"Ron", says I, "You know the way after Christmas all the shops have a sale?"

"Aye", says he.

"I was wondering why you don't choose to reward your best customers by having a sale on the beer."

"Were you now?"

"I was."

"Let me tell you why, Twenty. If you were to go into Brown Thomas (Dublin's most famous and expensive department store - not a gay man's mickey) right this very minute I can assure you that the place is packed to the very brim with the cuntiest of cunts scrapping around for bargains. The same with all the other stores. Chock-a-block with cunts, shitbags and housewives. Now, just for a moment, Twenty, take a look around my bar. Who do you see?"

"Nobody, Ron, I'm the only one in here at the moment."

"Exactly, Twenty. While Brown Thomas has to put up with cunts in their thousands because they slash their prices I keep my prices the same and I only have one cunt to put up with."

"You're smarter than you look, Ron. Pint, please."

"Here Twenty", said Stinking Pete, "I'll get the turkey this Christmas, you don't worry."

I should have known better. He arrived over to my house with a copy of Guy Ritchie's 'Revolver', useless cunt.

As you may have gathered I have been taking a well deserved Christmas break. I am recharging my batteries, going around town finding new people to hate and drinking lots and lots and lots.

I drank so much Guinness on Christmas Eve I shat dark matter.

I hope you had a fine Christmas, unburdened by cunts, wankers and shitehawks of all denominations. Now, if you'll excuse me I have stout to drink. Normal service will resume shortly.

And have a fucking menny very crispmas you cnuts.

"Did you seem them lesbians who got married in Belfast the other day?" asked Jimmy the Bollix.

"I did, James", I replied.

"You'd have thought", said he, "that give the high profile of this particular ceremony, in that it was the very first gay wedding to take place in the Unitd Kingdom, they might have chosen a couple of stunnas instead of a pair who look like they plait their minges and have to use one of those vibrating Gilette Sensor razors on their faces each morning."

"It's a very good point."

"Real life lesbians are so disappointing compared to the ones you see in films, magazines, websites and Stinking Pete's private video collection. Why is that do you reckon?"

"No idea. Maybe it's because pretty girls can get all the cock they want whereas some lumpy looking heifer who looks like Geoff Capes might have a bit of a problem getting any at all. So butch mingers just get together because even lesbian sex is better than no sex at all. Shame there's no lesbians around here that we could ask."

"I'm a lesbian", said Dirty Dave.

"Shut up, Dave."

"What do you reckon they had on their wedding list then?"

"Imacc, estrogen supplements, kd lang CDs, strap-ons although no toaster. Lesbians are allergic to toast."

"I think all lesbians should be kept in safari parks. Even worse were the lesbians that got married in England the day after. Fuck me those were two of the most lesbianish lezzers I ever saw. They were so into the whole butch thing they even gave themselves male names. Elton and David. Who did they think they were fooling?"

"I like the safari park idea. Another pint, Jimmy?"

"Don't mind if I do, Twenty."

Here's what we know.

1 - A person turned up at this blogger meeting and pretended to be me. According to one of the atendees this fake Twenty "He talked about Christmas plans, reasons for anonymity (his job) and general blog bitching. That kind of thing."

2 - I, the real Twenty Major, was not there.

So what this means is that there's a fucking spanner of a mentalist out there pretending to be me and as the most perceptive of you will have gathered I'm not even really me.

I have to say I am dreadfully worried. After being described on various blogs as 'A nice guy', 'a thoroughly nice chap', 'well behaved' and 'a sweetie', I am concerned that this person is going to further sully my reputation.

What if they adopt a Romanian AIDS baby in my name and show everyone what a caring, good-hearted soul I am? What if they make substantial donations to traveller's rights organizations? What, in the name of the good sweet jumping Jesus on the cross, if they go into HMV and wearing a t-shirt which says "I am Twenty Major! No, really, I am!!" and they loudly buy many Damien Rice and Phil Collins CDs, announcing to anyone who will listen that 'I, the real Twenty Major and not the unbalanced loony of an impostor, really love Damien Rice and Phil Collins'?

How is a man supposed to live with that shame? Maybe it's time to call it a day...

Some Irish bloggers met up last night for some beers. It seems they had a good time and they really enjoyed meeting me.

The only thing is, I wasn't there. Who is pretending to be me?

Another night in Ron's. Getting into the Christmas spirit with some Christmas spirits. A pint and a Jameson's. A wonderful combination like Morcombe and Wise, Laurel and Hardy, Bono and both barrels of a shotgun.

Lucky Luciano was there back from his latest job. He wouldn't tell us who it was though. He said "Porca madonna! If I a-tell you then you a-tell everyone and soon nobody a-hire a-me."

"Ah go on!", said Stinking Pete.

"Fammi un bocchino" he replied.

"Is that some kind of ice-cream like Vienetta?"

There are times I wonder how it's possible for Stinking Pete to be more stupid than Dirty Dave then Dave shows up and I realise Pete is a veritable genius next to him.

