Twenty Major - still smoking in Dublin bars.

I have moved

2007-02-07T19:57:00.001Z

Due to Blogger being an enormous pain in the hole I have now moved home. You can find me now at:

http://twentymajor.net

If you could update your bookmarks/blogrolls that'd be just swell.

The RSS feed remains the same:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/twentymajor

Unfortunately I haven't managed to import all the Haloscan comments yet. I did find some website which showed you how to do it but it was really fucking complicated. I'll have to get Dirty Dave, web monkey that he is, to have a look at it.

Cheerio, Blogger. It's been a blast.

See the rest of you on the other side, I hope.

Northern Ireland the most bigoted place on earth

2007-02-07T12:33:00.000Z

It's true.

They were asked how they would feel living beside Muslims, Jews, homosexuals or people of another race. Forty-four per cent of respondents in the North said they did not want people from these groups living next door. The main targets of the prejudice were gays, followed by foreign workers.

Quite honestly I'm shocked. That just can't be accurate. If they're so bigoted explain to me how a man like Julian on Friday becomes Northern Ireland's most important TV celebrity.

You can't, can you? Our northern brothers and sisters have been stitched up good and proper, it's the only possible explanation.

Fuck you, Gary Numan

2007-02-07T00:01:00.000Z

Has anyone else noticed the significant rise in pedestrians being killed since the turn of the year? It's not just me, is it?

Every time you look at the newspaper another one has been knocked down or run over. What does it mean though? An increase in careless road crossing? No.

What this means is that the cars have taken notice of all the bad publicity they got last year when they kept crashing into each other and now they're rising up. They're mounting pavements, not slowing down at zebra crossings and paying no heed whatsoever to lollipop ladies. It's like that Stephen King book where all the people are trapped inside a petrol station and the trucks are going mental outside and running them over when they try to escape.

The crafty bastards are going after pensioners too. Oh yes, everybody cries and wails when another young person, driving like a cunt, loses their life but where's the outcry when the elderly are being bumped off by these mechanical beasts?

Now with some families having two or three cars the population is growing and their killing potential is enormous. There might be more people than cars at the moment you have to consider the fact that one car, bent on taking out as many pedestrians as possible, can knock down dozens of people in go like so many skittles.

They're keeping it small scale at the moment though because they don't want to be caught out. They didn't reckon for my eagle eye though.

I'm onto you, cars, you fucking cunts. Just fucking watch it or I'll put sand in all your petrol tanks.

Something fishy

2007-02-06T00:05:00.000Z

Once upon a time there lived a flat fish called Evan. He wasn't like the other fish though. He was always a bit of a rebel and tried to do things differently.

Each morning he and his brothers would get up to go to school with all the other fishes.

"Hey", he'd say to his brother Paul, "let's go over to that fissure where the water is hot and bask a bit."

"No, Evan", he'd reply. "That's where the squid hangs out and he loves to eat fish like us. It's too dangerous."

"You're such a cowardy custard", replied Evan. "I want some danger."

He was an inquisitive little fish too, always asking questions of his parents.

"Dad, what's down there where the water gets really deep?"

"Monsters, son. Strange fluorescent monsters with eyes on stalks and more tentacles than a room full of octopuses. Whales too. Great big whales who just open their mouths and swallow you up."

"And what about over there amongst those rock formations?"

"Eels, son. And stingrays who don't care if you hunt crocodiles or not. And Manta Rays who are always hungry and looking for a snack and they love little fish like you."

"And what about where the light shines near the surface?"

At this his father grew serious.

"You can never go up there son. It is a place without water. Instead they have a dry substance they call air. This air will get into your gills and kill you. As well as that there are disgusting bipeds up there who would cut you open, pull your guts out, chop your head off, stick a smelly bulb inside you, cover you with salt then bake you in a place called 'the oven' where the air is as hot and dry as a camel's flange. Promise me you will never go there, son. Promise me!"

"I promise, Dad".

"Good lad, now lend your mother a fin with the dinner. I'm starving. I hope it's seahorse again. Mmmmm, seahorse."

Now, those of you reading who have children of your own will know that the best way to make a child interested in something is to expressly forbid them from having anything to do with it. And so it was with Evan. He became obsessed with the land above and sought out those who knew about it.

He went from one old wise fish to another and each one of them told him the same thing. That if he went there he would surely die and that his life was sub-aqua with his family and friends.

One day though he met a flying fish. They were highly regard by all the others as they could leap out of the water and when they weren't being pulled out of the sky by a castaway and fed to a Bengal tiger they could look around them and see what was going on. It was well known that they had lots of information about what went on above the surface.

"Hey", he said to the flying fish. "Can you tell me what happens up there?"

"Sure kid", said the flying fish, whose name was Arnold. He went on to describe in vivid detail everything he'd seen. Islands, lagoons, rock formations and even the strange bipeds his father had warned him about. The only problem was the fact he couldn't get up there. No matter how close he swam to the shore he was unable to get out of the water and onto the beach.

Once again though Arnold was able to help him. Every day after school Evan would race over to Arnold's crevice and take lessons on how to jump up and out of the water. At first he was given exercises which made him waggle his tail fin and swim fast. He was impatient though, saying to Arnold "When do I learn to jump?"

Arnold replied, "Better learn balance. Balance is key. Balance good, jumping good. Everything good. Balance bad, better pack up, go home. Understand?"

Soon though he learned to focus on the job at hand and before long he was making mighty leaps through the air and back into the sea. He practiced and practiced until he became expert and then he knew it was time.

One morning having just left home he confided in his brother what he was going to do.

"I'm going to jump so far and then I will be where no fish has been before. The excitement, the danger, I'll make history. People will know my name all over the sea. I'll be famous. You can be my manager."

"Please don't do it!", cried Paul. He knew his brother and realised that he hadn't thought about how he was going to get back. He had visions of him flopping backwards and forwards as the poisonous air dried out his gills. "You'll die, I don't want you to die."

"There's nothing you can say to stop me, Paul. It is time for me to face up to my destiny. I will soar through the air and once I hit the land I will feel mighty. Then I will come back and claim my position as the world's greatest ever fish."

Paul knew now his brother had lost his tiny little mind. He tried to stop him again but his pleas fell on deaf ears. He knew he needed help and raced back home to get his father.

He swam as fast as he could and explained the situation as they swam like lightning back to where he'd left his brother but it was too late. As they neared the shore they saw something moving as fast as a bullet, silver glistening as the sun's rays came through the water. Then with a flick of his tail he took off out of the water and landed thirty feet on the beach, never to be seen again.

"We were too late", sobbed Paul, distraught at this loss of his sibling. "Evan is a plaice on earth."

Amy Winehouse

2007-02-05T11:48:00.000Z

Multiple choice. Which would you choose?

a - Kick her in the gee with a steel capped boot
b - Insert a live scorpion into her anus
c - Cut her lips off and feed them to a starving tramp

I'd more inclined to go with b at the moment. My God, she is an irritating cunt.

No sugar

2007-02-05T00:01:00.000Z

"I've given up sugar!", announced Dirty Dave in Ron's the other night.

This came as a bit of a shock to us as Dave has a notoriously sweet tooth.

"So you're not taking sugar in your tea?"

"No!"

"And no sugar on your cornflakes?"

"No! Sugar is bad for you. It's full of calories and it makes your teeth rot. I've seen the light."

"Dave, forgive me if I'm a little doubtful but you have a shelf in your larder with about 16 bags of sugar 'just in case' you might run out. I once saw you drink a pint of sugar. You've even snorted it off your kitchen table from time to time."

"Yes, well that's the old Dave. A thing of the past. An ancient relic. A decrepit being. A venerable phantom. A -"

"Yeah, yeah. I get it. So what are you using now? Canderel? Hermesetas? That new lo-cal sweetener Splenda?"

"No. I don't trust those things. I think, despite the rigorous testing these products undergo, that the long-term effects of them are not known. Sugar, makes you a bit fat and makes your teeth go black. These other artificial sweetener things could make you grow tits or shrink your balls or scramble your brain so that Mike and the Mechanics 'The living years' becomes an emotional song that makes you cry instead of a soppy load of MOR bullshit."

"It's a legitimate concern but how can you go from using sugar, and remember Dave, you used to put 5 table spoons of sugar in your tea, to not using any kind of sweetener at all."

"Ahhh, don't be daft. I've not gone totally mental. I use more natural methods now. Instead of sugar in my tea I break in a bar of Cadbury's dairy milk and if it's coffee I put in two Snickers."

"That's more natural?"

"Of course. And on my breakfast cereal instead of sprinkling sugar I squeeze about a half a pint of Aunt Jemima's maple syrup and just a touch of 'child's tears', the sweetest tears of all."

"What?"

"For me it's tears of disappointment that make the recipe work. I know you can get them in the supermarket or online but I prefer to harvest my own. I simply volunteer to play Santa in Arnotts each Christmas then tell them there's no such thing as Santa. Or the Tooth Fairy. Or the Easter Bunny. And that Mommy got pregnant when Daddy weed up her bergina. Some people prefer tears of anger but I find them too bitter. I know one bloke, mad as this sounds, who likes the tears of falling down and scraping your knee on a gravel path and getting those little stones in the palm of your hand. Imagine!"

"Uhm...", I said, before putting down my pint and going home, crying a little on the inside.

With him around it's better safe than sorry.

Hahahaha Barry Egan, shove it up your cunt

2007-02-04T11:07:00.000Z

Love this from today's Indo:

"On January 21 2007, we published an article entitled 'Michael Flatley's tawdry PR war against the woman he loved', which alleged that Mr Flatley had declared a PR war against his ex-fiancee, Lisa Murphy.

We now accept that these allegations are untrue and we apologise to Michael Flatley and his family for any distress caused by their publication."

All we need now is for the Indo to apologise for Egan's pathetic, toe-curling, sycophantic, sub-par 'journalism' and for employing somebody so ginger. Come on then, we're waiting...

Italian football

2007-02-03T19:31:00.000Z

Lucky Luciano is very upset about the state of Italian football after the policeman was killed in Sicily last night.

"Is a terrible", he said bemoaning the fact he wouldn't see his beloved Livorno in action this weekend, "to have bomb and to throw at a policeman when you could a save it and explode a someone connected to Juventus. Is a very sad day."

Stinkleganger

2007-02-02T10:00:00.000Z

"Twenty", said Stinking Pete, "how long would you have to wait between taking out a massive life assurance policy and actually dying for it not to be suspicious?"

"At least a year, I'd have thought. Any sooner and people might start asking questions. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just there's this new bloke who has moved in about 4 doors up and he is the spitting image of me. The other day Mrs O'Leary, who has lived beside me for 23 years, asked me how the building was going and it turns out she thought she was carrying on a conversation she'd had with yer man a few days earlier. Even the postman said it to me."

"That's weird."

"Yeah. So I'm thinking if I take out a big policy on myself, for a few million for example, then wait a year and kill this bloke nobody will ever know the difference."

"Cunning."

"Yeah, I can get his body and put it in my house. Then when one of you comes to identify 'me' you say 'Oh God! That's him. Waaahhhh. Boooo hooooo' and things."

"Yes, we can do that. Without the crying of course. That would raise too many suspicions."

"So, a year, you say."

"Yes, but have you stopped to think why this guy looks so like you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, surely it can't be mere coincidence that someone who looks exactly like you has moved in just four doors up. Perhaps fate is telling you something. And, let's be honest here, we all know what your old man was like."

"Now, careful Twenty..."

"All due respect to him, Pete, but everyone knew he was riding young ones all over town. And, I say this with the greatest of respect too, but your mam was a complete fucking slut."

"Ahhh here, Twenty..."

"Don't even start, Pete. Do you not remember when we were young and Dirty Dave was sick and couldn't go out to play football and then we went back to your house and there was Dirty Dave buried up to his bollocks in your mam?"

"Oh Jesus! I'd blocked that out."

"And what about the other time when, I think it was at your confirmation, she went missing and someone said she was round the back of sacrasty blowing off the Archbishop of Dublin?"

"Ok! Ok! My parents were like girls from Alexandra College. No need to go on."

"All I'm saying is that given that fact, and the fact this bloke looks exactly the same as you, there's the possibility that he might be related to you. A long lost brother perhaps."

"All the more reason to kill him then", said Pete, somewhat troubled at the idea that he might not be the last of the Stinking family. "Although I'd best find out."

"You do that. Let me know how it goes."

"I will, Twenty. I will."

And naturally I'll update you when I know more. Now, today I have to go to County Kilkenny to get back the Lotto ticket which was destined for me when I bought it at Pearse Street Dart station the other day but somehow come out of a machine in Castlecomer.

This could be bloody.

People

2007-02-01T08:24:00.000Z

People are fucking crazy, aren't they?

How else do you explain Cecilia Ahern being nominated for the Popular Fiction category of the Irish Book awards 2007. Certainly it's popular and it's fiction but they seem to have totally overlooked the fact it's fucking crap.

What about those lunatics in Birmingham who wanted to kidnap a soldier, torture him, behead him, film the whole lot and put it on the internet? Like the internet isn't full of enough shite already. I mean, seriously, what the fuck are they thinking?

Most groups of lads get together and make plans to go out at the weekend, get drunk, maybe get a bit off their face, watch some football and probably go to a nightclub and try and score with some 'hot chicks'.

"Where'll we go this weekend, lads? What about The Zoom Factory, great new club, music is excellent, top drinks too and the women. Wow! You should see them."

"Cool"

"That sounds like a plan."

"Bob?"

"Actually, I was thinking we'd do something different."

"Like what?"

"Well, what if we kidnapped a fella and, bear with me here, we stripped him naked and - I know, just let me finish - we tortured him with makeshift implements and then hacked his head off - stop interrupting, Giles - hacked his head off while one of us films it and puts it on our blog?"

