Having to apologise when you don't really mean is a pain in the arse. Like if you sent somebody an email from your work address and called them a cunt then the cunt publishes the email on his website and then you have to say you're sorry when you're really not because the cunt is a cunt and that's why you called him a cunt.

You should always send emails calling people cunts from a non-work address, kids. If not your career prospects may not be enhanced.

I remember in my office working days a foolish boy doing a 'reply all' to an email that was sent by the Chief Exec. It was some typically nonsensical piece of crap that was supposed to motivate us, to make us believe that what we were doing was important and that the company was worth giving that little bit extra for instead of being a badly run, overspending, over-reaching, caught up in the tech boom disaster waiting to happen.

His reply: "If that cunt spent as much time working as sending these shitty emails things might be better around here. The bacon in the canteen might even be crispy of a morning!"

He was forced to apologise even though he didn't mean it.

Like the time I walked into the canteen one day after we'd had a meeting with one of the bosses to find my fellow team mates sitting around a table.

"What a fucking cunt that cunt is", I said.

I didn't notice their faces dropping.

"Seriously, if he wasn't the boss he'd be the butt of so many more jokes. He disgusts me. He's a wimp. A fucking corporate wimp."

He was sitting behind the pillar out of my sight.

"Oh", I said. "Sorry about that."

I wasn't really sorry though. He was sorry that he couldn't fire me however but that's a different kind of sorry.

Oooh, the winner of the Tour de France tested positive for drugs. The sport is weeping as it was doing so much to clean up its image. People are devestated.

People are fucking fools.

I'm sure most of us have ridden a bike at some time. We all have stories of steep hills we had to climbs up.

"I remember how hard it was to cycle up the mountain to that pirate radio station when I was 16"

"I'll never forget the hill I had to cycle up to get home through the houses. I remember trying to pedal but forgetting how when I was so drunk and falling off and landing on my snot"

If ordinary people like me and me have such problems cycling up relatively small hills how the fuck do you think it feels to pedal up the side of the Pyrenees then up the other side of Alps?

If someone had offered me drugs to get to the top of the hill where my house/pirate radio station used to be I'd have bitten their hands off. What do they expect when they make these poor fuckers cycle 150 miles a day for three weeks?

It's no wonder they use drugs because if they didn't the Tour would finish with 0 riders in Paris and that's not really the spectacle the people who lines the streets of the Champs Elysee want to see.

They need to accept that making people cycle around the highest mountains in Europe for 21 days is actually as cruel an event as you could possibly get and that the blokes that do it deserve to power themselves however they see fit.

Yes, we would see serious advances in drugs that can keep you going all night so it's not just professional cycling that will benefit. It's club goers, nightclub owners, people who take lots of drugs and truck drivers. They need to see the bigger picture here.

Soon there will be super-drugs that will enable even the man on the street the take them and be able to bomb up the Alpe d'Huez and the Col d'Izoard.

Cyclists will be the fastest non-engine powered sportsmen on earth. If they take the drugs away they're going to make it ordinary and let's face it, they're never going to get rid of the problem from the sport so they need to embrace narcotics, level the playing field and make the sport interesting again.

"Bags of speed. Get yer bags of speed, 5 for 50."

We don't need extra lanes. We don't need a spaghetti junction. We don't need a dedicated lane for people driving from Ballymount to the N4.

We just need you to take away the cunting toll bridge which is the cause of ALL the delays and which has paid for itself twenty times over now.

They're just doing more work so they can justify keeping and routinely increasing the toll.

I know we're never ones for doing things the easy way but if option a is - Take away the toll bridge and let traffic flow and option b is - spend millions more which you don't need to spend, make things worse in a half-arsed attempt to make it look like you want to make things better only to find the same fucking problem at the end of it, then you have to say we're being very Irish going for option b.

Why will nobody kill these fuckers?

I do hate conversations like this.

"How far is it to X place?"

"Ooooh, I'd say it's a good 45 minutes."

Now, the first thing I would say is that I did not ask you how long it would take to get there. I asked you how far away it was. Therefore I would expect the answer to consist of a certain number of units of measurement. There are many acceptable forms...

"It is 14 miles away."

"It is 22.530816 kilometres away."

"It is 4.055 leagues away"

...and so on. Even if you couldn't be that exact you could say "It's quite far away indeed" or "It's actually quite close". That would be fine as follow up questions could help narrow things down a bit.

