Fallout the window, you twats.

by Twenty Major on April 28th, 2006

I didn’t watch that Fallout program that was on RTE a few days ago because I’m still trying to recover from the trauma of The Day After and Threads which managed to make Sheffield look even more bleak than it actually is. Planet Potato had a look at it though and he concluded that it was pretty shite.

Then today I’m trawling around looking for some news having just recovered from the upset stomach I had yesterday and I read this:

RTE’s documentary-style drama, screened this week, used BBC-style news reports and amateur video footage from mobile phones to portray panic on Dublin’s streets as terrified residents scrambled to get out of the city.

The national broadcaster later said it logged 30 calls from viewers who believed the disaster was actually happening.

Jesus wept! This is 2006 and 30 people thought that there was panic and mayhem because of meltdown at Sellafield. Unbelievable. Maybe the world was a more innocent place when Orson Wells had people running the streets with the War of the Worlds but there’s just no excuse for that now.

I mean, even if there was a nuclear disaster at Sellafield why the fuck would you ring RTE?

“Hello, RTE. How can I help you?”

“Hello, I’m lookin’ at dis disastoh on de telly, reet, and I’m, like, wondering wha’ de sketch is an’ all dat.”

“Yes, it seems as if we’re all going to die from radiation poisoning and suffer hideous mutations with a slight chance of acid rain from the west.”

“Nice one, bud. Cheers.”

*click*

“He-yar, Antionette, we’re bleedin’ fucked, so we are. Let’s go rob Footlocker.”

The funniest thing is that Environment Minister Dick Roche has been complaining that the program portrayed Irish people in a bad light. He said “It was a slur on the Irish people. They were suggesting there would be riots on the streets of Dublin. We have a very sophisticated society here in Ireland.”

Excuse me whilst I wipe away the tears of mirth. We’re so sophisticated that 30 people rang up the TV station to find out if the drama series was real and the Minister might want to cast his mind back a few months when the thoughts of a few protestants marching down O’Connell Street caused major riots. Imagine what a fucking nuclear disaster would do.

He should be given the job of Minister for talking hysterical shite and those people that phoned up need to be put down, the fucking gobshites.

Something I ate?

by Twenty Major on April 27th, 2006

I sat on the floor head in the toilet bowl.

“Bleeeeuurrrrggggh!”, I said as 500 cubic litres of vomit gushed forth. It took so long to get out I thought I was going to die because I couldn’t breath.

I flushed. Breathed deeply once or twice. Oh-oh…

“Bleeeeeuuuurrrrgggghaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!”, and once more enough puke to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool spewed out of me.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Then I wiped my forehead getting chunks on my face. Mmmmm, boooootiful.

Bastardface appeared at my side. He gave a little whine. Wine? Oh Jesus….

“Blarrraaarlllllaaaarrralllraalrlaraaarrrgh”, 86 pints.

“I’m not feeling the best, old friend”, I said when I lifted my head up. He looked at me with those big brown eyes, so full of compassion and understanding (even if he didn’t quite understand why I flushing perfectly good food down the toilet). He nudged me with his nose.

“Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllppppppphhhh”, went I as I vomited all over his head.

I think it must have been the Bird’s Eye crispy pancakes that had been in my freezer since 1989. I vaguely remember hearing the words of my dear old Mam as I searched for something to eat last night.

‘Oh, they only put expiry dates on things so you have to buy more, they’re just a general guide’.

“Huuuuurrrrrrrrrrrlllll”, and I’m sure there was a bit of poo in my vomit.

I had a shower, stuck Bastardface’s barf stained head underneath and washed him off, then curled up in a ball on my bed.

On the upside I’m now supermodel thin.

Prince Phillip

by Twenty Major on April 26th, 2006

So Prince Phillip, husband of the Queen of England, is visiting Dublin today. He’s famous for his witty quotes.

This will be his second visit to Dublin as he came here before in 1998. At some point he slipped away from the main party and ended up in Ron’s. He pulled up a stool at sat at the bar beside me and the lads.

“You there, tavern owner. A pint of Guinness and none of your lip”, he said to Ron.

“My God, it’s a shame the famine didn’t kill more of you disgusting Micks”, he said looking at Dirty Dave. “I thought only pigs wallowed in their own filth.”

He turned his attention to Stinking Pete then. “What a ghastly little Paddy you are. You’re like Terry Wogan with the plague.”

