Wedding Photographers Northampton UK

by Twenty Major on August 20th, 2005

I’ve noticed recently that some comment spam has been appearing on this blog. People who link to things like Viagra and that crap just so they can boost their rankings in the search engines.

The same thing happened yesterday when somebody left a comment so they could boost their search results for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.

The company it was advertising was gilesphotography.com.

They obviously want to get to that coveted number one spot on Google for the very specific search - Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.

However, I think it’s fair to say people who spam comments on blogs are fucking pissbags. No question about it. They’re the same as the cunts who spam all of our email addresses dozens of times each day. They’re using this blog, and other blogs, to pimp their product or service. Nobody asked me if it would be ok to mention the fact that gilesphotography.com were specialists for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK.

I, dilligent blog owner that I am, could have just deleted the comment but I think I have a duty to let people who are looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK that gilesphotography.com are lowlife, comment spamming cunts. So if you’re looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK it might be an idea to choose a company that doesn’t use comment spam to promote themselves.

To my fellow bloggers who might be reading this if you felt like linking to this particular post might I be bold enough to suggest that you link to it with the following phrase: Wedding Photographers Northampton UK just so we can protect the people who might be looking for Wedding Photographers Northampton UK from gilesphotography.com who are comment spammers.

That is all.

Starbucks is for cunts

by Twenty Major on August 19th, 2005

So Starbucks is coming to Ireland and not everyone is happy. They’re opening a shop in the Dundrum Town Centre and there are plans for one on College Green but some people say having a Starbucks amongst the historical buildings there would not be right. Yes, that historical newsagents just down from the Molly Malone statue where the historical One Hour Photo used to be. It’s shocking, it really is.

I’m not sure people have their priorities right though. The real reason we should object to Starbucks is not because of a tacky sign, nor because it’s a giant corporation who probably use undernourished children to pick their coffee beas, nor because it increases the homogeny of the world we live in but because it serves shit, and exceptionally gay, coffee.

Soon Ireland will be introduced the ‘Mocha-frappa-halfcaf-latte’ and ‘Choca-doodle-doo-decaf’ and the ‘No-caf-double-mocha-chocalata ya ya!’ and franlky it’s the last thing we need in this country.

There’s enough pretension and cunts with more money than they know what to do with. The last thing we need is Starbucks language and Starbucks coffee.

I was travelling recently and was in a European capital where they have a Starbucks overlooking one of the most important historical sites in that city. You look around and you see pictures of the death and destruction that was wrought there. You stare in awe and wonder how the bits that survived actually survived and then you see Starbucks. Oh, goody.

I was with an American colleague who insisted we go in. I ordered a black coffee from the bloke while he ordered a triple-spunky-spume-latte. They have this system where they have two people on a till who ask you what you want, you tell them, they write it on the side of the paper cup and hand it to some poor Pakistani bloke who makes all the coffee while they stand there looking at the pretty girls.

Anyway, we sat down. I took a sip of my coffee and it was like drinking a cup of mud filled with Satan’s armpit sweat. It was fucking minging and that’s why we should be objecting to Starbucks. The names of the coffees are stupid and the coffee itself is like stewing your Guinness powered black shite in a cauldron of old toenails and dishwater.

After I took my sip I made a point of loudly spitting it back into my cup and shouting “Jeeeeeeeeeesus. What the fuck is this shit?”

Lots of people looked at me so I pointed at the cup and made a vomity mime at them. Then I left and I will never, never go to a Starbucks again.

When will somebody realise that a really good coffee shop in Dublin would actually make some money? I’d do it myself but that cunt McDowell wouldn’t issue those café bar licences and if you think I’m going own a place where people come to drink and there’s no booze then you can think again.

In short, Starbucks is for cunts.

Leaving cert pissed up vomity teenagers

by Twenty Major on August 18th, 2005

I’m writing this the night that the leaving certificate results came out. For those of you outside of Ireland the leaving certificate are the exams you do before, funnily enough, you leave school.

