Chop ‘em off

by Twenty Major on February 28th, 2006

“Twenty”, said Stinking Pete, “imagine you got captured by the Taliban.”

“Right, the Taliban. That’s unlikely.”

“Ok then, Al Qaeda or some other Northside vigilante group.”

“Right.”

“So you’re captured and they’re making you dress up like the bloke from scream crossed with a KKK bloke and they’re getting a dog to bark in your face and scare the crap out of you and generally they’re torturing the shite out of you.”

“Grand, I’m picturing the scene, Stinking Pete. Go on.”

“Ok, so after a while they offer you a deal. If you let them cut off one part of your body they’ll let you go free. Now, it can’t be hair or a fingernail or anything that normally stands a good cutting. Would you let them cut something off and if so what would it be?”

“I think you’re a bit fucking mad, Pete, so I do, but anyway. It’s an interesting question I have to say. Would a man sacrifice a part of his body to get away from the relentless suffering that a good old fashioned torturing at the hands of a bunch of nutters brings? Can we go the way of the animal caught in a trap who will gnaw, and that’s pronounced ‘guh-nauw’ by the way, his own leg off rather than remain constrained by the mechanical teeth which make him a victim and an easy target for passing predators? The need to escape. The fight or flight insinct. It’s very difficult to know how you would react, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah, but which part of your body would you let them cut off?”

“Hmmm, let me think. Obviously I need the essentials. Mickey, bollocks, legs and arms. I quite like having all my fingers and toes too. Vincent van Gogh got away with only having one ear but I like having two. Nose, nah. Eyelids - I once read that if you cut someone’s eyelids off they go insane and then they pull their own eyes out so I think I’d avoid that. Arse - well, I need my arse for sitting on and drinking pints. I mean drinking pints while I’m sitting, not that I’ve ever attempted to drink a pint with my arse. That would be silly. That really only leaves one option. I would let them cut off my right nipple. In fact, I might let them cut off my left nipple too. Let’s face it, nipples on men are pretty useless. We do not produce milk and if we were clever enough we’d have figured out how to express 12 year old Laphroig by now so I figure they’re going to remain useless for quite some time. Yep, for me that’s the way out. It might be a bit sore but it’s not going to be something that I’ll ever miss and perhaps giving them two bits of my body to cut off they might give me a couple of elastoplast to help them heal up as I make my way home.”

“I like your thinking, Twenty. You know what I’d get cut off?”

“Your enormous hunch? That freaky fucking white bubbly thing under your left eye which people who don’t know you very well can’t help staring at? Your sixth toe on your left foot, you Anne Boleyn looking freak? That ganglian on your inner-wrist? Your ‘outy’ belly button? That enormous wart on the end of your nose that makes you look like a witch?”

“Nah, don’t be silly now, Twenty. I’d have them lop off my tail.”

Rioting in Dublin

by Twenty Major on February 27th, 2006

No doubt most of you have read about the riots in Dublin on Saturday.

A large group of Glasgow Rangers fans wanted to march (what is this Unionist obsession with marching anyway? Can’t they just walk like everyone else?) down O’Connell Street, Dublin’s main thoroughfare.

Quite why anyone thought this was a good idea is beyond me. Free speech is one thing but you wouldn’t find too many Love Palestine marches going up and down main street Tel Aviv and you certainly wouldn’t have a Love the Republic march down the Shankhill Road.

Anyway, as the Rangers fans got organised some Celtic fans decided that this was simply not on so they got together and started singing songs and throwing things so the march was called off. Job done, you would think, but no. The Celtic fans, whose real gripe was with the Rangers fans, then decided to engage in some full on rioting. They set things (not Rangers fans) on fire, they attacked the police (who were not Rangers fans), they looted shops (which were not owned by Rangers fans) and generally set about the place causing mayhem and millions of euros worth of damage (which won’t be paid for by Rangers fans).

Naturally because of the high possibility of opposition to the Love Ulster march there were simply thousands of police around O’Connell Street on Saturday who were quickly able to stop the bad behaviour and tell everyone to go home. Or to put it another way there was a skeleton crew on duty, weekend you see, and they struggled to keep hold of the situation. As well as that O’Connell Street is currently undergoing major construction so there were all kinds of bricks and iron bars lying around for people to brandish and hurl.