Jimmy was sat open mouthed.

“Close your face you ghastly man. You Irish are stupid enough already without making faces to look like total mongs.”

Ron gave him his pint.

“One of the natives will pay for it, I’m sure“, he said.

“You there”, he said to me. “I realise it’s probably a good year’s wages for you, you whiskered terrorist - although that Mountbatten always gave me a pain in my arse. Bloody do-gooder he was. Kudos for that one - pay the bloody man for my drink. Barter if you have to. I’m sure you’ve got a spare goat or something, you wretched indigent.”

“Barman, give me some kind of snack. I couldn’t eat the gruel they gave me at that reception. Typical Irish fare, they said. Pig swill, I say. ‘Tayto’? You’d think you ninnies would have learned by now to move away from potatoes as your staple diet.”

“You two, fight!”, he ordered Dave and Pete. “Come on! Drunken Irish bastards. Fight. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Get drunk and fight like inebriated savages. The whole world knows it.”

What a marvellous man. I hope he comes back in to Ron’s for a pint today.

Fuck off, we’re not stupid.

by Twenty Major on April 25th, 2006

Bloggers who announce everything get on my tits. You know what I mean, the ones who say “Well, I’m giving up blogging. I’ve run out of things to talk about/can’t be arsed/have better things to do” and they only do it because they want people to go “Ooooh nooooooo! Don’t! I love you! PLEEEEASE!”

I know most blogs are ego trips but, you know, if you stop fucking posting we’ll get the message soon enough. Once we’ve gone three months without a post we might just realised you’ve stopped or are, with any luck, dead or something.

Same with the ones who tell you when they’re going to alter their posting schedule.

“From now on I won’t be posting in the afternoon but I shall post every morning between 9.15am and 9.37am. I don’t want to restrict myself though.”

Very good, thanks for telling us. It’s not like we wouldn’t have fucking realised after a few days that this is what you were doing. We’re not all fucking simpletons. What is this need to tell us everything?

It’s like people who send you a text message and they say “I’ll ring you later.”

Just ring. It’s not necessary to to advise me of everything you do.

“Just going for a poo, then I’m going wipe my arse, flush the bog, wash my hands, feed the dog, close the windows, lock the doors, pull down the blinds, switch on the radio, double check the lock on the back door, turn on the alarm and then I’ll call over to you.”

Fucking hell. Does nobody remember the world where we didn’t have instant communication all the time? If you were late you were late. If there was a big problem you’d ring and explain but you never felt you had to share the details of your life because the person at the other end didn’t actually care.

I still don’t care. I don’t give a fuck if you’re giving up blogging. I’ll find a new blog to read. I don’t care what you have to do at home before you arrive just fucking arrive. You’d get it done quicker if you weren’t giving yourself a thumb based RSI with your manic texting.

Just fucking stop it. You’re annoying me.

Irish Census

by Twenty Major on April 24th, 2006

Census. I just filled in my census form last evening. Coincided with a card game. How exciting. I hope they believe me coz it’s all true. Honest. Wanna peek?

List every person who spent the night of Sunday 23rd April in the household…

Person No. First name and Surname
1 - James the Bollix
2 - Dirty David McDavids
3 - Stinking Peter McPeterson
4 - Lucky Luciano Stasi
5 - Ronald Barman
6 - Splodge

What is your name?

Twenty Major

What is your date of birth?

26 09 1865

What is your place of birth?

Dollymount Strand

What is your nationality?

Irish. Mostly.

Where do you usually live?

In my house.

What is your religion?

Jewlimtholic. Please execute anyone who puts ‘Jedi’.

Can you speak Irish?

Ní thuigim an ceist.

How many children have you given birth to?

18

What is your ethnic or cultural background?

Guinness drinking, cigarette smoking raconteurist.

How do you usually travel to work, school or college?

Rickshaw

What is the highest leve of education (full-time or part-time) which you have completed to date?

Postgraduate diploma from the school of hard knocks

What is (was) your occupation in your main job?

Shepherd

What is (was) the full address at which you actually work(ed)?

Second field on the left, just past the Hellfire Club, Co. Dublin

I declare that this form is correct and complete to the best of my knowledge.

You can shove your census up your holes you nosey cunts.

Kevin Myers resigns from the Irish Times…

by Twenty Major on April 23rd, 2006

…world keeps on turning, much to his chagrin I’m sure.

