Our old friend Kunle is back in the news again. To sum up he's a Nigerian who was given a special stay of execution, not literally sadly, to do his Leaving Cert then he was going to be deported. Then, while waiting for a judgement on a previous traffic offence, he was caught driving without tax or insurance. The rotter.

Still, Minister McDowell was not to be put off and he rejected all the pleas and said "No Kunle, you must go home". He was due to be sent away on March 28th but another appeal was lodged and it seems like Kunle has been spreading his wild seed and has, I'm sure through love and no other reason, become a father and now they're appealing that he should stay on the grounds that he is the father of an Irish citizen.

Now, underneath it all I'm a good bloke, really, so I don't want to be too harsh on him. A man needs his son and a son needs his father. But at the end of the day he's illegal here, but then can the Irish, having populated most of America with out emmigrants, be too harsh on this matter?

I don't think so. So, I've come up with the perfect solution. Kunle still gets kicked out but his baby sets up a blog and to show the kind-heared type of person I am I've gone ahead and set it up already with full instructions and everything.

Click here to view it.

I'm happy to hand it over to Kunle and/or his missus. Just email me and I'll give you the password.

What is it about rich people and their stupid names? It's very rare to find the son or daughter of a rich person called Wayne or Agnes or Kylie or Arthur. They all have names like Paris or Mingus or Sailor or Apple or Pilot Inspector.

And so it was when I spent a summer in Florida in the late 80s. I was staying at a mansion owned by former comedian Richard Pryor. We became friends when he stayed in Dublin in 1986 and desperately wanted to get tickets for the Self Aid concert because he was a big fan of In Tua Nua and wanted to, in his own words, 'plough the arse' off Leslie Dowdall.

I overheard him asking the porter in the Gresham Hotel if he knew anyone who could sort him out and I'm not the sort of person to let an opportunity pass me by.

"Richard", I said, "loved you in Stir Crazy and Superman III although I thought Brewster's Millions lacked that spark to make it a truly funny film."

"Thanks very much", he said. "I only did Brewster's for the money. Motherfuckers paid me millions."

"How ironic", I said. "Anyway, I heard you're looking for tickets for Self Aid. Meet me back here at 2pm tomorrow and I'll have what you're looking for."

And so I did. At that time I had a friend working in Sunshine 101 and he knew the combination to the safe in the boss's office. Turns out when Robbie Robinson came in to collect his own tickets for the gig he found a half eaten sandwich and my mate's business card which meant he didn't work there for long but don't worry he got a job with Energy 103. Still, we got the tickets for Richard Pryor and off he went to the concert. He never did tell me if he got to plough the lovely Leslie but suggested that she wouldn't want somebody to love for quite some time.

Anyway, after that me and Richard Pryor became fast friends and I often went to stay with him in his Florida mansion. It was in 1989 when we had arranged a holiday during which we would go shoot some alligators in the Everglades with a rocket launcher that he got a call offering him a big part in a film which he simply couldn't turn down. Despite having millions of dollars he wanted more but he said I should come over and that I could bring a friend if I wanted.

Jimmy the Bollix was just back from London so I suggested we take advantage of Richard's hospitality. And so we did. We flew to Miami and drove up in a rental Chevrolet to his house on West Palm Beach. When we got there we were greeted by his son who, in the tradition of rich parents, had a silly name.

"Hi Twenny! Hi Jimmy! I'm DeBoyce, Richard's son. I'm here to help and show you around and score shit for you and all that."

And to be fair to him he was a very nice young man, very obliging and attentive to our needs.

"More beer, DeBoyce!" we'd cry from beside the pool and not 60 seconds later he would have commanded one of the servants to bring us some nice cold ones. He was a little more full of get up and go when he had to drive anywhere though. Beer the slaves could bring from inside the house but other stuff needed to be collected and he was more than willing to do that because he'd just taken delivery of one of the very first prototype civilian Hummers. He would drive like a lunatic and people would get out of the way because if they didn't they'd be squashed. It was a massive contraption.

"You guys want some burgers or something?", he ask and we liked to be obliging so we'd say "yes" and he'd go speeding off in his massive vehicle to bring them back. Three or four times a day he go on errands just so he could drive somewhere.

So, the night before we were due to leave Florida we went out clubbing on Ocean Drive. DeBoyce knew all the good clubs and he lined a few palms to ensure we got VIP treatment. We got chatting to former Eagles star Don Henley who was an interesting character. He told us all about Glenn Frey's unpublishable deformity and that he feels like eating his own sick whenever he hears Hotel California. Jimmy told him that ''Desperado" was one of his most hated songs of all time. Henley said "Fair enough, Jimmy. Have a mojito!" What a guy.

Man, that was some night, let me tell you. There were cocktails, beers, wine, spirits, shots and drugs and I think there may have been scantily clad beauties in bikinis but I only remember the important stuff. We caned it. Big time. I barely remember getting home, naturally taken there in the jeep. We got back to the mansion where, just before we all crashed out (Henley included as we'd promised to give him a lift back to Miami the next day) our generous host said he was going to drive off and get some more drinks and possibly another ounce of cocaine for himself. Like father like son, eh?

I woke about 7 hours later and sat up with a start. That was a mistake. My head hurt like somebody had drilled a hole in the top and was pouring sulphuric acid directly into my brain. I looked at my watch. SHIT! We only had 90 minutes to make our flight. I roused the former Eagle from his slumber and then I woke Jimmy who punched me in the face and went back to sleep. I woke him again. He punched me again. This was not good. In the end I poured cold water and hid behind the couch as he steamed around swearing to pull the legs off whoever did that. He's cranky, first thing.

"Jimmy you cunt! Come on! We've only got 90 minutes to make it to Miami airport or we'll miss the flight."

"Oh bollocks", he said as he raced around some more and packed his case in record time. I did similarly and we legged it down the garage and got in the rental car. I pushed the button which automatically opened the garage door and found our way totally blocked by DeBoyce's massive truck which he'd parked at an almost impossible angle.

"Oh fuck, we'd better go look for him. He must be flat out in his room or something."

"Ah crap".

We went running back into the house and we called his name but got no answer. Dead to the world we thought. We checked his room, no sign of him. We checked the room next to his. Nothing. We checked the other 12 bedrooms, nobody. We checked the servants quarters as he'd shack up with the Peurto Rican maid called Jennifer Lopez from time to time but he wasn't there either. There was only one more place to look. The bottom of the pool.

Oh Jesus H Christ. We'd gone out with Richard Pryor's son, over induldged ourselves and now his swollen corpse was going to be face down at the bottom of the roast chicken shaped pool. He was going to kill me and I learned not to underestimate him after he told me he'd taken out John Wayne, Keith Godchaux from the Grateful Dead and Minnie Ripperton in a one month spell in 1979 (look it up) after they'd 'crossed him'. We made our way slowly to the swimming pool, squinting in preparation at seeing the dead body which was going to cost us such a lot. Don Henley was literally shaking with fear. Being in the entertainment business he knew exactly how ruthless Pryor was and what he was capable of.

Imagine our surprise though when we didn't see a thing. Such relief, let me tell you. There was just no sign of him anywhere on the property and if he was lying dead somewhere we couldn't be faulted. We went back to the rental car in the garage.

"Fuck, that was close. Smoke, Twenty?"

"Damn right, Jimmy. My heart is pounding."

"Give me one of those", said our famous chum. "Mmmm, delicious taste. What brand is this?"

"Major, natch."

We sat smoking for a while. Eventually I spoke.

"Of course we still can't get out of here because of that monstrosity in the way."

"What are we going to do?"

"Just wait, I guess."

"Till when?"

It was Don Henley who answered.

"After DeBoyce's Hummer has gone."

Having thought about it long and hard I've decided I don't like darkies. They're too difficult to read and they're hard on the eyes. I'm talking about websites of course. That's why after some days of reflection and hours fucking around with stylesheets I have reverted to a whiter looking site with a classic Major trim.

Comments box update will follow some time later.

Edit: I also have to figure out why the link in the previous post is enormous and black whereas the others are small and green. I may need beer for this.

Edit edit: Hurrah, I figured it out without beer. I'm still going to have beer though.

Markham makes a very good point about the Polish community in Ireland. With three separate publications in the Polish language it means there's a whole fucking lot of them.

We need to be careful though. While I am all for immigrants who want to come here and work hard - as opposed to Lithuanians who only seem to come here to be involved in fatal road traffic accidents - having so many Poles here is dangerous.

