In the end I decided not to go near the marathon. Anyone that willingly runs over 26 miles is quite obviously deranged and after my deeply unsettling incident with the mad German the other week I'm trying to stay away from those kinds of people.

I went and had bank holiday pints instead but there has been a worrying development. I'm good with a few pints but in recent weeks if I have a skinfull I spend the next day sneezing and woooshing and garumphing (that is the sound of one of my sneezes which are like snowflakes, each one has a unique melody) and it's worrying me because what if I'm becoming allergic to Guinness? Life just wouldn't be worth living.

I was slightly cheered by the thought that the sneezing has coincided with the acquisition of Throatripper the kitten. Maybe I'm just allergic to him.

He appears to be very grateful that I rescued him as he brings me gifts. Yesterday I was in the kitchen when I heard a strange mewling noise and he appeared at the door, wandered over to where I was standing and spat a bird at me. Not just any bird though. Somehow he'd taken down an emu. I'm always happy to get presents but what the fuck am I going to do with a dead emu?

I spent ages cutting the fucker up and putting it in bin bags before fucking it into the canal. I'm going to have to teach him to bring home wild boar or suckling pig. Emu just isn't that tasty.

Anyway, let's pray, and I'm sure you'll light a candle or blow up a train (whatever your religion dictates), that this sneezing is not an allergy to Arthur's finest.

I'm not sure I could cope.

I'll be back later. I'm off to the Dublin marathon where I'm going to trip up as many stupid cunts running in costumes as I can.

For Sinead

Came home drunk. Woke up sober.

Labels: 6 word story, six word story

What a disaster befell me yesterday. I put on my favourite pair of runners and discovered that they didn't fit any more. These runners are more comfortable than the bed in the Presidential suite in the Westbury Hotel. They are to comfort what Guinness is to beer, what Argentinian cows are to beef, what Ricicles are to breakfast cereals.

I couldn't believe it and it's not that they've gotten too small it's that one of my feet appears to have shrunk. After years of wear these things fit me like gloves but yesterday my left foot was too small for my left runner.

It's unlikely that the shoe has gotten bigger so it has to be my foot. It was slipping and sliding around in there like Bambi on ice.

I had to wear three socks on my left foot to make it fit properly. What the fuck is going on here then? Can it be that my foot has shrunk or have some shoe goblins broken into my house and slightly enlarged by footwear just to cause me botheration?

If it's shoe goblins I'm going to fucking kill them, I swear to God.

I heartily endorse Fianna Fail politician Charlie O'Connor who says those who attack fire brigades and ambulances on hallowe'en night should face jail sentences.

There are plenty of other things to blow up and throw eggs at. The list is endless:

Ryan Tubridy, scorpions, German rock group 'The Scorpions', TV3's garden, Cecilia Ahern, Bertie Ahern, Bob Ahern (lives round the corner from, is a cunt), blue cheese, people who drink shots of Jaegermeister in a glass of Red Bull and so many more.

Be creative people, ambulances and fire brigades are the easy targets. They've put further restrictions on fireworks again I see. I haven't been down Henry Street in the last couple of weeks but I assume the same fat old women hiding rockets and bangers in their many body cavities are still doing the business.

A bloke came into Ron's the other night selling boxes of fireworks that he'd brought over from somewhere. It was an impressive collection and I ended up buying more than I should.

Half a pound of plastic explosives, 4 sticks of TNT, an M72 LAW rocket launcher, an FIM-43 Redeye Anti-aircraft Missile, two cruise missiles and three packets of sparklers.

Watch out, Tubridy...

"Well there I was in the Stephen's Green shopping centre", said Stinking Pete regaling us with another of his fantastically tedious tales.

"Right..."

"And you know the way I have this affliction."

"Which particular one? The one that makes you stink? The one that makes you a stupid cunt? The one that makes you get eye-boogers as big as marbles?"

"Now, now, Jimmy! No need for that. I'm talking about my flatulence problem."

"Oh", I said.

Stinking Pete has a problem with flatulence when he eats certain kinds of foods. Any meat, anything with vegetables, fruit, wheat, flour, dairy products, fish, rice or herbs makes him fart like a trooper. Sometimes he can't stop farting. He blasts them out like bullets from an Uzi. Often this happens as he's walking along splattering the person behind him with the foul air from his behind. The only thing he can eat which doesn't make him fart are spice burgers as they are made from man-made synthetic foods.

"So I was wandering past Hughes and Hughes, I was going to go in and buy a book about the sinking of the Titanic because I wanted to see if anyone got a picture of Leonardo da Vinci drowning in real life, when all of a sudden I got a fart attack. *blam* *blam* *blam* *blam* they went but there were at least 300 of them in a 10 second period. I had stand still, I couldn't go forwards or backwards for fear of following through. And the stench? My god, it was I'd eaten a skunk marinaded in cow pats and cat piss."


"Beautiful, Stinking Pete, just beautiful."

"Yeah, but this is the strange part. I heard a voice behind me saying 'I can help you' and I turned around and there was this familiar little man who told me that he had healing hands and he could cure what ailed me."

"Is that right?"

"It is. He told me to accompany him to the men's toilets and he would lay his hands on the afflicted area and after that I would be healed and I would never again suffer the flappy anused farting that has afflicted me for so long."

"And did you?"

"I certainly did and he laid his hands upon the area in question and amazingly I haven't farted since. It was only on the way home that I realised the little man in question was Chris de Burgh!"

"Ok, so you went to a public toilets with Chris de Burgh and allowed him to lay his hands upon your arse, is that it?"

"Yes, well...er....yeah, I can see how it might look but he kept his digits to himself, Twenty. It was palms only and I swear to God himself I haven't let off in...

*THHHSSSSRRRRRRAAAAAAAAARRRRRRPPPP*

...ah fuck, that's the second time that cunt has done that to me."

While I'm very sorry for the families of the young lads in Monaghan who died at the weekend it's becoming clear that the whole road safety issue is being sensationalised by the media, used as an political hammer by the opposition and topped off with understandable, but useless, emotion from the families of people involved.