"Ahh, now that you've finished it sounds like a great idea!"

People. Fucking crazy.

Email me your life story, why don't you?

2007-01-31T10:02:00.000Z

Maybe this doesn't apply to everyone but I'm sure you've come across it. You know when you send an email to someone and you can get an automated reply, saying:

I am out of the office for the week Please forward all relevant materials to somecunt@bunchofcunts.com

Regards,
Some cunt
www.bunchofcunts.com

Well, thanks for that. It would be good if you could go into a bit more detail though. For example, if you were out of the office but actually going on holidays I'd like to know that. If you could include your flight times, your home address, the code for the alarm and the names and addresses of any key holders that would be great too.

Then this sort of information would be useful to me. Leaving it so vague as to mean you might be on holidays from work but actually staying at home to relax and read books and do a spot of gardening is not much help. I mean, it would save us both a lot of hassle if you were more precise. Honesty. The last thing either of us wants is to come face to face in your hallway when you're padding about your house in your pyjamas and I've taken a bit of a gamble and figured you've gone Ryanair to Girona or 'Paris' or somewhere.

It would pain me to have to bash you over the noggin with the sap in my pocket. Honest. And think how easily it could have been avoided if only you'd given me a few more details in your email.

A load of balls

2007-01-30T12:14:00.000Z

Richard Sinnott from Carlow sued the Carlow Nationalist after they printed a picture of him during a GAA match which showed his 'private parts'.

Amazingly he was awarded €6,500 for 'breach of privacy, intentional infliction of emotional harm, and negligence'.

Unreal. Was there something different about Richard Sinnott? Did he have a grotesquely disfigured or incredibly tiny penis? Were his balls so different from every other man's set of balls?

Let's face it, a scrotum with balls in it is hardly a pretty sight but like small babies and Chinese people they all pretty much look the same. So if his balls were on display so were my balls and every other man in the country's balls.

Honestly, some people need to get a fucking life. The newspaper are appealing and I hope they win. If you don't want your balls to be on display in the newspaper when photos are taken of you during a GAA match then wear a pair of underpants that safely hold your balls in place rather than loose fitting ones which allow them to wobble all over the place and out of your shorts.

Richard Sinnott is the one at fault here. What a shame he didn't have the balls to see that.

Mobile phones and driving

2007-01-30T00:01:00.000Z

A report yesterday said 5,500 people have been caught using their mobile phones while driving since the law came into effect banning their use.

What happened to them though? Were they scolded severely? Did they get points on their licence? Did they get 100 lines "I must not use my mobile phone when driving"?

I'll tell you what I'd do if I was in charge of the police. Aside from giving them a good clip around the ear I'd confiscate their phones.

"Now Sir, give me the phone. You can have it back at the end of the week."

"But I need that phone for work!"

"Two weeks"

"But-"

"The end of the month then."

Now that's a proper fucking deterrent. Seriously, if you must use your mobile phone when driving at least get one of those hands free kits. What do they cost? Less than €100, I bet. Or do what one ingenious person I know does and put the speaker function on his phone then he jams the phone into the arch of the steering wheel. Hands free and free free too. It doesn't cost a penny.

I bet if they started confiscating phones that 5,500 would drop dramatically. Let's face it, people these days can't survive without their mobile phones. They take them everywhere and feel completely detached if they don't have it with them. The thoughts of having it confiscated, with the cops able to read all their text messages, would ensure this particular crime rate fell.

A little bit of creative policing there. I should have sold this idea to Fine Gael, made a few bob from it. Oh well.

The worst curry ever

2007-01-29T00:01:00.000Z

Stinking Pete has gone vegetarian. He says he can no longer cope with the senseless slaughter of animals for our consumption. I say I can no longer cope with him being a complete and utter cunt but he doesn't seem to be giving that up.

Anyway, he invited me, Jimmy the Bollix and Dirty Dave over for dinner on Saturday night. Normally I can think of an excuse to get out of going to his house to eat but this time I was caught on the hop and ended up with no choice but to go. The upside was the only way to cope with going to his house is to get really, really drunk. It's not that his house is dirty. Despite his own questionable hygiene and personal odour, his house is well kept.

It's just a really depressing place. It looks like it hasn't been redecorated since the early 70s which is quite a coincidence because it hasn't actually been redecorated since the early 70s. Terrible wallpaper, curtains that look like the stage curtains at a village concert hall, threadbare patterned carpet in what was once brown and beige but now looks like the colour of old mud and the furniture would have some kitsch value if it wasn't falling apart.

He refuses to change anything since he inherited the house from his parents after they died. It's a bit macabre, I suppose, but the sudden and frankly disgusting way his parents died had a big impact on his life. I'll tell you that story another day.

Anyway, after spending some months in Goa a long time ago Stinking Pete reckons he's the best Indian cook in Dublin. It's quite patently not true. You can go into the worst Indian takeaway in Dublin and look into what passes for a kitchen and witness whatever sad wretch reheats the food in there and he/she/it is probably a better cook than Pete but to be fair to him he can knock together a decent chicken curry.

So it was no surprise when that's exactly what he served on Saturday.

"How are you liking the chicken curry, lads?", he asked.

"Grand, Pete", I said. "Hey Jimmy, pour me another pint of Jim Beam. Cheers."

"Good, good. I'm glad you're enjoying the ...chicken...curry."

"Yeah, it's good", said Jimmy the Bollix. "Give us one of those naan breads, Dirty Dave."

"Splendid. Everyone is appreciating the taste of my ...*cough*...CHICKEN....*cough cough*...curry."

I put down my knife and fork.

"Something you need to tell us, Pete?"

"Oh, no. What gave you that idea?"

"Stinking Pete. Don't have me thrash you to within an inch of your life. What's going on?"

"Well...hehehe...you think you're eating chicken but, in fact, it's not chicken at all."

"Turkey?", asked Dirty Dave.

"No, Dave. Not turkey. It's no fowl whatsoever. It is Quorn."

A dealthy silence fell about the table.

"Quorn?", I said.

"Yes, Quorn", he replied.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Stinking Pete! Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you know what that shit is made from?"

"I know that it's made from some kind of fungus and no innocent creature has to die to fill your belly."

"Firstly, you cunt, how dare you impose your values on me in your own home. Secondly, 'a kind of fungus' is what they want you to think, you dopey bastard. Look at the name. Quorn. Can't you see it? What is fed on corn? Chickens. And what part of a chicken begins with Qu? The quim, of course. Quorn is actually chicken minge and you sit there as smug as you like after feeding us, your friends, with the processed vulva, labia and clitorii of farmyard birds. Fucking hell."

"My God, I never knew. I'm sorry, Twenty, Jimmy, Dave...."

"There's no time for that. Lads, do what you have to do."

In unison the three of us put our fingers down our throats and sprayed vomit all over the table until there was no more puke to be puked.

"Oh, fucking hell", he said as he looked at his bile covered kitchen. "You could at least have gone out in the back garden".

"No we could not", said Jimmy. "Trying to make us eat Quorn and trying to pass it off as some kind of healthy alternative is just despicable. I've done some bad things in my time. Like that time I stole the collection money for that orphanage in Nairobi. Or the time I could have saved that woman from drowning but I decided it was too much trouble. Or like that time I was face to face with Osama Bin Laden and he told me he was going to launch a terrorist offensive on the world which would bring us to the point of nuclear war and I figured he was just another Johnny Big Bollocks giving it the big I am so I let him go without killing him. Or that time when when a man asked me for one euro to make a phone call to tell his pregnant and hysterical wife he was on his way home and not having an affair with his secretary and I told him to fuck off and get his own euro and he told me he'd just been mugged and they'd taken all his money and all he had was this watch which his father had given him on his death bed and he offered me the watch which had such sentimental value if I'd only give him a euro and I took the watch then kicked him in the side of the head and walked off and his wife killed herself by stabbing herself in the stomach over and over with a kitchen knife and then he ended up committing suicide by throwing himself under a bus which caused the bus driver to suffer post traumatic stress disorder which made him sexually abuse his children who grew up to be rapists and serial killlers. But I've never done anything like give somebody Quorn. NEVER."

Pete just stood them looking down at his shoes.

"Look, Stinking Pete", I said, "if you want to be a fanny-arsed vegetarian then that's fine. You know it makes a big poof, we know it makes you a big poof and we will rip the piss out of you for it, but if you're going to be a vegetarian just eat vegetables. Don't be one of those cunts who's a vegetarian but eats fish and chicken as if they're not real animals. And for Christ's sake don't get suckered in to eating shite like Quorn. Quorn is made by cunts from cunts for cunts."

"Yeah, fair enough. Sorry again lads."

"Now, do you want a hand cleaning up this vomit?"

"Yeah. That'd be great."

"It would be great but we're not gonna. We're off to the chipper to get some decent food."

"Mines a Quornter-pounder with cheese!", said Jimmy.

"Oh, Jimmy, you are a one", I said.

Fedex

2007-01-26T09:01:00.000Z

I recently bought some RAM from the US for my 'puter and it was delivered via Fedex. No problemo.

A few days later I got a letter from Fedex saying I owed them €22 because of duty. I ignored the letter. Then they sent me another letter asking me to please pay the €22. I ignored that one too.

This morning received a letter from a debt collection agency requesting that I make payment immediately or they will not hesitate to commence with 'formal proceedings'.

Now, I know a veiled threat when I see one. Can you believe a reputable company like Fedex is threatening to send large men around to my house armed with bicycle chains and knuckle dusters so they can duff me up and get me to pay the €22 I owe? I am outraged. It's scandalous.

This lot would have me beaten to a pulp for the sake of €22 just so they can use me as an example to anyone else who has fallen behind on their payments.

And what a load of shite the €22 is anyway. I bought it fair and square, paid the full price, and they want more because the government says they had to pay this 'duty'. You realise what that means, don't you?

Yes, it's the Irish government who are giving carte blanche to a courier company to batter Irish citizens who conscientiously object to these stealth taxes. Well, I'm not for moving.

I'll take my beating like a man and then I'll see you on the Joe Duffy show, you cunts. Bring it on.

Salt and pepper NOT saltandpepper

2007-01-25T16:59:00.000Z

I like salt and pepper. One salt shaker, one pepper shaker or pepper mill.

What I don't like is a pepper mill with a salt mill on top in one, supposedly handy, contraption. Too many restaurants are engaging in this wanky bollix nowadays.

Keep them separate. You wouldn't give someone one piece of cutlery which was a knife at one end and a fork at the other, would you? No, you would not.

So keep your salt and pepper separate and stop trying to be fucking trendy. It might work with furnishings but it's no fucking use at all with condiments.

Aches

2007-01-25T00:01:00.000Z

Headaches are a pain in the arse, aren't they?

Not literally of course because literally they're a pain in the head although not for Weird Will who always claimed to have a pain somewhere then blame it on some other part of his body.

"Jesus Christ!", he'd shout. "I have a fucking terrible pain in my head. I can't sit down."

"Take a couple of painkillers then", someone would say.

"Ach, those things never do any good. I have to keep walking around you see because when I have a headache it's my arse that hurts."

"That's odd. The cheeks of your arse or your, you know, ringpiece?"

"The whole lot", he'd say.

"And you're sure it's not actually an arseache?"

"No, whenever I have a headache my arse hurts."

"What about when your knee hurts?"

"Stomach ache."

"And a pain in your stomach?"

"Lower back ache."

"Toothache?"

"That's down a problem with the joints on my big toe"

"A painful sinus?"

"That's my left ankle."

"Earache?"

"That is nearly always to do with my third vertebrae."

"Backache?"

"Happens when I have a pain behind my right eye."

"How about when you get that stabbing pain in your heart?"

"Kidneys"

"Sore throat?"

"Swollen elbow."

"And what about when you have a pain in your arse."

"Headache."

"So, if you have a headache you have a pain in your arse and if you have an arseache you have a pain in your head."

"Exactly"

"So how can you tell the difference?"

"It's easy. I don't shit out of my head."

Doctor and the Clerics

2007-01-24T00:03:00.000Z

This is from a report on Breakingnews.ie about attitudes to sex in rural Ireland being, shall we say, a bit backwards.

In one incident referred to in the research, a young woman went to her GP seeking the morning-after pill, but instead he offered to say prayers for her.

That would be funny if it wasn't so fucking scary. This is 2007 and a doctor says prayers for a young woman rather than give her the medical treatment she's entitled to.

Someone should find out who that is and then strike him off because he's a fucking lunatic. Can you imagine him in an emergency?

"Doctor, I have shooting pains down my left arm and my chest hurts"

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

"Argh"

"...blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus."

*slump*

"Amen"

Madness. Now that I see it written down I'd never noticed the Hail Mary outed Jesus before.

Irish blog awards - nominate now

2007-01-23T15:37:00.000Z

The Irish Blog Awards nomination form has been changed at last so you can vote for all your favourite blogs at once.

Tá mé ag dul to vote for my favourites (see what I did there?) and I don't want to influence you in any way at all but obviously you should nominate me if you see fit.

To nominate, simply go here and fill in the parts of the form you have an opinion on. You don't have to fill them all in.

Also, starting at this post helps you to concentrate, focus and pick your nominations. It couldn't be easier!

The God delusion

2007-01-23T00:01:00.000Z

I was listening to Karen Coleman interview Richard Dawkins on the radio on Sunday. I could have done a better job. I'd have at least asked a different question. The interview went something like this.

Coleman: So what about XYZ, Richard Dawkins?

Dawkins: Well, this is what I think about XYZ and while I'm at it here's a bit of ABC too to make my point more clear.