I do not understand people's insistance in measuring distance with time. The second thing is that it's a 'good 45 minutes'.

Is there a difference between a bad 45 minutes and a good 45 minutes?

Perhaps a good 45 minutes means we will travel on a newly tarmacadamed EU funded road. A bad 45 minutes we have to travel a dirt track with a punctured and run the risk of attack from trolls, goblins, Romanians and other despicable underworld creatures.

It's just wrong. If somebody asked you for the time you wouldn't say "It's delicious and minty!". No, you would say that if somebody asked to describe a mojito. It's the same thing.

Why can't people just answer the questions they're asked?

Watching the news last night and I saw our old chums the Irish Palestine Solidarity Campaign protesting outside the Israeli embassy in Dublin. You might remember these are the same people who couldn't tell the difference between a Palestine Arab and an Israeli Jew on the Israeli national football team then tried to cover up their ignorance with some third rate photoshopping.

Yesterday they had a 'die in' outside the embassy. Tasteful, eh?

'Shock tactics' will really get your point across and not make people think you're a bunch of cunts. Now, let me make it clear I'm not saying that because I'm pro-Israel or anything like. Each side has its own story and personally I could live without either of them. What they should do is move all the Israelis to some state in the US, perhaps Oregon (heh!), let them bring the wailing wall and the mount of olives and leave the middle-east to the rest of the cunts. Done and done.

The main problem I have with them is having an 'in'. It doesn't really matter how you try and dress it up an 'in' is fucking pathetic.

A 'love in' like John Lennon and Yoko Ono and lots of hippies (not at the same time) had.

A 'sit in' like groups (what is the collective noun for students? It's a cunt of students, right?) of students to protest that they have to do more than 10 hours of class a week. Ask the Chinese how their 'Tiananmen in' went.

A 'dance in' or a 'guitar in' or a 'cook in' or any other kind of 'in' is just fucking shit.

An 'in' appears to be nothing more than sitting around in a confined space doing fuck all. If they were really so passionate about it why didn't they have a 'chuck bricks through the Israeli embassy's windows in'?

Ins are nothing more than a coward's way out and at least if you're going to have a 'die in' at least actually fucking die you stupid cunts otherwise it's just an 'acting dead in'.

Morons.

"Jaysus, did hear about Noel Quinn?", asked Dirty Dave.

"Naughty Noel Quinn or Notshot Noel Quinn?", I asked in return.

"Notshot!"

Now, naughty Noel was a bit of a character. He was just like a naughty boy and would do things, even at his age, that most 10 year olds wouldn't do. Like fling eggs and buses and do knick-knacks where he'd ring on someone's doorbell and then run off.

Notshot Noel was the worst footballer I have ever seen in my life. When we were young we used to play on the same team and he always used to play, every week without fail, because his Dad, Quimface Quinn, was the manager. Noel was so bad that he'd make Kevin Kilbane look a decent player. Despite being a striker he hardly ever scored and if he did it was by accident. He once missed an open goal from 3 inches. He's that bad.

"So what happened to Notshot?"

"The mad cunt only tried to kill himself."

"Get out. What happened?"

"Well, he got a gun off his cousin, who's a farmer somewhere in Meath and tried to shoot himself. He missed though."

True story.

People that only try to kill themselves and don't manage it are a bit shit though, aren't they? If you really wanted to kill yourself there's really no way you can fail. Overdose, gun in the mouth, hanging, jumping off a tall building, falling on your sword, cutting your genitals off then choking yourself to death on your own genitals, cyanide, slitting your wrists, being found dead under a tree after the BBC exposes you as a mole about the war in Iraq, over-exposure to Phil Collins singing 'In the air' tonight, the possibilities are endless.

Anyone who can't top themself obviously is completely crap. If you can't even do something as simple as kill yourself then you can fuck off.

And if you're too rubbish at life to do that then you just need to embrace your hopelessness, go out and have a few pints, a large bag of chips and not worry anymore.

Anyone who has 'attempted suicide' more than once and is still around just needs to be put down. It's best for all concerned.

Stinking Pete came over the other night to have a few drinks and watch a fillum. All the new stuff is pretty crap so it was an old classic, 'Blazing saddles'.

The titles come up and Pete asks "Is Technicolor© a person?"

"You what?", I said convinced he was taking the piss.

"It's not a person, is it?"

"No, Stinking Pete. Technicolor© is not a person. Jesus wept."

