Get away from me you cunts

by Twenty Major on June 30th, 2006

Sitting in a strange bar yesterday afternoon. It was more or less empty. At a table with my drinking chum telling stories.

“Oh, remember that time we ran across the roof tops on Castle Street while off our faces on E and then we heard about that bloke who died trying to climb up a drainpipe?”

“What about the night when I didn’t want to take any drugs because I didn’t want to be wrecked the next day so I drank a bottle of Absolut Blackcurrant. Neat. On my own. And the next day I thought I was dead.”

Oh such fun. Then in come three people. One is a woolly haired cunt. The other is a beardy cunt (but not a good a beard, a student beard). The other guy had a radio.

They have the whole bar to choose from. Empty table after empty table. Countless empty booths. Where do they sit? Beside us. Fucking hell.

Then they proceed to talk loudly about how some guy they work with is a twat because he won’t come drinking with them. But they talk at the kind of volume which would make you think they had been drinking for hours.

“Two Ballygowans and a glass of Heinekn” put that theory to the test.

Me and my drinking chum had to move to get away from them. Why, when there was the whole bar to sit in, did they have to sit next to me? If I had gone to the bog for a piss and one of them had come in they would have respected the urinal code - the pisser furthest away from the nearest pissee - so why couldn’t they have sat somewhere else?

If they ever sit near me again when there’s a whole bar to sit in I am going to kill them.

Voices

by Twenty Major on June 29th, 2006

Aren’t people’s voices funny? They can give you such a false impression of a person. Of their age, their appearance, their background, their inside leg measurement.

I heard a song today by a recently departed blogger and although the music is not to my taste it was his voice that surprised me. I’d always imagined him with a deep, gravelly, gut rumbly voice and it wasn’t that at all. It was kind of reedy.

When I, in my long distant past, used to work on the radio people always thought I was much older than I actually was. I have the voice of a 134 year old apart from when I drink. When I drink it’s much older sounding.

It’s not so much when I drink but the next day it’s like listening to Barry White put through some kind of computer programme to make his voice even deeper. And it’s not even the deeposity, it’s the grumbly, gravelly, gargling with sand and broken glass sound to it that makes it different.

I used to use that to my advantage when recording commercials. I would go out the night before and drink myself blind. The next day in the recording studio was always hell. Every take felt like I was going to crap my pants and the sound-proof booth was sadly not fart-proof as the rippers I let would often find their way into the engineers studio and he’d call me a stinky cunt.

“How the fuck do you think I feel in here?”, I’d reply even though the stinkier the fart the more proud we men are of it.

You shouldn’t judge people by their voice though. A DJ friend of mine used to get phone calls from this girl who sounded seriously gorgeous and eventually he arranged to meet her outside the Stephen’s Green centre in Dublin. She said she would wear a red t-shirt and she had blonde hair. My DJ chum was excited and perhaps quite aroused when he strolled towards the meeting place.

That was until he saw one of the ugliest people he had ever seen wearing a red t-shirt with blonde hair looking around for someone. He was a gentleman though.

He just kept walking.

Twenty’s book reviews

by Twenty Major on June 28th, 2006

Got some bargain bin books the other week. Have read two of them so far. Want to know what they’re like? Ok then.

1 - Brandenburg - Glenn Meade

The book starts in Paraguay with an old guy being told by his doctor he’s got 48 hours to live so he goes home, burns all his papers and then shoots himself in the end. As you do.

The police investigate and so does a journalist. He’s friends with the police bloke. At the dead guy’s house the policeman goes downstairs to get two beers from the dead guy’s fridge for him and the journalist. While he’s out of the room the phone rings and the journalist picks up. It’s a top class hotel telling him his suite will be ready for that Friday at 7pm.

So journalist decides this could be a story and borrows recording equipment. On the Friday he pulls the old fake room service trick and delivers a complimentary bottle of champagne and some delicious canapes to the room. He records a load of Germans talking about ‘Brandenburg’ and other hard to decipher things. Luckily the Paraguyan journalist is fluent in German for some reason I don’t remember.

Anyway, he gets rumbled when the fake room service is questioned and they track him down and kill him but not before he’s left his tape in a train station luggage locker. As you do.

Forward to Germany where the journalist’s cousin knows something bad has happened to him after she hears he’s been killed. She is beautiful in every way. In fact, every woman in the book is beautiful and soft and sensuous and desirable.