Coleman: All well and good, Richard Dawkins (she insisted on saying his full name like she was scolding him. Richard Dawkins, get in for your tea at once!), but what about ABC?

Dawkins: Well, if you'd been listening you'd have heard me explain ABC but look, no harm, and here's some DEF to keep you going.

Coleman: We have a text from a listener, Richard Dawkins, who asks what about XYZ?

Dawkins: Ok, I'll explain this for the 5th time...

Fairly fucking crappy, you have to say. Coleman's stance seemed to be based around ideas such as the beauty of nature couldn't have come through evolution and sure wouldn't it make more sense if God had created them.

Now, to me it makes much more sense that intricate patterns and colours and flowers and plants came about through evolution because, no matter how patient he was, God is not going to sit there and colour in the 12,400 different types of ferns that exist all over the world and waste his time making 500,000 different kinds of insects.

He'd just get a basic model and lash loads of them out then spend the rest of his time playing video games or smoking the best grass he could make. Maybe that's what he did but some of them were retarded and deformed and stuff and they interbred to create new species. God-powered evolution.

Dawkins is an interesting speaker though but his trenchant belief in atheism with a total unwillingness to accept the slight possibility that there's an omnipotent white bearded old cunt up there makes him just as bad as the rest of them. Personally I'm open to all possibilities. Look, I've seen Dirty Dave, the stinkingest fucker I know, get his end away with women so if that can happen then the idea of a God in heaven is not so ludicrous.

I did like that episode of South Park recently where in the future all religion had been wiped out and, because of Dawkins, atheism was the accepted creed. That didn't stop the United Atheist Alliance, the Atheist Federation and some other group fighting it out over which brand of atheism was the best.

Stinking Pete is the most religious of all us. He had a near death experience a few years back after he got hit with a golf ball while flying his kite on the beach out near Donabate. He was in a coma for three days and he swears he did the whole going into the light thing and he saw his dear departed Mum and so on.

We never told him that it was us in the hospital room. When the doctors weren't around we'd shine torches into his eyes and say in really deep voices 'Come into the light, Stinking Pete' and then we'd hold a photo of his mother over his eyes. We really fucking tried to get him to go into the light but he said he felt something calling him back.

It was probably Dirty Dave, the soppy cunt.

Death becomes him

2007-01-22T00:01:00.000Z

Sitting in Ron's yesterday evening having a few pints and watching the football. After the last gasp winner sent Manchester United mad Dirty Dave into tears our mate Splodge, the one with the birthmark on his face, said, "Lads, if you had to kill Barry Egan how would you do it?"

"Great question, Splodge", said Ron who was first to answer. "Nothing fancy for me. I'd just tie him to a chair, take an iron bar or some other kind of club and just beat the fucker to a pulp. The satisfying crunch of bone and his skull being crushed would be just fantastic. I would have to wear some kind of hazard suit in case any of his brain flew out and went into my mouth and I caught the stupid cunt disease he so obviously suffers from."

"Old fashioned, I like that", said Jimmy the Bollix. "Me, I'd do that thing from American History X where he made the bloke bite the curb then stamped on his head. After that I'd hire a helicopter and tie to him to the rungs underneath. Then we'd take off, hover at a nice height directly over the Wellington Monument in the Phoenix Park then cut the ropes so he would fall right on top of the spiked bit before landing on the steps below where all the children were running up and down."

"Inventive!", said Stinking Pete. "If it were up to me I would call him up pretending to be Lisa Murphy and I'd say in a sensuous but husky voice 'Hey Barry Egan. I want to give you some good loving because I know you like that pre-op look I've made my own. Come to the Conrad Hotel, room 216' and he'd be so turned on at the thought of getting the ride off yer woman that he can't stop writing about in the newspaper that he would think the deepness of the voice was because she was so turned on by the thoughts of his ginger pubis. When he arrived at the hotel I would greet him in sexy Agent Provocateur lingerie and only when I slipped off my sliky knickers and he saw my Johnson would he realise that I wasn't Lisa Murphy. It would be Crying Gametastic. Then I'd shoot the cunt in the eye."

"Very good if a little bit a fruity", said Lucky Luciano. "For me is a difficult. As a compassionate assassin is a hard to kill a someone for no money but for this Mick Hucknall alookalike I make a the exception. I a find out where he live and get postman outfit. Then I a call to the door and say "Hello Mr Egan, I am normal postman and a not a someone who want to kill you. I have package for you. Please to sign a here. When he a sign I give him package. I a leave but wait at gate. You see, in package is sabre toothed tiger that I have a made from DNA found in some old a fossil and when he open, Lionel - is name of a sabre tooth tiger - will a savage him then eat him."

"Fearsome, Lucky!", said Dirty Dave who had recovered from the beating his team got. "Me, I'd rape him. Except instead of raping him with my penis I'd rape him with the penis of a blue whale which is over six feet long and can shoot out 18 gallons of jism in one ejaculation. Of course the difficulty would be getting the blue whale into the Sunday Independent offices but nothing is impossible. If penetration didn't kill him the sheer force of whale spunk shooting into him surely would."

"Whale custard brilliance", I said. "If I were given such an opportunity I would first go out and earn millions of euros so I could afford to pay the Russian space federation to bring us into space on a space rocket. I would invite Egan as a journalist and say 'Look, this is unrivaled access to the first ever blogger in space and when you get back you can tell Lisa 'equal parts Aphrodite and Ursula Andress' Murphy that you were an astronaut and let's face it being an astronaut is far cooler than being an Irish dancer and if she'll fuck an Irish dancer you'd be in like Flynn.'

So we'd go into space and oooh and aaah about how beautiful it all was and how small the earth looked and blather about how insignificant we are in the great scheme of things. Then I'd say 'Hey, Barry Egan, take a picture of me by this airlock' and when he came over I'd shove him into the airlock then open the outer door and watch him float away into space. If the movies have taught us anything his head will swell up grotesquely and explode which would be fucking cool."

"Astromungous", said Ron. "What about you then, Splodge. How would you kill Barry Egan?'

He took a sip of his pint, his eyes never leaving the bar.

"Slowly", he said.

Fuck off with your naked calendars

2007-01-20T10:44:00.000Z

In the paper this morning comes the story that some students from UCC are posing nude as part of 'rag week' to make a calendar to raise money for charity.

Look, this has gone far enough. There are a million and one ways to raise money for charity but frankly I'm tired of this idea that people want to see ordinary people naked. As if that is some kind of motivation to buy a calendar.

"Oh, it's March. Must turn over to see some old minger's arse while she tries to smile coyly and covers up her pendulous knockers with her arm."

Get to fuck. If I want a naked calendar then I will contact Pirelli who make a fine one indeed but students, old ladies, firemen and whoever the fuck else - put your fucking clothes back on and go out with a bucket like everyone else.

You're scaring the children.

Astonishing attacks

2007-01-19T00:01:00.000Z

Ever read in the paper about somebody launching an 'astonishing attack' on someone else?

For example: 'Lily Allen launched an astonishing attack on Madonna saying she was using black babies as a fashion accessory and that her music was boring crap'.

Or instead of an astonishing attack someone might lash someone else, such as, 'Andrea Roche lashed gossip blog Blogorrah saying she'd caught them going through her rubbish bins and found editor Derek O'Connor upstairs sniffing her underwear and making strange mewling sounds'.

Now, who amongst us in the blogging community hasn't had a pop at someone at some time or other? Whether it's me about Damien Rice, Damien Mulley castigating anyone related to providing broadband or Tom Raftery trying to get anywhere with countless customer service departments we've all done it.

However, it's rare that a blogger's opinion on anything makes it into the papers or mainstream media. It does happen every so often but not nearly enough, in my opinion. I would like lots of people to know that I launched an astonishing attack on the Vintners Association of Ireland for their cosy cartel and price fixing or that I lashed Charles Haughey after his death instead of doing the whole 'Ahh sure he's dead, he was grand really' thing that so many others did.

What amount of celebrity status do you need to achieve this? I saw the front of the Irish Sun today when I was at the shop buying milk and that Irish guy that won Big Brother about 6 years ago was lashing and launching an astonishing attack on that Jade thing that looks like a pig for being racist to some other woman in that show that nobody should really give a fuck about. Now, as far as celebrities go he's right down there. He's not so much 'Z list' as 'z list' having gone through the alphabet in capitals first.

Why should he get to lash someone when I don't? Let's be honest about it, any blogger could be as famous as some twat who won Big Brother simply by exposure in the press.

So here's the question for you? Why is there no regular column in any daily newspaper which covers blogs or what's being said by blogs in Ireland.

I remember there was one in the Tribune for a while but that died off. There are sporadic articles about blogs and although I've been featured on a number of occasions nobody has ever asked me anything about blogs or blogging. I'm not that scary, you know. I'll quite happily meet any journalist to talk about blogs once I can launch an astonishing attack on somebody in return.

Is it that bloggers don't really matter and that's why we're not featured? Perhaps, but we matter a lot more than the chimps who win reality TV shows and we're a lot more talented. There are some tremendously entertaining writers who could spice up any newspaper with a good lashing or an astonishing attack.

Do newspapers here not want to give coverage to blogs and bloggers? Maybe that's it but wouldn't a weekly, or even daily, round-up of the Irish blog scene only promote both the blogs and the newspaper that had the balls to do it? Maybe we need a Irish blogs HQ from which we can fire off press releases.

Date: 19-01-07 - Embargoed till 14.30pm

Irish blogger Twenty Major has launched an astonishing attack on Gerry Ryan saying "Any man who says 'lurry' instead of 'lorry' should not be polluting our airwaves."

....

Look, I want to be scathing, savage, blistering, vitriolic, caustic and virulent. I can do it here, you can read it, but damn it all I don't think wanting to have to same influence as some no-mark ex-air hostess is too much to ask, do you?

I should mention that I will launch an astonishing attack and lash anyone who disagrees with me except the astonishing attack will be me running at you wearing a pantomime horse costume and I'll lash you with a length of birch that'll sting the arse off you.

Lies, damn lies and statistics

2007-01-18T09:05:00.000Z

A report commissioned by the National Roads Association and carried about by the HSE 'found that 21pc of fatal road crashes between 6am and noon were alcohol related.'

It's another attempt to justify the 'morning after' breath tests through which statistics are being nicely bumped up while critics complain it's a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

What the report, or the newspaper, fails to tell us is exactly how many fatal road accidents occur between 6am and 12 noon. I'd be surprised if the figure was in any way considerable so 21% of fuck all is not much, is it?

If they can turn around and say 'There are X amount of fatal road accidents between 6am and 12 noon' then fine, I'm quite happy to accept their findings but to give us half the story makes it all a bit suspicious to me.

Like a fox...

2007-01-18T00:01:00.000Z

So Dirty Dave came into Ron's last night with his face and arms all cut up in bits. He had bandages, stiches and swollen cuts with iodine surrounds giving them that diseased yellow look.

"What the fuck happened to you? Cut yourself shaving?", quipped Stinking Pete who was standing at the end of the bar drinking a pint of some new fancy lager Ron has got in. Starpompomen, or something. I worry this place is turning a bit poncey. He'll be hiring lounge staff and making them wear aprons next.

"No, I fell", he said as he ordered a pint and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps (another worrying development).

"What happened?", I asked him.

"Well, you know the way at the back of my house I have those sliding doors?"

"Indeed I do."

"Well, I was sitting in the sitting room, doing some sitting and reading the latest Hannibal book - "

"Any good?"

"Not really, no. In fact I'd go so far as to say it was even worse than the last one."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. Anyway, I was sitting there reading and something caught my eye in the garden. I turned slowly and there it was. A fox. You know me and foxes, Twenty. Ever since that incident in my childhood I've had this inexorable need to catch them and throw them in the river Dodder. Strange, I know, but other people like to be pissed on or like Ryan Tubridy's radio show so I won't be judged."

"That's fair enough, Dave."

"So, I put down my book and crept across the sitting room. The fox, and fuck knows how he got over the wall, he must have special fox powers like a fox, was just snuffling about looking for scraps or a family of voles in the flower beds. I was very careful not to make any sudden movements or sounds - and given my flatulence problems that is not easy - and I soon was in the sprinter on his blocks position, ready to pounce with my catlike reflexes."

"Ok..."

"I mopped a solitary bead of sweat that was rolling down my brow and rubbed my eyes so as to better guage the distance between me and the beast himself. I cracked my neck, flexed my shoulder muscles and was about to set off when all of a sudden someone behind me said "THAT'S ALL DONE THERE MISTER!". I'd forgotten there was a bloke upstairs fixing the radiators in the bathroom and with the shock of it I took off, smacked into the sliding door which I'd forgotten to open anyway, bounced off it, tripped over the chaise lounge and went face first into the glass coffee table which smashed into pieces hence the cuts you see."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, ouch. Fucking five hours in A&E at Tallaght hospital before anyone would see me. I swear I nearly bled to death. If I'd been Mary Harney's mother I'd have been seen a lot quicker, I bet".

"If you were Mary Harney's mother your gee would have split in two giving birth."

"So, what happened to the fox?", asked Stinking Pete drinking a cosmopolitan (what the fuck is going on there?).

"Shot him", said Dave. "Boom! Boom!"

Is the weather really bad...

2007-01-17T16:34:00.000Z

...or have all our fisherman just turned crap?

What is going on?

Dancercise and the next logical step

2007-01-17T00:01:00.000Z

Got a leaflet through the door yesterday promising a new way to get fit. Forget gyms, forget aerobics, calesthentics, yoga, pilates and running on the spot

Get ready for DANCERCISE. It's true, you can learn to cha-cha, samba, rumba, jive, tango, hokey-cokey, birdie dance and lots more including 'Latin line dancing' so you can do teh achy-breaky heart while dancing around the Mexican hat.

