Previously I have opined that authors have let themselves down by making their characters eat meals which are just totally unrealistic and taking too long to describe the simplest of actions.

Now I have to take to task authors who want to show off and make everyone think they're all 'literary' by having their characters read books which really don't fit in with the rest of their profile.

I'm currently reading a book by John Connolly, and his books are generally quite good. They're fast, interesting, detective thriller things and on that level they're certainly above average. However, his main character, Charlie 'Bird' Parker - we get it, you like jazz!! - is not alone in his love of fancy books and poetry.

While most private detectives searching for a missing girl in small town America might pick up a newspaper to read while they had dinner in a diner our hero goes to a bookshop and buys a book of poems by e.e.cummings. He mentions one in particular because he enjoys its 'gentle eroticism'.

His former partner in the police force his a library of great tomes and he and Bird 'share a love of Runyon and Wodehose; of Tobias Wolff, Donald Barthelme and, strangely, the Earl of Rochester, the Restoration dandy tortured by his failings'.

Excuse fucking me? Now, I'm all for books and for people reading them. Books are marvellous things and I love them very much but come on. I don't want a private detective that kicks the shit out of people and kills people and goes around with two gay hitmen (seriously, one black, one white just for good measure. No really, he does) who then reads poetry as he scoffs bacon and toast in a greasy diner.

Can you imagine two New York cops sitting in a car discussing books?

"Hey Charlie, look at that dame over there. Woooeeee, she's got legs to de sky!"

"Please don't interrupt, Walter, I am trying to enjoy the short stories of Tobias Wolff."

"Hey wow, I love him too. Forget the dame and doughnut shop..."

Next time just give the fucker a copy of the New York Times (let's face it USA Today is a rag) and let him look at the sports section. The gentle eroticism of e.e.cummings my arse.

cummings, heh.

Like most of you I was shocked at the murder of Baiba, the Latvian woman who was shot in her own home in what appears to be a professional hit.

Gardai have suggested she was living in fear of her estranged husband who was trying to get custody of their two children. However, he's in jail and therefore has a rather good alibi although again it's not beyond the realms of possibility that one person can arrange to have another person killed.

If I was the invesitgating officer in this case I'd be looking very strongly at the husband for the simple reason that his first name and his last name are the same. He is called Hassan Hassan. His parents were obviously lazy cunts who couldn't think of another name like Ali-Baba or Saddam Hussein Hassan.

Now, this theory holds some water. Look at Robert Kennedy. He was killed by a man called Sirhan Sirhan. Imagine if he'd been named Kareem Abdul-Jabar Sirhan. There's no doubt in my mind that Robert Kennedy would still be alive today.

Sometimes the malign influence of the double same-named person is not just evident as they kill somebody. Look at Neville Neville. He was a man who married his wife and shot his double same-named spunk tadpoles up her chuff and she gave birth to two of the most hideous Premiership footballers of all time, Gary and Phil Neville.

People often think that Duran Duran were just an 80s band, adored by millions of girls, but they couldn't be further from the truth. Le Bon 'Simon' Le Bon and crew were, in fact, responsible for knocking off countless other music stars in over the years.

Jeff Buckley drowned in the Mississipi. Nope. Andy Taylor held his head under the water then let him float downstream. You think Kurt Cobain shot himself? Wrong. It was Nick Rhodes disguised as a heroin delivery boy. Roger Taylor posed as a tree in order to take out Sonny Bono on a ski slope some years ago while Le Bon himself jumped out from behind a door and scared Muddy Waters to death. The list goes on and on.

So, if you ever come across a double same-named person don't let the fact that they might appear normal and quite nice fool you for a second. They the purest form of evil on this earth. Stay away from them. Don't let them near you or your family. In fact, if they do know anything about you it might be a good idea to change your name, sell up and move to the far side of the world.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

...you're my only hope.

Went into a shop yesterday to buy some cleaning products and as I was browsing the aisles a young Polish girl came up to me and said, in not bad but still funny English, "Can I help you?"

Naturally I was disgusted. I immediately asked for the manager.

"This girl said she doesn't like me because I am a native Irishman. That's racist. They'll be taking our lands and giving us enclosures to live on next. I'm going to the trading standards authority."

It was a very upsetting experience so I decided to get back in touch with my ethnicity by going for a full Irish breakfast in a nearby café. The Chinese waitress said to me "You want mushrooms with that?"

"Mushrooms?", I cried. "How dare you!" and I sought out the café proprietor.

"This despicable supremacist here has just told that you don't serve 'my type' and that I should find a café full of my own kind in which I can enjoy a hearty and typically Irish breakfast. You Sir, can take your prejudices and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. I am a native Irishman and proud of it. You won't grind me down."

At this point I was quite distraught so I thought it best if I went home. I hailed a taxi driver and the Lithunian driver said as I got in, "Where are you going?"

Well, how I kept it together I'll never know.

"You xenophobic cunt", I said. "If I was to call up the taxi regulator now and tell him what you said, that you refused to take me to my chosen destination simply because I am a native Irishman then they'd have your licence so fast. What am I saying? The regulator is probably an Eastern European too, hellbent on subjugating the native people of this proud nation. Well, let me tell you something sonny Jim, at some point the people will rise up against this oppression and reclaim our ancient lands. You mark my words."

So in the end I had to walk home. As I got there the postman from Ballybrack was coming out of my house with my TV and stereo.

"What are you doing, Jonny, you little scamp?", I said. "Put them back at once."

"Fair enough, Twenty. You've got me bang to rights."

I gave him a little dig in the arm and told him not to do it again then rolled us a joint.

Ireland is a difficult country to live in these days.