When you read the newspapers calling for 'draconian measures' to cut down on the number of the deaths on the road you know we've lost sight of the crux of the problem.

The problem is that people are stupid, impatient and stupid. Did I mention they were stupid?

How many times have you been overtaken by some guy going way over the speed limit who weaves in and out of traffic and then you come to the next set of traffic lights and there he is right beside you? What did his speeding get him? 2 seconds, if that? Stupid.

I was involved in a car crash once. Driving through a crossroads. I had a green light. Bloke coming the other way decides he can turn across before I get there. Smash. I was banjaxed but because I wasn't speeding I was alive. The other bloke? Nothing, not a scratch. Stupid cunt.

The boys in Monaghan at the weekend. I'll stand to be corrected on this but I can't imagine it was just an unfortunate turn of events that left two cars looking that this:



Those cars crashed head on. Somebody was being stupid. Without the stupidity those boys would be alive. Harsh, I know, but that's the reality of it.

Penalty points would not have stopped the crash. More education and a longer process to get your licence would not have stopped the crash. Telling young drivers they can only drive at 80km per hour would not have stopped the crash.

The only thing that would have stopped the crash is not being stupid and while some people will say that greater road education will cut that down I don't agree. I go back to the point I made yesterday about people doing things that they know are bad for them but they still do them. Young lads who drive badly and dangerously know that it's bad and it's dangerous but they still do it. No amount of theory classes or restrictions on their licences and cars will prevent a person from driving dangerously if that's the kind of person they are.

Minister for Transport Martin Cullen is under intense pressure the news reports and papers say this morning. What do people expect him to do? Do they expect him to instill common sense in young lads who have just got their licences? How can he stop someone from doing stupid when that person knows what they're doing is stupid but does it anyway?

It's not that people don't realise overtaking on blind corners and racing your mates and driving drunk or stoned is wrong. Everyone knows it. Everyone.

Everyone knows it's wrong to steal a car but still there'll be some group of young lads who will rob a car, go joyriding and plough into a family on their way home from a great day out. And it's because they're stupid or they don't care what happens. There really is nothing you can do to educate people like that.

I would suggest that 95% of all road accidents are caused through stupidity, whether that's dangerous driving, drunk driving, falling asleep at the wheel, going too fast when it's wet etc. Then there's 5% when a tyre blows out or something else happens. Those are the kinds of accidents you can prevent by improving mechanics or technology but at the end of the day you cannot stop stupid people being stupid. It's impossible.

I'm no fan or Martin Cullen but to put to him under that much pressure because of the flaws of human nature is just wrong.

Road safety is just the latest cause célèbre. Something else will come along in a few weeks or months at this will all be forgotten.

No matter what happens, no matter how much hand-wringing there is, no matter how often you try and change people's views people will still die on the roads. It's a fact of life. The sooner we accept that and get on with dealing with real issues the better.

Labels: roadsafetyblog, stupid drivers

Thinkhouse PR

For reference.

Labels: damien mulley, google, Thinkhouse PR

You know what I'm fucking sick of?

Newspapers, TV and radio going on and on and on about road safety and the carnage on our roads. Every fucking expert has an opinion.

- restrict the speed of cars
- make young drivers do extra lessons
- more penalty points
- zero tolerance to drink driving

Yeah, yeah, yawn fucking yawn. The sooner we just accept the fact that travelling on roads is inherently dangerous and that there are always going to be accidents the better.

Yes, people could drive better but everyone knows that. People know smoking can kill you but they still do it. They know murder is wrong but they still do it. They know buying Phil Collins' music means it encourages him to make more but they still do it.

Trying to make the roads safe is like trying to make the rain dry. Impossible.

Just shut the fuck up and let people get on with it. All your think-tanks, so-called experts and that cunt Gay Byrne (a former TV presenter appointed head of the Road Safety Authority just to show how serious the government was about it) can go fuck themselves because they're useless.

People will always die on the roads the same way that every so often there'll be a train crash or someone will break their neck playing rugby.

The only way to make the roads safe is to prohibit all vehicles and install those moving walkways they have in airports. Even then there'd still be some cunt who bumped into some other cunt trying to get past him or someone would drop dead of a heart-attack and cause some kind of a pile up.

Stop wasting your time and newsprint on something you can't do anything about.

Link

Labels: road safety, roadsafetyblog

Was over the other side of town on Saturday night with Jimmy the Bollix and after our work was done we decided to stop in at a local hostelry for some light refreshments.

It was a busy enough bar and not too many seats. There was one table, a nice table which would have seated 5 or 6, free apart from one bloke sitting there.

"Here, we'll go over there and sit down beside that bloke. Look his pint is almost gone and once we're sitting he'll bugger off."

I had a look at the bloke. He looked sort of like Rick Moranis from Ghostbusters crossed with Gene Wilder. He looked back at me. I could feel him undress me, flay all my skin off and feast on my organs while listening to some classical opera with his eyes.

"No fucking way am I going anywhere near that cunt, Jimmy. He's not right."

"Ahh, stop being such a fucking fanny, Twenty."

"Fuck off, Jimmy. I'm not going to sit beside him or even near him."

We stood at the bar for a couple of minutes and then the strange bloke got up and headed towards the door. Jimmy was over like a shot with the two pints and he beckoned me over.

I went over, sat down, rubbed my eyes and Jimmy was no longer there but the fucking mad man was. He'd come back.

"Hello", he said in a German accent. I think he probably was German but he might just have been mad enough to talk in a German accent.

"Er, hello", I said thinking of a hundred ways to kill Jimmy, the cunt who ran off as soon as yer man came back.

"I very much to talk to ze people who vill entertain me!", said the lunatic.

"Oh, very good", said I looking anxiously around me.

"Yes, I vas going into town to O'Sullivan's vich is my favourite pub but I missed ze bus and I am soooo laaaaazy I need zat someone pushes me out ze door", he grinned maniacally.

