Haircuts

by Twenty Major on January 19th, 2006

Got me a haircut yesterday. Not a big fan of getting haircuts but going to old Larry’s barbers makes it easier.

“Howya Larry?”, I ask as I sit down.

“Grand, Twenty”, he says. “The usual?”

“Aye”, I say and that’s the end of the conversation. He gets out his clippers, puts on the number 2 blade and proceeds to shave all the hair off my head. 5 minutes tops and that includes the old cut-throat razor to do the woolly bits on the back of the neck, sideburns and everything.

I used to go to a place on South Anne Street called the Green Dolphin where they had a team of barbers who were all older than me even. Much older. Sadly they were so old they all died, even the lovable scamp with the massive handlebar moustache, so I had to stop going there when they brought in new lads. This wouldn’t have been a problem in itself but some of them were more hairdresser than barber and the day one of them tried to massage my scalp was the last day I ever went in.

Dirty Dave always goes to Toni and Guy to get his haircut. A trim and blowjob blow-dry costs €60 or something mental like that. What a load of shite. Larry charges €10. Any man that pays €60 for a haircut is deeply suspicious if you ask me. I’ve no idea why a skanky pleb like Dave insists on paying that much, especially when he goes and they style it like he’s just got out of bed. Why not just get out of bed and save yourself €60?

Dave says it makes him feel better and more attractive to women after he gets a haircut. Apart from shop assistants and people who use public transport the closest he’s got to a woman in the last 5 years is when he french kissed a bag-lady who had passed out on Nassau Street. Still, it’s his money I suppose.

Away from that particular topic though I just want to send my heartiest congratulations to the priest in Galway who had an affair with a woman half his age and got her pregnant. He’s in his 70s and everything.

I hope others take note. It should serve as an example to all priests that their penis, if it has to go anywhere, should go into a woman’s vagina and not up little boys arses.

Hospital waiting

by Twenty Major on January 18th, 2006

The news last night. Some opposition politician was complaining about the state of the A&E departments in Irish hospitals. He claimed at any one time there were 400 people waiting on trolleys or chairs or benches, sometimes for up to 2 days, before being seen or admitted.

The hospitals board hit back saying ‘It’s not 400 at all, that’s ridiculous. It’s an outrageous slur. It’s nowhere near as that. It’s actually 380 people.”

Ah, well that’s all right then. It’s only 380 people paying more tax than Paris Hilton has had cocks in the last week to sit in a fucking waiting room or in a corridor on a chair or a trolley (if they’re lucky).

We keep reading about how the government made so much money this year in tax, more than €2.5bn than they thought they would, they haven’t had to borrow as much as they had budgeted for. They might spend a bit on hospitals instead of the usual crap they spend on themselves like paying off journalists to not write about the fact they beat their wives.

Basically it’s best to avoid hospitals if you can. Stinking Pete has a massive fear of hospitals brought about by an incident when he was young. He claims that he was held upside down and slapped on the back moments before somebody cut his tail off.

Anyway, he refuses point blank to go to a hospital or to see a doctor of any kind. As he’s a bit accident prone this isn’t always a good thing.

Once he was fleeing somebody or other, I don’t remember who exactly but Pete flees quite a lot, he leapt over a wall and broke his ankle. Somehow he managed to hobble round to Jimmy the Bollix’s place with his ankle swollen like a balloon. Jimmy called me so I came around.

“Fuck me that’s nasty looking”, I said.

“It hurts like a goat”, he said.

“I’d say it does. It’s gone black and blue already and your foot is really cold. That means the circulation is probably cut off and you’re going to lose your toes like some kind of arctic explorer! Cool.”

“Fuck, I need my toes. I’ll fall over without them.”

“Well, then we better get you to a doctor or a hospital.”

“NO!”, he shouted. “No doctors, no hospitals.”

“No toes, Stinking Pete. Your choice.”

“There must be another way.”

I consulted with Jimmy and the only thing we could come up with was to call Mick the medic who looked after folk who couldn’t go to a hospital when they got shot or got injured doing something they shouldn’t. Mick had done two years of vet school and had a black doctor’s bag with mostly drugs and some crude tools.

He came over about 20 minutes later and at this stage Pete was hallucinating with the pain. He kept saying that he had to leave in order to have a business meeting with 80s one hit wonder Oran ‘Juice’ Jones. Mick the medic shot him up with something which made his eyes roll and made him drool more than he normally does before he twisted his ankle around into a position which looked relatively normal. He then made a papier-mache cast and a splint out of an old wooden ruler and told us to tell Pete to take it off in about 6 weeks. He left us with 50 diazepam to control the pain.

The first week we kept him in a semi-coma but eventually he came around more and after 6 weeks he took off his makeshift cast.

Now the cunt limps like his foot is on backwards. Which it is practically. Magoo the medic more like.