Got a phone call earlier.

"Nhello? NTwenty?"

"Who the fuck is this?"

"Nit's Nme, NDirty NDave. Ni Nneed Nyour Nhelp. Nplease Ncome Nover Nto Nmy Ngaff."

So off I went and knocked on the door.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?", I asked Dave who looked like one of those frogs that blows out that bit underneath it's mouth.

"Nerm, Ni Nhad Na Nbet Nwith NStinkin' Npete."

"What was the bet?"

"Nhe Nbet Nme Nthat Ni Nwouldn't Nsuper Nglue Nmy Ntongue Nto Nthe Nroof Nof Nmy Nmouth."

"How much was the bet for?"

"Nthree euros."

"You superglued your tongue to the roof of your mouth for three euros?"

"Nyes."

"Why would you do that?"

"NI'd Njust Nwatched NJackass Ntwo."

"So you thought it would be Johnny Knoxvilletacular to do something like they did? You fucking madman. You do realise Johnny Knoxville is retarded, don't you? That girly laugh of his tells you everything you need to know. He's properly cracked."

"Ni Nkow."

So off we went to St James Hospital. When we arrived I dropped Dave off at the accident and emergency unit then fucked off into town. There's no way I'm spending any more than is necessary with someone who would superglue their tongue to the roof of their mouth for three euros.

I gave him a bag full of 5 cent coins so he could get a taxi home though. I'm not all bad.

"Apparently he called me a 'shit'. But that's old news, isn't it? He'd want to come up with better than that."

He makes a good point.

I believe 'Smarmy, obsequious, inconstant, abhorrent, self-important piece of dried up gleet from an otter's cunt' would probably do the trick.

My cap is well and truly doffed to you, anonymous sir. Fucking outstanding (via TCAL)

Labels: cool drunken bloke, intruder, late late show, pat kenny

So here I am, putting together my post for the day, the dog snoozing at my feet, the kitten out the back eating buffalo or whatever the fuck he does, a cup of coffee steaming like Graham Norton at my side, when all of a sudden I hear a woman's voice cry out.

I didn't quite make out what they said but it was like it came from just outside the room I'm in, possibly in the kitchen. Now, there is no woman here so I thought maybe I was hearing things but the hound was sat bolt upright with his ears forward. He heard it too.

I, brave soul that I am, crept out to door and peered around into the kitchen. The shutters are closed so it's still quite dark in there.

"Open the shutters, bastardface!", I said. I still haven't managed to teach him how to do that. I mean, you can put him in a room full of people and he'll instantly pick out the junkie or the traveller so he can bite their necks off but something as simple as reaching up, unfastening the latch and opening two wooden shutters is beyond him.

Anyway, I opened them and I didn't see anything.

But I definitely heard something and this is not the first time something odd has happened in this house. I wish I had heard what she said though. It sounded like "Oh, I'm blind" or something similar.

Am I being haunted by the ghost of Helen Keller? What a weird start to the day.

Having spent far more time in a car yesterday on the M50 than I would have liked I got to listen to the radio a lot. Now, I'll ignore the annoyance of Newstalk 106's presenters cutting off their guests, constantly, while they were in the middle of talking (is this station policy or something?) and the mongy opinions some of the guests had.

I cannot, however, ignore the ads. It is baffling to me that there are people out there who are paid good money, I'm sure, to create radio commercials. I realise some of them will have been scripted in house too but the vast majority of them were those 'conversational' ads. You know the ones:

Male VO 1: Hey John, nice car, job, house and life you have there!

Male VO 2: Yeah, thanks Bob.

Male VO 1: So how did you get such a nice car, job, house and life?

Male VO 2: Well, Bob, I just went to Murphy's online car, job and life website where they'll do you a great deal on a car, job, house and life!

Fuck me, what a load of shite. Aren't ad men supposed to be dynamic thinkers full of vision and creativity. These fuckers couldn't create a bag full of poo if you put them on a 2 week All Bran diet.

I remember when I used to work in the radio and I spent some time in the production end of things making commercials. The typical Friday afternoon was quite slow because you'd have all the stuff done already and you'd just be looking at your watch and maybe finishing off a couple of things.

Then one of the fat cunt sales reps would come running it at around five to five and say "Oh Jesus! I've got this new ad, told the guy I'd give him a hundred thousand slots over the weekend. I'll have a script for you in 5 minutes."

Away he'd go and back he'd come interrupting my thoughts about how I was going to kill him fatally to death and he'd hand me a piece of paper.

"There you go!", he'd say, proud as punch to have come up with the best radio script of all time.

Female VO 1: Hi Mary! Where did you get that lovely dress?

FemaleVO 2: Oh hi, Betty. I got it in the sales from O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop!

Female VO 1: O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop, you say.

FemaleVO 2: Yes, O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop!

Female VO 1: And where is O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop?

FemaleVO 2: It's on Main Street right beside the post office. O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop really do have some nice dresses!

Female VO 1: I guess that's why it's called O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop then!

Female VO 2: *girly laugh*

Male VO: If you want nice dresses make sure you go to O'Reilly's Nice Dress shop, Main Street, beside the post office. Sale on now!

"Oh, very good", I'd say and a little smile would break out on his face. "Just one small problem though. It's 5pm on a Friday afternoon, the only female voice here is the fucking cleaning lady and she sounds like Ronnie Drew's mother. Do you want me to pull another two women out of my arse or something, you fucking moron?"

At that point I'd have to write, voice, record and produce a commercial last thing on a Friday and it drove me mental.

