Dublin gang killings worse than we thought

by Twenty Major on November 17th, 2005

Gangland warfare has come to Dublin. There have been a number of shootings this year, mostly between gangs who sell drugs and they’ve been scrapping over territory, customers and Superquinn club points. On Sunday night two men were shot dead as they sat in a car in Firhouse while two nights ago a passenger was shot dead in a car in Clontarf. The driver managed to escape however but it’s believed he got shot.

Now, gangs are not a new phenomenon in Dublin but the fact that they’re using semi-automatic weapons is a relatively new development. I’ve written before about how I’m quite happy for them to go round shooting each other. It’s only one scumbag taking out another. Like a cockroach smacking another cockroach with a rolled up newspaper. And when most of the Gardai aren’t actually armed it’s as handy to let them play LA Crips and Bloods with each other.

However, I got to thinking a bit more about it and I am now seriously worried. We’ve all read about the gangs in America, seen the films, laughed at the cars that bounce up and down in time with the music. And that’s the thing. It’s a scientific fact that wherever there are gangs that go round shooting each there are, yes, that’s right… rappers.

Within months Dublin is going to be crawling with gun-toting, drug dealing criminals and then one gang will breed a rapper and he’ll rap about how he’s going to blow the shite out of some other gang then that gang will get their own rapper to show how down with the whole shit they are and on it will go. Soon there’ll be rapping and shooting, shooting and rapping, bling bling, whiteboys with dreadlocks, massive mansions, big arsed Blanch bitches in hot-pants (even in the middle of winter) and people fighting over their cribs and each others boneyards, smoking hydro and quite literally dropping it like it’s hot.

We’ll go from The town I loved so well and Summer in Dublin to the likes of P-Diddlyeye, Yellow-pac, Ice Hugh, Notorious CIE, Shay-Z and De La Salle bigging it up for the Churchtown massive.

This cannot happen. The Gardai have set up a new 50 man squad to deal with these gangs and organised crime in the city but you can do your bit too. If you own a clothes shop do not stock any baggy pants or basketball shirts and make sure you sell baseball caps that can only be worn peak forward. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that all bandanas should be burnt straight away.

If you have a garage and some skanger comes in looking for you to ‘pimp his ride’ by adding 3 tonnes of speakers and DVD players open the hood, tell him to look at the engine for a second then slam it down on his head as hard as you can. As many times as it takes. I guarantee you the police will give you immunity.

As I said earlier I have no problem with these cunts doing whatever the fuck they want to each other with pistols, rifles, gattling guns, cannons, bazookas - they can even blunderbuss each other in the face for all I care - but I will not stand idly by and let them rap.

If you suspect anyone in your family or any of your friends are involved with these gang killings please tell the Gardai. Not so justice can be done. Not so we can make some kind of breakthrough into the underworld. Not we can turn them into a supergrass so they can rat out more. No, it’s worse than that.

Maybe you can live with them being a drug dealing, drive-by shooting, scumbag but I know for a fact you couldn’t stand it if they went around rapping hither and thither. Could you live with yourself?

Rap? Just say no. Call the Garda Confidential Hotline now on 1800 666 111. They’re kicking it old school in full effect.

Drugs being sold in St James’s hospital

by Twenty Major on November 16th, 2005

Maybe you’ve seen it, maybe you haven’t, but there were reports that the foyer of Dublin’s St James’s Hospital was a fantastic place to go and score drugs, if that’s what you were into. I found it hard to believe as the security personnel in Dublin’s hospitals are second to none and certainly not wide boys with connections to the underworld.

I remember some years back after breaking my arm in an accident I had to spend time in a ward in the Meath hospital and that was something, let me tell you. There was a collection of people in there the likes of which I’d never seen. Old men with emphysema, couriers who had come off their bikes, junkies who had been beaten to shite for not paying their bills, one lad who fell under a bus and a whole section of mentalists including one bloke who had a broken leg but was so dangerous he had his own security guard. Once the guard went for a piss and yer man was up and about stealing from some cunt who’d tried to commit suicide by jumping under a train but only succeeded in getting both his legs mashed up in bits. As he lay in traction the mentalist robbed the money from his bedside table.

