Sitting in a strange bar yesterday afternoon. It was more or less empty. At a table with my drinking chum telling stories.

"Oh, remember that time we ran across the roof tops on Castle Street while off our faces on E and then we heard about that bloke who died trying to climb up a drainpipe?"

"What about the night when I didn't want to take any drugs because I didn't want to be wrecked the next day so I drank a bottle of Absolut Blackcurrant. Neat. On my own. And the next day I thought I was dead."

Oh such fun. Then in come three people. One is a woolly haired cunt. The other is a beardy cunt (but not a good a beard, a student beard). The other guy had a radio.

They have the whole bar to choose from. Empty table after empty table. Countless empty booths. Where do they sit? Beside us. Fucking hell.

Then they proceed to talk loudly about how some guy they work with is a twat because he won't come drinking with them. But they talk at the kind of volume which would make you think they had been drinking for hours.

"Two Ballygowans and a glass of Heinekn" put that theory to the test.

Me and my drinking chum had to move to get away from them. Why, when there was the whole bar to sit in, did they have to sit next to me? If I had gone to the bog for a piss and one of them had come in they would have respected the urinal code - the pisser furthest away from the nearest pissee - so why couldn't they have sat somewhere else?

If they ever sit near me again when there's a whole bar to sit in I am going to kill them.

Aren't people's voices funny? They can give you such a false impression of a person. Of their age, their appearance, their background, their inside leg measurement.

I heard a song today by a recently departed blogger and although the music is not to my taste it was his voice that surprised me. I'd always imagined him with a deep, gravelly, gut rumbly voice and it wasn't that at all. It was kind of reedy.

When I, in my long distant past, used to work on the radio people always thought I was much older than I actually was. I have the voice of a 134 year old apart from when I drink. When I drink it's much older sounding.

It's not so much when I drink but the next day it's like listening to Barry White put through some kind of computer programme to make his voice even deeper. And it's not even the deeposity, it's the grumbly, gravelly, gargling with sand and broken glass sound to it that makes it different.

I used to use that to my advantage when recording commercials. I would go out the night before and drink myself blind. The next day in the recording studio was always hell. Every take felt like I was going to crap my pants and the sound-proof booth was sadly not fart-proof as the rippers I let would often find their way into the engineers studio and he'd call me a stinky cunt.

"How the fuck do you think I feel in here?", I'd reply even though the stinkier the fart the more proud we men are of it.

You shouldn't judge people by their voice though. A DJ friend of mine used to get phone calls from this girl who sounded seriously gorgeous and eventually he arranged to meet her outside the Stephen's Green centre in Dublin. She said she would wear a red t-shirt and she had blonde hair. My DJ chum was excited and perhaps quite aroused when he strolled towards the meeting place.

That was until he saw one of the ugliest people he had ever seen wearing a red t-shirt with blonde hair looking around for someone. He was a gentleman though.

He just kept walking.

Got some bargain bin books the other week. Have read two of them so far. Want to know what they're like? Ok then.

1 - Brandenburg - Glenn Meade

The book starts in Paraguay with an old guy being told by his doctor he's got 48 hours to live so he goes home, burns all his papers and then shoots himself in the end. As you do.

The police investigate and so does a journalist. He's friends with the police bloke. At the dead guy's house the policeman goes downstairs to get two beers from the dead guy's fridge for him and the journalist. While he's out of the room the phone rings and the journalist picks up. It's a top class hotel telling him his suite will be ready for that Friday at 7pm.

So journalist decides this could be a story and borrows recording equipment. On the Friday he pulls the old fake room service trick and delivers a complimentary bottle of champagne and some delicious canapes to the room. He records a load of Germans talking about 'Brandenburg' and other hard to decipher things. Luckily the Paraguyan journalist is fluent in German for some reason I don't remember.

Anyway, he gets rumbled when the fake room service is questioned and they track him down and kill him but not before he's left his tape in a train station luggage locker. As you do.

Forward to Germany where the journalist's cousin knows something bad has happened to him after she hears he's been killed. She is beautiful in every way. In fact, every woman in the book is beautiful and soft and sensuous and desirable.

She teams up with some kind of Interpol bloke called Volkmann who is British and hates all Germans because Nazis killed and raped his father's sisters in the war. Eventually his distrust of the girl is lessened by her amazing breasts which he puts in his mouth and then they travel to Paraguay to try and track down the killers who are all old Germans who fled to South America. They want to find out why some bloke got paid $5,000 every 6 months from 1931 to 1945 by the German central bank.

They get close and find a villa in which everything has been cleaned and wiped. There isn't even a bit of furniture. It's as if nobody ever lived there. They find a picture though of a pretty woman arm in arm with a Nazi but you can't see the nazi as half the picture is burnt away.

They go back to Germany, the Paraguayan police guy follows the escaping Germans to Mexico City where 13 people die in a shoot-out in some posh barrio.

Volkmann and the girl encounter terrorists (who went to college with the girl), historians, hash smoking nazi memorabilia sellers in Amsterdam and countless other half-wits as they try and track down someone who can indentify the girl. Meanwhile shipments from Montivideo are hidden in containers and some Italian called Franco delivers them to some tall blond bloke.

Eventually the discover the girl is Hitler's niece and that Hitler was having an affair with his niece and he got his niece pregnant. She did the old fashioned Irish thing of disappearing for a while and then returning not half as fat as she used to be. Sadly she committed suicide two months later.

Then they discover that the German who was receiving the money and his wife and child aren't who they seem. The German didn't have a wife and the child was, in fact, HITLER'S son!!! OH.MY.GOD.

Then it turns out Hitler's son has returned to Germany to take part in a coup and Franco the Italian has been smuggling uranium and plutonium to the new Nazis so they can make a bomb and take over Germany. They're going to kill the Chancellor and his cabinet and then blame it on immigrants so good old fashioned Germans will support them.

Meanwhile the girl has been kidnapped and Volkmann tracks her down to a house where she's being held by Hitler's son. He gets shot in the hand and the elbow and then Hitler's son shoots him in the end but somehow he manages to overpower Adolf Jr and kills him in the face as revenge for what the Nazis did to his dad.

The plotters do kill the chancellor and the entire German cabinet but somehow the coup fails and they capture the nuclear weapon. At least I assume they do because it doesn't say much about it.

