Paedos on the Late Late Show

by Twenty Major on September 13th, 2006

There has been a huge amount of controversy over the Late Late Show inviting a convicted paedophile onto the show last week. People are unhappy that their licence money was used to fly him over and pay his hotel and other expenses.

They’re unhappy that a sick pervert, who sexually abused his own daughter, was given time on prime time TV.

I agree with them 100%.

I’m unhappy that this bloke was brought over here and then not administered the kind of beating he deserved. I think we should invite paedophiles onto all our major TV shows then kick the fucking shit out of them.

- “Hello Mr X, thank you for joining me on Prime Time”

“Thank you, Miriam”

*smash* *kerplang* *Gurjoink*

- “Good evening and on The Den today we’ve got lots of cartoons, competitions and an interview with a man who sucked his own son’s cock.”

“It’s very nice to be here”

*5 minutes later*

“Now kids, see the way his fingers are all broken and his teeth have all been smashed in? That’s what’ll happen to you if you fiddle with kids when you grow up!”

Make it happen, fuckers.

Michael McDowell and the PD revival

by Twenty Major on September 12th, 2006

So Darth McDowell has taken over as leader of the PDs. It’s a funny time for the party now with some opinion polls putting them as low as 2% which is less than the ‘Let’s fly planes into tall buildings party’ or the ‘Raise the price of a pint to €10 party’.

So he’s got some work to do to regain ground before the next election. Personally I think he’s got to make the party seem more user-friendly, so to speak. So here are my ten suggestions about what McDowell should do to help the PDs win more seats.

1 - Get rid of Kunle. As far as I know he’s still here despite being illegal, despite being convicted of driving and insurance offences, despite knocking up an Irish girl so he could play that card to stay here, despite being told months ago his reprieve was only temporary. Get rid of him and they’ve got my vote. If he’s gone already, having been snuck out the back door, he should at least claim the credit for it. While he’s at it he could outlaw the Residents against Racism for being enormous cunts.

2 - He should hire out former leader Mary Harney as a bouncy castle for kids parties. What a great way to connect with the voters of tomorrow.

3 - Give himself a catchy ‘middle name’ like darts players or wrestlers have. Michael “Hooch demon” McDowell or Michael “The Trowel” McDowell would look brilliant on the election posters.

4 - A new logo would be a great way to refresh the image of your party. Perhaps the island of Ireland with an electrified fence around it or a person with a white pointed hood holding a clenched fist to the sky.

5 - The PDs don’t have the cuddliest image so they need to do something to address that. I suggest they hire Cecilia Ahern to rewrite the party manifesto. Let’s face it, if her shitty books sell hundreds of thousands of copies there are bound to be enough stupid people to believe what she writes for the PDs.

6 - Announce a solution to Dublin’s traffic problems by committing to build a metro. Then make all immigrants from recent EU member states work on the metro for a year upon their arrival in Ireland. This will ensure benefit cheats don’t come just to claim all the free money they can get their hands on and they’ll be gainfully employed for 16 hours a day underground, just like at home.

7 - Add some well known faces to the party. While everyone knows McDowell and it’s impossible to miss Harney as she blocks out the sun whenever she’s outside but the rest are fairly faceless. Tim O’Malley, Tom Parlon, Liz O’Donnell? All as inspid as their names suggest. Only Mae Sexton is any way memorable and that’s because her surname says ’sex’ and ‘ton’ which could put you in mind of a giant Angelina Jolie.

They need personalities to woo the voters. How about the intelligent and articulate Roddy Collins who could have his brother Steve advise him on women’s affairs? TV3’s Alan Hughes is an expert at consigning terrible history to the bin as nobody ever mentions his hideous jackets and bowties and sub-Norton mincing on TalkAbout all those years ago. He could ensure the dark days of the PDs are left behind as they stride onto a glorious new sitting on the couch on morning TV era. And who better than Sinead O’Connor as Minister for Religious affairs combined with Minister for Affairs with other people’s husbands?

8 - When people call up the PD offices they should be greeted by a warm, familiar, professional voice as they’re told to ‘Press 1 to speak to a minister - Press 2 to make a huge donation to the party’ etc.

There can be only one (with a nod to Damien and Blogorrah).