In the smoking/TV room at the back there were joints smoked every evening and there were teapots full of whiskey. How people, and I include myself in that, didn’t re-break the bones they’d had set by the surgeons I’ll never know. The guy who fell under the bus had broken his pelvis and both his legs but one night he was so drunk he fell back off his wheelchair while his friend who brought him in the booze just pissed himself laughing because he was stoned off his face.

I remember one bloke who was quiet as a lamb all day long but at nighttime he was a fucking pain in the hoop, crying and calling out for his mother. Fucks sake, it wasn’t as if they wouldn’t just give you some morphine if you asked for it. Morphine is great stuff and it makes pain go away and helps you sleep. If I had so much as an itchy foot I’d be calling the nurse.

“Terrible pain. Oh God. So awful. Need morphine. Help me Jesus on so on.”

And fair play to them they’d give you some. Great, so it was. Anyway, cry-baby would be wailing while the rest of us were trying to sleep and you’d hear the lads shouting at him.

“If I wasn’t in traction I’d come over and give you something to cry about, you cunt.”

Anyway, yesterday I went to St James’s Hospital and bought a 9-bar of hash, 12 Es and 3 grammes of coke so if you’re looking for something for the weekend that’s where to go. Ask for Doctor Singh.

Finally, a joke.

Q: What do you call a two brothers born within minutes of each other who have 5 penises on each foot?

A: The Cocteau Twins.

Charlie’s fantastic invention

by Twenty Major on November 15th, 2005

My chum Charlie (I don’t talk about him much but I have mentioned his racing pigeons) has always fancied himself as a bit of an inventor but the main problem is he’s technically obtuse, mechanically cretinous and he has the imagination of a shoe. His little workshop/pigeon coop in the back garden is full of failed experiments. There were the waterproof boots which he made entirely from duck feathers, the Renee Zelwegger repellent which may well be fully functional but he’s never been able to get close enough to her to prove it and the brown toilet paper which was just never going to work for those of us who like to look back after a good wipe.

Anyway, he’s been having some problems with him timekeeping in recent weeks and Charlie’s wife does not like it when he’s late. However, if you were to ever see Charlie’s wife you would certainly understand his reluctance to arrive home pronto. Think Mary Harney crossed with Fatima Whitbread, just with more gee flies.

Charlie will sit in Ron’s and talk to himself to avoid going back.

“One for the road, Charles?” he’ll ask.

“Don’t mind if I do, Charles”, he reply. He’s the only one who calls him Charles. He’s Charlie to everyone else. But as much as it would be easy to blame his enormous spouse for his tardiness the main problem is that Charlie gets too drunk to see and gets completely lost. Most of us have some kind of homing device which means we always, mostly, end up in our own place at the end of the night, no matter how rat-arsed we are. Not Charlie. He’s fucking hopeless.

Anyway, he’s been under more pressure to get home on time since Mrs Charlie’s bridge partner died (I am convinced she simply faked her own death. I mean, whoever heard of somebody dying from fractured quim?). She’s been on and on at him and last week when he arrived back a whole hour after he said he would be she clobbered him with a rolling pin like a real, old fashioned wife.

So he was complaining Ron’s about it on Saturday night.

“That old wagon is doing my fucking head in, the sweaty-minged battle-axe. I can’t even be a few minutes late or she’s in my ear like scabby wax. And I’m not going to give up my pints just because it takes me longer to get home when I’m shitfaced.”

“Why don’t you make some kind of invention to bring you back?” said Jimmy.

“That’s not a bad idea, James”, and when he arrived back at 1.30am having wandered 3 miles out of his way Mrs Charlie was most definitely not pleased so he spent the whole of the next day in his workshop/pigeon coop trying to figure something out. It was late afternoon and many, many crumpled blueprints later that he looked up at the skies for inspiration but because he was inside couldn’t see the sky. What he did see though was one of his champion pigeons. They’re only champion in the sense that he races them against each other so one of them has to win. His pigeons against real racing pigeons would be like racing Paul McCartney’s wife against Carl Lewis. Still, it was his champion and his champion that helped get the invention together.

The bird in question was called ‘Eyehat’, so-called after another one of Charlie’s failed inventions. He always hated wearing sunglasses and never liked wearing caps or visors and the like so he thought he could make hats for each eye and had a thousand prototypes made up by a factory in Taiwan before he realised he had no way of actually fixing the things to your forehead. If you think you could make use of Eyehats drop me an email and I’ll put you in touch with him.