She teams up with some kind of Interpol bloke called Volkmann who is British and hates all Germans because Nazis killed and raped his father’s sisters in the war. Eventually his distrust of the girl is lessened by her amazing breasts which he puts in his mouth and then they travel to Paraguay to try and track down the killers who are all old Germans who fled to South America. They want to find out why some bloke got paid $5,000 every 6 months from 1931 to 1945 by the German central bank.

They get close and find a villa in which everything has been cleaned and wiped. There isn’t even a bit of furniture. It’s as if nobody ever lived there. They find a picture though of a pretty woman arm in arm with a Nazi but you can’t see the nazi as half the picture is burnt away.

They go back to Germany, the Paraguayan police guy follows the escaping Germans to Mexico City where 13 people die in a shoot-out in some posh barrio.

Volkmann and the girl encounter terrorists (who went to college with the girl), historians, hash smoking nazi memorabilia sellers in Amsterdam and countless other half-wits as they try and track down someone who can indentify the girl. Meanwhile shipments from Montivideo are hidden in containers and some Italian called Franco delivers them to some tall blond bloke.

Eventually the discover the girl is Hitler’s niece and that Hitler was having an affair with his niece and he got his niece pregnant. She did the old fashioned Irish thing of disappearing for a while and then returning not half as fat as she used to be. Sadly she committed suicide two months later.

Then they discover that the German who was receiving the money and his wife and child aren’t who they seem. The German didn’t have a wife and the child was, in fact, HITLER’S son!!! OH.MY.GOD.

Then it turns out Hitler’s son has returned to Germany to take part in a coup and Franco the Italian has been smuggling uranium and plutonium to the new Nazis so they can make a bomb and take over Germany. They’re going to kill the Chancellor and his cabinet and then blame it on immigrants so good old fashioned Germans will support them.

Meanwhile the girl has been kidnapped and Volkmann tracks her down to a house where she’s being held by Hitler’s son. He gets shot in the hand and the elbow and then Hitler’s son shoots him in the end but somehow he manages to overpower Adolf Jr and kills him in the face as revenge for what the Nazis did to his dad.

The plotters do kill the chancellor and the entire German cabinet but somehow the coup fails and they capture the nuclear weapon. At least I assume they do because it doesn’t say much about it.

Volkmann wakes up in hospital after being shot in the head and puts the girl’s breasts in his mouth.

The End.

2 - Billie Morgan by Joolz Denby

Firstly I was greatly concerned at reading something by somebody called ‘Joolz’ but thankfully my instincts were correct. People with stupid names write stupid stuff.

This is the story of a woman called Billie Morgan whose Dad runs away when she’s a little girl and whose mother absolutely hates her for some reason. She’s a troubled teenager in that she’s a bit different, a bit gothy and the mother much prefers her older sister who likes lace curtains and other pretty things.

Soon she falls in love with a biker and gets into the whole biker world. She marries her biker boyfriend and they go around the place like Bradford Hells Angels. Then something happens. A man dies. Her husband leaves and she opens up a gift shop with some woman called Leckie.

The man who dies, who everyone else thinks just disappeared, has a wife who’s a bit of a junkie simpleton and Billie is the Godmother to her son called Natty. Around 15 years later on though her past comes back to haunt her. A rookie journalist for a Sunday newspaper wants to do a story on how the family of missing persons cope with the absence of their loved one.

The wife thinks he’s still alive somewhere and the son just wants to see his dad. The wife’s mother-in-law is a proper cunt and comes back into her life after a two year absence just in time for the interview. For some improbable reason the journo wants to talk to Billie as she’s a friend of the family. That Sunday the story appears and it’s a total stich-up. The wife is portrayed as a junkie simpleton, which is what she is, and the son as a coke fiend arsehole, which despite the author’s attempts to portray him as a misunderstood youth is exactly what he is.

Then they disover the wife has TB and nearly dies after coughing blood over everyone and young Natty goes on a bender. He’s got a little half-wit hunchback of a friend called Monkey, no really, who comes to stay with Billie while they search for him. Then Billie’s ex-husband comes back and tells her he’ll kill her if she tells what happened that night when the man disappears.

What actually happened all those years ago was they went to one of the other biker’s houses to get some hash or something and yer man was off his face and he fell and hit his head and died. For reasons best left known to themselves they took the body, dug a hole then broke his legs and neck so he’d fit in the hole. They could have just left the house. Fucking fools.

During her search she calls into her mother’s house who is going to live with her other daughter in Canada and the mother leaves a bundle of letters from her father which she never gave her. And yes, they were wrapped in a ribbon. He says how much he loves her and how many Christmas presents he bought her but the mother never gave her. Thank God she avoided all the major clichés.

