The war on terror is going badly. People are being blown up every day, there is fear throughout the world and everyone knows it's all the fault of Muslims who started this whole thing when they invented fundamentalism and beards.

So how can we save ourselves from this terrible threat? War is not the answer as America is finding out. Muslims can disguise themselves as normal citizens and strike at any time because they all look the same. I have done some research though and have discovered a number of ways in which this threat can be overcome:

- Muslims are afraid of the dark. America must simply invent an agent which makes them all blind and they will run around terrified, bonking heads together and collapsing on the ground before pushing themselves around and around in circles with their hind legs.

- If you pour beer over a Muslim Jews sprout out almost immediately in the same way Gremlins appear when you spill water on Gizmo. That will increase the peace.

- Muslims are incredibly short people and they wear long robes to hide their stilts. Introducing woodworm, where possible, will slow them down enormously.

- Muslims cannot resist knock-knock jokes. A skilled knock-knocker could keep a whole army occupied for days. An example:

Knock-Knock
Who's there?
Koran.
Koran who?
Koranberry juice.
If I wasn't so amused by that I would kill you like the dog you are.

- Muslims believe they will get to have all kinds of kinky sex with 72 virgins when they get to heaven. Little do they know catholics get 96.5 virgins when they go to heaven so the lustful muslims can be converted them BAM we lay the 6th commandment on them.

- Muslims are totally colour blind and only see in black and white. Simply move the war to the arctic circle and dress in white romper suits. They won't last pissing time.

- They say that if you run around the Hellfire Club backwards at the stroke of midnight saying the Hail Mary backwards then the devil will appear to you. In the same way if you run around The Dome on the Rock backwards singing Fat Bottomed Girls by Queen the prophet Mohammed will appear and perform a rap for peace.

- Muslims always kneel in the direction of Mecca when they pray. Just move Mecca a bit to the left and all the power of those prayers end up in Tajikstan and since nobody has ever heard of that place it doesn't exist and can cause us no harm.

- Muslims know how to treat a woman right having been taught many years previous by Barry White. Send in an army of beautiful women wearing skimpy clothes and they'll distract them long enough for pinpoint laser guided missiles to take out strategic military installations.

- In Arabic 2+2=7 so ask a Muslim to hold onto your hand grenade which is primed to go off at 4.

- Muslims worship that really tall woman from 80s sitcom the Golden Girls because of her manly voice. Recruit her as a spy then send her on a concert tour of Muslim countries. Nobody would be any the wiser.

- An anti-Muslim cloaking device can be made by heating solid sodium acetate trihydrate (NaCH3CO2 �3 H2O) then adding 2 teaspoons of caster sugar, a dash of lime juice and some freshly chopped coriander.

Never let it be said they weren't told.

I'm sure all of you have experience of this. Whether it's a child who will not pick up the clothes off their bedroom floor or a stubborn twat who will not do things the way you want them to be done it's a frustrating thing.

The worst though is someone who is too stupid to understand that when you say 'John, please do not do that again. If faced with that situation again do this' and then you explain what 'this' is in really easy steps. In fact, you might go so far as to make a document with step by step instructions for them to consult should they ever have any doubts. Then when faced with that situation again they go and do their own thing, wilfully ignorning your precise instructions despite their promises to do what you said when you last spoke to them about it.

People who do this need to be killed. There is absolutely no hope of rehabilitation because they're so stupid they think they're clever and capable and are using their initiative when in fact they are disobeying direct instructions which if they were as clever as they thought they were they'd simply carry out without any kerfuffle at all.

So John does this thing yet again and you say to him "Listen John, you fucking moron, when I tell you to do something in a particular way I expect you do it that way. I don't expect you to do it your own way especially when even a thick cunt like you can see that the outcome of doing it your way can only mean that your way of doing it is shit. My way, the way I asked you to do it, is not shit. Now John, I spent some of my precious time writing a document for you in case my verbal explanation, which a mongo licking the window of the special bus on his way to the work in the community project would have understood, was too complex for that shrivelled sack of piss that passes for your brain. But still you chose to ignore that document and went ahead and did it differently.

I know that you understand English, John, because you're very fucking quick to cop on when you need something so I am at a loss to understand why you did it again when I asked you not to do it that way. Perhaps some people might say you suffer from a condition like ADD or Selective Comprehension. I'd say those people are cunts. What you suffer from, John, is not enough pain when you do something wrong. I am telling you now, and I want you to look at me when I say this you sniveling little shitepipe, if you ever, ever, ever choose your way over my way again I am going to punch you as hard as I can in the face. Do you understand. I will say it again:

I. AM. GOING. TO. PUNCH. YOU. AS. HARD. AS. I. CAN. IN. THE. FACE.

Is that clear? Just nod if it is. I'm sure even the motion of moving your head up and down is not beyond a cretinous chump like you. You're nodding. Good, John. That's very good. Now don't forget what I said."

Yesterday I punched John as I hard as I could in the face. And he was actually surprised.

Some people are too fucking stupid for words.

*bring bring*

"Hello, 999. What is your emergency?"

"Good evening. I would like to book a fire brigade for tomorrow evening, please."

"What?"

"I said I would like to book a fire brigade for tomorrow evening."

"Erm...that's not possible. This line is only for reporting emergencies happening at present. Do you have an emergency right now?"

"Obviously I don't or I would have said I need a fire brigade now. However, I am going to have an emergency tomorrow night and surely some advance warning would increase your response time."

"Sir, that is very considerate of you but unless you're Nostradamien there's no way you can know if there's going to be an emergency, specifically a fire, tomorrow night."

"Well, you're right in that I'm not 'Nostradamien'. I'd imagine it was the fact I'm not speaking in rhymed quatrains that gave it away. Nevertheless I can assure you there is going be an emergency, specifically a fire, tomorrow night."

"How do you know this?"

"Because I'm going to start it."

"You're going to start it?"

"Yes, I'm going to start it."

"I see. Do you mind me asking why?"

"Yes, I mind."

"Ok, so where are you going to start it?"

"I haven't quite decided yet. Probably around the groinal area although the face might be good."