So to recap - Rangers fans hate Celtic fans. Celtic fans hate Rangers fans. Rangers fans want to march, Celtic fans oppose. Police presence minimal, handiness of weapons and missiles optimal, scumbag count, high. Result - trouble. Quel surprise.

The whole thing was cretinous beyond belief. And how scary the human mob mentality is. If they had come to stop the march they succeeded early on but being the witless cunts that they were, sorry ‘are’, they then had to attack police and pretend they were in New Orleans and do a spot of looting. How surprising it was they looted Foot Locker.

“Here Anto, I’m after getting a deadly new pair of Nikes!”

“Nice one, Deco. I’m gonna get a pair of Pumas.”

“Ye great puff. Pumas are for queers.”

“Fuck off you or I’ll brain ye with this brick.”

“Come on then ye scabby cuntchugger.”

And that’s how quickly their focus changes because they are moronic scumbags. The Gardai should have just waded in and battered the living shite out of them. Of course there’d be some Amnesty International loving cunts afterwards complaining about police brutality but fuck that. Fight this fire with fire. You can’t reason with people like that. You need to hurt them and hurt them badly. Oooh, lost in the sight in one eye, did you? Brain damaged, you say? Every bone in his body broken, eh? Tough shit. If you hadn’t been acting like a cunt you’d be fine. Reap what you sow, fuckers.

And what about poor old Charlie Bird, intrepid RTE reporter, getting a hiding after being called an ‘Orange bastard’? Well, a couple of weeks ago I was watching the news and he was interviewing a guy who survived the Stardust Fire. It was the 25th anniversary of the disaster, the guy lost 5 or 6 of his close friends, and Charlie asks him “So how do you feel when you think about your friends who died?”, or something similarly trite.

For fuck’s sake. What did he expect? “Well Charlie, I feel great when I think about them being burnt alive!”

Gobshite. For that alone I’m happy enough he got a couple of digs, saves me the trouble of stalking him and jumping him in the RTE car park, the sniveling shit.

This post has no title

by Twenty Major on February 24th, 2006

Dirty Dave was unusually fidgety in Ron’s last night.

“What’s wrong with you?”, I asked.

“Well, on my home I saw a kestrel fly into the side of a building and it knocked itself out.”

“Riiiight. So you’re upset about the kestrel?”

“Well, not really. You see, I hate to see animals in pain or distress. Don’t you remember that time I adopted that family of otters?”

“Yes, they didn’t much enjoy living in your bath with a couple of old palettes for dam building.”

“Aye, the little cunts ate the door and then the floorboards before falling to their death.”

“I’m not sure throwing 5 otters off Howth Head is the same as them falling to their death. Anyway, about this kestrel.”

“Yeah, well it bounced off the building and landed on the grass in front. I went over and I could see that it was still alive but it was unconscious and fading fast.”

“So what did you do?”

“I gave it artificial respiration.”

“You gave the kiss of life to a kestrel?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Well, after a while it sort of coughed, took a look at me, ran along the ground and took off, flying unsteadily but flying nonetheless.”

“So it’s all good then. You saved the kestrel. Why aren’t you in good form?”

“I think I might have bird flu.”

“You daft cunt, you can’t get bird flu from giving the kiss of life to a kestrel.”

“Are you sure,? It’s just that last night I watched Desperate Housewives, I’m feeling broody and I have a massive goo on me to go shoe-shopping.”

“I hate you, Dave.”

Speaking Irish

by Twenty Major on February 23rd, 2006

“So, Twenny”, said the American, “you’re Irish so why don’t you all speak Gaylick in this country?”

“Well, like most things that are wrong with Ireland it’s all the fault of the English. They basically took over the country, changed all the signposts into their language and sure we had to learn it to find out where we were going and to know we’d arrived when we got there.”

“But surely you could have gone back speaking Gaylick when you got rid of the English all those years ago.”

“Yes, I suppose we could have but at that stage people’s names had become English so it would have been a massive hassle. Not only that Irish became a compulsory subject in school and the quickest way to ensure young people hate something is by making them do it - apart from drinking flaggins of cider in the park, smoking or heavy petting (unless you’re forced to get off with an alocholic, chain smoking priest - and that’s not as unlikely as you may think). Then they made us read the book by Peig Sayers and she is single-handedly responsible for killing the Irish language.”