Anyway, when Billie comes home she finds Natty asleep in her bed. They eat dinner and talk and then retire to the same bed which is quite natural. Most 40 plus women sleep platonically with their 18 year old Godsons. They go to sleep.

Later that night she awakes to feel a strange sensation. The Godson is licking her gee.

“You can’t do that!”, she says.

“But that’s what me and me mam do”, he says. “She says it’s our secret.”

Good god. He runs away. They go looking again.

The next day she comes back home to find him hanging to death in her house so she does what any woman in that situation. She runs off to Greece like Shirley Valentine and falls in love with a Greek bloke and she lives in a nice villa with a view of the sea.

This book was nominated for the Orange fiction prize in 2005. The Orange fiction prize must be worth approximately fuck all if bollocks like this can get shortlisted.

—–

So in conclusion do not read either of these books unless someone actually pays you to do so. They are shit.

Gobshite of the week…

by Twenty Major on June 27th, 2006

…and it’s only Tuesday. Check out this post on TCAL for background but basically what happened is some American troops were stranded in County Clare because of problems with their plane.

Where it gets interesting is when some ‘peace activist’ called Conor Cregan met 6 of the soldiers on the road. He stopped them and said, and this is no joke, “I am placing you all under citizen’s arrest. Do not move!”

It’s a fucking shame the US soldiers couldn’t commit an atrocity on that cunt. He’s written about the story on Indymedia and has written in the manner of dimwit. Take this example:

“After assuring the men that they were not in jeopardy the peace activist made an emergency call to Ennis Garda Station. Cregan called for the Member in charge to send a van to pick up these awol soldiers but Garda O’Sullivan’s response was less than helpful.”

Now, he’s writing about something he did yet he refers to himself as ‘Cregan’ instead of using the word ‘I’ which a normal person would do. The only time you should ever refer to yourself in the third person is when you’re playing football on your own in the back garden and you’re doing the commentary. Like this:

“And it’s the final minute of the World Cup final. Ireland are fucking shite, all of them, especially that Desperate Dan cunt Robbie Keane. The only man to show anything at all is Twenty Major. Oh, and Beckham loses the ball in midfield. It’s Major running at the English defence. He goes past Lampard, leaves Ferdinand on his forgetful arse, Neville can’t get near him! Oh, look at that Cruyff turn and flick over his head. The keeper comes out. He’s past the keeper. He has an open goal. What’s he doing? He’s stopped the ball on line. Major kneels down and heads it in. Ireland win the World Cup! Yeaaaaaaah! Yeaaaaaaaaah!”

However, writing a story about something cretinous you did and using the third person is for mongs.

What did he think he was going to arrest them for anyway? Walking in a threatening manner? Causing public disorder by being too loud and possibly a bit blacker than some residents of County Clare? Attempting to blend in with the surroundings by wearing camouflage clothes?

These soldiers had just spent time in Iraq where terrible things happen but I bet you any money the story they’ll tell over and over again is when their plane broke down and some ‘peacenik’ simpleton Mick tried to place them under citizens arrest.

As well as that he rang the gardai on 999 when a real emergency might have needed police presence. I mean, Michael Jackson might have needed another escort.

Anyway, if he’s such a peace activist and anti-war activist what the fuck is he doing in County Clare? Not much fucking war down there. He needs to show some proper balls and go to Iraq and protest. Follow the lead of Ken Bigley. Then people might pay attention to you, Cregan.

A headless gobshite writing about himself in the third person would actually be something to get a pat on the back for. Try it. Come on.

Michael Jackson in Ireland

by Twenty Major on June 26th, 2006

Apparently he flew into Cork today to stay with Michael Flatley. Reports say:

“The children had their faces covered with hats and masks. And Jackson, who was dressed in black, shielded his face with a mask. A garda escort and airport security rushed the superstar and his entourage to a waiting silver Volkswagen mini-van with tinted windows.”

I can only hope the garda escort was to ensure he didn’t stop off at a children’s cancer hospital on the way to make new friends, the filthy cunt.

Scruples

by Twenty Major on June 26th, 2006

I would just like to state on the record that I have never killed anyone.

Perhaps I might have dealt somebody a fatal blow or ’strangled somebody to death’ but I have never killed anyone. Now that that’s out of the way let me ask you something.

Would you kill somebody if you knew 100% that you would get away with it?

I mean get away with it on a civil level. No cops, no murder squad, no jail. What happens to you after you do it in terms of your own guilt is something else and those of you who believe in God and believe that when you die you’ll be judged on your actions in this life have got that to consider.

