Dear Bertie,

I was watching the news yesterday with great interest after the ruling which saw a man freed from jail after pleading guilty to and being convicted of plying 12 year old with booze and then raping her when she woke up to be sick.

Like most people in the country I'm pretty much disgusted that this could happen and that more men will be set free. It's also shocking that men awaiting both charges and sentencing could get away with similar crimes, but that's not why I'm writing to you.

No doubt more esteemed scribes than I will have plenty to say about it in the opinion columns and there'll be lots of reaction from other blogs so I'll leave it up to them.

The point I would like to raise with you though is this. While Fine Gael's Enda Kenny and Pat Rabbite of the Labour Party rightly tore strips off you and your government you sat there looking down at the desk, maybe even scribbling on a piece of paper. You could, for all intents and purposes, have been playing noughts and crosses with yourself.

Their tirades over it was your turn to speak. This is where I have the biggest problem. You stood there, again not making any eye-contact with the people you were addressing, looking down and with one hand in your pocket told us not to worry.

You stood there, with your hand in your pocket, and refused to entertain the idea of the Dail continuing to sit until suitable legislation was in place.

You stood there, with your fucking hand in your pocket, and said "I am trying to deal with a serious problem in a serious way."

And here's the thing, Bertie. I don't believe you for a second because you looked like you didn't give a shit. You might as well have been chewing on a piece of gum while you said it. It really did appear that couldn't care less that a 38 year old who raped a 12 year old was released.

It might as well have been just another one of your party colleagues involved in tax evasion or corruption or dodgy planning applications. You know, the day to day stuff your government has been involved in for years. You were more upset when the Bertiebowl didn't happen.

You're supposed to be the leader of the country but you stand in the Dail like some kind of a fucking corner boy or the lad in school who always gets sent to the headmaster but doesn't give a shit because he knows his parents won't ever punish him enough for him to be worried. And that's the thing. You are that boy because no matter what you and your cronies have done for the last 10 years the people of Ireland have pretty much let you away with it.

Our fault entirely but do you think when something like this happens again in the future, and I have no doubt it will sooner rather than later, you could at least pretend to be slightly bothered by it? I don't mean an Oscar winning performance, no Tom Hanks style drama, but if Colin Farrell can make it in Hollywood, for fuck's sake, then surely that wouldn't be beyond you.

Take your hands out of your pockets, look people in the eye and pretend to care. We'd all appreciate it.

cheers,

Twenty Major

ps - you're a slippery little cunt and no mistake.

I think beer is great. I'm sure many of you who have been reading this site for a while will know already that I'm fond of a pint but every now and then you have to step back a bit to appreciate it.

My main tipple is Guinness. Ron the Barman's serves the best Guinness in Dublin knocking Mulligans on Poolbeg Street into a close second. It's just delicious when it's good. Not at all delicious when it's not and it doesn't take much to turn Guinness from a great drink into one that can curdle the contents of your stomach in seconds.

But it's not just stout that's worth drinking. A fine ale is always welcome and a good bitter can be just the thing but we don't get that in Ireland. It's very much an English thing.

Lager. Common but fantastic as well. Go away to the sunshine in the summer and sample the delights of the meditteranean. A Moretti in Italy or a San Miguel in Spain. What about the delicious refreshing Coronitas you get with a chunk of lime in the top when you come up from the beach and your mouth is full of salt water and sand? Mexicans beer + Mexican food = taste heaven but it really does your ring no good the next day.

Let's look at Belgium, the most useless country ever - apart from all the brilliant beers they make. They lock monks away in monasteries and tell them Christ will violate them unless they brew beers which are stronger than most wines. And what a collection. I remember passing many an evening in Belgo, which has now closed down sadly, where you could get all sorts of Belgian beers. They would knock the bollix off you.

Germany - man, those fuckers know how to drink beer. "Eine smallen bier, bitte" and they give you a 4 litre jug. Brilliant. And they just sit around in beer gardens eating meat while they drink. Show me the flaw in that plan.

Shame America has never given us a beer worth drinking and they invented 'Lite beer' which makes me think they haven't got a fucking clue. 'Lite beer'. Jesus. Just stay at home you giant Marys. We'll have none of that shite here.

Most of us go out of a weekend and drink beer and we take it for granted. We don't appreciate it for all the brilliant things it does for. It makes us talkative when we are not feeling too sociable, it makes us eat battered sausages when normally we wouldn't touch them, it gives us confidence and the ability to become a raconteur and story teller so witty that Ustinov himself would curl up and die and it allows ugly people to have sex more often than they should.

So don't forget when you're having a beer the next time to say thanks for all that beer has done for you.

I love you beer.

Oh yeah. Some group wants the government to have a national day of remembrence for the people that died in the famine.

Grand. No objections here. Them damn Brits poisoned our spuds then prevented the likes of Findus, McCains and Knorr from sending us ready made frozen meals which would have saved lots of lives. Bastards.

What about all those fuckers that just ran away though? Surely some retrospective punishment needs to be applied to them. Not only did they leave their friends and family in the lurch they went on to create Irish-Americans who funded the IRA for so many years.

If they had stayed put and starved to death like everybody else then Gerry and Martin wouldn't have had all those swish parties to attend to and all those Americans saying "My gawd, my father was 1/8 Irish so here's $50,000 to spend on semtex and rocket launchers."

When you have a problem in life you need to stand up and face it not run away like some kind of starving, famine victim. Look at the mayhem you create 125 years later.

These cowardly escapees need to be tracked down and their anscestors should be made to pay for the crimes of their yellow-bellied relatives. Take them out of their plush New Hampshire homes and make the cunts live in Westmeath for 20 years. Then they'd think twice about emerging to the world from the namby-pamby vagina of a great-granddaughter of a famine victim.

Frankly, I am appalled.

Relax, Tom! I'm on it...