When I started this blog some people suggested I might actually be Kevin Myers. Preposterous. As if I’d resign from the Irish Times. You can write any old bollocks and they’ll print it.

I do make up 75% of their letters page though.

Where is the hate? (One for the bloggers)

by Twenty Major on April 21st, 2006

When are the blog fights really going to kick off? At the moment the Irish blogosphere is quite friendly, relaxed and more or less everyone is quite happy to slap the back of everyone else.

Of course there are those blogs which keep a close eye on other blogs (well, used to at least) and there’s probably no love lost there. Then in recent days United Irelander has been having some kind of a battle with some girl who isn’t actually two girls at all but just one girl - that’s if UI is to be believed, and who are we to doubt him?

However, for the Irish blogging scene to really flourish we need some proper vitriol, some terrible enemies, a massive scrap between one or two of the higher profile blogs. Now, I don’t mean some tiresome debate about prods or catholics in Norn Iron. They go on all the time I’m sure and those people argue and debate and cajole and snipe but at the end of the day they never convince anyone to change their point of view. Their squabbles will always exist and they don’t count in this particular piece.

No, what we need is for somebody to take such umbrage with the content or style or writing of another blog that they just lose it and rip into the other blogger, resorting to terrible personal remarks and the dreaded ‘ad hominem’ attack.

Then we need friends of the attackee to jump on, blogarifically speaking of course, on the attacker which will then prompt his or her chums to back them up and all of a sudden there’s civil war. Lines are drawn, insults are traded, threats are made and someone will pipe up in the comments ‘Can’t we all just calm down? Why can’t we all be friends?’.

And here’s the thing, the more the Irish blogging scene grows the more likely this is to happen because we just can’t all be friends. It’s just not the online way.

Let me use football fans as an example. They often use forums or message boards to discuss their team or the players or the manager etc. They all have one thing in common in that they all support the same team. However, this does not stop this particular forum from being divided by people with different perspectives and points of view. It may not happen at first but it will eventually. Optimists v Pessimists. Those that think X is a great player, those that think X is a fucking waste of space. Those that think they need to sign Y and those that think they need to sign Z.

In time those supporters of the same team will be bitching and name calling and fighting and point scoring all the time. People with whom they have this one big thing in common, with whom they share common hopes and objectives - their team to win as many games as possible - but enemies will be made, fights will happen, and it can get nasty.

So why should we all be chummy just because we’re Irish blogs?

Maybe it’s the detachment and the fact the contact is not terribly personal. Ask any Irish person who’s lived abroad and they end up being friends with people that they would never be friends with back home but because they share being foreign together that’s put aside. Isn’t blogging a bit like that?

At the moment what we all have in common is that we’re all, for the most part, Irish bloggers and we’re in a sort of honeymoon period, but at some point that is going to change. The bonhomie will give way to ennui, the ability to ignore somebody’s post without making a snide comment will be reduced, there won’t be such a reluctance to blog about other people’s blogs which at the moment (one or two examples aside) generally consists of ‘great post over at X’s blog’ or ‘check out this from X, it’s very good’. And that’s grand but a more general deconstruction of other people’s beliefs, opinions, skills and writing is inevitable and while I’m sure the scene will stay friendly for the most part this ‘conflict’, if you will, has to happen for the Bogosphere to grow up and develop.

People will start to question other’s motives for blogging, criticise their policies about commenting or interaction, wonder out loud about things they write and take them to pieces in their own blogs and discussion about specific blogs will move from furtive email and messenger conversations and into the public domain.

It’s going to be fun because for many people blogging is their first venture into the online world and it really is getting in at the shallow end. Don’t look at me to start it though. I love all of you.

Honestly.

‘Methinks’ my hoop.

by Twenty Major on April 21st, 2006

People who say methinks do my fucking head in.

“Oooh, methinks I’ll have a babycham” or “Methinks I’ll take a lovely walk along the shore.”

You’re not living next door to Geoffrey fucking Chaucer. You’re not some kind of yeoman or manciple taking moste care going to the inne, are you?

So why can’t you just say ‘I think’?

And lots of the time they make this funny little face when they say it too. Their eyebrows go up and their lips purse a bit and this smug look comes over their face and then they say it.

Last night Dirty Dave came in to Ron’s. Ron asked him what he wanted.

“Methinks I shall have a pint of your finest ale”, replied Dave in his best Peter Bowles from an Irish RM impression (and he sounds more like Stan Bowles when he does it).