"Yes, is-a fockin' ice a-cream", Lucky said before rolling his eyes further back than Paris Hilton's legs on a first date.

"Might get some in for the Crimbo" said Pete.

And speaking of which I went into town yesterday to do all my Christmas shoplifting. It is absolutely mental and Irish people are shopoholics at the best of times but at this time of year they just can't keep their credit cards in their wallets for more than 2 minutes at a time. The city centre was fucking jammers, full of cunts on their mobile phones. Still, I tripped up at least 3 people on Grafton Street.

I don't have a huge list of people to buy for. Jimmy the Bollix - silver plated knuckle dusters. Dirty Dave - every single after shave sampler they had out in Brown Thomas, I stole them all. Ron the barman - I'm going to give him an ailbi but that's a story for another day. Lucky Luciano - I'm getting him a t-shirt with 'I love Silvio Berlusconi' on the front and 'Stalin is a cunt' on the back. Being from Livorno he's a rampant communist and often wears t-shirts with Che Guevara on the front which we slag him about by asking why he's wearing Rolf Harris on his chest.

"A-who da fock is a-Rolf fucking Harris? Cazzo!", he says.

Finally Stinking Pete. Since he said he was feeling lonely the other day we've all been trying to think of a good present to get him. Eventually we decided he needed a pet to keep him company so we all chipped in €50 and ordered a Russian bride off the internet. Her name is Svetlana and we have to pick her up from the cargo depot at Dublin airport on Christmas eve. She's coming in a crate of caviar from Kiev.

We loved her profile on the website. She said "Talking about music I like different kinds but usually I listen to the classical music."

That's fantastic, Stinking Pete loves different kinds of music but he hates the classical music. Opposites attract though, right?

She goes onto say "I like swimming, snowboard, yoga and alpinism", which is uncanny because Pete had alpinism as a kid and spent 18 months in hospital so they'll can share their experiences of that. She is divorced and Christian and a social drinker, like me or the lads, so she'll fit right in. She's a non-smoker but you can't have everything I guess.

I think this is going to make such a difference to poor Stinking Pete's life. Christmas is a time for giving not receiving (which makes 50% of gay men right for a short period of time) and this is going to be much better than last Christmas when we gave him cholera.

It seems everyone who's anyone in the Irish blogging world is doing interviews at the moment. They're interviewing each other, podcasting, interviewing people who have stuff to do with computer stuff and never let it be said that Twenty Major wasn't up to speed. I know what's trendy, what the kids like (in a nice way, not in the the way the Catholic church thinks they know what kids like) and to keep up with the blogging Jones's I've got a real scoop.

Time magazine voted him 'Man of the year' - yes, it's all 4'8" of Bono.

Twenty Major: Well Bono, despite the fact that if you're man of the year I've got a massive set of tits and well worn vag, how does it feel?

Bono: Yeah, it's great. I'm feeding the world, you know.

Twenty Major: Right, I assume you're letting them know it's Christmas time as well. That'll make them feel better. So if you're so all powerful why did you let Johnny Cash die?

Bono: It was his time. When God calls you have to answer.

Twenty Major: Not true actually. God once called to my door and I didn't answer. I skipped over the back fence and ran away and wrote the worldwide smash hit 'Africa' for Toto. When I came back after 6 months of wild life on the road he'd gone. So, which is more important - being part of a enormously popular beat combo like U2 or being a tedious, unstoppable loudmouth?

Bono: As a rock star, I have two instincts, I want to have fun, and I want to change the world. I have a chance to do both.

Twenty Major: Can't you just have fun and leave the rest of us in peace?

Bono: Music can change the world because it can change people.

Twenty Major: No, plastic surgery can change people. Experiencing a massive trauma can change people. Giving up an addiction to crystal meth can change people. Music just makes them dance a bit or sing out of tune when they have their iPod on on the bus and they don't realise they're singing out loud. Let's face it if music has changed the world it hasn't done a very fucking good job of it, has it?

Bono: This is our moment, this is our time, this is our chance to stand up for what is right. Three thousand Africans, mostly children, die every day of mosquito bites. We can fix that. Nine thousand people dying every die of a preventable, treatable disease like Aids. We have got the drugs. We can help them.

Twenty Major: You have a very big garden, I'm sure. Why don't you build a massive hutch and import some Africans? Not too many mosquitoes in Dalkey, are there? And if you have the drugs tell Adam Clayton to stop selling them out of the boot of his car up at the Blue Light.

Bono: We thought that we had the answers, it was the questions we had wrong.

Twenty Major: Jesus Christ, you are such a cunt. Do you know what this is?

Bono: Why it appears to be some kind of blunderbuss.

Twenty Major: Do you have any last words?

Bono: Rock 'n' roll is ridiculous. It's absurd. In the past, U2 was trying to duck that. Now we're wrapping our arms around it and giving it a great big kiss. To be one, to be united is a great thing. But to respect the right to be different is maybe even greater.

