"Here Twenty, what do you think about Hamas?", asked Stinking Pete.

"It's quite nice with a bit of pita bread but I'm not a great fan of chickpeas", I answered.

Pete just looked a bit confused. Lucky Luciano, the compassionate assassin, looked especially troubled last night.

"What's up Lucky Luciano?", Jimmy the Bollix asked.

"Is a this job I am a offered. For me is a big big money but is a not a good transaction. Me, I'm a like a when the person is a bad and for me is a no problem a kill them but this time is a not so clear cut."

"Well, who is it? Maybe we can help you make a judgement?"

"No, I not say a nothing because is a not professional but if I'm a not like the person who hire me I not like a do the job."

"So you don't like the person who hired you. What about the person they want you to kill?"

"Ooooh Mama! I'm a hate this person more but not so much as a the person who a hire me. Is a focking piece of a shit. Twenty, you know who is a Monica Bellucci?"

"Yes, Lucky, I know who is a Monica Bellucci."

"She is una figa."

"I suppose she is but what does she have to do with anything?"

"As bella is a Monica Bellucci equal is a minginini the person who hire me."

"Just throwing this out there, Lucky, but why not kill the person who they want you to kill and then after they pay you kill the person who hired you too?"

"But who a pay me to kill them?"

"Erm, nobody. Just kill them because you hate them and they're more minging than Monica Bellucci is hot."

"I no a understand. Is a nobody paying me to kill them so why a kill them?"

"Why not kill them?"

"I don't a kill nobody for free. Ron, he a no give a pint for a free to nobody. Me, I'm a don't kill anyone for a free."

"You mad Italian. I'll give you...hang on, let me check how much change I have in my pocket...€4.56. How's that? You kill them, I'll give you €4.56!"

"€4.56? Ok, is a worth it."

Lucky Luciano. A man of true principle.

"Twenty, who would you want to win in a fight between a traveller and a Romanian?", asked Stinking Pete in Ron's on Friday night.

"Oooooh, good question!", said Dirty Dave.

"Si! Si! Let's a hear ya, Twenty", said Lucky Luciano.

"It is a good question, you're right Dave", I replied. "Well, Stinking Pete, it's a difficult one to judge. On the one hand there's the traveller with their making a mess of everywhere they pitch their caravan, their distracting you at the front door while their accomplice makes away with the clothes from your washing line and the tools from your utility room and the poor quality tarmacadam they lay while they case your house for future burglaries. On the other hand there's the Romanian who steals from you as you least suspect it, swiping your mobile phone as you sit at a table and the women holding their drugged up babies in front of you telling you how poor and hungry they are while their gold teeth are worth a small fortune."

"It's a tough one all right, but who would you want to win?"

"That, Stinking Pete, is like asking me if I'd rather eat a plate of cat sick or a bowl of dog poo."

"Hypodermically though, you have to choose one."

"I'd go for the Rocky III ending."

"What's that then?"

"Well, at the end of Rocky III Rocky and his arch-nemesis, Apollo Creed, have fought each for the world title and come together to see of the challenge of Mr T before he joined the A-Team. They are now good old chums and at the end they get into the ring and have a sparring match."

"Right, and what happens?"

"Well, they duck and cover, bob and weave, and then they both swing a punch at each other which is quite obviously going to connect with their respective jaws. Before that happens though the film freezes and we get the 'Eye of the tiger' music."

"Ahhh, I see! You'd like them to beat the crap out of each other then knock each other out with a vicious punch."

"No, I'd like for time to somehow freeze while they were in mid punch so I could clamber into the ring with a chainsaw and cut both the cunts in half."

...had the scuts so bad it's like vomiting out of your arse?

"Ok now we're going to try and put what we've discussed today into practice. Let's try some role play"

Oh Jesus, please let me have some kind of aneurism. Anything but this

"Let me see, I'll be the employee who's always late and one of you can be the boss. Erm...Twenty, you can go first."

"Ok. If I must."

Fucking cunt, I hate you and your ilk. Fucking twats.

"Right then, I'm going to pretend to just arrive at work and you have to call me over and then talk about why I'm always late."

"Ok."

"So, here I am arriving."

Oh yes, swinging your arms and walking on the spot makes it so realistic

"Right 'Murphy', we have a bit of a problem. You're always late. Why?"

"Dunno."

"You're fired, you cunt."

"Ok, joke over. You can all stop laughing. Let's try and take this a bit more seriously. Ask me again why I'm late."

If by ask why I'm late you mean 'smash my face in with a chair' I'd be much happier

"Why are you late all the time?"

"It's my daughter."

"What about her? Is she a paraplegic and you just can't get her up in the morning?"

"No, I have to bring her to school and she takes so long to get ready what with her breakfast, getting her into her school uniform..."

"Listen here, 'Murphy', it's none of my concern that you chose to spread your vile seed upon the face of the earth when we'd have been much better off if you'd been a Jaffa, but frankly blaming a little girl... how old is she?..."

"She's 6."