“A pint of Smithwicks then, grand.”

“Methinks you’re a fine barkeep, barkeep.”

“Dave”, I said.

“Yes, Twenty?”

“Stop saying methinks or I’ll kill you.”

“Har har, methinks you’re overreacting, Twenty.”

“Dave, really. Stop it. It wrecks my head.”

“Really? Methinks you doth protest too much!”

*DOYNK*

“Here you are, Dave, one pint of Smith… er … where’s he gone then, Twenty?”

“Down there.”

“What the fuck is he doing down there?”

“One of your heavy ashtrays got picked up by a poltergeist and it smacked him across the head with it.”

“I’ve warned them cunts about driving away my custom. Pint of Smithwicks, Twenty?”

“It’d be a shame to waste it. I’ll get the money out of Dave’s wallet for you.”

Plastic Surgery in Ireland

by Twenty Major on April 20th, 2006

20% of Irish adults would consider plastic surgery according to a new survey. More women would have it than men but still lots of men would too. I wouldn’t. I’m quite happy with my breasts the way they are.

I would have surgery if they could give me cool powers instead of just breaking my nose and resetting in a different position. Sure if I wanted that done I could just set foot in Coolock and there are only too many people there who would happily perform the procedure.

If you could get Wolverine claws put in or webbing between your fingers and toes so you could swim like the Man from Atlantis then I’d probably give it a lash but too many people are afraid of getting old. Tough shit, there’s nothing you can do about it and the older you are when you get plastic surgery the more ridiculous it looks.

Before Stinking Pete’s wife left him (after he won some money on the lottery and fucked off the Costa del Sol for 6 weeks blowing it all on booze and food) she got a new pair of boobs. Well, it’s not like they were augmenting what was there as the woman had two backs. She was flatter than a 12 year old Biafran boy. Poor Stinking Pete had no idea before he married her.

“How come you never noticed?”, we asked.

“Ahh, back in those days you were lucky to get a kiss and a cuddle nevermind a go under her gansey and sure she’d padded her bra like mad.”

At first he liked them because there were boobs where his wife had been but then he grew weary of them. He said they didn’t feel real. He said they were unnatural. He said “It’s like sucking on a skin covered, sand filled balloon.”

They didn’t make his sex life any better, nor hers, but the last thing we need to talking about is their sex life. You haven’t seen him, nor have you see her. Suffice to say I thank God every day that they didn’t breed. Nobody’s seen her in about 2 years now so she’s probably dead.

I can think of some celebrities that need plastic surgery though:

Ryan Tubridy - face removal
Tom Cruise - mouth tuck
Katie Holmes - annoying lump removal (I mean Tom, not the ‘baby’ - I’d bet good money that the whole thing was a sham).
Pete Burns - Liposuction
Smeg Ryan - funny bone implant.

Any more?

I will scratch my balls if I want to

by Twenty Major on April 19th, 2006

Imagine the scene. You are in a queue in a supermarket or a bank or the post office. You get an itch on your head. What do you do? Exactly. You scratch it.

The same if you get an itch on your arm, your leg, your foot or your back (even though scratching them makes you look like some kind of Tom Waits style ‘tard).

Ok, so imagine yourself in the same queue and you get an itch on your bollocks. Why is it that people look at you with such horror and disdain if you scratch? I’m not scratching to give myself pleasure, you four-eyed harridan, I’m just trying to relieve myself of the itch on my scrotum. There’s nothing dirty about it, it’s totally natural.

The other thing you need to bear in mind before you stare at me with such disapproval is that it’s a well known fact that if you don’t scratch an itch you get another itch in a much worse place. So you get an itch on your head, you ignore it and another one pops up on your shin and you ignore than and another one pops up on your arse. Ask anyone who has spent time in a plaster cast, they’ll back me up.

You have to scratch otherwise an itch on the bollocks can only lead to two places:

1 - An itch right on your ringpiece or somewhere in the crack of your arse
2 - That bit between your balls and your hole

So Lady Muck, I either scratch my bollocks in the first place or you’re going to witness me dig around my pants to scratch my hole or my gooch. It’s up to you. I don’t care. I’m going to do it anyway.

If I’m itching I will scratch and I don’t care who sees me so you can fuck right off or I will lift my leg and fart at you because that’s perfectly natural too. If you don’t fart you leave yourself open for spontaneous combustion and I’m not going that way, no chance.