If history has taught us anything it's that wherever there are a lot of Poles a shitload of Germans with guns can't be too far behind.

Frankly Ireland is multi-cultural enough with that lot coming on board. Before you know if there'll be Braun Tomasz, Hughes und Hughes, Guinnesch and SuperKvin all over the place not to mention the hairy, strong armed women and I don't mean the ones from Blanchardstown.

It's a real dilemma though because the Polish people are very nice even if their heads appear to be much too big for their bodies. I'm not quite sure what that's about. Perhaps it's their version of ginger. That said they bear some responsibility themselves. More than anyone they know what the Germans are like. They could have come here disguised as Finns or something.

The lurking menace of the German invasion is something that should be addressed in the Dáil but instead we get nonsense like Gay Byrne being appointed Chairman of the Road Safety Authority. Have you ever heard such nonsense?

What's he going to do? Get Sinead O'Connor in as his secretary and hand penalty points to everyone in the audience.

I demand to know what our government is going to do to prevent that mad-woman Merkin and her Minister for Propaganda, Jurgen Klinnsman, from coming here and taking over.

Mike Tyson is in Ireland giving after dinner speeches, if you can believe such a thing. I assume he's miming while someone else does the talking because he's hardly the most eloquent or articulate person I've ever seen.

However, his visit has caused controversy, not because of his lack of fluency when he speaks, but because he has a conviction for rape. Some people think we shouldn't allow rapists to enter the country and from one point of view I understand it but from another point of view shouldn't we try and accept that the justice system is there to punish and rehabilitate people (except all the people I hate)?

I mean, we're going to give Niall Quinn his driving licence back after he serves his ban for drink driving. We wouldn't say 'No, Niall, you made one mistake now you're never allowed to drive again', even though I wish someone would say 'Here Niall, take this bottle of Jamesons, slug it back then go racing round Mondello with that Jamie Redknapp cretin in the passenger seat and don't forget to forget to put your seatbelts on'.

Personally I wouldn't have the slightest bit of interest in paying money to listen to an obvious lunatic try and give a speech. This is also the reason why I would never attend Fianna Fail Ard Fheis but I don't see any problem with Tyson being here and if some people want to pay him €200 to stutter and blabber then that's up to them to waste their money whatever way they want.

I wonder would the people who object to Tyson being here having any problem with Kobe Bryant coming over to play an exhibition at the National Basketball Arena. I doubt it.

And where do you draw the line on restricting entry into the country? What about burglars? Or wife beaters? Or people who don't pay their parking tickets? Drug smugglers? Vandals? Forgers? Conmen? Killers?!

Each one causes problems in society in their own way, obviously some more serious than others but you can't pick and choose. It's got to be all or nothing. Criminal conviction = no entry whether you ran a red light or murdered your mother in law because she was a massive cunny.

And if we're going to restrict entry to people who commit crimes outside of Ireland then why don't we turn it around and banish people who commit crimes here. A proper old-fashioned banishing with no hope of ever returning. We could strike a deal with a really poor person and work out how much it would cost to keep that person in prison then sent that money to the poor country as payment for the Irish criminal we're sending to them. That person then must live and work in that country, boosting their economy and skilled workforce while the few bob we send them helps reduce the national debt in a way that Bono and Bob Gandalf can't, for all their hoopla.

'Be off with you, vile gent, and ne'er again show thy visage or we'll boot your bleedin' bollix in.'

Suicide is painless said the people who sang the Theme from M*A*S*H but suicide was not painless for William Langhammer who lived near me.

No jumping off a tall building for him. No overdoses, slitting of wrists or carbon monoxide poisoning in his car. No Japanese ceremonial style falling on a sword either.

William was a troubled man, mostly because some people thought a man with a name like that couldn't exist, and spoke many times about committing suicide. People would say "Don't be such a soft cunt. Think of the people you will upset. They certainly outweigh the people who would celebrate your passing" and they would also say "Be a man, face up to your problems and don't take the coward's way out."

He obviously didn't listen because he left behind a wife and children and parents and a brother and a tortoise called Aubrey who was never the same again.

What he did was gouge his own eyes out after cutting out his tongue, ripping all his fingernails off and castrating himself with a rusty shears. It took him ages to die and medical experts said afterwards it was probably horrifically painful so the singers of the Theme from M*A*S*H are fucking liars and I do not appreciate being lied to by pop music and by the theme music from a popular American TV show.

Next thing you know we'll find out the Greatest American Hero bloke wasn't walking on air at all (believe it or not) and the world does in fact move to the beat of just one drum. If that happens I am going to be extremely vexed indeed.

Why are they always going backwards and forwards? Why can't they just stay the same time?

I don't like losing an hour of sleep. Someone will have to pay for this.

Edit: And before some fucking smart arse says 'A clock wouldn't be much good if it stayed the same time', you know what I fucking mean.

I am appalled. I have been looking at the list of contributors and I notice I am not amongst them. It's a disgrace.

I mean, I don't know who 95% of those cunts are which certainly puts me on an equal position with most of them as 95% of people wouldn't have a clue who they were either.

It's all very serious too, isn't it? It seems a sense of humour is a bad thing in the blogging world. Personally I think they need to get rid of the boring politics and hire myself, Hutton (Harry, not boring old Will), Noreen and Ballbag, Scary and Manuel to give it a European flavour and then we'd be talking about something different. To add a bit of gravitas we'll bring Worstall for his unique outlook on Ergonomics.

At the moment it's a blog for Morrissey fans.

Having just now caught up with my awards attending representative I have just taken ownership of my very swish iPod Nano on which I can put my entire collection of 78s and eight-track cartridges.

This prize was sponsored by Blacknight.ie so thank you very much to them, even if the inscription on the back is rather bizarre. It says:

Margaret Boland - 087 810XXXX - where Xs = the rest of her mobile number.

Maybe I'm missing something but I doubt it'll make my Jesus and Mary Chain MP3s sound weird or anything.

He who was at the awards is suffering from a large hangover having been on the piss for 10 days. He says he knows where the rest of the prizes are, just 'not right now'.

I don't know about you but Friday is my favourite day of the week. When I was a regular working man you took it easy on Friday, the day strolled by, then there were always pints after work and it didn't matter if you had one or four or eight too many you had the long luxury of Saturday in which to sleep in and recover.

Saturday is a good day too but it lacks the promise of Friday. On Friday there's the excitement about the weekend and the two full days that stretch ahead. On Saturday, even if something cool is going down that night, you know that Sunday is just going to be a day when you sit around and drool and wish you had a bigger blanket to hang over the shutters because there's still a bit of light getting through.

Lots of great things have happened on Fridays too. For example, without Friday we would never have had that series of great horror films about that bloke in the hockey mask who, every Friday 13th, would go on a rampage and the rampage would involve killing people on Friday the 13th and it would continue for the whole night of Friday the 13th. I think it was called Jason and the Argonauts.

Also, Icarus made his attempt to fly to the sun on a Friday, annoying rapper Tupac Shakur was shot dead on a Friday and I once won €50 on a scratch card so it's truly the greatest day there is.

One of the best Fridays ever was some years ago when Dirty Dave dumped his girlfriend. Naturally she was born with no sense of smell so she could live with his odour.They'd been going out for about 9 months and he kept insisting on bringing her to Ron's. She was a moany old cunt, let me tell you, always complaining.

"Twenty, do you have to fart in public and do you have to life your leg when you do it?"

"Fuck off", I'd say.

We had a nickname for her. To put it into context have you ever seen one of those people that has a little white blob or a lump underneath their eye, usually towards the corner? I don't know what you'd call it medically but lots of people have them. It's almost like a teeny tiny white teat. Unfortunately for Dirty Dave's girlfriend she had one of these right above her top lip in the middle of her cupid's bow. For this reason we called her 'Clit Face'.

Now, after 9 months of her harping on every fucking time Dave brought her to the pub, and we asked him not to after her second visit, we were well and truly pissed off.

"Lads", said Jimmy. "I love it here at Ron's but I can't stand it when Dave brings Clit Face with him. We have to do something."

"Agreed", I said, "but what?"

So we hatched a fiendish plan. Dave is a very easy going chap and doesn't get passionate about too many things but he is a massive fan of soul crooner George Benson. You slag off the Benson and Dave will be in your face.