They're always complaining about something. Now they're going on strike because new rules mean they might earn less. Just work more you lazy fuckers. They get to sit in their cars all day. What do they have to complain about?

If I was a taxi driver I'd go round making racing car noises all day.

"Where ya goin'?"

"Dundrum"

"All right. Put your belt on. Vrrrroooooooom, vroooooooooooooooooooooooo, vrum, vrum, vrum, eeeeee-eeeeee-eeeeeee, vroooooooooooom".

That would be hilarious if a little bit annoying for the passengers. Way back when there was a taxi driver with a blog but he gave up because every time he thought about updating he was going in the wrong direction.

'Ah fuck it, I'm heading for the bog, not the office. Sorry.'

Good man, Tommy! At least in Dublin the taxis will stop occasionally. Not like in Paris where the ones who already have passengers give you the finger and the empty ones just look at you like you're a AIDS riddled, leperous, cholera spreading Romanian. The only way get a cab is to jump in the open windows as they're driving by.

Not an easy task after a a bottle or two of 1963 vin de table

I was in Mulligans for a couple of swift lunchtime pints yesterday when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

Quick as a flash, my ninja instincts to the fore, I span around ready to confront my would be assassin. There was no awesome battle of kicks and slaps and running across treetops though as it was somebody I hadn't seen in a long time.

"All right, Saxon Steve!", I said.

"How're ya, Twenty!", he said.

I should explain where he got his name from. In the late 70s he was a bit of a rocker and his favourite band was Saxon. He had a totally shaved head back then and to show the world that he truly loved his favourite band he had their name tattooed on the top of his head.

Back then he was as hard as nails and everyone would go 'Oooh, best not piss off a man who gets 'Saxon' tattooed on his bonce'. He was a good bloke to stand outside somewhere you didn't want other people to come in.

I met him around 1993 and he was working as a doorman on Leeson Street. He'd let his hair grow back but mens hair being mens hair it was beginning to thin out and you could make out a good chunk of the S and the N and the bottom of the X. I was quite sure by 2000 his Saxon would be in full view for everyone. Not so.

"Nice head of hair you've got there, Saxon Steve", I said.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it? Comes off though. I was as bald as an egg by 1997. Couldn't find work anywhere because of my head. Got a wig then got a job working as a salesman in DID down on the Crumlin Road."

"What about getting it taken off?"

"Nah, the lasery surgery option was really too expensive. Me and me brother tried to sand it off one night but it was too sore. I thought maybe a skin transplant might work but no joy. I do still love Saxon but I really regret getting that tattoo."

Lots of people regret stuff they do when they were young. Go out with the wrong people, sleep with their girlfriend's mum, drink too much gin and cry about their life in front of lots of people at a party but those things are transient. It's the mistakes you make that impact the rest of your life that are the worst.

Leaving aside things like killing people and driving drunk through someone's front window and maiming an entire family watching Glenroe I knew a few people who did things back then they really regret now.

There was Coleman Carr and his trick of running headfirst into a tree as hard as he could. This was a very impressive feat. Seeing him clatter into a mighty oak without that instinctive putting your hands in front of you was something to behold. Unfortunately he did it one day and when he spoke again he used the letter L instead of R and R instead of L. He still talks like that. I see him around from time to time.

"Herro Twenty", he says like a native of Nagasaki. 'Rovery day!"

Then there was Brian Conlon who made the fatal error of aggravating Boothead, a notorious local lunatic. Boothead grabbed Conlon's mouth and pulled it apart so it split wide open at the corners. It was larger than the offspring of Cherie Blair and a shark. He's never married because his face looks like it was stitched back together by a group of 14 year olds. Which it was.

Billy Morgan was a mate of Dirty Dave who decided he wanted to get a Prince Albert. Bad mistake. Within three days it was infected, in five it was grotesquely swollen and on the ninth day, when he eventually went to the hospital, the infection had travelled so far down his urethra that he ejaculated half of pint of pus when the doctors attended to him.

And finally there was young Adam who pretended he could play the bass to join a band with some schoolmates and has had to spend the last 25 years with Bono.

Know anyone with similar regrets?

...is it so fucking hard to open a lettuce? Where do they get this industrial strength sellotape that they seal the wrapper with?

"Here, Twenty", said Dirty Dave. "Just been to the cinema, so I have."

"So anyway, Ron, as I was saying I reckon what they need to do this summer is bring in a couple of top quality players wh-"

"Yep. Went to see The DaVinci Code."

"...who will add some depth to the squad. Otherwise they're going to struggle a bit agains-"

"You know the film of the book? Starring Tom Hanks and Audrey Tattoo."

"...against the top sides. In fairness last season they were a bit unlucky but their record against the top three club-"

"All about Jesus giving Mary Magdalene one and them having Jesusitos and the arc of the covenant being in Scotland. Of course nobody told Indiana Jones that. Or all them Germans who got their faces melted off."

'...clubs was pretty woeful. You've got to think a title challenge depends on the signings he makes. I mean what I woul-"

"Very interesting theory anyway and it's quite possible that some secrets like that do exist. Maybe I should take a trip to the Louvre and check it out a bit more."

"...would do is bring in a big, strong central midfield player and at least one winger. Maybe a bit of experience at the back too becau-"

"Yer man Dan Brown is a genius though. What a book it was. Total page turner, eh, Twenty? A fast paced thriller, they might say. Are you going to go see the fillum yourself, Twenty?"

"...because the young players they have need someone alongside them they can learn from. Teach them the little tricks they nee-"

"Sure I might go see it again. Right after I buy the illustrated audio hardback to add to my collection. I've got three copies of it, so I do. It's truly a great work of literature. I wouldn't be surprised if they brought into the Leaving Cert syllabus. Get shot of some of that old Dickens shite."