"Well, there's plenty more buses at this hour", I said hoping this would be the push he needed to fuck off and get one.

"Yes, ze buses run until twenty-sree sirty and zen zere are ze nightbuses. I like ze nightbuses. Zey all run on time."

"Er..yeah."

He sat there smiling at me. I could tell that he was thinking of how he was going to sauté my brain. Then I saw Jimmy coming back so I grabbed the pints and left him at the table.

"I have to go talk to my friend now", I said and made haste to the other side of the bar where there was a ledge. I called Jimmy many names, much to the amusement of a group of lads sitting at a table.

The crazy bloke was then talking to one of the lounge boys, who he saw like one of those apes with a big red arse that he could rape before he smothered it with a cushion with a floral pattern on it, and then he came over.

"I am sorry", he said, "but did you sink you vere taking my place?"

"No, no. Not at all but please excuse us we have important business to discuss."

"Please, sank you. I vill speak wis you anoser time."

He went away then and after 5 minutes he left the pub and we took the table he'd been at. Now, Jimmy thought I was overreacting to the loon.

"He's only a person who was talking to you", he said.

He doesn't understand though. Genuinely mad people make me very uncomfortable and this bloke was genuinely mad. He might have looked like a bit of a special needs eccentric but I bet he lives in a house with a basement and in the basement there are corpses and he tells people to rub the lotion on its skin and so forth.

Some mad people are funny because they do funny things like Streaking Steven who would, every couple of months, tear around Superquinn in the nip until the cops came and brought him home.

This one wasn't a funny mad person. He was a mad mad person. I had a lucky escape folks and don't let anyone tell you any different.

Love this quote from today's News of the World. They have a list of stuff that Paul McCartney's peg legged wife did like throw ketchup at him and call him an old bastard and left him home alone with the baby. This is just classic though:

[She] LONGED to have her own chat show—and FANTASISED about becoming the new Posh.

Whatever you might say about her you can't fault her ambition. Being the new Victoria Beckham truly is the pinnacle of womanhood.

Dear spamming cunts at dealigg.com you are spamming cunts who have spammed the comments on my blog and who knows how many other blogs.

I thought I had a duty to inform you that you were spamming cunts and the more people that know you're spamming cunts the better.

So, if you have been spammed by the spamming cunts at dealigg.com why not let everyone know. The more people that know these spamming cunts are spamming cunts the better.

The fucking spamming cunts.

Labels: comment spam, cunts, dealigg.com, people who have sex with their own sisters, spam, spamming cunts

In Ron's last night some bloke, who I recognise from coming in quite regularly but not enough that I might talk to him, came up the bar.

"Evening lads", he said.

"Howya", we all said before trying to get on with the very interesting conversation we were having about what would happen if you had a hornet crossed with a grizzly bear that you could control with a remote device of some kind.

"Seen that they've got Christmas decorations in some of the shops now".

"Yeah, it's terrible etc etc etc", one of us said disinterestedly.

"Yeah, cards, tinsel, holly, crackers, presents, wrapping paper, the whole lot".

"True", someone said with even less curiosity than the last time he spoke.

"I swear to God, every year they seem to be advertising Christmas earlier. You have the shops, the decorations, the gifts. It's just earlier and earlier."

"OH fuck off!", I said.

"What?", he said.

"You know what's worse than the fact that you can buy Christmas decorations in October?"

"I dunno", he said.

"It's the cunts complaining that you can buy Christmas decorations in October. Fucking hell, it's hardly a surprise now, is it? It's been like this for years. That 'christmas advertising comes earlier and earlier' is just a fucking conversation starter like 'Busy night?' to a taxi driver. It's not true. For years now we've had christmas advertising in October. It's not new. While I agree with you it's fucking tiresome and far too early talking about it here isn't going to make it any better. In fact it's going to piss me off because I can't stand talking about it because for the first week it happens it's all anyone talks about as if it's the first time it's fucking happened."

"Erm..."

"I would put it up there with tsunami a couple of years ago for annoying things. Back then all anyone could ask you was 'What did you think of the tsunami?' and I could think of saying was 'Well, Dublin wasn't in the least bit affected so, you know, I don't give a fish's tit about it but I wish they'd put something else on the news because I'm bored out of shite about the cunting tidal wave now'. So, unless you want me to bash your face in with the leg of this stool please talk about something else."

"Fair enough. Have you heard the new Damien Rice album? It's great!"

*THWACK*

A woman admits to beating a man's head in with a hammer after her sister cut his throat with a Stanley knife. Then they spent 'hours' cutting him up into pieces in a bedroom with a bread knife. They took several trips to dispose of the body in the royal canal. She then put the severed head in her son's schoolbag, kissed the bag then took a bus to Tallaght to get rid of it. While doing that she drank a bottle of vodka and tried to smash the head up into little bits.

Both she and her sister that slit the man's throat with a Stanley knife deny murder.

Erm, what? They already admitted to the Gardai they did it, how the fuck can they deny it?

It's like that time I was caught on surveillance camera selling guns, drugs, fireworks, organs, counterfeit money, knock off DVDs and stolen cigarettes from the boot of my car outside Johhny Fox's pub up the mountains.

"We've got you red handed", said the Gardai.

"Not at all", I said, "you see, I didn't do it."

"Damn", said the older of the two, "if only we had some kind of data to prove the facts in issue and which may include the testimony of witnesses, records, documents, or objects".

"If only", said I as I got into my car and drove away.

As I was leaving the car park I rolled down the window. "Evidence!", I roared at them.

"Ahhh, that's it", he roared back. "Good luck, Twenty. See you next time."

Phone in radio shows. They go from the sublime to the ridiculous. The sublime only tends to happen at moments rather than consistently throughout a show but good presenters and good subjects can make for good radio.