It's just another addition to the list of stupid questions he's asked over the years.

"Do ants have antlers?"

"Can you eat a cloud?"

"If you put your eyeball up your nose and it was still connected with all the same wires and stuff could you see out your nose?"

"Do pyramids have double glazing?"

"How did they get Hitler's ball to the Albert Hall anyway?"

"What would happen if the number 7 just didn't exist any more?"

"Do wasps have hands?"

"How would Rapunzel have let down her hair if she was deaf?"

"Are Mormons mammals or lizards?"

There have been loads more. I just can't think of them.

What's the most stupid question anyone ever asked you?

I really hate when you're reading a book and enjoying the book and given the amount of pages remaining you think you've got loads to go then you discover that the last 20 pages are an 'exclusive preview of [[author's]] next novel'.

YOU FUCKING CUNTS GETTING MY HOPES UP LIKE THAT.

Stop it you publisher cunts. Just stop it. If the book is good I'll buy the fucker's next book anyway.

Gah.

Most of you know that I love booze but there's nothing better than going on the piss and waking up the next morning and still being drunk. It's tremendous value.

You're drunk the night before and you're drunk the next day. It's like going on the piss when you're alseep and you don't have to pay anything.

I have to give thanks to a very beautiful friend though for ensuring I got home safely last night. She went to my house and took Bastardface out for a walk and then picked me up at Rons at which point I insisted she come in for a nightcap or three with Bastardface in tow.

The dog looked at me suspiciously as I hugged him drunkely and he tried to eat Stinking Pete's feet because he'd dripped kebab sauce all over them.

He doesn't look especially engorged this morning so I assume Pete still has his feet.

The last thing I remember is my beautiful friend insisting that handicapped people smelled like mushrooms and that cripples smelled like something else but I can't remember what. It might have been 'their own wee' but I just don't recall.

Right, I'm off to enjoy being drunk in the morning until the headache kicks in. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I was reading about David Bowie the other week and it was interesting to discover his 'cut up' method for his lyrics. Basically he'd write a lot of lyrics, then cut them up into single lines, throw them all in the air, take a lot of cocaine then put them back together randomly to find the lyrics for his songs.

For example,

I, I wish I could swim.
Like conger eels, like conger eels can swim

was quickly discarded when he found a piece of paper with the word dolphin on it.

So, I decided to do something similar but with booze instead of cocaine as drugs are bad, mmmkay and Derek the dealer was nowhere to be found. I wrote 10 blog posts and I'll take a line from each one and put them together randomly. Here goes:

- I can remember as a small child looking out my bedroom window one night and seeing a cat underneath the tree in the garden and thinking it was a sabre-tooth tiger.

- Not long afterwards a quiet hush descended on the room as Stinking Pete let the loudest fart anybody had ever heard.

- "Yeah? Come over and say that you chicken shit piece of dog spunk", I shouted as yer man ran shrieking out the back door.

- Twice as many people from Ghana revealed that they would rather listen to Wang Chung's 'Everybody have fun tonight' than spend an hour in the company of former Boyzone star Shane Lynch.

- And with that the old man revealed to me the meaning of life, all the secrets of the universe and how to make an elixir which would bring eternal youth and I'll tell you what it is on the very next line.

- I ask you, would you be able to get the image of MIchael McDowell gently opening Mary Harney's flaps before sticking his forked tongue in and out of it while the Minister for Health made strange bleating noises?

- If I had to cast a live action Irish blogger's version of the Muppets I'd hire Damien Mulley and Gavin Sheridan as Waldorf and Stadler - they're not as grumpy as the originals but those Cork accents are just funny enough to make up for it.

- So first you get some butter, melt the butter, slap it on generously and then insert it into the obvious place making sure not to get it caught on any of the barbs as they can cause serious injury.

- "Get fucking cunted you cunting wankstained shit-eating, cock smoking, piss drinking, mutant faced cunthammering cuntbag fistoholic", said the old lady to the small child.

- So, as you can see the way to solve the crisis in the middle-east is to send all fat people to live there after we've smeared them with coarse cut orange marmalade and dressed them up like the Artane Boy's Band.

And there you have it. Maybe I need a tune to make it all work. The Laughing Gnome, perhaps?

Another tsunami, hot weather in Dublin, surely Armaggedon can't be too far away. Seriously though, the heat is wrecking people's heads. What little ability they had to think clearly beforehand has been well and truly wiped out.