"...need to kill off games when they're hanging onto a lead. They could go far if he signs the right players especially when you consid-"

"Well. Been good chatting, Twenty. I'm off for me supper. It's the last supper I'll have today. Har Har! Geddit. Last supper! Right, see ya!"

"...consider the quality they already have in the squad. He's gone has he? Thank fuck. You see, if you ignore them long enough they'll go away."

"You swear too much."

"You trivialise important subjects."

"You're gratuitiously offensive and you do it on purpose to garner a reaction."

"You hammer home your points with a sledgehammer when a jeweler's pick would do."

"You surround yourself with morons and halfwits who are too stupid to make their own minds up about anything."

"You use the 'C word' far too often."

"There's a line and you cross it with impunity time and time again."

"You're a disgusting fuckin disgrace, more a latrine than a person."

"You're borderline racist. In fact, sometimes you're outright racist."

"You go too far."

"Your humour is puerile, scatalogical and tasteless."

"Your appeal is limited to the dregs of society. The lowest common denominator."

Amazingly, after this intervention by her family Maeve Binchy became a very successful writer.

Church of Ireland - go fuck yourselves. Their chief injun said about the Afghan hunger strikers who threatened to kill themselves by jumping off balconies and shoving sharpened toothbrushes in their eyes:

We had arrived at a set of proposals which were acceptable to the asylum seekers and which we felt offered a fair and equitable way forward for all parties. Unfortunately, this view was not shared by the Department of Justice.

Yeah, but here's the thing. You don't get to decide what's acceptable. What's acceptable to fuckers who say they'll take their own lives in a church and what's acceptable to normal people with are miles apart. They need to deport these cunts as soon as possible. They have given up the right to asylum in this country with their behaviour.

Anyone with half a brain knows that Afghan does not equal Taliban but we do know that hysterical cunt in a catherdal does not equal somebody who merits sympathy and help from the Irish people. If you're willing to thrust a sharpened toothbrush into your own eye chances are I don't want to buy a Big Mac from you.

In other news Brian Kennedy finished 10th in the Eurovsion song contest with some crazy fuckers from Finland winning the thing. Before the competition Kennedy said "There will be no sparkly boob tubes, no thigh boots and no whips."

Not in public, anyway. When you consider the fact that Eimear Quinn, Johnny Logan, Paul Harrington and Charlie McGettigan, Niamh Kavanagh, and Linda Martin all disappeared into nothingness after winning the thing 10th place must surely mean Kennedy will turn into some kind of dust cloud or dissolve like the Wicked Witch of the West - and I don't mean Mary Coughlan.

Please God let it happen before the cunt writes another book.

...these Afghan hunger strikers are a fucking pain in the arse. Who cares if they die?

And can you imagine the fucking outrage if Christian hunger strikers tried something like this in a holy mosque in a Muslim country? If they rampage over a cartoon there'd be world war if something like this happened.

If they don't hang themselves I say we shoot the cunts. It'd certainly make others think twice about trying this shit here again.

...Stinking Pete had to go to Serbia for some cheap cosmetic surgery and he brought back what he thought was a bottle of real Absinthe. Turns out it was rubbing alcohol with a bluey-green dye put in it.

I wasn't unconscious for two days either, merely paralysed and unable to move lest my head explode. The next time someone says to me "I dare you to slug a whole pint of Absinthe" after I'd already had a rake of Guinness and gin I'm pretty sure I'm going to say no.

Pete is happy with his surgery though. He had always been very conscious of his large Manilowesque nose. Now he's got two black eyes and a bandage on his face.

The doctors tell him it's much better but we're all hoping he had a sense of humour and fashioned some kind of trunk. We'll wait and see.

...jesus, a guy can't slip into a 2 day Absinthe related coma these days without endless speculation regarding his whereabouts. More tomorrow.

For a time in my life I lived in Paris in a rather swish apartment building in the St Germain district. I was there for various reasons, none of which were are very important or interesting now, but I wasn't one of those wankers who went to Paris to write poems or other arty-farty bollocks like that.

Anyway, downstairs from me lived a rather portly man called Fernando. I met him on the first day I moved in as I lugged a couple of boxes up in the juddery old lift. At that time my French was terrible and he spoke reasonably good English in a very posh English accent. He welcomed me to the building and let me know that it was a quiet place and that was the way the residents liked it. I told him I understood and I'm not the kind of person to have parties in my own home.

To be honest I hate having people I don't know in my home. It bothers me, but that's besides the point.

I would run into Fernando a few times a month.

"Good morning, Fernando!", I would say.

"Ahhh, good morning to you Henry", he would say.

I never had the heart to tell him my name was 'Twenty', not 'Henry'. This went on for the nearly 2 years I lived in that building. He'd call me Henry every time he saw me.

Anyway, my time there came to an end. As I was leaving the building for the final time I saw my neighbour coming in. As I said goodbye I told him that he'd been calling me by the wrong name the whole time.

"I'm not Henry, Fernando, my name is Twenty."

"Funny you should say that. My name is Albert."

True story.

Over the weekend, due to a dicky stomach and an inability to go out, I watched Assualt on Precinct 13 on one of the movie channels. I remember going to see the original one in the Carlton years and years ago and it was great.

Atmospheric, tense, exciting and with that wicked John Carpenter soundtrack. A bit of a classic really.

The version I saw was not atmospheric, not tense, not exciting and the music was instantly forgettable soundtrack shite. That fucking cunt Larry Fishburne from the Matrix was in it as well. He was very good as a stoned solider in Apocolypse Now but since those stupid Matrix films he seems to deliver every line like he's imparting some piece of great knowledge that we just can't live without. Newsflash, Larry: You're not the wise old sage and you don't drive around the ether in a gay submarine.