From what I heard yesterday it's the same bunch of sales reps doing the same old shite. It's fucking rubbish. It's so bad that I would never, ever consider buying any product advertised in those ads. Even if it was something that I really wanted at half the price it was everywhere else I still wouldn't buy it as a matter of principle.

They say Ireland is a country that produces great writers and that may be true. None of them are writing radio commercials though which I suppose is fair enough because great writers surely have higher ambitions.

However, if we do have so many great writers we must have lots of pretty good writers too who aren't quite great but not totally shit. They could certainly do a job writing radio commercials and leave the great writers to get on with their unfinished novels in the style of Banville meets Don DeLillo.

I wish somebody would do it though. I can't take much more of this rubbish.

So there we were in Ron's last night, watching a bit of football, drinking some pints of Guinness, discussing important political and socialogical matters and generally being high-brow and erudite and not at all awful when in walked Stan Ridgeway.

"Hey, aren't you Stan Ridgeway who had a big hit with that song 'Camouflage' then disappeared never to be hear of again?", asked Stinking Pete.

"I certainly am, you big marine", said Stan before ordering a pint for himself. A few moments later he stood up and said, "Excuse me, fellas. Nature calls. I've got to go logging, if you catch my drift!"

And off he went. When he came back he skulled his pint and left without so much as a word.

"How odd", said Ron and turned his attention to the football.

Not 20 minutes later in walked the lead singer from The Buggles and he ordered a Jack Daniels and coke.

"Hey!", said Dirty Dave, "if video killed the radio star the internet has like ..erm... double killed and eviscerated the video star!"

"True enough", said the lead singer of The Buggles before adding, "Every time I drink a Jack Daniels and coke my bowels clench like I've been out on the pints and curry. If you'll excuse me I'd better go to the men's room because I'm touching cloth here."

He came back, finished his drink and fucked off again.

"That's very strange and a bit annoying", said Ron who was happy enough because Celtic were beating Manchester United. It's not that he's a Celtic fan but he hates Manchester United.

About half an hour after that the door opened again and who walked in only Oran 'juice' Jones.

"Hey, Oran 'Juice' Jones", cried Dirty Dave, "it's a shame you're not with some friend of yours on a wet night because then I could say 'I saw you (and him) walking in the rain!'"

"Christ, Dave. Is that the best you could come up with?"

"Not to worry", said Oran 'Juice' Jones, "I hear it all the time. Now, can I have a pint of Guinness and a shot of Middleton's please?"

Ron gave him his drink and we sat around shooting the breeze, as you do. Then Oran 'Juice' Jones said, "I love Guinness but it doesn't half go through me. I'm off to the jacks to give birth to a brown baby boy!"

So off he went, did what he had to do, then quickly finished his drinks and left. Not even a 'See ya, lads!", the rude fucker.

"Right, that's it!", said Ron. I'm sick of those fuckers coming in here and taking advantage. From now on those fuckers are barred."

"Which fuckers?", asked Pete.

Ron looked at him like he was Wayne Rooney's scrotum.

"Those fuckers, Pete. Those one shit wonders."

Within the Irish blogosphere there's been a lot of talk in the last few days about things like gatekeepers and how girls are just as good as boys at blogging.

To be fair there hasn't been any suggestion from any of the boys that girls are not as good but some of the girls want to make sure that we know they're as good even though we never said they weren't.

What is a gatekeeper anyway? Is there a blogging Rick Moranis scuttling around saying "I am the keymaster. Where is the gatekeeper? All hail Zuul" while Sigourney Weaver floats seductively above a bed while the wind blows in the through the window?

We should be thankful that United Irelander is in semi-retirement because can you imagine his experts list?

Cooking - some bird
Cleaning - some chick
Ironing - some lassie
Knitting - some dame who should never have got the vote

Technology - a bloke
Driving and cars and stuff - a bloke
Blogging - definitely a bloke

Man, that really would have got the debate rolling. Where are you, UI? The blogosphere needs you.

The point is though that if anything is asexual it's blogging. There are lots of blogs you have read for some time before you know the gender of the person writing. While I think there are probably still more men than women blogging in Ireland you only have to look at this list to see how many women there are on the scene (Fatmammycat as 'family' though - heh).

And it's great. I've always had a good number of women bloggers on my blogroll not because they're women but because I enjoy their blogs. Now, if I didn't enjoy any women bloggers and I didn't have any on my blogroll I'd hate to think people would get on my back to include them because surely that's just tokenism of the worst kind?

There is this strange need amongst humans to be categorised and to try and pigeon-hole one's existence. It happens in the blogging world. People object to other people's personal choices. They want equality. They want a representation of the whole scene rather than simply allowing people to get on with what they want to do.

I don't buy into the gatekeeper thing. Firstly because I don't really understand what it means but secondly because it implies some kind of masonic influence over the Irish blogging scene by a covert bunch of testicle sporting man bloggers. It's patently not true.

Anyone can blog. Rich, poor, fat, thin, beautiful (like me), ugly, male, female. And that is the beauty of blogging.

Let's not make blogging ugly. Just blog your blog and let other people blog their blogs without trying to make everything about something, if that makes sense.

Now, which one of you dolly-birds is going to make me a cup of tea, then?

Labels: blogging, gatekeepers, irish bloggers, irishblogs

I've been reading over the weekend about people going mental to get their hands on a Playstation 3. There have been such queues and shenannigans that the Mayor of Boston has actually billed Sony to pay for the extra police needed when people rioted outside one shop at 5am.

Then there were stories about people queuing for ages to get themselves a Nintendo Wii. They camped out for days. I didn't read of any riots but all the same having to live outdoors just to get the chance to buy a video games console is mental.