Twenty Major: *KABLAM*

Next week me and my blunderbuss will be interviewing Damien Rice, Phil Collins, Shirley Temple Bar, that wanker who lives up the road from me and people who chew gum. Yes, all of them.

No doubt you've all read about Denis Donaldson, a senior member of Sinn Fein, who was outed as a British intelligence double agent.

Funnily enough I also worked for the British intelligence services. I told them "Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness are terrorists. Honest. You should take them out. They say they have nothing to do with anything but a blind man can see they're calling all the shots."

They didn't listen to me and now lots of people in Ireland are going to vote for terrorists in the next elections, the stupid cunts.

Update: Just to clarify I did not work for British intelligence nor did I provide them any intelligence whatsoever. Martin and Gerry are great fellows so they are.

I once did a poo in the shape of David Shayler though. Took me fucking hours.

New Dangermaus everyone!

With a brand new columnist called Diarmuid Diamond who tells it like it jolly well is.

Stinking Pete is always asking funny questions. Yesterday he was full of them.

"Twenty, are Mormons real?"

"Yes, Stinking Pete, they all live in Salt Lake City and they believe a man called Joseph Smith wrote the book of Mormon and was a prophet. They eat palm trees and believe that if you smile all the time you go to heaven."

"They're gas so they are. And why can't you get Golliwogs in the shops anymore?"

"Believe it or not Pete some people thought Golliwogs were racist because they were representative of black people and if children continued to play with Golliwogs they'd want a black person as a pet when they grew up. You know, the way people of our generation all did."

"My Golliwog died. I forgot to feed it. If a giant meteor hit the earth first do you think Madonna would survive?"

"Yes, I'm sure she would. Scientists have proved that even in the event of nuclear war only two creaures on the earth would survive. Madonna and the cockroach. As yet there is no sure way of killing her."

"If a Hippophant was the cross between a hippo and an elephant what would you call the animal you'd get it you crossed a monkey and a mongoose?"

"Well, Pete, it would obviously be the Mong... - erm - the Monk...er...fuck...."

Tragedy struck the Wicklow cost yesterday when an earthquake measuring 2.6 on the Richter scale caused widespread damage to Arklow. It is reported that some pictures fell off a mantelpiece, one of three flying ducks crashed from a wall while some windows rattled for a period of up to 3 seconds.

Trocaire, the Red Cross and Concern have set up emergency appeals to raise money for survivors so they can rebuild their lives and continue marrying close family members. John O'Shea of Concern said "FUCKING JAYSUS! FORGET THEM PAKIS, THIS IS THE REAL DEAL AND IT'S HAPPENED RIGHT ON OUR OWN DOORSTEP. GIVE US YER FUCKIN' MONEY YIZ CUNTS."

Bob Geldof has already booked Windmill Lane and his planned charity record will feature the cream of Irish talent such as No Sweat, Who's Eddie and Runaway, the country's most successful Corrs tribute band.

Not true of course, apart from the bit about the earthquake. That was actually true but there are greater tremors when Mary Harney walks into a room. It's kind of like that scene in Jurassic Park where the cup of water trembles as the T-Rex approaches the overturned car. It's been strongly rumoured that Harney's diving holiday near Sumatra in Indonesia caused last winter's tsunami but government officials have managed to spread the old 'massive earthquake' story to cover it up.

We don't really get extremes of weather here in Ireland. I remember the winter of 1981-2 was incredibly snowy. I've never seen anything like it since. Everything was closed and they were rationing milk in the newsagents. Then we got the arse end of Hurricane Charlie in 1987, I think, and there was some wind and rain but luckily Dublin was built above sea-level and we didn't have any poor black people to make it a real tragedy. And finally we had the unstoppable typhoon which blew the roof off the National Aquatic Centre which had nothing to do with shoddy labour and cheap materials and was, without doubt, a demonstration of the awesome power of Mother Nature.

Apart from that, nothing. That said the whole fucking city grinds to a halt if there's even a light snow shower. People ring in work saying they're snowed in, cars start crashing all over the place, a near state of emergency is called so it's probably a good thing we don't get really hot summers or people would call in work to say they're melting to death or dehydrating on the spot.

If you like low skies and constant drizzle Ireland is the place to be though.

Some time back I mentioned Dirty Dave's brother to you. Shiny Simon he's called because he has an incredibly shiny forehead. Since he hit puberty his forehead gleams like a newly polished car. We all thought it was something to do with being that age, hormones and so on, but it has remained impossibly shiny ever since.

Anyway, Shiny Simon's shiny forehead gave him great powers. Well, not exactly, but when playing football he could head the ball harder than anyone else we knew. Whether that was to do with the incandescence of his brow we don't know but bullet headers were his speciality. Sadly for him his sparkling noggin was not such a good thing given his chosen profession. He smuggled drugs from Holland by swallowing them or putting them up his arse, Papillon style.

He provided Dublin's smelliest cocaine. So when Dirty Dave came into the pub last night with a glum look on his face and he said it was about his brother we all immediately thought the rubber johnny he'd packed full of stuff before swallowing it had burst in his stomach.