Gabriel Byrne was in it too. A good Dub, so he is, but fuck me he can't do an American accent to save his life. Without going into a whole lot of detail it was absolute fucking shite and you have to wonder why they bother remaking films when they remake them worse. With all the technology, special effects, vast budgets and a blueprint of how to make a good film right in front of them you'd think they'd do better.

Miserable cunts. I think I'm going to do a remake of the bible. God knows it could do with a bit of spicing up. At the end I think I'll get Jesus to jump off the cross and lightsaber the Roman soldiers to shite before taking a hovercraft down the mount where he will smite the pharisees with laser beams from his eyes. Then he'll do Mary Magdelene like at the end of a James Bond film.

Might get some people back to the church.

The British home office has banned rapper Snoop Doggy Dog from ever entering the UK again after a bit of a fracas in an airport lounge.

Bogus asylum seekers who rape and kill and murder while claiming benefits from the UK taxpayer are allowed stay and allowed to disappear without anyone knowing where they are. You can hijack a plane, divert it to Britain, cause a 36 hour stand-off surrounded by SAS men and armed police and still not get deported.

They must really not like his lyrics or something.

May 12th 4.34pm

"Twenty! How are ya? Haven't seen you in ages!"

"Ahhh Jaysus, howya Pete. Fancy a quick pint?"

"Go on then. Just the one though, I have to be back home this evening for a party the missus is throwing."

May 13th 10.21am

*opens eyes*

Ouch.

The Irish Independent has been voted National Newspaper of the Year in a prestigious awards ceremony in London.

In other news Jordan is crowned Brain of Britain, Mary Harney wins slimmer of the year while Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad says "I was just kidding. I love Jews!"

Judge Brian Curtin was targetted by Gardai in 2002 under Operation Amythest.

Judge Brian Curtin was at the receiving end of a search warrant and Gardai found 273 images of child pornography.

Judge Brian Curtin was lucky because the Gardai carried out the search one day after the search warrant had expired.

Judge Brian Curtin was found not guilty in court by another judge because the evidence could not be used in court because it was illegally obtained.

Judge Brian Curtin then stated he would not resign his position as judge because he was not guilty; albeit not guilty on a technicality.

Judge Brian Curtin remains suspended on full pay - more than €150,000 per year - paid for the by Irish taxpayers.

Judge Brian Curtin is preparing for an Oireachtas committee enquiry into his position.

Judge Brian Curtin's solicitor pleaded for privacy yesterday, saying media intrustion into his client was "grossly unfair and hugely distressing."

Judge Brian Curtin and his solicitor can both go and fuck themselves, the cunts.

What's grossly unfair is that children all over the world are captured and forced and lured into a world of pornography which is beyond sick.

What's grossly unfair is that people who are caught with images of child pornography often get away with saying "Oh, it was just a few pictures/I was doing research" and fucking gobshite idiot judges fine them few grand or give them a month or three in jail at the most when it's their money, the money they spent on these pictures, which helps fund the 'industry'.

What is hugely distressing is the thought of an eight year old boy being forced to suck off some man before another man anally rapes him while another man films it or takes pictures.

What is hugely distressing is the idea that a pre-pubescent girl can be stolen from her family, then drugged and forced to have sex with dozens of men all the while being filmed and photographed so the images can spread around the world like a virus and make money for the cunts, the disgusting sick filthy cunts, who have no compunction in taking from anyone who will pay it.

What is hugely distressing is a young boy or a young girl crying, weeping, begging, unable to understand why this is happening to them and the reason it's happening is because people are willing to pay other people for their misfortune, for their pain, for their fear.

For me it's grossly unfair and hugely distressing that somebody who had child pornography can get off on a technicality. It's grossly unfair that these people are not punished more severely.

It's hugely distressing that there seems to be, for whatever reason you might want to imagine yourself, a reluctance on the part of many judges to understand and put these crimes into perspective and dish out the appropriate sentences.

A few newspaper stories, the odd photographer and some journalists after you and you think that's grossly unfair and hugely distressing, Judge Brian Curtin?

You don't have the faintest idea.

Dirty Dave, despite his malodorous reputation, has a quite beautiful singing voice. Have you ever seen that episode of the Simpsons where Homer overhears drunken slob Barney singing in the toilets of Moe's tavern? Well, the first time Dave sang that's what it was like for us.

Not regularly, but every now and again, we'll be in Ron's and he'll break into song and we'll fall silent. For those few moments all we have to think about is the beauty of the human voice, his perfect pitch, his 4 octave range and that little tremelo thing he does which would make a man far less hardy and much more girly than I reach for the kleenex (to dry his tears, you filthy minded swine).

Last night was one of those nights. Normally Dave sings upbeat songs such as 'Don't go' by Yazoo, 'Sweet Freedom' by Michael McDonald or 'Saint Anger' by Metallica. This time though he went totally other way. He started singing:

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere

Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make someth...

"DAVE!", I roared.

"What?", he said.

"Stop that immediately. You cannot sing Tracy Chapman's 'Fast Car' in the bar on a Wednesday night, especially when we've just finished watching the UEFA Cup final. Everybody knows that it is one of the most tedious, boring, wrist slashing songs ever invented."

"Oh, it's just I was feeling a bit blue."

"Right", I said ignoring that part lest he bend my ear for hours about how he's desperate for a shag or something, "just stop it though."

However, it got me thinking about the most tedious, boring, wrist-slashing songs in the world. I have a top 10, in no particular order. More than 30 seconds exposure to these songs can lead to narcolepsy, brain damage and fatal blood loss. Feel free to add yours to the list.