When you think about it it really shouldn't be necessary. We're talking about two massive companies here. Sony and Nintendo are not Mickey's video game thing Ltd operating out of a converted garage in Inchicore.

Why couldn't they just make more of them? I know there's a certain element of hype about the whole thing and they want to create some kind of excitement but there's enough excitement already without having to pit man against his fellow man in the race to be first in the door to buy one. It just doesn't make sense to me. If you have created the hype already wouldn't it be better to have loads of the fucking things to sell which means you make more money?

What good is it if you have queues of 500 people but only 200 of them can buy a PS3? It's not like the labour costs are massive in the far east either. Just get a load of orphans and stick them in factory making the machines for 18 hours a day. Some might say it's cruel and child labour is not right but it keeps them off the streets and lets them earn money they'd only steal from somewhere anyway.

Honestly, imagine how much more money they would have made this weekend if they'd had enough machines to go around. For all their hi-tech wizardry the nips don't know too much about supply and demand, do they?

Technorati Tags: ps3, nintendo wii

Many thanks to the people at the Irish Internet Association who awarded me with the Best Blogger award at last night's Net Visionary Awards. Thanks to everyone who voted for me in the public vote and thanks to the judges whose names, I promise you, I didn't know and was therefore unable to menace in their own homes to ensure they voted correctly.

The competition was very stiff with me up against ginger podcasting legend Tom Raftery and hosting overlord Michele Neylon.

Unfortunately I was unable to attend the event but Tom very kindly accepted the award on my behalf and, I'm sure, read the acceptance speech which you can now read below.

Thanks again.

===========

Dear Net Visionary folk,

I am sorry I couldn't be there with you this evening but sadly I have a very important mission to undertake. If it goes badly you'll be reading about it in tomorrow's newspapers. If not then you'll be none the wiser and that's probably best for all of us.

Many people struggled to see how my blog fitted in with the rest of the nominations. Not you though. You, because you have such vision, understood that beneath the stories of booze, violence, casual drug consumption, bodily functions and 80s pop music lay a contemporary, relevant and strategic look at modern Ireland, the business and technological world and how it impacts on our every day life.

You saw past the expletives, cursing and ranting and realised that they were fueled by the frustration and dissatisfaction of a fellow visionary. A man in modern Ireland striving to make a difference, struggling against the machinations of a divided society. Divided into those who have the vision and those, like Stevie Wonder and Bertie Ahern, who don't.

I am very proud that we share the same vision. Maybe you don't even realise our vision is the same but it is. We are visionaries. Net visionaries.

I would also like to congratulate Tom Raftery and Michele Neylon for their nominations and if I have been lucky enough to win it makes me feel even better about myself to have beaten them. Not because I take pleasure in it but because they are totally awesome which must mean I'm even awesomer than they are.

I thank Tom for collecting this award on my behalf and if any of you ever find yourself in Ron's I'll buy you a pint and do my utmost to keep you safe.

cheers,

Twenty

Labels: "net visionary awards"

"Jaysus", said Jimmy the Bollix, "I was just talking to old Rory Hooper. Remember him, Twenty?"

"Is he the fella whose brother went around cutting the hind legs off donkeys?"

"Aye, that's the lad. Anyway, he drinks around the corner in the ****** ****."

"Not a bad little boozer."

"What was that?", said Ron.

"Nothing, nothing. Go on, Jimmy."

"Anyway, he says that the regulars there have been dropping like flies in the last 12 months or so. At least 9 of them have died and the wives of another 8 of them have kicked the bucket since this time last year."

"Is that unusual though? We are all of an age, you know."

"Well, according to the death statistics from previous years it's an increase of 345%. That's what you call a substantial increase, Twenty, but listen to this. Remember Jack O'Leary?"

"Was he the lad who used to wear a patch on his eye and throw handfuls of his man custard at the girls after school?"

"The very same. Well, Jack's son had a baby a while ago and they had the christening the Saturday before last. At the christening Jack's sister dopped dead in the church. Then at the wake after her funeral didn't his brother go to the bar, order a round, then collapse. Massive heart attack."

"Poor cunt."

"Yeah, but then Jack's wife, he married Betty Boyce, remember her?"

"Was she the one who everyone said had three nipples and one of the nipples was a big hairy nipple?"

"Exactly, well she's been sick for a while and Jack went up to bring her a slice of toast and a cup of tea for her breakfast yesterday morning, they have separate rooms now of course, and there she was. As stiff as a judge's cock in a room full of schoolchildren."

"Fucking hell. That's what you call a rough couple of weeks."

"It is that and if any proof were need that the ****** **** was cursed then there it is."

"It's hard to argue with it."

"Aye."

*flip beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep*

"Howya Stinking Pete! Jimmy here. Fancy a pint later? Grand. No, Ron's closed the place down. Has to have it fumigated after what Dirty Dave did last night. Yeah, I know. Filthy cunt. Anyway, we'll be in the ****** ****. Around 8. See you there."

So the government is set to buy out National Toll Roads' interest in the M50 toll bridge according to reports yesterday. Good news on the surface but in reality little more than bollocky electioneering as it won't happen until 2008 and by that stage someone, surely, will have gone Michael Douglass on the whole thing.

As it is the traffic is sheer lunacy. I was listening to the radio yesterday and they were saying that the traffic in Dublin is so bad that international companies are thinking twice about setting up here.

Now, add the new port tunnel to the mix. That's opening next month and it will be bringing thousands and thousands of heavy goods vehicles straight from the port onto the M50 motorway where they can add to the already monstrous queues and tailbacks. Perhaps traffic might clear up slightly around town because of this but really it's like having a vicious dog and moving him from one garden full of children to another.

