Amazing picture of New Orleans

by Twenty Major on August 31st, 2005

Someone just sent me this picture.

Incredible!

Up your cunts, spammers and NIMBYs

by Twenty Major on August 31st, 2005

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 post then they run some kind of script. The first one to spam the blog yesterday was this bunch of Godless cunts and I sent an email to david@christcentereddating.com to complain about it. He hasn’t replied though. Somehow I’m not surprised. Wonder if he’ll reply to you?

Anyway, I see the NIMBYs in North county Dublin are moaning about the new jail and mental hospital being built there. They say their concerns are the huge cost of building the place and moving everyone from Mountjoy and the Central Mental Hospital. They also claim that it will have “untold consequences for our community, environment and heritage”.

What a load of shite. These people spent a huge amount of money on a front page of the Irish Independent, inexplicably Ireland’s best selling daily paper, to object to the project on these grounds. They would have won a lot more friends if they’d said “Right, don’t know about the rest of you but we really don’t fancy living so close to the murderers, thieves, rapists, child molesters and junkies, not to mention the criminally insane who eat their own poo like modern day Renfields. Yes, we know the place is going to be locked up tight but we still object because these cunts are proper cunts. You wouldn’t like to live beside them, would you? Exactly.”

I’d have been right behind them had they been honest but by feigning concern over how taxpayer’s money is being spent as well as some old horse bollocks about the environment makes me wish the council make compulsory purchase orders on all their houses, build the new jail on top of them and make them live in a trailer park just outside the front door.

Personally I think the Government should just build a wall around Blanchardstown and airlift in new residents prisoners once a week. That’s just me though.

You better not mess with Major Ron

by Twenty Major on August 30th, 2005

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 so he was and we used to have great fun with him.

Ron used to get really pissed off with him because he was a filthy, sneaky thief who would rob from his mother who was Ron’s mother’s sister. Every once in a while Ron would call myself and Jimmy over to the bar and tell us we had to do him a favour. As Ron did us many favours like stashing stuff in his cellar, locking us into his pub and helping us dig holes for putting …erm… stuff in and countless other things, it was never a problem to help Ron out.

Once we went round to the house where Tom had arrrived home twisted out of his face and fallen asleep in a pool of his own vomit at the kitchen table. Ron had a van so we put on gardening gloves and lifted yer man into the back of it. Off we drove up the mountains, up the Mount Venus Road, parked the van, stripped him naked and dumped him on the 7th green of the pitch and putt course up there. Of course he had no idea how he got there and it took him ages to get home because he stole some clothes off a clothsline, got spotted by a neighbour and got arrested before he’d gone 500 yards.

Another time, again while he was passed out, we shaved his head, drew a clown’s face on him with permanent markers and painted him with Hammerite.

Then there was the time Ron got someone to sell him a bag of of baking soda mixed with ant poison but he got too fucked up on his own gear, passed out and some other fucker stole it off him. Worst thing he, and his three mates, ever did. Their bodies lay bloating in a flat in Drumcondra for a couple of weeks before they were found.

The best one though was when Tom’s poor mother came home to find he’d pawned all her jewellery to get his fix. Her engagement ring, a necklace that had been handed down from her grandmother, a charm bracelet and lots of other things with huge amounts of sentimental value. She was, as you’d imagine, absolutely gutted. Ron got a call from his mother in the pub that night and thunder-faced he called me and Jimmy over. He was furious and told us we had to come with him right now. He was so angry he left Stinking Pete in charge of the bar and Ron has only left his bar one other time and that’s a story I’ll save for another time.

So we went round the usual places looking for Tom. It took a while but eventually we found him in the old Pierrot snooker club on the quays. He was sitting at an arcade game and the minute he saw the three of us he tried to run away but being a fucking junkie cunt he slipped and fell on his snot. He was told to shut up and he came with us without too much trouble. We got a few stares on the way out.

“What the cunting fuck are you looking at you pricks?”, Jimmy asked a couple of blokes playing Bubble Bobble. Turned out they weren’t looking at anything.

“Where are we going?” asked Tom.

“Don’t speak”, said Ron. Tom didn’t. Ron was never a man for shitting on his own doorstep so we drove north, out past the airport and towards Corballis golf club near Donabate. Small country roads not far from the city, but it was dark, quiet and at that time of night there’s hardly any traffic. We pulled over near an empty field and Ron asked us to hold him while he had a talk to him.

And by talking to him I mean punched him in the head. He smashed his face in, Tom was spitting teeth and wailing like a banshee. Tom slumped to the ground.

“Leave him”, said Ron. We did. He didn’t though. He proceeded to boot him up and down the field. You could hear the cracks as his ribs gave way. Tom was just groaning rather than screaming though. He made some spluttery cough sounds too. Ron is not a small man either so when he jumped on Tom’s ankles they couldn’t bear the weight. Me and Jimmy just stood watching.