"You're going to set a person on fire?!"

"How perceptive of you."

"Sir, I must advise you that setting people on fire is illegal and as this call is being recorded and easy to trace I think you should reconsider your plan or you could face some very serious consequences."

"What kind of a country are we living in where setting people on fire is illegal? It's madness. I mean, if Buddhist monks can set themselves on fire and they are the most peaceful people on the planet why can't we set people on fire who thoroughly deserve it?"

"It's a good point but it does not change the fact that it's illegal. And if this person offends you so much why do you want the fire brigade to arrive and probably save them."

"It would be much better if they lived and suffered hideous scarring rather than dying and not living for years with their affliction. We're talking about history's greatest monster here."

"You're going to set Damien Rice on fire?"

"I'm afraid he has left me with no choice. I read today that he is in the studio making a new album. I can't let that happen, I won't let that happen and I can't let that happen."

"Sir?"

"Yes."

"Knock him unconscious, strip him and wrap him in clingfilm before you set him alight. That shit will melt right into his skin."

"Cheers, much obliged. Anyway, how's 9pm for you?"

"Perfect."

"All right, see you then."

*click*

"All set Jimmy. I'm just going out to get some clingfilm."

So George Best died.

In entirely unrelated news 18 vineyards in France have announced their immediate closure.

"Twenty", said Stinking Pete, "Who do you think would win in a fight between Godzilla and Enya?"

"Enya", I said. "No question about it."

"Do you really think so? You'd have to admit that Godzilla certainly has an advantage in height, weight, reach, strength and, I would imagine, in razor sharp teeth."

"You're not wrong there, Stinking Pete, and I'd also say that Godzilla has a distinct advantage as he has large claws whereas Enya has been a nail biter since she was 6 years old and has to ask passers-by to open a can of coke for her."

"Jaysus. So why do you think she'd win."

"Well, people think Enya uses sophisticated studio techniques to produce those harmonic vocals but that is just what they want people to believe."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, Stinking Pete, that is right. In actual fact Enya has mutated vocal cords which allow her to sing 16 separate parts at the same time, in stereo, so we're talking 32 tracks and that's more than your average mixing desk. As well as that she has a 6 octave range."

"6 octaves? By the great flabby gash of Liza Minelli. The Roland Corporation would love a keyboard that powerful."

"Once again you are not incorrect. It was rumoured that in the early 90s Albert Reynolds tabled the idea of using Enya as a sub-sonic weapon instantly making Ireland the most powerful nation on earth. He was only talked out of it when the full implications of unleashing that kind of terror on mankind were fully explained to him. It's no coincidence his political favour fell not long after."

"And I thought it was because he was a shifty, crooked old bastard. The things you know, Twenty, the things you know."

"Aye, so you see, despite his massive presence, his two tons of muscle, his scaly - almost impenetrable - hide, his claws and teeth and appetite for destruction, Godzilla wouldn't have got near Enya before she sang the scales at him and due to his incredible animalistic hearing his brain would have exploded in his head within seconds. In fact she'd take out all of your legendary top monsters. King Kong, Cyclops, Gargantuas, Manticores, Chimeras, Krakens, Mary Harney. She'd destroy them all in the wobble of a vocal cord."

"Janey mac, I never knew Enya was so dangerous. Is there nothing that can stop her?"

"I made some calculations one night and by my reckoning the only thing that could possibly stop her is the offspring of Kris Kristofferson and Sharon Tate."

"Erm, but wasn't Sharon Tate brutally murdered by The Manson Family like 30 years ago, Twenty?"

"Oh fuck, you're right. God help us all, Stinking Pete. God help us all."

I like wine. I don't like whine.

That is all.

Update: It has been brought to my attention that certain Chardonnay drinkers feel this post to be lame which only goes to prove my point as I like Chardonnay but I do not like being called lame by people who like Chardonnay.

So much so that I may not use a match in the bathroom.

Further update: I ate a steak so big last night that Bastardface can smell the meat that is oozing from my very pores. So much so he is whining and attempting to lick the meaty sweat from my hairy palms.

Even further update: It appears that the steak I ate, in various chunks last night, reconstituted itself in my bowels and I have just done an incredible, if slightly uncomfortable, steak shaped poo.

Thankfully I did not the eat the T-bone last night.

No, I don't mean those things put at the end of their blogs so search engines can more easily find relevant information. I mean electronic tagging of criminals which is one of the measures set to be put in place by Fuhrer Minister for Justice, Michael McDowell.

Now, I'm not a great fan of McDowell. I think he's a fat-faced clit but I most heartily endorse tagging. Not only because it makes it easier for police to know where these scumbags are at all times (can't you just see them sitting round a radar device with little dots on the move - "Oh, dere goes de Viper, the sly cunt") but because it will absolutely wreck the heads of people who support things like human rights and treat others as you wish to be treated merchants.

While they bleat about 'Big Brother' and that kind of stuff us law-abiding citizens can rest easier knowing that it's harder for crims to do their thing as a GPS tracking device records their every move. And who can argue that it wouldn't be a good idea to tag all known paedophiles? Seeing as they won't castrate them, nor will they let them loose to groups of bloodthirsty vigilantes, doesn't it make sense to implant a chip which will let them be found at a moment's notice?

Little Johnny's missing? Let's go check out the Paedotracker©® and find out where he might be. Even better would be the ability to send an electric current which would render them limp and useless (like their willies around an adult of the opposite sex) at the push of a button. Sure, there might a few accidents when those of them driving cars careered across the street they were driving down and mowed down a group of eldery ladies on their way to bingo but you have to take the rough with the smooth.

Leaving aside those cunts we could tag all newborns so those hilarious occassions when parents go home with the wrong baby could be avoided. What about tagging all immigrants until they find a job? Are your local travellers travelling or are they in their caravans dishing out the clothes they've stolen from your washing line? Anyone suspected of terrorism - tagged. Ian Paisley - tagged. Westlife, Damien Rice, Brian 'priest fucker' Kennedy - tagged, no, we'd just shoot that fairy voiced cunt.

