The Sunday Independent’s apology to Liam Lawlor’s family

by Twenty Major on October 31st, 2005

You have to laugh:

To the many readers of the Sunday Independent, over one million of you, our deep apologies are offered, too.

Oooh, good job you managed to sneak in a little snippet about readership figures in there, Aengus. God forbid you might just apologise without the PR or backslappery.

It reminds me of the time me and Jimmy were sent to have a word with a bloke who was distributing goods in a territory he shouldn’t have been. ‘Teach him a lesson’ we were told as we were handed a piece of paper with an address.

So we drove out to the estate in question and sat a couple of doors down waiting for the target to come out. We smoked a couple of spliffs made from some mental grass that Dirty Dave’s brother, Shiny Simon, had posted back from Amsterdam and listened to the radio. That late night talk show cunt on FM104 was on, Chris Barry, what a cock he was, quite literally, and some twats were blathering on about some crap.

I suppose we were there a couple of hours when his front door opened and he walked out. Me and Jimmy got out of the car and interecepted him as he made his way towards him.

“Hey, we need a word”, I said.

“What about?” he said.

“As if you don’t know”, Jimmy said.

“No, really, I don’t”, he insisted.

“Does this refresh your memory?” I asked as I smashed him across the knees with an aluminium baseball bat.

“Arrrrgggghhhh”, he said. I wasn’t sure if that meant his memory was refreshed or not.

As he lay on the ground Jimmy kicked him in the ribs and there was a satisfying crack. He huddled up into the fetal position, his hands covering his face. I brought the bat down right on his hands and I could see his fingers start to swell immediately. Jimmy rolled him over onto his back and as he gurgled smashed his fist into his mouth. Once. Twice. Maybe five times. Yer man spat teeth.

Jimmy rolled him over onto his front then and twisted his arm behind his back like a bully used to do to you at school.

“You know why we’re here. Stop meddling in other people’s business. Understand?”

“Fnarghh, blurgh, urf, glomp” the bloodied mess mumbled as he ate pavement.

“That’s what I like to hear. Now, just so we can be sure you know we mean business…..” - at that Jimmy wrenched the arm upwards and across, dislocating the collar bone and snapping the elbow.

“Arrrrrrrrrggggghhh”, said the repetitive victim as his wife, followed by his two young kids, came running out of his house shouting at us to stop. Which was a bit of a problem because the guy we were supposed to be dealing had no family whatsoever which was what made him such a devil-may-care criminal.

Not our fault though, when you have an estate such as ‘Lionville’ (not real, merely an example) and within that there’s a 34 Lionville Place, 34 Lionville Road, 34 Lionville Grove, 34 Lionville Manor and fucking countless other 34 Lionvilles it’s no wonder a couple of guys can get confused. Turns out this bloke was a marketing manager for Kraft. Whooops. At least he’d have plenty of margarines to aid his recovery.

I looked at Jimmy. He looked at me. We both looked at the bloke with the mangled arm, teeth like Shane McGowan and knees as useful as Stephen Hawkings bleeding all over his pretty wife’s white blouse as his kids wept plaintively.

“Erm, sorry about that”, I said. Our apology meant about as much as the Sunday Indo’s.

It’s amazing

by Twenty Major on October 29th, 2005

I had rather a hard weekend last weekend which meant all day Monday I spent clutching my stomach until I got home. If I can avoid pooing in public places, espeically work, I will do so.

Anyway, when I got home I crapped for about 20 minutes non-stop. No joke. My ringpiece was hotter than the sun covered in petrol and thrown into the middle of a volcano. You could have stuck me arse first on the top of a tall building and the glow would have warned planes away. Not a pleasant experience, I have to say, and I’ve been through a lot in my lifetime.

Tuesday I didn’t need to go at all and ever since whenever I poo there is nothing on the toilet paper when I wipe afterwards. Not a single mark. Nothing. I must be pooing perfect poo crystals or something. Monday’s mega-plop must have been like some kind of enema/colonic irrigation (without the gay bit of somebody putting a tube up your hoop).

If I could remember what combination of booze and food did it I’d market it and make millions. Naturally the bog roll companies would be after me but fuck those double-ply cunts.

Has anyone else ever experienced a period of non-staining pooing? To me the whole thing is fascinating.

Some emails I’ve sent

by Twenty Major on October 28th, 2005

From: Twenty Major
Subject: Question
Date: 12 September 2001 22:41:19
To: Christopher Reeves

Where the fuck were you yesterday, you lazy cunt?