Not really my cup of tea, I have to say. I'm a bit more traditional in my keep fit methods. I believe in the power of the mind. I sit and think about getting fit and it seems to work although I do try not to exert myself. They do keep coming up with new and zanier ways of trying to keep people interested in getting fit though, don't they?

Most people hit the new year with great intentions, join gyms, promise to eat less, drink less and exercise more. By the end of January the gym membership is a €70 a month chain around their neck that they're too embarrassed to cancel (if they're not part of a gym that requires a 12 month contract and sends heavies after you to collect if you default).

So to keep people's gumption up they invent things like Dancercise. It got me to thinking. What sort of exercise would I be interested in doing? It would need to be something that was challenging, didn't get boring, had some excitement, a bit of danger and wasn't anything like all the others. I racked my brains, so I did.

Vertical cycling? Sounds good but how the fuck do you do it? Treadmill 360, where you run and play xBox? Tried it, it's hard to control things and it's hardly dangerous. How about headbutting 50 scorpions hanging from threads? Then it came to me in a flash.

"Throttling a grizzly bear-ercise"

Let's face it, the sheer size and power of a grizzly bear would ensure that you received a full cardio-vascular work out, the potential for having your stomach ripped open and for the beast to feast on your innards would bring that element of danger while the thrill of throttling a grizzly bear to death would certainly never get boring. I know I'd be Throttling a grizzly bear-escising all year long!

I suppose the main problem would be the supply of bears but I suppose you could get a few mammy bears and a few daddy bears and start breeding your own. Bear skin jackets and grizzly burgers from the grizzly corpses could help finance the thing too.

Soon strangling animals to death will be de rigeuer but you'll know when you see 'Choke a Gnuercise' or 'Garrote a panthercise' where it all began.

Won't somebody please think of the rural communities?

2007-01-16T00:02:00.000Z

"Do something now or we'll lose our rural communities forever". That was the warning from TDs and community leaders as people in remote areas of the country fall foul to the laws of the land.

Much has been said in recent months about the importance of keeping these once tight-knit communities together and activists now feel that unless something is done Ireland, as a country, will sport more hermits per square kilometre than any other country in Europe. According to Seamus O'Flapperty of one particular interest group unless something changes the situation could be a disaster for those not living in cities.

"'Tis is a sad state of affairs, so it is", he told me yesterday. "Until recently like we could go out and beat a darkie to death without so much as a word from anyone. All the lads would get together, polish each others clubs and we'd set off till we found someone with skin that wasn't milky white. Then we'd cave the fucker's head in, gut the cunt then bury his body in a shallow grave before we went off to have a few pints and a sing song at the local.

It was a tradition and nobody got hurt. It was only when the newspapers started going on and on about it that they decided to crack down on it. Now we have nothing to do and it's ruining our lives."

His concerns are shared by Tim "The Spade" Connors whose links to local activities are also being cut down. Speaking on behalf of people who like to smoke crack cocaine and opium and run puppy farms he said "The government are going to be the death of rural Ireland. These so-called 'laws' are all well and good for those that live in towns and cities but why should we have to abide by them? We've been doing what we wanted for years and now they expect us to toe the line. Well, they'll regret it when there's nothing in the countryside but deserted villages andshops with no customers. I mean, look around you now. This town is getting like a ghost town."

The government are not to be moved though. Speaking anonymously a well placed source in the Department of Justice said "Look, we know this whole making people obey the law thing is having an impact but we were under huge pressure. Every time you turned on the news there was another story about a road death or a drunken driver. We had to do something. Their wild west days are over.

However, they can't turn around and say we didn't give them anything back. Sure we practically took out a full page ad in the paper to say that shooting travellers was fine by us. I mean, if they can't get to the pub in case they think they're going to be breathalysed then what's stopping them picking up a shotgun and shooting a tinker in the back? We give them a great new sport but still they're moaning."

Suggestions from local TDs have included an amnesty for those 'just a pint and a chaser or two or three over the limit and sure couldn't they drive home with their eyes closed they've been doing it for so long' and for the government to pay for customers that don't come in to local bars but it seems that those down the country will have to adapt or, like the Incas before them, simply die out and be remembered as a funny old tribe but without the wonders of civilisation (the ancient pyramids of Tubbercurry notwithstanding).

No, you can't take my coat

2007-01-15T00:16:00.000Z

You know when you go to a restaurant and someone says "Can I take your coat for you sir?".

I fucking hate that. It makes me want to punch them in the throat. I don't want anyone to take my coat. Firstly they'll simply put in on a rack amongst all the other coats and who knows what sort of filth they'll pick up put in such close proximity to them.

Secondly it means they touch my coat and I don't want anyone to touch it. Thirdly, how do I know they won't, while I'm eating my meal (which will probably be not as good as they'd like to think it is), rifle through the pockets and touch my stuff. They might even steal something.

Fourthly, what happens if some cunt comes out from his dinner and the person says "Sorry, which coat was your coat again?" and they take the opportunity to replace their shabby garment with my obviously superior and higher quality attire? What happens is I come out after finishing the meal, which really wasn't as good as they like to think, to find some disgusting old mackintosh where my finely tailored piece of clothing once hung and I go around punching as many people in the throat as I can.

So before you ask if you can take my coat ask yourself if you want to punched in the throat repeatedly. I'm sure the answer to that is no.

I remember one place where the coat jockey said it was a 'fire risk' for me to take my coat into the dining area.

"Has my coat, without my knowledge, been doused in petrol?", I asked him.

"I doubt that", he said.

"Is my coat made of plastic explosives or that stuff that old sofas used to be covered with that went up like a fucking Space Shuttle if you so much as dropped a spark on it?"

"No, it appears to be made of suede."

"Does it appear that my coat is actually a coat of mischievous flames who are simply disguising themselves as suede but once they get into the dining area they will become flames again and run around setting light to everything?"

"No."

"Then how the fuck is my coat a 'fire risk', if you don't mind me asking?"

"Erm...our insurance is invalid if ..."

"Shut up."

"But really..."

You can understand why I had to punch him in the throat.

Don't touch my fucking coat, you poxy cunts.

Irish blog awards

2007-01-13T10:56:00.000Z

So the nominations for the Irish Blog awards are now open. Just go here to register your choices.

At the moment you can only nominate for one category at a time but I believe a new form is forthcoming with which you can nominate multiple blogs. For now though your browser's back button will take a bit of a pounding.

Of course you can nominate me or any other blog you like. No pressure. It's not like I know where each and every one of you live or anything. Certainly not. And it's not like I don't have anything better to do than wait around and 'convince' you to nominate and vote me.

I have a busy, fulfilling life, you know.

I just saw Twink's pussy

2007-01-12T19:21:00.000Z

There I was going into Superquinn, that particular branch because Dirty Dave's cousin is the assistant manager and I can get one of those price gun things and get loads of things for nothing, when there in the middle of the road was a little tabby cat.

I was a bit worried because there was a lot of traffic but the cat didn't seem to mind. It was just sitting there.

Then, as if from nowhere (like the shopkeeper in Mr Ben), out came Twink and told the little cat to get back into the garden.

"Ya fuckin' eejit! Ya stupid fuckin' dickhead. Get in or I'll smack the fuckin' face off ya", she said to the cat, I think. My lip reading isn't always great. She was wearing some kind of a jacket with fur on the collar. The cat did as it was bid.

And that's how I saw Twink's pussy.

It could be the end of the world

2007-01-12T09:39:00.000Z

Looking out my window right now I can see the trees at the end of the garden being blown all over the place by very strong winds. In Roscommon a Kangaroo has escaped and is terrorising the local community, brazenly coming up to people then going *boing boing boing* off again.

Rush hour traffic in Dublin was brought to a standstill yesterday by a young swan who decided the canal was boring before going on a rampage around Baggot Street leaving terrified motorists stranded in their cars.

What next? Panthers on the loose or a plague of bonobo apes?

As the boss man in Hill Street Blues always said "Be careful out there....you cunts". He generally muttered that under his breath before sending them out on patrol for the day.

Strange things are afoot.

Young people of Ireland

2007-01-11T18:30:00.000Z

Conscientious, caring, fun loving and most of all, after the recent publicity, fully aware of the folly of dangerous driving.

Take, for example, these two videos here, which show some lads down in Cork showing how much attention they've paid to the reports of the 350+ people killed on Irish roads last year and the calls from all and sundry to take care when driving.

Video 1

Video 2

Of course, all these boys need is someone to tell them they're doing wrong, isn't that right?

Update: The videos got deleted. Oh well. Just imagine some young lads driving like cunts and videoing themselves. It's easy if you try...

Northside v Southside Dublin

2007-01-11T10:21:00.000Z

Today's paper suggests people from the Southside of Dublin are better than those from the Northside because they drop less chewing gum on the ground.

It's sort of like saying one group of killers is better than another group of killers because they don't kill as many people. Does it really matter where you drop your chewing gum? Simply eating chewing gum is in itself a disgusting act which immediately shows you to be of peasant stock.

I don't really get the whole Northside v Southside thing myself. Yeah, they've got Darndale and Finglas and Ballymun while we've got Tallaght, Clondalkin and those disgusting scumbags from Blackrock.

They had the Grove, we had Wesley. They had the Omni park, we had the Square. Really we should be joining forces to fight the common enemy. Correct, people from Cavan. Why would Dubliners fight each other when this lot are coming to our city in droves and spreading mayhem, pestilence and shit-stirring.

You see them around Westmoreland Street trying to cause problems. They'll grab a Northsider and say "See that lad there", pointing at some bloke with weird spiky hair wearing ripped jeans with a blazer and a scarf knotted around his neck in the way that only a ponce can knot it, "he says 'What does a Northsider use for protection during sex? A bus shelter! Wah wah wah wah wah!' and the Northsider will get furious and start fisticuffs.

Then the Cavan bloke will pull aside a Southsider and say "Hey, see that Northsider", pointing to a bloke in a tracksuit wearing a Celtic shirt with his tongue lolling out of his head and with a little ronny of a moustache, "he said 'What do a Southsider and a tampon have in common? They're both stuck up cunts'. Wah wah wah wah wah wah!" and the Southsider will be like, totally, pissed off and he'll kick some young lad to death outside Annabels one night.

It's time we learned that we're all the same, if a little bit different, and stopped the fighting. Perhaps we need a song by 2FM DJs. A 'rap against rape' for the new generation. Come on O'Shea, if that is your real name, sort it out. The finest vocal talent in the country. Rick O'Shea, Damien McCaul, Larry Gogan, John Clarke and Marty himself. It'd be a winner. You might even get the Nobel peace prize.

Dirty Dave is from the Northside actually. Somewhere in Stoneybatter, I think. That's not what makes him smelly and dirty and stupid though. It's the fact that his parents were first cousins.

Apple and their funky gadgets

2007-01-10T09:58:00.000Z

So Apple have released the iPhone, which will be a phone that runs the Mac OS, is an iPod, can play videos, browse the web and make you a cup of tea in the morning. Then there's iTV which means you get a box or something and then you can put the box between your computer and your TV and watch all the stuff on your computer on your TV.

They really are an innovative company. I have a few suggestions for them though.

iTrim: Nose hair, the bane of all our lives, but how often have you wanted to trim your nose hair while downloading the latest releases from the iTunes music store while sending spreadsheets and project files to colleagues who can view you via your webcam? The iTrim does all that and more. Using state of the art touch sensitive technology the device trims your nose hair then sends the vibrations wireless to your computer who uses the beats per minute of the trimmer to select the perfect song to listen to.

iTwat: Are you a young Hollywood starlet? Can't get out of a car because the paparazzi are taking shots of your exposed minge? The iTwat uses holographic technology to make it look like you're actually wearing knickers rendering their photos useless but still allowing you to get fingered by complete strangers while standing at the bar.

iRon: Do you want to chat with your friends while ensuring your favourite shirt is beautifully pressed and without creases? The iRon is a steam iron with a built in chat client that connects to MSN, AOL, Yahoo, Gmail, IRC and the Home Shopping Network. iRoning has never been so much fun!

iPog: The pogs faze died out after being hugely popular in the mid 90s but watch it grow again as the iPog takes schoolyards by storm. Each one contains a 2GB memory card, enough to store 1000 songs in MP3 format, and features the face of Steve Jobs. Mmmmm, Steve Jobs.

iRocketlauncher: Designed specifically for US soldiers in Iraq who have little to do except wait for ~~civilians~~ insurgents to drive past their post. They can now watch episodes of their favourite TV shows such as M*A*S*H, WKRP in Cincinnati and Manimal. It has a built in motion sensor so the headphones cut out and a warning is sounded in anyone Arabic comes within 1000 yards.

iCan'tbelieveit'snotbutter: It's a low fat, healthy spread for your sandwiches but it can also play movies, songs and ... oh, fuck it. You know the rest.

Countdown to the next election

2007-01-09T00:01:00.000Z

Sometime before July there'll be a general election. As many of you will realise politics is my first love and I have spent hours poring over facts and figures, precedents, rhetoric and party strategy and campaign tactics to produce what I believe to be the definitive guide to the next election in Ireland.

So without further ado, here it is:

January 07: Fine Gael launch an advertising campaign highlighting the failures of government citing the poor state of the health service, increasing transport problems throughout the country, high prices and high taxes and the government's inability to tackle serious crime. Enda Kenny appears on talk shows up and down the country and although he's still a bit wooden he speaks well and makes sense.

Labour sort of shuffle around in the background looking at their feet. The PDs say nothing. The Greens declare a war on cars and promise free bicycles to everyone if they get into power.