Volkmann wakes up in hospital after being shot in the head and puts the girl's breasts in his mouth.

The End.

2 - Billie Morgan by Joolz Denby

Firstly I was greatly concerned at reading something by somebody called 'Joolz' but thankfully my instincts were correct. People with stupid names write stupid stuff.

This is the story of a woman called Billie Morgan whose Dad runs away when she's a little girl and whose mother absolutely hates her for some reason. She's a troubled teenager in that she's a bit different, a bit gothy and the mother much prefers her older sister who likes lace curtains and other pretty things.

Soon she falls in love with a biker and gets into the whole biker world. She marries her biker boyfriend and they go around the place like Bradford Hells Angels. Then something happens. A man dies. Her husband leaves and she opens up a gift shop with some woman called Leckie.

The man who dies, who everyone else thinks just disappeared, has a wife who's a bit of a junkie simpleton and Billie is the Godmother to her son called Natty. Around 15 years later on though her past comes back to haunt her. A rookie journalist for a Sunday newspaper wants to do a story on how the family of missing persons cope with the absence of their loved one.

The wife thinks he's still alive somewhere and the son just wants to see his dad. The wife's mother-in-law is a proper cunt and comes back into her life after a two year absence just in time for the interview. For some improbable reason the journo wants to talk to Billie as she's a friend of the family. That Sunday the story appears and it's a total stich-up. The wife is portrayed as a junkie simpleton, which is what she is, and the son as a coke fiend arsehole, which despite the author's attempts to portray him as a misunderstood youth is exactly what he is.

Then they disover the wife has TB and nearly dies after coughing blood over everyone and young Natty goes on a bender. He's got a little half-wit hunchback of a friend called Monkey, no really, who comes to stay with Billie while they search for him. Then Billie's ex-husband comes back and tells her he'll kill her if she tells what happened that night when the man disappears.

What actually happened all those years ago was they went to one of the other biker's houses to get some hash or something and yer man was off his face and he fell and hit his head and died. For reasons best left known to themselves they took the body, dug a hole then broke his legs and neck so he'd fit in the hole. They could have just left the house. Fucking fools.

During her search she calls into her mother's house who is going to live with her other daughter in Canada and the mother leaves a bundle of letters from her father which she never gave her. And yes, they were wrapped in a ribbon. He says how much he loves her and how many Christmas presents he bought her but the mother never gave her. Thank God she avoided all the major clichés.

Anyway, when Billie comes home she finds Natty asleep in her bed. They eat dinner and talk and then retire to the same bed which is quite natural. Most 40 plus women sleep platonically with their 18 year old Godsons. They go to sleep.

Later that night she awakes to feel a strange sensation. The Godson is licking her gee.

"You can't do that!", she says.

"But that's what me and me mam do", he says. "She says it's our secret."

Good god. He runs away. They go looking again.

The next day she comes back home to find him hanging to death in her house so she does what any woman in that situation. She runs off to Greece like Shirley Valentine and falls in love with a Greek bloke and she lives in a nice villa with a view of the sea.

This book was nominated for the Orange fiction prize in 2005. The Orange fiction prize must be worth approximately fuck all if bollocks like this can get shortlisted.

-----

So in conclusion do not read either of these books unless someone actually pays you to do so. They are shit.

...and it's only Tuesday. Check out this post on TCAL for background but basically what happened is some American troops were stranded in County Clare because of problems with their plane.

Where it gets interesting is when some 'peace activist' called Conor Cregan met 6 of the soldiers on the road. He stopped them and said, and this is no joke, "I am placing you all under citizen’s arrest. Do not move!"

It's a fucking shame the US soldiers couldn't commit an atrocity on that cunt. He's written about the story on Indymedia and has written in the manner of dimwit. Take this example:

"After assuring the men that they were not in jeopardy the peace activist made an emergency call to Ennis Garda Station. Cregan called for the Member in charge to send a van to pick up these awol soldiers but Garda O'Sullivan’s response was less than helpful."

Now, he's writing about something he did yet he refers to himself as 'Cregan' instead of using the word 'I' which a normal person would do. The only time you should ever refer to yourself in the third person is when you're playing football on your own in the back garden and you're doing the commentary. Like this:

"And it's the final minute of the World Cup final. Ireland are fucking shite, all of them, especially that Desperate Dan cunt Robbie Keane. The only man to show anything at all is Twenty Major. Oh, and Beckham loses the ball in midfield. It's Major running at the English defence. He goes past Lampard, leaves Ferdinand on his forgetful arse, Neville can't get near him! Oh, look at that Cruyff turn and flick over his head. The keeper comes out. He's past the keeper. He has an open goal. What's he doing? He's stopped the ball on line. Major kneels down and heads it in. Ireland win the World Cup! Yeaaaaaaah! Yeaaaaaaaaah!"

However, writing a story about something cretinous you did and using the third person is for mongs.

What did he think he was going to arrest them for anyway? Walking in a threatening manner? Causing public disorder by being too loud and possibly a bit blacker than some residents of County Clare? Attempting to blend in with the surroundings by wearing camouflage clothes?

These soldiers had just spent time in Iraq where terrible things happen but I bet you any money the story they'll tell over and over again is when their plane broke down and some 'peacenik' simpleton Mick tried to place them under citizens arrest.

As well as that he rang the gardai on 999 when a real emergency might have needed police presence. I mean, Michael Jackson might have needed another escort.

Anyway, if he's such a peace activist and anti-war activist what the fuck is he doing in County Clare? Not much fucking war down there. He needs to show some proper balls and go to Iraq and protest. Follow the lead of Ken Bigley. Then people might pay attention to you, Cregan.

A headless gobshite writing about himself in the third person would actually be something to get a pat on the back for. Try it. Come on.

Apparently he flew into Cork today to stay with Michael Flatley. Reports say:

"The children had their faces covered with hats and masks. And Jackson, who was dressed in black, shielded his face with a mask. A garda escort and airport security rushed the superstar and his entourage to a waiting silver Volkswagen mini-van with tinted windows."

I can only hope the garda escort was to ensure he didn't stop off at a children's cancer hospital on the way to make new friends, the filthy cunt.