Take this exchange between Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete last night, for example:

"Here Stinking Pete, have you noticed anything unusual about your bowel movements lately?"

"Erm, I'm not sure, Dirty Dave. I always have a good look behind me when I'm finished and it's been a long time since I saw any worms."

"No, not that. More the consistency of your stool."

"Well, I go every morning at 10 and every evening at 7.15. Regular as clockwork, so I am."

"No, I don't mean that. It's just that with this hot weather and all I think my shite is melting while it's still inside me."

"Really, what makes you say that?"

"Well, instead of being long logs of shite I'm spraying liquid every time I sit down. Like last night I was walking home and I felt like I had to fart but it felt like my ring-piece was opening too much for a fart and there was the very definite danger of following through. And as I was wearing me nice white linen pants that would not have been good."

"Wow. I never thought about that before but I suppose it makes sense. I mean, if you put a chocolate bar down your t-shirt and went out in the sun it would surely melt so there's no reason while the waste matter inside you wouldn't melt either."

"Exactly. To take it a step further imagine the shite as chocolate, your bowel as a saucepan the sun as the flame from your gas hob underneath it. The sun would melt the chocolate so it's obvious that the sun is cooking our shite too."

"Fucking hell. You're some man."

"Here, do you reckon the sun would make your piss warmer too?"

"Only one way to find out. Ron, give us a pint glass there, will ya?"

The arrival of autumn can't come too soon.

Once upon a time there was a little pig. He lived in land which was given to him after a great battle.

Unfortunately this land was taken away from a goat, a cow and duck-billed platypus. None of the animals could ever agree about anything. One day one of them was standing too close to the fence of the other, the next one would complain that the smell of the other's poo was too strong, the day after there would be complaints about the loudness of somebody's plaintive mooing.

After a while though the goat, the cow and the duck-billed platypus began to gang up on the pig.

They taunted poor old piggy mercilessly.

"You stinking pink cunt", they'd shout over the fence. "You're good for nothing but eating swill and rolling around and oinking a lot."

The pig had broad shoulders though and he was able to ignore their insults. Then they moved up a gear and began attacks on his land.

The cow would propel his mighty cow pats causing horrific damage. The goat would sneak onto the pig's land and munch important documents and occasionally the odd piglet while the duck-billed platypus would fill urns with his urine and use a crop sprayer to drench the pig's land with his rancid juice.

But the pig was stoic and he carried on with his normal life as best as he could.

The others, enraged at the pig's ability to ignore their best efforts, decided they had to go further so they would kidnap the pig, torture him and hold him hostage for months at a time before releasing him back home. He tried to improve his fence and security but the cunning of the goat, the brute strength of the cow and the tactical military planning of the duck-billed platypus was too much. As soon as he'd recover they'd kidnap and torture him again.

The pig was able to withstand many things but even a creature as phlegmatic as he had a breaking point. He knew he needed help and although he didn't have too many friends in the region he had one confidante that would help him.

"Eagle", said the pig, "I am selfless and forbearing but this is becoming too much for me. What can I do?"

The eagle, a wise and noble creature, considered for a while before speaking.

"Pig", he said. "Suffering and joy teach us, if we allow them, how to make the leap of empathy, which transports us into the soul and heart of another person. ln those transparent moments we know other people's joys and sorrows, and we care about their concerns as if they were our own. Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved."

"I see", said the pig. "And I understand but this situation is too much for me now. I just don't know what to do."

"But there is suffering in life, and there are defeats. No one can avoid them. But it's better to lose some of the battles in the struggles for your dreams than to be defeated without ever knowing what you're fighting for", the eagle replied.

"Erm...", said the pig.

"What man actually needs is not a tensionless state but rather the striving and struggling for some goal worthy of him. What he needs is not the discharge of tension at any cost, but the call of a potential meaning waiting to be fulfilled by him", said the eagle.

"That's all well and good, eagle, but they are kidnapping me, torturing me, holding me illegally against my will", cried the pig.

"Oh for fuck's sake Pig", said the eagle, "just call Hamnesty International then."

Oh Phil Oakey, how far-sighted you were.

Little did you know your 80's hit would still be fresh and relevant in the mid 00's. Glad to see MacDara is getting out but the Irish bars of Beiruit will suffer because of his absence.

