Watch out Jason Byrne

by Twenty Major on April 29th, 2005

If there’s one person you shouldn’t have nicked your material from it’s Bane. Luckily for you he’s thousands of miles away but if you ever tour America I suggest staying away from his home town.

What town is his home town, you ask? Not telling. It’ll be like Russian Roulette comedy touring.

This morning I have just a bit of a hangover having gone out drinking with Jimmy the Bollix last night. Nothing funny happened at all. We sat in the pub drinking pints until it was time to go home. I went home and had a few more cans of beer. Then I went to bed. When I woke up this morning my mouth was dry and my stomach was churning.

Have I told you before that I have a dog? Well, if not, I have a dog. His name is Bastard Face. “Get him, Bastard Face!” is one of my favourite things to say as we walk through the kiddie’s playground in Bushy Park. He doesn’t like children though. I should clarify that. He doesn’t like eating children. Actually he’s a very good natured dog. I can’t tell you what make of dog he is. He’s sort of a mix between a Doberman, a West Highland White terrier and a pony.

He can breathe fire and climb trees and he always poos in the same part of the garden.

And that’s the end of the story about my pet, by Twenty Major, age: Old.

Nothing to say except…

by Twenty Major on April 28th, 2005

So should I say that I’ve got nothing to say or just not say anything at all?

Actually I should say thanks to Kev who told me the two unfunny blokes on that RTE show were Jason Byrne and Kevin Gildea. Having just turned on the TV to catch the news this morning who should I see but Byrne on TV3 making a joke about the Pope being dead and his kid saying “Oh no! What happened to santa?”

Now, a quick Google shows up this thread on some kind of Scottish nerd forum from April 3rd - more than three weeks ago. And this thread from another forum on the same day.

So not only is Jason Byrne not funny he steals his material from the internet.

Apparently he’s playing at Vicar Street soon. Are you allowed heckle somebody with a baseball bat?

Name those cunts

by Twenty Major on April 27th, 2005

I know I should know better but I watched TV again last night and it was some show called ‘Reverb’ which looked at RTE’s music archives. There was some funny stuff on it, especially Dickie Rock but most especially the Boyzone goons dancing on the Late Late show all those years ago. How any of them can show their faces in public after that is still beyond me. No matter what happens to any of us for the rest of our lives we should take comfort that nothing even half as embarassing as that could befall us.

Anyway, this show is like so many others in that they get D-list celebs to make comments about what they’re showing. The problem is in Ireland your D-list celebs are like Z-list celebs elsewhere and I didn’t know who any of them were. Now, you might find this hard to believe but the unfunny twats they had on were even less funny than the unfunny twats they have on The Panel on RTE2.

There were two in particular. One ginger bloke with glasses who told stories which were about as funny as AIDS but which he seemed to find hilarious. He talked about being a loungeboy in the Braemore Rooms and apparently all the women would say “You’re coming home with me.”

The only reason I can think they’d want to bring him home is to drown the cunt and put him out of his misery. Not even the most desperate housewives would go home with a ginger loungeboy when they could just do the taxi driver, right Tommy? He also told a story about wearing his brother’s Iron Maiden jacket to a Mama’s Boys gig. It might have been funny had he lost the jacket, vomited on the jacket, torn the jacket or caused some sort of damage to the jacket but he didn’t. He came home and his brother was angry because he wore the jacket. Well pardon me as I try and stop my sides from splitting.

The other bloke was another bespectacled chap with funny stubble and bleached blonde hair (I think). He told a story about being the first person in Ireland to ever see The Smiths. It was so obviously made up I wondered why he bothered. Then I realised it was because he was a sad, lonely cunt. Looking at him, with his horrific face and reedy, boyish voice, I understood that he was just desperate for some sort of acceptance and credibility. That doesn’t mean he isn’t loathsome though.

