I've started carrying a large chef's knife around with me.
What? No, I can't. I WON'T KILL A PRIEST. NOT AGAIN! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!'
"Right...er...the power of Christ compels you. The power of christ compels you. Say 12 Our Fathers and three Hail Marys."
"Fair enough, then. G'luck, Father."
"See ya next week so, Twenty."
"That's a long time but God's mercy doesn't count days and months and years. Tell me your sins."
"I've had impure thoughts. Like the other night I thought about pregnant Britney Spears sucking me off while Christina Aguilera sat on my face."
"I see, well you're not alone there. Father Smyth actually drew a very realistic picture of that not three days ago. And what else?"
"Well, I once thought about doing it with Anne Doyle the RTE newsreader while she was dressed in a school uniform."
"I meant what other sins, not just impure thoughts."
"Oh, right. Well, I've stolen, Father."
"What did you steal?"
"£26m from the Northern Bank last Christmas. Also, Edvard Munch's 'Scream' from a museum in Norway and Robin Cook's heart attack medicine."
"Stealing is wrong. You know that."
"Yes, Father. I just can't help myself."
"Go on, my son."
"I've killed people, Father. I'm a bastarding serial killer and I can't stop. I travel throughout the country looking for homeless people and I befriend them, offering them shelter, money and booze. I get them really drunk then I batter their heads in with a solid silver candle stick my mother gave me on her death bed. Then I dismember the corpses, bury the parts in quicklime filled graves I have pre-dug in the Dublin mountains and play football with the heads around my house. Then I boil the skin off the heads and make authentic Hamlet props which I polish and sell on eBay."
"Erm...well...."
"Also, when people stop me for directions I always send them the wrong way. I've tripped up blind people as they're tip-tapping their way past me on the street. I fart on buses and blame it on other people. I drink too much. I make prank phone calls to victims of tragedies. I'm a radical Muslim cleric. I've sabotaged the peace process. The LUAS was my idea. I made Samantha Mumba a star. I invited George Bush to Ireland. I wear metal tips on the heels of my shoes and follow women across poorly lit car parks. I urinate in public and I don't mean behind trees, I mean in the middle of Grafton Street. If I have to poo when I'm out I always use the ladies and make 'Urrrrrgh' noises. I never flush. I make up stories about people and put them on the internet. I've hijacked the special bus and let all the kids out on the main road. I read the Phoenix. I covet my neighbour's goods and wife, in that order. I've taken the name of our Lord in vain, like this 'WHAT THE JAYSUSING FUCK ARE YOU DOING LISTENING TO ME?'. I've stopped taking my medicine, Father. I've started hearing voices again. I've started carrying a large chef's knife around with me.
What? No, I can't. I WON'T KILL A PRIEST. NOT AGAIN! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!'
"Right...er...the power of Christ compels you. The power of christ compels you. Say 12 Our Fathers and three Hail Marys."
"Fair enough, then. G'luck, Father."
"See ya next week so, Twenty."
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Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Some questions
Just how fucking fat would you have to be to get caught between the moon and New York city?
Is the real reason Irish showjumpers won't ride with Cian O'Connor because they saw him sucking his horse's cock?
Why don't we give the Colombia 3 the choice of being sent to Colombia or re-entering the Earth's orbit on the space shuttle Colombia?
If you crossed a panda with a suicide bomber would you get a Musling-ling?
Why is it illegal to batter someone to death for whistling 'Don't worry, be happy'?
Is it true that Commitments star Andrew Strong ate so much he burst like the fat man in the Monty Python film?
When you poo do you look down to check on size, shape, consistency and colour?
Answers on a postcard. Or in the comments....
Is the real reason Irish showjumpers won't ride with Cian O'Connor because they saw him sucking his horse's cock?
Why don't we give the Colombia 3 the choice of being sent to Colombia or re-entering the Earth's orbit on the space shuttle Colombia?
If you crossed a panda with a suicide bomber would you get a Musling-ling?
Why is it illegal to batter someone to death for whistling 'Don't worry, be happy'?
Is it true that Commitments star Andrew Strong ate so much he burst like the fat man in the Monty Python film?
When you poo do you look down to check on size, shape, consistency and colour?
Answers on a postcard. Or in the comments....
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Monday, August 08, 2005
Janey mac, me shirt is black...
An old Dublin rhyme: Janey mac, me shirt is black, what'll I do for Sunday? Get into bed and cover your head and don't get up till Monday.
Sound advice you have to say.