"...blaming a 6 year old girl because you can't get to work on time is about as spineless as you'd get, although I wouldn't expect any less from you. You're the same cunt who can't come to work when you have a little bit of a sniffle while your colleagues, who might also be under weather, have to pick up your slack. Remember that time you came into work and after half an hour you went to the canteen to get the subsidised breakfast, which you scoffed like the piggy you are - I mean look at that fucking belly man, it's a wonder you can see your knob to give it a wash, not that you'd be doing anything to get it dirty. If I was your wife I wouldn't fucking let you near me - and afterwards you said you had to go home because you felt uncomfortably full. Full, I ask you. You're a pathetic excuse for an employee, your work is shoddy when you can be arsed doing any, everyone talks about you behind your back. They call your Snowhead because of your dandruff and Stinkface because you stink and you're ugly it looks like the stink is coming from your face. As well as that people pick their arses and wipe it on your mouse when you go to the toilet. Bob down in accounts does an impression of you which made the whole company laugh when he did at last year's Christmas party after you'd gone and that promotion we keep talking about? Well, you have about as much chance of being promoted as Osama Bin Laden has of being invited to George W Bush's steak-out for his birthday bash. In fact, now that the subject has been brought up I'm going to promote Mad Richie - you know the bloke who talks to himself and has that tick where his whole face scrunches up like someone has shoved a bottle of beer up his arse? Aye, he's promoted and you're not. There's a very fucking simple way of not being late 'Murphy'. Drag your enormous fat arse out of the bed earlier, give your daughter her breakfast earlier, leave the house earlier and you won't have a problem with arriving late. If you're late one more time I'm giving you a written warning. Late again, another one. And three written warnings equals you being fired and if that happens I will have a champagne party in the office while you're still cleaning out that pig-sty of a desk of yours. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Ok! Very good! Now who thinks Twenty might need to work on his man-management skills?"

I'll fucking man-manage you in the face with a shovel, you cunt."

You might remember some time ago there was a big story in the Irish news about an illegal immigrant from Nigeria called Kunle. He was going to be deported but lots of his little fat friends made a protest so the Minister for Justice said he could stay until he finished his leaving certificate.

Now, Kunle has just received a letter telling that he has to go and he won't be allowed stay in Ireland. When you consider the leaving ended last June he should be grateful for the extra time.

The fat friends and the residents against racism are spewing, of course, but the bottom line is Kunle is a failed asylum seeker and not only that he was snared for driving without tax or insurance so he's obviously quite stupid indeed. Imagine if you were trying, against all odds, to get a visa to stay in a country you weren't allowed to live in wouldn't you be on your very best behaviour?

You certainly wouldn't drive around without tax and insurance - what would he have done if he'd crashed into someone and injured them? - and you certainly wouldn't have done it when you already had a previous conviction for a traffic offence.

If you did wouldn't you understand that people might question what sort of a contribution you would make to society? I mean, if you're willing to endanger the lives of people who pay their tax and insurance by driving around without it when you're on a temporary student visa and hoping to impress people enough so they'll let you stay what would you be capable of if you were given a permanent visa?

I think it's fair to say that it's a short step from driving without tax and insurance to armed robbery, serial killing and possibly recording a duet with Brian McFadden, all of which we can do without, thank you very much.

Still, Kunle can go back home to Nigeria and put the C+ he got in pass English to good use.

DEAR SIR,

CONFIDENTIAL BUSINESS PROPOSAL

HAVING CONSULTED WITH MY COLLEAGUES AND BASED ON THE INFORMATION GATHERED FROM THE NIGERIAN CHAMBERS OF COMMERCE AND INDUSTRY, I HAVE THE PRIVILEGE TO REQUEST FOR YOUR ASSISTANCE TO TRANSFER THE SUM OF $47,500,000.00 (FORTY SEVEN MILLION, FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND UNITED STATES DOLLARS) INTO YOUR ACCOUNTS. etc

"You know I think, Twenty?", asked Dirty Dave.

"That Oompa Loompas are real and that Offaly is a made up fairytale land", I replied.

"Don't be daft. I was thinking about the whole war in Iraq thing."

"Really? Normally you don't think about much apart from how much fun it's going to be to scrape the dirt from under your fingernails and when Creme Eggs are going on sale."

"I have another side to me, Twenty. Deep down I'm a deep thinker with a socio-liberal political outlook."

"What exactly do you mean by 'socio-liberal."

"Erm, that's not the point. The point is that I was thinking about the situation I mentioned previously and for me it boils down to one thing."

"Is that right?"

"Yep, that's right. Some people might say the war in Iraq is simply a way of keeping America's arms and aerospace industries ticking over. They need war to keep going but I don't think it's down to that. Some people might say that George W Bush is just doing what his Daddy tells him and George Sr wasn't able to to take Saddam out and this whole thing is about revenge but that theory doesn't convince me either. Then there's the whole oil thing and how America wants to control Iraq's vast supply of oil as its own supplies are piddling by comparison. But that's not it."

"Well, you've covered the main ones there, Dave. What's your theory."

"Beard envy."

"What?"

"Beard envy. On a deeply subconscious level George W Bush and most American men are jealous of the fullsome beards that Saddam Hussein and other Iraqi men can grow. This deep rooted envy is projected via the vast war machine. Notice how they haven't waged war upon the Canadians and nobody can say they don't deserve it but the Canadians, due to their race being diluted by the French, have the facial hair of a mangy dog. The same with the Mexicans, their wispy half-taches don't warrant military action. The greater the beard the more the beard envy and the greater chance their is of war."

"Interesting theory, Dave, I have to say. It's a wonder they didn't invade East Germany when you think about the women athletes they used to send to the olympics."

"Aye, and that's a rather fullsome set of whiskers you have there, Twenty. You'd want to be careful yourself."

"Hmmm, I was wondering why Donald Rumsfeld rang me up yesterday asking if I wanted to buy arms."

All sorts of hoo-ha on the news yesterday about migrant workers. Some people think they're great and some people they're taking jobs away from Irish people - although I can't remember the last time I was served in a pub by Irish lounge staff.