What I need from you, dear readers, is for you to identify these people for me so I can put them on my list. Quite what I have planned for the people on my list I can’t yet say but if no-mark celebrities around Ireland go missing only for their flayed corpses to turn up months later I want to state here and now that it is nothing at all to do with me.

Nothing. at. all.

So who are they?

I have a really hairy arse

by Twenty Major on April 26th, 2005

Ever see Hollywood men in films when they do their nudey bit? They always have an arse that’s a smooth as a baby’s bottom but if you stuck a pair of glasses and a set of buck teeth on mine it’d look like Gerry Adams.

Do these guys have baby smooth buttocks or do they actually shave their arses and if so isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard?

I know sportsmen, particularly cyclists and swimmers, shave their legs/bodies because it helps them in their competitions but is there any reason at all for a man to shave his arse cheeks?

And what happens when their nude scene is over. Do they continue to shave their holes or do they let the hair grow back? Imagine a stubbly arse.

Quite frankly it’s a disgrace and any man who shaves the hair off his arse should be put to death at once.

ha-fucking-ha

by Twenty Major on April 25th, 2005

I just got an email with a joke and at the end of the joke it said:

<~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~> If this doesn ‘ t make you laugh, you’re having a really bad day!!

Erm, no. If this doesn’t make me laugh, and it didn’t make me laugh, it’s because it wasn’t fucking funny and you’re a cunt for even thinking I’d find something that unfunny amusing. I prefer to get proper spam for Viagra and cheap fags and other wonder pills than the shite that some cunt gets sent and then that cunt decides to send it on to every single person he knows.

Out of that group there’s at least one other person who’ll send it to every single person they know and soon the same email is being sent around the world forever and ever because that one cunt in every group will always, without fail, exist.

The fucking cunts.

Aliens in Callan

by Twenty Major on April 23rd, 2005

Bernie is advertising for aliens on his blog and recommending Callan in County Kilkenny as the perfect safe haven.

Now, if you’ve never been to Callan then take my word for it when I tell you it’s the most deeply unsettling town in Ireland. It’s like something out of a Stephen King novel. There’s an air of foreboding and not exactly menace but something just a bit sinister. You wouldn’t want to be wandering around on your own after dark like.

That leads me to believe that either: a) Aliens have already landed and are using shapeshifting and other x-filestastic stuff to live on earth or b) Aliens landed and the people of Callan simply ate them after some kind of Whicker Man style ceremony.

Either way my advice to you, humans and aliens alike, is avoid Callan at all costs and if your car breaks down there just don’t bring it to the mechanic whose garage is close to the GAA field.

You have been warned.

Musical instruments I hate

by Twenty Major on April 22nd, 2005

I like music as much as the next man. When it’s good it’s really good but when it’s bad there’s nothing worse. Apart from stuff like eating poo or someone else’s sick but you know what I mean. Anyway, there are some musical instruments that I just hate. And they are as follows:

The bongos: The instrument of the crusty or Hippy©®. Often they just sit in circles smoking joints while one cretinous cuntbag bangs away at these things like he’s in tune with the heartbeat of the world or something. Bongos have their place in 15-piece Latin American salsa bands but in the filthy grasp of dreadlocked dog fuckers they are a plague and need to be inserted firmly up the anal passage of the wretched beatniks until they wail for mercy. It’s the only way they’ll learn.

The accordian: Popular amongst Romanian gypsies they play standard songs while you try and have a beer outside on your holidays anywhere in Europe. It’s now estimated that each outside terrace supports the livelihoods of up to 20 of these disgusting cunts who play you music while their sidekick picks your pocket. A call to arms - if you don’t give them any money they will starve to death. It’s harsh, but fair.

Bagpipes: Yes, we all know the comparisons to a bag full of cats having the life squeezed out of them but it’s just something about the pitch of the bagpipes that makes me want to start killing things all around me. It’s the same with a lady soprano singing opera. It hurts my ears. The bagpipes are generally played by men in dresses and that kind of shit hasn’t been popular since Roxy Music in the early 70s.