'Janey mac' is used as an expression of astonishment or surprise, such as:
"Janey mac, I wonder who cut the head off that African man and dumped his corpse in the canal."
or
"Janey mac, did I really hit that traveller with my car?"
You don't really hear people say 'Janey mac' any more. It's probably because proper swearing is much more acceptable now that in used to be. Now instead of 'Janey mac' we say 'FUCKIN' 'ELL' or 'JAYSUS!'
I once knew a girl called Jane McCartney, no relation to talented Beatle and stump fucker Paul, you'll be happy to know. People used to always tease her by saying 'Janey mac' to her a lot which wasn't as offensive as saying "Hey Harelip! Fancy a carrot?" to her but it did get quite annoying and one day she clobbered Anto Shields around the face with her brother's hurley, knocked most of his teeth out and left him a nice scar on his top lip.
"That'll teach you to call me Harelip!" she yelled as made him one of his own.
"But he called you Janey mac" piped up little David Kenny.
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I SAID" she howled and chased him around the streets for an hour trying to bash his head in. Most people gave up calling her Janey mac after that.
She left Dublin when she was around 17 to go work in London and then we heard she was a beggar working in Victoria Station. Jimmy the Bollix said he saw her when he spent his time living in there and shouted out 'Janey mac!' as a security guard was walking past her. She battered him to within an inch of his life before passers-by rescued him.
She died not long after when she found accomodation in a shelter and was being helped get her life back together. She was on the bottom bunk when an enormously girthsome woman collapsed the top one and crushed her to death.
Her final words? You guessed it.
"Fat cunt."
Sound advice you have to say.
'Janey mac' is used as an expression of astonishment or surprise, such as:
"Janey mac, I wonder who cut the head off that African man and dumped his corpse in the canal."
or
"Janey mac, did I really hit that traveller with my car?"
You don't really hear people say 'Janey mac' any more. It's probably because proper swearing is much more acceptable now that in used to be. Now instead of 'Janey mac' we say 'FUCKIN' 'ELL' or 'JAYSUS!'
I once knew a girl called Jane McCartney, no relation to talented Beatle and stump fucker Paul, you'll be happy to know. People used to always tease her by saying 'Janey mac' to her a lot which wasn't as offensive as saying "Hey Harelip! Fancy a carrot?" to her but it did get quite annoying and one day she clobbered Anto Shields around the face with her brother's hurley, knocked most of his teeth out and left him a nice scar on his top lip.
"That'll teach you to call me Harelip!" she yelled as made him one of his own.
"But he called you Janey mac" piped up little David Kenny.
"DON'T TELL ME WHAT I SAID" she howled and chased him around the streets for an hour trying to bash his head in. Most people gave up calling her Janey mac after that.
She left Dublin when she was around 17 to go work in London and then we heard she was a beggar working in Victoria Station. Jimmy the Bollix said he saw her when he spent his time living in there and shouted out 'Janey mac!' as a security guard was walking past her. She battered him to within an inch of his life before passers-by rescued him.
She died not long after when she found accomodation in a shelter and was being helped get her life back together. She was on the bottom bunk when an enormously girthsome woman collapsed the top one and crushed her to death.
Her final words? You guessed it.
"Fat cunt."
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Friday, August 05, 2005
Nial Quinn, drunk driver
Can you believe that Niall Quinn, got done for drink driving last Friday? I know, like most of you, I feel totally gutted and let down by a man who was, without question, perfect up to now.
He played for Dublin and had a long footballing life in the Premiership, donated all the money from his testimonial to dying children and didn't even take the money back off them after they died, and was forging a nice career for himself on TV as an analyst on Sky Sports.
But now we hear he drank a quarter of a pint more than the legal limit. A quarter of a pint. What was he thinking? There's really no option but to make an example of him. Ban him from driving for 10 years, chuck in a nice fine and public flogging and we're getting about half-way to what he deserves.
What about all the young, lanky, semi-talented footballers that looked up to him. What are they going to think? Will they still believe they can forge a mediocre career playing for mid-table teams and be a hero because their country's stock of strikers is lower than Paris Hilton's knickers on a first date? Will they be able to marry pretty girls who can go on to do washing powder ads? Will this see the end of the mullet's popularity?
What were you thinking, Quinner? Why didn't you have a shandy or a Kaliber with its wonderfully authentic alcohol free beer taste? Didn't you ever see the ad on the telly where the lads after the game are goading the other lad into having just one more pint and then he thinks his car can fly and it lands on some kids in a garden?
So many questions, Niall. The country awaits your answers with baited breath. Honest.