There's talk about bringing in a work permit system although migrant workers rights people, or busybodies as they're better known, are opposed to this.

I think we should be able to vote on people who are allowed in. Perhaps some kind of TV programme like Pop Idol where they audition and we get Louis Walsh, Simon Cowell and Sharon Osbourne to give them the thumbs up and thumbs down.

Cowell - "You are, without doubt, the worst manual labourer I have ever seen."

Sharon O - "Shut your face you man boobed cocksucker."

Personally I have no problems with migrating workers. They come in spring, work all summer long then fly south for the winter.

There was an article in the Sunday paper yesterday about how obesity levels in Ireland are soon going to be as bad as they are in America where one every 3 people is large enough to have their own gravitational pull.

Professor Niall Moyna, Head of the School of Health and Human Performance at DCU says "Obesity is an insidious disease, you become desensitised to it and that's exactly what's happening in Ireland - people are becoming desensitised to seeing obese children."

And that's why there's so many fat cunts. Wankers like that saying obesity is a disease. What a load of fucking horse cack.

Cancer is a disease. Malaria is a disease. The bubonic plague is a disease.

Lazy cunts sitting around eating more food every day than your average African child eats in a lifeitme is not a disease. It's greed. It's gluttony. IT. IS. NOT. A. DISEASE.

There's a very simple cure for obesity. Eat less, exercise more. You don't need to be a fucking genius to work it out but all the time idiot people try and pass it off as an illness and then use it as an excuse to eat more.

"Oh, I can't help the fact I just ate a family sized bucket of KFC. I have a disease."

No you don't, blimpy. You're just a cunt who likes eating too much. I guarantee you I can cure any single person of obesity. I'd lock the cunts up in kennels, feed them just enough and make the shiftless gluttons get up off their enormous arses and do some physical exercise. You know, walking and possibly cycling and maybe, when we reinforce the planet Earth some light jogging.

It's worse amongst kids whose parents are quite content to feed them with Birds Eye this and Findus that all washed down with a McDonalds and as many chocolate bars as they can stuff in their fat little faces. They're like the German child from Charlie and Chocolate Factory. Insatiable little piggies who will develop heart disease and high blood pressure and diabetes and will take up hospital beds because they couldn't fucking eat properly. Think how much money these plumpers are costing the health service.

People like that doctor annoy the cunt off me. If they spent more time on trying to cure diseases that actually exist and not ones that are made up to support a whole fucking industry of diet plans and exercise regimes and fitness videos by Z-list celebrities then the world might be in better shape.

Quite frankly obese people should be made to lose weight or they should be killed so as to stop being a burden on society.

Ever since 'Killer' with Seal it's been downhill if you ask me.

My Italian compassionate assassin chum Lucky Luciano isn't so lucky twice a week when his wife makes him go to the cinema. He really hates going to the cinema "Is a full of scum", he says.

Still, Mrs Lucky, much as he loves her, is a woman not to be trifled with so off he goes twice a week, every week. Remember, this is a man who would slit your mother's throat if he felt she deserved it and you paid him enough.

He came into Ron's last night and sat scribbling in a note pad for a while before he said to me "Twenty. You a have a this website. Is-a big thing you must do now. I write a review of the films a Mrs Lucky make a me see. You put on a your website. Is a important."

"Fair enough then, Lucky", I said. "If you think is a important."

"Is a important and don't a make fun of my accent, cazzo!"

So without further ado here are Lucky's film reviews:

1 - Brokeback Mountain:

Is a film about two cowboy. One night is a very cold so they fuck and with a many sheep to choose instead of man bottom. For me is a better they fuck with a they horses.

Time she a passes. Two gay cowboy they a marry women and have a the children but meet for sweaty man love. In a the end the two they a meet in a bar, kill all a those gay bashers and drink many mojitos and they a live happily every after except one a cowboy is shirt.

For me Bareback a Mountain I give 20 out of a 10. This because it only took a me 20 minutes to go a sleep. Luckily this a time I don't snore too much so Mrs Lucky don't smash a my balls in like when we went to a Lost in Translation.

2 -Chronicles of Narnia:

This a film make a me sick but is good advertisement for Ikea. Anitque a furniture cause problem like a woodworm or magical realms in a the back past a the fur coats.

Is about 4 kid who go to I think is north of a Finland or something and meet a two legged talking goat. The goat he is a stupido and white witch make him into a stone with powerful magic like a the women of Sardinia.

Then a the children meet a talking lion called Alan and he tell them they have to fight a the big fight against witch. For me is easier for lion to kill witch as he have a the big teeth and claws but still. Then Alan he is a killed because one of the children eat a too much turkish delight but he is a magic a lion because he come back to life just like Jesus or Osama Bin Laden.

Then is a big fight, children and goat people and unicorns and minotaurs and hippos all a scuffling but a soon the children win and witch is dead and magic potion make a everyone good who die alive again. Like a the holy communion or Jack Daniels. Then they are king and a queen and live a there for long time until adults.

One day are out on a they horses and go in furniture again because have a forgotten how they a came to a Finland. When go past a the coats are back in a the house and is a children again. Is a like life. Start as a child and piss a your pants, be adult and all is a good and fun, then back again as a child with a piss your pants but take a more medicine.

If I a had a to sum up Chronicles of a Narnia in a one word I think for a just a little time and they I say "Shite".

So there you go. Forget Barry Norman, if he isn't already dead, Lucky Luciano's film reviews are all you need. Next week he's reviewing Harry Potter and Colin Farrell's sex tape.

