Monthly Archives: August 2005
Amazing picture of New Orleans
Someone just sent me this picture. Incredible!
Up your cunts, spammers and NIMBYs
I believe this is what they call a result. Thank you all for your help. You might have noticed I had to turn that image protection thingy on for when you make comments. These cunts just wait for a new … Continue reading
You better not mess with Major Ron
We all know Major Tom’s a junkie, David Bowie told us so back in 1981 in his number one single ‘Ashes to Ashes’ but Ron the Barman’s cousin, who was also called Tom, was also a junkie. A proper skaghead … Continue reading
I hate midgets
It was a normal Saturday evening in Ron’s. I was sitting with Jimmy the Bollix and Stinkin’ Pete who had both been at Croke Park to see Tyrone knock the ever-living shite out of Dublin in the football. They’d arrived … Continue reading
Simple maths
Beer = good Work + beer -food = drunk Work + beer + food = less drunk but still drunk. Work + beer + food + Jameson’s = really quite drunk indeed. Work + beer + food + Jameson’s + … Continue reading
Blogger’s block
“What are you gonna talk about on your blog tomorrow, you fag?”, asked Jimmy the Bollix. “Dunno, you wanker”, I replied. “Must be a pain in the hoop trying to think of something to write every day”, says he taking … Continue reading
The fucking cunting Cranberries
Last night I was in a bar where I had no choice but to be. I could not leave. Normally this is not a problem for me but in this particular establishment they were playing the greatest hits of The … Continue reading
The Rose of Tralee
What is the point? Beauty contests should be about hot chicks in skimpy outfits. This horror show decides who is the best of the plain and dull girls they get to enter. It’s like being crowned the best player at … Continue reading
Get your own email address you witless cunts
On a daily basis I have to deal with emails of various descriptions and there are some email addresses that make me want to hunt down and kill whoever it belongs to. I’m sure you’ve all come across them at … Continue reading
One good deed…
It was a late December evening when the man called to the door. “Hello” he said, “would ya have a few bob spare for an old man like meself to get a couple of pints. I tell ya, even a … Continue reading
It was a late December evening when the man called to the door.
“Hello” he said, “would ya have a few bob spare for an old man like meself to get a couple of pints. I tell ya, even a nip of scotch would do me on a night as cold as this.”
His clothes were dirty and in need of a good wash. He was unkempt, dirty grey beard, terrible sallow skin, his eyes sunk back in his head and he stank of stale piss. As I formulated a response he proceeded to tell me all about himself. I tried to interrupt but he never gave me a chance. I’d ‘Erm…’ or ‘Ahh…’ while looking back over my shoulder in an attempt to shut him up but he didn’t take the hint. I stamped my feet and rubbed my hands together as it was bitter that night.
All the while he kept on talking, telling me about the time he’d spent in London, in Manchester, in America, some in the North of Ireland. He then started looking over my shoulder into the house. I knew he was angling for an invitation and there was only one way of getting out of it.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fiver.
“There you go” says I, “get yerself a naggin of Paddy.”
“Yer a gentleman” he says, “I won’t forget this” and he walked off down the path. As I closed the door I looked at him heading out into the icy night, the rainclouds forming overhead and the breath coming out of his mouth like smoke in the cold. I looked inside at the fire, at Bastard Face my trusty hound basking in front of it, my glass of Laphroaig and a good book on the table beside my comfy chair, and I called after him.
“Hey” I said.
He turned around, his face expectant.
“You’re a cunt, George Best, and if you ever call here again I’ll batter the living shite out of you.”