I would just like to state on the record that I have never killed anyone.

Perhaps I might have dealt somebody a fatal blow or 'strangled somebody to death' but I have never killed anyone. Now that that's out of the way let me ask you something.

Would you kill somebody if you knew 100% that you would get away with it?

I mean get away with it on a civil level. No cops, no murder squad, no jail. What happens to you after you do it in terms of your own guilt is something else and those of you who believe in God and believe that when you die you'll be judged on your actions in this life have got that to consider.

Now, we'd all certainly have no hesitation in murdering Phil Collins if we got the chance and there are very few people who would pass up the opportunity to end the life of zany radio 'star' Ryan Tubridy so we'll leave those aside. Think about your own life. About people you don't like, about people who have crossed you, who have done you wrong, have done things to your family or friends, perhaps.

Then picture that person in front of you in a room, hands bound behind their back, begging for their life. Apologising. Promising. Weeping.

Could you kill them? Well?

I asked the lads in Ron's last night.

"I'd kill the shite out of anyone, so I would" - Jimmy the Bollix.

"I don't know if I could live with myself. To see the very life ebb out of somebody at my wicked hand would, perhaps, be too much for my brain to cope with" - Dirty Dave

"And I definitely wouldn't get caught? Right. Yeah. I mean, no. Although yeah. But Jaysus I might have to go the funeral, so no. Although maybe. No. Yeah. No. Yeah. Ah fuck ya, I'll be thinking about this all night" - Stinking Pete

"A-why you a-ask me this a-stupid question, Twenty?" - Lucky Luciano.

So how many murderous readers are there?

Not many people know Jimmy the Bollix is a true humanitarian. Honestly. Whenever there is a natural disaster Jimmy volunteers with the crew from Concern to help the people affected by the tragedy. He'll dig through the rubble for hours looking for survivors or their priceless heirlooms.

Some years ago he went to Tibet to see if he could find a way of getting the Dalai Lama back in instead of the Chinese who were ruining the place with their laundries and take-aways. He actually spent some time there practicing Buddism and living a simple life amongst the ordinary people of the country.

He learned their language and worked as a simple farmer working mostly with livestock. After some time he noticed that one of the typical Tibetan ox in his herd would stamp his feet in rhythm when Jimmy sang his favourite tunes such as 'I got you' by Split Enz or 'Love plus one' by Haircut 100. He then had me send him over a ghettoblaster, lots of batteries and as many Now That's What I Call Music albums on cassette that I could get my hands on.

Soon the ox was boogying and getting down with great gusto altogether and it wasn't long before people came to hear about it. In no time at all there was a great show every Friday night when Jimmy would play tunes such as 'Love ressurection' by Alison Moyet and 'Solid' by Ashford and Simpson. The people didn't necessarily enjoy the tunes but they loved the sight of this beast kicking it in what we would now describe as an old school stylee but back then it was perhaps a primary or a kindergarten manner.

Now, Jimmy knew he was on to a good thing here. He began to charge a small entry fee and because he was a decent promoter and not like some shyster who claims to have DJs from Ibiza at his club nights when in reality it was some bloke from Kilmainham whose sallow skin made him look Spanish he taught the ox some new routines so it wouldn't get boring.

To amuse his ever growing numbers Jimmy taught the ox the safety dance, the funky chicken, the Charleston, a merengue, two different rigadoons and a tarantella. It became the most popular night out in all Tibet.

Then one night it was said that a powerful tribal leader was going to come to the performance. His seal of approval could have seen Jimmy and his dancing beast crack the insular but lucrative Tibetan cabaret scene. Think Braemore Rooms crossed with the Moulin Rouge.

It was make or break stuff so Jimmy took the week off work. His arable farming was shared amongst his colleagues who eagerly wanted him to do well. He rehearsed for hours that week and made sure that all the moves, all the steps, all the shimmies and shakes were spot on. And his animal chum couldn't have been better. When he tells this story he's still amazed at how uncannily accurate the dance steps were.

So the big night came. The people were buzzing that night and not just because they'd been drinking imported Burmese rum. The first couple of songs went really well and then there was a bif of an accident. Somebody spilled a great big jar of Tibetan beer, known as Tibetan beer, all over the animal. When it happened the great beast threw himself to the sawdust floor and rolled around to dry himself off making the two hour grooming Jimmy had given him entirely redundant. Still, it wasn't about looks. It was about the music.

Then the powerful leader came in with his entourage and settled down in the VITbNtDL (Very important Tibetan but Not the Dalai Lama) area. The time had come. Jimmy knew he and his chum had to impress. He readied himself and brought out his big tune. The one they'd practiced to the most. The one that sent the people wild when they saw the grooving that went on.

Yes, it was Matt Bianco's 'Get out of your lazy bed'. The first notes rang out. The people cheered. They knew what was coming. Except this time something was different. Their enthusiasm waned as the dirty hairy beast pogoed around the dance area in ways that surprised even Jimmy. Out went all the moves he'd been taught and in came shuffles and sidesteps and some headbanging and jumping like when somebody plays 'Black Betty' at a school disco.

Everyone was agog, nobody more so than Jimmy. He was just transfixed. He couldn't turn off the music. Everyone else was the same and the powerful leader who had come to see this animal do the moves everybody had told him about sat slack-jawed, not believing his very eyes.

Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds later the he song came to an end. The creature stopped moving. There was silence in the room. Pure, unadulterated silence. Eventually the powerful leader shook his head, looked across the room and spoke to Jimmy.

He said "There's a mangy yak, mangy yak on the floor!"

"I know", said Jimmy. "And he's dancing like he's never danced before."

The indepedent TD yesterday slammed the appointment of Gay Byrne as Chairman of the Road Safety Authority and said that road safety in Ireland is being managed on PR basis not a practical basis.

He's right too. This star-fucker goverment appointed a retired ex-broadcaster because they thought it would curry favour with people as 'sure everyone loves old Gaybo'.

Not Paddy McHugh though. He said "We had just got rid of Gay Byrne from the national airwaves after suffering the trauma experienced by being exposed to him for so many years, and now the Minister of Transport is foisting him on us again."

Fucking brilliant! And he's right again. Years of the cunt on the radio every morning and years of him on the Late Late Show every weekend was more than enough.