Then late in the summer comes the fateful day when you discover your results. You have to go back to the school whose gates and front door you pissed on on the way out after the last exam to get a piece of paper to show you your grades. Then you count up the As, Bs, Cs and Ds (and Es and Fs and NGs for people from Tallaght and Coolock) and calculate how many points you get so you can see which university course you can do.

In my day it was something like 5 for an A, 4 for a B, 3 for a C and so on. Now your grades are like A+, A or A- and each one is worth around a million points like the multi-ball on Addams Family pinball. So even the spazzer kids these days get more points than I got. Anyway, they all jump around and say “Wotcha get in Maths? Wotcha get in Biz Org? Wotcha get in Irish?” for a while, then the fun begins.

Sometime in the early evening the 50 or 60,000 teenagers that sat the exams go out on the town. They want to celebrate, commiserate and let down their hair. And why not? The problem is they get very, very drunk indeed. How drunk? Imagine George Best drinking a pint of Oliver Reed’s blood then washing down with a gallon of methalated spirits. Drunker than a Muslim after a pint of Guinness. Drunker than Eamonn Dunphy kissing a bouncer on Leeson Street.

And when you have all these teenagers that drunk things happen. Some of them fight each other, some of them will fornicate in public, many, many of them will vomit all over the streets, quite a few will end up in hospital having their stomachs pumped and undoubtedly there’ll be one or two twats who will walk out in front of a bus or fall in a river and drown. It’s natural selection, I know.

Then later today will start the bleating, the recriminations and the giving out. They’ll be ringing up that beardy cunt Joe Duffy and saying “Oh Joe, I never seen anytin’ loike it. It wasn’t loike dat in my day. We’d a been battered be our parents if we’d a carried on in dat manner’ and then some fucking do-gooder cuntbag from some alcohol awareness group will call on the Minister for something or other to do something about ‘binge drinking’ and one of these days one of the politicians might actually do something about it and that might affect my ability to drink what I want whenever I want and if that happens I will personally call on every single leaving cert student and kick them in the balls, or in their well used vaginas, for fucking it up the witless little cretins.

I hope they have a good night though and I hope Dubloon, long lost blogger but long time reader, is suitably appalled when he discovers his car windows smashed in and the seats covered in puke and Kunle’s jism.

Reeling in the years

by Twenty Major on August 17th, 2005

This is a program they show every evening on RTE and it’s one of those shows where they show old TV snippets, play some songs of the year in question, show some newsreels with subtitles while the music is on (e.g Bridge over troubled water is playing while the subtitles say ‘In Belfast 15 people were shot in the nose in revenge for IRA actions’ - it’s very moving) and they go through the years.

It’s all very nostalgic really. The conversion to metric, Offaly winning two all-Ireland football championships running and the slithery rise of Charlie Haughey is all very interesting to look back on now.

They had Ian Paisley on the other night from the arse end of the 60s or early 70s. It’s still amazing that he’s survived until now. He can count himself lucky that the general apathy of the Irish people for acts of assisination is far removed from their get up and go when it comes to emigrating and drinking pints.

Tonight they had Kevin Myers reporting from Belfast on the day that the IRA let off 22 bombs in a little over an hour. Imagine. 22 bombs and that fucker managed to escape without even a scratch. Jammy cunt.

Those were days when you could still smoke in bars, of course. Now you can’t smoke anywhere and reading this cranky old southern fucker it seems he’s taken exception to a new law in America which says you can be fined $500 for smoking within 25 feet of a public building. Who the fuck is measuring though?

Is there a line on the ground marking out the distance where it’s ok to smoke? Do they have smoke monitors going around on mini-golf carts looking for smokers? If they catch you do they make you stand still while they take out a measuring tape and make a chalk mark on the ground where you’re standing? Cunts.