1 - Tracy Chapman - Fast Car (Shame it's not Princess Diana's car)
2 - Bob Dylan - Knockin' on heaven's door (you'll get there quicker if you keep singing this song, you curly twat)
3 - REM - Everybody Hurts (If I ever meet you you'll hurt more than everybody put together)
4 - Nilsson - Without you (Can't live? Don't then).
5 - Robbie Robertson - Somewhere down the crazy river (If I want to hear someone talk like a private detective I'll watch a Philip Marlowe film).
6 - Leonard Cohen - Suzanne (shame she didn't drown you in the river, miserable fucker)
7 - Elton John - Candle in the wind (For incflicting this on us twice I will kill you twice)
8 - Billy Joel - Piano Man (Can you play the fartmonica because that's where that mouth organ is going).
9 - Phil Collins - In the air tonight (you poxy bald cunt, I will never forgive you for this)
10 - Damien Rice - Can't take my eyes off of you song (Die fucker. Just die).

Well, come on then. The people must be warned.

"Hee-yor, Deco. You seen dem Sopranos dats on de telly?"

"Yeah man, fucking sick dey are. Legendary fuckin' hard men, loadsa cash, birds, caaaars and fuckin' guns. Yeah man, solid."

"D'ya reckon we should after be settin' up a cry-em famly loike dat here in de Blanch?"

"Dat's a fuckin' sound plan, man. Only ting is loike we're not actually famly an' all."

"Well, what about I marry your sistaw?"

"Stay de fuck away from me sistaw, ya cuntcha. Me knuckles are only after getting back in shape after batterin' dat uddor bloke she was seein'."

"Dat was Mr Hanlon, yer 73 year old next door neighbaw and she was just saying hello outside yer gaff! Clow-en. Look, I marry your sistaw, you marry my sistaw and den we have a cry-em famly coz I'll do cry-ems and you'll do cry-ems. Den seein' as your muddaw is Wayner's muddaw's sistaw you're related to him an' all and if he marry's Lynchie's sistaw den he's related to me coz his half brudder is my Da's brudder's nephew. It's sorted."

"Deadly. I'm buzzin' boss. What'll we do dough?"

"Easy. Yore already sellin' de yokes, Lynchie gets de smoke and de coke, I'm after lendin' Smithy and Mango €4,000 for a deal so I just tell dem I'm collectin' with interest so that's the loan sharkin' sorted and all Wayner has to do is get involved in the construction or waste disposal business."

"Waste disposal, eh? Who's gonna fuckin' pay him for buryin' a load o' tinkers and Romanians dough?"

"Heh, you're a fuckin' muppeh! Du udder ting we'll do, reeeet, is go round to all dem blokes dat we don't like and just shoot de cunts in the cunt."

"Rapid! And de best ting is dat de cops don't even have any fuckin' guns so if any of dem catch up with us we'll just shoot dem in the bollix!"

"De only ting is we have to come up with a deadly nay-em like de 'Sopranos' or de 'Latin Kings' or de 'Crips'"

"Dat's what I like about gangs, equal opportunity an' all dat. You've got wops, spics and disabled people all doin' the same stuff."

"You're a fuckin' stupid cunt, so you are."

"Don't call me stupid or I'll fuckin' burst ya, ya cuntcha."

"Shut up. A nay-em. We need a nay-em. Maybe after a snake or sumthin'. 'De Cobras! Dat's it!"

"Nah man, dere's already a gang called de Cobras."

"Right, a dangerous animal. De Black Pantaws!"

"Taken".

"Shite. De Bloods!"

"Taken".

"Arse. I know. De Ayran Brudderhud!!"

"Taken. You're no good at dis. I've got an idea. You know dat vicious dog you used to have? De one dat bit the balls out of Shaner's pants and de one dat done a poo on yer ma's carpet? What was his nay-em again?"

"Scamp?"

"Yeah. Scamp. Mad yoke he was. What make of dog was he?"

"West Highland White terrier."

"Dere you go den!"

"What do you mean 'dere you go'?"

"Dat's our name. From now on we're de 'Westies'!"

"Deeeeeeeeaaaadly!"

Honesty is the best policy, isn't it? Of course we all have to lie about small things every day. It's part and parcel of life.

For example, people that work in an office have to pretend to like people they really can't stand because they have to work together and it makes things very awkward for some people if they have to work with someone they dislike or someone who dislikes them.

Back in the old days when I used to have office jobs I was a bit like that at first but then I decided that I didn't have the time or the energy for that kind of shite. So I embarked on a policy of 100% honesty. Meetings were fun.

"Twenty, what are your thoughts on this proposal?", my bird named boss would ask.

"Well, to be honest with you I think it's a load of shite, completely unworkable, badly researched and will end up with us gaining short term but losing 40-60% of our staff in the medium to long term. I realise you're a numbers man with absolutely no concept of how to manage people as opposed to spreadsheets so I can see why you thought this was a good idea but that doesn't make it any less shit. To be honest it's like something a person who's just graduated from a 3rd rate business college would come up."

Invitations to social events were also a good laugh.

"Hey Twenty, fancy a pint after work? We're all going!"

"No thanks. It's not that I don't want a pint it's just that you are the most boring person I have ever met. Talking to you for more than 5 minutes takes more energy than I can muster. Neil is a fucking simpleton and I just can't listen to him go on any more about how often he's done coke and gone back to Susan's apartment and had mad sex with her. Susan herself has the intelligence of a shoe. Maura's face is hairier than my arse and I'm not even slightly interested in hearing about her collection of Hornby trains. Good God, what the fuck is a 31 year old woman doing with a hobby like that and why can't she talk about anything else? Actually, her Grizzly Adams face explains it all. Richie never, ever buys anyone a drink despite getting involved in rounds and if I went and he disappeared off to the toilets when it was his turn I swear to you I would glass him and I can do without the trouble although the thoughts of him bleeding and screaming is appealing. I fucking hate David's face, I don't know why. I just hate his face so much I want to set him on fire. Clara is a complete liar, I wouldn't believe her if she told me the right time and Barry has this thing he does when he talks. He kind of twitches his head which is very disconcerting and it makes me think he's a bit Matt Damon and Matt Damon makes me sick. So, basically, no. I'd rather sew up the eye of my cock than go out with you this evening."