"Never give up on a good thing is the perfect fusion of pop and soul with a tremendous dollop of funk and a bassline that slaps more than Gazza does his wife", he'll tell you.

So our plan was to for Jimmy to talk to Dave while I got the short straw and had to keep Clit Face occupied which meant some kind of turgid conversation. We'd give a wink to Ron who would lash on 'Give me the night'. About two minutes into the song I was to pipe up as loud as possible 'Hey Ron, the lady says can you turn that shite off?' at which point Dave would lose it and then we'd say 'Hey Dave, she's been saying George Benson is a poor man's Luther Vandross' all evening and that would surely be curtains for Clit Face.

The best laid plans of mice and men (what the fuck does that mean anyway? Mice are well known for lack of strategic thinking) though. When we gave Ron the signal he cranked up the Technics behind the bar and soon the Bensonmeister was doing his stuff. However, before I could deliver my killer line, she says "Oh, I love George Benson. Dave has really got me into him".

'Bollocks', I thought. That was until Clitty started dancing. Imagine, if you can, a spastic crab crossed with Madonna's scary dance music dancing mixed with Joey Deacon style drooling and hopelessly out of time clapping. To a man we all looked on in horror. Those 3 West Coast Coolers Dave had bought in the off licence and brought into Ron's for her (he'd never stock such a drink) had obviously gone straight to her head. It was mesmirisingly vomitous.

Dave was gobsmacked.

"Turn that off, Ron", he commanded in a rare moment of self-confidence. He took a gulp of his pint.

She had stopped her gonzo goofstep.

"Get out", Dave told her, "and never come back. You have ruined that song for me and given its subtle horn section, its funky double bassline and it's 'bapa-dapa-dapa-dapa-dap' backing singers I never thought that would be possible. Go home, Clit Face, I never want to see you again."

"You bastard!", she roared at him. "I'll tell everyone you like me to put me finger up your hole during sex."

"I don't care. Go now. Quickly."

She made her way to the door. I spoke.

"Wait", I said. She turned around.

"What?"

I lifted my leg and farted. I love Fridays.

Shortage of hospital beds in Ireland is a big problem. I've mentioned it before. People arrive to A&E departments and get a trolley and then have to spend maybe two or three days on the trolley before being admitted.

That's unless someone doesn't steal the trolley while they're gone for a piss in which case they have to go back to start of the queue and they may only get a plastic chair until a trolley is available again.

Not any more though, yesterday the Taoiseach announced new measures to combat this disgraceful problem.

The government decided to embark on a two year program of sterilization for the 'hereditarily sick'. Those to be sterilized are categorized beginning with those suffering from congenital feeblemindedness then schizophrenics, manic depressives, hereditary blindness, deafness and dumbness, those suffering from grave bodily malformation (which means most of County Mayo) and people who suffer from hereditary alcoholism.

Special 'Hereditary Health Courts' will be set up to make decisions on who is to sterilized. It is estimated that up to 410,000 people could undergo this treatment and as the sick don't then make more sick when they breed this will free up lots of hospital beds in the future.

After that program is finished the Taoiseach announced a plan devised by renowned physician Dr Eugene Murphy. This will take the senile, the mentally handicapped, deformed and those suffering from mental illness from their rest homes and institutions to special camps where they will cease to be a burden on society, or the folk, by being killed in large groups. When asked who he might put in charge of this he was unsure but suggested Brendan Grace as he was 'a gas man altogether'.

In order for those selected to give something back to the people and the resources they have drained for their existence their bodies will be burnt at the main ESB peat plant thus providing electricity for the country. Life unworthy of life providing light for those more worthy.

This program will be known as 'Eugenics' after its creator. It is thought that Minister for Justice Michael McDowell would like to see illegal immigrants included before they water down the pure blood Irish population even further. He is quoted as saying "It's a delicious irony that we're the ones being invaded by Poland this time".

It is thought that by 2011 there will be no waiting at all for those wanting a hospital bed.

And who said Fianna Fail were just a bunch of fucking chancers papering over the cracks as they went along making things worse in the long term?

Like me I'm sure you've had some embarrassing moments in your life. Whether that's being caught out lying in front of all your friends, or your fly being undone whilst trying to chat up a pretty girl, or on a bus home with your under 13s football team trying to get the trainer's attention and calling him 'Mum' just as one of those timely silences falls upon the group. Ooooh, that one still makes me squirm.

Not as much as the one I'm about to tell you about though. I was chosen, from many others, to lead a team of people on a dangerous mission/to do a tedious job. You pick. Anyway, there were 12 men and women on this team. We had to go through a 4 week training regime which included 'bonding sessions' (where we got to know each other, not where we sat around using glue a lot), technical training and all manner of other crap.

At first it was pretty painful, especially the guru guy doing the team building stuff. I hate that kind of stuff and he was one of those red-faced enthusiastic chaps who thought it would be great fun for everyone to share their secrets and we had to do games based on trust and tons of other shit. I told a lot of lies about my life. Anyway, we got to the end eventually, all sure of the task that lay ahead, of our own roles and responsibilities to ensure the job went smoothly and full of confidence.

It was down to me to finish it off with a talk to the group. I was a little nervous but I began well and settled into it very quickly. I was inspiring, electrifying, uplifting, stirring and impassioned. The team sat enthralled hanging on my every word. At one point I could have been reciting the Chinese phone book and they'd have lapped it up.

Towards the end I decided to add some feel-good to it so I added a little jocular anecdote. I don't remember what exactly it was but it had them laughing and it set the mood perfectly. They were serious, determined and motivated but with a smile at the back of it all. I was good at this, damn good.

That was until I sort of laughed myself. You know that one where you kind of snort out your nose a bit? Not a guffaw, nothing chortley or cackley and certainly nothing LOLy coz LOL is for cunts. So I snorted my little snorty laugh and out came a huge snot rocket like you see professional footballers blowing out of their noses during a game. They hold one nostril then shoot a rocket of snot out onto the pitch.

That's what it was like except it didn't shoot out. It just hung there. It was like an alien tail of snot dangling from my nose. A cat fetus of mucus. I had two choices. Shoot it all the way out or quickly wipe it away with my sleeve. However, I was in a bit of a panic seeing all the credibility I had worked so hard to build disappear in one fell swoop. I sniffed and the whole thing went right back up my nose again. So not only had I stood in front of my team with a snot rocket suspended from my nose they had witnessed a reverse snot rocketing.

Sincerely I wanted the ground underneath me to open up and swallow me. Naturally, being the professional type of person that I am I carried on, making no mention of the incident which haunts me to this day. I stayed with the team until the dangerous mission/tedious job was complete then I quit. And moved house. And changed my name. And phone number. And had my fingerprints burned off. It was that embarrassing.

Now, whenever I have to speak in public, I make sure I blow my nose beforehand. I also have a poo but that's another story altogether.

"Did you hear about Mental Mel?" asked Jimmy when I strolled into Ron's last night.

"No, I thought he went to Canada."

"He did, he's dead now though."

"Oh, what happened to him?"

"He was out in the forests doing some hiking or some shit 'sport' like that and he got raped to death by a moose."

"You what?!"

"Seriously, the Mounties say that the imitation Yves St Laurent aftershave Dirty Dave sent him for Christmas mixed with his own body odour made the moose think he was a female. Penetrated his sensible corduroy pants and everything. They said the wounds were greater than anything a party guest at Michael Barrymore's house could expect."

"Poor fucker, he was always set for a strange ending though."

"Aye."

We called him Mental Mel because his name was Melvin and he was mental. He was just one of the guys in the area who we'd see out and about drinking. Him and Dave were good pals because they shared an interest in the Greek comedies of Aristophanes.

We first realised he was mental when he would get angry for no reason whilst on the piss. He would never take his anger out on another person but he would punch things like walls, trees, fences, owls and doors. I once saw him pummel a pebble-dashed wall for 10 minutes. For the next 4 weeks his hand was swollen like a balloon and the cuts became all infected but he wouldn't go to a doctor. He said doctors were 'lecherous elephants who didn't know what they were talking about'. I didn't quite understand the elephants bit. Or the lecherous bit. The not knowing what they're talking about bit struck a chord though. Eventually he got septicemia and went into a coma. His hand was like a giant spot apparently and they squeezed a pint of pus out of it.