“So nobody at all speaks Gaylick in Ireland?”

“Oh yes, there are groups of people who speak it. They all live on an island off the coast of Galway and anyone who is caught speaking English is sent to live on the ‘mainland’, like a leper. Even talking in your sleep in English is forbidden.”

“My Gawd! They’re savages.”

“Not at all. When they do come to the mainland for their weekly shopping and day-trips to the Blachardstown centre they have great fun by going to a crowded cafeteria and whilst surrounded by non-Irish, sorry ‘Gaylick’, speakers they talk loudly about their physical imperfections and make acerbic comments about their lack of fashion sense or their purchases that day. They really have a huge advantage over us in that regard. Also, if they wish to advertise their wares or services on radio or tv stations they get a discount of up to 15%. Not only that the life expectancy of your average Gaylick speaker is far above that of anywhere else in Europe. Men can expect to live to around 145 years old whilst women hardly ever die before 160, making them the wrinkliest people on the planet apart from Sharpeis which aren’t even people. ”

“Wow, I did not know that. So do you speak any Gaylick, Twenny?”

“Not much. I used to be able to count to 10 but now I can only get to six. I can tell you to be quiet, to shut your mouth and to kiss my arse but I only really want to tell you the first two. I might be able to tell you I’m going to the shops but that’s about it.”

“What a shame that you don’t speak the native language of your country. It reflects badly on you as a person and on your nation as a whole that more people don’t speak it. That it’s taught badly is a disgrace. That’s it’s not encouraged is ludicrous and that there’s such a lack of pride in your past, your history, your very roots makes me sad and makes me think scornful thoughts of you.”

“Oh aye? Speak any fucking Apache then, do you? Thought not. Cunt.”

Hmmmmmm

by Twenty Major on February 22nd, 2006

I remember a bar. There were people in it. There was also beer.

Some flashing lights. People jumping up and down hugging each other. Grown men were singing songs over and over and over again.

More bars. More singing. A taxi ride, perhaps. Things are a little hazy* after that.

At some point while I was asleep a bee or some kind of scarab beetle must have gone up my nose and is now burrowing its way into the centre of my brain. I think I´ll use a kitchen knife to get it out. The pain cannot be any worse.

I love booze.

*complete blank

David Irving

by Twenty Major on February 21st, 2006

Isn’t it funny that at a time when all of Europe, if not the world, is looking at the Muslims rioting over a cartoon and declaring that free speech is a fundamental right a man is sent to jail for three years for remarks he made 16 years ago about the holacaust not taking place?

I’m not suggesting that Irving’s comments were in any way correct, he himself has admitted that he was wrong, and they’re quite patently ludicrous, but it does seem rather harsh to send a man to prison for something he said many years ago.

Is he not entitled to an opinion no matter how unpalatable it might be? At the same time these radical Muslim preachers in the UK can call for ‘jihad’ and incite murder and suicide bombings and the only thing they get is a fatter benefit cheque.

It’s all well and good Europe looking down their noses and tut-tutting at the madmen, and I do think they are mad, setting things on fire and putting bounties on cartoonists’ heads over a couple of lousy sketches but at the same time sending a man to prison for 16 year old opinions is just as mad if you ask me. It’s oppressive. If you don’t like what someone has to say ban him from your airwaves, your newspapers and magazines. Bar him from the country. Don’t allow his works to be sold there but don’t put him in prison because you don’t like what he says.

I guarantee you that you could go to Austria and say whatever you want about whoever you want but not end up in jail. You might get sued. You might have to pay damages for libel or slander. You might raise people’s ire. You might cause a demonstration or even a riot but I don’t think you’d get sent down for three years.

I’m just glad Phil Collins and Damien Rice haven’t run for office. I’d be properly fucked.

————————————-

Thank you to everyone who voted for Twenty Major in the Irish Blog Awards. I have five short list placings in four categories and your votes are much appreciated as well as very expensive. At the end of the day it’s a great advertisement for the Irish blogging scene and it doesn’t matter who wins as long as I win.

