Hopalong McCartney

by Twenty Major on October 22nd, 2006

Love this quote from today’s News of the World. They have a list of stuff that Paul McCartney’s peg legged wife did like throw ketchup at him and call him an old bastard and left him home alone with the baby. This is just classic though:

[She] LONGED to have her own chat show—and FANTASISED about becoming the new Posh.

Whatever you might say about her you can’t fault her ambition. Being the new Victoria Beckham truly is the pinnacle of womanhood.

Dealigg.com - spamming cunts

by Twenty Major on October 22nd, 2006

Dear spamming cunts at dealigg.com you are spamming cunts who have spammed the comments on my blog and who knows how many other blogs.

I thought I had a duty to inform you that you were spamming cunts and the more people that know you’re spamming cunts the better.

So, if you have been spammed by the spamming cunts at dealigg.com why not let everyone know. The more people that know these spamming cunts are spamming cunts the better.

The fucking spamming cunts.

Oh, just fuck off

by Twenty Major on October 20th, 2006

In Ron’s last night some bloke, who I recognise from coming in quite regularly but not enough that I might talk to him, came up the bar.

“Evening lads”, he said.

“Howya”, we all said before trying to get on with the very interesting conversation we were having about what would happen if you had a hornet crossed with a grizzly bear that you could control with a remote device of some kind.

“Seen that they’ve got Christmas decorations in some of the shops now”.

“Yeah, it’s terrible etc etc etc”, one of us said disinterestedly.

“Yeah, cards, tinsel, holly, crackers, presents, wrapping paper, the whole lot”.

“True”, someone said with even less curiosity than the last time he spoke.

“I swear to God, every year they seem to be advertising Christmas earlier. You have the shops, the decorations, the gifts. It’s just earlier and earlier.”

“OH fuck off!”, I said.

“What?”, he said.

“You know what’s worse than the fact that you can buy Christmas decorations in October?”

“I dunno”, he said.

“It’s the cunts complaining that you can buy Christmas decorations in October. Fucking hell, it’s hardly a surprise now, is it? It’s been like this for years. That ‘christmas advertising comes earlier and earlier’ is just a fucking conversation starter like ‘Busy night?’ to a taxi driver. It’s not true. For years now we’ve had christmas advertising in October. It’s not new. While I agree with you it’s fucking tiresome and far too early talking about it here isn’t going to make it any better. In fact it’s going to piss me off because I can’t stand talking about it because for the first week it happens it’s all anyone talks about as if it’s the first time it’s fucking happened.”

“Erm…”

“I would put it up there with tsunami a couple of years ago for annoying things. Back then all anyone could ask you was ‘What did you think of the tsunami?’ and I could think of saying was ‘Well, Dublin wasn’t in the least bit affected so, you know, I don’t give a fish’s tit about it but I wish they’d put something else on the news because I’m bored out of shite about the cunting tidal wave now’. So, unless you want me to bash your face in with the leg of this stool please talk about something else.”

“Fair enough. Have you heard the new Damien Rice album? It’s great!”

*THWACK*

Am I missing something?

by Twenty Major on October 19th, 2006

A woman admits to beating a man’s head in with a hammer after her sister cut his throat with a Stanley knife. Then they spent ‘hours’ cutting him up into pieces in a bedroom with a bread knife. They took several trips to dispose of the body in the royal canal. She then put the severed head in her son’s schoolbag, kissed the bag then took a bus to Tallaght to get rid of it. While doing that she drank a bottle of vodka and tried to smash the head up into little bits.

Both she and her sister that slit the man’s throat with a Stanley knife deny murder.

Erm, what? They already admitted to the Gardai they did it, how the fuck can they deny it?

It’s like that time I was caught on surveillance camera selling guns, drugs, fireworks, organs, counterfeit money, knock off DVDs and stolen cigarettes from the boot of my car outside Johhny Fox’s pub up the mountains.

“We’ve got you red handed”, said the Gardai.

“Not at all”, I said, “you see, I didn’t do it.”

“Damn”, said the older of the two, “if only we had some kind of data to prove the facts in issue and which may include the testimony of witnesses, records, documents, or objects”.

“If only”, said I as I got into my car and drove away.

As I was leaving the car park I rolled down the window. “Evidence!”, I roared at them.

“Ahhh, that’s it”, he roared back. “Good luck, Twenty. See you next time.”