Got me a haircut yesterday. Not a big fan of getting haircuts but going to old Larry's barbers makes it easier.

"Howya Larry?", I ask as I sit down.

"Grand, Twenty", he says. "The usual?"

"Aye", I say and that's the end of the conversation. He gets out his clippers, puts on the number 2 blade and proceeds to shave all the hair off my head. 5 minutes tops and that includes the old cut-throat razor to do the woolly bits on the back of the neck, sideburns and everything.

I used to go to a place on South Anne Street called the Green Dolphin where they had a team of barbers who were all older than me even. Much older. Sadly they were so old they all died, even the lovable scamp with the massive handlebar moustache, so I had to stop going there when they brought in new lads. This wouldn't have been a problem in itself but some of them were more hairdresser than barber and the day one of them tried to massage my scalp was the last day I ever went in.

Dirty Dave always goes to Toni and Guy to get his haircut. A trim and blowjob blow-dry costs €60 or something mental like that. What a load of shite. Larry charges €10. Any man that pays €60 for a haircut is deeply suspicious if you ask me. I've no idea why a skanky pleb like Dave insists on paying that much, especially when he goes and they style it like he's just got out of bed. Why not just get out of bed and save yourself €60?

Dave says it makes him feel better and more attractive to women after he gets a haircut. Apart from shop assistants and people who use public transport the closest he's got to a woman in the last 5 years is when he french kissed a bag-lady who had passed out on Nassau Street. Still, it's his money I suppose.

Away from that particular topic though I just want to send my heartiest congratulations to the priest in Galway who had an affair with a woman half his age and got her pregnant. He's in his 70s and everything.

I hope others take note. It should serve as an example to all priests that their penis, if it has to go anywhere, should go into a woman's vagina and not up little boys arses.

The news last night. Some opposition politician was complaining about the state of the A&E departments in Irish hospitals. He claimed at any one time there were 400 people waiting on trolleys or chairs or benches, sometimes for up to 2 days, before being seen or admitted.

The hospitals board hit back saying 'It's not 400 at all, that's ridiculous. It's an outrageous slur. It's nowhere near as that. It's actually 380 people."

Ah, well that's all right then. It's only 380 people paying more tax than Paris Hilton has had cocks in the last week to sit in a fucking waiting room or in a corridor on a chair or a trolley (if they're lucky).

We keep reading about how the government made so much money this year in tax, more than €2.5bn than they thought they would, they haven't had to borrow as much as they had budgeted for. They might spend a bit on hospitals instead of the usual crap they spend on themselves like paying off journalists to not write about the fact they beat their wives.

Basically it's best to avoid hospitals if you can. Stinking Pete has a massive fear of hospitals brought about by an incident when he was young. He claims that he was held upside down and slapped on the back moments before somebody cut his tail off.

Anyway, he refuses point blank to go to a hospital or to see a doctor of any kind. As he's a bit accident prone this isn't always a good thing.

Once he was fleeing somebody or other, I don't remember who exactly but Pete flees quite a lot, he leapt over a wall and broke his ankle. Somehow he managed to hobble round to Jimmy the Bollix's place with his ankle swollen like a balloon. Jimmy called me so I came around.

"Fuck me that's nasty looking", I said.

"It hurts like a goat", he said.

"I'd say it does. It's gone black and blue already and your foot is really cold. That means the circulation is probably cut off and you're going to lose your toes like some kind of arctic explorer! Cool."

"Fuck, I need my toes. I'll fall over without them."

"Well, then we better get you to a doctor or a hospital."

"NO!", he shouted. "No doctors, no hospitals."

"No toes, Stinking Pete. Your choice."

"There must be another way."

I consulted with Jimmy and the only thing we could come up with was to call Mick the medic who looked after folk who couldn't go to a hospital when they got shot or got injured doing something they shouldn't. Mick had done two years of vet school and had a black doctor's bag with mostly drugs and some crude tools.

He came over about 20 minutes later and at this stage Pete was hallucinating with the pain. He kept saying that he had to leave in order to have a business meeting with 80s one hit wonder Oran 'Juice' Jones. Mick the medic shot him up with something which made his eyes roll and made him drool more than he normally does before he twisted his ankle around into a position which looked relatively normal. He then made a papier-mache cast and a splint out of an old wooden ruler and told us to tell Pete to take it off in about 6 weeks. He left us with 50 diazepam to control the pain.

The first week we kept him in a semi-coma but eventually he came around more and after 6 weeks he took off his makeshift cast.

Now the cunt limps like his foot is on backwards. Which it is practically. Magoo the medic more like.

It was a normal evening Ron's. I was sitting at the bar with Jimmy the Bollix who was regaling us with a story about when he was a bouncer in Soho back in the 80s. Suffice to say it involved Marc Almond, a Tory MP, a large bag of mixed nuts, a phillips head screwdriver and an icing bag filled with man custard.

Dirty Dave was there too, as was Stinking Pete, Splodge and Lucky Luciano who has just come back from Israel and is muttering under his breath about 'too many security guards' and how much he hates the smell of hospitals.

Anyway, in came a bloke with a stupid beard and ridiculously old fashioned jumper. One of those zig-zaggy efforts that people wore a lot in the early 80s. He was carrying a large round case. He sat down in the corner and didn't order a drink. An eyebrow or two was raised at the bar but nothing was said.