So, last night in came Charlie to the pub carrying a large box covered in a piece of blue silk. It’s always much better to unveil something by letting the silk slide off it than to just wrap some old newspaper around it.

“What have you got in there, Charlie?” I asked him.

“Well”, he said, “It’s funny you should ask that.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“I knew someone was going to ask me that very question.”

“That’s hardly fucking funny. It’s obvious. Like if you came in with a bandage on your nose I’m going to ask what happened to your nose.”

“Fair enough. I’ll just get a round in and I’ll show you.”

So he got the pints in and proceeded to show us.

“Right. You know the way Mrs Charlie has been on my back for getting back late.”

“Aye.”

“Well this little beauty will make sure I never get lost no matter how scuttered I am”, he told us as he let the silk slide provocatively off what turned out to be a cage. Inside the cage was a pigeon which appeared to fastened to some kind of crossbow.

“What the fuck is that, Charlie?”

“I was stuck for inspiration the other day and I saw my champion pigeon Eyehat and I got to thinking. Pigeons can always find their way home, especially homing pigeons and my pigeons are homing pigeons.”

“But you’ve lost loads of the cunts”, said Jimmy the Bollix.

“I figure the ones that didn’t come home got eaten by hawks or weren’t homing pigeons, just regular French pigeons.”

“Whatever you say, Charlie. So how does that thing work.”

“Good question. Well, you can see the bird, with his unerring sense of direction - like a feathered GPS system, is attached to this high-powered crossbow here. Inside the bird I have planted a small radio transmitter which is linked to this compass wristwatch. The watch has a signaling device which will emit a pleasant beeping sound when I am going in the right direction and blast disgusting Damien Rice music when I am going away from my house and my …*cough* … beloved wife. I just shoot the bird in the air and away it goes leading back to my place.”

“Grand job, all very fuckin’ swish.”

“Perhaps I’ve made it a little bit more complicated than I needed to but I had to be sure. Mrs Charlie is talking about making me give her oral sex as a punishment if I’m late back again.”

“Good sweet holy jumping Jesus on the cross. Isn’t that a breach of human rights or something?”

“I don’t know but I just can’t take that risk anymore.”

“Can’t say I blame you, old pal. So this thing is foolproof then, is it?”

“I hope so”, Charlie said. “I’m going to have a few scoops here with you lads then give it a trial run. With any luck wherever I’ll aim Eyehat, that’s my home.”

A message from the management

by Twenty Major on November 14th, 2005

Dear everyone,

Twenty Major is too tired to post today. He will be back with more of the usual ructions and blackguardary tomorrow.

We thank you for your understanding.

yours etc

the 20Major Management (ie, Twenty Major)

Do you swallow?

by Twenty Major on November 11th, 2005

I took Bastardface, my trusty hound, out for a walk around the Phoenix Park yesterday. He likes to be off the lead and he just loves to chase the deer who make a sound like an old car horn when they see him coming. He bellows at the top of his voice and although you’re not supposed to let your dog chase the deer nobody is going to ask a person with a dog as large as Bastardface to take his four legged friend to task.

When we got home though he wasn’t too well. He was moaning and coughing a bit and he didn’t seem to want to lie down. He went round in circles, nose to the floor, and although he did try to rest now and again it looked like it was hurting him so I took him to the vets.

The vet is always happy to see Bastardface because he’s a good dog in the examination room. Despite the fact he’s bigger than a mammoth he’s never aggressive to Monty the vet unlike some small cute looking dogs who have done him damage in the past. He told me once it took nearly 30 seconds to detatch a Jack Russell from his groin. Poxy little rat cunts they are.

Anyway, he had a good feel of his stomach and throat and was undecided about what to do. He figured an x-ray would be the way to go so we took Bastardface into the x-ray room and got him up on the table and onto his back. A couple of minutes later it was all taken care of and he brought the picture up on his ‘puter.

“Hmmmmm”, he said.

“What is it, Monty the Vet?”, I asked, fearing something terrible like a twisted stomach or cancer.

“I’m not quite sure. Have a look yourself.”

So I had a look and there was a huge mass in his stomach. A huge spiky mass.

“God help him if he has to shit that out”, I said.

“I can’t let that happen to him”, said Monty the Vet. “I must operate.” He clicked his intercom. “Una, cancel all my appointments.”

An hour later he emerged from the operating theatre.

