Great Irish broadcasting mistakes - part 1

by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2004

Picture the scene. It’s a couple of years ago, mid-morning and Pat Kenny, the housewives and old piss-stinking granny’s favourite, is in the middle of his insipid radio show on RTE Radio 1.

He decides to play a tune from The Beautiful South called ‘Don’t marry her’. However, instead of playing the song from the CD single Pat foolishly chooses to play the album version.

See if you can spot the slight lyrical difference:

CD single: “…don’t marry her, have me.”

Album version: “…don’t marry her, fuck me.”

hahahaha - suck it down Kenny, you gormless cunt.

Focus on organised crime

by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2004

I read today that Gardai are afraid a mini-Mafia is developing in Limerick City as organised crime in the town gets stronger and stronger. There was been an upsurge in stabbings, shootings, robbery, rolling people up in carpets and the only people happy about it are the cement manufacturers who can’t keep up the demand for concrete boots for the lackies and stool pigeons that get dumped in the Shannon each day.

Of course there’s a very simple solution to organised crime in this country, just kill the cunts. Seriously.

The Gardai know who all these people are; in Limerick, in Dublin, in Cork, all over the country. They’re not the type of people who skulk in the shadows, they’re usually quite blatant but possess enough criminal smarts not to have their fingersprints (literally and figuratively) all over what they do.

So bearing in mind these people are well known what’s to stop a well trained Garda unit being sent out to assassinate these fuckers? Just take them out one at a time. I don’t know what nicknames they have these days - The General, The Viper, The Goat Fucker, whatever. Just shoot them in the head as they come out of their house and then run away really fast. Poison them as they go for a slap up meal in Beshoffs. Wait for them in the toilets of their local and stab them in the eye with a syringe full of insulin. Blow them up in their cars. It doesn’t matter if their kids are with them, nits make lice and all that.

After a while even the stupidest criminal will know what’s going on and will either cease all unlawful activities or they’ll bugger off to Spain where they can be terrorised by red-tape and dodgy workmen as they try and buy a retirement villa in Alicante.

And that’s how you solve organised crime in Ireland. QED, no?

My mind is blank

by Twenty Major on November 29th, 2004

There are days when I have very specific subjects I want to talk about.

That might be something current in the news, it might be the latest staggeringly hypocrytical piece of crap to come from the Government, it might be the behaviour of my fellow Dubliners (not Ronnie Drew the beard copying cunt), or just some piece of bile that’s burning a hole in my stout addled brain.

But this morning I’m blank. I feel nothing. I have nothing to rant about. I’m not angry about anything in particular. I was going to write something about how you can buy the new U2 CD for €11 cheaper in Tescos than in Golden Discs but then I realised I didn’t give a flying fuck. If, after all these years, there are dimwitted cunts who still shop in Golden Discs then that’s their own fucking fault. Who am I to try and battle against such lack of logic and reason and common sense? No doubt the same people who shop in Golden Discs will also buy music by Brian McFadden and Ronan Keating and therefore should be exterminated by extreme force.

What about George Bush phoning up Gerry Adams to talk about peace? It’d be like George Best phoning up Ernest Hemingway to talk about what non-alcholic drinks to serve at a party. Still, I’m not bothered what the chimp does, or what the buck-toothed Grizzly Adams does. A pair of liars and cheats, but we all know that already.

Anyhow, today I will walk the streets of Dublin, ignorning the chants of ‘5 for 50 de wrappin’ paypooooorrrrrrr’ and breathe in the essence of the city. If that doesn’t make me sick to my stomach and back to proper grumpy form tomorrow nothing will.

Sunday

by Twenty Major on November 28th, 2004

If Sunday is God’s day of rest why do priests show such disrespect by making it their main working day?

80s pop stars and where they are now

by Twenty Major on November 27th, 2004

I know lots of you, like me, wonder what’s happened to some of your favourite pop stars of the 1980s. In the first of what’s probably going to be an endless running gag here’s some news of a number of 80s tunesters.

This batch of former chart toppers have decided that changing their names would be a bad thing, so Bruce Hornsby and the Range now run a golf range just outside of San Diego, California, Blancmange now provide a huge range of desserts to restaurants across the north of England while The Blow Monkeys retired to Diane Fossey’s Gorilla haven and are extremely popular with the Silverback males.

More another day.

Espresso stories

by Twenty Major on November 26th, 2004

Espresso Stories is a website where you can contribute stories of no more than 25 words.

Here’s mine.

Things you shouldn’t do

by Twenty Major on November 26th, 2004

- Get very drunk and then agree to drinking a pint of custard in 10 seconds or less as a bet. The €5 you win won’t make your stomach feel like it isn’t gestating some kind of multi-toothed, entrail eating spawn of Satan.

- Put your hand up in class and call the teacher ‘Mum’.

- Rush into a public toilet because you’re desperate to sit down, so much so you’re touching cloth, without first checking to see if there’s any toilet paper.