Then a few minutes later came in another pair in Aran jumpers and sort of baby poo brown cords. One of them had a satchel of some kind while the other carried something that made Lucky's eyes light up, a fiddle case. Shortly after another man came in and he had a guitar case followed just a minute or two later by another fucking cunt with a banjo case.

One of them came up to the bar. "5 glasses of Guinness please, barchappy!" he trilled.

There is only one thing that's gayer than glasses of Guinness and that's Graham Norton dressed as Liberace covered in KY Jelly giving a reach around to Shirly Temple Bar whilst sucking Boy George's cock and being fisted by Tarzan.

So Ron served him with a furrowed brow. He took the drinks over to their table on a tray - I ask you - and they sat there talking for a while.

I had my back to them but Jimmy could see them from his seat. About 10 minutes later he said "Jesus, Twenty. That cunt's after taking out a bodrhán. And that other fucker has taken a tin whistle out of his satchel."

I looked around. It was true. And the guitar and the fiddle were out of their cases and the banjo was on its way too. There wasn't a moment to be lost.

"Quick!" I shouted. "Get them before it's too late."

So we got up from our seats and rushed over. Lucky Luciano leapt on the man with the guitar and headbutted him in the face as they fell to the ground.

Jimmy went straight for the lad with the bodhrán who was looking around desperately for a way out. A dark stain appeared on the front of his pants just miliseconds before Jimmy's fist landed straight on his nose. To make sure there'd be no drumming Jimmy snapped all the fingers on his left hand one by one.

Stinking Pete took the fiddler to the roof and fucked him off while Dirty Dave raised his armpit to the banjo man who promptly passed out at which point Dave broke the banjo over his head a few times.

I was left with the tin whistler, who seeing the damage done to his chums, took drastic action. He put the whistle to his mouth.

"You wouldn't dare", I said.

"Try me", he answered. "Come any closer and I'll start some kind of a reel or jig. I swear to you."

"Just put the whistle down and we'll let you go. Come on, put it down. Don't be stupid. There's nobody left to protect you and there's 5 of us."

He backed away, nervously. I moved towards him.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME ANY CLOSER!" he shouted, whistle still in his mouth.

"Ok, Ok. I'll stay here. I won't come any closer", I reassured him.

"I will though" said Ron coming from behind the bar just before he smashed a bottle of Vat 69 - cheap as fuck whiskey for the tourists that he pours into Jameson bottles - over his head.

"Whistle that, you cunt", he said.

After we'd desposited them groaning, moaning and in case sobbing like a baby on the street outside we sat down and Ron poured a round of pints.

What a relief it was. I really hate traditional music.

Most amusing at the moment is the story about the pupils of one of Dublin's poshest girl's schools being suspended for online bullying. I'm not sure exactly what's been said but I'd imagine it's stuff like setting up sites like fionaisaslut.blogspot.com and susansuckedbrianreillyscock.blogspot.com

Reports say they use a site called hateboard.com.

Here are a couple of the entries I found when I had a look. It's a wonderful indictment of the Irish educational system and it shows that we're carrying on the fine writing tradition as set down by the likes of Brendan Behan, James Joyce and Cecilia Ahern.

ur all gay.wat skul do uz go to ya bunch of fuckin pussys.u wuld say it nd wen u get there ud bac out u faggits

Exactly,she's a tramp! and shes so 2faced aswell.her 1st ride was with an old man in a shed n shes tried numerous times to nab ppls boyfriends.a total waste of space,c wot i mean?

I kno how ya feel,most of da girls in my town r like dat.but jst be happy ur not lke ur best friend:) At least ur more down to earth,n u cn pick out da fake tarts,cos u aint 1of dem!

Wel..She is my bst m8! She didnt used2 b like dat! We kinda had a huge fite during lst summer..and den she went2 d north and rode like half d fella'z der...and den she strtd dying her hair and plastering d make-up on! But den we made bac m8z and she stil like dat! and she neva stops tlking bout all d fella'z dat she is meeting or dat r calling her sexy and shit like dat!

Now, although I hate it, I can understand 'txt speak' on a mobile phone because the number of characters is restricted there's no fucking call for it when you can use as many letters as you like. And the punctuation. Oh dear.

I'd say these cunts were suspended from school for being absolutely shite at English not for online bullying. And suspending them is hardly much punishment, is it? Ok, seeing as you were a bad girl on the internet I'm going to make you stay at home so you can sit on your arse and use the internet all day while your parents are at work. Clever.

Bullying used to be so simple back in the day. I remember once two big guys in school bullying a younger lad. They burned him all over his face with lighters. Then, when the young lad was all grown up, he stabbed his girlfriend to death and got life in prison.

Ahhh, the good old days.

...is without doubt the end music from the TV series The Incredible Hulk when lonely Dr David Banner walks away with his tiny knapsack. Truly haunting.

Stampeding Muslims. I ask you. No doubt somebody else will make the comparison with cattle but it's quite crazy to think that 350 people were killed stampeding during a religious festival.

This would never have happened if the Catholic Church had managed to convert the Middle East instead of Africa. Then religious festivals become about drinking as much booze as possible and not trampling your fellow devotees to death.

Christ is born - booze. Christ has died - booze. Christ has risen again - booze.

Anyway, in Ireland you couldn't have a stampede at a religious festival. We've made all our religious monuments stampede friendly since the terrible Newgrange crush of 1745 when 14 druids, some serfs and an unknown number of wenches crushed themselves to death during the winter solstice.