Eventually Ron was finished and we left him there and headed back. Ron drove to his home, gave me and Jimmy the keys and told us to lock up the pub and drop the keys back through the letter box later which we duly did.

Now, I know that all sounds like a horrible story but there’s a happy ending. Tom never took any drugs ever again.

He died you see.

I hate midgets

by Twenty Major on August 29th, 2005

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 back from the game at around 7.30 and we’d been at the bar since.

Ron was in rare old form. Sometimes when he gets in the mood he’s a story-teller to beat all others. Forget Kenneth Williams, forget Peter Ustinov. Mere amateurs compared to Ron and at around 10 o’clock he was in the middle of a fantastic tale about a time when he was working as a barman in Paris and he made Jim Morrisson a Caiparinha mixed with industrial bleach when in walked Dirty Dave.

“Howyiz, lads?” he said.

He got the usual grunted responses as we were all enjoying Ron’s story and he was at the part where he was getting ready to flee Paris when Dave piped up again.

“Lads, dis here is me cousin, Archie.”

I looked and there was nobody at all with Dave.

“What the fuck are you on now?” I asked him. “Seeing things again, I bet, you cunt. Didn’t the hospital tell you not to stop taking those pills? You’ll have another episode and I don’t know if me and Jimmy can sort things out with Colin Farrell’s ma like we did the last time.”

“No, Twenty. I’m not taking the piss. Me cousin Archie is here”, he said and took a step to the left.

“ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!”, I said as the hideous sight of dwarf smacked me right between the eyes. Dirty Dave’s cousin was about 3′8″ high and had an enormous head on a teeny tiny body.

Now, I’m not sure if this is something I’ve mentioned before but I don’t like dwarves. I know they say Ireland is the home of the little people but at least leprechauns stay out of your way until you find them and their pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. They certainly don’t come in to the pub on Saturday and make me want to vomit out of my nose.

Anyway, it couldn’t get up on one of the stools so Dave gave it a boost up and it ordered a pint of Giunness.

‘Good choice of drink’ I thought to myself, ‘Maybe this gnome isn’t as bad as I think it is.’

So it waited for its pint to settle and licking its lips it picked it up - WITH TWO HANDS BECAUSE THE GLASS WAS TOO BIG - and proceeded to glug down that delicious beer. I think the thing I hate most about ooompa-looompas is their hands. Their stubby little hands. Seeing two of them wrapped around a pint of Guinness, in my local, at the same bar I was sitting at having a good time not 5 minutes before, was just too much for me.

“Dave, c’mere!” I said. Dave come over.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Look, here’s the story, man. I’m allergic to dwarves. Do you not have somewhere else you can go with that thing?”

“Here now, Twenty”, he said. “That’s family, I wouldn’t talk about your family like that.”

“My family aren’t fucking circus freaks, Dave.”

He got in a bit of a strop then and wandered off. He and the midget finished their pints and left. He had a right puss on him when he lifted it down off the stool.

I’m not sorry though. I just hate those little fuckers and one of the best stories of rock’n'roll excess I ever heard was the one where Freddie Mercury had a party and he hired a load of dwarves, strapped trays to their heads and put bowls of cocaine on the trays. The little people wandered round the party all night and whenever anyone wanted another line they just stopped a dwarf and snorted away. That’s what we should use them for. For serving drinks/drugs at an easy to reach height, for unblocking chimneys and for rescuing children that fall down wells.

We don’t even need lots of them for films anymore. The new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory just used one real life pygmy and made all the Ooopma-Looopmas in the film by regenerating him with computers. We could also paint them with make-up, dress them with funny costumes, give them a fishing rod and a stool shaped like a mushroom and we could have a whole new line of living garden gnomes but you wouldn’t catch me touching one of them in case I caught the small.

Despite my terrifying encounter with the abominable Lilliputian I lived not only to tell the tale but to skull another 6 or 7 pints before picking up a large single of chips and a battered, not cocktail, sausage on the way home.

Down with dwarves.

Simple maths

by Twenty Major on August 27th, 2005

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 + old LPs = really quite nostalgically drunk

Work + beer + food + Jameson’s + many old LPs + comfy chair = sleep

Work + beer + food + Jameson’s + many old LPs + comfy chair + 7 hours sleep - water + strange angle of neck = pain

Pain ÷ 1200mgs of Ibuprofen = less pain

Less pain + hunger = breakfast beer

Beer = good

Blogger’s block

by Twenty Major on August 26th, 2005

“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 a gulp of his pint.

“Not really”, says I.

“You mean you always, always have something to talk about?”

“Yep.”

“But what if, and I know that with a headful of shite like you have and pair of lips that flap more than Dana’s gee it’s hard to fathom, you just couldn’t think of anything?”