“Well, is he going to be all right?!”

“Aye, don’t worry but you might want to keep an eye on him in the park in future”, he said as he handed me the barely digested corpse of a hedgehog.

“Urgh”, I said.

“Indeed”, said Monty the Vet.

So tonight I’m at home alone while poor old Bastardface has to stay in overnight in the vets. I’ll go and pick him up in the morning but I can’t help feeling proud that my dog is so fucking hard he can swallow a hedgehog hole.

I bet your dog can’t do that.

The flow of conversation

by Twenty Major on November 10th, 2005

“So up the top field she had a donkey. Well, it wasn’t hers. One morning she woke up and found it there. We think it jumped over the wall and liked it there so it stayed.”

“Maybe it was a magic donkey and it flew in.”

“Don’t be silly, Twenty.”

“Aye, and a fucking puissance donkey makes so much sense.”

“It’s-a-not impossible”, said Lucky Luciano. “In Livorno was a man-a who was a-driving to work on quiet road when *improvvisamente* a cow a-jumped over the wall and landed on the bonnet. He had a stroke and a-spent-a the rest of his a-life dribbling in a home.”

“You Italians are fucking mental. What about this bleedin’ donkey anyway, Dave?”

“Well, I used to go and give it a carrot each day. Or if not a carrot it seemed to like a cucumber. Ocassionally a courgette or even a banana.”

“I see….”

“Well, one day I was rubbing in on the nose and all of a sudden it got a huge erection and started looking at me funny.”

“Funny how?”

“Like he wanted to stick me with his donkey cock.”

“A wonderful image, I have to say. What did you do?”

“I punched him in the face.”

“You punched a donkey in the face?” asked Jimmy the Bollix.

“Yep. Eight times. Made his stiffy go away let me tell you. Wrecked my fucking hand though.”

“I once punched a kestrel in the face”, said Stinking Pete. “The cunt must have thought I was a vole or something. Kept divebombing me. This wasn’t out in the country either. I was walking down Talbot Street. Fourth time he came at me I swung at him got him right in the beak, the cunt. He fell under a number 27 bus and got crushed to death. Serves him right.”

“Shame people didn’t do that with pigeons when they first started hanging around. Now you can walk right up to a pigeon and they barely get out of the way. I boot them the plague carrying cunts.”

“We know, Jimmy. The ISPCA love you.”

“What about the French? They eat pigeons.”

“French people are a-mental. They eat a-merda.”

“They’re all gone mental at the moment, eh? All that rioting over two scumbags who fried themselves on an electric fence. Daft, if you ask me.”

“It’s terrible in Paris though. I heard some of the rioters got pushed into the river.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they went insane.”

“Oh har, har, Twenty, you cunt.”

“I don’t get it.”

“So what’s new, Dave.”

“No, really, I don’t get it…..”

My first pint

by Twenty Major on November 9th, 2005

It’s almost like a coming of age in Ireland. The first time you get served in a pub. Naturally, if you were brought up right, you’ll have had a sup of your Da’s pint or you’ll have taken a nip of the whiskey bottle in the cupboard at home. But the day you go to the bar, hand over the money and get a pint glass full of creamy stout is a special day in the life of any young Irishman.

I remember mine like it was yesterday. Me and Jimmy the Bollix had been planning it for ages. The day in question we got all dressed up in our best suits and after mass and some cooing from relatives we were let off to do our own thing.

“Don’t you rip them pants, Twenty Major, or I’ll give you what for”, shouted my mam before I went out.

“Yeah, I better take care or you’ll open that jar of ‘what for’ you keep in the press”, I shouted back.

“You cheeky little cu-”, but I didn’t hear coz I was out the door.

“Nervous?” I asked Jimmy.

“A little bit. What if they don’t serve us? Then everyone in the bar will think we’re a right pair of wankers.”

“Don’t worry. I heard about O’Sheas. They’ll serve anyone. Relax.”

“Right. I’m relaxed. I shoulda had a shite before I left though.”

So we made our way down the road, sweating a little bit in our best polyester, and I was going over and over in my head what I was going to say when I got to the bar.

“Two pints, please. What? Guinness, of course.”

“Two Guinness barkeep and, er, keep the change out of that.