Take Croagh Patrick for example. This is a mountain in County Mayo and it is said that Saint Patrick himself climbed to the top, fasted for 40 days and then built a church there before throwing a bell down the mountain to banish all the snakes. He's some fucking man. Doesn't eat a thing for 40 days and then lashes out a church without a hardware store anywhere in site; beams, naves, altars, pulpits, sacristies, transepts and apses, the whole fucking lot. Then, with his stomach still rumbling, he gets rid of snakes before he goes to get a good fried breakfast.

Anyway, on the last Sunday of July pilgrims climb the mountain to give worship to ... erm ... God I think and I can guarantee you that if Joe Dolan himself was at the top waiting for them there wouldn't be a stampede.

Why? Because they're supposed to climb barefoot (if they want to be proper holy) and the path up the summit is littered with ankle breaking rocks. Try and stampede and you'd give up in seconds as you watched your ankle bone sticking out like in the Deer Hunter except that wasn't an ankle bone but you know what I mean.

Muslims need to make their holy sites less accessible, perhaps taking away the wheelchair ramps would be a start or moving them underwater. It's hard to stampede with 40lbs of oxygen on your back.

You know what I hate? People that just won't get out of your way.

Take today for example. I was walking down Middle Abbey Street, minding my own business, and along came a woman with a buggy with twins in it and another child of about 5 or 6 holding her hand. The buggy was laden down with shopping bags, umbrellas and all the other assorted stuff that people have with them when they have three children.

So as she got nearer to me I expected her to move to the side to let me pass but no! She fucking well stayed in the middle of the footpath. So I stopped. Then she stopped. We stared at each other, not saying a word. Eventually she took all the shopping bags in one hand, shifted the buggy a couple of feet to the right and moved the kid from her left to her right side, nearly falling on her snot, allowing me to pass.

"That wasn't difficult now, was it?" I said as I continued on my way.

"Shove it up yer fuckin' bollix ya dorty old skank" she said.

Some people, I ask you. I also remember another time taking one of my occasional solitary breaks I was standing at the Cliffs of Moher, watching the Atlantic waves crash into the coast, the storm clouds building out at sea. As I stood there trying to enjoy the view I noticed another person and he was ruining the scenery so I walked over and asked him to kindly move.

He thought I was joking as we were the only two people around as far as the eye could see. He informed me that it was his right to enjoy the cliffs and he could stand where he jolly well wanted. So I informed him in the face a few times and gave him a close up view of the cliffs that not too many people see - upside down and travelling towards the ground at a mighty rate of knots.

Sometimes it's a good idea to get out people's way.

"Hey, did you hear?", asked Dirty Dave.

"Hear what?" said Jimmy the Bollix.

"They're giving yer man Stringfellow a licence for a lapdancing club!"

"Stringfellow looks like he's got cancer of the hair. Where is it going to be?"

"Around Parnell Street I reckon."

"Oooh, a truly high class part of town that. I can imagine all the high rollers will be flocking through the doors."

"I reckon I'm going to get a job there!"

"Don't be fucking soft, Dave. You'll never get a job at Stringfellow's lap-dancing club."

"Why not, Jimmy?"

"Well, let me think. For a start you're a fucking pervert and you'd never do any work if there were tits all over the place. Secondly, you're absolutely minging and these places don't employ people who are minging. You're a filthy fucking mess. You're like that little cunt from Charlie Brown who always had the flies around him except you're like him after he fell into a industrial sized vat of slurry, managed to escape but then fell face first into a dinosaur poo, vomited all down his front and instead of standing under a hot shower to wash it off he stood under a jet of super-heated cat piss. Your teeth look like old tombstones there's that much moss on them, there are things growing under your fingernails that would take scientists decades to identify - in fact they'd probably have to name some things as I'm sure new species have emerged - there's enough wax in your eyes... sorry your ears... to make a candle that would burn for thousands of years and then there's the smell. Imagine a corpse that had been rotting for about three weeks now covered in maggots and little maggot stools. Then imagine that corpse smeared with the diseased organs of a traveller who had lived on cabbage and water from puddles in cow fields sprayed with four week old milk blended with month old fish intestines. That doesn't even come close to describing how putrid you are."

"Don't pull any punches, whatever you do, Jimmy", said Dave feigning surprise and hurt.

"Fuck off, Dave. You're not called Dirty Dave just because you're a depraved, deplorable deviant with a porn collection bigger than Paris Hilton's cavernous gash."

"So you don't think there's any chance I'd get a job there?"

"Not a hope in hell, Dave. You're best off sticking with the primary school teacher's job you've had for years."

Heads up, chums, there's a new Dangermaus for you to sink your teeth into and I should mention the nomination process for the Irish Blog Awards is now up and running.

I'm going to chuck in a couple of fillum reviews "Narnia, Chronicles of Bollocks, more like", cúpla focail in Irish and I'll let Jimmy and Dave make a post so I can safely be nominated in pretty much every category. Apart from the tech one and that's for nerds anyway. So go now, nominate your favourite blogs (once it's me) and then the campaigning, lobbying and persuasion over voting can begin in due course.

I'm taking today off, dear readers, but in my place I have a very special guest blogger: Senator Mary O'Rourke who can't understand what all the fuss is about over her remarks the other night. Take it away, Mary.

Janey Mac, can you believe all the kerfuffle yesterday about my little remark after I was chosen to represent the Fianna Fail party at the next election?

All I said was that my campaign team ‘worked like blacks’, I didn’t say that they were blacks. I’d understand people getting upset at being called black when they’re not but it’s a compliment to say they worked like them.