Another time he hit his head after falling over outside McDaids and for the next three weeks was convinced he was former Olympic athlete Daley Thompson. He just went around the place running, jumping, throwing and hurdling things non-stop which was fine until he went into Switzers (as it was then, Brown Thomas now) department store and destroyed thousands of pounds worth of Royal Doulton china trying the pole vault. Luckily he was so fit after all the running he was able to get away from the security guards.

His most mental episode was in July 1987 at Slane Castle. David Bowie was on his 'Glass Spider' tour and after taking a bus from Dublin and dropping two acid he was convinced the spider was talking to him. Somehow he got backstage and after the final encore he ran up to the Thin White Duke and tried to convince him that he was Iggy Pop and that the two of them had to return to Berlin to hunt down a transvestite assassin who was about to launch a campaign of terror and mass murder against all their fans.

The mad thing is him and Bowie spent 5 months in Germany and took out 13 trannies until they found the right one.

RIP Mental Mel.

...the blackest poo of all time and it was shaped like an oak tree.

An anonymous commenter recently left the following on one of the very old entries.

twenty drop that little wrinkled thing in your hand and get a job. When is the last time you did a days work? You useless cunt!

Firstly, although I understand the implication of the first 6 words I have to take umbrage as my penis, despite my great number of years, is not little nor is it wrinkled. It is smooth like marble and almost pythonesque in its length. In my younger days I spent a lot of time naked with black men (not the way you think you perverts) and I was bestowed an honourary negrosity from them. I don't think any more needs to be said.

Secondly, I certainly shall not get a job. You get a job or a better job that doesn't involve replacing urinal cakes or driving a delivery van.

Thirdly, 1973 was the last time I did a day's work. I had just spent 12 hours straight cleaning the mallow machine in the Jacobs biscuit factory when I thought 'Fuck this, this is fucking shit. I couldn't be arsed. There must be better ways of making money', and I was right, there are, so that's what I do now. I don't have to work full days. In fact most of the time it's just a couple of hours a week collecting and maybe a bit more of planning every couple of months.

So, if by asking that question you were trying to say I was lazy or some kind of jobless layabout, then you were mistaken. I am not lazy. When I have a job to do I will do it well and give it my full attention, however I will not waste my time doing something a) that I don't enjoy and b) that does not reward me sufficiently for my time. Nor am I a layabout. I might lie about the place drinking beer a lot but I still use my time productively by writing anonymous threatening letters to celebrities and drinking beer.

So, getting down to brass tacks as you've all found the site via the Kunle post, fuck off.

We forgot about Stinking Pete until Saturday morning.

He's now in St James' Hospital with hypothermia and frostbite of the extremities. Doctors say they may have to amputate his helmet.

...it' s tim e t o say goodnight becayse I can;'t see muhc any more and jmimmy is a cnut and I need more boooze and so i have to go and stp lookign at this comperutor.

Jappy paddies day. tillmnexy year

Twenty has gone for a piss and he's left his computer on.

He's got a massive collection of Marillion and Nik Kershaw records at home and, as I'm sure you all know, he is a massive cunt. He's right about Fatmammycat's ankles though.

Jimmy the Bollix

Well if you think you\re so fuckin cool tehen you fucking write somthing yu fucken shyte. More Ronantonics.

Som e bloke called Gil just charged in adn told us the revolution will nott be televised.

"Get out you hippy cunt", we said.

That's the noise Dirty Dave just made bnefore he passssed out on his stool. A real soootl. Not his own poo.

Fatmammycat has just walked in.

Like every man in the place we can't keep our eyes off her ankles. They're delightful. I might even buy her a drink.

I'm having a Ron and Tonic now. That's half a pint glass full of gin and ice, a slice of orange and the rest filled up with tonic. Paddy's day is the gereatest day ever.

Try adding some bass guitar and drums to your songs to stop them being down-tempo, slit your wrists cover versions.

We were just talking aboot what we'd do now if PHil Collins was to walk in.

From my point of view I'd strangle him to death. Classic, no fuss, no mess.

Pint count: I'd imagine about 15, a couple of whiskeys and now it's refreshing gin and tonics. Tanqueray all the way.

UPDATE: hahaha, just heard that Phi Collins wife has left him. hahaha, bald, in the air tonight cunt. I hope she never lets you see your kids again.

Every Paddy's day Stinking Pete says to Jimmy the Bollix "I bet you can't punch me in the face hard enough to knock me out."

Normally there's a bit of "Yes, yes I can" - "No yo can't" sparring.

This time Jimmy just planted him one in the mouth. Pete wet his pants before he even hit the floor. He's still on the floor, just out the back. Must remember to bring him in, it's fairly cold tonight.

Stinking Pete and Dirty Dave are in the middle of another one of their conversations.

"So if Hitler, Osama Bin Laden and Bono walked in here now and you could kill one of them which one would you kill?"

"Well, to be fair it Hiteler waalked in now it would be with the help of a walking stick or some kind of Stephen Hawkings helicopter wheelchair so he;s not much of a danger to mankind anymore."

"It's a good point. I saw a fillum recently about Hitler and it turns out they burnt his body outside the bunker along with Eva Braun who was far foxier than I ever anticipated."

"Do you remember that Boomtown Rats song?"

"Rat Trap?"

"No, you stupid cunt. It was about Eva Braun. I think Bob Gandalf was singing as if he was Hiteler and it was like 'I never loved Eva Braun' and so on."

"What was it called?"

"I never loved Eva Braun."

"Really? You went out with her long enough."

"That was Aoife Brown, stupid."

"Right. What day is it?"

"St Patrick's Day. Fuck me you're as thick as a brick."

"Yeah yeah, but what actual day is it?"

"Erm... it doesn't matter."

"Do you ever read Twenty's blog?"

"What's a blog?"

"It's like a web diary thing."

"Who's Twenty?"

....if I hear your song one more time I'm going to dig you up and feed your bones to Bastardface.

Splodge and Stinking Pete have gone off to the chipper to get some food in. Ron's doesn'rt have much.

Your choice is limited to cheese and onion, salt and vinegar and dry roasted. I ordered a battered sausge, a spice burger and a large chips. Dirty Dave asked for a fresh cod but seeing as them Spaniels have fished all the cod out of our waters he'll be fucking lucky.

Pint count: Dunno, having a Jameson's now though.

Looks like they're having a fine time in Washington. Look at Bush - he's stoned off his fucking face.

Some cunts in the far corner are singing the Fields of Athenry.

I fucking hate that song. The flids of Athenry. Cunts.

Hahaha, if you tell Lucky that you think Berlusconi is a great guy ihe goes fucking mental. Me and Jimmy have been doing it for an hour now and I swear his head is gooing to burst.

Pint count MOre than te10, less ThaN 15.

Jesus, you'd swear some people had never seen a brand new Mac Book Pro before.

I'm transcribing a conversation between Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete.

"Pete, if you had to have sex with one of these women, who would it be. Kelly Osbourne, Mary Harney or Margaret Thatcher."

"What would happen if I didn't want to have sex with any of them?"

"Erm, all your skin would fall off and you'd get rolled in salt."

"That would hurt."

"Yeah, it would."

"Who were they again?"

"Kelly Osbourne ... erm... Twink and Teri Hatcher."

"Who's Teri Hatcher?"

"I haven't got a fucking clue."

"Here, have you seen Ron's shamrock. It looks like a leprechaun did a poo on it."

"hahahaha, leprechauns are cunts. Beardy little fuckers never tell you where the gold is."

"And they're a fucking pain in the hole to catch as well."

"What were we talking about?"

"Something about my skin and having sex with someone."

"Who were we having sex with."

"Good question. OZZY OSBOURNE! Oscar winning actress Brenda Fricker and Mother Theresa."

"OZZY! OZZY!"

"So which one would you have sex with?"

"Mother Therasa!"

"Isn't she dead?"

"Perfect. She'd never tell anyone how fast I shoot my load."

Pint count: 8.666666 - I might have to concentrate on my drinking for a while. Back in a bit.

"Oooooh mama!", said Lucky Luciano when he came in the door. "Is a focking crazy in centre. I see a girl and she vomit out a the nose. Other girl who is friend of a the vomity girl she a slip and a land on her a face. I a wait for a the blood but instead she a vomit all over a the road. You Irish you not a know to a drink!"

"What can I get you, Lucky?", said Ron.

"Three pints, a double Jameson and four gin tonic."

Jimmy the Bollix arrived a few minutes ago.