"Ok! Maybe next week then."

Simple office interaction became more interesting.

"Twenty, what do you think we should do to reduce the number of incoming calls we receive?"

"Dave, has anyone ever told you that you have a serious BO problem? No? Well, I'm telling you now. You stink man. Change your diet or wash or something."

or

"Hey Twenty, when does that report have to be finished by?"

"Fuck off. I'm not in the mood for talking to you now. Oh, and by the way, you're a cunt."

Signing someone's goodbye card became a pleasure:

"I've always hated you and this will be a better place without you. Also, you're very ugly."

In fairness they didn't really understand the whole being totally honest thing and they asked me to leave a few weeks later.

I told them I'd really, really miss them all.

Fat camp. For teenagers. In DCU. Apparently it's going to cost €6,500 although the Sunday Independent article was so badly written they gave a price for the 2 year programme rather than the 4 week camp for tubby teens.

Parents, if you have a tubby teen don't waste your money on a fat camp. They're a load of shit. Here's what you do:

1 - Take teenager
2 - Lock teenager in some kind of basement over the summer months
3 - Provide teenager with water and basic food so it doesn't die
4 - Give teenager electric shocks if it doesn't run 10 kms every day on the treadmill or cycle 40 per day on the exercise bike. It is suggested shocks are applied to the genitals.
5 - When teenager is not a fat cunt release teenager to the wild once again
6 - Advise teenager that if they become fat again you will kill them

It's very fucking easy. Don't eat as much and exercise more. Weight loss programmes are just a load of shit for people who don't want to do the hard work.

"Eat as much as you want and still lose weight!!" - bollocks. Eat less. Exercise more.

I have to say that I lost a lot of weight in the 90s when taking lots of E made me eat less and exercise more. I was a proper skeleton.

That's it. Parents, forget my 6 step plan above. The solution is obvious. Give your kids massive doses of MDMA and they'll stop being two-seat-on-a-plane-taking-cunts.

Free Ecstasy for everyone. Yay!

A good few years back, must be 25 or so, me and Jimmy and another mate of ours, Bob, went to stay with this bloke who had hired us to do a job. His name was Jean-Hugo Le C'arville and we'd taken somebody who had crossed him to his palatial estate near St. Etienne in France. What happened to him I don't know but there was a lot of screaming and drilling and sawing and setting stuff on fire one night.

While there we feasted on the best French cuisine as our host had his own chef, who came with three Michelin stars, and drank wonderful French wines including a bottle of 1973 Château Mouton Rothschild with a label designed by Pablo Picasso. Of course the French people in the little town were very French and they didn't really understand us. Although I am a fluent French speaker my Dublin accent made things a bit difficult for them.

"Ooohvray la fenechra!", I'd ask and it would take me a good few goes before they said "Ahhhh, ouvrez la fenêtre!" then whisper "L'anglais de merde" just loud enough for me to hear them. The joke was on them though. English, indeed. Anyway, that is just incidental.

Where the fun began was when Jean-Hugo set us a challenge. He said "Mes amis, I 'ave, in my jardin, a network of 'edges and paffs frough which you must find your way from one side to ze uzzer! Do you accept zis challenge?"

"What do we get if we complete 'zis task'?", I asked.

"I weel pay you fifty-fousand pounds. Sterling!"

I conferred with the lads. There wasn't much conferring. That was a lot of money back then.

"All right, show us 'ze way'", said Jimmy and he did.

So in we went to this labyrinth thinking it would be a couple of hours diversion in the summer sunshine. By 9pm that night we had thought again. This was well before the time when a quick mobile phone call would have solved the problem and with 50 grand at stake we were sure they weren't going to come look for us. The hedges were around 12 feet tall and there was no way of going through them or climbing on top of them. Now it was dark. 'Oh well', we thought, 'we'll have to wait till tomorrow'.

Tomorrow wasn't any better. Or the day after. Or the day after. By day 7 we were starving and staying alive by licking the dew off the ground each morning to quench our thirst. We tried eating the leaves but they were minging. Jimmy ate a worm which took him right back to his childhood but we were in serious trouble.

Poor old Bob was the worst though, a skinny chap at the best of times he was fading fast. Sadly on the 9th night he passed away.

Says I, "Jimmy, this is like that film that hasn't been made yet about that plane that hasn't crashed yet with that South American rugby team that hasn't to eat each other yet. If we want to stay alive we have to resort to...cannibalism!"

"Fair enough", said Jimmy. "I'm fuckin' starving"

Just then all the days without food caught up with me and the world started spinning. I got that buzzing noise in my head and the next thing I passed out. I don't know how long I was out for but when I awoke Jimmy had managed to get a small fire going with some branches from the hedges and it smelt like he'd been cooking.

It was as sweet as smell as I've ever smelt. I started drooling immediately. I could taste meat even if it was the body of our former friend. When I made my way over though I couldn't believe my eyes.

Jimmy was sitting there, like a stuffed pig, licking his lips and gnawing on bones and nothing from the wrist up on either side remained.

"What the fuck have you done?", I thundered. "You miserable cunt. Here we are, stuck in this maze, starving to death and you eat everything? You fucking cunt."

"Calm down, Twenty", said Jimmy. " I didn't eat it all. I left you Bobby's hands."

I have seen some terrible things in my time. I have seen more Tom Hanks films than I really should have, I've seen a man jump from a tall building and splat into the ground. I was once crossing to go to Freebird records just by O'Connell Bridge and you know that bit where you cross a little bit then the rest? Well, I was beside an old lady who seemed to forget there was traffic coming and she stepped into the path of a lorry which knocked her down as far as the IFSC.