Conor Lenihan is caught in a Sunday World sting driving a truck full of Sudanese refugees off the ferry in Rosslare. He claims they are a gospel choir hired to perform at a memorial service for Charles Haughey. Meanwhile Noel Ahern calls women 'Milk machines for the babies of Ireland' drawing condemnation from pretty much everyone except Claire Byrne.

Taoiseach Bertie Ahern rejects calls from opposition leaders for both members to resign saying 'It's none of their feckin' business what they do'.

End of month polls see Fine Gael gain 1 to 28, Fianna Fail stay steady at 40, Labour at 11, Sinn Fein at 7, the Greens at 4, PDs at 3 and Independents/Others at 8.

February 07: After 34 gangland murders in Dublin in the first 3 days of the month the opposition accuses Minister for Justice Michael McDowell as being 'as soft as Scarlett Johannson's dirty pillows' on crime. The PD leader says it's not his fault and lays the blame squarely on middle-class recreational drug users saying if it wasn't for them there'd be nobody to buy it.

Bertie Ahern agrees and threatens to plunge the country into recession unless people from Foxrock and Rathgar stop buying cocaine for their dinner parties. 'Maybe then you'll appreciate everything we've done for you feckless eejits', he says.

Fine Gael promise to cut waiting time in hospitals, an end to people being treated in corridors and better pay and shorter working hours for nurses and doctors.

Labour look like they're going to say something but in the end they don't. Sinn Fein say they would have no problem being part of a coalition government with Fianna Fail. Gerry Adams says 'Me and Bertie go way back'. Bertie says he'd have no problems sharing power with Sinn Fein who have 'been grand since they stopped all that blowing people up and stuff'.

End of month polls see Fianna Fail gain 2, Fine Gael drop 2, the PDs drop 2 to just 1% while new Independent candidate for Dublin South Central, Eamon Dunphy, makes huge inroads with his free grass for arthritis sufferers manifesto.

March 07: Transport Minister Martin Cullen rejects calls for his resignation as traffic in Dublin grinds to a standstill. It now takes an average of 4 hours to get from the airport to just beyond the M50 toll bridge, LUAS fares increase by €2 a journey at rush hour times to deter passengers while Dublin Bus says it needs another 200 buses to make any impact on people taking their cars to work. The minister says his revolutionary plan of introducing horse and carriage lanes to every major road in the country will see a huge improvement in traffic by 2087.

Pat Rabbite launches a broadside at Mary Harney for the state of the health service after it's revealed that 4 old aged pensioners died in a cupboard at Beaumont Hospital after staff forgot they were in there. An Irish Sun investigation also reveals that many nurses are being hired from the Asian sub-continent and have no training. A number of the nurses then expose their dirty pillows on page 3.

Enda Kenny appears on RTE's Six-one news and all the media training looks like it's paying off as he appears charismatic, informed and conscientious, promising to make things better if Fine Gael are elected. On the same bulletin Sean Haughey is accused of killing a small boy by repeatedly running over him with his car before taking the body up in one of his helicopters and dumping him into the Irish Sea.

Bertie Ahern defends his colleague saying "If there's no body then you can't prove anything. Anyway, it's none of your business who he kills in his private life. Next you'll be wanting to know who he killed for his communion."

The opinion polls at the end of the month show a three point gain for Fianna Fail, Fine Gael drop another two while the PDs are down to half a point.

April 07: The month starts well for Bertie Ahern as accusations that he took a £12,000 gift in 1992 from Manchester United manager Alex Ferguson are proved to be incorrect. "It was only £7,500, so shove it up your holes. I didn't even get a sandwich", he says.

In a charm offensive Fine Gael leader Enda Kenny appears on Podge and Rodge and puts the two filthy puppets in their place no matter how hard they try to wind him up. Also in a sensational interview with George Hook on Newstalk 106 he lambastes the government for their performance, the cronyism, back handers and nepotism the country has suffered. "I won't give people jobs because they're my friends", he says, "I'll give them jobs because they're the best people for the jobs". Even the Churchill dog Hook applauds at the end and says "Oohhhrrrr yyyessss!!

The Green party make some headway with their plan to build a wind farm where Coolock now stands, Labour hold a Proinsias de Rossa lookalike competition, Michael McDowell says his party are just misunderstood when he orders Gardai to arrest and crucify Nigerian refugee Kunle as a 'deterrent to other darkies', Sinn Fein support increases in areas in the country with poor educational standards but a willingness to sing rebel songs even if they don't really know what they all mean while Dunphy's campaign appears to be failing after he's challenged in Dublin South Central by former In Tua Nua singer Leslie Dowdall who is running on the 'Let's have Damien Rice made illegal' ticket.

Late in the month it's discovered that Charlie McCreevy is a crack addict and big time drug runner moving kilos of cocaine through a network of Latvian criminals all over the country. McCreevy appears on TV, cries a bit, says he knows he's let everyone down and he'll do his best, by God, to make it up to everyone.

Refusing to condemn his friend the Taoiseach says "Yiz are full of shite. It's not like he had his house painted for free or anything like that. Youse are all thick an' all an anyways. What drugs he bought with his confirmation money are none of your business."

At the end of the month Fianna Fail move up another 4 points at the expense of Fine Gael, Labour stand still to stand still, the Greens move up 2 while the PDs are down to .2 of a point.

May 07: Thousands of jobs are lost and business leaders warn that Dublin will no longer attract new investment due to the transport problems. Doctors and nurses go on strike but the government call in the army. Hospital deaths increase by 980%. Mary Harney claims it's a triumph as waiting lists are drastically cut. An Irish Daily Mail investigation shows people are staying at home to perform surgery on themselves with the help of Wikipedia and back street Sicilian surgeons.

95 gangland killings take place at Liffey Valley shopping centre alone and Sinn Fein blow up the Spire on O'Connell Street saying something about Ian Paisley and landlords and that they were basically fed up being good and nobody should begrudge them a bit of an explosion because they haven't exploded anything for ages like.

Fine Gael tour the country, Enda Kenny kisses more babies than any politician has ever kissed before and gets chicken pox for his troubles. His dogged resistance to scratching the sores makes him lots of new friends and his promise to get tough on crime is welcomed by the whole country.

The Sunday Independent runs an exclusive interview with Michael Flatley's ex, Lisa Murphy, and she reveals that her new love is Minister for Social and Family Affairs Seamus Brennan. In a no holds barred exposé with Barry Egan she tells how the two are in love and how Brennan loves to poo on her chest before making his children watch as he shoots his load all over her face. Egan cums in his pants describing her as the most beautiful woman in Ireland. Grainne Seoige throws a hissy fit.

Despite the scandal Fianna Fail gain another 3 points, Fine Gael go up one but that's only because Dublin South Central is all open after Eamon Dunphy murders Leslie Dowdall before hanging himself in an auto-erotic asphyxisation incident in the Westbury Hotel. A poster of Roy Keane from the inside of FourFourTwo magazine is found close by. The PDs are down to .1 of a point after the health service problems and Michael McDowell tells Miriam O'Callaghan he'd like to 'sup from your furry cup' when he thinks his mic is off during a Prime Time interview.

June 07: The Taoiseach announces the date of the election as July 1st. "Vote or fuck off you pack of snivelling shitbags", he says.

Final campaigning sees all parties going all out. The Labour party call a press conference in the Mont Clare hotel but don't turn up. Instead they go for the sympathy vote sending a handicapped man to issue a press release which is a blank piece of paper with the party logo on the top. The press corps say it's the party's best performance in years.

Sinn Fein say they'll bring about a united Ireland even if it means they have to kill all the protestants in the 32 counties to do it, the Greens claim to have invented a hovering space car which runs on recycled waste but say it won't be available until after they get a few seats in, Jackie Healy Rae sets up the Big Bogman Cloth Cap party which rounds up all the Independents but they tell Mildred Fox they'd rather bring Margaret Thatcher into the party when she phones up and begs to be involved.

After it's revealed 356 dangerous criminals failed to return to prison after being let out to see that cunt who won Australian Idol's sell out concert in Slane and that hospitals were using pigs' blood during complicated surgery on the orders of the Minister for Health the PDs don't even score on the charts but are confident that at least their mums will vote for them.

Fine Gael pull out all the stops. Enda Kenny is transformed into a witty, engaging character. An honest, believable politician. He promises more Gardai and a government that will be tough on crime. He reveals a foolproof blueprint to ressucitate the health service, promises free medical and dental care to everyone and 24 hour GPs while many drugs will no longer require a prescription and can be bought over the counter.

He announces metro systems for Dublin and Cork that will be built in two years for a fraction of the cost of the one currently planned and he reveals a massive expansion of the rail network throughout the country as well as a massive reduction in ticket prices. He also unveils his plan to slash income taxes, cut government duty on alcohol and cigarettes, abolishes stamp duty and all stealth taxes, buys back Aer Lingus and provides free air travel for life to every citizen and promises that the weather in Ireland will be as good as the south of Spain.

Meanwhile the Star on Sunday exposes Bertie Ahern's involvement in a paedophile ring which claims the lives of thousands of young boys each year and through which he has been paid millions of euros into a bank account he never had. Shocking photo evidence shows the Taoiseach sodomising a nine year old boy while giving him a reach around as the corpses of five other children lie on the floor having been worn out and shot through the back of the head by the crazed leader, off his face on Charlie McCreevy's coke, while Ivor Callely and Brian Cowen pleasure each other with baby oil and Mary Hanafin and Willie O'Dea thrash each other senseless to sate their S&M desires.

"Let he who hasn't snorted cocaine off the back of a small boy while pounding his arse and being rimmed by the small boy's brother cast the first stone", says a defiant Taoiseach on Morning Ireland. "I don't have to tell you which boys I fucked on their communion days."

The last poll before the election shows Fianna Fail up 20 points, Fine Gael down 19, the PDs are out of sight and out of mind, most people have copped on about the Greens, the Celtic fans are still up for Sinn Fein, the Labour party are, as always, steady as a rock, and the Big Bogman Cloth Cap party looks set win 7 seats though nobody is quite sure why.

July 07: Election day. Bertie Ahern turns up with a big wad of cash shouting "LOADSAMONEY" and a t-shirt saying "Is your son missing? I bet I know where he is."

Fianna Fail win by a landslide. Everyone says it's a disgrace and nobody admits voting for them.

Martial law is introduced in late July and Donegal is turned into an internment camp. Enda Kenny resigns and moves to the South of France where he becomes manager of Monaco, leading them to Champions League glory the following season.

Life goes on, the people get screwed, nothing changes.

In my own little world

2007-01-08T00:01:00.000Z

Yeah and then what I'll do is I'll wait for them and because I've won the lottery I'll have invented all kinds of gadgets and one of them will be a hologram version of me and they'll come in and think it's me but it won't be me at all and then I'll just come up behind them and cave their head in with lead pipe and there'll be brains and shit all over the place. That'll be cool. Then if anyone asks me if I know what happened I'll just be all like 'Me? No. No idea. What a shocker' but the best thing will be when I call up his wife afterwards and using a voice disguising thingy I'll just say 'Hey, I just killed your husband to death. Fatally' and she'll be crying and stuff and I'll be laughing and then I'll go to the games room in my big house where I'll have an xBox and a Playstation3 and a Wii and a 100" plasma screen which will have just been invented because I told the people at Samsung to invent it for me or I'd have them all killed and I'd be playing games and drinking beers and coming up with a totally evil plan to get rid of the other bloke which will probably be something cool like poisoning him and then watching him die slowly but at the last minute I'll show myself to him and he will know how dastardly I am and instead of his last thoughts being about his family or his kids he'll be thinking 'Damn, that Twenty Major is a seriously dastardly cunt' and that will please me. Of course I could just obliterate him in an orgy of violence but that'd mean I had to pay off more cops and I hate giving cops money, the filthy donkey fuckers, although lots of blood would quite cool. Then I'll go back to my games room and have two dwarves fight to the death for my entertainment while I invite some of my friends around for some clay pigeon shooting but instead of clay pigeon it'd be folk-rock artists like David Gray and Damien Rice but not Ray Lamontagne and then I'll kill the dwarf who actually killed the other dwarf in that fight to the death then, with my vast wealth, I will set up up my own political party 'Fine Twenty' with a manifesto so offensive that I'm bound to win the next general election and when I do I'll show the people of Ireland what government is all about when I introduce new legislation to...

...oh, sorry. Was I blogging out loud?

Google is not your friend and Wikipedia lies

2007-01-06T00:00:00.000Z

what should i do if I rip my finger off and a professional surgeon puts it back on but it turns black, asks a reader from Washington, USA.

How did people survive without Google in the past?

And I just saw this.

Department of Agriculture - hahahahahaha. For fuck's sake. I can state categorically that the only time I have had any dealings with that lot was when I tried to get an import licence for a kodiak bear and they turned me down, the cunts.

Don't believe everything you read

2007-01-05T00:01:00.000Z

Sitting in Ron's last night and in walked Dirty Dave holding his stomach.

"What's up with you, Dave?", I asked.

He farted loudly and the stench was hideous. He just held his hands on his stomach as one solitary tear wound its way down his face like a raindrop on a window pane.

"Dave, you cunt, what the fuck is up?"

"I'm ill, Twenty. I'm very, very ill."

"Jesus. What is it? A perforated ulcer? Delhi belly from the Indian takeaway? Chrons disease? Bowel cancer? A tumour? Two tumours?"

"Celery."

"Celery?"

"Yeah, celery."

"You need to explain a bit further, Dave. How can celery do that to you? It's not like eating a gone off prawn or something. If celery was gone off it'd be just mush and you wouldn't eat it."

"Well, you know how, like many other people, I put on a few pounds over the Christmas period?"

"If by a few pounds you mean 'nearly doubled my own weight', then yes, yes I do."