9 - A marketing campaign to show the human side of McDowell could be launched perhaps with one of those Hello! style ‘at home’ photoshoots with the family showing the day to day stuff the public doesn’t get to see like slaughtering piglets and drinking their blood, stinking pins into voodoo dolls of Bertie Ahern and Enda Kenny and listening to Judas Priest records backwards.

10 - He should start his own blog to reach out to the literaly tens of people who might then read it then change their vote. He could post pictures of his cat, embed that YouTube video of the blokes with the treadmill and link ironically to Langerland.

I think he would be wise to take some of these suggestions on board. My new career as a political consultant begins here.

A friend in need…

by Twenty Major on September 11th, 2006

Given the nice weather we’ve had this week Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete headed off to the west coast for the weekend. They were supposed to come home tomorrow but they turned up in Ron’s this evening.

“All right, lads? How was the weekend?”, I asked.

“Er, great. Yeah. Just great”, said Dirty Dave.

“I concur”, said Stinking Pete. “It was a very great weekend and nothing untoward happened at all.”

“Right, you fuckers. What happened?”

“Nothing!”, they both said at the same time. Obviously something had gone down. It was our mission to find out what it was. So we plied them with pints but they stayed firm. They had made some kind of pact and fair play to them they were sticking to it. It took a couple or four whiskeys before we found out what had happened.

Dirty Dave is the weak one so Splodge and Lucky Luciano kept Stinking Pete occupied while me and Jimmy the Bollix worked on Dave.

“Tell us”, I said.

“I can’t”, he’d say.

“Come on, Dave. We won’t tell anyone else. Just tell us. We’ve been through a lot together man. You can trust us.”

Eventually he gave in. So some time that morning they decided to go for a swim in the Atlantic. You’ve got to admire their ability to ignore freezing cold water and they were happy splashing around off the Mayo coast. Dirty Dave got out and was flinging stones from the beach at Stinking Pete who was pretending he was in the Olympics doing the 200m medley.

“Look at me, Dave! I’m doing the front crawl! Now I’m doing the backstroke!”

He did the breast stroke with great success and then came the butterfly. He was doing that most ridiculous looking of swimming strokes and telling Dave all about it.

“I’m butterflying, Dave! I’m the greatest butterflier of all time. In history there’s never been anyone like me. The power, the precision, the … OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!! OOOWWWWWW!”

“What happened?”, roared Dave.

“OH FUCKING HELL I JUST HEADBUTTED A JELLYFISH!”

Pete came running out of the water wailing like a banshee and telling anyone within earshot how much it was stinging his face. Sadly for him the only person within earshot was Dave. The beach they had gone swimming on was totally deserted. There was no life guard, no Hasselhoff to come to the rescue.

“Sweet cunting mother of the divine sacred heart of the crucified Jesus”, said Pete. “You have to do something, Dave. It feels like my face is on fire and then someone peeled the skin off and dipped my face in vinegar.”

“Oh man. What am I supposed to do?”

“Get a doctor or something!”

“You’re mad, there’s nothing around for miles. No doctors, nobody. Oh, but hang on a minute. I read somewhere before that if you get stung by a jellyfish you can take the sting out of it with urine.”

“No, no fucking way man.”

“Then you’ll just have to put up with the pain.”

“Oh fuck, oh fucking fuck. Oh fucking fucking fuckity fuck fuck.”

“Well?”

“Oh fuck. Arse. Bollocks. Shit. Gee. Cunt. Just do it.”

So to cure his friend’s jellyfish sting Dirty Dave took out his chopper and pissed all over his face. All. Over. His. Face.

It worked though and the pain went away. The trauma of it though saw them come home early having made a pact never to talk about it, never to reveal what had happened.

And me being the good friend I am I haven’t told a single soul, just like I promised.

Just fuck off

by Twenty Major on September 9th, 2006

The Beverage Council of Ireland says supermarkets should not be allowed sell cheap booze as part of promotions. The BCI President Edward McDaid said yesterday,

“The supermarket multiples in particular have slashed the price of beer, to the point where four young people can each put a fiver into a kitty and buy a case of beer. A bottle of beer now retails for as little as 75 cent. Yet, at the same time, other forms of drink promotions, like so-called ‘happy hours’ in pubs are outlawed.”

Firstly, I wouldn’t exactly call 4 beers a ‘case’ of beer and secondly, go fuck yourself you pathetic cunt. The prize of drink in Ireland is fucking scandalous. The pubs, the government, the supermarkets, the off-licences and the brewers make a fucking fortune every week from drink but this wanker wants us to pay through the nose because young people might be able to afford more beer. Idiot.