I’m sure we’ve all seen the films and read the books and encyclopaedias that show quite clearly that the blacks worked really, really hard – so what’s the big deal? In America’s deep south the entire economy was built on the cotton picking industry and who did the plantation bosses hire? That’s right, the blacks. They knew that the blacks were genetically predisposed to working hard and that their livelihoods depended on how much cotton they’d pick so they hired the people who would work the hardest.

They didn’t hire other whites as their skills are more administrative as opposed to the blacks' natural manual labour abilities but nor did they hire Canadians or wetbacks who had crossed the border illegally from the south and would be prepared to work much cheaper. So as you can see my comments were merely a testament to the work ethic and professionalism of the blacks and not a slur.

If I had meant to cause offence I would have said they worked like Nigerians who are all asylum seeking con-artists, 419ers and ATM fraudsters.

I will certainly not be apologising but I can understand how some people got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe there are some things you just can’t say these days. Especially when it’s no longer the blacks that work the hardest. In our country today we have been blessed with so many Polaks who also provide a marvellous return for their employers who have trusted them with jobs and not to marry their daughters. It makes me sad that we don’t have any coal mines in Ireland so they could feel properly at home doing the work they love, the funny little mole people.

Let's not forget it's not so long ago that a man could shoot a short-order oriental cook and a judge would let him walk free as there was nothing in the constitution saying it was illegal to shoot a chinaman. Now Ireland is a land where all kinds of ethnic groups cluster and remain in their own communities. The blacks, the slitty-eyed, the corner shop owners, spics, wops, towel heads and cannibals.

So if a few people want to get their knickers in a twist because they simply don't understand the wonderful compliment I gave my campaign staff then so be it.

I'm off down the chinkies for a chow mein.

For so long Ireland was considered backwards compared to our neighbours in the United Kingdom and Europe. They had electricity, phones and satellite TV, none of which was available in Ireland until 1997.

But one place where we had gained parity was in politicians. Ours were just as crooked, corrupt, amoral and venal as any other country and often more so. They brought some measure of respectability to our fine nation.

However, in recent times they are being left behind by high-profile politicians from all over the world. Just look at Ariel Sharon. Not one stroke for him, that would be insignificant. He's had two and doctors are keeping him in a coma. Tony Banks, British minister for Sport, has had a stroke on his holidays from which he's never expected to wake up from and that's only a few short months after Robin Cook who raised the profile of England and ginger people by dropping dead. Not at home. Not in the office. Not while having sex with a rent boy with his hands bound behind his back and an orange stuffed into his mouth. No. He did it on the side of a fucking mountain; cocking a snoot at the awesome power of nature who could have revived him at any moment with a bolt of lightning.

Fairly impressive you have to admit and it really does put our lot to shame. Credit where it's due - Mary Harney is doing her best to overeat herself to death but the rest of them are really fucking healthy and not collapsing, crumpling, stroking or attacking in anyway.

The Taoiseach appears here there and everywhere without dropping stone dead Tommy Cooper style, Gerry Adams pops up all over the world without so much as a deep vein thrombosis while Seamus Brennan appears in public all the fucking time without suffering Axeinthefaceis, the fishy handshaked cunt.

It's about time the people we elect to represent us stop embarrassing us throughout the world with their hardiness and resistance to disease and latter life degeneration of their organs. Unless one of our senior government ministers has a spectacular and very public illness which results in their death then I fear Ireland may no longer be taken seriously on the world stage.

So two Americans came into Ron's last night. I have no idea how they found it because it's well off the beaten track but nevertheless in they came and they sat down at the bar. They were also both the spitting image of that bloke from Cameo who wore the codpiece.

They ordered a pair of Guinness and sat talking amongst themselves oblivious to the fact they were as out of place in Ron's as Brian Kennedy in a room full of people who aren't complete and utter cunts.

I was sitting with Jimmy and Dirty Dave who seemed fascinated by them.

"I once had a dream that I was having sex with 80s pop star Sinitta", he told me and Jimmy. "When I licked her she was all salty. Since then I've always wondered if all black people were salty or is it just sweaty 80s pop stars in the throes of dreamariffic sex."

"Why don't you ask them?" I said and fair enough, the mad fucker did.

He said "Lads, hope you don't mind me interrupting you but if I was to give one of you lads a lick on the belly would you be all salty or would you just be kinda normal tasting?"

They looked at each other completely bewildered that somebody would ask them that and I can't say I blame them. Anyway, we fell into conversation and they told us their names were Tony and Marcus and they were in Dublin as part of a European tour. They were from New York.

"We love Eye-er-land, don't we Tony?"

"Nigger, please. Eye-er-land rocks. The people here are so friendly and nice, if a little strange with their questions."

"You're not wrong there, my nigger", said Marcus and they continued to call each other 'nigger' for most of the evening.

Dave was feeling a little bit sheepish about his question though as it was fairly obvious these guys would not be salty like Sinitta but, having witnessed the way they drank, probably taste like beer and Southern Comfort. He decided he'd better make up for it by getting them a drink.

During the next pause in conversation he piped up "So, can I get you two niggers a pint?"

Well, you could have heard a pin drop and Ron's is carpeted.

"Dude", said Tony, "You can't say that."

"Why not?" asked Dirty Dave.

"Because it's only OK for black people to call each other 'nigger'. It's not OK for a white person or a yellow person or anyone else to call a black person a 'nigger'. It's racist."

"I wasn't being racist at all. I just heard you call each other 'nigger' all night long so I figured it would be all right to say it."

"Well, you can't."

"Fair enough, would you two rappers like a pint then?"