"You know me, Twenty. I was a lithe, supple, sinewy example of the male form. I was sculpted, toned, buff before anyone ever used that word apart from when they talked about polishing their shoes. Now look at me. If I let my beard grow a bit people would mistake me for Mary Harney."

"You are indeed the portly rascal, Dave, but what does the celery have to do with it?"

"Well, I was reading around on the internet about diets and which foodstuffs would be good to eat and which to avoid. I read somewhere that celery actually has negative calories which means you expend more calories eating it than it actually provides you."

"Ok."

"So I figured that if I ate loads of celery I'd actually be losing weight just through the act of eating. I went to Superquinn last night and bought all the celery they had. Then I went to Tesco and bought all the celery they had. Then to Dunnes and bought all their celery. At 8.15am this morning I started eating raw celery and I'd say I've eaten 300 stalks of the stuff. When I went upstairs to weigh myself I hadn't lost a single pound. In fact, I'd put on nearly three stone. Not only that I'm pooing raw celery. It's going in one end and coming out the other within minutes."

"Dave, you are a proper moron and no mistake. How could eating a mountain of stuff make you lose weight?"

"Negative calories, Twenty. NEGATIVE CALORIES."

"Jesus wept."

"Anyway, I just came in for a drink which will settle my stomach. Ron, a pint of Southern Comfort, peach schnapps, Malibu, slice of lime and a Guinness head please."

Self-help books

2007-01-04T10:21:00.000Z

I am thinking about writing a self-help book. I look at the successes of people like Allen Carr, who helped so many people stop smoking, or Billy Bob Atkins, or whatever his name was, who helped many people stop being enormous fat cunts.

However, I am slightly concerned that there's some kind of karma thing going on. Allen Carr died of lung cancer. Atkins died of being a big, fat cunt.

What I want to do is to help people give up otter meat. In Ireland sales of otter meat have rocketed and this is not good. It's going to turn all the men in Ireland into women. Here's why.

Women that are on the pill urinate into the water stream but the artificial estrogen they produce does not break down and goes straight back into the water supply. It also ends up in fresh water where it is consumed by fish, birds and otters. A man then goes to the supermarket and gets himself a 16oz t-bone otter steak. He eats the steak but he's not just eating delicious otter meat, he's eating the women's estrogen which builds up in his body and soon he'll start growing breasts and he'll get a slit in his taint which will be his mangina.

Obviously this is a big worry because otter meat is quite addictive and hard to give up so I want to write a book, produce audio CDs, do 'workshops' which people pay a huge amount of money to attend and go on tv and radio at every opportunity to promote my ideals.

However, given what happened to Carr and Atkins I'm worried that a gang of otters will kick me to death one night on my way home from Ron's.

What to do? What to do?

Overheard in Ron's

2007-01-03T10:10:00.000Z

Unlilke that website, now made into a book, which is made up of entirely fabricated stories of things people supposedly overheard in Dublin I've overheard some very interesting conversations in Ron's bar.

For example:

Man 1: Just sign the cheques, there'll be no hassle from you and I have to ...erm... go buy someone a new liver with the money. Yeah, make that one out to cash..*cough*...

Man 2: If you're sh-sh-sh-sure dere boss den d-d-d-dat's what I'll d-do.

or

Woman 1: If I was you I'd quit as party leader. Some serious shit is going too hit the fan and you'd be best off if that other cunt had to deal with it. You can concentrate on your eating.

Woman 2: Are you going to eat that suckling pig?

Still though, it's rude to eavesdrop, isn't it? Although Dirty Dave did have a reasonable question in the bar last night.

"Twenty", he said, "if you overheard a conversation in which the participants were planning some kind of dastardly deed would you report it to the relevant authorities to try and prevent it."

"Well", I replied, "it would depend entirely on what kind of dastardly deed they were planning. For instance, if it was two chaps who were going to flay Damien Rice then roll him in salt and vinegar before sodomising him with a barbed spike of some kind then no. Or if they were discussing how best to blow up the M50 toll bridge with a minimum of damage to the general public then also no. However, if, for example, they were discussing how they might add some kind of poison to the Guinness supply or that they were planning on kidnapping Liam Brady then certainly I would do something about it."

"What would you do?"

"Well, firstly I would take Jimmy the Bollix to one side and tell him of my plan to stop them, then-"

"But what if someone overheard you?"

"So what if they did?"

"Well, listening to you out of context might make them think that you were the one planning a dastardly deed instead of trying, like the good humanitarian you are, to prevent it. What if they discussed how to stop you and someone overheard them and they discussed it and someone overheard them? It'd be like a snowball effect. Soon most of the Western world but be engaged in a series of missions against each other which would allow the Muslims to rise up and take over the world, which is what they're trying to do."

"It's a fairly steep slope from overhearing someone trying to nobble to the Guinness to a Muslim invasion of the civilised world but you could be onto something there, Dirty Dave."

So, my advice to all of you is that if you overhear something wicked and potentially dangerous and you wish to stop it you should communicate in a way that can't be overheard like mime or interpretive dance. You'll thank me later.

I have the hangover cure

2007-01-02T10:20:00.000Z

Like most of you I have been suffering this festive season. You know how it is. You go out, drink some pints, some fucker arrives so you drink a lot of rum or gin or whiskey or something. Then you go back to someone's house because it's Christmas and drink some more ane eventually you go home and go to bed but you don't want to go to bed because you know going to sleep means you have to wake up and waking up means HANGOVER.

The dry mouth, the headache, the beer shits, the fact that even your skin feels like it's got a headache. The symptoms are all too familiar.

But don't you remember when you were young? Remember when you could go out, drink like a cunt until 6am, get two hours sleep, get up, go to work that morning and all you could think about was where you were going to go that night? You felt a bit funny but normally a sandwich and a good poo sorted you out. Not a poo sandwich though.

So, what's changed? Well, you're older, obviously. As our bodies tire the recovery time increases and becomes more difficult. So you have two options. One is to not drink so you don't get a hangover, which isn't so much an option as a last resort, or you do something to make yourself younger.

Now, before you go exploring ancient lands to find the fountain or youth or giving yourself injections of Oil of Ulay, the solution has been staring us in the face for years.

Stem cells.

Some people advocate their use so that degenerative diseases can be cured and that's all very worthy but look at it this way. Your body is older, it can't cope with the alcohol because it's older. Whatever cells in your body are affected by booze are just too wrecked to allow you to function properly the next day.

But if you got some stem cells into you the night before then these would act like the cells in your body when you were a younger person enabling you to get up and go about your business without the same kind of pain and suffering that you normally would. Imagine how much more productive people would be. Workplaces would thrive, creativity would be at an all time high, absenteeism would be a thing of the past and all you'd have to do is to scoff a good handful of stem cells before you went out at night.

For the diet conscious amongst us we could have Stem Cells Lite or Prawn Cocktail flavour Stem Cells for those that can't cope with the regular taste.

It's fucking foolproof, isn't it? I can't believe nobody has thought of it before.

I would just like to state on the record now that this is my idea and I would welcome any contact with venture capitalists willing to fund the research. I already have a blue print for a stem cell harvesting machine. You just chuck in a foetus, or an adult if you're not into the whole foetel stem cell groove, and it will break it down into a big pile of hangover curing stem cells in less than a minute.

I've even thought of a way that you can slowly absorb the stem cells rather than gulping them down in one go. An adhesive substance which you afix to your shoulder like a nicotine patch. It's called Stemcellotape.

I think 2007 could be the year I strike it rich.

Happy New Year

2007-01-01T11:52:00.000Z

I would like to wish all of you, apart from all the people I hate, a very happy new year.

If I hate you then I hope your 12 months is filled with disease and weeping sores.

Saddam hanged

2006-12-30T11:54:00.000Z

I'm gutted.

Really, what did he ever do to anyone? This senseless persecution of the bearded must stop.

Crazy meteorites

2006-12-29T09:46:00.000Z

No time this morning but this really made me laugh (via Damien)

Silly taxi driver

2006-12-28T16:59:00.000Z

Coming out of town today.

"So, did you get any good bargains?", he says.

"What?", I say.

"Bargains. At the sales, like."

"Erm, do you see me carrying any bags?"

"No."

"Well, unless I bought up the whole of the invisible store then it's unlikely I got any bargains."

"Right."

"Nothing caught your fancy then?"

"I wasn't actually in town for shopping. I came in to have some food which wasn't turkey or ham or vegetables."

"What did you have?"

"Noodles in a Japanese noodle place."

"Nice?"

"Very."

"They can be spicy, can't they?"

"I suppose, it depends on what you order."

"Yeah, those buffalo wings sure can be spicy. I had my first buffalo wing last Christmas with my brother in law. We got drunk in Carlow and ended up in some place at four in the morning eating buffalo wings with some sauce on them."

"Shut up now, please."

"I'd love buffalo wings now, so I would."

"Let me out of the car."

I walked home in the end. It was for the best.

Do not eat!

2006-12-27T11:48:00.000Z

How many of you got presents with a little packet of silica gel in them? You know the ones with 'do not eat' written across it.

I have always been curious about it and its effects so this Christmas, after my dinner, I forsook the trifle and christmas pudding and ate three sachets.

So far I can't see that there have been any ill effects whatsoever. So, why don't we round up the millions of sachets of this stuff that get chucked out every year and feed the starving children of Africa with them?

Let them know it's Christmas time. If the worst comes to the worst and it is very toxic it just means there'll be less starving children and I defy anyone to find fault with that.

Seasons greetings

2006-12-24T10:50:00.000Z

I'm taking a few days off, tomorrow sees the annual feast followed by the traditional knacker shoot.

Anyway, I'd like to wish you and yours, well most of you and some of yours, a very happy Christmas.

You cunts.

Blogger's meet-up ...

2006-12-22T10:06:00.000Z

Well, being full of the Christmas spirit last night I decided I would go along to the blogger's meet-up in the Market bar.

Fuck me, what a bunch of ignorant cunts they all were.

"Evening folks, I'm Twenty Major", I said. "Can I get anyone a drink?"

"Fuck off you old cunt", said Colm from Infactah, "we're young hipsters from Sligo. We don't want to be associated with an old fucker like you".

"Yeah, get lost, beardy", said someone else. I have no idea who it was but they were too fucking rude to introduce themselves.

"Erm, well, maybe I made a mistake coming", I said.

"You sure did, you senile old pissbag", commented 'anonymous'.

"I'll be off then", I said.

"Away with ya, ya stinky old bollix", said a hideous looking cunt who then made himself disappear and reappear as if by magic.

Irish bloggers, what a pack of cliquey, stuck-up, secret handshakey cunts.

Go Air France

2006-12-21T10:08:00.000Z

They are currently defending themselves in a court case taken by a 21 stone man who said he felt 'humiliated' because the company made him buy an extra seat on a flight from New Delhi.

The Air France lawyer said "This man can barely balance on his chair in this courtroom, so how is he expected to squash into a small single seat on a plane?"

Quite right. What a load of shite from the fat bloke. He was humiliated because he had to buy an extra seat but not humiliated by his gargantuan physique? Rubbish.

Air France is doing the world a service. If they didn't take a stand then what sort of message does it give out? It would spark a wave of fatness as people forgot about diet and exercise. Imagine a world where 21 stone men can take up as many seats as they want without extra cost. It doesn't bear thinking about.

If I had been the pilot I'd simply have put him in the cargo hold where he belongs. A man who won't take responsibility for his own cake and pie eating is not somebody I'd want around normal human beings.

Some people...

2006-12-21T01:37:00.000Z

...think you shouldn't blog while drunk.

I disagree. Just hang on till I go vomit out the back and I'll explain you why....

The unknown Haughey legacy

2006-12-20T09:52:00.001Z

So the report into the activities of former Taoiseach Charles Haughey was published and there can't have been any surprises. Here is a man who stole money from a fund collected to raise money for his colleague and so-called friend, Brian Lenihan, to have a liver transplant in the US. Over £265,000 was collected, less than £70,000 went towards the treatment.

The rest went, no doubt, on expensive monogrammed shirts, tongue exercisers for licking out Terry Keane and the upkeep of his estate in Kinsealy. The report said he 'lived a life and incurred expenses vastly beyond a scale of public service entitlements'. So, enormous estate and sex toys aside what did he do with all that cash? Here are a few examples of how he squandered our money:

1 - He had a shooting range on his grounds but, in a typically trailblazing way, it was like that film 'Hostel' where people could pay to shoot coloured people from all over the world. He'd smuggle in foreigners, and people from Roscommon, in crates of bananas then dress them in deer costumes. He'd starve them for weeks then let them loose in a field full of Wham bars at which point the wealthy hunters would blast them to kingdom come. The bodies were then sold to Albert Reynolds for dog food.

2 - He befriended talented orphans and ensured they became famous in later years, continuing his politics with subliminal messages in their work. It's little known, but well proven, that if you read a Cecilia Ahern novel backwards your brain will be so scrambled you'll vote for Fianna Fail no matter how much proof there is of them being a shower of feckless liars, thieves and fabulist cunts. It's also a much better read apparently.

3 - He introduced the 'gay' to Ireland. All our best gays kept emigrating. Oscar Wilde, Terry Wogan, Arthur Conan Doyle and Siobhan Fahey from Bananarama were all camping it up across the water and the lack of Irish gays meant events like the Eurovision song contest and Barbara Streisand concerts were hopeless failures. To combat that Haughey bought 'The gay', a little magic man from somewhere over the rainbow, and he went around touching people on the back, saying 'You're it'. It was only meant to be a limited experiment but it appears 'The gay' is still at large somewhere in the country.