20M

From: Twenty Major
Subject: Information
Date: 9 August 2000 14:31:09
To: Saks department store

Hi,

just thought you’d like to know that I was at a dinner party with Winona Ryder and she got really drunk and started bragging about how she likes shoplifting in your store. You might want to keep a bit of an eye on her next time she’s in.

cheers

20M

From: Twenty Major
Subject: Fuck off
Date: 28 February 2003 13:33:06
To: Paul Williams - Sunday World

Paul,

I’ve been told you’re going to run a story about me and Jimmy the Bollix this Sunday. Two words. Veronica Guerin. Two more words. Penis removal. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

20M

From: Twenty Major
Subject: Mega scoop
Date: 30 August 1997 00:12:19
To: Pierre Paparazzi

Salut Pierre,

Diana will be leaving by the back door of the Ritz Hotel in a few minutes. On yer bike, son!

20M

From: Twenty Major
Subject: Just thought you should know
Date: 16 March 2004 09:31:04
To: JP McManus - John Magnier

Lads,

Alex Ferguson is going round telling anyone who’ll listen that he owns Rock of Gilbraltar and that you’re a pair of fags. Thought you should know.

Laters.

20M

From: Twenty Major
Subject: Some juicy gossip!
Date: 22 October 2005 23:59:17
To: Sunday Independent Newsdesk

Hi,

I know you’ve never heard from me before but my reliable sources tell me the girl travelling with Liam Lawlor in Moscow was actually teenage prostitute. Honest!

20M

Romanian cunt

by Twenty Major on October 27th, 2005

A Romanian woman was given a three year suspended jail sentence in Dublin yesterday after inflicting a litany of abuse on her four year old daughter.

Hospital staff became suspicious when they noticed bruises of “various ages and shapes” all over the child’s face, back, buttocks, legs and arms.

She told the court that she didn’t realise it was illegal to beat your child with a big stick. The judge said ‘They may do that kind of thing in Romania but you can’t do it here!’

Then he let her off, the cunt. Now she’s free to beat her kids with iron bars and when they arrest her she’ll say “But I thought it was beating them with big sticks that was illegal” and she’ll get off then too, free to roam the streets stealing mobile phones and pleading poverty with a mouth full of gold teeth.

Farewell Frank the Fairy

by Twenty Major on October 26th, 2005

Frank the Fairy (as me and Jimmy used to call him when he wasn’t anywhere near us) grew up around the same area as me and Jimmy. A bigger chancer and gangster you never met. He’d have stolen from his mother’s corpse. He was unassuming looking but he was dangerous too. He once tried to sell me a pair of shoes with the feet still in them.

He was also as bent as a £7 note. If there was a shirt to be lifted he would lift it. If there was fudge to be packed he would pack it. If he had a female friend her name would be Dorothy and if there was a closet he would come out of it. Everybody knew he was gay but nobody ever took the piss out of him for it. Well, apart from John-Paul Ryan who was in another gang and called him a faggot in the pub one evening. Frank just smiled.

“Fancy a pint, Ryaner?” he asked.

“Not from you. Might catch something”, said Ryaner a split second before Frank’s pint glass shattered all over his face. He never saw out of his right eye again and nobody ever called Frank any ‘gay’ names to his face again.

As you might imagine someone as quite clearly insane as Frank spend a lot of time inside. He was in and out his whole life for various things. Burglaries, aggravated assaults, robberies, joyriding, drug dealing and he once got sent down for 6 months for pouring a paper cup full of piss over a policeman outside Lansdowne Road one night. He achieved true legendary status during one spell in Mountjoy in the late 80s though. Whilst inside he befriended one of the prison’s most dangerous lifers. If you got on the wrong side of him your time, as bad as it was to begin with, would become a living hell.

Ronnie the Skank was sent down for 4 consecutive life terms in the 1979 for a series of murders, one of which was of a gay barman who got battered to death in Fairview Park late one night. The gay barman happened to be the love of Frank’s life but obviously Ronnie didn’t know that when they became fast friends, and prison being prison, more than that. Ronnie, although ocassionally a taker was much more of a giver, and Frank used this to his advantage.