"We're not rappers, you silly little man!"

"Oh, it's just that whenever I lash on that MTV all the rappers are calling each other 'nigger' so I figured you must be straight out of Compton like."

"As it happens I am an interior designer whilst Tony works in a ladies shoe store."

"Right you are then. Would you two queers like a pint then?"

"Two Guinness and blackcurrant please!"

Why is it that whenever you sit down to watch the news one of the newscunts says "Tell us what you think about this. Press the red button to go interactive or text 51356 to give us your views"?

Now, for the most part, newsreaders are journalists and they are trained to read the news in the same way I suppose that you can train a monkey to wear a hat and ride a bicycle and star in Clint Eastwood films. Some stations have newsreaders with more gravitas. BBC and RTE run quite serious news whereas TV3 and Sky News have all this interactive shite and presenters who are to journalism what Robert Smith from the Cure is to understated and well applied make-up.

Now, while it's all jolly fancy I don't really give a fish's tit whether some feckless unemployed cretin from the arse-end of Cavan thinks Sinn Fein should do something about some other thing or whether some lay-about, daytime TV loving, floppy haired student cunt believes the government should do more to stop the carnage on our roads.

I watch the news because I want to know what has happened, where it's happened, who it's happened to and what's going to be done about it. I don't watch the news to be subjected to phone in polls like on late night talk radio or to find out what some cunt thinks about what's happened.

At the end of the day the only people who take part in this kind of cunty bollocks are utter wankers whose opinion counts for nothing anyway. Brainless, desperate, dimwits who think pressing the red button or spending 95c on a text validates their pathetic existence in some way. It's pointless and stupid, polls in general are for cunts (and possibly Poles but I haven't quite made my mind up about that).

If they're really concerned about what people think then they should make a program called 'What dumb cunts think about the news' rather than make it part of the news itself. There are all kinds of opinion show on the radio when illiterate, incoherent skangers can spout all the shite the want - for fuck's sake they've even invented podcasting to do the same thing - so keep it off the news you cunts or I'm going wank in my hand and rub the spunk on your wives faces.

13.05:

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Twenty, it's me, Jimmy the Bollix. I need a favour. Do you think you could bring me over a full set of skateboarding knee and elbow pads?"

"Erm, ok, Jimmy. I'll dig up my old set from when I taught that Tony Hawk guy everything he knows."

"Cheers, Twenty!"

13.07:

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Twenty, me again. I forgot, can you also bring me a crash helmet?"

"Erm, sure."

"Thanks, appreciate it."

13.11:

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Sorry pal, me again. Mind like a sieve today. I need you to bring an airbag and a smoke alarm as well."

"Not a problem."

"You're a star."

13.13:

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Only me! One more thing, can you bring me a harness and a length of rope?"

"I think I have one of those lying around. Ok then."

"Top man. See you soon!"

13.16:

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Guess who?! Listen, sorry for all the phone calls but on your way over could you pick up 40 PG Tips, some sugar and some milk?"

"Erm, can't see that that would be a problem."

"You're a true friend, Twenty."

13.19:

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"This is absolutely the last call, I promise."

"Go on then..."

"This time I need you to bring a CD player with a CD by an 80s Canadian synth band."

"You're a hard taskmaster but for you it's not a problem. If you don't mind me asking though, what are you planning on doing?"

"The safe tea dance."

"You're a fucking cunt, Jimmy."

A group of young lads came into Ron's last night. All around 30 years of age. All of them, to a man, dressed like cunts.

There's this thing at the moment in Dublin for people to wear suit jackets or blazers with a colourful scarf wrapped tightly around the neck. Quite frankly these people should have nooses wrapped around their necks.

One of them went up to the bar.

"Tree pint bottles o' Bulmers and a strawberry daquiri", he says.

"Get out before I kill you", says Ron. They left.

The scarf and blazer things bothers me though. I'm assuming the scarf is to stop them being cold, and scarves certainly have their place, but there is no need to wear a scarf inside. A scarf protects your neck from the cold when you are outside but since the invention of central heating the need for an indoor scarf has been greatly reduced.

A lot of the scarves seem to be quite gaudy as well. Maybe some of them are from those gay rugby playing schools, with their purples and light blues and various shades of pink. What is wrong with a black scarf? It's sensible and it goes with any outfit whereas the the rainbow scarves must be colour coordinated with the jacket which leads me to believe that young people today have a collection of suit jackets which can only mean one thing. Miami Vice fashions are making a comeback.

Soon the cheap boutiques will be awash with Crockett and Tubbs style jackets that you can roll the sleeves up on. It's frightening.

Perhaps you know somebody who wears clothes like these. Perhaps it's a family member or a friend. Maybe it's just a passing acquaintance or a neighbour you nod at when you see them, it doesn't matter. You have a duty to punch them in the face and tell them to dress properly. If you want to wear a suit jacket then wear the whole suit and not the jacket with a pair of jeans and when you go inside take off the scarf and show your Adam's apple like a real man and not some pansy who is afraid of getting his neck a bit chilly and catching consumption.

To my dear readers I would like to wish you all a very happy 2006. May all your dreams come true.

To Damien Rice, Bono, Bob Geldof, dolphins, travellers, gypsies, the people from The Panel on RTE 2, Ryan Tubridy, Dana, Phil Collins, the entire population of Equatorial New Guineau, Bertie Ahern and his government, Chelsea football club, cloves and smoking ban enforcers I hope 2006 is filled with disease, tragedy and unspeakable pain.

love etc

Twenty Major