You’re a fake!

by Twenty Major on October 18th, 2006

Phone in radio shows. They go from the sublime to the ridiculous. The sublime only tends to happen at moments rather than consistently throughout a show but good presenters and good subjects can make for good radio.

Lots of radio presenters are pretty crap and their researchers and callers are pretty crap too. Now, that’s fair enough. Most of the stuff in this world is pretty crap so it is hard to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Lots of footballers are pretty crap too but they make a living without ever being superstars. Not everyone can be Gerry Rya, the fat cunt, Ryan Tubridy, the famine looking cunt, or George Hook, the Churchill the dog looking cunt. Ahh, I quite like George. He’s certainly not a cunt when compared to the übercunts Ryan and Tubridy.

What does my head in though is when they insult your intelligence and the thing that does my head in the most are the staged callers. This is when the radio station gets somebody, perhaps someone that works in the station doing a voice, or a friend of someone who they know can spoof and bullshit, and they get them on to try and drum up a bit of interest or controversy in a story.

Newstalk106 seem to be pretty good, or bad, at doing this. The other week they had a show on about bullying and this bloke was on talking about how he was bullied as a kid and because he was bullied as a kid he became a bully himself. Then he went on to tell us that he had tried to commit suicide loads of times which, if he was a real person, would make it totally understandable that people bullied him because if he was so crap at stuff to fail to kill himself loads of times then he would have been really crap at normal stuff too.

If you can’t work it out after your fourth or fifth attempt then you’re a fucking clown.

Anyway, at the end the presenter asked him a question he wasn’t prepared for.

“So, how’s life now, John?”, he asked (they’re nearly always called John too).

“Er…yeah…it’s good, you know…yeah…just …erm…yeah, good, like. No problems…yeah. Good.”

Do they think we’re fucking morons? I know it’s quite a regular practice and the best at it was Chris Barry when he used to do the late night show on FM104. He’d have professionals on stirring it up with controversial opinions. How do I know? I just do and that’s all you need to know.

So a message to Newstalk, if anyone in there ever answers their cunting phones, please improve the quality of your fake callers. You’ve gone nationwide now. Standards are higher.

Those crazy North Koreans

by Twenty Major on October 17th, 2006

Man, they’re a touchy lot.

“Sanctions are a declaration of war”, they said. No they’re not. Declarations of war are declarations of war.

Strikes me they’re just looking for an excuse. “Joey from Friends is a declaration of war” or “Rainfall is a declaration of war”, they’ll spout next.

Seriously, who ate all their dog’s legs this morning?

Child drug addicts

by Twenty Major on October 17th, 2006

A judge said yesterday:

“Very frequently children as young as 12 appear before my court with drug and alcohol addictions. The drugs involved are serious drugs, it is not just cannabis.”

Fucking hell. When I was a lad the best we could do was put our money together to buy a pot of UHU glue and take turns sniffing it. Now these little fuckers are snorting coke and all sorts.

I blame the parents. If you give your child enough pocket money to support a serious drug addiction then the buck has to stop with you I’m afraid.

Haven’t they heard of moderation?

That said I once had an addiction when I was a lad. There was a shop which sold sweets from those big old jars. The bloke had a ladder to get to the top shelves where he kept the special bonbons and blackjacks. Anyway, there was a jar which contained a chocolate fudge kind of thing.

Looking back now it was probably the scuttery old bits of nougat and caramel that fell on the floor covered in the left over chocolate. It was delicious though.

Because this particular sweet was no uniform in shape and was all twisted and curly we called it poo. It looked like poo.

I was a poo addict. I kicked the habit though after hitting rock bottom but I’m still quite partial to the odd vomit drop now and again.

Evil is coming

by Twenty Major on October 16th, 2006

Counterfeit Conor came into Ron’s last night. He usually pops in once a month with knock-off stuff for us to pick and choose from.

I got a couple of films (Borat and that new Scorsese one with Jack Nicholson), a copy of Pro Evolution Soccer 6 for those quiet nights in in front of the fire with some beers and a smoke and three pack of Calvin Klein boxer shorts.

Jimmy the Bollix bought a watch and four Armani shirts while Dirty Dave and Stinking Pete clubbed their money together and bought a little black baby so they could be just like Madonna. The man has all kinds of stuff, I swear to God.

“So, anyone need any new music?”, he asks.

“What have you got?”

“Everything”, he says. “I’ve got stuff here that hasn’t even been recorded yet.”

So we took a dig through the CD collection and by jingo the man was not telling lies. There was more music there than in Hitler’s sitting room. We were like kids on Christmas day picking out albums by our favourite beat combos. Then, disaster struck.

