Counterfeit Conor came into Ron's last night. He usually pops in once a month with knock-off stuff for us to pick and choose from.

I got a couple of films (Borat and that new Scorsese one with Jack Nicholson), a copy of Pro Evolution Soccer 6 for those quiet nights in in front of the fire with some beers and a smoke and three pack of Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

Jimmy the Bollix bought a watch and four Armani shirts while Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete clubbed their money together and bought a little black baby so they could be just like Madonna. The man has all kinds of stuff, I swear to God.

"So, anyone need any new music?", he asks.

"What have you got?"

"Everything", he says. "I've got stuff here that hasn't even been recorded yet."

So we took a dig through the CD collection and by jingo the man was not telling lies. There was more music there than in Hitler's sitting room. We were like kids on Christmas day picking out albums by our favourite beat combos. Then, disaster struck.

"Erm, Counterfeit Conor", says I, "what the fuck is this?"

"Ahh, that's the new long player by Damien Rice, Twenty. Do you want it?"

Silence gripped Ron's like a fat child gripping a packet of Monster Munch as his tearful mother tries to stop her gluttonous offspring get diabetes at the age of three.

"What did you say?"

"I asked if you wanted the Damien Rice album."

"Jesus", said Jimmy.

"Oh-oh. Fucking hell", muttered Dirty Dave.

"What?", asked Counterfeit Conor.

I took the disc out of its protective sleeve.

"See this?", I ask Counterfeit Conor.

"Sure", he says.

I broke the disc in two right down the middle.

"It's the last thing you'll ever see", I said and jammed the two pieces of the discs into his eyes.

"Arrrggggh", he screamed as white goo dribbled down his face (what is that stuff?).

"You're a good bloke, Counterfeit Conor, but I have a responsibility to mankind. I can't let you go forth and peddle this shite to the unsuspecting public. I can't take on the multi-nationals. I am only one man. I can't be expected to go around and jam broken CDs into the eyes of everyone that works in HMV or Golden Discs or Metro Music in the Rathfarnham shopping centre. Nobody would expect that but in a case like this, where I have a chance to make a difference, I have to take that chance and make sure that the perpetuation of this witless clit is stopped. I read that one of the songs is 21 minutes long. What the fuck? Seriously, have you ever heard such a load of self-indulgent bollocks since the last time you heard Bono open his mouth about anything? It might be presented as acoustic/folk rock but it's evil.

If kidnapping and beheading people in Iraq is considered evil, if taking control of a plane and flying it into a building killing thousands is considered evil, if genocide, torture and the holocaust is considered evil then this, this Damien Rice, is super-mega-wonder-hyper evil. Doubled. We're polluting the earth, polluting the air, the seas, our crops, our meat, our fish, our atmosphere, our entire universe. We're doing it every single day so let's try not to pollute our minds. We need to have some escape from the vile influences that prevail in our society. Damien Rice was formed by combining DNA from Stalin, Pol Pot, Margaret Thatcher's quim, Genghis Kahn and gestated, surrogate style, in the womb of Myra Hindley. He must be stopped, Counterfeit Conor, do you understand?"

"Yeah, Twenty, I understand, but you could have just explained that to me in the first place and I'd have stopped selling them."

"Erm, yeah, sorry. I really do need to work on being so impulsive."

Pete took down him the Eye and Ear and luckily for him some farmer had shot a knacker who was trying to steal his kidneys while he slept so he got those eyes. Shifty fucking eyes they are but they're better than the ones he had.