One day Frank did a deal with one of the catering staff and got a massive helping of baked beans mixed with lentils which he washed down with coca-cola and brown bread. Ronnie used to do Frank in the laundry room and while he was going at it hammer and tongs Frank let rip an enormous fart which sent a bubble of air up Ronnie’s chopper, into his blood stream and caused a massive pulmonary embolism which killed Ronnie on the spot.

Of course nobody could prove anything and Frank got away with farting somebody to death. He found it much harder to get his hole though. ‘Don’t fart on me, Frank!’ we’d kid when he made a rare visit to Ron’s and he’d stick his arse out at us and go ‘Eh? Eh? Anyone feeling suicidal? I just had semolena!’

He spent his latter years semi-retired but would, from time to time, commit some kind of violent crime to give him that bit of spark he needed. Yesterday he died in sleep having managed to embed a hatchet in the back his head before he went to bed.

He was a horrible cunt really but they don’t make them like that anymore. RIP Frank.

Direct from Middle Abbey Street

by Twenty Major on October 25th, 2005

Taoiseach Bertie Ahern was today seen in a car with man wearing a peaked cap. It is thought the man in question is a member of gay pop group the Village People and he spent yesterday afternoon in the Taoiseach’s office giving Bertie reach arounds and pummeling his gaping anus before shooting his sex wee all over his back.

Oh no, wait. That was his driver. Apologies, Bertie.

In other news Irish journalist Rory Carroll was seen at Dublin airport with a mysterious older woman. Sources tell us that Carroll is moonlighting as a gigolo and sells his services to lonely, older housewives via a seedy website and small-ads in the Evening Herald.

Oooops. That was his mum welcoming back home. Sorry about that. No, really we are.

A Nigerian man was arrested earlier today by Gardai in Dublin. We are reliably informed that he was carrying around the foreskins of more than a dozen babies which he had removed with a blunt knife in a witchcraft ceremony in a flat on Dorset Street. He may have had the babies corpses with him too.

Oh dear, we’ve done it again. It was simple credit card and 419 scams. Can’t apologise enough blah blah blah.

Soccer fans may have seen Sunderland striker Stephen Elliot make a strange gesture after scoring against Newcastle on Sunday. The Sunday Independent can reveal it was an elaborate pentagram symbol popular with devil worshippers and members of the DUP. Surely this must spell the end for his Ireland career?

Can you believe it? It was the sign of the cross and he’s just a good catholic. You just won’t believe how sheepish we feel right now.

Independent Newspapers - making it up as we go along but we’re really sorry when people find out.

Sympathy for my cock, you wankers

by Twenty Major on October 24th, 2005

Why is that wherever there is a jukebox there is ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ by the Rolling Stones?

And why is that no matter how few people there are in the establishment with the jukebox some cunt will always put it on?

Sympathy for the Devil has to be one of the most annoying songs of all time. It’s annoying because some cunt always puts it on the jukebox when you’re just trying to have a game of pool, it’s annoying because it’s got that ‘Wooo Wooo’ bit, it’s annoying because everybody seems to like it and it’s especially annoying because the cunt who always puts it on nearly always plays air bongos at the start.

Bongos are bad enough but air bongos are ridiculous. That song has cost me lots of money because now I always have to check if I’m in a place with jukebox and if I see it, which I always do (please refer to the first sentence), I have to put enough money in the machine to play music for as long as I plan to be in there. Sometimes it even comes on all by itself.

“Please allow me to introduce myself….”

Ok, but then please allow me to introduce my boot to your bollocks as hard as I can.

If I could compare this song to a bodily function it would be like pooing out of your winkle. Not liquid poo but massive logs which would stretch your Jap’s eye to the point of splitting right down the middle.

It’s a shame they all didn’t drown in a swimming pool before they had a chance to make that song. If I ever meet Doc Brown in his DeLorean I’m going 88MPH back in time and taking those cunts out good and proper. Oh yes.

Return of the Stink

by Twenty Major on October 21st, 2005

Well, last night we were celebrating the night before Friday when you can really have a good few pints. Ron was telling us about the time when he used to be a barman in a rocker’s place on Sunset Boulevard and Iggy Pop came in so off his face he thought he was a goat and tried to eat a newspaper. Now that was a funny story let me tell you.

Then all of a sudden Jimmy the Bollix sniffed the air like a Bassett Hound around chocolate.

“He’s back”, he said.

