I would wear a fur coat

by Twenty Major on September 16th, 2005

I was reading a website earlier today where they had a story about Jennifer Lopez wearing fur coats and Paul McCartney’s stumpy wife turning up at some place or other to protest. Lopez’s bouncers took objection to her being there, perhaps they thought she was Linda, and blocked her way. Then her false leg fell off.

You have to laugh but she’ll have the last laugh when she gets offered all the plum roles as a female pirate. Yo-ho-ho and bottle of rum, indeed.

Still, she was giving about people wearing fur coats on behalf of PETA. PETA is a group of people mindless cunts who want ethical treatment for animals. They must love animals so much. They certainly wouldn’t, you know, just kill hundreds, if not thousands, of animals each year and keep their mouths shut about it. Of course they say they only kill animals that can’t be saved but PETA objects to animals being kept as pets so to ’save’ healthy animals from this terrible fate they just kill them instead. They drown puppies in bins full of water, the miserable cunts.

Then they get the wife of the world’s most famous and annoying, frog song singing vegan to go on a campaign against a lard-arsed pop star as if that’s going to stop her or anyone else with enough to buy a fur coat. I’d have been much more impressed if she’d gone hopping in, flailing her false leg around like a Braveheart style club shrieking like Xena.

If I had enough money I’d buy a bag full of minks and go to PETA’s HQ. I would then threaten to make a coat out of the little rats unless PETA demonstrated how much they love animals by letting me make a coat out of their skin. Or a lampshade. Or a xylophone made from their bones. We’d see how much they love animals then, wouldn’t we?

Anyway, we’ve been down the PETA road before. The point is Paul McCartney’s wife’s was legless in public. How embarrassing.

1 cent to fly to Cork

by Twenty Major on September 15th, 2005

Leaving aside the question why anyone would want to ever go to Cork in the first place the 1cent fare, excluding taxes, from Ryanair is a bargain. If you have to go to Cork. Which I don’t.

I’m all for these bargain airlines. The way things are going soon they’ll be paying us to fly with them.

‘How much to Rome, please?’

‘We’ll give you a fiver and one of those mini-cans of Coke.’

Ciao bellos! It would make you wish some other industries got involved in the this price war business though. Nobody really needs to fly with Ryanair to one of their airports miles from where they say it is. I once flew for 1 and a half hours with Ryanair to Paris. We landed in a field with a runway and a shack for a terminal, then had to take a fucking bus for more time than the actual flight to get into Paris itself. That’s beside the point though. There should be price wars for the things people really need.

What if Guinness, Murphy’s and Beamish got into a stout war, constantly slashing the price of a pint of the black stuff, thus giving us more for our money? Of course those scabby cunts in the government would still make sure we pay through the fucking nose for a drink the miserable shylocks.

Pampers v Huggies, Avonore milk v Premier Dairies, Dubliner cheese v Kilmeaden, Denny’s v Galtee, Mars v Cadburys, Nike v Puma, Sony v Panasonic, Kramer v Kramer.

Proper fucking price wars, not these handy little cartels they have going on nowadays. We need an Archduke Ferdinand figure of Irish consumerism then someone to assassinate him. There’s only one person whose death would spark the required ire and reaction from consumers.

That’s right, we have to kill Eddie Hobbs and make it look like the government and every single major brand in the world did it. Prices would plummet, we could buy even more crap that we don’t need but for so much cheaper. I’m sorry about you, Eddie, you seem like a decent bloke an’ all but you have put yourself in a position where your martyrdom will do more than any television program ever could.

All it’ll take is some careful planning. Over to you, readers…

Dogs are man’s best friends and worst enemies

by Twenty Major on September 14th, 2005

I told you previously that I had a dog called Bastardface. I keep him out in the back garden at night because he’s a very big dog and most people know that if a house has a big dog in the back garden it’s a good idea to stay out of it.

Most burglars worth their salt will do a little bit of casing along with a spot of army style reconnaissance before they decide to get out their jemmy and pilfer the house they’ve been watching. Of course for each professional, well trained, swag bag carrying raider there are approximately 13.57 stupid shitheads who couldn’t burgle a home for paralysed octogenarians.