Lots of radio presenters are pretty crap and their researchers and callers are pretty crap too. Now, that's fair enough. Most of the stuff in this world is pretty crap so it is hard to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. Lots of footballers are pretty crap too but they make a living without ever being superstars. Not everyone can be Gerry Rya, the fat cunt, Ryan Tubridy, the famine looking cunt, or George Hook, the Churchill the dog looking cunt. Ahh, I quite like George. He's certainly not a cunt when compared to the übercunts Ryan and Tubridy.

What does my head in though is when they insult your intelligence and the thing that does my head in the most are the staged callers. This is when the radio station gets somebody, perhaps someone that works in the station doing a voice, or a friend of someone who they know can spoof and bullshit, and they get them on to try and drum up a bit of interest or controversy in a story.

Newstalk106 seem to be pretty good, or bad, at doing this. The other week they had a show on about bullying and this bloke was on talking about how he was bullied as a kid and because he was bullied as a kid he became a bully himself. Then he went on to tell us that he had tried to commit suicide loads of times which, if he was a real person, would make it totally understandable that people bullied him because if he was so crap at stuff to fail to kill himself loads of times then he would have been really crap at normal stuff too.

If you can't work it out after your fourth or fifth attempt then you're a fucking clown.

Anyway, at the end the presenter asked him a question he wasn't prepared for.

"So, how's life now, John?", he asked (they're nearly always called John too).

"Er...yeah...it's good, you know...yeah...just ...erm...yeah, good, like. No problems...yeah. Good."

Do they think we're fucking morons? I know it's quite a regular practice and the best at it was Chris Barry when he used to do the late night show on FM104. He'd have professionals on stirring it up with controversial opinions. How do I know? I just do and that's all you need to know.

So a message to Newstalk, if anyone in there ever answers their cunting phones, please improve the quality of your fake callers. You've gone nationwide now. Standards are higher.

Labels: fake callers, newstalk, radio

Man, they're a touchy lot.

"Sanctions are a declaration of war", they said. No they're not. Declarations of war are declarations of war.

Strikes me they're just looking for an excuse. "Joey from Friends is a declaration of war" or "Rainfall is a declaration of war", they'll spout next.

Seriously, who ate all their dog's legs this morning?

A judge said yesterday:

"Very frequently children as young as 12 appear before my court with drug and alcohol addictions. The drugs involved are serious drugs, it is not just cannabis."

Fucking hell. When I was a lad the best we could do was put our money together to buy a pot of UHU glue and take turns sniffing it. Now these little fuckers are snorting coke and all sorts.

I blame the parents. If you give your child enough pocket money to support a serious drug addiction then the buck has to stop with you I'm afraid.

Haven't they heard of moderation?

That said I once had an addiction when I was a lad. There was a shop which sold sweets from those big old jars. The bloke had a ladder to get to the top shelves where he kept the special bonbons and blackjacks. Anyway, there was a jar which contained a chocolate fudge kind of thing.

Looking back now it was probably the scuttery old bits of nougat and caramel that fell on the floor covered in the left over chocolate. It was delicious though.

Because this particular sweet was no uniform in shape and was all twisted and curly we called it poo. It looked like poo.

I was a poo addict. I kicked the habit though after hitting rock bottom but I'm still quite partial to the odd vomit drop now and again.

Counterfeit Conor came into Ron's last night. He usually pops in once a month with knock-off stuff for us to pick and choose from.

I got a couple of films (Borat and that new Scorsese one with Jack Nicholson), a copy of Pro Evolution Soccer 6 for those quiet nights in in front of the fire with some beers and a smoke and three pack of Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

Jimmy the Bollix bought a watch and four Armani shirts while Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete clubbed their money together and bought a little black baby so they could be just like Madonna. The man has all kinds of stuff, I swear to God.

"So, anyone need any new music?", he asks.

"What have you got?"

"Everything", he says. "I've got stuff here that hasn't even been recorded yet."

So we took a dig through the CD collection and by jingo the man was not telling lies. There was more music there than in Hitler's sitting room. We were like kids on Christmas day picking out albums by our favourite beat combos. Then, disaster struck.

"Erm, Counterfeit Conor", says I, "what the fuck is this?"

"Ahh, that's the new long player by Damien Rice, Twenty. Do you want it?"

Silence gripped Ron's like a fat child gripping a packet of Monster Munch as his tearful mother tries to stop her gluttonous offspring get diabetes at the age of three.

"What did you say?"

"I asked if you wanted the Damien Rice album."

"Jesus", said Jimmy.

"Oh-oh. Fucking hell", muttered Dirty Dave.

"What?", asked Counterfeit Conor.

I took the disc out of its protective sleeve.

"See this?", I ask Counterfeit Conor.

"Sure", he says.

I broke the disc in two right down the middle.

"It's the last thing you'll ever see", I said and jammed the two pieces of the discs into his eyes.

"Arrrggggh", he screamed as white goo dribbled down his face (what is that stuff?).

"You're a good bloke, Counterfeit Conor, but I have a responsibility to mankind. I can't let you go forth and peddle this shite to the unsuspecting public. I can't take on the multi-nationals. I am only one man. I can't be expected to go around and jam broken CDs into the eyes of everyone that works in HMV or Golden Discs or Metro Music in the Rathfarnham shopping centre. Nobody would expect that but in a case like this, where I have a chance to make a difference, I have to take that chance and make sure that the perpetuation of this witless clit is stopped. I read that one of the songs is 21 minutes long. What the fuck? Seriously, have you ever heard such a load of self-indulgent bollocks since the last time you heard Bono open his mouth about anything? It might be presented as acoustic/folk rock but it's evil.

If kidnapping and beheading people in Iraq is considered evil, if taking control of a plane and flying it into a building killing thousands is considered evil, if genocide, torture and the holocaust is considered evil then this, this Damien Rice, is super-mega-wonder-hyper evil. Doubled. We're polluting the earth, polluting the air, the seas, our crops, our meat, our fish, our atmosphere, our entire universe. We're doing it every single day so let's try not to pollute our minds. We need to have some escape from the vile influences that prevail in our society. Damien Rice was formed by combining DNA from Stalin, Pol Pot, Margaret Thatcher's quim, Genghis Kahn and gestated, surrogate style, in the womb of Myra Hindley. He must be stopped, Counterfeit Conor, do you understand?"