Here’s a fucking story. When I was in school I was given £20 to give to the school to pay for a religious retreat we had to go on. I pocketed the money, told the priest I had put the money in an envelope under his door and went to the pub with my friends where pints were less than £1.

I didn’t hear anyone say the price of drink should be raised just because we could afford lots of pints. This country is full of cheeky cunts who have no consideration for the consumer. We’re getting ripped off all over the place and kids will still get their hands on booze no matter how much it costs.

The rest of us shouldn’t have to pay through the nose to police teenagers who are going to get their flaggins of cider anyway. If his solution to underage drinking is to try and price the kids out of the market then he’s a fucking simpleton.

The BCI and Edward McDaid can feel free to come and discuss this matter with me in Ron’s at any stage. If not they really ought to shut their fucking cunts.

The real reason Mary Harney resigned

by Twenty Major on September 8th, 2006

Mary Harney took over as leader of the PDs. She was never a slim woman, she was fairly plump, let’s be fair, but her weight was not a huge problem.

Fast forward to now and her weight has ballooned. She is the size of a small planet and getting bigger all the time. The longer she stayed as leader the fatter she got.

I spoke to a doctor, who asked to remain anonymous, about Mary Harney’s covert visits to St Vincent’s Hospital. He said “Basically we told her that her life was at threat if she stayed on as leader. If the weight gain continued the way it had in previous years she’d have been dead by 2008 if she’d kept up the position. We spelt it out for her as clearly as we could. She was in very real danger of bursting.”

Something the next leader needs to bear in mind. Being leader of PDs = massive weight gain and a big, smelly gee.

This information is embargoed until 08.09.06: 17.59pm

Once upon a time….

by Twenty Major on September 8th, 2006

Many, many years ago I had to get out of Ireland for a time. There are generally people after me for various reasons but this time there were too many people after me for too many reasons.

Now, I’d seen plenty of lads with other lads after them who thought that going to the UK would protect them. Off to London or Birmingham they’d go, find the Irish community, start hanging around with them and then they’d get found and dealt with. I did not want to be dealt with. I had to let things cool down and I had to go far away to make it happen.

So I took myself off to California where I spent my time surfing, drinking beer and smoking some very good grass. Being the personable chap you know me to be it wasn’t long before I made friends. I started hanging out with two Canadian guys who were crazy scientists and spent their days trying to fashion artificial eyes for people who had had their own pecked out by a crow or were perhaps blind from some other unfortunate event like, erm, birth or something.

Me, Arnold Wudden and Max Idbeen became great pals. As they were completely crazy it was a lot of fun to go to the beach with them, get stoned, get drunk and listen to them fart on and on with their wild theories.

Some of them included:

- Hot and cold do not really exist. They’re both just a state of mind. I disproved this by setting Arnold’s feet on fire.
- God had to exist because only God could dream up the concept of fjords.
- Space and time could be measured by using cat’s poo and half a pound of plutonium painted yellow

Crazy. Their main endeavour was their optical project though and they spent a lot of time dreaming up new peepers in all kinds of different styles. There were coloured eyes, rotating eyes, flashing eyes, any kind of eye you could think of. It was quite an expensive thing to do though and they would go down to Hollywood often to try and raise funding from various celebs preying on their vanity to attain the funds.

“What if”, I heard them suggest to a youthful Warren Beatty, “you were in bed with a beautiful young actress and in the throes of passion her fingernails punctured both your eyes? Firstly your acting career would be over and although you might still pull hot chicks you won’t be able to see them because you will be blind because that other hot chick sliced your eyeballs open and all that white goo came out. However, if we get this thing off the ground we can simply replace them with a brand new set of baby blues”.

That got them a cheque for $3,000. And Beatty wasn’t the only one. Jack Nicholson, Clint Eastwood, Jack Lemmon, Barbara Stanwyck, Robert Mitchum and Ursula Andress were all contributors to the fund which kept the project running and kept the three of us in booze and hallucinogenic smoke.

Then one night we were out and we ran into Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys. He was a tremendous drinker and we ended in some place on Sunset Boulevard drinking shots of tequila with Phil Spector and Stills from Crosby, Stills and Nash. That was some night, let me tell you. Wilson introduced us to LSD and we laughed at stupid things, saw things we shouldn’t have, stared at our own hands like it was the most fascinating thing we had ever seen and at one stage we thought the street lights were following us because as soon as we went past one he was right in front of us again.