The Harpsichord: There’s a very simple equation worked out a long time ago by medieval mathematicians. If you play the harpsichord a jester will appear within minutes and start going around the place jesting like a cunt. Jesters are old fashioned clowns and I fucking hate clowns so any instrument that summons the fuckers has to be bad news.

The recorder: Has anyone ever heard a beautiful piece of music played on a recorder? No. And I’ll tell you why. The only people who play the recorder are children in school who are made play it for music class. It’s rare to find a recorder prodigy, the equivalent of Mozart or Richard Clayderman on the piano, so what you get is a wall of noise from 30 kids trying to play ‘Three blind mice’, all of them playing different notes at different times. Just stop.

Harmonica: Yes, you’re in prison. Yes, you’re sitting around a camp fire. Yes, you’ve just thrown your bag up onto one of those open trains and you’re going to travel across America running away from your troubles. But that’s no fucking excuse to play the mouth organ. At it’s very worst in Bob Dylan songs or Piano Man by Billy Joel this instrument should be outlawed at once for making people feel ‘blue’. See how blue you are when I ram it down your cunting throat Mr I-Can’t-Breathe-Anymore.

And those are the instruments I hate.

Twenty the Jackal

by Twenty Major on April 21st, 2005

Italy. What a strange place, so full of Italians and mopeds and people driving like they want to die as soon as possible.

I was there once, this was in 1978 or so. I was in Rome just sketching about, like you do. Taking in the architecture, soaking up the history, eating lots of pasta and pizza and drinking bottle after bottle of delicious red wine.

So anyway I was sitting in the Piazza Navona enjoying a calice di vino when all of a sudden a police van screeched into the square and pulled up alongside me. Out jumped about 8 Paolo Maldini looking blokes with helmets, rifles, grenades and designer sunglasses.

One of them came up to me and shouted something like: “Ay! Vino bianco. Spaghetti carbonara, calzone, Quando arriva il treno da Roma? Mi hanno rubato l’orologio.”

Says I, “You what?”

He starts waffling again and then they bundle me into the back of the van. I didn’t even have time to settle my bill. They bring me to a police station and leave me sitting in an interrogation room. I sat in there smoking for about half an hour. Then some top cop kind of bloke came in.

“A-tell a me, for what a you visita Roma?” he says.

“For a de fucking sunshine and a fucking wine-a”, I reply.

“You-a think a you so smarta” he says. “We a know all abouta you plana. Is a better for you to say truth a now and we don’t a hurt you. a.”

“What aplana?” I ask.

So he starts waffling on about how I know ‘a fine a wella’ whata my plan is. I’m a bit baffled at this stage and while I’m enjoying the smoking I’d much rather be out in the Piazza getting drunk and watching the pretty Roman girls go by.

Eventually they get someone from the Irish consulate down to talk to me having checked out my passport and so on. He comes in and tells me they think I’m Carlos the Jackal, the world’s deadliest assassin. Something to do with my beard and shifty eyes.

So the cop guy comes back in. Says I “You think I’m Carlos the Jackal? You’re off your box man. I’m Seamus the Panther, Ireland’s best and most ruthless assassin. I’m here to assassinate the King of Spain.”

The cop is confused? “What-a you say? What a box? Not the Jackal but a panther? King of a Spain? You a make a my head hurt!”

The consulate guy then explains everything in Italian and tells them I’m just a normal Irish citizen going about my holiday style business and they agree to let me go if I leave the country at once. I agree but only if they pay for me to go home in first class. Which they did.

I’ve never been back to Italy but the cop was so convinced I was Carlos the Jackal he moved his entire family over here to keep me under surveillance using a chain of chippers as his cover.

All the staff of Silvio’s chip shops around the south side of Dublin are specially trained to listen for any reference to the Jackal and report back to Mr Silvio himself if they hear anything. There’s one quite close to me.

No matter how drunk I am when I’m getting my battered sausages and chips I make sure not to make any reference to all the people I’ve killed.