And what if, just in case of some high-tech wizardry and they managed to disable the tag or poo it out or something, we tagged them with a tattoo on the face? Something like a a bar code or that yin and yang symbol which would be hilarious.

And then what if we made all the people we tagged live in what might politely be called gated communities? It would mean that we were safe from them and they were safe from us. We could appoint certain members of our community to work with theirs to ensure that they resisted the temptation to try and breach the 16 foot high electrified gates and razor wire that kept them safe.

And to make sure nobody got things mixed up our people could wear ...erm... let's see... uniforms and their people could wear something like ...uhm... jumpsuits so everybody would know who was who. And they could work within their gated communities and for the good of the rest of mankind we could perhaps carry out important research on them in areas such as genetics, gene splicing, disease control and many other areas which could benefit people in general.

All the conveniences these things would bring to society would not be available without electronic tagging so before you start thinking it's a step too far or that the minister's proposals are over the top just think of all the good it could do.

Hmmmmm? See....

Technorati Tags: cunt, gated communities, mcdowell, tagging, tags

Dirty Dave's sworn enemy came into Ron's for a pint last night.

Pristine Pascal and Dave used to be great mates when they were kids but their very natures drove them apart. While Dave is a mangy, malorodous minger Pascal is a dirt-free, decontaminated dandy. He seems to think he was educated at Oxford or Cambridge and brought up in Kensington when in fact he went to a Christian Brothers school and grew up in the inner city the son of a Guinness barge worker.

"Why if it isn't David!" he exclaimed as he came in. "What a long time it's been."

"Ah shite", said Dave. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Uncouth as ever. It is reassuring to know that no matter how much my life changes for the better your remains inexorably the same."

"Exocet my hoop, you cunt."

"Very droll, I'm sure. Still keeping the same charming company, I see. Mr Major. Mr the Bollix. I do hope this evening finds you well."

"It was better a few minutes ago", I said, "but you could drop dead any minute. Always have to look on the bright side."

"Few things have been getting on top of me, now that you ask", said Jimmy.

"I am sorry to hear that. What kind of things?", asked Pascal.

"Your mum."

"Such dexterous wit, Mr the B. Ronald, a pint for me, if you please."

Ron mumbled something under his breath and set the Guinness tap flowing.

"So David, my mephitic mate, how are 'tricks', as they say? Still doing that thing that you do? What is it that you do again?"

"I'm a product tester for Palmolive as well you know. You still doing that thing you do?"

"Yes, yes. Going splendidly, I must say. Real estate is a wonderful business to be in. Everyone always wants property. If you ever felt like selling that ghastly 2 up, 2 down you live in I could know a quarter percent off my commission, for old times sake."

"The only reason I'd sell that place is so I could spend all the money on a gold plated, diamond encrusted baseball bat to beat you to death with, you wankbag."

"Ahahahahahahahahahahahahaha", laughed Pristine Pascal. "You, not at literally, slay me, David, my pungent pal.

Just then his mobile went and he excused himself while he went outside to get a better signal. Ron put his pint down on the bar. Dave was seething.

"I hate that poxy cunt, the miserable shitebag. If I was walking down the road and I saw him lying the street after being hit by a car, his limbs bent and cracked, I'd fucking piss on him before standing on his neck to finish him off."

In the meantime Lucky Luciano was standing up and reaching down his backside as if trying to free something. His hand was down there for some time. He then took his index finger and wiped it around the rim of Pascal's pint. We all just looked at him.

"Is a-old Italian tradition. In a-Livorno is a-when you a-become a man when you father teaches you a-the finger di merda."

Just then Pascal came back in. "Another €1m sale. It's just so easy. Well, cheers to you all. Let us imbibe like gentlemen."

He took a great big gulp of his Guinness and frowned. He did that thing where you stick you stick your tongue in and out of your mouth really fast. He took another taste and gagged.

"Goodness Ronald, this beer tastes like shit", he said, stupidly, to Ron the barman who hadn't seen Lucky's little trick.

The whole bar fell silent. You just don't tell Ron his Guinness tastes bad. Pascal began to stammer apologies. Ron just stared at him till he stopped.

"You have three seconds to get out of here or I'm going to shove that pint glass up your hole then pull it out so fast your rectum will prolapse and it'll take a team of surgeons 8 hours to put it all back provided I don't ask Twenty to go and get Bastardface to come in and eat your arse while your arse is still attached to you but on the outside."

He didn't need to be told twice and he flounced out the door in a pretend huff but he was really bricking it.

"Fair fucking play, Lucky Luciano!" said Dirty Dave. "Put it there" and he shook hands with the Italian despite Lucky's pooey finger.

But Dirty Dave is so dirty he never even noticed.

I'm not much a film buff to be honest. Most of them are utter, utter shite but it is a massive industry and some people do take it all very seriously. Actors talk about themselves as 'artists' when in reality they're about as artistic as the bloke who comes and paints your house magnolia. Most of them cunts, some of them are not. Gabriel Byrne used to come into Ron's for a pint every now and again around the time he was married to that girl whose face was on sideways.

"Get a round in" we'd shout at him from the other end of the bar and he'd do just that. Sound man. He told us a few stories about some of the people he's worked with. Apparently Arnold Shwarzenegger has the worst BO he'd ever smelt, Will Smith had the smallest penis he'd ever seen on a black man and Benicio del Toro used to tell a story about how he once went to bed with an Iranian woman who, while he was going down on her, vomited out of her gee and into his mouth. And he liked it, the animal.

I'm also not very fond of the cinema. It's just too common for me and if I want to watch a fillum I certainly don't want to be surrounded by tracksuit wearing skangers eating like they haven't been fed for weeks when their enormous bellies and flabby-arsed girlfriends show that couldn't be further from the truth. These modern ciniplexes are a haven for scuttery youths, aren't they?

I may have mentioned previously but the noise of people eating is almost unbearable to me. In a restaurant it's ok because there is the noise of chatter and plates smashing as the inexperienced, non-English speaking immigrant waiter/waitress lets a stack tumble but in the cinema, despite the Dolby triple decker surround sound stereo it is still possible to hear someone ruslting their bag of peanut M&Ms before crunching a handful, washed down with some popcorn and a fistful of nachos. I want to kill those people slowly and painfully.