"No, it was nothing like that", said Dave.

"What happened then?" asked Jimmy the Bollix.

"Well, you know my old mam is in a nursing home out near Donabate?"

"Yeah."

"He was going over there to visit her."

"Right."

"And he was driving along."

"You can use more than one sentence at a time. Fucking hell."

"Ok, he was driving along, he'd just gone past the airport and heading out towards Swords. It was a particularly sunny day and it seems the glare off his forehead blinded a Northern Irish truck driver who careered across the road and smashed into a coach full of orphans going on their first ever foreign trip."

"Jesus."

"Then the coach full of orphans skidded back across into the path of a wedding party with the newly wed bride and groom who had survived both the 9-11 and 7/7 attacks beheaded instantly. The bride's head landed in the lap of her father who had a heart attack and dropped dead on the lap of her terminally ill mother who vomited and fainted at the same time and choked to death on her own puke. The groom's head went flying out of the window and through the windshield of a a minibus taking 16 elderly ladies to bingo. It rolled up the middle of the bus, every single old lady pissed and shat herself covering the head in wee and poo before it rolled back down and under the brake pedal. Now, because the head was so slippy the driver couldn't dislodge it and couldn't use the brakes so he went across the road and smashed into a couple doing a sponsored tandem ride around Ireland to raise money for training guide dogs for the blind."

"Holy shit!"

"It doesn't end there. The tandem cracked in two and the lad at the front went over the handlebars and landed on the bonnet of a BMW which a group of skangers from Blanchardstown had just robbed from the long-term car park at the airport. They slammed on the brakes and yer man went flying through the air. Unfortunately none of the cunts had put their seatbelts on so the driver got propelled through the windscreen by the bloke in the back and he went like superman in the same direction as the bloke who had landed on the bonnet, who in the meantime had bounced back off the minibus, causing the old ladies to shit and piss themselves again which made a dozen of them slip and break their hips, and the two of them collided headfirst in mid-air. Naturally travelling at such speed made their heads cave in and their brains fell out on the road which caused a passing motorcycle courier's bike to go out from underneath him as he rode over them. The bike skidded along the ground, into the orphans coach and ignited the fuel tank and within seconds there was an enormous explosion."

"Fucking hell!"

"Most of the orphans were killed instantly but three of four managed to escape the bus and ran around waving their arms because they were totally on fire. When some other motorists stopped to help them by covering them with blankets they too were set ablaze because of the combustible mixture of the fuel and orphan blood which is highly inflammable. As they tried to put themselves out by rolling on the grass the verges set alight because of the unseasonably dry weather we've been having and the sparks from the long grass blew across the road and soon there was a chain reaction of car after car after truck after bus blowing up causing a gigantic fireball which was similar in size to the one in England the other day only not as big. The backdraft from that caught a passing helicopter and it crashed upside down decapitating nearly everybody on the ground which was a small mercy as the skin was burning off them anyway. The helicopter pilot was all right though and he got out to help but forgot about the rotor on the tail which ripped his stomach open and as he tried desperately to hold his intenstines in tripped over a sausagy bit which had snagged around his foot and landed on the one orphan who had miraculously escaped unharmed and drowned him in his entrails before he died himself."

"By the flabby gash of Mariah Carey that's mental!"

"Yeah, and it's the second time it's happened out there."

"Aye, it's some dangerous stretch of road, all right. So Simon was one of the unfortunate casualties, I take it. I'm very sorry to hear that, Dirty Dave."

"Oh no, he's fine. It's just that he was buying me an orphan for Christmas and the one he'd picked out at the pound happened to be in that coach."

"You don't get orphans in the pound, you gobshite. You get puppies."

"Oh yeah. I always get those two confused."

So I finally got around to writing some of my Christmas cards. Such a chore. Worse than when Bastardface gets an impacted anal gland and squeezing that is not pretty, let me tell you. Dirty Dave hates doing it.

Here's just a sample of some of the ones I sent.


Dear Bertie,

have a great Christmas. Hope you choke on the wishbone you poxy wanker.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Dear Hurricane Katrina victim,

at this special time of the year please know that while I'm enjoying all the home comforts there are people thinking of you. You homeless cunts.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Dear Damien Rice,

this Christmas I've given you the present you deserve. No, that's not fake snow, it's anthrax. Die screaming, you cocksucker.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Dear Bono,

hope you have a great Christmas and please know that the money you spend on your children's presents would feed the whole of Chad for a year. Hope your brain explodes with guilt.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Dear Daryl Hall from Hall and Oates,

I've found your address at long last. I'll follow up this card with a personal visit. See you soon.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Dear George Best,

wishing you a very.... oh yeah.

Well that was a waste of a card.