The new Pope is up your hole picking daisies

by Twenty Major on April 20th, 2005

So my application for Pope was, as you might have gathered, unsuccessful.

This is because they’ve elected a new Pope. Cardinal Ratzinger becomes Pope Eggs Benedict XVI. He is a healthy 78 years of age.

Maybe it’s just me but I’d have to question the logic of electing a bloke who’s already got one foot in the grave. I’m not Johnny Churchalot but I think there’s a general feeling that the Catholic Church needs to change, become more progressive, more in tune with the modern world.

With the greatest of respect what does a 78 year old know about modernisation? Could he install a wireless router or programme his Sky+ box to record Desperate Housewives each week? No chance.

Would he be able to beat Brazil in Pro-Evolution Soccer 4 playing with Scotland on 6 stars? My scabby hole he would.

Would he be able to tell you the names of more than 3 of Girls Aloud? Uh-uh.

Could he, if he travelled into the past, harness exactly 1.21 giga-watts of electricity to power his Delorean time machine back to the future? I think not.

At that age you’re just battling to keep things the same because they’re comfortable and nice and change is terribly, terribly scary. How can you fully concentrate on the needs of your flock of 1.1 billion people when you’re waiting for prostate troubles to kick in?

The Cardinals should have gone with somebody younger, somebody with the time to implement the changes and ensure they’re carried out. Somebody with lots of youthful spunk. Like Michael Jackson or Gary Glitter.

But seriously, it’s all terribly underwhelming and I don’t think his appointment will get people back into the churches whereas I, had I been elected, would have. Probably at gunpoint, mind you, but nevermind.

Finally for today yesterday I was thinking it was a long time since I heard somebody reply ‘Up your hole picking daisies’ to a question about where something was.

e.g ‘Jimmy, you bollix, where are my fucking cigarettes?’ - ‘Up your hole picking daisies, Twenty. You beardy old cunt.’

I miss the old days, our old sayings, when things were ‘gift’, ‘epic’ and ‘capital’ and people were called ‘wallys’ and ‘joeys’.

Can you think of any childhood slang which could, nay should, make a return to the common use?

Online poker and Martin Luther King’s statue

by Twenty Major on April 19th, 2005

This online poker is all the rage, so it is. I’m quite the card shark myself but I like to play amongst my friends. There’s nothing sweeter than going home with a big pile of money while Jimmy the Bollix, Stinking Pete, Ron the Barman, Dirty Dave and old pigeon loving Charlie sit glum faced at the table plotting my painful demise.

Of course there’s nothing I hate more than losing to those cunts either but that’s all part of the fun. I was looking at the Indepenent online website and in one of the stories they had this ad for online poker:

Now seriously. Where’s the fun in playing poker with mentally handicapped people? I know the chances of winning are seriously increased but even I have some standards. I have to admit that one time, when I was very young I should add, we did rob a mentally handicapped guy of his money tin as he went door to door in our neighbourhood and spent the money on flaggins of cider, but I’ve made my retribution for that many times over.

Anyway, it’s probably all a trick. VC Poker are trying to lull you into playing their poker by putting a picture of that special needs guy on their ad but all the while it’ll be proper poker virtuosos ready to take your money.

Elsewhere I saw a story about how a town in North Carolina is taking down a statue of Martin Luther King so they can put up a more ‘African American’ statue. Problem is nobody can figure out what to put to make him more African American. So, to the people of Rocky Mount, here’s what you do:

A statue of Martin Luther King dressed in baggy pants, unlaced trainers, a basketball top on (with his own name and number 68 on the back), dripping with gold jewellery, eating a huge bucket of fried chicken with ‘biscuits’, with a ghetto-blaster at his feet, break-dancing, singing sweet soul music, being wise in Hollywood films like Morgan Freeman and with a posse of guys with their arms folded all around him.

Is that it in a nutshell or am I watching too much MTV?