"Yeah, Twenty, I understand, but you could have just explained that to me in the first place and I'd have stopped selling them."

"Erm, yeah, sorry. I really do need to work on being so impulsive."

Pete took down him the Eye and Ear and luckily for him some farmer had shot a knacker who was trying to steal his kidneys while he slept so he got those eyes. Shifty fucking eyes they are but they're better than the ones he had.

I have known for a long time that you were a badly written piece of shite that is nothing more than a scutty tabloid in broadsheet form but spying your front cover in the newsagent's this morning I feel compelled to remind you of it.

On the front page of Ireland's best selling Sunday newspaper is a story about a woman called Lisa Murphy. She says that Michael Flatley, Ireland's most heterosexual Irish-American Irish dancer, and his wedding to another woman does not bother her in the slightest after her relationship with him broke up last year.

Now, obviously going to the newspapers and saying "I don't care" means she does care. If she didn't care she just wouldn't say anything about it at all but, like so many Z-list cuntbags, she just can't refuse the publicity and sadly there are fucking rags like the Sunday Independent that will give it to her.

As well as that the idea that this woman with the ridiculous fake tits that Flatley bought her and her manly face that would put Shirley Temple Bar to shame is front page news because her ex-boyfriend married somebody else is so pathetic I don't have words for it.

God forbid there might actually be some real news they might have put on the front of the newspaper. Seriously, if they had to give this tranny column inches couldn't it have been in something like a 'Lifestyle' section or possibly an interview with the fawning, ginger cunt Barry Egan so we'd know to not read it because Barry Egan is a massive, monstrous, flea-ridden cunt?

Anyway, Sunday Indo and your shitbag editor, whoever the fuck you are, just when I forget how terrible, inane, insipid and banal your 'news'paper is you do something to remind me and for that I thank you.

Hope you all get ebola,

Twenty Major

Labels: cunts, fucking twats, shit cunts, Sunday Independent

The fucking cunt

Ireland is a funny, interesting and at times annoying place to live. We're modernising reasonably well. We have 24 hour shops, internet banking and some people even have internet that isn't the equivalent of two tin can servers with a piece of string attaching them together.

However, when it comes to drinking we're fucking backwards no matter what anyone might say. I was listening on the radio today about how they've modified the opening hours in Tralee. I was making a coddle so I wasn't able to catch everything but I think what they've done is change closing time in clubs etc from 2.30am to 2am to see if that makes a difference.

They're worried about all the public order offences and the fights that happen when people all stream out of nightclubs at the same time. As one astute commentator rang the station to say, the fights will now happen at 2am instead of 2.30am.

It's the same problem in Dublin every weekend. There are buses, taxis and trams depositing thousands and thousands of people in the city centre every weekend night and only a limited number of night-buses and taxis to take people home. Far less than the amount needed to get everyone home.

Look, here's the thing. If I want a Mars bar at 4am I can pretty much get one. I might have to go to a 24 hour garage or a shop somewhere but I know I can get it. I want a Mars bar. I go get a Mars bar.

Now, if I want a beer at 4am I'm fucked. I can't get one anywhere. I should be able to have a beer whenever I want one. Also, I shouldn't have to go to a pub if I want a beer. Beer should be available everywhere. I remember being astounded the first time I went to mainland Europe and I could have beer with my McDonalds, if I wanted.

In Europe you can get a beer in a bar, a restaurant, an ice-cream shop, a café - pretty much anywhere. The café licence thing was proposed not too long ago but Michael McDowell buckled under pressure from the vintners association who have far too much power. The other week I was in the city centre with a fine ankled friend and we went to a 'Tapas bar' and the lady said:

"Here, have a look at the menu!"

"No", I said, "we just want to have something to drink."

"Oh, that's not possible. We only have a restaurant licence. You have to have food before we can serve you alcohol."

Now, we could have sat down, ordered a cheap sandwich or a piece of bread and been served so why the fuck couldn't we go into a nice place, sit at a nice table and just have a drink without having to have something to eat?

It's fucking bullshit is what it is. There are too many powerful lobbies protecting their own interests ahead of the interests of the public.

Bars should be able to open 24 hours a day. Of course very few bars would open 24 hours but the late, late night bars and the early, early houses would emerge and everyone would be happy and an interesting new culture would emerge.

Pubs should not be the sole preserve of alcohol. Café licences are vital if this country is to progress and catch up with the rest of Europe where they have all this already and don't suffer the same problems with alcohol as we do.

What happens every evening? People know they have a limited time to drink so they race through the pints and coming up to closing time they'll order two or three rounds which they'll lash down them then the minute they get outside into the air they get too drunk to be human and start fights or do stupid things like wander in the traffic and that's why emergency rooms are overflowing.

They treat us like children and, to be fair, we act like children.

I want to have a beer sitting next to someone having a coffee who's sitting next to someone having a salad plate and I don't want to be in a pub. Sometimes I want to have a beer at 8am and sometimes I want a beer at 4am.

I want to do what the fuck I want and I don't want some cunts deciding what they think is best for me when they don't have a fucking clue. Fuck the vintners who have screwed us in cahoots with the government for years.

Fuck them all. I can get whatever I want at any time of the day or night apart from drink and who are those cunts to tell me I can't have it?

Well?

Blogging is interesting stuff really. I know some people might write it off as something nerdy or geeky or dorky or stupid or lame or pathetic or unimportant but at the end of the day for most people it's a hobby.

It's certainly no worse than building model railways, stamp collecting, bird watching or trying to take close up pictures of Nelly Furtado's minge.