––––--------------------

Dear Mary Harney,

please ensure you have just one wafer thin mint, just one wafer thin mint, after you eat the whole turkey, two hams, three kilos of mashed spuds, 3 pints of gravy, a whole Christmas pudding covered in trifle, a Christmas cake, a box of Ferrero Rocher and a box of After Eights. You enormous glutton.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Dear the French Muslim community,

I know things have calmed down since all that rioting and stuff so I wish you all a very peaceful Christmas.

love

Twenty Major

ps - Jean Marie le Pen said you're all a bunch of towel-head, goat fucking suicide bombers.

––––--------------------

Dear Minister for Transport,

seasons greetings to you and next time you won't catch the bloke with the bomb on the M50 and you can kiss your fucking rip-off toll profits goodbye.

love

Twenty Major

––––--------------------

Yours, of course, is in the post.

Some jokes just never get old for some people. We were in Ron's on Friday night talking about who would win a breakdancing competition between Margaret Thatcher and Lorenzo de Medici. The general consensus was that de Medici's love of the arts and practical jokes would give him the advantage over a woman who used that much hairspray and would surely split in two if she spread her legs far enough to perform a scissor kick.

Stinking Pete had been at his work's Christmas party earlier. It wasn't so much a party as a few drinks after work and as Pete works on his own he just sat at the bar in the Duke and got shitfaced. He staggered into Ron's and after knocking a table over he decided to he'd do his Christmas routine. It happens every year and it goes something like this?

"Here, Twan....*hic*...Twenty."

"What it is, Stinking Pete?"

"I wash gunna have a party on chrishmash eve but shure you wuddun be able to come an anyway."

"Why's that?", I ask, feigning less interest each year.

"Coz ye'll be goin' round deliverin all de preshents. HAHAHAHAHA."

"Ahh, nice one, Pete", I say and we all roll our eyes.

"Ya see itsh coz ya look loike Santy!"

"Yeah, I know, Pete. I know."

"Coz yiv gotta fuckin big white beeyard!!!"

"That I do, Pete."

"An' Santy has a fuckin big white beeyard!!"

"He sure does."

" *hic*...Twenty?"

"Yeah, Pete?"

"You fuckin look loike Santy. I'm very lonely, so I am."

At that point we tell Dirty Dave to bring him home and buy him a bag of chips on the way.

This year, because we felt a bit sorry for him, we all chipped in and told Dave to get him a portion of scampi too.

There's a story in the papers which I won't link because you have to register to about a bloke who was fire juggling outside a Limerick bar in 1998. The bouncers told him to move. He continued juggling fire. So they kicked the fucking shit out of him. Yesterday he was awarded £70,000 in compensation because his career was effectively ruined. He said "I was a professional juggler and worked twelve hours a day. Now I find it hard to juggle for an hour."

Now pardon me a fucking minute but juggling is not a profession. It's something you do to pass the time if you don't have internet, a tv, DVDs, Playstation or similar, books, pens and paper, any money, a tennis ball to throw at a wall, a deck of cards to throw into a hat or play patience with, cutlery to self-harm with or a million other things.

Architect - that's a profession. Doctor - profession. Actor - stretching it but it's still a profession. Juggler - fuck off. You might include juggling as part of your profession, like if you were a hideous circus clown, but juggling on its own is not a profession. You don't look in the Yellow Pages to hire a juggler because no cunt ever wants to hire a juggler.

He's a street entertainer but there is no 4 year doctorate in Trinity to become a professional juggler. Jugglers are often associated with people who play the bongos or ride unicycles. I really fucking hate unicycles. They are totally impractical. Imagine cycling to work on one of them. There are no handlebars or anything and the cunts that go round on them wouldn't cut off one of their legs and hop everywhere so why do they think it's a good idea to go around on one wheel?

As well as that people who ride unicycles, to a man, always wear a hat which is much too small for them. There is no reason to wear clothing which is too small for you, unless you are a teenage girl going to a disco after drinking 4 bottles of Ritz and you want everyone to see your fast-food filled, wobbly belly before you vomit into the mouth of the 5th bloke you've gotten off with since the disco started. But that's a whole other story.

Although maybe you could be a professional anything if you wanted to be. I once told our career guidance teacher (who went everywhere by zimmer frame having suffered a stroke when a cow leapt over a wall and landed on his car) that I wanted to be a professional aardvark trainer. He told me I should work in insurance.

I stole his zimmer frame for that, the cunt.

Oh, and to the two John Lennon fans who emailed me yesterday to complain that the post was in shockingly bad taste, you're right. It was. He's still dead though.

I'm not sure if I mentioned this but for a while I lived in New York. From the end of 1979 to December 1980. Here are some extracts from a diary I kept there.

January 14th 1980: It's a funny place this, the car horn seems to be a means of communication although I can't quite decipher its intricate speech patterns. Saw Woody Allen. Ran after him so I could trip him up, lost him the crowds though. Met the neighbour. Seems all right. A bit fucking speccy though, the four eyed cunt.

Feb 27th 1980: Damn, it's cold here. Lost one of my gloves. Ran into the neighbour earlier who said his wife found it but donated it to a tramp who lives outside the building. I fucking hate tramps and I include his poxy wife in that.