But really, as has been pointed out in that thread there are some high profile omissions which only really serves to show there’s great quality amongst the all the nominated blogs. Well done to everyone.

Also, well done to Damien who has spent so much time in organising and getting it all together. He deserves a pint or two and if he finds Ron’s I’ll be more than happy to shout for him.

Where have all the old words gone?

by Twenty Major on February 20th, 2006

“You’re a berk, Twenty, you know that? A real fucking berk!”

“A berk? A berk?”

How odd. I can’t remember the last time anyone called me that. Or I called anyone that. Or hearing anybody being called that.

A berk. One of those words which just seems to have fallen by the wayside. Maybe it’s because it’s more acceptable to use foul language these days. Life has moved from PG to 18s.

Nobody is a git anymore because they’re a wanker. There are no jammy beggars, just lucky cunts. Where are all the pillocks? Replaced by shit-heads or cocksuckers, that’s where. A smart-Alec (the original Alec must really have had a sharp tongue) is now a smart-arse.

It’s funny the way some people never swear until they’ve had a drink or two though. I know a very respectable man who used to have a moustache but now has a very excellent beard who, when sober, will never swear (unless properly vexed by poor service or incompetent staff).

Even in adult company he will say something is a load of ‘Ess, haitch, one, tea’, rather than say ’shit’. However, once a couple of pints have been consumed whatever that thing in his head that makes him do that gets switched off and there are ‘bollockses’, ’shites’ and ‘fucks’ a plenty.

I’m deeply suspicious of people who never swear. From time to time I get emails or comments on the site who say ‘You swear too much. It’s not big and it’s not clever’.

However, those people can go fuck themselves as not only is it big and clever, it’s sophisticated and creative. All the best people are doing it now. I hear the latest Hollywood trend is to redub old films in the same way they retouch special effects and they’re going to improve some of the old lines that we all know so well. A tremendous idea, I have to say. Some improvements could include:

Frankly my dear, I don’t give a goat’s cunt

Mrs Robinson, you’re trying to seduce me, you filthy fucking slut.

For fuck’s sake, Luke, use the fucking force.

You shitbags can’t fucking handle the cocksucking truth

Take your stinking, piss-stained, shite coloured, paws off me, you dirty, rimjobbing, spunk guzzling ape!

Play it again, Sam. You cunt.

Who can argue that it’s not an improvement?

Long story made short

by Twenty Major on February 18th, 2006

In Sweden with Jimmy the Bollix. Some years ago.

Suddenly a very tall and very blond policeman apprehends Jimmy.

“We’re arresting you for murder, grand larceny, the kidnapping of Shergar, the Spanish inquisition, the sinking of the Zeebrugge ferry, Phil Collins and for the genocide of thousands of Kurdish muslims.”

Jimmy looks shocked. Looks at me. I look at him. Look at the arresting officer.

Says I, “It’s a fair cop, Jimmy.”

Don’t film it you stupid cunts

by Twenty Major on February 17th, 2006

A load of soldiers beat the crap out of some Iraqis. Make them wank each other off and give blow jobs to dogs and stuff. Nobody would really care apart from the fact that the stupid cunts made it a Kodak moment.

Two Premiership footballers are caught being gay with pop star in a wicked threesome. Allegedly one footballer puts his phone up another footballer’s arse having set it on vibrate. Then he rings it. Mmmm, fantastic fun and again nobody would know, or care, apart from the fact they took pictures of it and filmed it.

Soldiers and footballers are stupid. Don’t film yourself kicking the fuck out of Iraqis and don’t take pictures of yourself having gay sex and you don’t have any problems. Film it, photograph it and you’re opening yourself up to a world of scandal.

It’s like those stupid happy slapping cunts who kick the bollix out of somebody and film it then send it to their friends who then send it to their friends and eventually somebody doesn’t like it and all of a sudden your video nasty turns into video evidence and you’re nicked, sunshine.

I remember a piece of advice my father gave me years ago. He said “If you’re going to do something bad don’t let anyone see you and if you do it and nobody sees you don’t tell anyone you did it.”

That’s proper common sense. Why do something you don’t want anyone else to know about but create evidence of the act? I’ve certainly never filmed anything in my life. I never wanted to be associated with film students who are nature’s cruellest mistake. None of my associates have ever filmed anything or taken pictures of anything then brought the camera to the local chemist to have the pictures developed.