It'll tell you how desperate we were to be rid of him that U2 said they'd give him a Harley Davidson if he retired and fair play to Bono and the lads, they came through with their end of the bargain.

Seriously, I'm just waiting for him to appoint Sinead O'Connor as his PA so she can do the press conferences with him and he can simper and fawn over her like a schoolboy again.

Christ, even Brian Kennedy would have been a better appointment. At least he has vast knowledge of tunnels, highways, back roads, alleys, beltways and drag strips.

In all seriousness though I think we need someone with vast experience of driving to show us the way. I'm thinking Ayrton Senna or Princess Diana's chauffer.

A man pleads guilty in 2002 to possession of child pornography. Five counts of child pornography.

He is ordered to undergo psychotherapy at something called the Granada Institute.

Fast foward to 2006. Judge Yvonne Murphy warns Mr Gerard McMahon that she will impose a custodial sentence unless he begins this therapy at once. Mr McMahon's counsel said that he hadn't done it because he had 'a very large number of difficulties that he had been trying to deal with and didn’t feel he was capable of undergoing such treatment.'

Well, we're very sorry you had a large number of difficulties but, you know, get fucked.

Gerard McMahon download images which included babies. Babies. In all seriousness, any large number of difficulties you might have go right out the window when you download pictures of babies like that. His counsel tried to argue he wasn't that bad because he just deleted the images after he viewed them apart from 6 pictures which he saved in a password protected zip file.

That's even worse. He obviously knew he was doing wrong so covered his tracks as he went along and tried to hide the pictures he wanted to save.

And this man has not been sent to prison. A judge, who has heard from Gardai that the images in question were of a 'graphic and horrific nature and fall into the very serious end of the child pornography scale', has not sent this cunt down. A judge has once again shown that there is no justice in this country for children who are abused and exploited.

They're quite happy to send family men to jail for protesting over a pipeline but a scumbag pervert gets not one but two chances.

Fucking horseshit. Worse than horseshit. Damienriceshit.

Don't pay your car tax and eventually you'll end up in jail. Be an 80 year old woman who doesn't pay your dog licence and you end up in jail.

Download and wank off over images of children and babies and you get told off and sent to therapy. Then when you don't do what the court ordered you get told off again and this time the judge says "I reallly mean it, mister!"

I hate judges. I really, really do.

...in today's Sun newspaper about a little girl who woke up from a 10 day coma after hearing James Blunt's 'You're beautiful'.

She blinked gently, rubbed her eyes and saw her parents who had spent every waking moment by her bedside, overcome that their little angel had woken up at last.

They smothered her with kisses and thanked God for bringing her back when they realised she was trying to speak. At first they couldn't hear her, her voice was cracked and dry. They leant in closer.

"What did you say, darling?", said her overjoyed mother.

"Turn that fucking shite off, would ya?"

Emergency workers in Dublin could be issued with 'stab vests' as the number of attacks on them increases. Apparently one fireman needed 35 stitches in his face after being hit with a bottle.

Outrageous. The only time you should bottle a fireman is if you come home and find him in bed with your wife. Or your teenage daughter. Or both at the same time.

Bottling somebody who's been called out to try and put out a fire is more than a bit wrong. I can understand people attacking the police. It's to do with the nature of their jobs but you really have to question the intelligence of somebody who attacks fire brigade or ambulance workers.

If you ask me the very least they should be issued with is tazers as well. If they're trying to put out a fire or cut someone out of wreckage or piece somebody back together after a domestic dispute escalated into throwing somebody out of a window and they get attacked then they need to be able to defend themselves.

Those tazer things hurt like fuck apparently so they should taze their attacker in the eyes. Firstly the little spikes in their eyes would certainly smart and then when you ran an electric current through their eyes and into their teeny-tiny brains they'd think twice about attacking a fireman or ambulanceman again.

What would be even better is if they had a special suit which emitted a forcefield around it and when the oncoming skanger tried to get close to give them a smack they'd run into it and crash down like the poor old Silver Surfer every time he tried to escape from the Earth's atmosphere.

Or we should create a scientific programme which harvests embryonic and adult stem cells (to keep everyone happy!) and look for the Manimal gene which would enable the emergency worker to mutate into a panther or a hawk and then savage or indeed poo on the attacker from a great height.

As people debate the morality of stem cells and the possibility of curing degenerative diseases they're totally overlooking the cool stuff you could do. Like making a fireman turn into a big black cat.

Let the debate begin.

I'm thinking of running for Taoiseach as an independent candidate. As a man of means I would have no need to steal money from the people of Ireland and nobody could ever accuse me of living a lifestyle that I couldn't afford.

I would bring strong leadership to a country that needs it and what better way to show it that banning things. Banning things is the true mark of a decisive leader. So as part of my upcoming campaign here are some of things I would ban.

1 - The accordian: An instrument played by cunts for cunts. Anyone found with an accordian will be beheaded.

2 - Chewing gum: Especially strawberry flavour but especially Nicorette gum. If you want to quit smoking there's no need for you to take up a far more disgusting habit.

3 - The unholy trinity: Brian Kennedy, Damien Rice and David Grey will all be prohibited from creating any new music and any existing works will be exported at en masse to Iceland as punishment for Bjork.

4 - People who can't speak English: You know, when I order something in a bar or a restaurant and ask for something in a shop and the person looks at me like I'm speaking in some kind of 'click click beep beep' language that's a cross between R2D2 and a space alien I find it kind of frustrating.

If you want to work in a service industry it's a good idea if you can understand WHAT THE FUCKING CUSTOMERS ARE SAYING TO YOU, YOU CUNT. So they're banned and so are the minimum wage paying, scabby cunt bosses that hire them.

5 - Pigeons: Stop dive bombing me you fuckers. Banned.

6 - Reality TV: Television for cretins by cretins and starring cretins. The only reality TV show I would allow is one where anybody made famous by reality TV is put into a house to live with all the other z-list cunts and one by one the public votes for the one they want to put into a giant blender set up on College Green. The winner is the last one remaining and they'll be pissed on, rubbed in their own shite and then blended just to make them feel extra special.

7 - Jennifer Lopez: Ireland has little enough sunshine as it is. We don't need that bitch coming here and blocking it out with her giant arse.

