Come on authors, get real II

by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2006

Previously I have opined that authors have let themselves down by making their characters eat meals which are just totally unrealistic and taking too long to describe the simplest of actions.

Now I have to take to task authors who want to show off and make everyone think they’re all ‘literary’ by having their characters read books which really don’t fit in with the rest of their profile.

I’m currently reading a book by John Connolly, and his books are generally quite good. They’re fast, interesting, detective thriller things and on that level they’re certainly above average. However, his main character, Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker - we get it, you like jazz!! - is not alone in his love of fancy books and poetry.

While most private detectives searching for a missing girl in small town America might pick up a newspaper to read while they had dinner in a diner our hero goes to a bookshop and buys a book of poems by e.e.cummings. He mentions one in particular because he enjoys its ‘gentle eroticism’.

His former partner in the police force his a library of great tomes and he and Bird ’share a love of Runyon and Wodehose; of Tobias Wolff, Donald Barthelme and, strangely, the Earl of Rochester, the Restoration dandy tortured by his failings’.

Excuse fucking me? Now, I’m all for books and for people reading them. Books are marvellous things and I love them very much but come on. I don’t want a private detective that kicks the shit out of people and kills people and goes around with two gay hitmen (seriously, one black, one white just for good measure. No really, he does) who then reads poetry as he scoffs bacon and toast in a greasy diner.

Can you imagine two New York cops sitting in a car discussing books?

“Hey Charlie, look at that dame over there. Woooeeee, she’s got legs to de sky!”

“Please don’t interrupt, Walter, I am trying to enjoy the short stories of Tobias Wolff.”

“Hey wow, I love him too. Forget the dame and doughnut shop…”

Next time just give the fucker a copy of the New York Times (let’s face it USA Today is a rag) and let him look at the sports section. The gentle eroticism of e.e.cummings my arse.

cummings, heh.

Double same-named people are cunts

by Twenty Major on November 29th, 2006

Like most of you I was shocked at the murder of Baiba, the Latvian woman who was shot in her own home in what appears to be a professional hit.

Gardai have suggested she was living in fear of her estranged husband who was trying to get custody of their two children. However, he’s in jail and therefore has a rather good alibi although again it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that one person can arrange to have another person killed.

If I was the invesitgating officer in this case I’d be looking very strongly at the husband for the simple reason that his first name and his last name are the same. He is called Hassan Hassan. His parents were obviously lazy cunts who couldn’t think of another name like Ali-Baba or Saddam Hussein Hassan.

Now, this theory holds some water. Look at Robert Kennedy. He was killed by a man called Sirhan Sirhan. Imagine if he’d been named Kareem Abdul-Jabar Sirhan. There’s no doubt in my mind that Robert Kennedy would still be alive today.

Sometimes the malign influence of the double same-named person is not just evident as they kill somebody. Look at Neville Neville. He was a man who married his wife and shot his double same-named spunk tadpoles up her chuff and she gave birth to two of the most hideous Premiership footballers of all time, Gary and Phil Neville.

People often think that Duran Duran were just an 80s band, adored by millions of girls, but they couldn’t be further from the truth. Le Bon ‘Simon’ Le Bon and crew were, in fact, responsible for knocking off countless other music stars in over the years.

Jeff Buckley drowned in the Mississipi. Nope. Andy Taylor held his head under the water then let him float downstream. You think Kurt Cobain shot himself? Wrong. It was Nick Rhodes disguised as a heroin delivery boy. Roger Taylor posed as a tree in order to take out Sonny Bono on a ski slope some years ago while Le Bon himself jumped out from behind a door and scared Muddy Waters to death. The list goes on and on.

So, if you ever come across a double same-named person don’t let the fact that they might appear normal and quite nice fool you for a second. They the purest form of evil on this earth. Stay away from them. Don’t let them near you or your family. In fact, if they do know anything about you it might be a good idea to change your name, sell up and move to the far side of the world.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Help me Residents against Racism…

by Twenty Major on November 28th, 2006

…you’re my only hope.

Went into a shop yesterday to buy some cleaning products and as I was browsing the aisles a young Polish girl came up to me and said, in not bad but still funny English, “Can I help you?”

Naturally I was disgusted. I immediately asked for the manager.

“This girl said she doesn’t like me because I am a native Irishman. That’s racist. They’ll be taking our lands and giving us enclosures to live on next. I’m going to the trading standards authority.”

It was a very upsetting experience so I decided to get back in touch with my ethnicity by going for a full Irish breakfast in a nearby café. The Chinese waitress said to me “You want mushrooms with that?”

“Mushrooms?”, I cried. “How dare you!” and I sought out the café proprietor.

“This despicable supremacist here has just told that you don’t serve ‘my type’ and that I should find a café full of my own kind in which I can enjoy a hearty and typically Irish breakfast. You Sir, can take your prejudices and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine. I am a native Irishman and proud of it. You won’t grind me down.”

At this point I was quite distraught so I thought it best if I went home. I hailed a taxi driver and the Lithunian driver said as I got in, “Where are you going?”

Well, how I kept it together I’ll never know.