Now, we’d all certainly have no hesitation in murdering Phil Collins if we got the chance and there are very few people who would pass up the opportunity to end the life of zany radio ’star’ Ryan Tubridy so we’ll leave those aside. Think about your own life. About people you don’t like, about people who have crossed you, who have done you wrong, have done things to your family or friends, perhaps.

Then picture that person in front of you in a room, hands bound behind their back, begging for their life. Apologising. Promising. Weeping.

Could you kill them? Well?

I asked the lads in Ron’s last night.

“I’d kill the shite out of anyone, so I would” - Jimmy the Bollix.

“I don’t know if I could live with myself. To see the very life ebb out of somebody at my wicked hand would, perhaps, be too much for my brain to cope with” - Dirty Dave

“And I definitely wouldn’t get caught? Right. Yeah. I mean, no. Although yeah. But Jaysus I might have to go the funeral, so no. Although maybe. No. Yeah. No. Yeah. Ah fuck ya, I’ll be thinking about this all night” - Stinking Pete

“A-why you a-ask me this a-stupid question, Twenty?” - Lucky Luciano.

So how many murderous readers are there?

Jimmy in Tibet

by Twenty Major on June 23rd, 2006

Not many people know Jimmy the Bollix is a true humanitarian. Honestly. Whenever there is a natural disaster Jimmy volunteers with the crew from Concern to help the people affected by the tragedy. He’ll dig through the rubble for hours looking for survivors or their priceless heirlooms.

Some years ago he went to Tibet to see if he could find a way of getting the Dalai Lama back in instead of the Chinese who were ruining the place with their laundries and take-aways. He actually spent some time there practicing Buddism and living a simple life amongst the ordinary people of the country.

He learned their language and worked as a simple farmer working mostly with livestock. After some time he noticed that one of the typical Tibetan ox in his herd would stamp his feet in rhythm when Jimmy sang his favourite tunes such as ‘I got you’ by Split Enz or ‘Love plus one’ by Haircut 100. He then had me send him over a ghettoblaster, lots of batteries and as many Now That’s What I Call Music albums on cassette that I could get my hands on.

Soon the ox was boogying and getting down with great gusto altogether and it wasn’t long before people came to hear about it. In no time at all there was a great show every Friday night when Jimmy would play tunes such as ‘Love ressurection’ by Alison Moyet and ‘Solid’ by Ashford and Simpson. The people didn’t necessarily enjoy the tunes but they loved the sight of this beast kicking it in what we would now describe as an old school stylee but back then it was perhaps a primary or a kindergarten manner.

Now, Jimmy knew he was on to a good thing here. He began to charge a small entry fee and because he was a decent promoter and not like some shyster who claims to have DJs from Ibiza at his club nights when in reality it was some bloke from Kilmainham whose sallow skin made him look Spanish he taught the ox some new routines so it wouldn’t get boring.

To amuse his ever growing numbers Jimmy taught the ox the safety dance, the funky chicken, the Charleston, a merengue, two different rigadoons and a tarantella. It became the most popular night out in all Tibet.

Then one night it was said that a powerful tribal leader was going to come to the performance. His seal of approval could have seen Jimmy and his dancing beast crack the insular but lucrative Tibetan cabaret scene. Think Braemore Rooms crossed with the Moulin Rouge.

It was make or break stuff so Jimmy took the week off work. His arable farming was shared amongst his colleagues who eagerly wanted him to do well. He rehearsed for hours that week and made sure that all the moves, all the steps, all the shimmies and shakes were spot on. And his animal chum couldn’t have been better. When he tells this story he’s still amazed at how uncannily accurate the dance steps were.

So the big night came. The people were buzzing that night and not just because they’d been drinking imported Burmese rum. The first couple of songs went really well and then there was a bif of an accident. Somebody spilled a great big jar of Tibetan beer, known as Tibetan beer, all over the animal. When it happened the great beast threw himself to the sawdust floor and rolled around to dry himself off making the two hour grooming Jimmy had given him entirely redundant. Still, it wasn’t about looks. It was about the music.

Then the powerful leader came in with his entourage and settled down in the VITbNtDL (Very important Tibetan but Not the Dalai Lama) area. The time had come. Jimmy knew he and his chum had to impress. He readied himself and brought out his big tune. The one they’d practiced to the most. The one that sent the people wild when they saw the grooving that went on.