It was one of those who made the mistake of entering my back garden last night. I was just reading in the sitting room, sipping a malt, when I heard a ferocious racket outside. Imagine the noise of a T-Rex (dinosaur, not curly rocker) snarling through a loudspeaker, followed by the sound of flesh being torn away from bones, followed by a high pitched shrieking that would put Christina Aguilera to shame.

Naturally my curiosity was piqued and I looked out the back to see Bastardface savaging some little cunt in a tracksuit and a Liverpool top.

I waited a minute or so until the shrieking had become more of a gurgling and then I opened the back door.

“Bastardface, stop!” I commanded.

Bastardface looked at me like I’d told him he was about to butt-fucked by Mick Hucknall.

“Enough!” I said and despite the fact he wanted to continue eating the scuttery little fucker who had invaded his territory he came to my side. He understands English better than most Chinese bar workers here in Dublin.

We both stood and looked at the shredded football jersey and the shredded torso underneath it. It wasn’t moving much but after a while it groaned. Then it spoke.

“Urgh!” it said. “Urgh. Mister, I tink oi need a doctaw.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I think you probably do.”

“Me shouldaw horts, so it does”, he said.

“That’s because my dog has eaten rather a large portion of it. If I wasn’t so upset with you for trying to break into my house I might be thankful that you’ve saved me a handful of dog biscuits. Bastard Face here looks like a veritable blimp now. He’s as full as an egg.”

“Seriously mister, I’m fuckin’ wrecked. Yiz have to help me.”

“Well, I’m really under no obligation to help you at all, although I will admit you’re making rather a mess on the paving stones there with your incessant bleeding. Are you feeling tired? Close your eyes, sonny. If you see a bright light go towards it. Honestly, it’ll make you better.”

“Please mister, please. Call me an ambulance.”

“You’re an ambulance, you little cunt.”

He began to cry then, just slowly weeping at first, then he racked with sobs and each sob made his shoulder hurt so he went “Boo hoo, OW! Boo hoo, OW!”

It was pathetic and hilarious. I brought Bastardface inside where he slept at the bottom of my bed the whole night long. When I woke up the side-gate was open and the scumbag was gone.

In the absence of pure-bred velociraptors Bastardface is the best pet a man can have.

Who’s knocking off the homeless?

by Twenty Major on September 13th, 2005

Three homeless people have died on the streets of Dublin in the last 7 days.

One homeless person dies on the streets you think ‘Well, this kind of thing happens from time to time. Even though it’s summer and not cold so they didn’t freeze or anything.’

A second homeless person dies 12 hours later, within spitting distance of the first one and you think ‘I suppose it’s not beyond the realms of possibility.’

A third homeless person dies, supposedly from a drugs overdose, and you think ‘Right, who is this deadly angel of the night-time that is going around putting these poor fuckers out of their misery?’

With any luck it’s just somebody sharpening their technique on people nobody will miss before launching a sustained and brutal campaign against all my enemies. I would just like to point out that if that is what happens it’s certainly nothing more than an amazing coincidence and anyway, why would I write about it here if it was something I was planning. Would I, in Basic Instinct style, write about something beforehand so I could just use it as an alibi?

I certainly would not. If it does happen it’s obviously a copycat who has read my site and just happens to know who all my enemies are, where they live and work and the best time to catch them unawares to do them in. With a length of lead pipe and a homemade garrote.

Meanwhile in Belfast they’re going mad for the rioting and the marching. Apparently it’s a fundamental right of protestantism, the world’s most peaceful religion after Islam, and whatever you might think about them you have to say they’re equal opportunity bigots. Take this picture for example - there’s a bloke choking on his own bile and hatred because of his poorly developed gag reflex while the obviously down’s syndrome man behind him is living proof that the Orange Order believes in equal rights for all.

Except Catholics.

Cloning

by Twenty Major on September 12th, 2005

As an old fart I am greatly opposed to change and lots of other things, like teenagers, ringtones and Romanians. However, I do think cloning is a good idea and I’m all for stem cell research.