People don't stop to think about the details of how Israel's bombs affect the community. Yes, some people are killed and some people are maimed and have their limbs blown off and are scarred for life and lose loved ones and their homes and property and famillies are destroyed by Israel's totally disproportionate response but what about poor old Paddy from Paddy's Pub?

What's he going to do when all the Irish are gone? This time those Jews have gone too far.

I will stand idly by while they blow civilians to pieces while tugging their curly beards and blaming them for aggression against their state but once they start putting Irish bars out of business then they've just made themselves another enemy.

What if this affects the worldwide sales of Guinness and in order to recoup the profits lost the world's most famous brewery uses lower quality hops or grain which negatively affects the taste of their stout?

I can't let that happen, I won't let that happen and I can't let that happen.

I'm off to throw lumps of Denny's ham at the Israeli Embassy. They'll probably launch a rocket attack on Cabra but a man has to stand up for what he believes in.

Bleeeurr. Mraaaarf. Uburuburubur.

The noises of the hangover.

I need to add 'clink clink stir' but I fear it's too early in the day to hit the Tanqueray.

Update: The 'clink clink fizz' of the Alkaseltzer and the 'plop plop flush' of a massive crap seem to have improved matters slightly.

I met a man from the Czech Republic last night. He played the violin and sang Nico songs.

He had very frizzy hair and I think he must have been mildly autistic. I gave him some money as he played his peculiar brand of music for a very long time in the square I was sitting in.

As he played and song in that strange voice of his many, many accordian players walked through giving him dagger looks. No joke, at least 6 of them came by but the man from the Czech Republic kept them at bay.

They were spitting mad. It was hilarious. He deserved the money I gave him for making them angry for so long and for saving me from listening to their music.

As Hitler said, "The definition of a real gentleman is a man who knows how to play the accordian but doesn't."

Eventually he stopped and came around with his cap. As soon as he'd left the accordionators moved in. Oh dear.

I followed my new friend from the Czech Republic.

When the only TV channels you have that speaks English are Sky News, BBC World and CNN it's not good.

After an important meeting with some Eastern European investors for my wonderful invention mentioned yesterday I got back to my hotel to watch something to pass the time before a dinner of more gruel.

Sky were reporting on the bomb blasts in Mumbai. As it was breaking news it wasn't scripted and the bloke was absolutely rubbish.

"So the ...er... bomb blasts have been ...erm... condemned and thus far we ...er... have only speculation about who might be ...erm... responsible for the ...er... blasts which ...erm... ripped doors and carriages off ...er... the trains...."

And the worst thing is that the minute you start noticing the 'er's and 'erm's you can't not hear them and then it becomes really fucking irritating.

Being rather bothered by the Sky bloke I switched over to the BBC because at least the BBC was staffed by professional broadcasters. They certainly wouldn't inflict hopeless pauses and silly grunts at me, would they?

They would. Talking about the Geneva convention applying to the people at Guantanamo he was just as bad as the Sky fella.

"So ...erm... the US government has ...er... announced that ...erm... " etc.

Shocking. Why can't they get people who can speak more than 5 words without an 'erm' or an 'er'? It's a fucking disgrace is what it is.

These people need to be told they're on live television and if they can't speak properly then they need to go empty bins or something else which better befits their talents.

I would fire them on the spot and the best thing is Sky and the BBC and CNN have plenty of broadcasters who can just waffle non-stop without 'er'ing and 'erm'ing and that's what makes you notice it.

Fire them. They deserve it.

Sorry that posting is a bit off-kilter this week. I'm travelling and working on an invention.

How many of us have wished we had something to mask our footprints in order to further cloud the evidence trail? How often have criminal been caught by CSI style technicians because they've left a clear as mud footprint in the ..erm... mud?

Well, my idea, which came to me after drinking lots of Havana Club rum, is that when you're barefoot somewhere and need for your footprints to be covered up you can slip on a mould of a left foot on to your right foot and vice versa.

When that fat beardy cunt comes along and takes out his magnifying glass he'll be completely flummoxed because there'll be a big toe and a little toe in exactly the same place. He'll think there's some kind of freak out there and will send his entire team out to look for a freak with a massively deformed foot.

Our clever criminal though will simply take off his mould and nobody will ever catch him.

I'm trying to find investors in Eastern Europe and it's all looking very promising. Apart from the gruel they serve here. At least they have Havana Club rum.

I might spend the afternoon trying to come up with a new invention.