If I worked in there and I had my break it’d be like this:

Go outside 25 feet - light cigarette - inhale deeply - drop cigarette - run inside building - exhale. Go back to 25 feet - pick up cigarette - inhale deeply - drop cigarette - run inside building - exhale. Repeat until cigarette is finished. I might take to smoking two or three at a time so the exhalation would be super-powered.

Nobody could say a fucking word to you because you’re not actually smoking within the 25 feet limit nor are you smoking inside the building. It would also be good exercise for me as well and being a heavy drinking, heavy smoking old cunt God knows I need it.

Actually, fuck the exercise. It’s the mischief that makes it.

Junkies

by Twenty Major on August 16th, 2005

How to deal with junkies. Remember, before reading this you have to realise you’re dealing with people, and I use that term lightly, who will steal from their own parents, from their own children and from your parents and your children as well. They’ll beat up an old woman who has €34.59 in a old jar in the kitchen and instead of just taking the money they’ll beat her up or maybe rape her. They’ll steal your mother’s engagement ring and handbag as she’s walking along a quiet residential road. They’ll do anything to get money for their fix.

For me methodone programs and those places where they give them clean needles are not part of the solution. They just keep the problem going. Let the cunts share the filthy needles and whither away from AIDS and Hepatitis. Counselling is a load of old shite too. Put a bunch of ex-junkies in a room together and it won’t be long before one of them becomes a dealer. That’s just the kind of beast you’re dealing with. Anyway, to my mind there’s a very simple solution to the problem of drug addicts. Forget your 12 step programs, this is the 3 step program.

Step 1 - Take the junkie and put him into a cell in a special institution. Let him or her go cold turkey. Leave them in that room for two or three months providing them with the food and drink they need to survive. Let their need for human contact and the need to see the outside world outweigh their need for drugs. Sure a few of them might die during the process but they’re the weak ones. They’d never have made it and step 3 will show you why.

Step 2- Let them out. Implant a chip in them which takes blood samples and sends them via some kind of transmitter to a monitoring centre. Hopefully most of them will have learned their lesson but those that reoffend, even the slightest bit, one line, one hit, go to step 3.

Step 3 - Kill them. If after successfully coming off the drug they’re addicted to, and having been given a second chance, they still choose to take drugs then we have to admit that we’re dealing (no pun intended) with a hopeless, stupid cunt and to save the world from more thievery, violence and scabby armed cuntery we simply execute them. I suggest buring them at a stake specially constructed at the top of Grafton Street. Let their fiery and agonising deaths teach them a lesson and act as a deterrent to other junkies from relapsing into their bad old habits.

I’d imagine that pretty soon the junkie percentage would drop quite sharply. I hate junkies. Sometimes you see them passed out on the street. For a while I considered carrying my own pillow around with me so I could smother the cunts without touching them.

Mostly I just kicked them in the balls for an hour or so.

Senseless violence

by Twenty Major on August 15th, 2005

I like the Sunday papers. I like buying them, going to Ron’s, having a few pints and just reading for a couple of hours. Sometimes though I read something and it makes me angry.

Yesterday I read about a man who let two young lads into his house because they were being attacked by a gang of cunts near Leixlip. Because this man tried to help the lads the gang punched and kicked him. His son came out of the house to try and help him but they battered him too. The man later died in hospital.

Now, I can understand violence, and even serious violence when it’s needed. If someone, for example, kills your puppy before your very eyes then I think it’s reasonable for you to clobber them about the place as an act of revenge.

Imagine you meet a bloke who when you were in school was the bane of your life bullying you at every opportunity. You’re alone on a dark street. I don’t think anyone would have a problem if you kicked him in the balls, then jumped up and down on his legs until they snapped into many different pieces.

And what if you came across Damien Rice or David Grey? Would it be wrong to take their guitar and shove it up their holes? I don’t think it would.

What’s common to all these events though is that these acts of violence have a purpose. The school bully needs to learn his lesson, the puppy killer needs to know that killing puppies is wrong and mankind needs to be saved from Rice and Grey because they are head-wobbling, shit song singing cunts.