Feb 28th 1980: Met the neighbour, asked him to please ask his wife to give me back my stuff if she finds it. The glove was monogrammed for fucks sake. He laughed. Said nothing but we'll see who's laughing, English wanker.

March 19th 1980: Got talking to a bloke in work, Mark, who has some really strange ideas about life. He's not exactly somebody I'd go out for a drink with. He's one of those people who'd think he was your best friend or something and would turn up at your door with the latest Styx LP.

April 11th 1980: Met the neighbour and his wife in the lift. Was very polite despite feeling very poorly. Think it was a hot dog and the 9 pitchers of beer I had. Didn't appreciate their looks of disgust when I farted though. Fucks sake, it wasn't that bad. Like either of them has never farted. By the looks of them I'd say they eat each others poo.

May 19th 1980: Was on the phone with my dear old mam when someone started hammering on the front door. It's the wife from next door. "He claaaazy, go maaaaaaad" she shouts standing there stark naked and let me tell you that's the last thing I need to see. "Fuck off", I said and shut the door.

May 20th 1980: Neighbour wakes me early, pounding on the door. Wants to know what his wife said. Told him to fuck off and if his wife comes around here nude again I'll call the police. He tells me seeing his wife naked is like having an affair with her. Told him I'd rather have an affair with a decomposing goat. He poked me in the chest. I clipped him around the ear. He tried to punch me. I kicked him in the balls and told him it was war. Which it is.

June 30th 1980: That bloke in work is mental. Always reading the same book. Decided to wind him up a bit. Told him my neighbour knew him and was always saying bad things about him and how he was a mentalist and a window licker. He doesn't believe me though.

July 25th 1980: Told Mark in work that the neighbour told me that when Mark was a lad that he got caught wanking with another lad from his school and that the neighbour was going to call everyone in his yearbook to tell them he was a benny. He looked a bit worried about that. Think I might have struck a chord.

August 21st 1980: Not even on speaking terms with the neighbours now. Saw them going into their apartment and didn't say a word. Coughed and made the cough sound like 'cunts' though. heh.

September 26th 1980: Told Mark I heard the neighbour writing a song about him last night. I didn't catch all the lyrics but it was all about him being a big gayer and liking the cock and so on. Told him that he should really do something about it or everyone would know he was a massive gayer who liked the cock. He seemed a bit introspective, a bit withdrawn.

October 1st 1980: Told Mark the neighbour is sending me anonymously typed letters saying that he's going to release that song soon. Showed him one of the letters. Offered to try and mediate with the neighbour on Mark's behalf. He seemed relieved. Told him I'd get back to him as soon as I had any news.

November 18th: Let Mark stew for ages. He's been asking every day. Told him last night I saw the neighbour and begged him to drop the song. I implored, pleaded, even supplicated to give him a break but he wouldn't do it. I told Mark I told him 'Think about this poor guy' and that the neighbour just laughed.

December 1st 1980: Saw Mark outside my building. Avoided him. He's gone even more mental these last few days.

December 6th 1980: Told Mark in work that I'd met the neighbour and that the neighbour said he was going to do a live TV show in which he was going to perform the song about Mark for the first time on December 9th. He seemed very upset. Told him the neighbour called him a 'ball-licking fistaholic'. I was sure I saw tears.

December 8th 1980: JOHN LENNON SHOT DEAD IN NEW YORK CITY. MARK CHAPMAN ARRESTED.

Result. Rang the lads. Told them I'd be home by the end of the week. That'll teach you to give my glove to a tramp, Yoko, you cunt.

These torture flights are all over the news and I don't mean the ones where you're flying Ryanair and you're stuck beside an enormously fat German who stinks like a tramp's cock and has breath that reeks of cabbage vomit and insists on talking to you while you struggle to breathe.

No, these are the flights where America, and specifically the CIA, is taking prisoners and flying all around the place beating the living shite out of them, half-drowing them, making them listen to Michael Bolton records repeatedly and forcing them to watch Tom Hanks films over and over again.

It seems some of these flights have landed at Shannon although Taoiseach Bertie Ahern says 'dere's no feckin' way' any of them were used for torturing people. However, Amnesty International says six CIA-chartered aircraft have landed 50 times at Shannon and made 800 flights into western European airspace. I wouldn't believe a word those cunts said though, they've got funds to raise through heartfelt appeals and it's just as likely that the Irish government have paid the CIA to kidnap members of the travelling community and drop them in various locations across Europe. Those travellers are then under orders to steal clothes from clotheslines and recycle old pots and pans before selling them and sending the profits back to Leinster House to fund Fianna Fáil's foam parties in Government chambers.

Anyway, there's no harm in torturing people or beating confessions out of them. Look at the Birmingham Six and the Guilford Four. They were beaten and tortured by English police and confessed to crimes they didn't commit. Then a few years later the authorities say 'Ooops, sorry about that. Turns out you didn't do it after all. Here's a great big wad of cash in compensation now off you go.'