"All right, lads?"

"Grand, Jimmy", said Dirty Dave.

"Story, Twenty?"

"Not much, Jimmy. Sinking a few given the day that's in it. You know yourself."

"And the laptop?"

"I'm live blogging Paddy's day from Ron's."

Imagine the face someone might make if you gave them a poo sandwich.

"Live blogging? So not only do we have to read your shite now we have to watch you write the shite before we read it. Deadly. Ron - two pints, please."

"You're a gent, Jimmy."

"Fuck off nerd, they're both for me."

Pint count: 7 1/2

Splodge, the guy who doesn’t talk much and has the enormous birthmark on his face (hence the name), has just arrived and taken a seat at the bar.

“What’ll you have?” asked Ron.

“Pint, please Ron”, he said and as Ron reached for the Guinness tap he continued, “of brandy.”

No sign of Jimmy the Bollix yet. Or the Italian.

Pint count: 5 (Guinness only).

Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete have just arrived. They went to see the parade because they wanted to look at the majorettes.

Says Stinking Pete “Twenty, there was one girl that was so beautiful she’d have to baton down the hatches if I ever got near her! Eh? BATON down the hatches!! Twenty?”

I coughed. There was silence. I bought Dave a pint.

Pint count: 3

A group of what looked like Trinity students came into Ron’s a few minutes ago.

“Four points of Hoyno”, said the cunt that looked like Jamiorquai.

I looked at Ron, raised an eyebrow. He winked and pulled the 4 pints.

“There you go lads. That’ll be €36, please.

“€36!! Are you mad?!”

“Do I, or my baseball bat look mad to you?”, asked Ron.

They paid and drank up very quickly. Ron knows how to control his clientele.

Pint count: 2

People live blog all kinds of things like political conferences and the Irish Blog Awards but now comes a first. Today I am going to make history by live blogging a traditional St Patrick's Day session direct from the bar at Ron's.

I've just arrived, it's quiet, none of the regulars are here yet.

Pint count: 1, on its way. More to come.

Some time ago, in a place I won’t mention doing a job I’d rather forget, I had to do interviews.

I always found them rather uncomfortable as the person sitting across from you is obviously lying through their teeth about how enthusiastic they are about the job you’re interviewing them for, their achievements, their skills and qualifications. I suppose it comes down to who is the most convincing liar.

When I first started doing them I felt a bit sorry for people who were desperately looking for work so you’d let your feelings enter into the equation a bit. That is a mistake and as soon as I’d hired Mad Trevor I knew I was in trouble. His name should have given me a clue.

His first day at work was another clue. Whereas in the interview he brushed up well with a shirt, tie and some comfortable slacks he arrived at 9am that Monday morning wearing black everything and sporting a shoulder to floor black leather coat. He would talk about weapons of all kinds and had a rather unfortunate habit of being extremely rude to the customers. I had to ‘discipline’ him and if I’d had known then what I know now I’d have brought a spade and caved the back of his head in rather than just giving him the stern ticking off and the written warnings that those fucking cunts in SIPTU say is appropriate.

Well, I thought it had gone fine until the next day when he came into work with a sword. He didn’t brandish it around or do fencing moves or anything but it put everyone on edge as he kept it by his side. Now, someone thought it would be a good idea to call security to sort him out only they forgot that ‘security’ consisted of an old bloke called Arthur who more or less checked that everyone had their name badges when they arrived.

“Now, I reckon you want to go home with that sword”, he said to yer man. “And in the future don’t bring any swords, cutlasses, scimitars, rapiers or sabres to work.”

“NOBODY TELLS ME WHAT TO DO!”, shouts yer man jumping up and unleashing his sword to air. He swung it around his head and chopped his keyboard in half. Panic, I have to admit, ensued. People ran screaming and shouting and out the doors and soon I was left on my own with him.

“I quit”, he said.

“Probably not a bad idea”, I said. “Fancy a smoke?”

“Aye.”

We smoked until the Gardai came and I never saw him again. That experience certainly put me in a better frame of mind for choosing future candidates.

Another time this lad came for an interview so obviously stoned off his face it was hilarious. He had been a bar manager in Amsterdam and I’m not sure if he was stoned on the day or if it was just the long term effects of working in Holland. Anyway, nice bloke, good sense of humour, didn’t look like the type to Samurai during work and quite obviously whacked out of his face. I appreciated that because I was doing the interview exactly the same.

When he left the woman from HR turned around to me and said “Well, he was nice but do you think he …erm… might have been stoned?”

“Not at all”, I said revelling in the delicious, hash filled irony.

I gave him the job and he turned out to be a good bloke unlike Depressed Derek who obviously took two E before he came to the inteview as he was jolly, chatty, smiley and generally an infectious character. Once he started work though he was a fucking misery, always moaning and taking days off because he had ‘personal problems’ and suffered from something he called ‘clinical depression’.

Naturally I didn’t believe a word of it. Until he threw himself under a DART at Tara Street station.

I don’t do interviews any more. I prefer interrogations.

There are two types of men in this world.

Those, while taking a piss in a toilet cubicle as opposed to a urinal, take the opportunity to pick their nose and wipe their snot on the wall and those who don't.

As you may have noticed I've had the painters in. Well, actually, I considered having the painters in but I did it all myself. And by did it all I mean vastly modified an already existing design.

Took me hours. Jimmy and the lads called around yesterday afternoon to see if I wanted to go on the piss because Dirty Dave won €3,500 by betting on the wrong horse at Cheltenham.

"Sorry lads, I want to update my blog template", I said with my head full of CSS and other stuff.

"What a fucking benny you are", said Jimmy. They're still on the piss, they rang me about 5 minutes ago to call me a fucking benny.

I did consider getting a designer in but then I thought better of it. I don't have too much experience of web designers but other designers are certainly all cunts so I didn't want to risk it.

John Rocha - cunt. Stella McCartney - woolly faced cunt. Karl Largerfeld - speccy cunt. Gianni Versace - cunt, but a dead cunt.

Then I thought of interior designers. After war criminals, child abusers and Phil Collins fans I can't think of a more hideous group of people. They are all like that bloke from that TV show when the people would do up their neighbours house with a budget of £500. He would go and buy the cheapest, tackiest shite he could find and 'transform' their room from something you could live in into something that often made people cry. And he wore New Romantic lacey shirts, the massive ponce. I did not want to contract the web version of that gimp.

I once had friends who lived in a house in Drimnagh, not a bad place, but not the poshest part of Dublin either. They wanted their house to be changed around and to be trendy like a Kensington townhouse so instead of buying some paint, getting some new furniture to replace the family heirlooms they were using and doing it themselves they hired an interior designer who charged them thousands to do exactly what I just said they should have.

She also made them get out of their own house for nearly two months while she fucked around with the feng-shui and the chi and the whatever load of bollocks else that she did. Two months, I ask you.

"Can we come and stay with you?", they asked

"Bastardface wouldn't like it", I said as I spoke to them for the last time.

In 1998 a team of Swedish researchers at the Stockholm Institute of Civilisation and Community discovered that 97% of interior designers have a gene which they labelled 'pre-10 Shun'. Who am I to argue?

MEAS – it sounds like a sexually transmitted disease for small rodents but in fact it stands for a group known as Mature Enjoyment of Alcohol in Society.

For a start they’re not giving a good impression of sobriety because any cunt can see they should be called MEOAIS. Anyway, they’re in the news because St Patrick’s Day is almost upon us yet again they’re concerned about people, especially teenagers, getting too drunk.

They’ve warned adults not to buy booze for teenagers but I have always found that you can make some handy money from 14 and 15 year olds as they hang around just out of sight of the off-licences. Nowadays kids have lots of money. They spend a fortune on Nikes, Playstation games and designer clothes so if they really want that 2 little bottle of Bulmers and the naggin of vodka then they’re more than willing to add on a couple of quid to the price.

Personally I’m going to hang around the off-licences the night before with a sign around my neck saying ‘Will buy booze for teenagers. Please enquire about prices and bulk discounts’.

It doesn’t really matter what kind of campaigns they run though, the fact is they’ve given everyone in the country a day off in the middle of March. What do they expect us to do? It’s not like we have nice Mediterranean weather and can spend the day down at the beach. The only thing to do is go to the pub, perhaps after stopping off to see some of the parade if you can be arsed.