However, the man who tried to help two young lads from a hiding did not deserve a violent death. The cretinous little pissbags who set upon him now take on the school bully role and most certainly deserve a severe kicking. How vaccuous and insipid does your life have to be for you to go around looking for violence? If you need to take care of yourself then take care of yourself with as much force as is necessary but don’t go looking for it just for the sake of it. That’s for cunts.

I remember Jimmy once punched a bloke so hard he gave him AIDS, ebola and the black death but that bloke deserved it. He suggested to Jimmy that his taste in music was questionable. Jimmy turned off the Kid Creole album he was listening to to administer the beating in question but nobody could ever say it was for nothing.

These cunts in Leixlip will get theirs at some stage, whether they deserve it or not. Which they do. But when they get it they might not get it for something they deserve. Which will make it funnier.

I hope they all end up as drooling vegetables.

Dear Jack

by Twenty Major on August 13th, 2005

Hello Jack,

I was alerted to your website by an anonymous commenter on my blog. You can understand how upset and shocked I was to my handsome face smiling out at me on somebody else’s webpage.

Jack, your profile says you are 14 years of age yet you use a picture of me, a really old man. Why is that Jack? Do you think using a picture of an old man will help soothe the trouble waters of puberty, take away those horrible spots and stop making your voice do that high-pitched wobble which is so embarrassing when you’re talking to girls?

I’m sorry to say it won’t help, Jack, it won’t help one little bit.

Anyway, this is just to let you know that I know and that I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Jack. Far be it for me to suggest you use another picture or something but, without trying to be in any way threatening here, use a different picture or we’ll come to your house, cut your lips off and shove them up your arse.

cheers,

Twenty Major

Life is an absolute cunt

by Twenty Major on August 12th, 2005

Poor wife of Superman. First her husband falls off a horse and becomes a talking head requiring 24 hour care and attention. Then he lives for 8 more years or something despite all his bedsores, failing organs and whatnot. Then he dies. A sad time for her but at the same time a relief because she’s a relatively young woman and can now get on with her life a bit without having to look after Droolerman.

Not long passes and then she finds out she has lung cancer. Seriously, how fucking cunty is that? Do you reckon God and the Devil swap places once a year and God makes evil people do good deeds and the Devil smites people from on high? It’d be like surviving that fucking tsunami©® and getting deep vein thrombosis on the flight home.

It reminds me of the time Dirty Dave went to the bog just before closing time one night. For a laugh Ron the Barman locked the door leading to the toilets and when Dave was hammering on the door we all pretended we couldn’t hear him even though we were only feet away. Ron turned off all the lights and locked the place up. The whole time Dave was banging on the door, shouting ‘Come on yiz pack o’ shitebags. Let me de cuntin’ fuck ourra here. Dis isn’t funny, yiz wankers.”

About 5 minutes later we went back in, turned on all the lights and Dave shouts “Ah yiz are all right. I knew yiz wouldn’t leave me here all night.”

“Just forgot me mobile!” shouts Ron and locks up again.

Don’t feel too bad for Dave though, it was a nice carpeted area and he’s well used to sleeping in strange places. One night while very drunk we decided to go clambering around the rooves of Castle Street in Dublin where Stinkin’ Pete used to live. We, and to this day I don’t know how we managed it, made our way across a slated roof, not a flat roof I should add, to the terrace of an apartment building opposite.

This place was fantastic, wooden decking, huge big sliding doors leading into the apartment in which there was a beautiful and enormous wooden bookshelf hugging the wall. I got me a first edition Irish RM that night. Jimmy the Bollix nicked Madonna’ Sex book and flogged it to some teenagers outside the off-licence the next night. Dave, being the most pissed of all of us, passed out so we left him there. When he woke up the next morning he had no idea how he got there and being terrified of heights was not going back across the roof with the 100 foot drop. So he went into the apartment, opened the front door and let the alarm off as he went out. Dave is not the most sporty of chaps but he swears he broke the world going down the stairs before the police arrive record that morning.