Later that morning, still buckled, we went back to the Canadians’ place to keep the party going. They had a cupboard full of booze bought with celebs money. So we went back, got comfortable and got stuck into delicious pints of beer topped with wine and grenadine with a sprig of mint and a chunk of fresh lime. Oh, how we laughed. We told stories, jokes, anecdotes, wisecracks, rib-ticklers and quipped about hilarious world events like JFK’s assassination, the Hiroshima bomb and Pearl Harbour.

After a while we noticed Brian Wilson was gone. Somehow knowing that rock stars and drink and drugs and swimming pools don’t mix we went out to the back garden expecting to find him face down but he wasn’t there. We searched the house and eventually found him in the lab where the boys conducted their experiments.

“All right, Brian?”, I said.

Wilson said nothing. He was transfixed. He was looking at what they’d been making, at the blueprints, the notebooks with all the various computations and chemical forumlae. He picked things up, fondled them, smelt them, held them in his hand like you’d handle a new born kitten, he looked like he loved them.

After a while he spoke.

“Man, this is far out. I’ve never seen anything like this before. What you guys are doing is revolutionary. It’s inspired. Think of the people you can help, the people who will be able to see again because of the brilliant work you do.”

“Cheers, man, eh!”, said Arnold.

“One question though. What do you call them?”

“Well, we haven’t quite come up with a name yet”, answered Max, “but we’re thinking Wudden Idbeen Eyes!”

Brian Wilson ran out of the room straight away. We never saw him again.

Home schooling

by Twenty Major on September 7th, 2006

Gerry Ryan was on the radio in a place I couldn’t escape from the other day and he had some stupid cunt of a reporter at a house where the parents were home schooling their children.

Now, I really don’t know enough about home schooling to be an authority but you’d imagine giving them a grounding in the basics, English, maths, history and so on would be perfectly acceptable. Even if the parents wanted to be more practical and teach them about how to manage their money or how to fill out forms I think that would be ok.

This family was different though. The father, who didn’t want his surname broadcast because he was afraid that people would be critical or there would be a backlash, was called Derek. Gerry Ryan insisted the reporter called him ‘Daddy Derek’. She did what Gerry said and she went on and on about what the kids were being taught.

He taught them how to collect coupons from Lidl and Aldi so they could get bargains in the cheapest supermarkets. There was some other stuff as well but the one that really got my goat was the fact that he was teaching them how to send text messages.

What a load of shit. It takes a kid about 3 minutes to learn how to text if you give them a phone. They’ll work it all out in no time at all. They do not need lessons.

He also wouldn’t let them use predictive text and then gave them sentences to text within certain time limits. The worst thing though was the fact that he was teaching them ‘txt speak’. From ‘gr8′ to ‘c u l8r m8′ to ‘r u going tmrw?’.

If you ask me this man should be thrown in jail for a very long time. It’s one thing taking your children out of a normal school environment where they can learn to mix and socialise with other children and also where they learn in a structured environment but it is another thing entirely to teach your kids to fucking mangle the English language. It’s child abuse. No more, no less.

It really doesn’t take that much more time to write the real word and as we all know txt speak is for complete and utter fuckwitted cuntbags. To deliberately teach your children to be witless, semi-literate mongs should be against the law. Damien recently had a post where people could ask politicians 5 questions before an election. I sent him 5 questions.

I would also add ‘Would you throw a man who teaches his children txt speak in jail if I promised to vote for you?’

If all home schooling is like this then it should be banned forthwith. Twice.

RSS update

by Twenty Major on September 6th, 2006

Could those of you subscribing to the RSS feed for this site please update your readers/subscriptions to:

http://feeds.feedburner.com/twentymajor

Those of you who have no idea what that means don’t worry about it in the slightest.

Update: You can now get Twenty Major in your email every day. Just scroll down and near the bottom of the right hand bar, undearneath the links, you’ll see a space to enter your email address. From them on you’ll get each new post in your email.

Swish!

Drink and drugs

by Twenty Major on September 6th, 2006

“Pint please, Ron!”

“Are you sure you should be drinking, Twenty?”