So eventually we arrived. We went in the side door and up the up the dark red carpeted stairs. We knew better than to go into the front bar. I figured confidence and direct action was the best way. If we stalled or looked nervous or hesitant I knew we’d have a problem so up I marched to the bar.

I coughed once to deepen my voice and said “Guinness. Pints. Two. Please.”

Not quite the self-assured image I’d wanted to project and I feared the worst when he just stared at me. I was about to repeat myelf when he said “Coming right up.”

I looked at Jimmy, gave him a little thumbs-up. We waited for those pints to settle. It seemed like an age but eventually the dark beer was ready to drink. He quoted me the price. I took out my money, all of it, and handed over a note. “Have one yourself there, if you like”, I said. I had no worries at all now.

“Very generous of you”, he said. “Don’t mind if I do. Question for you though. How’d a young fella like your hands on that money? Part time job, is it? Hope you’re not out thieving.”

“Nah, nothing like that”, I said. “First holy communion.”

Madonna is a genius

by Twenty Major on November 8th, 2005

You have to give credit where it’s due. How a woman quite as singularly ugly made us think she was so attractive for so many years is quite an achievement.

I saw her latest video on the telly the other day. She has sampled an Abba song and stuck a dance beat over it and in the video she dances and when she dances I am scared. She moves like something that could take 6 bullets in the chest and still come towards you looking to eat your soul.

I’d say her pubis is like Medusa. One look and you’re rock. Obviously she sat with her legs wide apart looking at Guy Richie’s latest movie because it sank like a stone. Her love button, I’m reliably informed, has suckers on it and can scratch an itch on her knee. It’s a clitacle.

She’s also into cults. That Kaballah thing is a load of old bollocky-shite but the good thing is one day Kaballah and Scientology are going to have an enormous scrap and we can see Madonna beat the shite out of Tom Cruise. She could probably beat him with one punch the sinewy harridan. One can only hope that the Cruiser inflicts a bite with his famously poisoned inscisors which causes her skin to fall off. That said I wouldn’t trust that to kill her.

I’d say you have to cut her head off, burn it, mix the ashes with a load of shotgun pellets and fire it right up her arse to get rid of her.

Madonna is, without question, the biggest threat known to mankind in the world today. Forget crazy Iranians, Osama, George W Bush and Phil Collins. If there was no Madonna I would rest easier.

I hate cloves

by Twenty Major on November 7th, 2005

I really fucking hate cloves and more than cloves themselves I hate those sweets, I think they’re called Clove Rocks, which look like the most delicious sweets in the land. They’re red and white and they should taste of something like strawberry and ice-cream but instead they taste like cloves which taste like a leper’s snot marinaded in cat’s piss and seasoned with battery acid and tramp spunk.

I can remember as a child taking one of them with gusto just awaiting the taste sensation to hit my tongue and nearly vomiting when the real taste hit me. I can’t imagine a greater contrast between appearance and taste. It would be like pulling Miss World and discovering her gee stank like two week old halibut.

The only other time I’ve had an experience similar is when, again as a small child, I found a bowl of custard in the fridge. Not a big bowl but some custard is better than no custard at all. I helped myself to a massive spoonful of it only to discover that it was mustard. Not pleasant on such a young and uncultured palette.

I don’t mind cucumber though. Lots of people seem to hate it even though it doesn’t have a particularly strong taste. I know someone exactly the opposite, they hate cucumber but like cloves.

Is it possible to like cloves and cucumbers or is there some taste bud jiggery-pokery that makes it impossible?

November 4th 1984

by Twenty Major on November 4th, 2005

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was dressed in a Hugo Boss suit. She was in a white dress. She looked beautiful. She smiled at me from from the door. I winked. It was time. The eldery man linked arms with her and they walked slowly towards me as the music played from the tinny speakers.

I began to sweat a little bit. Nerves. I’m sure you understand. They took their time. I never took my eyes off hers, all the while thinking of how long we’d planned this day. All the little details. The excitement. The nerves. Eventually they got to the top. He stepped back. She had a boquet of flowers in her hand. We turned and faced the man who looked at us expectantly.

She pointed the flowers at him so he could see the barrel of the pistol pointed straight between his eyes.

“Give me everything you’ve got”, I said. He did. Jimmy the Bollix disguised as the old man made sure everyone stayed where they were with his sawn-off shotgun.

£345,000 later the Allied Irish Bank in Rathmines installed new security doors. It was the happiest day of my life.