That’s because I think the world could benefit from having a team of Twenty Majors.

“Veinte mayor” in Spain and South America.
“Venti maggiori” in Italy.
“Major Zwanzig” in Germania.
“Vinte major” in Brazil and Portugal.
“20 専攻学生” in Japanese
“clack sprang flurp” in Congolese.

And so on. Obviously the first couple of efforts would be problematic and may not work properly. Twenty Major 1.01beta and Twenty Major 1.5 release 12.45.98.a. might putter along for a while then their beards may fail or they may forget to drink the necessary beer but soon there would be a team of perfect Twenties in every country ready to make things better with my wisdom and sagacity.

Once those Twenties got into the hearts and minds of the respective local populations I could then fiddle with the old gene pool thingy and make Mega-Twenties with which I could implement my changes. These 18′6″ handsome devils would be bullet proof and could shoot lesbian hornets from their arses with frightening regularity.

Once Twentyism had been put in place on every continent then in general it would become a much safer, albeit slightly drunker, world. The Mega-Twenties could solve famine by distributing the EU food mountains and grinding up non-desirables into the cheap but effective meat.

So when you think about the wars, the famines, the strife, the terrors that we face on a daily basis doesn’t it make sense to explore the benefits of cloning and how cloning Twenty could change the world for the better?

Send your stem cells today to PO Box 6969, Dublin. I’ll send you a free juicer for each kilo you send.

Har har, you robbing cunt

by Twenty Major on September 9th, 2005

Now, it would not be untrue if I was to say I’ve pilfered a few things in my time. I’ve robbed things but only for the greater good. The greater good being my good, naturally.

But I have only ever stolen from people who completely deserved it, wouldn’t miss what I was stealing from them or who I didn’t know (or like very much).

Like the bloke whose BMW 323i me and Jimmy nicked from outside the Pines in Walkinstown a few years back. We were just after coming out of the pub having ended up in that area the previous night and kipping over at Stinkin’ Pete’s who lives out that way. There’s nothing like a few pints for breakfast to get rid of that hangover. Those few pints put you in the mood for a food based breakfast which then lets you go and drink more pints for the rest of the day. You know you haven’t had enough when they’re showing Villa v Bolton on Sky Super Sunday and you still can’t sleep. Anyway, I digress.

We had just come out of the pub when up pulls this bloke in a brand new 323i, spoiler, stripes, cool as fuck it was. He got out and headed into the newsagent and I looked at Jimmy. Jimmy looked at me. There was no need for the nod. Let’s rob the cunt. Then we spotted the auld one in the passenger seat. Now, there are lines I will not cross. Killing junkies and setting fire to caravans on halting sites is one thing but robbing a car with a little old lady in it is something different altogether.

Not to worry, I thought. We’ll just grab a cab. Then, as if God himself was giving us a sign, the granny got out of the car and headed into the newsagents herself. Probably to buy a few sweets for the grandkids. Well, you take your signs where you can get them and we didn’t need a second invitation. In we popped and off we sped. I saw the moustachioed man shaking his fist at us in the rear view mirror as we made our getaway. We sold the car to Hotwire Harry who gave us a nice price.

Anyway, the point is if you can afford to purchase, tax, insure and maintain a BMW 323i then you can afford to lose it to a couple of malcontents like me and Jimmy. Nobody got hurt (apart from the Romanian we winged on Thomas Street, but that doesn’t count), we got a nice chunk of money and the bloke whose car it was got a new one with the insurance money.

However, I’m not much into stealing from people who might really feel the effects of it. There are plenty of faceless corporations, pop stars and rich executives you can rip off.

I like to read and I like to go to a little bookshop I know to buy my stuff. Waterstones, Hodges Figgis, Hughes and Hughes, Easons - these are the big boys you can steal from but I don’t steal books because anyone who sits down to write something deserves to be paid for it - unless it’s Cecilia Ahern who deserves to peeled and dipped in vinegar, the hopeless geebag.