8 - Shandy: Fuck off, you soft twat. Have a beer or have a lemonade. Don't mix them.

9 - TV3 news: Instead they will be forced to broadcast a picture of an arse with a poo half in and half out. Children will be forced to watch as they will learn much more about the world than listening to Alan fucking Cuntwell and that Ursula Hannigan yoke.

10 - Free entry into Ireland: Anyone from outside Ireland who wants to come and live here will have to pay a €10,000 entry fee. As soon as they start to work they can claim it back in monthly installments. If they don't work they don't get anything. No social welfare, none of their entry fee back. Nothing.

If I have to reclassify Ireland as Europe's largest theme park then that's what I'll fucking do.

So there's 10 off the top of my head. Obviously there are plenty more so it's over to you. Best suggestion gets a place in the cabinet as Minister of doing whatever they like.

That fucking Haughey mocks us even in death.

His funeral can take place any old day. The chance for a bunch of nitwits to parade around in celebration of Ireland's most unreadable work of literature only comes around once a year.

Not only have the Egyptians given us the pyramids, the sphinx, the Valley of the Kings, Omar Sharif and Boutros Boutros-Ghali they are now making their most important contribution to civilisation.

Yesterday Egypt's culture minister said he would be seeking to ban both the book and the film of the Da Vinci Code. And the Egyptial film censor said "I can’t ban something I haven’t seen, but if it violates religions, it will be banned according to law, not me. If the movie is anything like the book, it will be banned."

Brilliant, well in you pharaohs. The book is exactly like the film, fucking shit.

I think what we need to do is a create a new religion in which we worship the God of all that is not fucking shit. We will call him Archibald. Then when fucking shit things are released to the public, such as the Da Vinci Code, a Damien Rice album, Paris Hilton, a Brendan Grace DVD, Ryan Tubridy's radio show, any episode of the Late Late hosted by Pat Kenny, anything by Brian Kennedy or another series of celebrity Jigs and Reels we can deem it anti-religious and have it banned.

Not only that we can charge the perpetrators with blasphemy and have them put to death.

Let's face it, Dan Brown should have been banned at birth.

I knew an Egyptian girl in my youth. What a looker she was but man was she a pain in the asp.

Just cos a cunt is dead doesn't mean he wasn't a cunt. - This person (the last post on the page).

Naturally he was discussing Charles Haughey but the point is an excellent one. There was a bloke who used to hang around Ron's a few years back called Enda McNicholas.

He was a fucking turd of a man. He was a cheapskate who hardly ever bought anyone a pint despite the fact he was never short of a few bob.

He had a lovely wife who would come and pick him up when he was in his cups and he would belittle her every single time she came into the bar. It was awful. She was such a sweet woman and he'd stand there and crack feeble jokes which made nobody laugh and made her squirm with shame and embarassment. The fact that he was having a long term affair with a gossip columnist made it worse. Everybody knew. I suppose even she knew but it was just never spoken of.

He was aggressive when he never had any need to be and a coward when he should have stood up to be counted. He would do things then try and blame other people.

He was an inveterate liar who invented a murky past and stories which couldn't possibly have been true in a vain attempt to be vaguely interesting.

He was a petty thief who preyed on people in wheelchairs, old ladies and handicapped children.

He smuggled arms into the country for the IRA.

All in all he was really not a nice person and when he was beaten to death one night nobody even slightly upset.

Not till the day of the funeral though. His poor old wife asked Ron if she could have the afters in his place. He laid on the tea and coffee and the soup and sandwiches and after the cunt had been buried in Mount Carmel cemetery we all came back.

You'd swear we'd buried the pope the way people were talking.

"Ahh sure he was a grand man really."

"Don't we all have our faults? He was no different."

"Let he who is without ... erm ... whatever that is ... throw the first ... erm ... whatever it was". Dirty Dave is not well up on his scripture.

After listening to this for a while though Jimmy the Bollix couldn't stands no more and he had to say something.

"You fuckers are full of shit. This man was a fucking shyster and a spiv all his life. He said one thing and did another. He told us how to live our lives frugally while he fucked off to Paris with his newspaper column writing girlfriend and did her six ways from Sunday in a suite in the Ritz which cost more for one night than your average man earns in a month. He stole. He made his fortune by fucking over the ordinary man and I don't mean Christy cunting Moore. He, a rich man already, took money from rich people so that they could make themselves richer at other people's expense. He looked after his buddies once his buddies paid him enough money. He was a cheat, a crook, a seasoned fabulist, a man who would move the pieces on a chessboard if you went to take a piss, a man who only ever acted in his own self-interest and here you all are saying he's a great man. You fucking cunts make me sick."

"Jaysus, Jimmy", said Stinking Pete. "A bit of respect. This is the man's wake. His wife is standing right beside you."

"No, he's right", said his wife. "I'm glad he's dead. He humiliated me in public time and time again. I only stayed with him because how else could I continue to enjoy the lifestyle he provided?"

Nobody raised a glass to him that day because nobody could be arsed filling up a pint glass with their own piss.

Let the revisionism begin…

Odds on everyone saying Charlie was a great leader, wonderful man, rogue character, we are all like Charlie etc etc - 10-1 on

How many people will bring up his attempt to bring down McCracken, decades of corruption, endemic cronyism…. 50-1

From Gavin.

I'd cut that 10-1 down to 1-2 on and push up the 50-1 to 1000-1. Nobody who dies is ever a bad person even if they were the biggest fucking crook anybody had ever seen and that's without knowing the half of it, I'd wager.

Look at Diana. Before she allegedly shot bits of my old French chum out of her arse she was a slut banging every darkie heart surgeon she could get her hands on. Afterwards she was a saint.

No tears from me that the slippery old cunt is dead.

A state funeral, you say? Maybe I'll chuck some eggs at the hearse, get my money's worth.

--------

They just don't get it. How many times do we have to spell it out? If he hadn't robbed his best mate's liver money we wouldn't have the Celtic Tiger. - big heh for Blogorrah.

Ron has a nice big plasma screen in his place so we can watch the World Cup. The group stages are great. Roll in around ten to two and then sup pints and watch football until 10 at night.