“That’d never happen though, Jimmy. Quit talking shite.”

“I’m not talking shite at all. At some point there will come a time where … Pete, I’m talking to Twenty. Can’t you see that I’m in the middle of a conversation? Exactly. Now fuck off and come back when I’m finished talking. No, I don’t know when that will be but when you see me not talking it’ll be around that time…. Fucking stupid cunt, he is. Anyway, what I was saying was that at some stage you’re going to sit down to write your blog and your words will be like food in Niger. Fucking non-existant. Then what are you going to do?”

“I’ve got loads of stories though. All those crimes I haven’t mentioned yet. All the other nasty, mean things we’ve done to Dirty Dave and Stinkin’ Pete. I could tell them about the Aer Lingus pilot with the stupid name that Lucky Luciano has in his sights. There are politiicans and celebrities doing things they shouldn’t. Damien Rice is bound to pop up again soon. The weather is shite. There’s no shortage of things to talk about.”

“Right, I never said there wasn’t stuff to talk about. The point I’m trying to make is that despite all that stuff going on your mind is going to blank one day and then… I’M STILL FUCKING TALKING DAVE!…then you’re going to look like a right cunt. People are used to you prattling on with your shite on your fucking website and the day you can’t think of anything to write is going to be the day I laugh my fucking head off. Honest to God, I will.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Jimmy. I’m not worried at all.”

“Why’s that then?”

“Because when that day comes, if it comes, and I doubt that it will, I’ll just relay this entire conversation as a piece of dialogue thus making a whole post out of the fact I can’t think of anything to write about.”

“You’re a smart cunt, Twenty, so you are.”

“You’re just a cunt, Jimmy. Pint?”

“Don’t mind if I do. Now Dave, what was on your mind?”

The fucking cunting Cranberries

by Twenty Major on August 25th, 2005

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 Cranberries.

I truly despise the Cranberries with all of my heart. Not just because they’re from Limerick but because Dolores O’Riordan sings like a fucking tinker. I hate tinkers.

The word is ‘child’, Dolores. One syllable. It is not ‘choy-eld’.

And that ‘owah, owah, owah’ thing she does for about a minute in Zombie. Fucking jesus. She is so horrible that if you asked me to choose between having sex with her and having sex with the gangrenous arsehole of an AIDS riddled camel I’d be humping the one with the humps.

And that other song. “My father, my father, he raped me, and I liked it, does anyone care?”

No, I really don’t care.

Singing should break down all barriers, you can be from anywhere, unless you sing like a knacker which is what she does. She doesn’t even try to hide it. My God it was one of the worst evenings I’ve ever had. There are eleven men that owe me big time for staying so long.

Away from Dolores to that girl who is running a thingy called 47 hours on her site. Basically a story starts and you continue with the last line of the previous person. I’m part 3 but you might want to start at the beginning.

The Rose of Tralee

by Twenty Major on August 24th, 2005

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 Birmingham City.

Not so long ago Dirty Dave entered a beauty contest of sorts. A local bar was doing a lookalike contest and I have no idea how he discovered it but he realised that if he put on right kind of jeans and t-shirt, tossed his hair around a bit and let his arse-crack hang out a bit he was the spitting image of annoying teen soul singer Joss Stone.

He didn’t win that night because nobody really knew who Joss Stone was in that pub. The winner was a lad from around the corner who stuck on a shiny, curly wig, attached Barbie’s husband Ken in a school uniform to the end of his cock and walked away with it as the most convicing Michael Jackson anyone had ever seen.

Get your own email address you witless cunts

by Twenty Major on August 23rd, 2005

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 some stage but for those of you who haven’t they’re shared email addresses. Like between a guy and his girlfriend or a husband and wife.

Email addresses like: daveandbarb@aol.com or gaznshaz@yahoo.ie

What the fuck are you sharing an email address for you stupid cocks? For the most part email addresses are free and you can have as many of them as you like. Why would you share? Why not just make another one? These are the kind of cunts who make Christmas cards with a picture of themselves on it and send it each year and you put it above the fireplace to keep the kids away because they are usually such fuck-ugly munters than looking at the card too long could turn you to stone.

What a whacky, zany, together couple we are. We share everything.

They probably share a toothbrush and save the bog roll for the next one to have a go after they wipe themselves. I hate them.

And what about this? - thesmithfamily@eircom.net

A whole fucking family sharing an email address. Get with the times people. This isn’t old Ireland and email addresses aren’t like fucking tenement buildings with as many people crammed into them as possible.

Shared email addresses are like Romanians. They’re life-long thieves who beg poverty despite having a mouthful of gold teeth.

Or, to put it another way, they’re for cunts.

One good deed…

by Twenty Major on August 22nd, 2005

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.”