Yesterday I was calling in to see what new bits and pieces old Larry who owns the shop had put aside for me. He knows my tastes very well and he never lets me down. As I was walking up the road to see him I notice a bloke coming running towards me. Then I hear Larry shouting.

“Stop him! Somebody stop him. He’s after robbing the money from me till.”

Of course Dublin being Dublin everyone just stared at the fucker running away from the scene of the crime. Nobody wanted to get involved. Well, you don’t fucking rob stuff from small time traders and you sure as fuck don’t rob stuff from old Larry. Yer man was coming belting up the road, he saw me and thought because I’m an old cunt I wouldn’t do anything. I caught his eye then looked away. He kept running. I stuck my foot out. He went stumbling and running. Rumbling. Stunning. His arms pinwheeled. He tried desperately to keep his balance. He failed.

His forward momentum was halted abruptly by his face hitting a cast iron, corrugated lamp post. He spat teeth. He groaned. Robber boy rolled over. He opened an eye. He got my foot in the bollocks.

I took the money he robbed from Larry. Someone else felt brave now that he was bleeding all over the road and called the Gardai. They took him away. I gave the money back to Larry and bought a load of new books with the robber’s credit card, gave them back to him and bought the ones he’d put aside for me myself. Larry’s not stupid.

Now I’m reading about two detectives in Dublin while the robber is behind bars being bummed. What larks.

You what?

by Twenty Major on September 8th, 2005

I was watching the news last night and they were interviewing Ireland fans before our famous 1-0 loss to France and they stopped some toothless fellow who had this pearl of wisdom:

“Zinedine Zidane is back from retirement but Robbie Keane, well Robbie Keane is just a nest egg.”

Classic. I wonder has anyone told Robbie that soon a retired couple are going to use him to go on a round the world cruise and get new double glazing in.

He’s got an enormous chin, does Robbie. One good thing you can say about Ireland losing last night is that Robbie Keane didn’t score and we didn’t have to suffer the site of him doing that stupid six-gun tumble salute he does. I honestly think each time he does it a person from Tallaght should be killed, starting with members of his family.

He’s a disgrace to the game of football with his acrobatic carryings-on. You’re on a football pitch, Keane, not cartwheeling around a sawdust ring like a fucking circus entertainer.

And anything that reminds me of circuses is wrong.

I saw our esteemed, and by esteemed cunting wankbag, taoiseach was at the game. I’m surprised he wasn’t off handing out million dollar donations to the Haughey estate or Michael Smurfit because it happened to rain today.

I’d love to have been sitting near him. I’d have got a bic biro and chewed up bits of paper and spat them through the pen at him like an old pea-shooter. I’d have got one right down his ear as well and they’d have to operate and maybe he might die under the anaesthetic.

Now that’s what I call an assassination.

Dolphins are shifty looking cunts

by Twenty Major on September 7th, 2005

A German man was in hospital last night with abdominal injuries after a supposed ‘collision’ with a dolphin off the coast of Clare.

‘Collision’ my arse. That dolphin ram-raided him, I’m 100% sure of that. I’ve mentioned dolphins, and my distrust of them, before when Stinkin’ Pete asked me what kind of animal I’d like to be.

Dolphins have a reputation for intelligence which obviously has some merits. This dolphin saw the man swimming then thought ‘It’s only a German. Nobody would mind if I battered a German with my bottle nosed snout. In fact, most people would understand why I tried to cave in his kidneys. Nobody would ever think any less of the dolphins if I tried to kill a German.’

Well I’m onto you, you squeaking underwater cunts. That’s clever and shifty. Dolphins also have a permanent smirk on their faces like they know something we don’t and I bet they do know something we don’t. They’re not fucking telling though, are they, the cunts. That’s how clever they are. They give us enough to make us know they know something but you could make tuna steaks out of all of them before they’d tell.

If there’s a land-based version of the dolphin it’s the beagle. They are also really shifty looking fuckers with their legs that look just too long and spindly for their bodies and those eyes that follow you, squinting, boring into yours and you just know that if they had any way of executing the plan they had for torturing you to death that beagles would surely take over the world.