Normally it's relatively quiet but after enjoying Australia beat Japan with a late, late show better than anything Pat Kenny has ever done and the Czech Republic thrasing the USA 3-0 the last game of the day was Italy v Ghana.

Lucky Luciano invited some of his Italian friends to watch the game in Ron's and they took time out from their waiting jobs and from cooking chips for most of the city to come and drink and watch football and enjoy the World Cup fever everyone has got.

There was Mario, Luigi, Luca, another Luca, another Luca, Marino, Antonio, Alessandro, Matteo, Alberto, Giuseppe, Fortunato and Roberto. Fair fucks to them, they drank like absolute cunts and then the game started and they drank even more. Pints too, none of those half-arsed glasses of beer or glasses of wine (which are ok at home but not ok in a pub, let's be honest).

They're very passionate about their football and even though there were lots of Italians Ron does not allow foreign languages to be spoken in his bar (bar certain phrases) so they had to remonstrate and gesticulate in English.

"Totti, you a focking piece of a sheet. You a mama she suck a de cock in the streets of Napoli"

"Oooh Mama, Pirlo, this is a not a pass. This is a focking present to the Africanos, cazza di merda!"

"Pirlo, you are a dirty shit on the a bottom of a my underpants. I a hate you. We should a leave you in a Roma."

Pirlo shoots and scores.

"Pirlo! You are a the best. I a love you."

In the second half Ghana were pressing for an equaliser and Italy were playing catenaccio (really typical Italian defensive football).

"Camoranesi, you a look like a de focking red indian. Spend a more time practice a football and less looking like a Wella woman and we can a tell a Wella woman a by the way she a wear her hair."

"Iaquinta you need to stop a being a shit and remember Paolo Rossi or a Marco Tardelli. If you ever a come in my chip shop I a spit in your scampi."

Ianquinta scores the second goal which seals the game for Italy.

"Iaquinta I a love you. You a marry my daughter. Only marry though. No a sex or I cut you cazzo off."

In the end Italy won 2-0. The Italians drank some more and off they went to God knows where.

Tomorrow it's South Korea and Togo, France v Switzerland and Brazil v Croatia. Luckily we don't have any regulars from those countries.

We used to have a Frenchie, Rapping Robert (Rob-errrrrrr), who would bust a rhyme about Michel Platini, the Louvre and the TGV at the drop of a beret.

He died after shining a light into the eyes of Princess Diana's driver all those years ago. When the car smooshed him into the concrete pillar they just made out his remains were bits of Diana that had shot out of her arse on impact.

Allez les bleus.

I'm sure lots of you of my fellow Dubliners order pizza by telephone every now and again. It's a grand bit of a meal really.

Granted it's nothing like you'd get in Italy, Lucky Luciano says he hasn't yet found a pizza he'd wipe his arse with let alone eat, but beggars and choosers and all that. How far wrong can you go with a pizza?

Anyway, the other night I went out for a little while and left Dirty Dave over at my place. He's got podcast fever, the mad cunt, and he was off doing his stuff again.

This time he rang up 8 branches of the same Dublin pizza chain and asked them if they would be able to put a special ingredient on a Hawaiian pizza for him. The special ingredient happened to be slices of snake meat. To be precise it was cured reticulated python that his brother had brought back from a recent trip to South-east Asia.

Surely none of them would allow him to put slices of snake meat on a pizza in their oven. Well, download the podcast and see what happened for yourself.

There's no question it's a perfect indictment of the service industry in Ireland at the moment.

Take it away, Dave: Pizza Podcast - 9.83mb

Yesterday I got a lovely email from a girl called Nikki Brown who apparently works for the LA Times.

She sent me an email, out of the goodness of her heart, because she wanted to give me a break from the more mundane news stories and that the stories she sent would be 'off-beat and worth of conversation'.

Let's examine those stories:

1 - Whatever happened to the class of 90210? Firstly, I'm sure they're all retired now as they were 40-something when the show first came out and secondly who gives a fuck?

2- A story about how some magic pouring device affects the tannins in red wine and makes cheap wines taste better. Truly fascinating. Anyone who drinks cheap red wine deserves everything they get.

3 - A biography of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's baby. No, really. Must quite a read.

That baby has done so much in its short life.

4 - A story about a 9 year old pirate who died when he was 9. Another of life's great achievers.

5 - Some schools ban MySpace. Some don't. Shock horror.

6 - Midget rodeo. Fucking little cunts on their Shetland ponies.

And she calls the rest of the news mundane?

Yesterday we had a chief terrorist blown to shite, 3 kids not allowed to do their exams because their hair was too short, 200+ drink drivers about to be set free and Hitler's bunker identified in Berlin.

Much more interesting than the LA Times shite. I'm still not sure why she emailed me though but I hope she stops before my heart gives in to all the excitement and simply explodes in my chest.

Also, Jimmy the Bollix once worked at the Beverly Hills hotel when yer woman with the wonky eye and buck teeth from 90210 came along and propositioned him. He fled for his very life.

So the World Cup starts tomorrow. Excellent, this means non-stop football on the telly.

I'm glad Ireland aren't there to be honest. I find it hard to get myself revved up supporting players just because they happen to be Irish when I've spent the whole season hating them because they play for teams I hate in the Premiership.

Robbie Keane. He's like a 21st century Desperate Dan. What an enormous jaw he has. No problems putting away those cow pies, that's for sure. The thing is Robbie plays for a team I hate so why, all of a sudden, am I supposed to cheer him on when I'm hoping all season long he'll somehow fracture his anus and his cruciate ligament goes on fire.

I'm not really following any team in particular this year, just hoping for some good football and memorable moments.

Underdogs beating favourites, cracking goals, some scandal involving some famous players, handball goals against the English, mad Africans booting the ball away at free kicks and Jimmy Magee's commentary.

I haven't missed a World Cup final since 1958 when Pelé scored two. I've always been fairly neutral but I badly wanted Holland to win in 1978. Without the talismanic Johann Cruyff they played the hosts, Argentina, in the final.

The Argies won after extra-time and Mario fucking Kempes but I don't think I've ever seen so much toilet paper on a football pitch as in that World Cup. It's no wonder the Argentinian economy has gone to shit. They're so wasteful.