It’s at times like this, when I remember the words of that famous song.

“Ya moh be there, up and over”

Woman attacked with golf club

by Twenty Major on August 11th, 2005

I read yesterday a woman in Dublin was attacked in her apartment by a man wielding a golf club.

Gardai have released a description of the man. He is said to be wearing a white Lacoste polo shirt with a light pink Pringle jumper over it, a pair of chequered plus fours, white shoes with tiny spikes and a sun visor. He is said to have made his getaway in a white battery powered vehicle. If you see anything please let them know.

By a strange coincidence both my brother and I (Did I ever mention I had a brother? He’s younger but still very old and obviously less handsome. He’s not as into pooing in public places publicly. He’s a stealth crapper.) have scars on our faces caused by golf clubs.

All I can say is ‘Fuck you, Christy O’Connor Junior. Next time we’ll be better prepared.’

On a slightly more downbeat note my good old friend Jimmy the Bollix in hospital this evening. He’s posing as a doctor to steal possessions from people in comas and on life support.

Confession

by Twenty Major on August 10th, 2005

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been twenty-six years since my last confession.”

“That’s a long time but God’s mercy doesn’t count days and months and years. Tell me your sins.”

“I’ve had impure thoughts. Like the other night I thought about pregnant Britney Spears sucking me off while Christina Aguilera sat on my face.”

“I see, well you’re not alone there. Father Smyth actually drew a very realistic picture of that not three days ago. And what else?”

“Well, I once thought about doing it with Anne Doyle the RTE newsreader while she was dressed in a school uniform.”

“I meant what other sins, not just impure thoughts.”

“Oh, right. Well, I’ve stolen, Father.”

“What did you steal?”

“£26m from the Northern Bank last Christmas. Also, Edvard Munch’s ‘Scream’ from a museum in Norway and Robin Cook’s heart attack medicine.”

“Stealing is wrong. You know that.”

“Yes, Father. I just can’t help myself.”

“Go on, my son.”

“I’ve killed people, Father. I’m a bastarding serial killer and I can’t stop. I travel throughout the country looking for homeless people and I befriend them, offering them shelter, money and booze. I get them really drunk then I batter their heads in with a solid silver candle stick my mother gave me on her death bed. Then I dismember the corpses, bury the parts in quicklime filled graves I have pre-dug in the Dublin mountains and play football with the heads around my house. Then I boil the skin off the heads and make authentic Hamlet props which I polish and sell on eBay.”

“Erm…well….”

“Also, when people stop me for directions I always send them the wrong way. I’ve tripped up blind people as they’re tip-tapping their way past me on the street. I fart on buses and blame it on other people. I drink too much. I make prank phone calls to victims of tragedies. I’m a radical Muslim cleric. I’ve sabotaged the peace process. The LUAS was my idea. I made Samantha Mumba a star. I invited George Bush to Ireland. I wear metal tips on the heels of my shoes and follow women across poorly lit car parks. I urinate in public and I don’t mean behind trees, I mean in the middle of Grafton Street. If I have to poo when I’m out I always use the ladies and make ‘Urrrrrgh’ noises. I never flush. I make up stories about people and put them on the internet. I’ve hijacked the special bus and let all the kids out on the main road. I read the Phoenix. I covet my neighbour’s goods and wife, in that order. I’ve taken the name of our Lord in vain, like this ‘WHAT THE JAYSUSING FUCK ARE YOU DOING LISTENING TO ME?’. I’ve stopped taking my medicine, Father. I’ve started hearing voices again. I’ve started carrying a large chef’s knife around with me.

What? No, I can’t. I WON’T KILL A PRIEST. NOT AGAIN! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!’

“Right…er…the power of Christ compels you. The power of christ compels you. Say 12 Our Fathers and three Hail Marys.”

“Fair enough, then. G’luck, Father.”

“See ya next week so, Twenty.”