Think I’m making it up. Look at this cunt.

Now, do you see what I’m talking about? Beagles are the anti-Lassie. If they found you trapped in a well they’d piss on you as quick as you like and they’d go tell their beagle friends to come and do the same until you drowned in beagle piss.

What we have to ensure is that dolphins and beagles never cross-breed as I’m sure that would bring about the destruction of man quicker than George Bush can.

Imagine the terrifying consequences of the Beaphin. Of course now I’ve just given the idea to some mad scientist but when it does happen and we bow before our new shifty eyed masters you can say ‘Bollix. Twenty knew.’

Why should Ireland give €1m to New Orleans?

by Twenty Major on September 6th, 2005

I don’t suppose there’s anybody who can’t feel sympathy for the people who are suffering in New Orelans - apart from some lunatic Jesus freaks who thinks it was all God’s idea because the city had become a modern day Soddom and Gomorrah.

Anyway, the news that Ireland has donated €1m in aid just strikes me as pointless and is just a cack-handed gesture from Bertie so he can stay buddies with the chimp whose troops he lets land at Shannon.

America is the wealthiest country in the world. They print their own money. I’m all for giving a hand to those who can’t help themselves but for the Government to pledge €1m of taxpayer’s money to a country with enough resources to take care of itself is obscene.

Give the money to somebody who really needs it. Give it to the homeless people on the streets of Dublin. Give it to help the people who, despite the Celtic Tiger, exist below the poverty line here in our country. It might stop the Sinn Fein vote sky-rocketing during the next general election. Give it to the people who have to fucking queue for so long then pay to cross the M50 motorway each day, it might just stop a Michael Douglas ‘Falling Down’ situation - and let me tell you the M50 is on my list.

Give it to Twenty Major and watch him buy drinks for everyone in the pub that night. Give it to anyone who needs it but America doesn’t need it. America has the money to buy a squillon fighter jets and tanks and missiles and submarines and aircraft carriers (although not enough to give proper armour to its soldiers in Iraq) and if it has enough money for that then it has enough money for something that is actually important.

Where are the philanthropists? Where’s Bill Gates’ contribution to this? Where is the help from the people who can really afford to help? Nowhere, as far as I can see. There’s aid coming from places and people who can’t afford to give it and that it’s got to a stage where that aid has been pledged is just wrong.

The American administration need to sort this out for themselves. Ireland, nor any other country with their own problems, shouldn’t be paying for their incompetence.

Stop the million now, Bertie, you shitebag, feckless cunt of a shop steward, or feel my fucking wrath.

So now I’m back…

by Twenty Major on September 5th, 2005

…what a fine weekend we had in Italy. The weather was good, the food was good, the drink was good and the beating administered to the bloke who was hassling Lucky’s wife was nothing short of spectacular.

He certainly won’t be sending any text messages again, the thumbless cunt.

We had dinner on Saturday night in Lucky’s uncle’s seafood restaurant. That was something a bit special, let me tell you. It would take too long to tell you what we had - it’s easier to say we just had one of everything that lives in the sea. Fish, octopus, squid, shellfish, sea horses, blue whales, everything. And this being Italy you had to eat it all. Not that it was a problem because it was so good.

Funnily enough for an island nation most Irish people are not big fish eaters. They might have a few fish fingers or fry up some Donegal catch and think they’re being exotic. Of course the old cod and chips from Burdocks is always popular but it’s rare on a day to day level to eat fish (unless you’re Biddy from Glenroe, that is).

Maybe the problem is those cunting Spaniards keep sneaking in and fishing all our fish off us. Most likely it’s because of the culture of eating frozen shite. Convenience food. 10 minute meals. The frozen section is most supermarkets is bigger than the fresh produce section. We’re becoming a nation of fat cunts, with tubby little children, because we don’t eat right.

Anyway, that’s another rant. I see you lot had a party while I was gone.

Now, are you going to tell me who got sick behind the sofa or am I going to have get Lucky around?