Despite my reluctance to support Ireland I have to say Italia 90 was good fun. So much drinking. I remember coming across town when we played Romania in the second round. The streets were empty. There wasn't even a Romanian beggar to be seen.

Dirty Dave didn't have a happy night when we crashed out to Italy though. He was walking up Nassau Street having watched the game in Club Nassau and some bloke walking alongside him kicked the lights in on a car. When the owners of the car caught up with Dave they were convinced it was him that kicked their lights in and they pummeled him into hospital for 4 weeks.

That would never have happened if Toto Schillachi hadn't been born but how can we hate a man who has given us such classic hits as 'Africa' and 'Rosanna'?

I like books, I think I've mentioned that before. One of the things that annoys me about books though is how nobody eats properly.

Now before you accuse me of being just like your mum when you were away at college ("Are you eating properly? You look thin. You don't look like you're eating properly"), I mean they don't ever eat like normal people.

Authors seem far too keen to show us they know how to cook when they'd be much better off concentrating on writing. Take the book I'm reading at the moment as an example. The main character has just become involved in a series of murders. Basically the people she talks to get bumped off just moments after she's left them. Talk about a fucking Jonah. Anyway, she's naturally a little freaked out by this and rushes home to discuss the situation with a friend.

Now most people, if they could face eating at all, would ring a chinkies or get something from the chipper. Not this girl though. Here's what she prepares, whilst scared out of her wits:

A loaf of fresh dilled rye bread which they cover with a crock of trout mousse. Then they move on to have thinly sliced veal smothered in kumquat sauce, fresh spinach with pine nuts and fat red beefsteak tomatoes broiled and stuffed with a lemon apple sauce. That was all served wth wide fan-shaped mushrooms sautéed lightly and a salad of red and green baby lettuce with dandelion greens and toasted hazelnuts.

Seriously, that is not a word of a lie. Fuck me. What a well stocked larder she must have. If people all around me were being bumped off I'd be hard pressed to make beans on toast let alone all that.

Come on, authors. Make your characters eat properly. The book isn't bad but it would have been much better if that whole scene had said:

She came into the house, looked in the cupboard and found some pop-tarts which she ate while explaining the situation to her friend.

And another thing, authors, watch those overly long descriptions. I read a thriller by an Irish writer recently and she took great pains to explain to us how to make coffee.

Joe opened the cupboard and took out the coffee beans. He then opened the drawer and took out a spoon. He put the spoon in the coffee beans then emptied the spoon, on which the coffee beans rested, into the grinder. He ground the beans then when the beans were ground he put the powder into the coffee maker. Then he opened the top of the kettle and filled it three-quarters full with water and then put the kettle back on the element. He turned the kettle on and waited for the water to boil. When the water had boiled he poured it into the coffee maker....

I swear to God it was at least half a page when she could have just said "Joe made a cup of coffee". We get it, lady, you don't drink Maxwell House instant but give me a fucking break.

Less is more, sometimes.

He may be a smelly cunt but Dirty Dave is a Macintosh genius. He came over earlier to upgrade my system and now I have brand new iPhoto for all the pictures I don't take and brand new Garageband for all the music I don't make.

While he was doing his stuff I went round to Ron's for a pint.

"Don't fucking wreck my gaff", I said, "or do anything stupid."

"No worries", he said.

Well, my gaff isn't wrecked but he's only after going and making a Podcast which involves him ringing the Church of Scientology to get some publicity for the new branch he's opened on the South Circular Road.

I have no clue about how to do the Podcast/iTunes thing or what tags and shit you need so it's just uploaded and you can download it by clicking below:

Dublin Church of Scientology Podcast - 12.45mb

ps - if someone wanted to fill me in on how to do that 'subscribe in iTunes', RSSing of podcasts and such that would be much appreciated.

You might think that just because I'm an old cunt from Dublin I've had no impact on the world of popular music. Long term readers will know this is false as older stories will prove. However, there are many other examples of how I, or my friends, have influenced music over the years.

Oh, you want specifics? Ok then.

1 - Stuttering Steve, Dirty Dave's second cousin, was in a bar in London in 1970 and asked David Bowie if he had any ch-ch-change for the cigarette machine.

2 - Jimmy the Bollix had a friend who had an ice factory in America. He would go round with these massive blocks of ice selling chunks at a time to people during the hot summer months. Sadly, this man also had a young son who got run over by a car. He was on the point of death when the man had an idea. Distrusting of hospitals he decided to freeze the boy, Walt Disney style, until a cure was found for his many injuries which included a fractured arse, dislocated testicles and ruptured armpit.

So the boy remained in a freezer for many years. One night Kate Bush came into Ron's for a pint, which she often did back in the day, and Jimmy told her the story which then inspired Kate's big hit 'The man with a child in his ice'.

3 - I once told Stinking Pete to take our mates Supertramp to Bewley's on Grafton Street for breakfast. Being a piss head simpleton he thought I said take them to New York. The rest is history.

4 - One day me and Jimmy were in Northern Ireland and we ran in to Undertones lead singer Fergal Sharkey. After we'd stopped taking the piss out of him for having no lips whatsoever we went on the lash and got to discussing how things used to be much better 10 years ago. Music, clothes, girls, everything. Even bodily functions were so much poorer in that day and age prompting Jimmy to opine "A good fart these days is hard to find."

5 - Lucky Luciano tells of his sexual prowess, particularly when he was a young man. He tells the tale of when Abba toured Italy and he scored with the blonde girl. Apparently they had sex for 48 hours straight but after the first 24 hours she went into some kind of trance and completely blanked out the rest, including Lucky's enormous climax. Some time later they released 'The day before you came' in tribute.

6 - Me and Jimmy used to hang around in San Francisco with Chris Isaak in the early 90s. What a quiff he had. To take the piss a bit we got toupees made in the exactly same style. "What a wigged game to play", he'd say.

7 - Not many people know there were originally 6 members of Duran Duran. As well as the ones you all know there was a lad called Lorcan McManus from Clondalkin and I was actually the manager of the band at that stage. Well, I decided we'd go on a bonding weekend to Yellowstone National Park which went fantastically well until we got lost in the woods one day and Lorcan was set upon and consumed by a starving wild beast.