“Erm, yes. I’m about 100% sure, Ron. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was reading your blog - do not tell anyone else that or I’ll fuckin’ brain ya - and I know you’re on antibiotics for your swollen glands, you massive fairy.”

“And?”

“Well, you’re not supposed to drink on antibiotics.”

“Why’s that then?”

“Apparently it can cause kidney damage, drowsiness, diarrhoea, vomiting and in extreme cases hallucinations.”

“So, drowsiness = hash, kidney damage = alcohol or E, diarrhoea = Guinness, vomiting = Indian food and hallucinations = acid. You wouldn’t not serve me if I’d consumed any of those so what’s the problem with prescription drugs?”

“I suppose you’re right, Twenty. No harm, no foul.”

*8 pints later*

“Ron, if you don’t tell that group of Tom Cruises to stop pointing at me and signing the theme tune from The Greatest American Hero with their 6 mouths each and their fire breathing nostrils which are 3 feet wide I’m going to shit on your bar, projectile vomit out the window then fall asleep on the jacks.”

Doctors are rip off cunts

by Twenty Major on September 5th, 2006

Woke up yesterday morning feeling absolutely shite and as I hadn’t had anything to drink the night before it was certainly not a hangover, and anyway, I know the difference.

Underneath the right hand side of my jaw was all swollen and getting swollener by the minute. Now, I haven’t been to a doctor in about 7 years as I am normally the picture of health. Well, not the picture of health, but certainly not a picture of illness. However, I had no choice but go see the doctor lest I swell up like one of those frogs that blows that thing out from under their chin. I really didn’t want to croak it.

So I trundled off down to the doctor down the road that had seen me on my last visit when I’d come down with the bubonic plague. I came to the door which was locked but there was intercom. I buzzed it.

“Hello”, said a voice. “How can I help you?”

‘Yeah, I’m wondering if you sell typewriter ribbons’, I thought. What an odd question to ask somebody coming to a doctor’s surgery.

“I’d like to see the doctor please”, I said.

“Surgery’s closed”, she said despite the fact I could see lots of old people waiting in the waiting room and a sign saying ‘Surgery hours 9am - 1pm and it was not even midday.

“The sign here says surgery’s open till 1pm.”

“Well, we’re closed. You’ll have to come back in the afternoon.”

“Oh, all right then. What time are you open in the afternoon just in case this sign is wrong for the second time today?”

“4pm.”

“Ok, I’ll come back.”

“Well, we’re totally booked out. I don’t have a single space. You can make an appointment for tomorrow morning though.”

“But I feel bad now. I could be dead tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no room until tomorrow.”

“Ok. FUCK YOU AND THANKS FOR NOTHING, YOU CUNT.”

I went back home and took out the Yellow Pages to find someone else. I saw a name I recognised, local bloke, there was something about him that made my memory jog a little bit but he was close, I was becoming more froglike and I was in a hurry. Hurrah, he could see me in 40 minutes.

When I arrived I saw why there was no queue or anyone else in the waiting room. The desk was cluttered with bits of old paper, the examination bed was covered in blanket which hadn’t been washed since 1982 , the wallpaper was hanging off the walls and he was obviously half cut. Doctor Glug Glug, they called him. That’s what it was.

“What can I do for you?”, he asked.

“Well, I’m a bit swollen and it hurts when I press here”, I said pointing out the affected area.

He stood up and had a go himself. He put his fingers on the swollen area.

“Does it press when I hurt here?”

“Er, yes. I just told you that it did”, I said breathing in his very familiar aftershave, Eau de Bushmills.

“It’s your glands”, he said. “You need some antibiotics”.

He wrote me a prescription and then, because it was my first visit, he took my details to put in his file. This consisted of him writing down my name, address and phone number on a page from an A5 journalist’s notebook which he put under a pile of similar papers in a filing cabinet that was rusted and looked like it might fall over at any minute.

“Right, that’ll be €50″, he said. I wasn’t in the surgery for more than 3 minutes.

“Hahahaha”, I said. “Now, joking aside, how much do I owe you?”

“€50. Seriously.”

I gave him his money, which he added to the wad of notes a tarmac laying traveller would be jealous of, and went on my way making a strict resolution to never be sick again. €50 to see a fucking doctor for 3 minutes? What a load of shit. Even a fucking alcoholic with no patients is fucking loaded.

If there are thieves in Ireland then doctors are surely the greatest of the lot. Fucking cunts.