A night of near terror

by Twenty Major on January 17th, 2006

It was a normal evening Ron’s. I was sitting at the bar with Jimmy the Bollix who was regaling us with a story about when he was a bouncer in Soho back in the 80s. Suffice to say it involved Marc Almond, a Tory MP, a large bag of mixed nuts, a phillips head screwdriver and an icing bag filled with man custard.

Dirty Dave was there too, as was Stinking Pete, Splodge and Lucky Luciano who has just come back from Israel and is muttering under his breath about ‘too many security guards’ and how much he hates the smell of hospitals.

Anyway, in came a bloke with a stupid beard and ridiculously old fashioned jumper. One of those zig-zaggy efforts that people wore a lot in the early 80s. He was carrying a large round case. He sat down in the corner and didn’t order a drink. An eyebrow or two was raised at the bar but nothing was said.

Then a few minutes later came in another pair in Aran jumpers and sort of baby poo brown cords. One of them had a satchel of some kind while the other carried something that made Lucky’s eyes light up, a fiddle case. Shortly after another man came in and he had a guitar case followed just a minute or two later by another fucking cunt with a banjo case.

One of them came up to the bar. “5 glasses of Guinness please, barchappy!” he trilled.

There is only one thing that’s gayer than glasses of Guinness and that’s Graham Norton dressed as Liberace covered in KY Jelly giving a reach around to Shirly Temple Bar whilst sucking Boy George’s cock and being fisted by Tarzan.

So Ron served him with a furrowed brow. He took the drinks over to their table on a tray - I ask you - and they sat there talking for a while.

I had my back to them but Jimmy could see them from his seat. About 10 minutes later he said “Jesus, Twenty. That cunt’s after taking out a bodrhán. And that other fucker has taken a tin whistle out of his satchel.”

I looked around. It was true. And the guitar and the fiddle were out of their cases and the banjo was on its way too. There wasn’t a moment to be lost.

“Quick!” I shouted. “Get them before it’s too late.”

So we got up from our seats and rushed over. Lucky Luciano leapt on the man with the guitar and headbutted him in the face as they fell to the ground.

Jimmy went straight for the lad with the bodhrán who was looking around desperately for a way out. A dark stain appeared on the front of his pants just miliseconds before Jimmy’s fist landed straight on his nose. To make sure there’d be no drumming Jimmy snapped all the fingers on his left hand one by one.

Stinking Pete took the fiddler to the roof and fucked him off while Dirty Dave raised his armpit to the banjo man who promptly passed out at which point Dave broke the banjo over his head a few times.

I was left with the tin whistler, who seeing the damage done to his chums, took drastic action. He put the whistle to his mouth.

“You wouldn’t dare”, I said.

“Try me”, he answered. “Come any closer and I’ll start some kind of a reel or jig. I swear to you.”

“Just put the whistle down and we’ll let you go. Come on, put it down. Don’t be stupid. There’s nobody left to protect you and there’s 5 of us.”

He backed away, nervously. I moved towards him.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME ANY CLOSER!” he shouted, whistle still in his mouth.

“Ok, Ok. I’ll stay here. I won’t come any closer”, I reassured him.

“I will though” said Ron coming from behind the bar just before he smashed a bottle of Vat 69 - cheap as fuck whiskey for the tourists that he pours into Jameson bottles - over his head.

“Whistle that, you cunt”, he said.

After we’d desposited them groaning, moaning and in case sobbing like a baby on the street outside we sat down and Ron poured a round of pints.

What a relief it was. I really hate traditional music.

Online bullying

by Twenty Major on January 16th, 2006

Most amusing at the moment is the story about the pupils of one of Dublin’s poshest girl’s schools being suspended for online bullying. I’m not sure exactly what’s been said but I’d imagine it’s stuff like setting up sites like fionaisaslut.blogspot.com and susansuckedbrianreillyscock.blogspot.com

Reports say they use a site called hateboard.com.

Here are a couple of the entries I found when I had a look. It’s a wonderful indictment of the Irish educational system and it shows that we’re carrying on the fine writing tradition as set down by the likes of Brendan Behan, James Joyce and Cecilia Ahern.

ur all gay.wat skul do uz go to ya bunch of fuckin pussys.u wuld say it nd wen u get there ud bac out u faggits

Exactly,she’s a tramp! and shes so 2faced aswell.her 1st ride was with an old man in a shed n shes tried numerous times to nab ppls boyfriends.a total waste of space,c wot i mean?

I kno how ya feel,most of da girls in my town r like dat.but jst be happy ur not lke ur best friend:) At least ur more down to earth,n u cn pick out da fake tarts,cos u aint 1of dem!