He played for Dublin and had a long footballing life in the Premiership, donated all the money from his testimonial to dying children and didn't even take the money back off them after they died, and was forging a nice career for himself on TV as an analyst on Sky Sports.
But now we hear he drank a quarter of a pint more than the legal limit. A quarter of a pint. What was he thinking? There's really no option but to make an example of him. Ban him from driving for 10 years, chuck in a nice fine and public flogging and we're getting about half-way to what he deserves.
What about all the young, lanky, semi-talented footballers that looked up to him. What are they going to think? Will they still believe they can forge a mediocre career playing for mid-table teams and be a hero because their country's stock of strikers is lower than Paris Hilton's knickers on a first date? Will they be able to marry pretty girls who can go on to do washing powder ads? Will this see the end of the mullet's popularity?
What were you thinking, Quinner? Why didn't you have a shandy or a Kaliber with its wonderfully authentic alcohol free beer taste? Didn't you ever see the ad on the telly where the lads after the game are goading the other lad into having just one more pint and then he thinks his car can fly and it lands on some kids in a garden?
So many questions, Niall. The country awaits your answers with baited breath. Honest.
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Thursday, August 04, 2005
Happy slapping
Happy slapping is a craze invented by English youths who set upon an innocent person and kick the shite out of them while filming it on their mobile phones. They then send the footage of themselves kicking the crap out of the person to all their friends who then forward it to all their friends and so on.
It's not the brightest thing in the world to do, let's be fair. It's sort of like robbing a bank then going into the pub with bags of money and telling everyone you robbed the bank. Sooner or later somebody who shouldn't hear about will hear about. The same with the happy slapping. Soon, and I know this is hard to believe of the English youht these days, one of the friends of the a friend of one of the happy slappers will send the video to another youth who might object, on a moral basis, to a group of cunts kicking the fuck out of some poor bastard just because they feel like it. Then there's a direct chain of evidence leading back to the first bunch of happy slappers who were stupid enough to film it in the first place.
It's nearly as stupid as footballer Wayne Rooney leaving a note for the girl he shagged in his brothel creeping days. "Dear Jacinta, I shagged u on December 14th, 2004 at 11.34, luv Wayne Rooney, 43 High Street, Liverpool, Merseyside, England, Europe, Earth." Just in case anyone was in any doubt about which Wayne Rooney it was.
Anyway, I digress. We in Ireland have had our first case of happy slapping when a bunch of 12 little twats in Nenagh (remember what I said about towns beginning with N? Search using the top bar if not), Co Tipperary, took it upon themselves to knock seven bells out of an 18 year old and film it along the way.
It shouldn't be hard to trace the footage back and I suggest as a punishment all 12 of them have the shit kicked out of them on the Late Late Show. I'd be quite happy to do it and Pat Kenny can introduce me, and I know Jimmy would like to be involved too, and we can set about them with planks of wood, knuckle dusters and snooker balls in socks and see how they like being filmed while someone batters them senseless.
I'm not a religious man, as you all know, but that 'eye for an eye' bit in the Bible should move from apocrypha into common law. Rape someone - you get raped. Kill someone - you get killed. Rob someone - they get to rob you back. Have sex with a child - the child gets to have sex with you (in this case please replace 'child' with 'AIDS riddled junkie'). Happy slap someone - you get happy slapped back.
The only way to put a stop to violent crime is to commit worse acts of violent crime on the original perpetrators. That's a proper deterrent. If there's one thing the bible can teach us it's not love, it's not understanding, it's not forgiveness, it's to commit acts of ferocity and savagery until the cunts stop once and for all.
Amen.
It's not the brightest thing in the world to do, let's be fair. It's sort of like robbing a bank then going into the pub with bags of money and telling everyone you robbed the bank. Sooner or later somebody who shouldn't hear about will hear about. The same with the happy slapping. Soon, and I know this is hard to believe of the English youht these days, one of the friends of the a friend of one of the happy slappers will send the video to another youth who might object, on a moral basis, to a group of cunts kicking the fuck out of some poor bastard just because they feel like it. Then there's a direct chain of evidence leading back to the first bunch of happy slappers who were stupid enough to film it in the first place.
It's nearly as stupid as footballer Wayne Rooney leaving a note for the girl he shagged in his brothel creeping days. "Dear Jacinta, I shagged u on December 14th, 2004 at 11.34, luv Wayne Rooney, 43 High Street, Liverpool, Merseyside, England, Europe, Earth." Just in case anyone was in any doubt about which Wayne Rooney it was.
