Gavin has the story.

I wish I could say it was unbelievable. The sooner we get a chance to kick these cunts up the hole in a general election the better.

As much as I hate them reading texts out on the radio when the presenter makes a balls of reading it out because he hasn’t taken the time to read it beforehand is seriously annoying.

Anyway, it’s just time-filling, cheap as shit radio.

Also websites that have an article that makes you click three or four pages to read it all when it could easily fit on one. Click whoring sons of cunts.

Once a week I go to a particular building to carry out some work. Yes, work.

Anyway, as I leave the work area and head towards the stairs, which I must descend in order to get out, there is an attic opening kind of thing at the top of the stairs. From that attic opening pokes out a set of metal steps, which I’m sure turn into a handy kind of ladder when extended.

However, each time I pass by I can see the steps extend of their own volition, extending, rushing towards the very centre of my forehead with which they connect at great speed and with a sound that I can hear clearly in my head. I don’t quite know how to describe it – imagine the sound you hear when you hit your head off the ground (the bit just before the horrible taste in the back of your nose) combined with the noise of standing on a snail or a pistachio shell.

So far the steps have remained in position. A metal turtle’s tail to the roof anus that lies above. Yet each week brings my inevitable doom ever closer.

One day … one day.

… seeing as people are bored and listless here’s something to pass the time.

Yesterday on the old Twitter I opined that if I could do away with one celebrity in this world it’d be Jamie Foxx. I hate him, I hate his face, I hate his voice, I hate his two Xs, I get cross just looking at him. He is, unquestionably, history’s greatest monster.

So, if you had a free one, who would it be?

And no, I can’t think of anything more cheery to write about. Well I can but celebrities being killed is a lot more interesting.

Noses are like people. They come in all shapes and sizes, colours and styles, and provide some people endless entertainment whilst sitting at traffic lights.

They like nothing more than to have a good rummage around up there before wiping their bogies on their pants, or in the case of some, consuming with relish. And by relish I mean gusto and glee and not some tomato based sauce.

I’ve got a friend who, at the moment, has no sense of smell at all. He had a bit of a head injury, you see, and at the moment he doesn’t smell or taste anything. Which must be a bit crap. What’s for dinner tonight? ‘Crunchy’. Awesome.

Smells can remind you of places and people. For example, if you’re abroad on holiday and it’s a warm place and you pass an open bin in the midday sun the smell would put you in mind of Dirty Dave’s sitting room. Occasionally one can have a poo and you can detect the subtle frangrances of the food that constitutes said poo, like a wine expert sniffing out the fruit scents of a Chianti.

But the hair. The hair is the most extraordinary thing about the nose. It strikes me that all this focus on chemical solutions for baldness are a waste of time. All one needs to do is transplant nose hair into the head and from there great wild tufts of the stuff will grow at an alarming rate.

Give it a buzz cut and within a week you’ll have two inch long hair again. It’s amazing. All the various methods I have used to keep such hair in trim are practically useless. I have a nose hair trimmer/strimmer, I can yank great tussocks off the stuff out between my thumb and forefinger, and in no time at all in the inside of my nose is like a werewolf’s gooch again.

My new project is to collect all the hair that sprouts from my nose, keep it bagged, then fill a cushion with it. Then when someone comes to my house and says ‘Goodness, what a comfortable cushion this is’, I can say ‘Yes, it’s made from my nasal hair, you know’ and then there’ll be that awesome moment when they laugh because they think I’m joking only to realise that I’m not.

There’s something just wrong about Tesco. Sure, you can point to the fact that they saw fit to roll out price reductions to stores around the border whilst leaving the rest of us to pay higher prices.

You can then be suspicious about many of those reduces prices being increased on the sly.

You can accuse them, quite rightly, of ditching 100s of Irish suppliers to bring in cheaper goods from the UK. Not good for our economy and a good reason not to shop there.

But the worst thing about Tesco has got to be the shops themselves. There’s just this sense of grime and filth about them. As if existing on the edges of another, filthier dimension. Think about it, if you were in a Tesco and there was some kind of mysterious storm indoors, the lights went out, leaving only emergency lighting, and all the staff became zombies and started lurching around after you trying to eat your brains would you be even the slightest bit surprised?