Although "Hungry like the wolf" was a massive hit I never got any of the credit as I'd been fired by a distraught Nick Rhodes just after the tragedy.

8 - While in New York Stinking Pete introduced the Fun Loving Criminals to a new type of Ecstasy which were shaped exaclty the same as Great Dane testicles. Scooby's Nacks became all the rage then.

9 - Gilbert O'Sullivan once came into Ron's and after a few Canadian Club and Ginger ales proceeded to read us a poem he'd written.

"That's a load o' me hoop", said Ron. "Nothing rhymed".

10 - Stinking Pete was involved in a tempestuous affair with Rosanne Barr whilst he was going out with a triple amputee with two tongues and a gee that joined up perfectly to her anus. As my good old friend Bernard from New Order commented that was a bizarre love triangle.

All true.

Why do some blogs insist on referring to themselves as 'we' when it's clearly just one cunt and his computer?

"We here at Super Blog Towers think that..."

Get to fuck. The word you need is 'I'.

So it turns out Dirty Dave's lovechild, Felipe, comes from Dave's liason in 1987 with a young Spanish girl called Yolanda.

Dave picks up the story.

"So there I was walking past the Gresham Hotel, whistling 'Sign o' the Times' by Prince, wearing a deadly polyester-linen combo suit I'd gotten at Unique Boutique on Liffey Street, when a young woman came flying out the door and landed on her arse.

'Holy shite', I thought to myself. So I went over to help her up.

'Y'all right there, love?', says I.

'Jes, I am marrrrvellous', she says.

'Ahh, fair enough', I said and carried on. It was only then I realised she might have been being sarcastic so I asked her if that's what it was.

'Noooooo!', she says dramatically. 'I am totally serious.'

I don't need to be told twice so off I went. But something told me I might have been mistaken so I went back and there she was crying.

'Ahh now. What's the matter?'

'I now have no job. Stoopid focking manager he think I am stupid but he don't know nothing, hijo de puta. He fire me because I tell to cusomter 'Don' you focking touch my arse you bastard old pervert. Juh make me seeeck!' and manager tell to me is no way to talk to this man because he own tea shop and I say 'I don' care how many focking tea shop he own he don' touch my arse'. Now I must to go look for other job and this week is my rent and is come at terrible time. Terrible.'

Now, at that time I'd come into a few bob after I collected on the bet I made with Stinking Pete when we were kids. I'd predicted the death of Fred Astaire and Pete said there was no chance of me being right and even gave me a three day window each side of the date. June 22nd I said and fucking bang on June 22nd he died. Pure coincidence of course.That meant Pete had to cough up. Remember that Pete? Deadly, it was. No point sticking your fingers up at me now. Quit living in the past man.

So I offered to give her a hand till she found a new job. I sorted out her rent for her, took her for a slap up feed at Gigs Place and we even had a drink or two. For a little woman she certainly put away the booze. Apparently they're all drunkards in Seville, for that is where she was from, and she told me a bit about her hard life back there.

'Oh Daveeeed, ees a story very difficult and shiny', she said, getting her adjectives mixed up in a way I would come to adore. 'When I am young my family is live on beeg, smelly farm and my father every day he make me go out and milk the bulls and horses. Was terrible, every day to do thees. Also we have many trees of olives and he make me go pick the olives and then hatch olives into oil.'

Her verbs were a little off too. She went on, 'For years I am thinking to escape and to learn the Eeeengleeesh and one day meet an Irish sailor in Seville who is very lost. He tell me Doobleeen is home to many great writers like Brendan Bejam, Jaime Joyce, Samwel Beckett and man who will write hilarious newspaper character about man who pretend to be rich and say 'Roysh' and make much money from same joke over and over. He say me to learn Eeengleeesh I must to go there. So one day I stick out thumb and get lift to Doobleeen.'

She also explained that all the time working in the smelly farm had dulled her sense of smell which is why my distinctive odour wasn't off-putting to her like it is to nearly every other woman in the world. Soon we had become embroiled in a passionate affair like Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity or that boy and the shop dummy in Mannequin.

We did it everywhere. The sofa, the kitchen, the front hall, the Barna shed, the toilets of the Submarine bar in Crumlin, in the back row of the Carlton cinema watching Full Metal Jacket (heh, suck on that Private Pile), her little bedsit in Rathmines, on the banks of the canal in full of everyone drinking outside the Barge and in every alleyway we could find.

She would say 'I love juh so much Daveeeed, we do it like... how do you call those leetel animals with the beeg ears and beeg teeths?'

'Germans?'

'No! Rabbits. Thees. We are like the rabbits!'

It was a wonderful time, probably the best 2 days of my life, but on the third day I went to meet her and she never showed up. I went to her bedsit and knocked on the door but she wasn't there. I checked back every day for a week until I realised she'd gone and I was never going to see her again. For months afterwards I would just find myself walking up Grove Road for no reason hoping against hope that she'd be there but she never was. Jaysus, I still remember that smell she had. Like olive oil and horsespunk.

And I missed her like the deserts miss the rain but I thought it was all over. And I was right. I've never found out why she left the way she did, the way she shattered my heart into a thousand tiny pieces like a glass that has been pushed over and shatters on the floor into a thousand tiny pieces.

Now look, I've got a 19 year old son."

And that's how Dave got his lovechild. For the record the young fella smells like his mother and his father combined.

He's now known as Filthy Felipe.

Sitting in Ron's having a pint. A scruffy young vagabond enters.

"Do any of you know a bloke called Dirty Dave?", he says.

"Maybe", says Ron. "Why?"

"It's just me Ma told me I'd find him here."

I'm looking on with much curiosity. Jimmy too. Stinking Pete's jaw is close to dropping. Dave is conspicuously silent.

"So why exactly are you looking for him?", asks Jimmy the Bollix.

"Well, me Ma and Dave were friends lots of years ago and she died recently and left him a large amount of money. As such I'm trying to find him to pay him what he's owed."

"I'm Dirty Dave!", roared Dirty Dave.

"And your surname?"

"Dirty Dave Davidson!", roared Dave again.

"Dad!", said the young vagabond.

"What?", said Dave.

"Jesus", said I, Ron, Pete and Jimmy.

Dirty Dave has a lovechild and he's an unwashed minger. Why are we surprised?