Anyway, I digress. We in Ireland have had our first case of happy slapping when a bunch of 12 little twats in Nenagh (remember what I said about towns beginning with N? Search using the top bar if not), Co Tipperary, took it upon themselves to knock seven bells out of an 18 year old and film it along the way.
It shouldn't be hard to trace the footage back and I suggest as a punishment all 12 of them have the shit kicked out of them on the Late Late Show. I'd be quite happy to do it and Pat Kenny can introduce me, and I know Jimmy would like to be involved too, and we can set about them with planks of wood, knuckle dusters and snooker balls in socks and see how they like being filmed while someone batters them senseless.
I'm not a religious man, as you all know, but that 'eye for an eye' bit in the Bible should move from apocrypha into common law. Rape someone - you get raped. Kill someone - you get killed. Rob someone - they get to rob you back. Have sex with a child - the child gets to have sex with you (in this case please replace 'child' with 'AIDS riddled junkie'). Happy slap someone - you get happy slapped back.
The only way to put a stop to violent crime is to commit worse acts of violent crime on the original perpetrators. That's a proper deterrent. If there's one thing the bible can teach us it's not love, it's not understanding, it's not forgiveness, it's to commit acts of ferocity and savagery until the cunts stop once and for all.
Amen.
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Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Hello BBC readers
Goodness, yesterday the BBC linked to me. Yes, they removed the 'Hello cuntos' part of my post and replaced 'those Muslim lads' with 'July 7th bombers' but no matter.
Twenty Major has now gone mainstream. Everyone in the world reads and trusts the BBC. It's a TV and radio network without adverts which is quite fantastic. I know some people in the UK complain that they have to pay a TV licence but they get TV channels, a radio network which is second to none and probably the best news website there is for their money.
In Ireland we have to pay a TV licence as well but we get two cunty TV stations chock full of ads and Ryle Nugent, one half decent radio station and another radio station which thought it was a good idea to employ Gareth O'Callaghan and Tony Fenton for years and years and fuck all else. You Brits should count yourself lucky.
If it was up to me the TV licence should give us the right to veto shit we don't want to watch plus we should be able to suggest our own programs like 'Celebrity Love Twink's house'' where Abi Titmuss shags nobodies all over Ireland's greatest panto star's gaff opposite Superquinn in Knocklyon and 'Law and Order - Abrekebabra Insepctor's Unit' where we discover week after week that the meat those cunts use in their kebabs is less meaty than Graham Norton is straight.
Anyway, if you have to have a dog licence a TV licence shouldn't be any big hassle. Jimmy the Bollix had to have a licence for his south-east Asian housekeeper until she turned and he had to have her put down.
Licences are only a hassle if you're a tight fisted cunt who wants everything for nothing.
Twenty Major has now gone mainstream. Everyone in the world reads and trusts the BBC. It's a TV and radio network without adverts which is quite fantastic. I know some people in the UK complain that they have to pay a TV licence but they get TV channels, a radio network which is second to none and probably the best news website there is for their money.
In Ireland we have to pay a TV licence as well but we get two cunty TV stations chock full of ads and Ryle Nugent, one half decent radio station and another radio station which thought it was a good idea to employ Gareth O'Callaghan and Tony Fenton for years and years and fuck all else. You Brits should count yourself lucky.
If it was up to me the TV licence should give us the right to veto shit we don't want to watch plus we should be able to suggest our own programs like 'Celebrity Love Twink's house'' where Abi Titmuss shags nobodies all over Ireland's greatest panto star's gaff opposite Superquinn in Knocklyon and 'Law and Order - Abrekebabra Insepctor's Unit' where we discover week after week that the meat those cunts use in their kebabs is less meaty than Graham Norton is straight.
Anyway, if you have to have a dog licence a TV licence shouldn't be any big hassle. Jimmy the Bollix had to have a licence for his south-east Asian housekeeper until she turned and he had to have her put down.
Licences are only a hassle if you're a tight fisted cunt who wants everything for nothing.
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Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Bluebottles are giant fly cunts
Despite the cold in Ireland I like to walk around my house in the nip. Sometimes I even like to stand at the windows, put my hands behind my head and sort of stretch out like when you have a stitch but that's besides the point.
Anyway, not so long ago I finished my dinner (spaghetti carbanana, if you must know. Yes, carbanana. Pasta, cream and pieces of chopped banana. Try it. Seriously) and went and had a shower.