Yes, it was Matt Bianco’s ‘Get out of your lazy bed’. The first notes rang out. The people cheered. They knew what was coming. Except this time something was different. Their enthusiasm waned as the dirty hairy beast pogoed around the dance area in ways that surprised even Jimmy. Out went all the moves he’d been taught and in came shuffles and sidesteps and some headbanging and jumping like when somebody plays ‘Black Betty’ at a school disco.

Everyone was agog, nobody more so than Jimmy. He was just transfixed. He couldn’t turn off the music. Everyone else was the same and the powerful leader who had come to see this animal do the moves everybody had told him about sat slack-jawed, not believing his very eyes.

Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds later the he song came to an end. The creature stopped moving. There was silence in the room. Pure, unadulterated silence. Eventually the powerful leader shook his head, looked across the room and spoke to Jimmy.

He said “There’s a mangy yak, mangy yak on the floor!”

“I know”, said Jimmy. “And he’s dancing like he’s never danced before.”

Paddy McHugh is a sound man

by Twenty Major on June 22nd, 2006

The indepedent TD yesterday slammed the appointment of Gay Byrne as Chairman of the Road Safety Authority and said that road safety in Ireland is being managed on PR basis not a practical basis.

He’s right too. This star-fucker goverment appointed a retired ex-broadcaster because they thought it would curry favour with people as ’sure everyone loves old Gaybo’.

Not Paddy McHugh though. He said “We had just got rid of Gay Byrne from the national airwaves after suffering the trauma experienced by being exposed to him for so many years, and now the Minister of Transport is foisting him on us again.”

Fucking brilliant! And he’s right again. Years of the cunt on the radio every morning and years of him on the Late Late Show every weekend was more than enough.

It’ll tell you how desperate we were to be rid of him that U2 said they’d give him a Harley Davidson if he retired and fair play to Bono and the lads, they came through with their end of the bargain.

Seriously, I’m just waiting for him to appoint Sinead O’Connor as his PA so she can do the press conferences with him and he can simper and fawn over her like a schoolboy again.

Christ, even Brian Kennedy would have been a better appointment. At least he has vast knowledge of tunnels, highways, back roads, alleys, beltways and drag strips.

In all seriousness though I think we need someone with vast experience of driving to show us the way. I’m thinking Ayrton Senna or Princess Diana’s chauffer.

You Judge cunts - chapter 981

by Twenty Major on June 21st, 2006

A man pleads guilty in 2002 to possession of child pornography. Five counts of child pornography.

He is ordered to undergo psychotherapy at something called the Granada Institute.

Fast foward to 2006. Judge Yvonne Murphy warns Mr Gerard McMahon that she will impose a custodial sentence unless he begins this therapy at once. Mr McMahon’s counsel said that he hadn’t done it because he had ‘a very large number of difficulties that he had been trying to deal with and didn’t feel he was capable of undergoing such treatment.’

Well, we’re very sorry you had a large number of difficulties but, you know, get fucked.

Gerard McMahon download images which included babies. Babies. In all seriousness, any large number of difficulties you might have go right out the window when you download pictures of babies like that. His counsel tried to argue he wasn’t that bad because he just deleted the images after he viewed them apart from 6 pictures which he saved in a password protected zip file.

That’s even worse. He obviously knew he was doing wrong so covered his tracks as he went along and tried to hide the pictures he wanted to save.

And this man has not been sent to prison. A judge, who has heard from Gardai that the images in question were of a ‘graphic and horrific nature and fall into the very serious end of the child pornography scale’, has not sent this cunt down. A judge has once again shown that there is no justice in this country for children who are abused and exploited.

They’re quite happy to send family men to jail for protesting over a pipeline but a scumbag pervert gets not one but two chances.

Fucking horseshit. Worse than horseshit. Damienriceshit.

Don’t pay your car tax and eventually you’ll end up in jail. Be an 80 year old woman who doesn’t pay your dog licence and you end up in jail.

Download and wank off over images of children and babies and you get told off and sent to therapy. Then when you don’t do what the court ordered you get told off again and this time the judge says “I reallly mean it, mister!”

I hate judges. I really, really do.

A beautiful story…

by Twenty Major on June 20th, 2006

…in today’s Sun newspaper about a little girl who woke up from a 10 day coma after hearing James Blunt’s ‘You’re beautiful’.

She blinked gently, rubbed her eyes and saw her parents who had spent every waking moment by her bedside, overcome that their little angel had woken up at last.

They smothered her with kisses and thanked God for bringing her back when they realised she was trying to speak. At first they couldn’t hear her, her voice was cracked and dry. They leant in closer.

“What did you say, darling?”, said her overjoyed mother.

“Turn that fucking shite off, would ya?”