The government will pay something in the region of €600m to buy out NTR as their contract runs until 2020. They then want to introduce barrier free tolling which will allow the traffic to move more freely and you know where they can stick barrier free tolling? Exactly.

Not because I would be opposed to tolls if you knew the money you were paying was being put back into improving transport in the city but because that is exactly what won't happen.

The problem as I see it, and I may be over-simplifying things here, is that almost 100% of Dublin traffic is overground. Cars, trucks, vans, trains, trams (that cause traffic delays as they pass through busy junctions) etc all overground.

The solution, which again I may be over-simplifying, is to move traffic (and by traffic I mean people) underground. A metro to the airport is fine, I suppose, but it's really only serving a very limited number of people.

Imagine if you live in Tallaght and you have to go to Santry every day. That's hours of your time spent on the M50. Now, imagine you could get a metro into town and pick up another metro out to Santry. There's just no way you'd take your car if the public transport was good enough. And that's what the traffic jams all over Dublin, not just the M50, indicate - public transport is fucking shite. People have no alternative but to take their car and add to the problem.

Adding more overground traffic will not alleviate the problems. Taking possibly hundreds of thousands of people off the streets and transporting them underground will do a huge amount.

Perhaps the costs are prohibitive and given the port tunnel problems we're obviously a bit fucking crap at building these kinds of things but there is expertise available wherever you want to look. Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, London - all with underground systems, knowledge of running and maintaining them and probably a few tips on how to get them built (they'll have learned from parts of their cities falling down as they tunneled).

In European cities around the world they're adding to and expanding their existing underground systems. In Ireland we're going to get one line out to the airport which will benefit a small percentage of the people.

As the greater Dublin area spreads like a cold sore on the face of this country (people commute from miles and miles outside the city now) we're going to end up in a situation, if we're not there already, where it becomes almost impossible to get around at peak times. Naturally they'll try and 'solve' it through things like the London congestion charge but that's not a solution it's just a money maker.

Here's what they should do. Keep the toll on the M50, make it barrier free as soon as possible, take all the money they're going to fleece from people when they introduce speed cameras and invest, long term, it in a transport system that will make a difference instead of trying to find short terms solutions because there aren't any.

Any candidate who got seriously behind a metro for Dublin would have my vote. Unless he was Conor Lenihan, the massive twat.

Labels: dublin, metro, tube, underground

I call for an attack on Omar Bakri Mohammed. If you see him hit him hard and fast, the beardy cunt.

One of the neighbours called to the door yesterday.

*knock knock*

"Hello", he said.

"How do you do?", I said.

"Not so well", he said.

"Why's that?", I said.

"Well, your cat has been in my garden."

"You know what cats are like. They like to roam wild and free so as the old saying goes let your kittens roam wild and free."

"Er, yes. That's all very good except I had a pond full of Koi carp."

"I see."

"The thing is now I have a pond full of fish skeletons like you used to see in the Tom and Jerry cartoons."

"Ahhh. Sorry about that but cats will be cats."

"I also had a rabbit which belonged to my 7 year old daughter. She went out to feed it this morning and saw your cat devouring its gizzards and entrails. She hasn't spoken since and is now sitting in the corner of the room rocking gently to herself and drooling slightly out of the side of her mouth."

"Awww, the poor thing. I know a man who knows a man. I'll get her a new rabbit but you may need to improve your hutch security."

"Yeah...well, we also had a African grey parrot which could speak whole sentences. We spent three years training it. We had videos up on YouTube and everything. Word was we were going to get a guest spot on the Ryan Tubridy show because he specialises in quality programming like that."

"And?"

"My wife came down the stairs just in time to see your cat spit out the beak after he'd managed to pull apart the bars of the cage we kept him in. She's traumatised. She loved that bird."

"That cat is a rascal all right."

"And then there's our dog."

"You have a dog?"

"We had a dog. As I was bringing out the bin containing the remains of Aubrey the parrot and the fish skeletons I noticed in the front garden the left back leg of our Boston Terrier, a pile of blood and your cat sitting on the wall with a massively engorged stomach licking its chops like a fellow that's just eaten an enormous rack of BBQ spare ribs."

"That lovable rogue Throatripper. What antics will he get up to next?"

"It's not good enough", he said. "Our family has been devastated and decimated and digested."

"I can see where you're coming from, to be fair. Do you have any other pets?"

"No! They've all been eaten."

"Grand, then you have nothing else to worry about. Good day to you, sir."

*slam*

Labels: cats, pets, throatripper

So Brian Curtin resigned yesterday after an attempt to have him declared unfit for participation in the inquiry into the child porn images found on his computer was rejected.

Coincidentally this came about just days after he'd passed the five year mark in his term as a judge and is therefore eligible for a pension.

For those that don't know the story Judge Brian Curtin was arrested in 2002 after child pornography was found on his computer. He got away without criminal charges because the warrant served was a day out of date.

Now that he's resigned the committee set up to investigate has had to be adjourned so he will not face any further investigation.

In the newspapers today they mention that Curtin's defence team would suggest that the judge's computer had been infected by 'trojan horse' viruses which is really quite laughable.

While I suppose it is possible for somebody to write a virus that would download and store images of child pornography on someone's computer it's about as likely as Bertie not being a stuttering cunt or Blogorrah going a week without publishing a picture of that horse-faced minger Glenda Gilson.

Curtin's solictor said yesterday "He wishes to leave it at that as he has reached such a stage of ill-health that he cannot continue the fight and so has brought the matter to an end. He wishes simply to be left alone to live out such further time as God will allow him in peace and quiet."