The more you blog the more blogs you come across and you go back regularly to the ones you like. Maybe they link to cool stuff, they have good pictures, they make you laugh, they turn you on, you sympathise with them, you understand their point of view or their politics or they're just a good storyteller. Whatever the reason you go back hoping they've posted something because you know you're going to enjoy it. You might comment, they might comment on yours, little blog friendships are made. Sometimes they last, sometimes they're like the warmth of wetting yourself on a cold day. A brief feeling of warmth which then becomes cold and uncomfortable far too quickly.

However, as you blog your way around blogland you come across people whose blogs you just don't like. Maybe it's their face, their opinions, their writing style, their zany profile, their lack of humour, their inability not to be a complete fucking cretin 100% of the time or just something you can't place but whatever it is you dislike them.

And I know it's juvenile and petty because you only know the person by their words on their blog (although some people are quite happy to spew out the minutiae of their life day after dreary fucking day) but you can't help it. They're under your skin and they'll stay there.

And here's the thing. If you saw a film you hated you'd never watch it again. The same with a book. You wouldn't buy a record by an artist you didn't like and you'd avoid buying a newspaper you didn't like but blogging is a bit different.

Maybe it's just me but I find myself drawn back every so often to read the bloggers I hate. I can't help myself. I'm not sure if it's some masochistic streak in me but I go back and I find they're still total dicks and they make me angry and I click off and vow never to go back again. Perhaps I'm going back thinking that maybe I was wrong and they can't be as objectionable as I think they are but they generally are.

Sometimes it takes a bit of willpower not to comment and say "YOU CUNT. I FUCKING HATE YOU EVEN THOUGH I KNOW IT'S STUPID AND I FEEL STUPID FOR EVEN CARING THIS MUCH ABOUT YOU TO HATE YOU BUT GOD FUCKING DAMN IT I REALLY DO!"

Not commenting is by far the best option but remember when Dallas was big and they used to say 'Oh that JR Ewing, he's the baddy everyone loves to hate!'

That's what some bloggers are like. They're my JRs. I can't not read them. I can't ignore them like I should. I love to hate them. I hate the fact I love to hate them and I'd be much better off if they all died (like I pray for sometimes when I read them) but I'm powerless to resist the hate. The dark side is strong.

Do you love to hate other bloggers? Do you?

Sitting in Jimmy the Bollix's kitchen the other night with Jimmy and Stinking Pete. Pete was washing out a mug so he could have tea.

Something went 'Bzzzzzzzzzzzz' past my ear. It was yellow and black and stripey. A wasp! I'm completely allergic to the pain of wasp stings. It landed on the window.

I picked up a magazine from the table (a copy of Digital Radio Enthusiast Monthly) and went to splat it. The only good wasp is a dead wasp.

"NO!", roared Pete, "Don't kill it. I hate people killing animals that we don't eat. Even house flies and rogue ladybirds."

"Fuck that, Pete. If that thing stings me you know the reaction could be terrible. I'd be going around the place going 'Ow, that smarts. That is quite painful indeed. Ouch' ... and so forth. Are you prepared for that?"

"It won't sting you, Twenty. I promise. I'll sort it."

So he picked up a glass and a sheet of paper. He put the glass over the wasp who was on the window then he put the paper underneath so he could kep him trapped then let him free outside.

Unfortunately it was quite a thick piece of paper so as he was sliding it under the glass he got a couple of the wasp's legs trapped. Quickly moving it he solved the problem. The wasp's legs were no longer trapped. They were no longer attached the wasp either.

"Oh shite!", he said and moved the paper again this time shearing off another two legs and an antenna.

By now the wasp is seriously fucking pissed off as you would be if you'd lost four of your legs and an antenna thingy. It was buzzing like crazy. 50% in anger, 50% in terrible, buring pain.

"Fuck. Here, Twenty. Just hold this for a second", he said.

I held it thinking he was going to get a different bit of paper. Instead he ran off going "Urrrrgh. Urrgggh."

"Jesus Christ, Stinking Pete. He wouldn't even have known what had hit him if I'd smacked him out of it. Now he's trapped in a glass wondering why the wasp God has allowed such hideous injuries to happen to him and why he's now a complete and utter capper. I'd say he's buzzing so much in there because he's hitting his head off the glass over and over to try and kill himself."

I took the wasp and released him, by throwing the glass as far as I could into Jimmy's back garden.

"Ooooh, urrrrgggh, urrrrgggh!", said Pete.

I suppose I really should have known better than to listen to him in the first place.

So the bloke who barricaded himself into his house in Gort got shot in the end by the Gardai when he came out firing at them.

You have to think the Gardai have been very naive here. There was no need for him to come out at all. There are plenty of things they could have done to ensure a safe end to the drama.

What they should have done is put on Tracy Chapman's 'Fast car', recently shown to the be the world's most boring song in extensive research carried out in Ron's bar, and while that was on they could have read aloud from the Sunday Tribune, Ireland's most boring Sunday newspaper.

Now, some of you might think that this kind of behaviour would enrage the man but you'd be quite wrong indeed.

Even if your goat was got to the max because of how much you hated the song and the newspaper the combination of both would render you so bored and listless than even if you felt like going out and shooting at policemen you just would not have the required gumption as all the gumption you had would have been drained from your body.

Eventually you would have lapsed into a coma and then Gardai could have gone into the house and peacefully shot you in the face while you lay unconscious.

A much safer way for the Gardai to go around shooting people. Who the fuck is doing their training, that's what I want to know.

Labels: seioges, siege, sieges

I have been nominated for Best Blogger in the 2006 Net Visionary Awards. I'm up against some stiff competition, not least my ginger beared buddy Tom.

For those of you who can see beyond the swearing and the laughs (few and all as they are) and can appreciate my strategic vision in using blogging as part of the marketing mix then please go here and vote Twenty. Otherwise vote for Tom. I'm voting for Tom.

Labels: "net visionary awards"

We were talking in Ron's last night about Ireland and the shocking 5-2 defeat by Cyprus on Saturday.

"Fuck me", said Jimmy the Bollix, "you could get 11 Dirty Dave's, make them more handicapped and clumsy than he is already, and they'd have done better than that shower of shite."