Not 10 seconds later in came Stinking Pete. I am tempted to rename him Stinking Putrid Noxious Fetid Pete because he was as Stinking as I have ever known him and I was there during his sponsored no-showerathon to raise money for famine victims in Ethiopia but which he just kept for himself.

“Where the fuck have you been you cunt?” I asked.

He burped a wet burp and said “Germany!”

“Germany? What were you doing there?”

“Well, after the match the other night I was really bleedin’ depressed about Ireland not going to the World Cup so I said to myself ‘Fuck dis, I’m going to Germany anyway!”

“And you wouldn’t have actually waited till the World Cup was on?”

“Nah, too many people around then.”

So he went on to explain to us how he took a flight to Berlin and went on the absolute tear. Within an hour of landing he’d managed to communicate well enough with a taxi driver (”BIER! IRISCHER! SCHNELL!”) to end up in an Irish bar called The Oscar Wilde. How we laughed. He said he used that as his base for the week and got to know some of the regulars.

There was Charlie, a roofer from Shankhill, who had fled Ireland after ripping a friend off of 5,000 ecstasty pills which he sold for €2 each to some bloke who said he ran a nightclub in town. So if you’ve misplaced 5,000 Es the Oscar Wilde on Friedrichstraße is somewhere you might want to go.

There was Lorcan who was from Dingle but had to leave Ireland when he was caught by the local policeman having sex with a mule. He said he didn’t give a shite but the mule was a prize-winner and its owner wanted to give him a proper pasting.

We heard about Gunther O’Leary. Irish father, German mother, who cried everytime he heard Danny Boy and Fisty who always showed a keen interest in Stinking Pete everytime he went to the toilet but Pete was unable to give us the background to his nickname.

On the Sunday night he said he pulled a cracking looking German bird and got laid like he’d never got laid before. He showed us a piece of paper which said “To Stinking Pete, I shagged u, luv Andrea Merkin, Berlin, October 16th 2005.”

“Shame she’s not famous lads or I could’ve done a bit of kiss and tell. You should have seen her thighs, they’d have made a GAA player jealous, and she had a clit like tapeworm. Deadly it was.”

He continued having great crack, drinking a lot, eating Bratwurst and Burger King, and was mad for watching a bit of football. On Tuesday afternoon he was so drunk he bought two tickets from a bloke in the pub for the Bayern v Juventus game only to turn up at the Olympic Stadium to discover that:

1 - Hertha Berlin’s next game wasn’t until Thursday in the UEFA cup and
2 - Bayern play in Munich which wasn’t reachable within the 30 minutes he had before kick off.

To drown his sorrows he ended up in the Schoenberg area of the city but doesn’t remember much of the night, which is probably a good thing. When he woke up with a raging hangover he decided it was time to go home, stopped into ‘Oscars’ for a farewell pint or six and having stayed a night longer than he intended to arrived back in Dublin around lunchtime yesterday.

“You mad fucker”, I said. “Do you remember ringing me?”

“Nah. I lost my mobile though. I think I threw it at a giant giraffe who lives on the side of a building.”

“Riiiiight. Well, welcome back anyone, you smelly cunt.”

Jimmy looked over then. “Well Stinking Pete, glad to see you back. Fancy a pint?”

“I do that, James.”

“Well fuck off home and have a shower then, you’re humming man.”

So while Stinking Pete took himself off home to get spruced up we went into town and didn’t tell anyone where we were going.

I have a headache this morning and I think I might have punched Tony Fenton in the back of the head. Please, let it be true.

Irish asylum

by Twenty Major on October 20th, 2005

A Nigerian woman with a 4 year old autistic son is on the verge of being deported while a Jamaican woman who has been convicted for 10 years for smuggling cocaine is granted refugee status.

A little tiny old lady from Latvia who has written proof that a gang of surly youths is going to rape and beat her if she returns home is told to go while Josef Mengele is cloned in a laboratory in Clondalkin and told he can live amongst Dublin’s Jewish community.

An American who owns a house here, pays taxes, works in a real job and votes in elections is refused back into the country and put in Mountjoy prison for a night before being deported back to the US (no, really) while a Lithuanian pimp can come and go as he pleases arranging the transport and sale of teenage girls to work in his brothels.

A mentally retarded blind, deaf and dumb paraplegic victim of child sexual abuse in Poland is sent back to Warsaw with a bottle of Ballygowan while Abdul Achbar Mohammed Fur-Q turns up for his asylum hearing with a t-shirt saying ”Infidels are cunts” carrying a rucksack with a strap that says “Pull here to detonate” and is given €150 a week in benefits, a free car and an all-day travel card for London Underground.