- Pass wind during a meeting at the exact same time as one of those inconvenient silences happens. If this occurs it is imperative that you turn and stare incredulously at the person beside you.

- Send an email to which you’ve accidentally replied to all, rather than just the sender, calling your boss and his bosses ‘Piss drinking cocksuckers.’

- Trip up a little boy as he’s running up the stairs in your school causing him to crack his head off the marble steps and knock himself out.

- Tell anyone your real name on the internet. You’ll get stalked.

- Put your cat in the tumble drier.

- Watch the Eurovision Song Contest whilst tripping on acid.

- Underestimate the awesome comedy powers of monkeys.

- You certainly shouldn’t find out Michael McDowell’s address and send him pizzas, Chinese meals and leave flaming bags of poo on his doorstep. That would be wrong.

Bosca - save Bewley’s my arse

by Twenty Major on November 25th, 2004

No, it’s not an annoyingly homosexual little red haired puppet. BOSCA is the Bewley’s Oriental Saved Cafe’s Alliance.

No doubt there were countless committee meetings to come up with a name as garbled and ridiculous as that, but yesterday top Dublin celebrities like Ronnie Drew, Pauline McGlynn (will ya help save Bewleys, Father? Go on, go on …etc) and somebody called Dav McNamara (never heard of him) ‘regaled crowds and called for the famous coffee house to be saved from becoming another chain store premises.’

I wonder how they regaled crowds. Did Ronnie Drew show off the nest of starlings that lives in his beard? I hope the cunt wasn’t singing, because that’s not going to do Bewley’s any good. Did Pauline McGlynn ‘do’ Mrs Doyle? Did that Dav bloke do whatever it is he does (I suspect he pulls condoms through his mouth and out his nose or something)?

“We will be trying to save this for the next generation,” Bosca organiser Paul Quilligan told the crowd.

Save what, exactly? Overpriced coffee that tastes like mud? Shit food? What? Are they going to put a huge amount of money into ensuring Bewley’s remains open and then just carry on as before, oblivious to the fact that if it wasn’t a third rate service they wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place?

I’m all for keeping traditions alive. Every Bloomsday I enjoy getting stociously drunk and trying it on with Senator David Norris only to be carted off to Pearse Street Garda station. On Christmas Eve I enjoy the tradition of getting rat-arsed in The Bailey, buying a bunch of flowers from one of the gorgeous women on the corner of South King Street and waving them around and singing on the way home so by the time I get there the flowers are wrecked. And I also enjoy the tradition of getting hopelessly drunk on Hallowe’en and throwing fireworks at little children.

What I don’t understand is how anyone can enjoy the tradition of going into Bewley’s, getting a mug of the witch’s diarrhea that they pass off as coffee and paying through the nose for it.

But maybe that’s just me.

Tell a friend about Twenty Major today

by Twenty Major on November 24th, 2004

My plans for world domination are going much more slowly than I had envisaged.

So if it’s not too much trouble could anyone reading this today please take just a moment to tell a friend about this site. Whether that’s via email, a link on your website, carrier pigeon, courier or by spray painting the URL on Dubloon’s wall.

Next time I see you I’ll shout you a pint. Cheers.

Twenty Major

CHiPs

by Twenty Major on November 24th, 2004

I see Michael McDowell has launched a whole new breed of Gardai to deal with the carnage on Irish roads. Almost 4345 people are killed daily in road accidents, many of them fatally. So we’re going to get Traffic Cops, which will be like CHiPs, except instead of Poncharello and Baker we’ll have Flanaganarello and O’Shaughnessey.

This new police unit is going to cost somewhere in the region of €30m every year on top of €11.7m to purchase the fleet of vehicles needed for these guys and that doesn’t include the €2.3m needed for teeth whitening and Ray-Ban sunglasses.

The introduction of this new unit is yet more proof that the points system is working…*cough*….

Old people are scared to drive above the speed limit and young people are going mad trying to overtake them. Since the points system was introduced deaths on the road have increased but fines for people not driving in an exact straight line have made €34bn for the Government.

Once again I have a much better solution to these problems, one that would save us all money and with these savings they could make a pint of stout affordable in Dublin 2 again.

Let’s say the highest speed limit in Irish roads is 70mph. All you have to do is ensure that no car can travel more than 70mph. Easy, no? It would eliminate ridiculous speeding, joyriding would become far less attractive if you can’t lash around in a Micra going at 110 and accidents on the roads would decrease almost instantly.

It’s so simple even I thought of it. Of course the Government are too busy trying to put old ladies in jail for not having dog licences (I’m happy to report she’s been spared 5 days of lesbian sex as her family paid the ridiculous fine) and trying to think of new ways to spend the €2bn budget surplus that they claim to be surprised at receiving.

Give us some of it back then, you robbing cunts. Anyway, Traffic Cops. Watch out for them, they’re just another money making exercise. The Government don’t care about people dying for the same reason you or I do, they want to keep people alive as long as possible so as to maximise the tax income they receive.

Screw the Government today. Drive into a wall.