I patted myself almost dry then decided I would wander around the house to let the air dry those bits that a towel never gets completely dry. Men, and women with enormous hanging flaps, will know what I mean. So I was strolling down the hall when I saw a bluebottle flying towards me at something approaching waist height.
I faked a left, shimmied right then went back to the left to avoid it but it didn't work. Which is a tremendous shame because the bluebottle flew right into the top of my helmet.
I took a good whack at it with the back of my hand and winged it I think but also thwacked myself right on the top of the knob. The pain of that I can deal with but the idea that a bluebottle, after George Best nature's most disgusting creature, had touched my Jap's eye has made me sick to my very stomach.
I went for another shower and scrubbed, in a non-pleasurable way I should add, for the longest time but even now I can feel the solid thump of it colliding with my langer. I think I'm going to have to vomit.
I've mentioned before how insects are cunts but bluebottles go right to the top of the pile, the cock loving fuckers.
Anyway, not so long ago I finished my dinner (spaghetti carbanana, if you must know. Yes, carbanana. Pasta, cream and pieces of chopped banana. Try it. Seriously) and went and had a shower.
I patted myself almost dry then decided I would wander around the house to let the air dry those bits that a towel never gets completely dry. Men, and women with enormous hanging flaps, will know what I mean. So I was strolling down the hall when I saw a bluebottle flying towards me at something approaching waist height.
I faked a left, shimmied right then went back to the left to avoid it but it didn't work. Which is a tremendous shame because the bluebottle flew right into the top of my helmet.
I took a good whack at it with the back of my hand and winged it I think but also thwacked myself right on the top of the knob. The pain of that I can deal with but the idea that a bluebottle, after George Best nature's most disgusting creature, had touched my Jap's eye has made me sick to my very stomach.
I went for another shower and scrubbed, in a non-pleasurable way I should add, for the longest time but even now I can feel the solid thump of it colliding with my langer. I think I'm going to have to vomit.
I've mentioned before how insects are cunts but bluebottles go right to the top of the pile, the cock loving fuckers.
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Monday, August 01, 2005
Limerick lady loves large Lottery loot
Dubtom makes an interesting point here about the Limerick woman who won €115m on the Euro Millions. She won all this money but went public with it. A foolish move indeed and Tom suggests that were he her husband he'd give her 'such a smacking'.
Probably best to wait until she put the money in the joint account first though, Tom.
Anyway, maybe she's not as stupid as she seems. If you won €115m would you stay in Limerick? Fuck, no. I'd be gone like a shot. I'd spend my time flitting between my various mansions in various places in the world. Warm places where there isn't so much rain and jumped up traveller families thinking they're crime lords.
And my mansion would have a moat around it and a drawbridge and if anyone came looking to scrounge off me I'd just click a button and a trapdoor in the drawbridge would open and they'd fall into the moat where they'd have to deal with the crocodiles, piranhas and vicious manta rays. That's if they even got that far because I'd have archers posted on the turrets on the enormously high walls that would surround my mansion but instead of archers they'd be bazookaers and would launch rockets at people.
Also, I would get a large vat and piss into it all day long and wait for a year until I had a year's worth of piss then get one of those crop dusting planes and fly over Limerick and spray it with my piss, drastically improving the smell and hygiene of the place.
With that money you certainly do bring upon yourself the dangers of cunts who might want to relieve you of some of it but at the same time you have the funds and resources to kill them in many different painful ways.
It's the circle of life.
Probably best to wait until she put the money in the joint account first though, Tom.
Anyway, maybe she's not as stupid as she seems. If you won €115m would you stay in Limerick? Fuck, no. I'd be gone like a shot. I'd spend my time flitting between my various mansions in various places in the world. Warm places where there isn't so much rain and jumped up traveller families thinking they're crime lords.
And my mansion would have a moat around it and a drawbridge and if anyone came looking to scrounge off me I'd just click a button and a trapdoor in the drawbridge would open and they'd fall into the moat where they'd have to deal with the crocodiles, piranhas and vicious manta rays. That's if they even got that far because I'd have archers posted on the turrets on the enormously high walls that would surround my mansion but instead of archers they'd be bazookaers and would launch rockets at people.
Also, I would get a large vat and piss into it all day long and wait for a year until I had a year's worth of piss then get one of those crop dusting planes and fly over Limerick and spray it with my piss, drastically improving the smell and hygiene of the place.
With that money you certainly do bring upon yourself the dangers of cunts who might want to relieve you of some of it but at the same time you have the funds and resources to kill them in many different painful ways.
It's the circle of life.
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