My favourite film of all time is the Rodney King video.

John Lennon was once called all sorts of names for suggesting that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus but my blog is certainly more popular than Jesus and miles fucking better than those Liverpudlian cunts who just can't stand the pace, can they? 2 down, 2 to go.

Yesterday more than 650 people visited Twenty Major. Despite having not been to mass for a long, long time I can't imagine there were too many churches with that many people in them for the 11 o'clock mass last Sunday. Not unless they've started having the readings done by topless models and I don't think they have.

Maybe the Church need to focus its energy on new ways of communicating with its flock.

Friday, November 18, 2005
FRESH MEAT

Saying evening mass last night. There was a new altar boy. Could NOT take my eyes of his arse. Man, good job the pulpit was in the way. Looked like someone was trying to put up a tent in my vestments.

The Bishop rang earlier said he has to talk to me about something. 'Child a goose' I think he said. No idea what he's on about, the doddery old queen

Tomorrow's my visit to the local orphanage to spread the seed word of God. Full details tomorrow!

posted by Father Dick @ 11:41 AM

Perhaps it's not such a good idea after all.

What is a good idea though is if you buy a book. Books are good and books which feature me are especially good. Tim Worstall has put together a collection of the best blog posts of 2005 - 2005 Blogged - and despite his shameless begging I only let him use one of mine. I'm not telling you which one though. I am waiting for my copy to drop through my letterbox any day now.

If you haven't already had it on pre-order with Amazon buy a copy now and a small percentage of the profits from each book will go to a foundation struggling to find a cure for Phil Collins. You have a responsibility to mankind to help so buy the book.

Gangland warfare has come to Dublin. There have been a number of shootings this year, mostly between gangs who sell drugs and they've been scrapping over territory, customers and Superquinn club points. On Sunday night two men were shot dead as they sat in a car in Firhouse while two nights ago a passenger was shot dead in a car in Clontarf. The driver managed to escape however but it's believed he got shot.

Now, gangs are not a new phenomenon in Dublin but the fact that they're using semi-automatic weapons is a relatively new development. I've written before about how I'm quite happy for them to go round shooting each other. It's only one scumbag taking out another. Like a cockroach smacking another cockroach with a rolled up newspaper. And when most of the Gardai aren't actually armed it's as handy to let them play LA Crips and Bloods with each other.

However, I got to thinking a bit more about it and I am now seriously worried. We've all read about the gangs in America, seen the films, laughed at the cars that bounce up and down in time with the music. And that's the thing. It's a scientific fact that wherever there are gangs that go round shooting each there are, yes, that's right... rappers.

Within months Dublin is going to be crawling with gun-toting, drug dealing criminals and then one gang will breed a rapper and he'll rap about how he's going to blow the shite out of some other gang then that gang will get their own rapper to show how down with the whole shit they are and on it will go. Soon there'll be rapping and shooting, shooting and rapping, bling bling, whiteboys with dreadlocks, massive mansions, big arsed Blanch bitches in hot-pants (even in the middle of winter) and people fighting over their cribs and each others boneyards, smoking hydro and quite literally dropping it like it's hot.

We'll go from The town I loved so well and Summer in Dublin to the likes of P-Diddlyeye, Yellow-pac, Ice Hugh, Notorious CIE, Shay-Z and De La Salle bigging it up for the Churchtown massive.

This cannot happen. The Gardai have set up a new 50 man squad to deal with these gangs and organised crime in the city but you can do your bit too. If you own a clothes shop do not stock any baggy pants or basketball shirts and make sure you sell baseball caps that can only be worn peak forward. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that all bandanas should be burnt straight away.

If you have a garage and some skanger comes in looking for you to 'pimp his ride' by adding 3 tonnes of speakers and DVD players open the hood, tell him to look at the engine for a second then slam it down on his head as hard as you can. As many times as it takes. I guarantee you the police will give you immunity.

As I said earlier I have no problem with these cunts doing whatever the fuck they want to each other with pistols, rifles, gattling guns, cannons, bazookas - they can even blunderbuss each other in the face for all I care - but I will not stand idly by and let them rap.

If you suspect anyone in your family or any of your friends are involved with these gang killings please tell the Gardai. Not so justice can be done. Not so we can make some kind of breakthrough into the underworld. Not we can turn them into a supergrass so they can rat out more. No, it's worse than that.

Maybe you can live with them being a drug dealing, drive-by shooting, scumbag but I know for a fact you couldn't stand it if they went around rapping hither and thither. Could you live with yourself?

Rap? Just say no. Call the Garda Confidential Hotline now on 1800 666 111. They're kicking it old school in full effect.

Maybe you've seen it, maybe you haven't, but there were reports that the foyer of Dublin's St James's Hospital was a fantastic place to go and score drugs, if that's what you were into. I found it hard to believe as the security personnel in Dublin's hospitals are second to none and certainly not wide boys with connections to the underworld.

I remember some years back after breaking my arm in an accident I had to spend time in a ward in the Meath hospital and that was something, let me tell you. There was a collection of people in there the likes of which I'd never seen. Old men with emphysema, couriers who had come off their bikes, junkies who had been beaten to shite for not paying their bills, one lad who fell under a bus and a whole section of mentalists including one bloke who had a broken leg but was so dangerous he had his own security guard. Once the guard went for a piss and yer man was up and about stealing from some cunt who'd tried to commit suicide by jumping under a train but only succeeded in getting both his legs mashed up in bits. As he lay in traction the mentalist robbed the money from his bedside table.

In the smoking/TV room at the back there were joints smoked every evening and there were teapots full of whiskey. How people, and I include myself in that, didn't re-break the bones they'd had set by the surgeons I'll never know. The guy who fell under the bus had broken his pelvis and both his legs but one night he was so drunk he fell back off his wheelchair while his friend who brought him in the booze just pissed himself laughing because he was stoned off his face.