“Erm, Counterfeit Conor”, says I, “what the fuck is this?”

“Ahh, that’s the new long player by Damien Rice, Twenty. Do you want it?”

Silence gripped Ron’s like a fat child gripping a packet of Monster Munch as his tearful mother tries to stop her gluttonous offspring get diabetes at the age of three.

“What did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted the Damien Rice album.”

“Jesus”, said Jimmy.

“Oh-oh. Fucking hell”, muttered Dirty Dave.

“What?”, asked Counterfeit Conor.

I took the disc out of its protective sleeve.

“See this?”, I ask Counterfeit Conor.

“Sure”, he says.

I broke the disc in two right down the middle.

“It’s the last thing you’ll ever see”, I said and jammed the two pieces of the discs into his eyes.

“Arrrggggh”, he screamed as white goo dribbled down his face (what is that stuff?).

“You’re a good bloke, Counterfeit Conor, but I have a responsibility to mankind. I can’t let you go forth and peddle this shite to the unsuspecting public. I can’t take on the multi-nationals. I am only one man. I can’t be expected to go around and jam broken CDs into the eyes of everyone that works in HMV or Golden Discs or Metro Music in the Rathfarnham shopping centre. Nobody would expect that but in a case like this, where I have a chance to make a difference, I have to take that chance and make sure that the perpetuation of this witless clit is stopped. I read that one of the songs is 21 minutes long. What the fuck? Seriously, have you ever heard such a load of self-indulgent bollocks since the last time you heard Bono open his mouth about anything? It might be presented as acoustic/folk rock but it’s evil.

If kidnapping and beheading people in Iraq is considered evil, if taking control of a plane and flying it into a building killing thousands is considered evil, if genocide, torture and the holocaust is considered evil then this, this Damien Rice, is super-mega-wonder-hyper evil. Doubled. We’re polluting the earth, polluting the air, the seas, our crops, our meat, our fish, our atmosphere, our entire universe. We’re doing it every single day so let’s try not to pollute our minds. We need to have some escape from the vile influences that prevail in our society. Damien Rice was formed by combining DNA from Stalin, Pol Pot, Margaret Thatcher’s quim, Genghis Kahn and gestated, surrogate style, in the womb of Myra Hindley. He must be stopped, Counterfeit Conor, do you understand?”

“Yeah, Twenty, I understand, but you could have just explained that to me in the first place and I’d have stopped selling them.”

“Erm, yeah, sorry. I really do need to work on being so impulsive.”

Pete took down him the Eye and Ear and luckily for him some farmer had shot a knacker who was trying to steal his kidneys while he slept so he got those eyes. Shifty fucking eyes they are but they’re better than the ones he had.

Dear the Sunday Independent

by Twenty Major on October 15th, 2006

I have known for a long time that you were a badly written piece of shite that is nothing more than a scutty tabloid in broadsheet form but spying your front cover in the newsagent’s this morning I feel compelled to remind you of it.

On the front page of Ireland’s best selling Sunday newspaper is a story about a woman called Lisa Murphy. She says that Michael Flatley, Ireland’s most heterosexual Irish-American Irish dancer, and his wedding to another woman does not bother her in the slightest after her relationship with him broke up last year.

Now, obviously going to the newspapers and saying “I don’t care” means she does care. If she didn’t care she just wouldn’t say anything about it at all but, like so many Z-list cuntbags, she just can’t refuse the publicity and sadly there are fucking rags like the Sunday Independent that will give it to her.

As well as that the idea that this woman with the ridiculous fake tits that Flatley bought her and her manly face that would put Shirley Temple Bar to shame is front page news because her ex-boyfriend married somebody else is so pathetic I don’t have words for it.

God forbid there might actually be some real news they might have put on the front of the newspaper. Seriously, if they had to give this tranny column inches couldn’t it have been in something like a ‘Lifestyle’ section or possibly an interview with the fawning, ginger cunt Barry Egan so we’d know to not read it because Barry Egan is a massive, monstrous, flea-ridden cunt?

Anyway, Sunday Indo and your shitbag editor, whoever the fuck you are, just when I forget how terrible, inane, insipid and banal your ‘news’paper is you do something to remind me and for that I thank you.

Hope you all get ebola,

Twenty Major

I would like to punch Eamonn McCann in the face

by Twenty Major on October 14th, 2006

The fucking cunt