So he's happy to bring it to an end once he becomes eligible for his pension and his ridiculous defence won't have a chance to be taken apart by anyone who knows anything about computers. How convenient.

I hope the cunt dies roaring.

...while waiting for a plane.

- Read a book, magazine or newspaper
- Listen to music
- Use the internet at one of the pay as you go computers
- Do some shopping
- Have a meal
- Play video games

Things you shouldn't do:

- Get absolutely shitfaced drunk then argue with the check-in lady who says you're too drunk to get on the plane then get arrested and taken to a police station to 'sleep it off'.

Just saying, like...

On Dame Street yesterday I saw a café which claimed its products were 'outrageously fresh'. What the fuck does that mean?

How can freshness be outrageous? Storming into Dail Eireann, pulling down your pants, pooing in your hand and then smearing it all over the faces of the government is, while also heroic, probably quite outrageous. Having some crispy lettuce is not.

It's like a saying something is 'refreshingly dead' or 'enthusiastically tasty'. Stupid.

Almost as stupid as those people who have to seek approval on their own blogs for every little thing they do to make themselves feel alive. Get real.

Some blokes tried to rob a post office by kidnapping the post-mistress and holding her husband and grown up son hostage. Off they went, down the M50, to rob the cash and their van broke down meaning the feckless crims had to leg it.

A couple of days earlier a post-mistress over in North Strand managed to escape when one of the morons fell asleep. How fucking crap is that? Imagine the adrenaline, the tension, the energy that doing a robbery must create and this dick managed to nod off. And they say heroin is no good for society.

That lady can thank her lucky stars that yer man was filled up with the golden brown, texture like sun (and if Gordon Brown ever takes over as Labour party leader in the UK he just has to use that as his theme tune - Gordon Brown, finer temptress. Actually, scratch that).

These kids today have no idea how to carry out a robbery. It's not too difficult to make sure you have a car that isn't a piece of shit and if you're going to hold somebody hostage try not to get so fucked up that you pass out.

It's no wonder that Dublin criminals are the laughing stock of the country. They're even laughing at them in Offaly. How sad is that?

"Here, Pizza boy!", said Stinking Pete.

"What a you want, you filthy Irish pork?", replied Lucky Luciano, the compassionate assassin.

"I want to hire you to do a job", he roared.

"Is a better if you speak quietly as amyone with a half a brain know. Who you want me to kill?"

"The bloke who stole Phil Lynnot's hand and guitar."

"Is a dead. I'm a not kill anyone that rob a grave."

"No, you pasta eating shitebag, the statue of Phil Lynnot on Harry Street. Some robbed his hand and his guitar?"

"Who is it?"

"Phil Lynott!"

"No, you a stupid prick. Who is a the person who steal it?"

"How the fuck would I know?"

"Porco dio! You a know what I do, Stinking a Pete?"

"Yeah, you knock people off. You help them kick the bucket. You cap them. You rub them out. If there's someone to be snuffed you snuff them. You..."

"Yeah, very good. Is any part which say I am private detective?""

"Well, not exact-"

"IS ANY PART WHICH SAY I AM PRIVATE DETECTIVE?"

"No."

"Well then a how you expect me to know whom I'm a gonna kill?"

"That's a fair point. Someone must have seen him though. I mean, you don't carry off the hand and guitar of Phil Lynott without anyone seeing you. Can you imagine somebody walking down Grafton Street in Rome or O'Connell Street in Turin with the hand and guitar of Zucchero or Lucio Battisti? Why did nobody stop them? Why?"

"I have idea. You go a look for the hand and guitar. When you find tell me and I will a kill the person and I give you a 10% discount."

"Deadly idea! You're a fucking legend Lucky Luciano."

That was a week ago. We haven't seen Pete since. Lucky is my hero.

In the paper this morning they report that Bertie's daughter, Cecilia Ahern, has signed a deal to write a comedy show for US network ABC. Her agent say she's got an 'exquisite sense of humour'.

'Exquisite' is not a word I would generally associate with a sense of humour. You might use it do describe art or jewellery or you could say that somebody has exquisite taste in home furnishings or clothes or something but you wouldn't, unless you were a pretentious cunt of the highest order, describe somebody's sense of humour as exquisite.

It really is a wanky word which makes me quite angry. If somebody said 'Oh, she has such exquisite taste' I would think 'You mean she has enough money to buy all the shit that people with lots of money can buy without actually knowing anything about anything but they just buy it because that's what all the other rich people do.'

It's a shit word for cunts and twats.

A good word to describe somebody's sense of humour is 'wicked'. You could also use 'ribald', 'warped', 'twisted', 'classic', 'dry', 'biting' or 'dark'.

Those are just some of the words that would make people interested in a writer of a comedy show. If they think the humour is going to be gilded, draped with a beautiful linen throw then hand-stitched and flecked with diamante they probably won't be arsed. Can you imagine her knock-knock jokes?

*Knock Knock"
Who's there?
Doctor?
I'm afraid the master didn't call any doctor and as such I shall not allow you to enter. Good day to you, Sir.

Did nobody at ABC read any of her books? They're about as funny as cancer of the eyes.

What fucking pact with the devil has this bitch made?

Not many people know that Jimmy the Bollix has a son. His name is Jimmy Junior and he is the progeny of Jimmy and the girl from the Bangles called Michael.

She was a red-headed lady and Jimmy was always a sucker for them. As I'm sure you all know he spent some time in America in the past and this was around the time when the Bangles were at their peak. He ended up doing security for them on one of their tours and had to turn down the advances of the very sexy Susannah Hoffs because he was already smitten with Michael.