I remember a couple of years ago Jimmy the Bollix brought his nephew to Ron’s on St Patrick’s day. A big strapping lad for his age so he was.

“Ron”, I said, “let me get this young man a drink”

Sometimes Ron lets me behind the bar so I filled up a tumbler with a nice measure of Tullamore Dew.

“Get that down you, fella!”, I said. And fair play to him he did. All in one go.

“Jaysus!”, he said doing that thing where you shake your head side to side to stop the heat of the booze melting your brain. “That stuff packs a right fucking punch, doesn’t it? It’d blow the bollix right and truly off ya.”

“Aye, it does that, but you’ll get used it. You’re only 6.”

I have been looking at my template as I feel that now that I'm an award winning Irish blogger I should have a site that's a bit more funky and groovy and other words you kids today say. However, I am confused.

I thought CSS was a forensics based TV show. Does anyone know where one might steal find inspiring templates or are there any design gurus out there who might offer some advice?

Also, I had a listen to the Irish Blog Awards podcast by the Letter to America guys. I thought it was fantastic and I heartily applaud the effort especially as the bloke was so obviously speeding off his nut. Lots of people try to hide their use of amphetamines but not this guy. I look forward to the mushroom season when he podcasts while alone in a white room tripping his face off.

Good work, Sir.

You know the way people say 'Did you ever get that thing where...?' and they finish it off with a thing that everyone gets. For example:

"Did you ever get that thing where you're just about to go asleep and and then you feel like you're falling and you jump in the bed?"

or

"Did you ever get that thing where you hear a high pitched ringing in your ear?"

or

"Did you ever get that thing where you think someone has called your name but they haven't"

I think everyone has got that thing or one of those things more than once.

Maybe it's because he's Italian but Lucky Luciano, the compassionate assassin, seems to get things that nobody else ever gets.

The other week he said "Twenty, a did a you ever get a that thing where you a think you a climbing up a large mountain and then a mountain goat a shoot a laser beams from his eyes and you a go hide in a cave?"

"Erm, I can't say that I ever did", I replied honestly.

A few weeks before that he said "A did a ever get a that thing when the phone she a ring and you know who is but when a you answer is a nobody there and a you know is a the government a spying on you?"

And then just last night he said "Twenty, a did you a ever get a that thing where you a know you a forget something but you don't know a what?"

"You know what, Lucky? I have gotten that thing", and I was about to give an example when he continued.

"And a then a you realise a you were a supposed to kill someone and now the person who a hire you is a going to be crazy mad?"

"Well, that part hasn't happened to me, I have to admit."

"Cazzo!", he said and he stormed out of the pub. He's a strange one that Italian.

Anyway, did you ever get that thing where you were writing a blog entry and you just couldn't figure out how to finish it?

So I got back from my travels last evening and went straight around to Ron's.

"Evening lads!", I said.

"Well if it isn't the award winning Twenty Major", said Ron the Barman.

"Ooooooh, I'm surprised you're even talking to us now", said Jimmy the Bollix.

"Why's that?"

"Well, with you being a three time winner in the Irish Blog Awards an' all I thought you'd be happier hanging out with your nerd friends than us."

"Ahhh, get to fuck, you cunts."

"Here Twenty!" said Dirty Dave. "We had an awards ceremony when you weren't here."

"Is that right?"

"Aye, that's right. You won three awards!"

"Get out! This has to be my luckiest week ever."

"Tell him Stinking Pete", said Dave.

"I will. Ok, first award. Beardiest cunt of all time. Candidates were you, Osama Bin Laden, Jesus, Abraham Lincoln and former Republic of Ireland footballer Ashley Grimes. You just beat Osama."

"Sweet. What's my prize?"

"One of them vibrating razors and a can of shaving foam."

"Genius. So what else did I win?"

"Jimmy, you tell him", said Pete.

"Twenty, we all know you talk massive amounts of shite so the next award was the person who has the most poo coming out of their mouth. You were up against Graham Norton, Boy George, Kevin Spacey and Diarrhea Dermot - the man who shits liquid when he talks. With 98% of the vote you were the winner."

"Charming. I am touched. Honestly. And the last prize?"

"Most enormous cunt in the history of the world. There was serious competition from Hitler, Pol Pot, Michael Bolton, Saddam Hussein, George Bush and Damien Rice. I'd love to say it was a close run thing but you got 100% of the vote."

"Fair enough lads. What's the prize for that one?"

"Well, we thought long and hard but we eventually decided on something we all reckon you deserve. It's a copy of Damien Rice's album 'O'."

"You know what? Fuck you lot. I don't mind being a worse beardy than Osama Bin Laden, nor do I mind you calling me a bigger poo mouth than Boy George and in some strange way I'm quite proud that you've awarded me the biggest cunt of all time award ahead of some of history's greatest monsters but I WILL NOT STAND IDLY BY WHILE YOU PRESENT ME WITH A FUCKING DAMIEN RICE LP. YOU'VE CROSSED THE LINE YOU FECKLESS CUNTS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

There was silence for a some time. Eventually Jimmy the Bollix spoke.

"Sorry Twenty. We went too far. Pint?"

What could I say?

"Go on then..."

Twenty goes serious for just a moment:

Just a quick one to say thank you to everyone who voted for me in the Irish Blog Awards. I am very proud and honoured to have been awarded the Best Blog Post, the Most Humorous Blog Post and the overall Best Blog.

The Irish blogging scene might be relatively small still but what it lacks in quantity it makes up for in quality so be given the Best Blog is quite something considering the 'competition'. Thank you all for reading, commenting, linking and for making it a pleasure for me to write the blog every day.

Thanks as well to my representative at the awards who, I can assure you, was not me no matter what some people might think! Thanks to Sinead for being so nice to him and I'm sorry I couldn't have a word on the phone, I didn't have the voice modulator in place to disguise my familiar dulcet tones.

Congratulations to all the other award winners and to everyone nominated and a big well done to Damien who put such a lot of time and effort into organising the whole event. From what I'm told it was a resounding success and you should be very proud.

No doubt the Irish blogging community will grow massively in the next 12 months and it will be interesting to see how things progress between now and the 2007 awards.

Again, I'm sorry I couldn't make it but I'll definitely be there next year. I'll be the one with the white beard and the pint of Guinness.

Cheers, Irish Bloggers!

Your chum,

Twenty

As you can see by how early I am awake on a Saturday morning things are not normal. I won't be able to make it to the ceremony tonight but somebody will be there for me should I be lucky enought to win something.

To those of you going I hope you have a good night, don't forget to get hopelessly drunk and best of luck to all the blogs nominated for a prize.

Now, mask - check. Length of rope - check. Blueprint of vault - check.

It's all good. Have fun, Irish bloggers.

Dares are fun, aren't they?

"I dare you to kiss that girl!"

"I dare you to ring that doorbell and run away!"

"I dare you to climb over the wall and get the ball from Doctor Murphy's back garden."

And really there are some people who get a thrill out of doing things they wouldn't do on their own but because someone dares them they're all for it. Dares put me in mind of a time some years ago. The scene is the bar at Ron's.

"Hey, Dirty Dave", I said.

"What's up Twenty?", he said.

"If I was to pay you £100 would you drink a pint of your own freshly drawn blood?"

"For £100. Get the fuck, no way."

"£500"

"No, man. That's a disgusting thought."

"£1,000"

"Nope. Fuck off."

"£1,500".

"Look Twenty, I'm not going to drink a pint of my own blood no matter how much money you offer."

I checked my pockets.

"£1,631. 79p"

"Ok then!"

The big problem was then trying to extract a pint of Dave's blood. I rang Pelican House, the blood transfusion centre, and told them we'd pay them £20 if they took a pint of blood from Dave and put it in a pint glass. They, for some reason, kept hanging up as if they thought I was joking.

Anyway, Stinking Pete had had some training in his army days - that's really another story - and he knew how to do it. He went to Our Lady's Children's Hospital in Crumlin one day on the pretence of visiting a nephew but instead stole the needle, tube and soft plastic bag needed to do the deed.

So we took the stuff in to Ron's one night and after closing time Stinking Pete set it all up. He lashed in the needle, hitched the tube to the back and after about 15 minutes there was a pint of Dave's blood in the bag. Ron then took the bag and drained it into a pint glass. There was about 2% less than the full glass. Ron topped it off with a Guinness head.

"Ok then, Dave. Off you go!", I said.