Now, the best any of those cunts could ever have hoped for was maybe owning his own taxi plate with one of the others as a cosy so to spend a few years in jail then get a massive lump sum isn't that bad when you think about it. And where would they have been without a bit of torture? Exactly.

So Amnesty International should stop thinking short term and concentrate on the long term benefits of ill-treatment and persecution, the do-goodery bastards. More torture flights might mean more payouts and a big payout to one of those cunts would feed his whole country for a year. How dare Amnesty International create famines.

Oooh, they are such cunts.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

So we unlocked the window, my accomplice and I
When the little girl saw us she started to cry;
'Don't worry', we said as entered the house,
'Now dry up those tears and be quiet as a mouse';

'But who the hell are you?' she asked all afeared,
'I'm a good friend of Santa. Just look at my beard!';
'We're here to bring presents for your mum and your dad,
Tell us where they are or they're bound to get mad';

'I think they're asleep' she said rubbing her eyes,
'Thanks a lot little girl! Now here, take this prize;
We gave her an iPod and she gave us a hug,
She was so damn excited she pissed on the rug;

So we crept down the hall to where mam and dad slept,
when we went in the room oh how they wept;
'Jimmy and Twenty, you've found us, but how?',
'You shut your fat mouth you despicable cow';

So I took out a truncheon, Jimmy took out a sap,
And soon the room filled with blood, brains and crap;
'That'll teach you to steal now it's ended in farce',
as I insert this knife in the depths of your arse;

Soon it was done, all was quiet, they were gone.
When into the room a golden light shone;
'Little girl, look away, you don't need to see this';
Though her bladder had emptied she took one more piss;

'Oh God, Mam and Dad, they've sent you to heaven,
And it's all for a DVD set of Blakes Seven';
She sat at the end of the bed and she cried,
and went on so long I was fit to be tied;

'We're sorry you had to see your parents die,
but they pissed me off rightly and that is no lie';
Then we drove into town to play pool in Ricardos,
our best Christmas gift an orphan for Barnados.

It's a tradition, see...

It was very interesting to read about that woman in France who has had a face transplant. Apparently what happened was she tried to kill herself because she was depressed by taking a drug overdose. Her faithful family dog found her comatose on the ground and tried to wake her up by licking her face.

When, after a prolonged period of licking, she did not come around he resorted to more forceful methods and bit most of her face off. Of course it is possible that he thought 'Well, this cunt is fucked, might as well have me a snack'. It was a labrador you see and they are the hungriest dogs of all time.

It reminded me of the time when I was out for a walk in the park with Bastardface and he came trotting back over from the woods with a human hand. 'My God', I thought, 'Bastardface has dug up a corpse buried in a shallow grave by members of an organised crime syndicate' so I went over to have a closer look. As I reached the edge of the woods I heard someone screaming 'Fuuuuuuuck, some enormous dog just bit my fucking hand off. Arrrrrrrrrggh.'

I thought it best to just leave well enough alone. But face transplants, fantastic stuff eh? How long before they decide face transplants are ok for people who just want a face transplant and haven't had theirs eaten off by a dog or a mongoose? Don't like the way you look? Just visit our website - www.facetransplants.com!!!

However, what if you're a person who would like a face transplant and one day you're walking down the road and you see a face you'd like instead of your own? You've got to wait until that person dies and that could be a very long time. Now, to have the desire to have you face taken off and another face put on I would suggest that you would have to some issues with self-esteem and people like that are capable of
anything. So a person looking for a face transplant would certainly be capable of doing whatever it takes to get the face they want.

What it means is that this new technology, this remarkable surgical procedure, will bring about an unprecedented increase in murders. And it won't be just normal people that get murdered. People don't want the face of a normal person. They want celebrity faces. The women will want to have the sultry good looks of Angelina Jolie or the pretty smile of Charlize Theron. Men will want the Brad Pitt face so they can pull Angelina or George Clooney. I mean they'd want George Clooney's face not that their Brad Pitt face would help them get the real George Clooney into bed.

So normal people will murder the celebrities they want to look like, whip their faces off the same way Red Injuns scalped their victims, chuck it into a bag of ice and get a back street quack to do the transplant. They might even go so far as take over the celebrity's life although if some enormous heifer got Angelina Jolie's face it might be a bit difficult for them to explain why their previously sexy physique changed overnight into that of a cake addicted manatee. That's a problem for them though but what is a bigger problem is that they now have a face that lots of people want to have transplanted onto their own and in all likelihood they're going to get fatally murdered to death themselves and the face will go to a new owner until they find the same thing happening to them. These mad doctors have created a neverending cycle of murder and face stealing.

However it might spark a new breed of pig-ugly Hollywood superstars because no good looking person will want to be famous in case someone kills them for their face. Maybe there's hope for Madonna's acting career yet.

Dirty Dave came into Ron the barman's last night walking funny. With Dave you can never really guess what the problem might be. He's accident prone, he's got a club foot with bunions that play up sporadically and he's suffered eight massive dropsies since 2001.