Michael, despite her name, was all woman in such a way as to make Lisa Stansfield herself seem masculine, and she and Jimmy embarked on a torrid affair for the duration of the tour. It came as a big shock to him when she revealed she was pregnant just before Jimmy was due to fly back to Ireland.

Even though he is a total and utter cunt Jimmy is not a complete cunt and he has endeavored to stay in Jimmy Junior's life despite the great distance between them. Sometimes the young fella comes over to Dublin and we entertain him by running over travellers, giving beggars coins that they can't spend anywhere and drinking pints of Guinness. To be fair he wasn't really able to handle them till he got to about 9 years of age but he's a grand lad for the pints now.

There isn't a birthday, Christmas or other important event in the kid's life that passes without his Dad sending a present or being involved in some other way. He's still good pals with Michael herself and recently went over when she phoned him up and told him she was being stalked by Dolph Lundgren. Jimmy did what Rocky Balboa couldn't do at the first attempt and knocked him into the middle of next week even as Grace Jones tried to tear his eyes out, the mad cunt.

Last time he came over though Jimmy Junior wanted to learn how to cook. As I'm a master chef Jimmy sought advice from me. I came over to his place the night before Junior arrived and went through a variety of recipes with him. Indian, Chinese, Italian, Thai, French, Japanese, there wasn't a thing he couldn't cook by the time I was finished.

As it turned out the young fella wanted to cook Chinese food. Jimmy went through the various things I had taught him but Junior was having some problems with his stir fry. His vegetables just weren't crunchy enough and his prawns weren't sizzly enough.

Having paid close attention to my lessons the previous night Jimmy knew it was a problem of technique. As I said to him:

"Jimmy, the best Chinese chefs are total fucking spastics. Seriously, they are idiots of the highest order. To be able to cook as well as them you have to become one of them, be like they are, act like they act".

With that in mind Jimmy went about telling Junior how to sort out his stir-fry woes.

"Listen here, Jimmy Junior", he said, "your Uncle Twenty was round here last night teaching me how to cook this stuff and here's what he said. He said all Chinese chefs are foolish and act like cretinous simpletons in the kitchen. If you want to cook like they cook you have to be the same way. You have to act like a moron or a nincompoop or a gobshite of some kind. Once you get inside their minds and behave like a halfwit, pinheaded loon your Chinese food will be as good as anyone else's."

Little Jimmy, always willing to please and happy to learn, looked at him slightly puzzled. He nearly had it.

"I almost understand what you mean, Da. Almost."

Jimmy thought for a minute then it was like a lightbulb went off above his head.

"It's easy", he said, "Wok like an eejit, son!"

Talking to TV3 the Taoiseach spoke about the problematic time he's had of late. He said:

"Somebody or some group tried to get rid of me, there's no doubt. I've no idea [who they might be], you could speculate until the cows come home but sure I'd only be passing rumour upon rumour."

Fair enough, but then he says:

"[There was one group] very persistently trying to bury me. It was quite obvious who they were, I'm not going to personalise it but it was quite obvious who they were."

So either he did know or he didn't know or the man is so fucking confused all the time he hasn't a clue what's going on.

"I didn't get any loans. No, I did get some loans. I never had a bank account. Oh, I did have a bank account but it was dormant. It only happened once. Well, it happened another time as well. Today is Monday. Today is Thursday, in fact."

Jesus Christ on a fucking saddleless bicycle the man is a fucking moron and what's worse is that after all the shite, after the lies and the spoofing and the stuttering bollocks he spouted his approval ratings actually went up.

We shouldn't be surprised though. This is a nation that will put up with pretty much anything from anyone.

'Oh, raped and killed my entire family, did you? Ahh, sure I knew your father and he was a grand man. Don't do it again though you cheeky little scamp."

I think I might create my own nation. Declare independence from the Republic. Twentyland, it'll be called, and I will be its benevolent dictator. Only €20 entry. Who's in?

I'm not sure I understand all the fuss about this Ted Haggard bloke.

Sure he preached about homosexuality being sinful and disgusting but he was being ironic. Anyone that believes in Jesus can't surely dislike homosexuality.

Let's face it, Jesus was an arabic bloke who surrounded himself with other men in a secret club and they drank wine during dinner and after...well, they were arabic. What on earth makes anyone think they wouldn't have engaged in a little cheeky bum sex after they'd eaten?

Granted they didn't have crystal meth but Haggard should be praised for his more authentic way of following Christ's teachings than these holier-than-thou talkalots who won't take a bit of cock in the name of the Lord.

A report in the paper today says more and more men are taking up knitting. Apparently 'Gladiator' star Russell Crowe is a keen knitter. Pfffff.

Now, while I'm all for equality and all that shite, there has to be a limit. Women play football, that's great. They even have women DJs on the radio these days. Men can be nurses and you have househusbands who mind the kids, do the washing and all that when their wives go out and earn the family's crust. Fantastic.

Some things though should just be for men and some things should just be for women.

Bodybuilding, for example. The men who do it look ridiculous, disgusting and shiny but they look far better than the women who do it who don't look like women any more. I understand people wanting to be fit and stuff but why would any woman, apart from a ferocious lesbian of some kind, want to make herself look like a man?

Knitting is another one of those things. Men who are sensitive and in touch with their so-called 'feminine side' are great but men who knit are whopping great pansies. Russell Crowe? The man who fights his way around the world is a knitter. How would Gladiator have changed.

"Ave Maximus, I have killed your wife and son and now you must fight this tiger and 8 centurions"

"Ooooh, give me a minute to finish this garter stitch and embroider this blouse and I'll smash them up, duckie!"