Wel..She is my bst m8! She didnt used2 b like dat! We kinda had a huge fite during lst summer..and den she went2 d north and rode like half d fella’z der…and den she strtd dying her hair and plastering d make-up on! But den we made bac m8z and she stil like dat! and she neva stops tlking bout all d fella’z dat she is meeting or dat r calling her sexy and shit like dat!

Now, although I hate it, I can understand ‘txt speak’ on a mobile phone because the number of characters is restricted there’s no fucking call for it when you can use as many letters as you like. And the punctuation. Oh dear.

I’d say these cunts were suspended from school for being absolutely shite at English not for online bullying. And suspending them is hardly much punishment, is it? Ok, seeing as you were a bad girl on the internet I’m going to make you stay at home so you can sit on your arse and use the internet all day while your parents are at work. Clever.

Bullying used to be so simple back in the day. I remember once two big guys in school bullying a younger lad. They burned him all over his face with lighters. Then, when the young lad was all grown up, he stabbed his girlfriend to death and got life in prison.

Ahhh, the good old days.

The saddest music in the world…

by Twenty Major on January 14th, 2006

…is without doubt the end music from the TV series The Incredible Hulk when lonely Dr David Banner walks away with his tiny knapsack. Truly haunting.

Religion is dangerous

by Twenty Major on January 13th, 2006

Stampeding Muslims. I ask you. No doubt somebody else will make the comparison with cattle but it’s quite crazy to think that 350 people were killed stampeding during a religious festival.

This would never have happened if the Catholic Church had managed to convert the Middle East instead of Africa. Then religious festivals become about drinking as much booze as possible and not trampling your fellow devotees to death.

Christ is born - booze. Christ has died - booze. Christ has risen again - booze.

Anyway, in Ireland you couldn’t have a stampede at a religious festival. We’ve made all our religious monuments stampede friendly since the terrible Newgrange crush of 1745 when 14 druids, some serfs and an unknown number of wenches crushed themselves to death during the winter solstice.

Take Croagh Patrick for example. This is a mountain in County Mayo and it is said that Saint Patrick himself climbed to the top, fasted for 40 days and then built a church there before throwing a bell down the mountain to banish all the snakes. He’s some fucking man. Doesn’t eat a thing for 40 days and then lashes out a church without a hardware store anywhere in site; beams, naves, altars, pulpits, sacristies, transepts and apses, the whole fucking lot. Then, with his stomach still rumbling, he gets rid of snakes before he goes to get a good fried breakfast.

Anyway, on the last Sunday of July pilgrims climb the mountain to give worship to … erm … God I think and I can guarantee you that if Joe Dolan himself was at the top waiting for them there wouldn’t be a stampede.

Why? Because they’re supposed to climb barefoot (if they want to be proper holy) and the path up the summit is littered with ankle breaking rocks. Try and stampede and you’d give up in seconds as you watched your ankle bone sticking out like in the Deer Hunter except that wasn’t an ankle bone but you know what I mean.

Muslims need to make their holy sites less accessible, perhaps taking away the wheelchair ramps would be a start or moving them underwater. It’s hard to stampede with 40lbs of oxygen on your back.

Get out of the way.

by Twenty Major on January 12th, 2006

You know what I hate? People that just won’t get out of your way.

Take today for example. I was walking down Middle Abbey Street, minding my own business, and along came a woman with a buggy with twins in it and another child of about 5 or 6 holding her hand. The buggy was laden down with shopping bags, umbrellas and all the other assorted stuff that people have with them when they have three children.

So as she got nearer to me I expected her to move to the side to let me pass but no! She fucking well stayed in the middle of the footpath. So I stopped. Then she stopped. We stared at each other, not saying a word. Eventually she took all the shopping bags in one hand, shifted the buggy a couple of feet to the right and moved the kid from her left to her right side, nearly falling on her snot, allowing me to pass.

“That wasn’t difficult now, was it?” I said as I continued on my way.

“Shove it up yer fuckin’ bollix ya dorty old skank” she said.

Some people, I ask you. I also remember another time taking one of my occasional solitary breaks I was standing at the Cliffs of Moher, watching the Atlantic waves crash into the coast, the storm clouds building out at sea. As I stood there trying to enjoy the view I noticed another person and he was ruining the scenery so I walked over and asked him to kindly move.

He thought I was joking as we were the only two people around as far as the eye could see. He informed me that it was his right to enjoy the cliffs and he could stand where he jolly well wanted. So I informed him in the face a few times and gave him a close up view of the cliffs that not too many people see - upside down and travelling towards the ground at a mighty rate of knots.

Sometimes it’s a good idea to get out people’s way.

Stringfellows in Dublin

by Twenty Major on January 11th, 2006

“Hey, did you hear?”, asked Dirty Dave.

“Hear what?” said Jimmy the Bollix.

“They’re giving yer man Stringfellow a licence for a lapdancing club!”