Daer readeers,

I havfe jsut arrived hmoe aftre cebrelating teh wrold copu filan wiht Lulcky Lucioanao. I remememebre ltos abotu the gmae adn is a shame taht zidane diudn't loaf matahari in the teeht and not teh cchest.

I nmay hve drunk a bit tooo mchu.

Now i msut go adn go unconcsious.

Twetny

"Twenty", said Dirty Dave. "If I was to put you in a situation where your life was in extreme peril and the only way you could save yourself was by choosing one of the following options, which would you choose?"

"Go on then", I said.

"Number one - wearing a pair of shoes all day that were 2 sizes too small for you. Number two - wearing y-fronts which go up your hole or number 3 - having the same dinner every night for a week. What'll it be?"

"Are you taking the piss?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, apparently my life is in danger and to save myself I would expect to have to perform an act of courage or do something so difficult or disgusting that I genuinely have to choose between death and this option."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, your options could be, for example, number one - drink the 8 pints of horse spunk they supposedly emptied out of Marc Almond's stomach all those years ago. Number two - listen to Damien Rice's music on an iPod for 48 continuous hours or number 3 - spend more than five minutes in a room with Ryan Tubridy and not call him a cunt. Those are real challenges. Yours are not."

"I see. So my options would be for someone whose life wasn't necessarily in danger but may in danger at a later stage or is potentially in trouble without actually being in any danger at all."

"Yes, but then what's the fucking point then? Why would anyone whose life wasn't in jeopardy take part something like this to begin with?"

"Erm..."

"Dave, usually your stupid questions and ridiculous scenarios have some comedy value as they are so ludicrous but I have to say in recent times they've been well below par. Like the other night you asked if I had to choose from cheese cake, profiteroles and lemon sorbet as my desert which would I go for. That's shit man. It's certainly not up there with 'Who would win a fight between Godzilla and Enya. You need to sort it out."

"Sorry, Twenty."

"Yeah, so you say."

"No, really. I'll do better. I'll try harder. I promise."

"Promises, promises, Dave. Words are cheap."

"No, really. I wi-"

"That's enough. Get some pints in."

"Two pints, Ron. Cheers. So Twenty, if you could be any piece of furniture, what would you be?"

So the Irish government are urging people to buy shares in Aer Lingus when the national airline is floated this year. Fuck that shit. Remember they urged people to buy shares in Telecom Eireann, now Eircom, as well?

Nobody made any money out of that apart from Eircom employees who still pick up healthy cheques each year because of the employee share scheme thing. Regular people who put their savings into it ended up with fuck all as the company was floated with a share price way above it's real value which plummeted almost straight away.

The only way I'd buy shares in Aer Lingus is if I could buy them all then I'd sack all the lazy, SIPTU cunts that 'work' there.

I might launch a share issue of my own though. David Bowie did it. He sold shares in himself and I bought a large number. I never did a go on Iman though.

Fucking rip off.

I hate when things happen at the last minute to deny me a great achievement.

Like earlier this evening I was in the back garden doing keepy-ups with a football. I was 4 away from breaking my all time record, which is a number so high that it wouldn't fit on this blog, when Bastardface decided he was bored of lying there watching me dink the ball from left foot to right foot to head to thigh to hell to back of neck and so on.

He leapt up and nicked the ball from me and went "Nrrggrrrrr, rrrrrr, arararararararar" across the garden before nudging the ball under the shed.

I love my dog but he's a right cunt sometimes.

I remember another time when I was driving down Aungiers Street and I saw Brendan Grace crossing the road.

'Hurrah! My chance has come at last', I thought, but no. The fat fucker looked back and realised he'd dropped something on the pavement and went back and got it thus avoiding the front of my car. Tarnation.

Not all people hate last minute stuff. Take my chum Lucky Luciano for example. Take some quotes from him as we watched the Italy v Germany World Cup semi-final in Ron's last night.

"Grosso? His a name a mean 'fatty' in Italian. Is a big a fatty. Do a something you fatty shit."

"Del Piero, you a make a me sick. Miss a the goals in 2000 against a the France. Vafanculo, Alex!"

Italy score two goals in the last minute of extra-time to put them in the semi-final.

"Bravo, Grosso! Bravo, del Piero. Optimo! I a love you a you both."

Some people just like last minute things. Sometimes.

"They're the best days of your life", people will say.

Of course they're talking absolute shite because the best days of your life are when you have money to do stuff and buy things and take things that make you see things and you don't have to get up for work the next day.