4 - Despite his power Haughey had many opposers, those who weren't fooled by his sweet talk and charm. Unsurprisingly a large number of them disappeared. Former Fine Gael leader, Garret Fitzgerald, suffered nightly kidnap attempts for a three year period. What is not well known though is how he disposed of the bodies. When the ha'penny bridge in Dublin closed for renovations in 2001 Haughey instructed his minions to dig up the bones and commanded Harland and Wolff, who were carrying out the repairs, to use them in the process. It is now said that if you cross the bridge late at night and if the wind is blowing the right direction you can hear them cry out. 'Haugheeeeey, you cuuuuuuuuuunt!', they say.

5 - When he was the most famous person in Ireland Haughey decided that he should have his own website devoted to how fantastic and cool and awesome he was. This was before the world wide web was even invented. So, he hired a team of scientists from all over the world, and Germany, to invent a time machine to go into the future, invent the internet, set up a website which would post pictures of him and witty comments about him as he went around doing his day to business.

The flaw in the plan came about when he and his team set the site up too far into the future at which point he was a knackered, bed-ridden, forgetful old cripple. So now Blogorrah just posts pictures of somebody called Glenda Gilson. Apparently Haughey turns in his grave on a daily basis. Well, he would if his body wasn't encased in concrete just in case some Resident Evil style zombie action were to go down one day.

So there you go. What a man. What a cunt. Can we have our fucking money back please?

Image thingies

2006-12-19T04:14:00.000Z

Those image things you have to deal with when you want to leave a comment on blogger or register for a site or even just use the search engine on some forums do my head in.

Not that they're a bad idea or anything. I'm sure they're very useful to stop the nerds who sit and write software to automatically sign up to websites and anything that stops such a pack of ambitionless cunts is no bad thing.

However, there really should be some kind of standard for it. You never know from one to the next if it's case sensitive and sometimes they're not easy to read. For example, here is a nice easy one:

Easy to read, no confusion between characters. Even a complete simpleton would have problems fucking it up. The problem is when you find ones like this:

Are those zeros or is that the letter O in lower case? Or upper case? Is that two Vs or a W? Why is that one in a colour I can't read against the background? Are they number ones or lower case Ls?

I'm all for protection but this is taking the piss. It's like they don't want you to use the search thingy or sign up for their webpage. What is the fucking point of making it so difficult?

I did like the one I got on Blogger the other day though:

Don't leave the butter out

2006-12-18T09:40:00.000Z

I went into town yesterday to my Christmas shoplifting and have a couple of pints. Before I left I thought I'd better have something to eat so I just had some toast and butter. I unwrapped a new packet of Kerrygold, one never knows when there might be 'somesing you can 'elp', had a couple of slices and off I went.

When I came back a good few hours later I was rather dismayed to find I hadn't put the butter back in the fridge, nor had I put the top of the butter dish back on top of it.

This was bad news for me but exceedingly good news for Throatripper the kitten. I had thought he was outside taking down wildebeast and things like that but he was obviously hiding somewhere in the house. He was on the kitchen counter, with his belly distended like a starving African child, licking away at what was left of the butter and there wasn't much, let me tell you.

"Throatripper!", I cried, "you greedy little cunt. What have you been doing?"

He looked at me and belched like Barney Gumble.

"Get down off there", I said and he turned like an enormous truck, slowly and with great care, and jumped down from the counter. Obviously though he was far too full as when he landed, with a great thud I should add, a jet of yellow poo shot out of his arse and onto the door of one of the kitchen cabinets.

To say it smelt worse than a traveller's armpit which had been dipped in horse jism and the sweat of Christy Moore's taint would be to understate the situation.

"Get the fuck out", I said as I ran, trying very hard not to vomit, to the back door.

The kitten duly obliged but with each step he took another jet of butterpoo shot from his cat arse. The last I saw of him he was up a tree trying to use his poo to knock magpies out of their nests.

What a fucking mess. I had the back door open all night, with Bastardface standing guard in case any cunt tried to break in, but I can still smell it this morning.

Kittens and half a kilo of pure Irish butter just do not mix.

The Scuttler

2006-12-15T10:10:00.000Z

So we were sitting in Ron's last night discussing important world events.

"Well", said Jimmy, "if I was President of Iran I'd make all the men shave their moustaches off and wear big gay hoopy pirate earrings and dungarees. It's the only way they'll learn."

"You're not wrong there, Jimmy", said Stinking Pete. "Did you see your man Padraig Nally got away with shooting that fella?"

"I did, aye. Fair play to him, I say."

"Do you not think it was a bit harsh though? I mean, what's the difference between what Nally did and what The Scuttler O'Brien did?"

"Well, for a start The Scuttler didn't shoot a knacker in the back, he shot an 11 year old boy. In the face. Seven times. And the 11 year old boy wasn't trying to break into his house and steal his property. He merely asked him a question. And the question he asked him was 'Can I have a 99 with a flake please?' as The Scuttler drove his ice-cream van around the neighbourhood. So, as you can see there's a small but important difference between the two cases."

"I get you. So, based on this Nally thing it's now perfectly ok to shoot someone who tries to enter your property and steal from you? And not only is it ok to shoot them once it's ok to follow them off your property, onto the main road, then shoot them again as they're crawling away desperately trying to cling to life?"

"Yes, but only if they're a knacker. I mean, you couldn't shoot the son of a high flying banker who went to Blackrock College but has fallen by the wayside a bit and has a bit of a drugs problem. Even if he was raping you in your sleep while wearing your good watch which he'd pilfered from beside your bed and you shot him you'd probably go to jail for a while."

"So what you're saying is that the life of a traveller is not worth the same as the life of a normal person."

"Well, duh...."

"Do you need a licence to hunt them, like rabbits? Could I be like Elmer Fudd? 'Be vewy, vewy quiet. I'm hunting twavellers!!'"

"You can be whoever you want to be, Stinking Pete. You just need to believe in yourself."

"Really?"

"No, fuck off. Get me a pint."

Blogorrah deleting comments

2006-12-14T10:31:00.000Z

Hey Blogorrah,

stop deleting people's comments. It's not big and it's not clever!

Up in flames

2006-12-14T09:04:00.000Z

I was reading about that fan of Dundalk who went to the FAI headquarters and threatened to set himself on fire in protest at the decision to put his club in the second division.

Now, League of Ireland football bores the fucking ring off me but this is an exciting new development. That said the bloke has got it all wrong. What is the point of setting yourself on fire? You're protesting, causing some ructions and the authorities are worried.

'What are we going to do?' they'll be thinking. 'Perhaps we need to discuss this further and maybe take steps to .... oh, wait, he's set himself on fire. The problem has gone away'.

It's like those Buddhist monks who set themselves on fire in protest at whatever it is China is doing at that moment in time. For a start there's no reasoning with the Chinese and secondly once you burn yourself to death all they have to do is scrape you up off the pavement and feed you to pigs. Not much of a protest, is it?

A much better idea would be to set somebody else on fire. Then they might take you more seriously. I know I'd be more inclined to enter into a dialogue with somebody if I thought they were going to douse me in petrol and set me alight.

Why don't people just stop and think about these things for a few minutes? It's hardly rocket science.

How to stop the drug related killings

2006-12-13T11:55:00.000Z

All the gun crime now is based around rival drug gangs scrapping over territory and so forth. The Gardai can't take them on because, let's be honest about this, the chances of someone armed with a wooden stick winning against someone with a sawn-off shotgun or a semi-automatic are pretty slim.

But what to do?

Simple: vending machines full of drugs.

They can be installed into pub toilets like condom machines, placed on the platforms of train stations, situated on the streets like those newspaper machines they have in the states and in the corridors of schools, social clubs and universities.

The government can ensure that top quality narcotics are brought in although if a dodgy batch of heroin wipes out a few junkies then who's going to cry about it?

This will earn so much extra money that perhaps then they'll be able to afford some guns and bullet proof vests for the police at which point you shut down the vending machines and let nature take its course.

Life is a cunt

2006-12-13T11:16:00.000Z

How is it fair that a young apprentice plumber can get shot in the head while trying to do his job while people like James Nesbitt can appear on Sky every fucking hour trying to sell me pay per view football?

It just seems so wrong that this fucking cunt, who has annoyed so many people, gets to live while that poor young bloke was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

People look all the time for signs of the existence of God and they write off natural disasters and accidents and children with cancer as God's will because he has called his sons and daughters to his side.

Bollocks. No matter how mysterious the ways he moves in he wouldn't leave Nesbitt alive and have a plumber killed.

It just doesn't make sense.

Carol singers

2006-12-12T09:10:00.000Z

*bring* went my front doorbell. I wandered out to see two young ladies, both around 13 or 14, wearning santa hats and holding out a cap.

"Can I hel-", I managed to get out before they burst into song.

"We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a merry Christmas! We wish you a mer-"

"STOP!", I said. I have a terrible phobia about people singing at me. I find it most disturbing. I mean, what are you supposed to do?

You can't look them in the face because you just can't. You can't click your fingers or tap your feet. You certainly can't join in. I'm shuddering even thinking about it.

One of them held her cap out.

"Sorry, kids", I said whilst jangling the change in my pocket. "I haven't got a penny on me", I remarked whilst flipping a 2 Euro coin up in the air over and over again.

"Come back another day when I might have a few bob", I told them as I dropped a load of 10 and 20 cent coins on the floor.

Phew though, that was a close one.

Now, I'm all for carol singers around town. The other day I saw a group of old ladies singing carols on Grafton Street and it was a fucking miserable day. Wind, vvvviiiiiiiiiiiiind, rain, cold and these poor auld ones were giving it loads of 'Oh holy night', 'Good kind Wenceslas' and 'Come as you are' so I gave them some money.

The difference is they're easy to ignore if you want, like those cunts from the Simon community.

The ones that come to your door though, it's not on, is it? I'm watching the Nally case with great interest. It's tantamount to trespassing and if he can get away with shooting the knacker then nobody's going to miss a carol singer or two.

Fuck off National Consultative Committee against Racism in Ireland

2006-12-11T09:53:00.000Z

Some people are really full of shit, aren't they?

Phillip Watt from the National Consultative Committee against Racism in Ireland (nice snappy name there, chaps), says of the number of black people working in nightclub toilets selling aftershave, is racist. He says, "To me, it's highly reminiscent of apartheid in South Africa and the USA before civil rights. I think nightclub owners might think of doing this in a more sensitive way and maybe redeploy the people in areas which are less demeaning."

For fuck's sake. You go to South Africa at the height of apartheid or talk to anyone involved in the civil rights movement in America and try and compare those situations with a bloke selling smellies in the toilet of a nightclub and see how much they laugh in your face, you fucking twat.

Let's face it, these guys have deodorant and cologne which they sell to people for a couple of quid (I don't know exactly. I'm always more fragrant without their help) at a time. Now, I'm sure the profit margin on a bottle of aftershave or a can of Lynx is pretty fucking high when you consider you're selling to drunk people who won't even notice if the Hugo Boss bottle has been refilled with Old Spice.

I can't see how it's racist or like a system which segregated people because of their colour.

Years ago I used to DJ around town and one of the clubs I worked in had an old man in the toilets doing exactly what these guys are doing now. He kept the bogs clean as the drunk fuckers pissed all over them and had a few bottles and cans of smelly stuff which he'd sell. He was a white man.

Where was Phillip Watt then? So it's ok for a white man to what he considers a 'demeaning' job but not a black guy. Should we be so PC that we can't allow black people or yellow people or medium brown people to do menial jobs because it's somehow racist? Of course not.

Maybe the guy selling the aftershave doesn't speak great English, maybe he's trying to support his family, maybe he'll use the money he makes to start his own business, maybe he doesn't think it's demeaning because at the end of the day he has to live and buy food. Maybe it's his second job considering the time it happens. Maybe he's using that extra money to pay for his children to go to extra-curricular classes to help them settle into Irish society. Who knows and frankly who fucking cares?

If they don't want to do the job then some other cunt will do it and whether he's black, white or purple with yellow spots makes no fucking difference at all.

Apartheid. Civil rights. Get to fuck.

I love when people say...

2006-12-10T13:23:00.000Z

..."We will not rest until the killer has been found".

Come on, if they're really serious about finding the killer then staying awake for weeks and weeks is not the answer. Lack of sleep causes hallucinations, paranoia and distorted thinking.

What they want to do is get a good night's sleep and re-examine the facts the next morning over a hearty breakfast. I guarantee you they'll see the benefits of it.

Fuck off Vintners, again

2006-12-08T10:10:00.000Z

Those cunts really have some nerve. Because it's Christmas and the season to be jolly Garda checkpoints to snare drink-drivers are set up. The vintners association actually called for compensation to be paid to some of its members who would suffer loss of earnings because people couldn't drive to the pub.

Fucking insane. Seriously.

To have the nerve to make such a call when their bastardly cartel falsley inflates the price of drink a couple of times a year is just fucking scandalous.

Even Ron the barman couldn't justify this one and he's quite happily stood behind the association as they have carried out the greatest crimes of humanity. Not many people know it was the Vintners Association that kidnapped Shergar. Apparently he'd overheard two of them talking. The horse knew too much. They tried to warn him by putting an Italian's head in his stable as his slept one night but he was determined to go public. In the end they had to make the problem go away.

As well as that, and I'm taking my own life into my hands here, I've been doing some undercover work and I've found clear links between the Vintners and the cunts that own the M50 toll bridge. People think Veronica Guerin was investigating the seedy underworld of the Viper, the General, the Cocksmoker and the Wombat in Dublin's organised crime world but in fact she'd discovered the Masonic and sinister influence of the Vintners again.

9/11 - They weren't muslims. They were fanatical Vintners trying to stop people going on holidays abroad by making them afraid to fly so they'd stay home and drink in their local.

JFK - Lee Harvey Oswald was a fully paid up member of the Irish vintners association and had a share in a public house in Ballyjamesduff. His motivation, Kennedy was to visit Ireland propose a price cap on Guinness.