"I think I'm going to faint", he replied.

"Don't be soft. You've still got about 7 pints left in you. That's loads. Down the hatch."

He took the glass in his hand.

"Oooooh, warm", he said.

He sniffed it.

"Ooooooh, haemoglobiny. Not sure I can do this."

"Come on, Dave. Think of the £1,631.79p."

He sighed. He looked at me. He looked at Ron, at Jimmy the Bollix, at Stinking Pete.

"Well, that's a fair wedge", he said before he lifted the glass to his mouth and drained the whole lot in less than 5 seconds.

"There you go", he said. "That's £1,631.79p you owe me, Twenty."

"Fair's fair, Dave. I'd never welch on a bet. I'll get that cash to you tomorrow. Dave? You all right, Dave?"

He was retching like a dog who's eaten some gone off meat. All of a sudden he opened his mouth and projectile vomited all over Stinking Pete who was standing right next to him. Wisely Jimmy, Ron and I were out of range. It was like The Exorcist except red instead of green and with far more carrots, sweetcorn and unidentifiable chunks. He vomited his own blood out of his mouth and out of his nose all over Stinking Pete who, as I have mentioned before, hates vomit. He then returned the favour and spewed all over Dave and there would have been a to-ing and fro-ing of barf between them had Ron not thrown a bucket of water over them and beaten them out of the door with a old fashioned broom.

"I knew I should have made him drink his own blood down in the cellar", he said grumpily.

His cleaning lady quit the next day after taking 4 hours to clean up the dried blood and puke.

Even Ron reckoned it was worth it to see Dirty Dave regurgitate a pint of blood. Dave spent three days in bed so he might not agree but for me dares are fun.

- Many moons ago I used to drive past a man every morning as he took his greyhounds for a walk. I can’t remember how many times I discussed with lads that one of them come with me sporting a big pole with a toy rabbit on the end of it. We’d drive by, the greyhounds would chase us and it would be funny. We never did get around to it by the time I had to go a different way in the mornings.

- Train as one of those people who talks to people who are about to throw themselves off a building. Then when I got to the roof or the ledge they were perched on, say “Go on you worthless cunt. Do it! Jump!”
If anyone overheard it would just be reverse psychology gone wrong.

- Driven a motorbike or a quad bike around the interior of Trinity College whilst blind drunk.

- Kidnapped Phil Collins and tied him up in a dank basement for 2 months keeping him barely alive with water and stale bread before performing a pre-death post-mortem with a pair of rusty shears and a butter knife.

- That thing where you attach a piece of string to a coin or a roll of money and when someone bends down to pick it up you give it a yank and they go chasing after it along the pavement until they clonk their head off a lamppost.

- In a real football match score a goal like you used to do when you’re in school and you’re clean through on goal. As you reach the goal line you stop the ball, then kneel down and head it over the line.

- Rugby tackled a TV news reporter during a live broadcast from an out of studio location.

- Once I had a boss whose surname was that of a bird. With another colleague we would make bird puns throughout the boring meetings, scoring a point for each phrase such as “Well, nest week I’m going to ….” or “We simply can’t duck the issue”. Sadly I never managed to incorporate Kookaburra which would have been a triple word score.

- Set fire to the house of my mortal enemy when I was a kid. He and his friend threatened my life as I got off the 15B one day. He went on to kill someone. I should have burnt him alive. Granted I’ve have killed his entire family who were innocent but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

- Released that concept album I recorded in my home studio. Think David Bowie meets man who takes a lot of E meets man who smokes a lot of hash crossed with Julio Iglesias. I’m not sure what the concept was but it was awesome (provided you met the man with the E and the hash at the same time).

You?

A while back I spoke about how life can sometimes kick you right in the nuts using ex-Superman Christopher Reeves' wife as an example. She lived with his injuries for 9 years and surely must have had a hard time as he made his way around by blowing into a straw. I'm sure as horrible as it was for her to see him die there must have been a sense of relief when he did kick the bucket. Then a few months later she was diagnosed with lung cancer and she died a couple of days ago. Harsh.

Then yesterday I spoke about the cunt who shot that young woman because he wasn't allowed in to a party. He was arrested and then complained of headaches while in the Garda station. He was a heroin addict. He was taken to hospital, examined, then taken back. Some time later the duty Garda found him unresponsive in his cell, he was taken back to hospital but pronounced dead on arrival.

That, my friends, is what they call the circle of life. Sometimes the good die young and sometimes the cunts get what's coming to them.

It reminds me of a day back in 1989 when Dirty Dave, who is at heart a good and gentle soul, mourned the death of his father who was even dirtier than Dave but had a heart of gold and was well loved by everyone in the area. He came home to find two lads burgling his house and as he tried to stop them one of them punched him in the head. He fell, hitting his head off the hall table and was dead before he hit the ground according the coroner. Dave was walking up the road just at that time and saw the two lads making their escape but not knowing what was going on he didn't do anything. Suffice to say he felt a lot of guilt.

A few days after the funeral Dave is walking down Westmoreland Street and who does he spot but one of the lads.

"Oi! YOU FUCKING CUNT!", he cried. "COME HERE!"

The bad guy being a bad guy was immediately on edge and looked around. He saw Dave charging up the road after him. He had no idea which bad thing he'd been sussed for but he knew he'd been sussed. He decided the best way to get away was to cross the street as there were too many pedestrians. Dave was bellowing at him and not really catching him because he is to running fast what Paris Hilton is to keeping her legs together around any mammal with a penis.

Yer man was nervous though and he took a quick look back at Dave before scuryying across the road. He should really have looked at the traffic though as a 15A heading towards the turn up Fleet Street flattened him.

Some people thought Dave standing over the fresh, bloody corpse and pissing all over his head was a bit harsh but he got what he deserved, I think.

People serve too short a sentence for murder. Sometimes you see what people serve for far lesser things and I think it's a chance to look at it again.

So said Bertie Ahern yesterday after a young woman was shot dead in Dublin on Saturday night. Some scumbags were refused entry to a party, came back about half an hour later and then fired shots through a window which hit and killed her.

Now, make no mistake about it, these were scumbags the likes of which you can't teach or rehabilitate. If they catch them, and I hope they do, they'll go to trial and if convicted of murder they will be sentenced to life imprisonment. Hurrah. Except not. Apparently the average time spent inside by criminals sentenced to life is 12 years.

So, you kill someone, you serve 12 years, maybe 15, then you get out. Wonderful. Of course being locked up in Mountjoy where you will be rehabilitated by taking drugs, joining gangs and being raped in the showers means when you come out you are a well-balanced individual who will repent their crime and not even more fucked up than when you went in.

There are times when murder is understandable. For example, two drug dealers scrapping over turf. One kills the other for his territory. Understandable if not acceptable. Crimes of passion. A man comes home to find his wife in bed with another man, his best friend perhaps. He loses his reason and kills them. Understandable if a little over the top. Your child is sexually abused. You find the pervert that did it and you torture him slowly to death. Understandable and 100% acceptable in my book.

However, killing someone, whether you meant to or not, because you weren't allowed into somebody's 40th birthday party is just ridiculous. What is the point? If you want revenge just don't invite them to your next party. Anyway, these cunts that killed that girl should, in my opinion, be put to death. Seriously.

If there's no motivation behind your crime and you've just killed someone for the laugh then you forego all rights. Why should taxpayers pay for you to live, to eat three meals a day, to have a DVD player in your cell, to clothe you and pay for your medicines? All you had to do to not be put to death was not fire a gun through someone's window but if you are the kind of scumbag that will do that now you're still the kind of scumbag that will do it in 12-15 years when you get out of prison. You can't be saved and frankly we're better off without you.

If you can show you had a good reason to kill someone, no matter how unpalatable it might be, then let's make life in prison actually life in prison. Some kind of chain gang thing or perhaps we could build a wall around one of the Blasket islands, drop them all in and make the cunts self-sufficient. Survival of the fittest. Plant your crops, harvest your crops and form vicious tribes who wipe each other out in midnight raids and dawn sorties.

But if you just killed someone for the laugh, for no good reason, without adequate motivation then I'm all for public hangings in Dublin Castle or at the top of Grafton Street outside the Stephen's Green centre. Perhaps flaying them alive and dragging them along a salted pathway. You can't punish people like that. You have to kill them or they'll just kill someone else and if you do kill them you can be guaranteed they'll learn their lesson.