Not me. And that’s the main reason I never shop there. I like my brains in my head and not in the mouth of some spotty shelf-stacker who stinks of Red Bull and John Player Blue.

Some places speak distinctly.  Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; certain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts are set apart for shipwrecks. – Robert Louis Stevenson

And so it is with Tesco. The shops offend my senses, they make my skin crawl, I believe something fetid and foul exists within each one of them.

Even the discount German supermarkets, with their frozen lamb chops and low-fat malk, don’t come close.

Of course it’s up to you. If you want to risk it, who am I to tell you not to? But think about your brains getting caught between the teeth of the shelf-stacker. Or in the gap where his front tooth should be. Which he then pokes out with his skidmarked finger.

Bleurgh. I’d rather fucking starve than shop there.

I was listening that fucking cunt on Newstalk earlier, you know the one, the sanctimonius, up his own arse, smug, chuckling Munster cunt, and they were talking about how, apparently, there are 250,000 alcoholics in Ireland.

According to him the whole country was in a state of denial. The whole country. Of course he has surveyed them all, because he has super-awesome, know-it-all powers.

Of these 250,000 only 20% are in treatment which begs the question how they know how many others there are out there.

Then some professor dude came on and spoke about how alcoholism wasn’t just alcoholism any more, you had to include alcohol dependency. Which is a ’syndrome’. Now, I’m not one of those people who thinks alcoholism is a disease. It’s a terrible thing for those that suffer from it but it’s not a disease. A syndrome sounds a bit better but it’s still a bit wanky.

But if we go round saying that around 6% of the entire population of the country are alcoholics then all kinds of madness will ensue. We won’t know which 6% of people are drunkards. Is it your doctor? Your taxi driver? Your best friend? Your best friend’s girlfriend (who used to be mine)?

People will grow suspicious and view each other through narrowed eyes and that’s not a good look. We’re not a beautiful enough people to pull it off. I reckon they’re just trying to scare people to sign up for AA and such.

Stinking Pete thought he had a drinking problem and decided to go to AA. He did the first two of the 12 steps then told them to go fuck themselves when he was required to hand his life over to God. Why replace one crutch with another, he thought.

And has nobody considered that 12 steps are a bit too fucking complicated? All this give yourself over to a higher power shite. And the added time it takes to complete 12 steps when all you really need are two.

The Brand New 20m 2 step program for AA:

1 – Stop drinking

2 – Don’t start drinking ever again (but if you do just have the odd one and don’t get to the point where you’re skulling two bottles of Tesco value vodka before lunchtime. Should you reach that point please see step 1).

Fucking simple.

I read a story in the Sunday Times magazine last week. A mother and father in the US (I think in Texas) forbade their daughter from going out with the young man she had fallen for.

A classic story, really, it happens all the time, but what makes this one slightly unusual is that the daughter then got her boyfriend and one of his friends to kill her family. They shot her father in the face, shot her mother then almost decapitated her with a sword, then went upstairs and shot her two brothers (aged 8 and 12) even as one of them begged for his life.

Then they set the house on fire. Somehow the father managed to survive, drag himself out of the house and crawl to the nearest neighbour to get help.

It didn’t take the police long to get to the truth – that the daughter had arranged the murders of her entire family simply because she had been forbidden from seeing this young man.

What an awful story. Beyond comprehension really. But what struck me was the father. He was a religious man and even after everything he went through he spoke about his faith in the God that had somehow saved his life.

My thought was, what about the God that allowed your wife and two sons to be killed? Isn’t that the same God? You know, the one who let terrified little boys be shepherded back to their beds before being blasted with a shotgun. The one who allowed these killers to practically cut your wife’s head off. The one who sat and watched as your family was destroyed and your daughter sentenced to the rest of her life in prison.

That’s same God, isn’t it?

… I dreamt that I was awake all night and couldn’t get to sleep.

I’m fucking exhausted this morning.

He is quoted as saying “I have been very, very critical of the use of pain medications. I have told people in no uncertain terms that if Michael one day woke up and he was dead I would not be silent, I would not permit this to go unchallenged.”

Zombie Michael Jackson? Lord help us all.