Some school stuff is funny though.

Like Colin McNamara putting his hand up in class and saying "Father, I don't feel well."

"You look fine to me", said Father O'Malley.

"No, really. I have a terrible pain."

"Where?"

"In my ...erm... stomach."

"Right. Shut up, McNamara."

15 minutes later.

"Father, please. Can I go to a doctor? It really hurts."

"SHUT UP, MCNAMARA OR I'LL MOLEST YOU."

"Ummff", said McNamara as the blood drained from his face.

About 10 minutes later McNamara slumps from his desk to the floor. Father O'Malley realises there might actually be something wrong with him. He kicks him a bit till he wakes up and tells him to go to the office and to ring a parent to bring him home.

Despite not being able to walk very well he leaves the room. When he returns to school 14 days later we discover he twisted one of his testicles and was sitting in agony all that time. He had 30 stitches in his sac too, according to him and when he was getting them out he got a massive boner when the nurse was in front of him and she whacked the top of his knob with a wooden spoon.

Then there was Jim O'Leary who was quite mad and wore an eye patch because he had a lazy eye. You never see kids with eye patches these days. I suppose they've realised it's just a better idea to give the little fuckers glasses rather than cover up the one eye they can actually see with.

There was another guy in the class called Kevin something, I can't remember the surname, but he was a pain the arse. I suppose in hindsight he wasn't really a bad bloke but when you're 12 or 13 you're much less tolerant.

Standing outside during break one day Kevin had his back to O'Leary who took advantage of this by taking out his langer and pissing all down Kevin's leg. Maybe one of us should have said something but it was too funny.

Not as funny as seeing Kevin with one steaming hot leg chasing after O'Leary who was still trying to put his lad away.

Then there was the history teacher who fell to the ground clutching his heart and started foaming at the mouth. He had a heart attack and died right in front of us. Hilarious. Apart from the fact that Richard Byrne was traumatised and wet himself. Sorry, that just made it more hilarious but smellier.

What about your school days?

Sometimes the people of Ireland confuse and upset me. They will tolerate corrupt leaders, get ripped off and do nothing about it, allow shite like Celebrity Jigs and Reels to be broadcast without toppling the transmission tower at RTE, buy the records of Damien Rice, make it seem plausible that Martin King knows anything at all about the weather and allow Dana to have lived so long.

Other times they make me happy though like when 85% of people polled believed they should be allowed defend themselves from burglars in their own home without the threat of prosecution and a lawsuit.

As one man put it, "A good beating should be an occupational hazard for someone who thinks threatening families in their homes is acceptable."

Absolutely right. As far as I'm concerned if you come into my home to try and steal my stuff then you have automatically given up any rights you might have.

My home is protected by a state of the art security system called Bastardface. My trusty hound patrols the grounds of my back garden and has previously eaten a decent percentage of someone who tried to burgle me.

However, all security systems have their flaws and I suspect a tricksy robber might use the old chunk of steak with some sleeping powder or the rings of sausages that used to lure Scooby Doo away from his watchpost. So if that guy got into my home, having doped up my dog, and was proceeding to steal the things that I stole myself in various raids around the country worked so hard for I think I should be allowed to knock the shite out of him without fear of recrimination.

There is no way that anybody who enters your home illegally should then be allowed to sue you because you caved his head in with a poker and left him a dribbling cabbage that needs round the clock care.

Why should I go to jail when I come home and find a pair of skangers rifling through the desk looking for the keys of the safe and break their knees with a baseball bat and then tie them up and use the baseball bat to smash all the bones in their legs into tiny little pieces so any recuperation, if it's actually possible, will take years of painful surgeries and physiotherapy so they can hobble around like 95 year old men who have had both hips replaced?

Is there any good reason why I should be inflicted with the presence of both the Gardai and lawyers because I awake to the sound of a window breaking and then knock the intruder unconscious before starving him to death over a period of about 3 months in my basement?

There is not. And that's why the people of Ireland have made me happy. Of course there are still 15% of people who think it's ok for some cunt to come in your house and then when you prevent him stealing your things you get prosecuted and sued and possibly lose your home to pay the little cunt that was trying to rob you in the first place.

Why don't you just let them fuck you in the arse as well while they're at it? 15% is a lot of people at the end of the day.

Probably just enough to make the burglars fancy their chances. Zero tolerance would be much better but some people believe these people have rights.

I bet you any money none of those 15% have ever been burgled.