Lobby your TD today. Let's have the death penalty for people who kill for fun. And for Brian Kennedy. And Damien Rice. And travellers. And....

I fucking hate Hollywood. With very few exceptions actors are egotistical cretins with the wit of a shoe whilst 99% of all films are interminably boring, badly written dross that barely merits one viewing let alone buying the DVD months later and the director's cut DVD some months after that.

Would that the terrorist threat that imperils the world today decide to land a 747 on the Oscar's ceremony tonight they'd be doing us all a favour. I doubt even John McClean himself could do anything and any industry that supports the existence of Rene Zellwegger surely deserves a jet engine in the bollocks.

It's like those twats that squirted Tom Cruise with water. If you get that close you might as well use some kind of acid or a blunderbuss to take his poxy head off. I alos read that all nominated actors were sent a video by Tom Hanks advising them on how to behave if they won. For fuck's sake. That cunt was crying his head off a few years ago when he got an Oscar for being a shipwrecked, long distance running retard with AIDS trapped in the body of a small boy who falls in love with a mermaid via email. Who is he to advise anyone on how to make an acceptance speech? It'd be like asking Zsa Zsa Gabor for marital help.

Anyway, I was looking at the list of films and how many Oscars they're up for and the best one of them all stars a computer generated gorilla. I think that says it all.

Update: Crash wins best film ahead of hotly-tipped and generously-lubed favourite Bareback Mountain. I've seen Crash and I'm not sure I've ever seen such a boring, piece of shit before or since. No doubt it's evidence that Hollywood is now no longer racist in any way because it dealt with such a 'difficult' issue.

A giant gorilla loving a woman is not your day to day romance either, you cunts.

Blyarpfff.

"So, to pay this debt to me, Twenty, bring me the head of a whale."

"A whale?"

"Yes, a whale."

"Right, any particular brand of whale? Humpback? Killer? Beluga?"

"I don't fucking care. All I care about is that you pay off what you owe me by bringing me what I want. What kind of whale is entirely up to you."

"Fair enough. I'll do what has to be done."

Some time later.

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Jimmy. Twenty. It's all sorted."

"Thank fuck for that."

"Yeah, but he says we have to bring him the head of a whale."

"A whale?"

"Yeah, a fucking whale."

"What flavour whale? Humpack? Narwhal? Sperm?"

"Doesn't matter. We just need a whale. How the fuck are we going to get one though?"

"Fucked if I know. Let me think about it. I'll call you back."

Some time later

*bring bring*

"Hello?"

"Twenty. Jimmy. I've got it."

"Grand. What do we do?"

"Simple. I've got a buddy who works at Rathmines swimming pool. Tonight we empty out the chlorinated water and fill it with salt water. Dirty Dave is on his way to the fishmonger's to buy 3 tons of plankton. We lash the plankton into the swimming pool and I guarantee you within an hour there'll be whales bombing it out of town for the feast. Whales are greedy cunts."

"You're a fucking genius, Jimmy."

Some time later

"I can't believe that actually worked."

"Never underestimate Jimmy the Bollix, Twenty. Surely you know that by now."

"Once again you have proven your erudition, James. And here we are with a fucking Blue Whale swimming around. I have no idea how he got in the door but his lust for plankton knows no bounds. Look at him scoffing his way up and down. Right, let's get down to business. Got the knives?"

"I sure do."

"Right, here we go."

"Right."

"Erm... Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Where exactly is its neck?"

"Erm...I'm not exactly sure."

"To me it just looks like a body with a face. How do we know where the head ends and the body begins?"

"No idea. Would you say anything in front of the blow hole is head and beyond it is body?"

"Jaysus. I always pictured the blow hole being the top of the whale's head. Like that was him letting off steam. As he coped with the perils of the deep, the chattering of those cunty dolphins and all those Norwegians and Japs after him his brain would get too hot and he'd expel some of that hot air through the top of his head."

"That makes sense, I suppose, but the area after the blow hole is no different from the area in front of it and what if yer man considers the blow hole part of the head and we bring it without blow hole? Or what if he considers the blow hole part of the body and we bring it with blow hole. Then we're rightly fucked and I do not want to be on his bad side."

"Fuck's sake. Stupid whales. Why don't the mammaly cunts have necks? That would make everything easier."

"It's too risky, man. We can't bring him too much whale head or too little whale head. What the fuck are we going to do?"

"I don't know. Let me think."

Some time later

"Jimmy! I've got it!"

"Right, where do we start cutting?"

"Dail Eireann!"

"What?"

"Two words for you, Jimmy. Mary Harney."

"Superb, I'll bring the car around."

There is a reason dogs have fur. It is to keep them warm when they are outside. The same goes for cats, bears and Italians. Their fur keeps the cold out.

That's why I'm not at all in favour of putting a coat on your dog before you go out. Of course with Bastardface I would have to just cut legs into a duvet because of his enormous size but little Yorkshires and Spaniels with their tartan coats just look like cunts.

Especially Yorkshire Terriers, the world's most annoying dogs. I think they must also be the most stupid dogs in the world as well. Whenever I encounter one when out for a walk with Bastardface the little dog snarls and yelps and barks until the owner drags it away. Even as they're dangling from the end of the choke chain they're giving it some. Now, you don't have to be a winning contestant on Murphy's Micro Quiz-m to know that a Yorkshire terrier has absolutely no chance of winning a fight against any other dog, except perhaps a chiwowow.

Yorkshire Terrier v West Highland White - you might get a couple of rounds.

Yorkshire Terrier v Labrador - the lab would have it covered in bog roll and brought to the little boy to wipe his arse within a minute.

Yorkshire Terrier v Bastardface - he would be eaten whole within seconds.

It's a good thing to know your limits. Should I, for example, whilst walking along the street encounter wrestler turned actor The Rock, I would not stop and bounce up and down on the spot saying "Hey you The Rock! You're a fucking shit actor. Let's fight. I'll have you, sunshine. Come on you fucking Hawaiin-looking pussy piece of shit. Hit me. COME OOOOOON!"

That would be stupid as The Rock is far stronger and far more capable of getting me in a half nelson and damaging me with a double vertical suplex before kicking the absolute crap out of me. Yorkshire Terriers don't seem to know that it's generally not a good idea to antagonise those that can snap you in half. As well as that Yorkshire Terrier owners are generally little old ladies so if they're expecting some back up from them they're sadly mistaken. Hell's Grannies they ain't.

Anyway, I seem to have strayed from the point. Dogs in coats. Come on, dog owners. Coats are for humans. Possibly you can get away with a shiny waistcoat for your dancing bear but other dogs are looking at your dog and thinking 'Look at that puff in his coat'.

If you really love your dog and don't want other dogs to think he's a crap dog let him go out as nature intended. Furful and coatless.

The Dan Brown court case is interesting. For those of you who haven't read the Da Vinci Code yet it's about some cunt who finds a dying cunt in the Louvre and he tells him a secret so then he goes around with some other cunts to find the Arc of Cuntenant and it says that Jesus got it on with Mary Magdelene and had kids and that lineage can be traced to the present day and the whole preposterous thing ends up underneath a church in Scotland where they don't find Jesus.

It's possibly the most annoying book of all time after the bible and the koran. Now two men have come forward to sue author Dan Brown saying he copied the idea of Jesus slipping the length to Mary M and having kids. It's a good theory. I'm sure Jesus was holy and all that but a man has needs. Mary Magdelene was as loose as they come and if Mel Gibson has taught us anything it's that she was as hot as your common or garden Monica Belluci. There's no way Jesus got to 33 years of age without getting the leg over that. Unless he batted for the other side in which case I believe Joseph of Arimethea was an Adonis and a half.

Anyway, I'm hoping they win and that all copies of the book will be recalled and then pulped and then made into papier-maché statues of Lloyd Cole and the Commotions. Just because, that's why.

In other news Dirty Dave was introduced to a model in his work yesterday. She was there to do a photoshoot for some trade magazine or some such. After the introductions Dave asks:

"So is it true that to keep thin models eat their own poo first thing in the morning? The poo contains no nutrients or calories, having already been processed by the body, and the act of eating their own poo makes them vomit thereby keeping them thin. Is that true?"

Dave's manager looked at him slack-jawed. The photographer was aghast. Dave's co-workers were flabbergasted. A passer-by was thunderstruck. The cleaning lady was dumbfounded.

"Yes", said the model.