I remember one bloke who was quiet as a lamb all day long but at nighttime he was a fucking pain in the hoop, crying and calling out for his mother. Fucks sake, it wasn't as if they wouldn't just give you some morphine if you asked for it. Morphine is great stuff and it makes pain go away and helps you sleep. If I had so much as an itchy foot I'd be calling the nurse.

"Terrible pain. Oh God. So awful. Need morphine. Help me Jesus on so on."

And fair play to them they'd give you some. Great, so it was. Anyway, cry-baby would be wailing while the rest of us were trying to sleep and you'd hear the lads shouting at him.

"If I wasn't in traction I'd come over and give you something to cry about, you cunt."

Anyway, yesterday I went to St James's Hospital and bought a 9-bar of hash, 12 Es and 3 grammes of coke so if you're looking for something for the weekend that's where to go. Ask for Doctor Singh.

Finally, a joke.

Q: What do you call a two brothers born within minutes of each other who have 5 penises on each foot?

A: The Cocteau Twins.

My chum Charlie (I don't talk about him much but I have mentioned his racing pigeons) has always fancied himself as a bit of an inventor but the main problem is he's technically obtuse, mechanically cretinous and he has the imagination of a shoe. His little workshop/pigeon coop in the back garden is full of failed experiments. There were the waterproof boots which he made entirely from duck feathers, the Renee Zelwegger repellent which may well be fully functional but he's never been able to get close enough to her to prove it and the brown toilet paper which was just never going to work for those of us who like to look back after a good wipe.

Anyway, he's been having some problems with him timekeeping in recent weeks and Charlie's wife does not like it when he's late. However, if you were to ever see Charlie's wife you would certainly understand his reluctance to arrive home pronto. Think Mary Harney crossed with Fatima Whitbread, just with more gee flies.

Charlie will sit in Ron's and talk to himself to avoid going back.

"One for the road, Charles?" he'll ask.

"Don't mind if I do, Charles", he reply. He's the only one who calls him Charles. He's Charlie to everyone else. But as much as it would be easy to blame his enormous spouse for his tardiness the main problem is that Charlie gets too drunk to see and gets completely lost. Most of us have some kind of homing device which means we always, mostly, end up in our own place at the end of the night, no matter how rat-arsed we are. Not Charlie. He's fucking hopeless.

Anyway, he's been under more pressure to get home on time since Mrs Charlie's bridge partner died (I am convinced she simply faked her own death. I mean, whoever heard of somebody dying from fractured quim?). She's been on and on at him and last week when he arrived back a whole hour after he said he would be she clobbered him with a rolling pin like a real, old fashioned wife.

So he was complaining Ron's about it on Saturday night.

"That old wagon is doing my fucking head in, the sweaty-minged battle-axe. I can't even be a few minutes late or she's in my ear like scabby wax. And I'm not going to give up my pints just because it takes me longer to get home when I'm shitfaced."

"Why don't you make some kind of invention to bring you back?" said Jimmy.

"That's not a bad idea, James", and when he arrived back at 1.30am having wandered 3 miles out of his way Mrs Charlie was most definitely not pleased so he spent the whole of the next day in his workshop/pigeon coop trying to figure something out. It was late afternoon and many, many crumpled blueprints later that he looked up at the skies for inspiration but because he was inside couldn't see the sky. What he did see though was one of his champion pigeons. They're only champion in the sense that he races them against each other so one of them has to win. His pigeons against real racing pigeons would be like racing Paul McCartney's wife against Carl Lewis. Still, it was his champion and his champion that helped get the invention together.

The bird in question was called 'Eyehat', so-called after another one of Charlie's failed inventions. He always hated wearing sunglasses and never liked wearing caps or visors and the like so he thought he could make hats for each eye and had a thousand prototypes made up by a factory in Taiwan before he realised he had no way of actually fixing the things to your forehead. If you think you could make use of Eyehats drop me an email and I'll put you in touch with him.

So, last night in came Charlie to the pub carrying a large box covered in a piece of blue silk. It's always much better to unveil something by letting the silk slide off it than to just wrap some old newspaper around it.

"What have you got in there, Charlie?" I asked him.

"Well", he said, "It's funny you should ask that."

"What's funny about it?"

"I knew someone was going to ask me that very question."

"That's hardly fucking funny. It's obvious. Like if you came in with a bandage on your nose I'm going to ask what happened to your nose."

"Fair enough. I'll just get a round in and I'll show you."

So he got the pints in and proceeded to show us.

"Right. You know the way Mrs Charlie has been on my back for getting back late."

"Aye."

"Well this little beauty will make sure I never get lost no matter how scuttered I am", he told us as he let the silk slide provocatively off what turned out to be a cage. Inside the cage was a pigeon which appeared to fastened to some kind of crossbow.

"What the fuck is that, Charlie?"

"I was stuck for inspiration the other day and I saw my champion pigeon Eyehat and I got to thinking. Pigeons can always find their way home, especially homing pigeons and my pigeons are homing pigeons."

"But you've lost loads of the cunts", said Jimmy the Bollix.

"I figure the ones that didn't come home got eaten by hawks or weren't homing pigeons, just regular French pigeons."

"Whatever you say, Charlie. So how does that thing work."

"Good question. Well, you can see the bird, with his unerring sense of direction - like a feathered GPS system, is attached to this high-powered crossbow here. Inside the bird I have planted a small radio transmitter which is linked to this compass wristwatch. The watch has a signaling device which will emit a pleasant beeping sound when I am going in the right direction and blast disgusting Damien Rice music when I am going away from my house and my ...*cough* ... beloved wife. I just shoot the bird in the air and away it goes leading back to my place."

"Grand job, all very fuckin' swish."

"Perhaps I've made it a little bit more complicated than I needed to but I had to be sure. Mrs Charlie is talking about making me give her oral sex as a punishment if I'm late back again."

"Good sweet holy jumping Jesus on the cross. Isn't that a breach of human rights or something?"

"I don't know but I just can't take that risk anymore."

"Can't say I blame you, old pal. So this thing is foolproof then, is it?"

"I hope so", Charlie said. "I'm going to have a few scoops here with you lads then give it a trial run. With any luck wherever I'll aim Eyehat, that's my home."