"That keeper was fatter than me", said Stinking Pete.

"How in the name of all that's holy did Kevin Kilbane make a career playing Premiership football?", I asked. "I swear to God if I hadn't discovered the joys of booze and beer and wine and whiskey and staying out all night drinking I could have played at that level. Fucking do-gooders wreck my head. If Kilbane can do it I certainly could have."

"Yeah, you could score own goals at the highest level instead of Sunday league in the Phoenix Park!"

"Shut your hole, Jimmy."

"And the manager, what the fuck is that about? He's so far out of his depth he could be Jeff Buckley. Fucking hell, the red faced cunt has never managed a team in his life. What did they think was going to happen? I mean, you'd never hire a pilot who'd never flown a plane before or a surgeon who'd never been to medical school so why would you hire a football manager who'd never managed a football team? It's stupid. The fans that spent money to go out there should get their money back from the FAI."

"Fucking right they should. Let's face it, they saved a shitload of money by not actually hiring a manager with experience and pedigree who knew what he was doing. There's plenty in the coffers."

"Fucking hell though. 5-2 to Cyprus? It's insane. Still, the players we have are shite."

"Scotland's players are just as shite and they beat France!"

"I dunno then."

Lucky Luciano laughed a little.

"What are you laughing at, Lucky?", I asked.

"Is a crazy, you Irish. Italy, we are campioni del mondo but the players ...pfff... all are a fucking shite."

"What are you on about? Italy have quality players."

"No. Is a big trick. You a see what happen with a Juventus? This happen all a the time. All Italian players are rubbish. You think a Kilbane is a bad. Is like a Pele in compare to Italian player. We just a give money to the other team to a make us look good."

"That can't be true. You'd need so much money and surely at least one team would say no."

"Is a true, finance she a come from joint Mafia-Vatican venture. Is a two thing you don't fuck with. The don and the a pope."

"But what about the Italian league, when two Italian teams play each other?"

"The money is a only to make a the result but because players are so shit some is a more shit than others which make the less a shit one look good."

"Fucking hell. So Ireland need to start paying opponents to make them look good."

"Haha! Not even a Bertie have enough money for this."

Anyway, the conclusion we came to is that if we lose the next match and Staunton isn't sacked we should set the FAI headquarters on fire using John O'Shea as kindling.

Personally I think it's all been downhill since Ashley Grimes retired.

Labels: football, ireland, shit, staunton, useless cunts

Due to my heavy intake of alcohol and Guinness my emissions are generally soft enough to pass without any trouble, bar a little burning from time to time.

However, I've obviously been eating something wrong because this morning my bowels created a monster poo that was as hard as marble and twice the size of my ringpiece. Thank God I had the culture section of last week's Sunday Times to keep my mind off it. The fact that Kirsten Dunst as Marie Antionette was far preferable to the pushing and clenching I had to endure to expel this beast should tell its own story.

I feel violated.

This morning I was eating a jam doughnut and I got jam on my pyjama bottoms.

I immediately phoned Alanis Morisette in case she wanted to add another verse to her song 'Ironic'.

Don't forget, if you've got nothing better to do tomorrow why not go to the Blogging the Erection conference?

They'll have talks from Republic upholder of family values, Mark Foley, former Tory MP Cecil Parkinson while ex-US President Bill 'Cigar Clit' Clinton will be the keynote speaker explaining just how important erections are in politics and what blogging can do to improve erections amongst the common people.

Be there or be limp.

Sadly I can't make it.

haha, this Aer Lingus thing is priceless.

Minister for Transport, Martin Cullen, was on the TV saying nobody could have predicted that Ryanair would try and make a bid for the company. Are they not embarrassed to go on TV and say things like that?

It would be like a company inventing the most delicious pie in the world then saying "My goodness, we certainly didn't expect all those fat people to buy the pies".

Then you have SIPTU urging the government to buy shares to stop Ryanair gaining control. What a bunch of moronic cunts they are.

They want the government, who has made close to €350m on its 28% holding in Aer Lingus since the launch, to spend money so that they can stop a bloke they hate taking over. They want the government to ignore the people on hospital waiting lists, kids who go to school in portacabins, the elderly and all the other things they could and should spend money on so they can prevent perfectly legitimate business taking place.

They have clearly lost what little remained of their tiny little minds. While they may have taken great delight in having the government over a barrel time and time again they know that they're never going to be able to do that to O'Leary and they're fucking shitting it. Good enough for them too.

The objectors are only objecting because it's Michael O'Leary. If it was some group of German financiers there wouldn't be half the fuss there is but one of the few Irish international successes in business wants to take over and it's like Hitler and Satan taking turns doing your mum up the arse.

No doubt we'll hear more bleating from SIPTU and from Aer Lingus employees over the next few days despite the fact Aer Lingus rejected the take over.

No matter how much they go on money talks much louder and we'll see who's voice we hear at the end.

Labels: aer lingus, cunts, michael o'leary, ryanair, SIPTU

Listening to some cunt on the radio now saying Michael O'Leary would only be buying Aer Lingus to 'cause divilment' in the company.

He's offering €2.80 a share which is 60c a share above the price at which the shares were issued last week. Yer man on the radio said "O'Leary is just like any other businessman".

Exactly. So what's his fucking problem? As if someone is just going to spend €1.5 billion to just cause 'divilment'. Can't you imagine O'Leary now:

"HAHAHA! I'll buy the company then cancel the Christmas party, put that horrible shiny toilet paper in the staff bogs and make them all wear nametags saying "Please be patient with me. I'm new! It'll be the best €1.5 billion I've ever spent."

Fucking cretins.

Edit: Listening to more of them it's all down to the fact that they don't fancy Michael O'Leary as their boss. They're going on and on about how loyal they've been to Aer Lingus but this is business. Loyalty doesn't and shouldn't mean a thing.

They're all just shitting it because they're afraid the cunts from SIPTU won't have anything like the influence and power they've had up to now.