I've seen images of war which would turn your stomach. I've seen seen Dirty Dave naked ... erm... excuse me, I just got a little bit sick all over my keyboard even thinking about it. Somebody once sent me a midget clown porn video and that, I really thought, was the worst thing I would ever see in my life.

That was until yesterday. When I saw this.

This is Ireland's Eurovision Song Contest entry. Now, if you thought there was no possible way of topping last year's entry when we sent over a special needs brother and sister then think again.

It's Belfast crooner, Brian Kennedy, and a whole range of simpletons singing along with him. I'm not even sure I have the words to describe how bad it is. What I am sure of though is that it is, without question, the worst thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

I mean, who are those fucking morons in the car and in the nightclub with him obviously miming along at the same time? What are they supposed to be? It's not as if they're trying to be backing vocalists because they're singing along with what he's singing. As well as that he seems to have just picked them up, like some kind of Mafia don, from the middle of a street as they looked at their map. Somebody needs to write to the Rough Guide and advise backpackers that if a dark car/jeep pulls up and offers you a lift do not get into it as you may be roped into acting like a fucking simpering moron with Brian Kennedy. He prowls the streets of small town Ireland preying on unsuspecting tourists.

I hope they were paid a large amount of money for that because the shame they have brought upon themselves and their families is immeasurable, especially the bloke.

And there's two girls and one guy. Either they're a happy little threesome or we're supposed to believe that yer man is interested in the other one. Come on. We're not fucking stupid.

Then comes the piece de resistance. We move from a nightclub where they're drinking Guinness to Glendalough - how Oirish!! - with Kennedy in a camel coloured coat and the three of them following him again. If that was me I'd have pretended to go to the bog in the club and escaped out the window or glassed myself in the face repeatedly till I bled to death.

He then shows how interested he is in the other girl by hugging a stone wall.

I swear I could live another 100 years and I'd never see anything this bad again. Nothing can top this. Nothing.

I can't be only person to hope that mumbling cunt David Blaine's latest stunt goes horribly wrong, can I?

So far he has thrilled us all by standing still on top of a pole, standing still in a block of ice and doing his best big cat in a zoo impression in a see-through box in London. Now he's going to stand still inside a giant bubble. Honestly, the excitement he generates is nothing short of spectacular.

Should he survive, and naturally it is a dangerous situation he's in and not at all staged with every safety precaution in place, I have a few suggestions for his following stunts. He may not like them because some of them don't involve standing still and doing nothing for a long time but perhaps one or two might tickle the fancy of the world's laziest magician.

1 - The quick speech stunt: Anyone who has had the misfortune of listening to Blaine speak will know that he is a semi-coherent bore with the kind of drone that you would associate with a history professor who's had some kind of stroke. For this stunt Blaine must spend 72 hours, standing still, in a box which is wired with plastic explosives. For the entire time he has to speak like a normal person, using intonation in his voice, pronouncing all his words clearly and sounding cheerful instead of like someone who just lost a winning €100m lottery ticket just after he was raped by an AIDS monkey. Should he fail to maintain this speech pattern the box explodes.

The beauty of this is that the box will be soundproofed so none of us have to listen to the cunt.

2 - The Middle East art stunt: A true test of his bravery. He goes to Iraq or Iran or even perhaps Pakistan and stands in the street with an easel, canvas and some paints. Via a satellite video link people instruct him to draw the most obscene paintings of the prophet Mohammed they can think of. Having previously been force fed then dosed with industrial strength laxitives he must pause ever 5 minutes to poo on the ground then use pages from the Koran to wipe his arse whilst singing "Born in the USA".

His goal is to last a week.

3 - The Doolittle stunt: To demonstrate the power of the human mind to control animals Blaine is sent to a wildlife park to converse with the animals there. It's Jurassic Park and he has to engage starving velociraptors in a debate regarding mankind's overuse of fossil fuels whilst smeared in the blood of that fat postman guy from Seinfeld.

A boat will come back to pick him up in 3 months. Long enough for the wanker to starve to death if he has to hide up a tree.

4 - The GrayRice stunt: It has been proven scientifically that human endurance to Damien Rice's 'Can't take my eyes off of you' song is limited to 8.43 consecutive plays. David Gray's 'Sail away' song is slightly more durable at 11.34 plays. However, if you play them both at a Spinal Taptastic 11 in volume at the same time it is something that only the strongest minds can resist.

Blaine will be placed in a room with as much food and drink as he needs. All mod cons. A toilet. A 3-seater leather couch. And those two songs playing at the same time over and over and over again. He must last 2 weeks without going insane. There is a sanctuary room from which he can escape the music but he can only go in there after taking a massive dose of PCP and firing up a chainsaw.

5 - The Irish bank holiday weekend stunt: As he loves standing still Blaine could come to Ireland on a bank holiday weekend and stand in the middle of a country road just around a blind corner. His task is to not get mown down by a boy racer in his Nissan Micra who is coming back from the the nightclub in the town 14 miles away having drunk 5 vodka and red bulls on top of a 7 pints of Guinness.

If he survives the night he's moved to the Naas dual carriageway.

6 - The Blanchardstown magic stunt: Blaine takes to the streets of Blancardstown to perform his world renowned street magic. However, he can only do tricks on members of the various drug gangs and each time he finishes one he has to raise and longingly sniff his middle finger.

He then says "Mmmm, so good" and the scummer will ask "What is it?" and he has to reply "Your ma!"

He is allowed use his awesome power of levitation to get away. 100 tricks must be performed or he loses. The penalty for losing is to drink a mug full of Paris Hilton's gee juice.

Will he have the balls to ever try some properly dangerous stunts? I think not. Let's just hope his bubble bursts sooner rather than later.

It's not often that Splodge, the quiet one in Ron's with the birthmark across most of his face, starts the conversations, but last night he said:

"Lads, if you could assassinate one world leader and get away with it, who would it be?"