Cecilia Ahern and Damien Rice - both products of the Vintners who churned them out to make people avoid staying at home and reading or listening to music. They were created in a laboratory in Stoneybatter some years ago from the DNA of a Mensa genius spliced with that of a savant to give them their 'talent'. It didn't quite work out as well as they'd like but well enough as you can see.

Thankfully the minister for Transport Martin Cullen, who is a fucking spacker most of the time, has dismissed the claims as 'nonsense'. If Cullen dies suddenly you'll know where to point the finger.

Yes, at the shit-eating slitherly cunticles of the Vintners. Oh yes.

Watch out

2006-12-07T13:24:00.000Z

Minister for Health Mary Harney has announced how she intends to spend the money allocated to her department in yesterday’s Budget

There won't be a fucking Christmas pudding left for the rest of us if we don't hurry up. To the shops. Quickly!

Do more drugs at home

2006-12-07T08:50:00.000Z

I had a cousin, in fact I probably still have him but the last I heard he'd escaped to New Zealand, whose mother (my aunt) was so fussy and pernickity about housework that her home was always gleaming.

There was never the slightest bit of dirt on the windows, no dust on the shelves, no books or comics or toys lying around the floor and it was one of those houses you had to take your shoes off before you were allowed inside even if you'd just been walking on the pavement. The kitchen was spotless. She had bottles of Dettol and Domestos which killed all known germs dead. Her house was laboratory clean.

So my cousin, who grew up in this sterile environment, was a sickly child. He had all kinds of infirmities and allergies and all sorts. And the more she cleaned the house to ensure there were no germs or microscopic nasties that could get at him the worse he got.

I grew up in a clean house as well but I had pets who would scratch me, a little brother who would breathe germs on me as he came back from getting me something I didn't really need just because I'd timed him ('How long was I?', 'I dunno, my watch stopped!!', 'Argh, you dick!) and I was allowed play outside in the grass and trees and things.

One time when they came to visit my cousin got into the whole playing around in the dirt thing and came back covered in mud and bits of nettle and beetle poo. When his mother saw him she nearly had hysterics. Honestly, you'd think he was covered in his own blood the way she went on.

Anyway, my point is that growing up in such a strerile environment is no good for kids. They don't pick up the little germs and bites and scrapes and scratches which build resistance in later life. I guarantee you the person who is always suffering from a cold or a sniffle or a 'tummy bug' in your office grew up with a mother like my aunt and those of us with normal parents aren't anywhere near as sickly.

So, what I'm thinking is this. When kids are really young you should do lots of drugs at home and leave traces of them around the place. A little cocaine on the kitchen table, some acid in the weetabix, a couple of Es mixed up with the paracetemol and leave booze around all over the place.

What will happen is the kids will pick up these traces when they're young and then when they grow up drugs will have no effect on them whatsoever thus cutting the demand and putting those evil cartels and drug pushers out of business altogether. Of course you'd have be careful. A 3 year old going around the place thinking his Johnny BigBollocks because he's had a bit of a snort of coke or tripping off his face on the way to Montessori might be a bit weird but think of the long term benefits.

I remember some years back the next door neighbours who were there at the time were a very nice young couple. They had a new born baby and one day the mother came to my door. There'd been some kind of accident to her husband's father and they had to rush off to the hospital. They had nobody else, obviously, so they asked me to keep an eye on the baby for an hour until her sister got across town to take over.

What a gorgeous little boy he was. Big green eyes, a mop of curly blonde hair and a set up lungs on him that would make the lead singer of ACDC jealous. I tried singing to him:

"We can dance if we want to, we can leave our friends behind..."

No good. I rocked him gently by putting him in a Superquinn bag. "Wheeeee! Wheeeee!"

No good. I tried everything I could but nothing worked. She had a left a bottle for me to feed him if he got hungry so I took him into my house, added a good 1/4 pint of Jamesons to his milk and let him at it. I'm not joking you he was asleep in no time and the day after when the parents got back they gave me a present of another bottle of Jamesons because they'd never seen the young fella sleep so well and so long.

And you know what? That young man is now a moderate drinker. No mad sessions for him, no binge drinking, no getting so pissed he tries to garden the plant pots on Grafton Street or ends up at parties which are already over with complete strangers.

So, get down to your local corner. Seek out the dodgiest fucker you can find, get a smorgasbord of narcotics and give them to your children (slowly, I don't want to be responsible for any deaths here) and have them wash it down with a pint of lager, whiskey and peach scnapps (the sooner they become allergic to that the better).

You'll thank me in the future. I promise.

Fuck you, Cowen

2006-12-06T16:52:00.001Z

Excise duty on a pack of 20 cigarettes will increase by 50c from midnight tonight, Minister for Finance Brian Cowen has announced in his Budget 2007 speech.

If you charged immigrants an entry fee or cut the orphan relief tax there'd be no need for this increase at all. I will see you in hell, fucker.

Twas the night before Christmas (redux)

2006-12-06T00:00:00.000Z

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

In a small country village some young lads are drinking,
they take the roads and drive fast without thinking;
then all of a sudden they crash and they die,
'Hurrah' say the papers as they wail, gnash and cry;

We need someone now to make our roads safer,
not Gaybo, the cunt, who's as weak as wafer;
bring in Stallone or someone that's stronger,
we simply won't suffer this carnage no longer;

But the newspaper men are liars and cheats,
they build up the hype to sell tabs and broadsheets;
the people will always die on the roads,
it's natural selection you despicable toads;

Far away on the coast some folk are protesting,
they don't want the gas and the times they are testing;
as they sit and drink Barry's tea from their mugs,
they lose lots of face as they battle like thugs;

All alone in his house a miser sits drinking,
counting money and chequebooks and solemnly thinking;
'De people still love me, I'm sure about dat',
but he's wrong the misguided, deluded old twat.

In Dublin's fair city where the girls are so fair,
the Orangemen came to march without care;
'Welcome to Dublin', the young locals said,
then the beer and joints went straight to their heads;

The city officials were wise, that is right,
to let the prods march on a fresh building site;
the Dubs had iron bars and weapons galore,
they never ran out, there were always some more;

Then they started the looting like a Los Angeles echo,
lots of new pairs of Nikes for Fitzer and Deco;
the place was a mess, like a giant knacker's turd,
but all was not lost, they beat up Charlie Bird.

Elsewhere we were faced with the true queen of panto,
with a mouth like a fishwife and an arse quite giganto;
a mobile phone message meant things were quite sticky,
till she scared you away trying to zip up your mickey.

The football team won only one match or two,
the manager, players and squad are all poo;
in tv land Dunphy he just loved to talk,
'bout that useless and ginger twat down from Dundalk.

It should have been easy to go win in Cyprus,
but we let in five and then there was crisis;
we all wanted change but the masterplan,
from the FAI was to stick with shit Stan.

The Eurovision song contest came round again,
Kennedy was hoping for a twelve or a ten;
but sadly for him it wasn't his night,
no big surprise coz his song was pure shite.

The Irish blog scene it grew and got famous
now there's a blog by every Tom, Dick, or Seamus;
but the ladies had best beware the grim reaper,
some mysterious man, that nasty gatekeeper.

And this is the last great verse of my rhyme,
in a year when we all dreamt of better time;
a time of cheap pints, cheap fags and old punts,
now fuck off you horrible, miserable cunts.

It's a tradition, I told you before

Stall or urinal

2006-12-05T09:32:00.000Z

A man is at his most vulnerable in two places.

1 - Asleep in his bed
2 - Having a piss at a urinal

Because of modern day underpants with their hard to hold open willy slots it's no longer a case that you can whip your lad out, scratch your hole with one hand and put one hand up against the wall for balance. You need to hold them open with one hand and your Johnson with the other.

Those few moments of weakness could be all an attacker needs to set upon you and give you a jolly good thrashing. Given the amount of people that are after me, especially at the moment, I tend to use the stalls when I have to go for a piss in a bar or restaurant or court house.

The door offers protection directly proportional to the vulnerability caused by the vulnerability of modern boxer shorts.

So I'm a stall man. What about you?

Apologies if this post excludes replies from the ladies but any of you that piss standing up feel free to join in the hearty discussion that is sure to follow.

They're everywhere

2006-12-04T18:46:00.000Z

I noticed over on Infactah, Ireland's most biscuity blog dressed up as a group blog that enjoys culture and the arts and bands and stuff when they're all too busy stuffing their faces with Garibaldis to bother with any of that stuff, a YouTube video of an episode of Bosco.

Bosco was a fucking crazy Irish TV kids show which those of you that live outside Ireland can read about here.

I watched a bit of it and something struck me as odd. I had go back a bit but when you freeze the opening credits at the right time a box turns very briefly into this.

Well fucking stone me, the Star of David.

If that's not clear evidence of the Zionist conspiracy then I don't know what is. It wasn't the Catholic church running the country all these years, it was those damn Jews and they were using kids TV to do it.

Are there no depths to which they won't plumb?

Ultrasonic bollocks

2006-12-04T09:56:00.000Z

Reading in the paper this morning about a shop somewhere in Meath which is using an ultrasonic device to deter teenagers from hanging around outside the shop causing problems.

Apparently this thing, like that ring tone, is only audible to teenagers and it's so high pitched they can't stand to be around it.

Now, the first point I'd like to make is that this is obviously a load of fucking bollocks. Do teenagers have different ears from the rest of us, or something? What happens when a 19 year old turns 20, do his ears suddenly change meaning he can no longer hear the tone? Of course not, it's just nonsense.

Secondly, how fucking inconsiderate is this shopkeeper. If, for some reason, it is deterring these corner boys from hanging around outside the shop it means they'll just go hang around somewhere else. Now, because of the amount of people going in and out of a shop the mischief they can get up to is fairly limited but if, for example, they started hanging around a darkened alleyway then there's no end to the trouble they could start.

It won't be long before a bit of slagging and throwing cigarette butts and passers-by becomes serious assault, rape, murder and genocide. I hope that fucking shopkeeper will be happy then.

There's a much easier way to do deal with teenagers who hang around places. I remember some time ago when a group of them thought it would be a good idea to sit on my front wall and smoke and drink cans of Dutch Gold.

I went out to them and said "Excuse me lads, would you mind drinking and smoking somewhere else?"

They said, "Certainly, sir, we are very sorry for disturbing you and thank you for reminding us of our civic responsibilities."*

They're not all monsters you know. A bit of dialogue goes a long way.

* In actual fact I set the dog on them.

Stealing is wrong but good

2006-12-01T09:13:00.000Z

Is it wrong to go to a restaurant and figure that because you're paying so much for the food and the wine and the limoncellos and B52s and rums that it's ok to take a souvenir?

Some people seem to think it is as they made me take the giant black pepper mill out of my jacket before we left. Fuckers. They didn't stop me adding to my collection of shot glasses though.

Amongst the other things I've taken as souvenirs from restaurants include a tablecloth, numerous ashtrays, salt and pepper shakers, candles, cutlery and a waiter (although somebody paid me and Jimmy to steal him and kick his teeth in).

What have you stolen from restaurants? And don't try to tell me you haven't. That's like saying you dont' steal towels from hotels or eat doughnuts in Superquinn without paying for them.

Update: There's only a little bit of sugar left for my coffee and somehow there's a spider's leg in the bottom of the sugar bowl. Maybe spider leg makes coffee taste better.

Further update: The spider's leg makes little or no difference to the taste of the coffee, as far as I can tell, so if someone offers you a coffee with a spider's leg in it don't turn it down unless you're allergic to spiders legs.

Come on authors, get real II

2006-11-30T08:04:00.000Z

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.

Double same-named people are cunts

2006-11-29T09:23:00.000Z

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.

Help me Residents against Racism...

2006-11-28T09:25:00.001Z

...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.

N

2006-11-27T13:24:00.000Z

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.

Gaybo on the Late, Late intruder

2006-11-26T10:05:00.000Z

"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.

This man is my new hero

2006-11-25T11:52:00.000Z

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

I'm not just hearing things

2006-11-24T09:05:00.000Z

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.

Radio ads are fucking shit

2006-11-23T00:01:00.000Z

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.

Not in my pub

2006-11-22T10:12:00.001Z

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."

We're all the same, except different

2006-11-21T08:50:00.000Z

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?

Just make enough, you cunts.

2006-11-20T09:15:00.001Z

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

Net visionaries

2006-11-17T14:31:00.000Z

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

Beware the pub of death

2006-11-17T09:18:00.000Z

"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."

A metro is the only way forward

2006-11-16T10:10:00.001Z

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.

An eye for an eye

2006-11-15T10:36:00.001Z

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

Mmmmm, tasty

2006-11-15T09:10:00.000Z

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*

Cheerio Curtin, you cunt

2006-11-14T10:21:00.000Z

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.

Things you can do...

2006-11-13T19:32:00.000Z

...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...

Stupid sign

2006-11-11T11:03:00.000Z

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.

You lot are fucking crap

2006-11-10T00:01:00.000Z

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?

Go find it boy, go on!

2006-11-09T00:01:00.000Z

"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.

Shove 'exquisite' up your hole

2006-11-08T09:18:00.000Z

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?

Jimmy in the kitchen

2006-11-07T00:01:00.000Z

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!"

Bertie is a witless cretin

2006-11-06T09:30:00.000Z

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?

Ted Haggard

2006-11-05T11:24:00.000Z

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.

Knit my bollocks

2006-11-03T09:57:00.000Z

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.

Don't fuck with the vintners

2006-11-02T08:29:00.000Z

"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."

About last night (redux)

2006-11-01T00:01:00.000Z

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.

I couldn't be, could I?

2006-10-31T00:01:00.000Z

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.