“Stringfellow looks like he’s got cancer of the hair. Where is it going to be?”

“Around Parnell Street I reckon.”

“Oooh, a truly high class part of town that. I can imagine all the high rollers will be flocking through the doors.”

“I reckon I’m going to get a job there!”

“Don’t be fucking soft, Dave. You’ll never get a job at Stringfellow’s lap-dancing club.”

“Why not, Jimmy?”

“Well, let me think. For a start you’re a fucking pervert and you’d never do any work if there were tits all over the place. Secondly, you’re absolutely minging and these places don’t employ people who are minging. You’re a filthy fucking mess. You’re like that little cunt from Charlie Brown who always had the flies around him except you’re like him after he fell into a industrial sized vat of slurry, managed to escape but then fell face first into a dinosaur poo, vomited all down his front and instead of standing under a hot shower to wash it off he stood under a jet of super-heated cat piss. Your teeth look like old tombstones there’s that much moss on them, there are things growing under your fingernails that would take scientists decades to identify - in fact they’d probably have to name some things as I’m sure new species have emerged - there’s enough wax in your eyes… sorry your ears… to make a candle that would burn for thousands of years and then there’s the smell. Imagine a corpse that had been rotting for about three weeks now covered in maggots and little maggot stools. Then imagine that corpse smeared with the diseased organs of a traveller who had lived on cabbage and water from puddles in cow fields sprayed with four week old milk blended with month old fish intestines. That doesn’t even come close to describing how putrid you are.”

“Don’t pull any punches, whatever you do, Jimmy”, said Dave feigning surprise and hurt.

“Fuck off, Dave. You’re not called Dirty Dave just because you’re a depraved, deplorable deviant with a porn collection bigger than Paris Hilton’s cavernous gash.”

“So you don’t think there’s any chance I’d get a job there?”

“Not a hope in hell, Dave. You’re best off sticking with the primary school teacher’s job you’ve had for years.”

New Dangermaus and Irish Blog Awards

by Twenty Major on January 10th, 2006

Heads up, chums, there’s a new Dangermaus for you to sink your teeth into and I should mention the nomination process for the Irish Blog Awards is now up and running.

I’m going to chuck in a couple of fillum reviews “Narnia, Chronicles of Bollocks, more like”, cúpla focail in Irish and I’ll let Jimmy and Dave make a post so I can safely be nominated in pretty much every category. Apart from the tech one and that’s for nerds anyway. So go now, nominate your favourite blogs (once it’s me) and then the campaigning, lobbying and persuasion over voting can begin in due course.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

by Twenty Major on January 10th, 2006

I’m taking today off, dear readers, but in my place I have a very special guest blogger: Senator Mary O’Rourke who can’t understand what all the fuss is about over her remarks the other night. Take it away, Mary.

Janey Mac, can you believe all the kerfuffle yesterday about my little remark after I was chosen to represent the Fianna Fail party at the next election?

All I said was that my campaign team ‘worked like blacks’, I didn’t say that they were blacks. I’d understand people getting upset at being called black when they’re not but it’s a compliment to say they worked like them.

I’m sure we’ve all seen the films and read the books and encyclopaedias that show quite clearly that the blacks worked really, really hard – so what’s the big deal? In America’s deep south the entire economy was built on the cotton picking industry and who did the plantation bosses hire? That’s right, the blacks. They knew that the blacks were genetically predisposed to working hard and that their livelihoods depended on how much cotton they’d pick so they hired the people who would work the hardest.

They didn’t hire other whites as their skills are more administrative as opposed to the blacks’ natural manual labour abilities but nor did they hire Canadians or wetbacks who had crossed the border illegally from the south and would be prepared to work much cheaper. So as you can see my comments were merely a testament to the work ethic and professionalism of the blacks and not a slur.

If I had meant to cause offence I would have said they worked like Nigerians who are all asylum seeking con-artists, 419ers and ATM fraudsters.

I will certainly not be apologising but I can understand how some people got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe there are some things you just can’t say these days. Especially when it’s no longer the blacks that work the hardest. In our country today we have been blessed with so many Polaks who also provide a marvellous return for their employers who have trusted them with jobs and not to marry their daughters. It makes me sad that we don’t have any coal mines in Ireland so they could feel properly at home doing the work they love, the funny little mole people.

Let’s not forget it’s not so long ago that a man could shoot a short-order oriental cook and a judge would let him walk free as there was nothing in the constitution saying it was illegal to shoot a chinaman. Now Ireland is a land where all kinds of ethnic groups cluster and remain in their own communities. The blacks, the slitty-eyed, the corner shop owners, spics, wops, towel heads and cannibals.

So if a few people want to get their knickers in a twist because they simply don’t understand the wonderful compliment I gave my campaign staff then so be it.

I’m off down the chinkies for a chow mein.