In Ron's last night. Dirty Dave was waffling on with his usual, completely unusual shite.

"Here Twenty", he says, "I went to the doctor today."

"Why, Dave? Not feeling well?"

"Yeah, I think I bought a Freddie Mercury album in a Grafton Street outlet of a large record chain."

"And that made you sick?"

"Yeah. I think I'm HMV positive!"

"Dave, you are a fucking mong and no mistake."

Anyway, then we saw someone we haven't seen for quite a while. A very old arch-nemesis of Dave called Nose 'tache Noel. It's a bit of a long story as to how he got his name but years and years ago Dave's brother, Shiny Simon, told him that if you shave the hair on your chest it would grow back thicker and more lustrous.

Now Dave was a big fan of Magnum star Tom Selleck and he longed to have a hairy chest like him so he shaved his chest and lo and behold more hair would grow back each time. Of course a man can only be so hairy and Dave never got a Selleck like rug but he did improve the wispy bum fluff he had before.

One disbeliever though was Noel who used to come into Ron's quite often. As Dave would show off his latest growth Noel would say:

"Geddoudavit, Dave. You still have a chest like I would imagine Kojak's wife's minge to be like" and other various bald gags.

This upset Dirty Dave no end and he vowed to take his revenge. It came one night at party when Noel passed out and Dave shaved his nose hair. Not the hair on the inside of his nose but the fine hair on the outside. Amazingly it only took one shave to spark the growth and soon Noel was having to shave his nose every single day. Even if he gave it a good Gilletting first thing in the morning he'd have a 5 o'clock shadow by half past two.

Eventually he gave up and grew a moustache on his nose which is why everyone called him Nose 'tache Noel. Unfortunately for Dave there are women out there who find a man with a nose 'tache a real turn on for some reason so his revenge was not served cold but piping hot and on a hot plate.

"Evening, lads!", he said.

"Howya Nose 'tache", I said.

I bought him a pint and we caught up because we hadn't seen each other for a long time and then after he'd had enough pints he went home.

*bring bring*

"Hello Tayto Crisps!"

"Hello. I'd like to report a problem with a packet of your cheese and onion flavour crisps."

"What exactly was the problem, sir?"

"There was a poo in the packet."

"Pardon me?"

"There was a poo in the packet. A log. A B-M. A defecation."

"Oh my Goodness. That's awful. That really should not happen. Look, please send the packet with the offending item in it and we'll launch a thorough investigation. I'll also have one of our manager's call you back about this."

"I ate it."

"What?"

"I ate the poo."

"Why would you do that?"

"Well, it was shaped exactly the same as a cheese and onion crisp. Cunningly, whoever put it there also made it taste exactly like a cheese and onion crisp so by the time I'd realised it was a poo I'd scoffed it."

"Sir, have you considered the possibility that it wasn't a poo at all but, in fact, a cheese and onion crisp?"

"Now that you mention it that would be a far more reasonable explanation."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Well, there is the small matter of the dried up bit of vomit I found in the packet of salt and vinegar."

"Just guessing here but was this bit of dried up vomit cleverly disguised as a salt and vinegar crisp?"

"Ooooh, you know what? That's exactly what what it was."

"It was a crisp. Not vomit."

"That does make sense, fair play to ya. Mouse in my smokey bacon?"

"Smokey bacon crisp."

"Fingertip in my Mature Cheddar Cheese and Red Onion 'occasions'?"

"Mature cheddar cheese and red onion flavoured crisp"

"Hah! The jokes on you. It was a fingertip. Still had a bit of nail on it too. I have it here."

"Really?"

"No! I ate it."

*click*

"Hello? Hello?"

Don't you just love the positioning of these stories on the Indo's website?



You really do have to be careful how you position things and that goes for every walk of life, not just on the website of a truly terrible newspaper.

I remember being at a wedding once and the bride and groom were a pair of backpacking, travel round the world cunts (I won't even go into the details of how I know them and how I saved their life in Calcutta) and they had lots of friends from all over the place. They thought it would foster harmony if they made them mingle.

So at one table a jew sat next to an arab, a catholic next to a protestant, an Indian beside a Pakistani, a black South African beside a white South African and an Englishman next to an Irishman.

As you can imagine it was chaos. Within minutes of the starters being served the jew had commandeered half of the arab's place mat saying God wanted him to have it, the catholic and the protestant came to blows over who would say grace, the Pakistani and the Indian were clobbering each other with cricket bats, the South Africans were raging in debate over Nelson and Winnie Mandela while the Irishman (me) and the Englishman (some bloke) looked at each other with incredulity and went about the business of stealing their booze.

Once he was really drunk I stole his wallet and put him in a taxi and sent him to Offaly rather than his city centre hotel.

You have to be a bit cuter about things than the rest of those foreigners.

I had list of things to do this weekend.

• Collect money from people who owe it to me
• Watch the football
• Buy a present for Ron's mum's birthday (I got her that new hip she's been needing)
• Clip Bastardface's nails which are like bear claws. He sounds like 20 tap dancers when he walks across the floor
• Get Throatripper, the kitten who is growing like a mentalist child with one of those overactive glands which makes them become enormous, his shots at the vets
• Find David Hasselhoff and administer a severe beating to him for being a massive cunt
• Drink booze

Sadly I started with the last one thinking that a good few pints and I might be able to round up a couple of the lads to give me a hand smacking Hasselhoff's woolly head in.

Unfortunately I forgot all about him as we discussed world events, slapped thighs and basically made merry. Well, merry doesn't quite cover it but 'made completely and utterly poleaxed' doesn't really make much sense.

I woke up this morning with the fear. You know what the fear is. It's when you get really, really drunk and you black out and then the next day you have this fear that you said or did something stupid or wrong and it comes back to you in flashes over the course of the day.

It didn't take long though. David Hasselhoff was in Dublin this weekend and he got away with me punching him in the head countless times.

I really am a stupid clit for the booze.