That last one is a joke obviously, there’s no way the Pole would be sent home seeing as there’s more of them in Dublin than anywhere else.

But what to do? How do we combat the supposed injustices in the system? To my mind there is only one way to do it.

We must put millions and millions of Euros into research so we can find the cunt gene which will enable us to DNA test all applicants for asylum and refugee status and measure their Cunt Level™.

The Cunt Level™ would run from 0 to 100 where 0 = Twenty Major and 100 = Damien Rice, Madonna, the bloke I work with who makes bird whistle noises, Tom Cruise and the cunt from blogger.com who can’t stop their fucking system eating my posts before I publish them.

Then we decide what is an unacceptable Cunt Level™. I suggest anything above 5 is a cunt too far and these people should be denied entry into the country, or if they’re here already they should be eliminated. The tests should be done in a big DNA scooping machine and if the needle (or LED if we’re going really hi-tech) is above 5 then we release some kind of sonic blast which reduces the cunt in question to mere atoms. Of course some do-gooders like the Residents against Racism or the Irish Palestine Solidarity Campaign Cunt’s Convention would probably object so instead of blasting them we transport them, a la Star Trek, to a more suitable location. Perhaps Romania or South Africa where they’re surrounded by so many other cunts their own cuntosity is relatively less.

The other eco-friendly option is to power the machine on the corpses of the cunts whose Cunt Level™ is too high but they’d probably complain about that too.

However, if we stuck with the transporting plan these lentil eating vegetarians who are so hung up on silly things like “human rights” won’t have a leg to stand on. They can moan and bleat about racism but there is no racism. They can call it exclusivity but that’s not a crime and until the government passes a bill to outlaw Cuntism then our work will continue unabated.

Non-cunts of every race, creed and colour will be welcome. It’s progressive, Ireland would be freer of cunts (apart from all the native cunts and right now I have to admit there’s fuck all we can do about them) and the age old problem of how to control your borders in an acceptable fashion is solved.

Naturally I’m going to invent, manufacture and trademark the CuntOmeter©™ machines and even though we won’t be allowed reduce the ones we reject to dust particles I’m still going to run 200 volts through the cunts as I send them on their way.

KAZAM!

A delicate question

by Twenty Major on October 19th, 2005

So there I was in Ron’s last night, enjoying a pint or six, when Dirty Dave sidled up beside me.

“So, how’s it going, Twenty?”

“Fine, Dave.”

“Good. Good. I’m fine too.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Well, I’m not really that fine.”

“Sorry to hear that, Dave. Anyway, I must be off….”

“No! Wait. Erm…I have a question.”

“It’s not a stupid question, is it? Like ‘Why wouldn’t that black woman go out with me after I gave her a lovely golliwog as a present?’”

“No, nothing like that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

“Ok then. Spit it out.”

“Erm, it’s a little bit sensitive and I’m kind of embarrassed.”

“Must be off.”

“Wait. Fair enough”, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Did your wee ever come out in two different directions, Twenty?”

“Of course it did, Dirty Dave. Sometimes first thing in the morning it does that when a bit of bed fluff gets down your Jap’s eye or after sex when the inside of your mickey is still a bit spunky.”

“But not all the time, like?”

“No, not all the time.”

“Oh. See, this happens on the time to me now. One stream goes into the toilet bowl and the other shoots left or right. Once it even shot straight up in the air and hit me in the eye. Have you ever pissed in your own eye, Twenty?”

“Of all the questions you’ve asked me over the years, Dirty Dave, that has to be one of the oddest.”

“I’m a bit worried. What if there’s something growing in my shaft that’s making the wee come out in different directions? And I had a bit of a five-knuckle shuffle earlier and I think the man paste came out in different directions too. Does that mean I’m bisexual now?”

“It’s possible. Now that you mention all this I do remember reading that if your piss comes out in two different directions (except for fluff and post-sex) it’s a symptom of the plague.”

“The plague? But I haven’t been near any Romanians. Couldn’t I just be an abmi-wee-er?”

“I’d get myself off to the doctor if I was you, Dirty Dave. Let him get a camera down there and take a look.”

“How would you fit a camera down there?”

“Just go to the doctor.”

I’m still waiting to hear back from him, hence the reason this story has no punchlne whatsoever.