Dear everyone,

Twenty Major is too tired to post today. He will be back with more of the usual ructions and blackguardary tomorrow.

We thank you for your understanding.

yours etc

the 20Major Management (ie, Twenty Major)

I took Bastardface, my trusty hound, out for a walk around the Phoenix Park yesterday. He likes to be off the lead and he just loves to chase the deer who make a sound like an old car horn when they see him coming. He bellows at the top of his voice and although you're not supposed to let your dog chase the deer nobody is going to ask a person with a dog as large as Bastardface to take his four legged friend to task.

When we got home though he wasn't too well. He was moaning and coughing a bit and he didn't seem to want to lie down. He went round in circles, nose to the floor, and although he did try to rest now and again it looked like it was hurting him so I took him to the vets.

The vet is always happy to see Bastardface because he's a good dog in the examination room. Despite the fact he's bigger than a mammoth he's never aggressive to Monty the vet unlike some small cute looking dogs who have done him damage in the past. He told me once it took nearly 30 seconds to detatch a Jack Russell from his groin. Poxy little rat cunts they are.

Anyway, he had a good feel of his stomach and throat and was undecided about what to do. He figured an x-ray would be the way to go so we took Bastardface into the x-ray room and got him up on the table and onto his back. A couple of minutes later it was all taken care of and he brought the picture up on his 'puter.

"Hmmmmm", he said.

"What is it, Monty the Vet?", I asked, fearing something terrible like a twisted stomach or cancer.

"I'm not quite sure. Have a look yourself."

So I had a look and there was a huge mass in his stomach. A huge spiky mass.

"God help him if he has to shit that out", I said.

"I can't let that happen to him", said Monty the Vet. "I must operate." He clicked his intercom. "Una, cancel all my appointments."

An hour later he emerged from the operating theatre.

"Well, is he going to be all right?!"

"Aye, don't worry but you might want to keep an eye on him in the park in future", he said as he handed me the barely digested corpse of a hedgehog.

"Urgh", I said.

"Indeed", said Monty the Vet.

So tonight I'm at home alone while poor old Bastardface has to stay in overnight in the vets. I'll go and pick him up in the morning but I can't help feeling proud that my dog is so fucking hard he can swallow a hedgehog hole.

I bet your dog can't do that.

"So up the top field she had a donkey. Well, it wasn't hers. One morning she woke up and found it there. We think it jumped over the wall and liked it there so it stayed."

"Maybe it was a magic donkey and it flew in."

"Don't be silly, Twenty."

"Aye, and a fucking puissance donkey makes so much sense."

"It's-a-not impossible", said Lucky Luciano. "In Livorno was a man-a who was a-driving to work on quiet road when *improvvisamente* a cow a-jumped over the wall and landed on the bonnet. He had a stroke and a-spent-a the rest of his a-life dribbling in a home."

"You Italians are fucking mental. What about this bleedin' donkey anyway, Dave?"

"Well, I used to go and give it a carrot each day. Or if not a carrot it seemed to like a cucumber. Ocassionally a courgette or even a banana."

"I see...."

"Well, one day I was rubbing in on the nose and all of a sudden it got a huge erection and started looking at me funny."

"Funny how?"

"Like he wanted to stick me with his donkey cock."

"A wonderful image, I have to say. What did you do?"

"I punched him in the face."

"You punched a donkey in the face?" asked Jimmy the Bollix.

"Yep. Eight times. Made his stiffy go away let me tell you. Wrecked my fucking hand though."

"I once punched a kestrel in the face", said Stinking Pete. "The cunt must have thought I was a vole or something. Kept divebombing me. This wasn't out in the country either. I was walking down Talbot Street. Fourth time he came at me I swung at him got him right in the beak, the cunt. He fell under a number 27 bus and got crushed to death. Serves him right."

"Shame people didn't do that with pigeons when they first started hanging around. Now you can walk right up to a pigeon and they barely get out of the way. I boot them the plague carrying cunts."

"We know, Jimmy. The ISPCA love you."

"What about the French? They eat pigeons."

"French people are a-mental. They eat a-merda."

"They're all gone mental at the moment, eh? All that rioting over two scumbags who fried themselves on an electric fence. Daft, if you ask me."

"It's terrible in Paris though. I heard some of the rioters got pushed into the river."

"Really?"

"Yeah, they went insane."

"Oh har, har, Twenty, you cunt."

"I don't get it."

"So what's new, Dave."

"No, really, I don't get it....."

It's almost like a coming of age in Ireland. The first time you get served in a pub. Naturally, if you were brought up right, you'll have had a sup of your Da's pint or you'll have taken a nip of the whiskey bottle in the cupboard at home. But the day you go to the bar, hand over the money and get a pint glass full of creamy stout is a special day in the life of any young Irishman.

I remember mine like it was yesterday. Me and Jimmy the Bollix had been planning it for ages. The day in question we got all dressed up in our best suits and after mass and some cooing from relatives we were let off to do our own thing.

"Don't you rip them pants, Twenty Major, or I'll give you what for", shouted my mam before I went out.

"Yeah, I better take care or you'll open that jar of 'what for' you keep in the press", I shouted back.

"You cheeky little cu-", but I didn't hear coz I was out the door.

"Nervous?" I asked Jimmy.

"A little bit. What if they don't serve us? Then everyone in the bar will think we're a right pair of wankers."

"Don't worry. I heard about O'Sheas. They'll serve anyone. Relax."

"Right. I'm relaxed. I shoulda had a shite before I left though."

So we made our way down the road, sweating a little bit in our best polyester, and I was going over and over in my head what I was going to say when I got to the bar.

"Two pints, please. What? Guinness, of course."

"Two Guinness barkeep and, er, keep the change out of that.

So eventually we arrived. We went in the side door and up the up the dark red carpeted stairs. We knew better than to go into the front bar. I figured confidence and direct action was the best way. If we stalled or looked nervous or hesitant I knew we'd have a problem so up I marched to the bar.

I coughed once to deepen my voice and said "Guinness. Pints. Two. Please."

Not quite the self-assured image I'd wanted to project and I feared the worst when he just stared at me. I was about to repeat myelf when he said "Coming right up."