That’s why we’re not in jail or exposed on the front page of a Sunday tabloid. It’s pretty fucking easy really.

Last year Dirty Dave tried to film himself having a poo as he wanted to see how wide his ringpiece opened up. He ate bran heavy foods for a couple of days then bought a slimline digital camera and held it underneath as he loosened his bowels. Sadly for Dave his log knocked it out of his hand and into the toilet.

Not even he wanted to fish around for his stool covered Minolta.

Bastardface and the two skangers

by Twenty Major on February 16th, 2006

As I sometimes suffer bouts of insomnia I decided to take Bastardface out for a late night stroll last night. It was quite cold and I was wrapped up well. Bastardface doesn’t feel the cold though. He’s double-hard.

Anyway, we’d walked for ages and ended up along the canal at Kilmainham. Not always a nice place to be and not at the late hour I was there. There’s a garage with a 24 hour shop which has a Star Wars missile defence system it gets robbed so much.

I figured we’d cross the bridge and head back along the South Circular Road. Just after we crossed I was approached by two likely lads. Both of them about 21 or 22. Both of them with gold hoops in each ear, one of them with a little fluffy Ronnie of a moustache because he couldn’t grow a real one, the other with all parts of his face pierced. Eyebrow, nose and the middle bit under your bottom lips.

“Nice dog”, Ronnie said.

“Yeah”, said Piercey as they stood in front of me.

“Yes, he is a nice dog”, I said, “but I’m afraid I don’t have time to discuss that with you two gentlemen. Places to go, people to see and all that.”

“Giz him”, said Ronnie.

“What?”, I said.

“Giz yer dog, mister. We want him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible. You see, firstly I don’t want to give him to you. Secondly dogs, as I’m sure you know, are man’s best friend and I am a man therefore he is my best friend. You two look like proper chums. I’m sure you wouldn’t give Ronnie away, would you Piercey?”

“Eh? Who de bleedin’ fuck is Ronnie?”

“Nevermind. Thirdly - Bastardface, as that is his name, would not go with you even if I tried to give him away. He is as loyal as a goat and would resist all attempts to be lured, persuaded or forced to go with anyone else, let alone a couple of feckless clits like you pair.”

“Yer talkin’ out yer hoop ye aul’ bollix. It’s a fuckin’ dog. Ye grab his lead and dat’s de fuckin’ size of it. Reet?”

“Perhaps that would work with 99% of dogs but not with Bastardface. I can assure you of that.”

“Yer a spoofer”, said Piercey as he pulled out a knife. “De dog is ours now and you can’t do shite. Hand ‘im over.”

“You really don’t want me to do that.”

“Yeah, I really do, cuntchops. Now giz ‘im.”

I sighed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you”, I said as I held out the lead which is a normal choke chain not one of those fancy extendable things.

“Haha. Deadly!”, said Ronnie as he moved to grab the lead.

“Arrrrrrgggghhh, get him off me!!”, cried Ronnie as Bastardface went on the offensive.

He truly hates being separated from me and thinks that anyone else will take him to a dirty kennels where he will have to mix with other dogs and won’t get a fresh cat to eat each day. His hackles were already raised and when stupid Ronnie tried to take him he chomped his hand and wouldn’t let go. Now, I’ve seen my dog chew through the toughest of bones that the butcher down the road always gives me so this cunt’s hand was no problem to him.

His hand won’t ever be a problem to anyone as most of it ended up in Bastardface’s stomach. He then turned his attention to the upper thigh area and took a chunk out of that. Ronnie fell on the ground.

Piercey had a knife and turned to stab Bastardface but forgot about me in his horror and got my size 10 boot in his balls. He then got Bastardface’s jaws around the top of his head, the little beanie hat he was wearing offering little protection as scalp tartare was on the menu. I let him chomp away at them for a while before giving him the whistle to stop.

“I did tell you!”, I said to the two bloodied messes. “You should have listened while you had the chance. Of course listening is going to much more difficult in the future without your ears, but there you go. See you cunts later.”

We set off towards home and he walked alongside me, looking up occasionally and wagging his tail. I patted his massive head.

“Good dog”, I said. “Good dog.”