"What's up you with you?" I asked.

"Nothing", he said.

"Well how come you're walking funny then?"

"I always walk funny. It's my fallen arches", he lied as he hauled himself up on a stool grimacing.

"Now Dave, you know that I always know when you're lying. It's not your fallen arches as the pain appears to be more around the hip level. Come on, tell me the truth. Did you get your chopper caught in that jar of liver you like to use?"

"Don't be daft, Twenty, although you are correct in that it is not my fallen arches. The thing is I was attacked today by a gang of ruffians and I am a little bit the worse for wear."

"The youth of today, Dave. Nothing a good iron in the face wouldn't solve. Where did this happen?"

"Well, I was walking down the grand canal between Kilmainham and Inchicore, basking in the glorious December weather when all of a sudden a group of 4 lads jumped out. All about 16 or 17. 'Give us your money, home boy' they said so I said 'I haven't got any money and I'm not at home as is quite clear by my presence here on this footpath' so they started to get a big serious."

"You don't say."

"Yes, I do say. They said 'Right you, we're going to duff you up' so I said 'You can try' and there was an almighty scrap, Twenty, an almighty scrap. I punched and kicked like Christy Brown on PCP but the sheer weight of numbers meant they got me a few good ones including a kick in the crown jewels. In the end I fought them off and they never got a penny. Now, I'm going to get a drink. Pint please, Ron, and one for Twenty."

I just stared at him.

"What?", he said.

I kept staring.

"Whaaaaaaat?"

"There were no boys, were there, Dave?"

He sighed. "No."

"So tell me what happened."

"Well, I was walking along the canal. And there were some swans. And I hate swans so I called one of the swans a cunt."

"You called a swan a cunt?"

"Yes, and then I picked up a stick and threw it at him and he either didn't like being called a cunt or he didn't like having a stick thrown at him because he went mental and came charging at me."

"So what did you do?"

"What do you think I did? I ran like shite. I've heard stories of how swans have broken peoples arms with their wings and I'm sure most of them down even mean to. What sort of damage could a swan hell-bent on revenge cause? I wasn't hanging around to find out."

"So you got away?"

"Not exactly. I slipped on a mossy bit of the path and fell flat on my face. I flipped over and tried to get back on my feet but he was almost on top of me. I did that going backwards thing they do in horror movies. Moving and trying to get up but not succeeding. I was sure he was going to batter me around the head so as I covered my head he pecked me as hard as he could in the place you never want to be pecked by a swan in high dudgeon."

"So you came limping in here tonight because you got pecked in the bollix by a swan?"

"That's about the size of it, yeah."

"Dave, you are a fucking spanner and no mistake."

"I know, don't tell the others though, I feel a bit stupid about it all."

Ron came over then. "Pints, lads."

"Cheers, Ron" I said. I took a gulp. "Wait till Jimmy and Stinking Pete come in then ask Dave to tell you about the lovely bird he met today...."

Like most of you, I'm sure, I do not like to queue. It makes me intensely irritable. As bad as queueing is there are things that can make it worse. Bad weather if you're outside, for example, or the person directly in front of you having a body odour problem that would drive you to give yourself a Dirty Sanchez using somebody else's poo just to escape it.

Other things that can make it worse is if the queue doesn't move quickly enough, you get to the top of the queue only to remember that you've forgotten to get something or bring something which will mean having to go to the back of the queue and start all over again or being in a really big hurry.

However, there is one thing which makes queueing unbearable and that is sturdy-hipped singer Joss Stone. I don't mean if Joss Stone was queueing in front of you but the place you're in playing Joss Stone's music. If Joss Stone was in front of you singing, perhaps hired by the store in question to entertain the people waiting to pay for their goods, then you could just kick her in the gee and say "Shut your fucking mouth you oafish cunt. If I wanted to hear you sing I would purchase tickets to one of your events and go there at the appointed time. I certainly wouldn't come to this establishment to make purchases in order to hear you sing. That would be just foolish. Now get up off the ground, wipe that up there, missed a bit, NO! THERE, and run away as fast as your hefty-thighed legs will carry you before I finish you off once and for all."

However, when Joss Stone is on the shop's PA system and she is wailing and keening and grunting like a banshee getting up the arse from a black man with a barbed penis then it makes waiting in line to pay for the stuff you want pretty fucking horrible.

That, dear friends, was the shocking trauma I had to go through yesterday evening. Queueing + Joss Stone = a pain in the hoop. Naturally I complained to the cashier and demanded a discount on my goods but he was having none of it. He's gonna get it too, the wanker.

Even though I hate to queue whenever I see a queue and I don't know what they're queueing for I am intensely curious. Outside a cinema, not interested. Supermarket, not interested. Bank, not interested. A line of people waiting for something and I can't figure out what they're waiting for, I am curious, almost to the point of going over and joining the queue just to see what it's for.

Almost. They could be queueing for Joss Stone tickets.