Men, stop knitting. No good can come of it. No good at all.

"Ron", says Dirty Dave, "you know how much I love this bar and all the many great characters that come in here but I may not come in as often as I normally do."

"Why's that?", asks Ron.

"Well, I was in O'Brien's off-licence the other night and I picked up 10 bottles of Stella for €10. That's a great deal considering bottles of Stella here, while naturally cheaper than anywhere else, are still nearly 4 times as expensive as the off-licence."

"Ah yes, but you don't get the ambience, the laughs, the comfort of your local bar though, Dirty Dave."

"In a way that's true, Ron, but in another way me own gaff has got a grand bit of ambience after I had it done up and got some recessed lighting and new wallpaper, I can get laughs by watching stuff on the telly of DVD and it's well comfortable now with the new three piece suite and plasma HDTV I picked up from Harvey Norman, the shrieking Aussie cunt, last week."

"That's fair enough but you don't get the craic with your mates and the hilarious tales and escapades they get up to at home."

"That too is fair enough, Ron, but I've seen these cunts nearly every day of my life since I was born. If I don't come in on a Wednesday and have a few scoops at home the same stories will be around on Thursday."

"Don't think they'll do repeats just because you weren't around the first time."

"Ahh now, Ron, don't get cranky. I'm just saying that for all the shite you vintners go on with about the smoking ban affecting trade it's you lot and your fucking ridiculous prices that are most at fault. At the moment you're just lucky because people have more disposable income. They can't afford to buy a fucking house so they socialise instead but at some point that's going to change and you cunts, milking the fuck out of the cash cow at the moment, are going to suffer."

"You're right, Dirty Dave, the vintners federation are the biggest pack of cunts I can think of and that includes the entire Chelsea first team. They're like a horrible cartel trying to keep Ireland in the ancient past. They jack up prices willy-nilly, they oppose the issuing of café-bar licence which would make it possible to get a drink anywhere which is the way it should be, their intense lobbying of that cunt McDowell was shameful though if you lobbied that wanker enough he'd tell you it was Thursday on a Monday. Look at the first line of their 'What we're about' - To organise, promote and protect the interests of Vintners and Publicans. What a bunch of horse-fisting cuntbashers they are. What about people like you, Dave, and Twenty and Jimmy, who want to have a drink wherever they want, whenever they want and at a price that doesn't bankrupt them? It's all well and good protecting the interests of publicans, who make a fucking fortune, but they shouldn't do it ahead of the interests of their customers."

"er...."

"And look at this shit. Here are a couple of what they list as achievements. 1 - The VFI has successfully lobbied the Government to strengthen the right of the Publican to refuse service to any customer. 2 - The Federation has successfully opposed certain Licence Applications, which would have had considerable impact on the trade on a national basis.

What the fuck is that to be proud of? They're crowing about the fact they can be discriminatory and the fact that they're denying the general public services which they not only want but which they are entitled to. If someone wants a drink they should be allowed go anywhere and get one. A beer with McDonalds, why not? A gin and tonic in a café while you have your lunchtime sandwich, what's the problem? I'll tell you what the problem is. It's these cunts blocking everything, putting up prices, making sure their members are quids in all the time and making sure their own interests are served before anyone else's. I hate the cunts with all my heart."

"Jaysus, I never knew it meant so much to you, Ron", said Dave.

"That's all right, it's a bit of a sore point. Anyway, what'll you have?"

"Guinness, please."

"Coming right up. Oh, and the pint has gone up 10 cents."

I see my neighbour's three kids approach the door last night with their costumes and bags at the ready to accept all the goodies they could hold.

*DING DONG*

There is silence. They remember what happened last year. They're not going to be caught out again.

"Help the hallowe'en party!", they cry as they hold open their sacks already half full with sweets, monkey nuts and satsumas.

"Certainly", I say. "I could fashion some bunting perhaps or make those lovely sandwiches with the crust cut off and cut into perfect little triangles?"

"Oh Jaysus, not this shite again. Just give us some treats".

"You know what, mini-Bono, you're really going to have to work on your lines. You asked me to help the hallowe'en party and so far I've suggested two ways that I could make this soiree, wherever it might be, a resounding success. Naturally if you already have somebody to perform those tasks I could do something else".

"Ahh just give us some fucking mini mars bars you old bollix!"

"I hope you don't kiss your mother with that mouth, zombie corpse of Charlie Haughey. I am more than willing to help the hallowe'en party. In fact I could sort out the music as I know many famous DJs. In fact I have a direct line to 2FM's Rick O'Shea. How about that?"

"Ah here, we might be little kids but we're not stupid".

"Good point, well made, Lindsey Lohan's minge. How about I provide security so no undesirables get in? I could make the punch and I promise not to spike it. I make mean Rice Krispie cakes. I could help organise the party games. I could hire a clown for the party then beat the shite out of him when he arrives because I hate clowns. There are a million things I could do to help".

"Come on, this old prick is as big of an old prick as we thought. We'll get something somewhere else. Thanks for nothing you old shite".

They walk towards the gate.

"Wait", I say. They turn around.

"After what happened last year I felt kind of bad and I knew you'd be back again this year because kids don't learn their lessons quickly. I got something especially for you. The rest of the kids that call are getting fruit or root vegetables. You get something special."

I give them each an extra large sherbet dip.

"Wow! Thanks mister. You're not so bad after all".

I watch them skip happily down the garden path. I smile at their innocence, their youthful exuberance.

I hope the neighbours have got plenty of toilet paper.

50% sherbet, 50% double-strength laxative is going to rip the arses out of those little fuckers and they'll blame it all on eating too many sweets.

The perfect crime.