"Good question, Splodge", said Ron. "For me it would have to be George Bush. It's not so much that he's a cretinous, dimwitted puppet of big industry or that his command of the English language is on a par with Tarzan's, it's more to do with his face. Every time I see his face I just want to smash it in with my fist. No weapons, no acid, no knuckle dusters. Just my fist and his face. So that would be my choice. Not the classic assassination. No rifle shots from the book despository. Nope. I'd just punch him in the face until he died."

"Good choice, Ron", said Jimmy. "For me it would be Robert Mugabe. I hate that cunt. Did you know an anagram of his name is 'Rage, brute mob'? How appropriate is that? Also, I hate that ridiculous cupid's bow he has. It's worth than Joaquin Phoenix's and that's saying something. As well as that he changed the name of the country from Rhodesia, which sounds like some kind of pollen allergy, to Zimbabwe which sounds like a South African cricketer. Let's no forget his human right's abuses, his blatant racism and the fact he's running the country into the ground. Inflation is so bad it costs $345,000 for a pint of milk. I'd poison the cunt with a piece of string dripping into his mouth like in Shogun."

"Can't argue with that", I said. "I'm a bit unsure. If Lucky was here I'd say Berlusconi then change my mind and say how cool Berlusconi was and how he was so great until Lucky went mad. There's that mad fucker in North Korea but they do such great work in the stadiums with those colour cards. I suppose the one I'd really have to take out at the moment is that Iranian fellow, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Now, I know lots of people don't like Jews but creating a nuclear energy programme to try and disguise the fact you just want to make bombs to blow Israel off the map is just out of order if you ask me. Plus his beard does beard wearers a disservice as his makes him look shifty, distrustful and like a crazy fucking lunatic instead of looking handsome and distinguished like a beard should make you. So, for me, that's the guy I'd take out and I'd do it in a simple way. Car bomb, exploding camel, suicide Ayatollah, you know yourself."

"He's a right nutter and no mistake", said Ron. "So what about you Splodge?"

"Tony Blair."

"Oh aye? Why's that then?"

"Well, I have this bet with my brother and he says there's no way Cherie Blair can be any uglier than she already is. I figure seeing her cry over the dismembered corpse of her cuntfuck husband will win it for me. That's going to be the best €100 ever....erm...I mean that would be the best €100 ever."

"Righto, Splodge. Pint please, Ron!"

"Violence is not the answer!", so many people are quick to say.

Well it is if the question is 'Please give a one word defenition describing behaviour involving physical force intended to hurt, damage or kill someone or something', and nobody can argue with that.

There are other people who would say "Violence is a last resort".

I'm not sure that's true either. Imagine you come home one day and find your family butchered, having been tortured for hours. Their screams begging for their lives are still almost audible in the blood-soaked air. Then you discover who did it.

You're not going to ring him up and say "Now, say you're sorry" and get rebuffed until such time as violence is the only option left to you. In this case violence becomes the first resort as you make the person sorry they were ever born with a series of tortures so inventive they'd put you in charge of Guantanamo Bay if they ever heard of them.

Luckily most of us will never have to deal with that situation and although some people have come home and pretended that happened to them then appeared on television as if they weren't the one who did it but like I say it's rare.

Personally I'm not a violent person but that's why I've been friends with Jimmy the Bollix for so many years. It's not that he's particularly violent either. He only uses violence when it's really necessary like when you get interrupted during a burglary, approached by a Romanian beggar or when Damien Rice music is played in a shop or bar or restaurant.

I've never seen him beaten in a fight either. He's got a titanium jaw. I've seen him take punches that would knock down statues and he hardly blinks. He says it's because of an overdose of novocaine when he was at the dentists as a young man getting an extraction. In classic superhero style this overdose has left him immune from pain in the lower part of his face but he does drool a bit too much.

The best fight he was ever in was when he was in L.A some years back. He was driving along the road when he saw LL Cool J go past him. Now, some years previously I had written the world's greatest ever rap but being an old man from Dublin I knew my chances of being rap's greatest artist were slim. So I brokered a deal with LL Cool J and he was to pay me an enormous sum for my kickin' rhyme.

However, the sly cunt just fucking stole it and since then he - along with Daryl Hall, Adrian Gurvitz, the keyboard player from Hue and Cry, Martika, Eddie Vedder, Paul Weller, John Parr and Gary Numan - has been my mortal enemy.

Jimmy gave chase, pulled up alongside him and dragged him out of his car. The two them went hand to hand on Santa Monica boulevard. It was, according to witnesses, no holds barred.

"You fucking stealin' cunt", said Jimmy.

"Fuck you, Nigger", replied Cool J.

"Up yours, Whitey", said Jimmy.

They beat the absolute crap out of each other. Kicks, punches, slaps, Cool J pulled Jimmy's hair, karate chops, the whole lot. Then things got really ugly. One of Cool J's mob had seen what was going on and threw a weapon to his boss. A live panther!

Jimmy then had to deal with the burly rapper and a speedy and deadly feline. Amazing. At one point Jimmy's mobile rang.

"Howya, Mam, listen bit busy here at the moment. I'll give you a shout back. What? No, just having a massive brawl with LL Cool J. Eh? Ok, I will."

He switched off his phone and got ready to resume but Cool J had run off leaving the half-dead panther on the road.

"Come back here you cunt!" roared Jimmy. "Me ma said I have to knock you out", but he didn't turn around.

Imagine his horror when we discovered the name of LL's following LP (back when we still had LPs, just about). So not only did he steal my rap he used Jimmy's now long departed mother to make his music.

He'd be wise not to show his face around Dublin for the foreseeable future. I may have to throw a punch or two myself and be careful who you sell your raps too. Take it from me.

So, in conclusion, violence is probably a good idea most of the time. Except at home. You can't run off without anyone knowing who you are there.