I looked at Jimmy, gave him a little thumbs-up. We waited for those pints to settle. It seemed like an age but eventually the dark beer was ready to drink. He quoted me the price. I took out my money, all of it, and handed over a note. "Have one yourself there, if you like", I said. I had no worries at all now.

"Very generous of you", he said. "Don't mind if I do. Question for you though. How'd a young fella like your hands on that money? Part time job, is it? Hope you're not out thieving."

"Nah, nothing like that", I said. "First holy communion."

You have to give credit where it's due. How a woman quite as singularly ugly made us think she was so attractive for so many years is quite an achievement.

I saw her latest video on the telly the other day. She has sampled an Abba song and stuck a dance beat over it and in the video she dances and when she dances I am scared. She moves like something that could take 6 bullets in the chest and still come towards you looking to eat your soul.

I'd say her pubis is like Medusa. One look and you're rock. Obviously she sat with her legs wide apart looking at Guy Richie's latest movie because it sank like a stone. Her love button, I'm reliably informed, has suckers on it and can scratch an itch on her knee. It's a clitacle.

She's also into cults. That Kaballah thing is a load of old bollocky-shite but the good thing is one day Kaballah and Scientology are going to have an enormous scrap and we can see Madonna beat the shite out of Tom Cruise. She could probably beat him with one punch the sinewy harridan. One can only hope that the Cruiser inflicts a bite with his famously poisoned inscisors which causes her skin to fall off. That said I wouldn't trust that to kill her.

I'd say you have to cut her head off, burn it, mix the ashes with a load of shotgun pellets and fire it right up her arse to get rid of her.

Madonna is, without question, the biggest threat known to mankind in the world today. Forget crazy Iranians, Osama, George W Bush and Phil Collins. If there was no Madonna I would rest easier.

I really fucking hate cloves and more than cloves themselves I hate those sweets, I think they're called Clove Rocks, which look like the most delicious sweets in the land. They're red and white and they should taste of something like strawberry and ice-cream but instead they taste like cloves which taste like a leper's snot marinaded in cat's piss and seasoned with battery acid and tramp spunk.

I can remember as a child taking one of them with gusto just awaiting the taste sensation to hit my tongue and nearly vomiting when the real taste hit me. I can't imagine a greater contrast between appearance and taste. It would be like pulling Miss World and discovering her gee stank like two week old halibut.

The only other time I've had an experience similar is when, again as a small child, I found a bowl of custard in the fridge. Not a big bowl but some custard is better than no custard at all. I helped myself to a massive spoonful of it only to discover that it was mustard. Not pleasant on such a young and uncultured palette.

I don't mind cucumber though. Lots of people seem to hate it even though it doesn't have a particularly strong taste. I know someone exactly the opposite, they hate cucumber but like cloves.

Is it possible to like cloves and cucumbers or is there some taste bud jiggery-pokery that makes it impossible?

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was dressed in a Hugo Boss suit. She was in a white dress. She looked beautiful. She smiled at me from from the door. I winked. It was time. The eldery man linked arms with her and they walked slowly towards me as the music played from the tinny speakers.

I began to sweat a little bit. Nerves. I'm sure you understand. They took their time. I never took my eyes off hers, all the while thinking of how long we'd planned this day. All the little details. The excitement. The nerves. Eventually they got to the top. He stepped back. She had a boquet of flowers in her hand. We turned and faced the man who looked at us expectantly.

She pointed the flowers at him so he could see the barrel of the pistol pointed straight between his eyes.

"Give me everything you've got", I said. He did. Jimmy the Bollix disguised as the old man made sure everyone stayed where they were with his sawn-off shotgun.

£345,000 later the Allied Irish Bank in Rathmines installed new security doors. It was the happiest day of my life.

It was a quiet night in Ron's last night when all of a sudden the door opened and there was a distinct odour of sweet and sour sauce and monosodium glutamate. I looked up to see a Chinese man staring right at me. Normally this would have me reaching for my inside pocket. Not this time.

"TWINTY MAJORRR. HOW DE FECK ARE YE BOY?" he roared.

"Malachy Wong!" says I. "It's been a long fucking time."

"Dat it has ya langer. Now, are ya goin' ta buy me a pint or am I goin' ta have to do me kung-fu on ya like?"

So I bought him a pint and we got talking. Malachy Wong is a bloke me and Jimmy met in Cork one night we were down there for purely recreational purposes and not to put manners on some lad who had stolen a car Jimmy had stolen just an hour before. Feeling a bit peckish we stopped in at 'The Golden Pond' to grab a takeaway and Malachy was behind the counter. We asked him directions and being the kind and adventurous soul that he is he decided to follow us in case we got lost.

As it happened that was a good thing as the lad we were going down to talk to had four older brothers who were all built like fucking tanks. Jimmy hit one of them in the head with a piece of timber as thick as a government minister and he didn't even flinch. As we retreated to our car to get out of there and come back another time there was a high-pitched shriek and in came Malachy and he Ju-Jitsued the shite out of all them.

"Tought ya might need a hand ya pair o gobshites", he said and since then we've been firm friends. Fate brought us together and it was fate that brought his parents to Cork in 1962. They were heading for England to make a new life but the bloke that was smuggling them from the tip of France died and their boat drifted for days and days before it washed up in a little village called Baltimore. From there they made their way to the city and opened up the first Chinese takeaway in Ireland. As a tribute to the first man to help them onshore they named their first, and only, son 'Malachy'.

"So what are you doing up here?" I asked him.

"Well, I need to get a copy of me birth cert so I thought I'd pay you a visit, boyo. How's Jimmy?"

"Still a bollix, Malachy."

"Ahh, some tings never change, eh? C'mere an' I tell you though. Had a right laugh wit da young lad in the offices of Births, Deaths and Marriages. He made me fill out a form like, asking all kinds of shite like name, address, date of birth, and what ethnic group I belong to."

"Right..."

"So I filled de feckin' ting out and he calls me over and says 'I tink you've got dis bit wrong here'. So I says 'No, I don't', and he says 'I reckon ya do an' all' so I says 'I'm telling ya I dooooon't'. So he's looking at me sorta biting his tongue and he says 'Now I don't wantcha ta tink dat I'm bein' racist or nothin' like dat, right, but there's no way you're white.'"

"He has a point, you know."

"I know, ya spanner. Shut up. Anyway, I says 'I am what I am and de box I'm after tickin' is the one that applies to me' so he says 'Well, with the greatest respect an' all I don't tink it does'. So I pretend to be all aggravated and start swearin' Chinese and runnin' round the walls like Crouching Tiger Thingy Thingy. 'Get yer supervisor in here. NOW!' I shout so off he goes and a couple o' minutes later in walks a fella with a big square jaw and curly hair."

"Is that right?"

"It is. So he says 'Mr Wong, I have discussed this case with my underling here and although you might think you're white you're not white so you can't pick that box' so I say 'Is it dat you don't want people like me in the same group as you? Is dat it?' and he gets all flustered and says 'No, no, no. Of course not. This is strictly in the interests of accuracy' so I say 'So you just want to categorise people and make sure dere's no interbreeding because God forbid you might have a ginger child with slanty eyes running around Ireland ya bigoted shitehawk. I'm off to Dail Eireann to see my TD, so I am'.

"And?"

"So he says 'Now I don't think that's necessary' and I say 'Don't you tell me what's necessary. My family has been delivering Wun Tun ta da Barry family for years and they've got some pull, let me feckin' tell ya. I'm goin' to the Daily Star and the Irish Sun and de Sunday Independent...' - 'NO! NOT THE SUNDAY INDEPENDENT' he interrupts. 'Look' he says 'I'm sure if you're happy with the box you've ticked then we're happy with the box you've ticked. Isn't that right, O'Neill?' and the first fella says 'Sure, absolutely boss' so I say 'Right den, glad we've got it all sorted, lads' and 10 minutes later I had me birth cert and I went down to Davy Byrnes for some oysters and a pint."

"You're some man for some man, Malachy", I said. "So how does it feel to be white."

He looked at me for a moment like I was a knacker's turd.

"I'm not white at all, Twenty, ya clown. I'm a Cork Asian."

So the government announced a massive investment in transport across the country yesterday. We're going to get a corridor, some more trams and a metro about 50 years after everyone else. All this will cost, at this moment in time, €34bn and the completion date is 10 years from now.

It's all too little, too late as far as I'm concerned. If you had told me in 1965 that in 2005 we wouldn't be going around in space-ships, or at the the very least superpowerful hovercraft of some kind, I'd have told you you were mental. We had 40 years to invent new types of transport but we're still going around in cars which first became popular at the end of the 19th century. Where's the innovation? Where's the research? Where's my fucking flying spaceship you cunts?

Of course it's all the oil companies fault. They want us to keep using petrol and oil to get us from A to B when we could be using fusion power or some kind of crystals mined on a distant planet. It's ludicrous to think the only thing that's changed is the design of cars. Essentially the functionality has remained the same for over a century. Surely with all the technology at our fingertips we can do better? Is it too much to expect more? Why is nobody asking questions?

The problem with the Metro is that we leave ourselves open to new threats such as Werewolves like in American Werefolf in London and all manner of cunts with violas and accordians hopping between carriages to serenede us as we make our way home from work. Just what we need, sweaty Romany cunts stinking of BO playing musical instruments I hate. You wouldn't see them if we travelled in the sky, no Sir.

Anyway, as Bernie rightly points out all this talk and bluster is all well and good but where are the practical solutions to the problems we have now. There's no talk of abolishing the toll on the M50 which would solve so many problems but we'll build a fucking rail corridor for the people who commute from Letterkenny to Limerick daily. If they lifted the toll on the West Link we'd hardly need an airport metro which would serve tourists, holiday makers and business travellers as the thing will probably run direct from town to the airport without stopping anywhere.

Sky tubes like Futurama. That's what we need and I won't be content till we have them. And the picture here made me laugh. Well spotted.

I see my neighbour's three kids approach the door last night with their costumes and bags at the ready to accept all the goodies they could hold.

*DING DONG*

"Trick or Treat!!"

"Erm, trick please."

"What?"

"I said 'trick, please'".

"What you mean 'trick'?"

"Are you windowlickers from the special school, or what? You rang on my door and asked me if I wanted a trick or a treat. I don't want a treat as my larder is full of delicious cakes and biscuits so I would like you to perform a trick for me. How hard is that to understand?"

"But Mister...you're meant to give us a treat. It's hallowe'en."

"Well, let me tell you something, Last minute attempt at Dracula, if you only want one thing you shouldn't give people an option. If, as has happened now, the person chooses the option which doesn't suit you you're pretty much fucked. As well as that the wording is terrible. You say 'Trick or treat' and that makes me think I can choose between a trick and a treat. There is nothing that makes me think you want either of those things as you're the one making the approach to me."

"Come on ya beardy old shite, give us some treats."

"Now now, Keanu Reeves from the Matrix, no need for that kind of language. I'll tell you what, if you perform a trick for me I'll certainly provide you with a treat, loathe as I am to perpetuate this glorified begging. Good practice if you ever have to go Romania or you marry a traveller but apart from that it's hard to see the merits in it."

"But we don't know any tricks!"

"I'm sure that's not true, Wicked Witch of the West meets Paris Hilton. I bet you could easily do a trick. In fact, I'll help you. I don't want a card trick or for you to make the Spire disappear or to even pretend to saw someone in half. You don't need to be David Blane, the mumbling cunt. Here's what you do. You all pinch each other and make each other cry, then run home and tell your parents that Mr Johnson down the road tried to molest you. Then I'll give you a treat."

"Ok!"

"Cool!"

"Hurrah! Treats!"

2 minutes later the neighbour goes hurtling down the road. I wander out to have a gander. Some smashing. Some crashing. The odd wail. The neighbour goes back up the road with a swollen, bloodied hand.

Job done. That'll teach that Johnson to leave his wheelie-bin too close to my house.

*DING DONG*

Three expectant little faces. 3 little hallowe'en ghouls going from foot to foot with excitement.

I don't answer.