“You xenophobic cunt”, I said. “If I was to call up the taxi regulator now and tell him what you said, that you refused to take me to my chosen destination simply because I am a native Irishman then they’d have your licence so fast. What am I saying? The regulator is probably an Eastern European too, hellbent on subjugating the native people of this proud nation. Well, let me tell you something sonny Jim, at some point the people will rise up against this oppression and reclaim our ancient lands. You mark my words.”

So in the end I had to walk home. As I got there the postman from Ballybrack was coming out of my house with my TV and stereo.

“What are you doing, Jonny, you little scamp?”, I said. “Put them back at once.”

“Fair enough, Twenty. You’ve got me bang to rights.”

I gave him a little dig in the arm and told him not to do it again then rolled us a joint.

Ireland is a difficult country to live in these days.

N

by Twenty Major on November 27th, 2006

Got a phone call earlier.

“Nhello? NTwenty?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“Nit’s Nme, NDirty NDave. Ni Nneed Nyour Nhelp. Nplease Ncome Nover Nto Nmy Ngaff.”

So off I went and knocked on the door.

“What the fuck is the matter with you?”, I asked Dave who looked like one of those frogs that blows out that bit underneath it’s mouth.

“Nerm, Ni Nhad Na Nbet Nwith NStinkin’ Npete.”

“What was the bet?”

“Nhe Nbet Nme Nthat Ni Nwouldn’t Nsuper Nglue Nmy Ntongue Nto Nthe Nroof Nof Nmy Nmouth.”

“How much was the bet for?”

“Nthree euros.”

“You superglued your tongue to the roof of your mouth for three euros?”

“Nyes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“NI’d Njust Nwatched NJackass Ntwo.”

“So you thought it would be Johnny Knoxvilletacular to do something like they did? You fucking madman. You do realise Johnny Knoxville is retarded, don’t you? That girly laugh of his tells you everything you need to know. He’s properly cracked.”

“Ni Nkow.”

So off we went to St James Hospital. When we arrived I dropped Dave off at the accident and emergency unit then fucked off into town. There’s no way I’m spending any more than is necessary with someone who would superglue their tongue to the roof of their mouth for three euros.

I gave him a bag full of 5 cent coins so he could get a taxi home though. I’m not all bad.

Gaybo on the Late, Late intruder

by Twenty Major on November 26th, 2006

“Apparently he called me a ’shit’. But that’s old news, isn’t it? He’d want to come up with better than that.”

He makes a good point.

I believe ‘Smarmy, obsequious, inconstant, abhorrent, self-important piece of dried up gleet from an otter’s cunt’ would probably do the trick.

This man is my new hero

by Twenty Major on November 25th, 2006

My cap is well and truly doffed to you, anonymous sir. Fucking outstanding (via TCAL)

I’m not just hearing things

by Twenty Major on November 24th, 2006

So here I am, putting together my post for the day, the dog snoozing at my feet, the kitten out the back eating buffalo or whatever the fuck he does, a cup of coffee steaming like Graham Norton at my side, when all of a sudden I hear a woman’s voice cry out.

I didn’t quite make out what they said but it was like it came from just outside the room I’m in, possibly in the kitchen. Now, there is no woman here so I thought maybe I was hearing things but the hound was sat bolt upright with his ears forward. He heard it too.

I, brave soul that I am, crept out to door and peered around into the kitchen. The shutters are closed so it’s still quite dark in there.

“Open the shutters, bastardface!”, I said. I still haven’t managed to teach him how to do that. I mean, you can put him in a room full of people and he’ll instantly pick out the junkie or the traveller so he can bite their necks off but something as simple as reaching up, unfastening the latch and opening two wooden shutters is beyond him.

Anyway, I opened them and I didn’t see anything.

But I definitely heard something and this is not the first time something odd has happened in this house. I wish I had heard what she said though. It sounded like “Oh, I’m blind” or something similar.

Am I being haunted by the ghost of Helen Keller? What a weird start to the day.

Radio ads are fucking shit

by Twenty Major on November 23rd, 2006

Having spent far more time in a car yesterday on the M50 than I would have liked I got to listen to the radio a lot. Now, I’ll ignore the annoyance of Newstalk 106’s presenters cutting off their guests, constantly, while they were in the middle of talking (is this station policy or something?) and the mongy opinions some of the guests had.

I cannot, however, ignore the ads. It is baffling to me that there are people out there who are paid good money, I’m sure, to create radio commercials. I realise some of them will have been scripted in house too but the vast majority of them were those ‘conversational’ ads. You know the ones:

Male VO 1: Hey John, nice car, job, house and life you have there!

Male VO 2: Yeah, thanks Bob.

Male VO 1: So how did you get such a nice car, job, house and life?

Male VO 2: Well, Bob, I just went to Murphy’s online car, job and life website where they’ll do you a great deal on a car, job, house and life!

Fuck me, what a load of shite. Aren’t ad men supposed to be dynamic thinkers full of vision and creativity. These fuckers couldn’t create a bag full of poo if you put them on a 2 week All Bran diet.

I remember when I used to work in the radio and I spent some time in the production end of things making commercials. The typical Friday afternoon was quite slow because you’d have all the stuff done already and you’d just be looking at your watch and maybe finishing off a couple of things.

Then one of the fat cunt sales reps would come running it at around five to five and say “Oh Jesus! I’ve got this new ad, told the guy I’d give him a hundred thousand slots over the weekend. I’ll have a script for you in 5 minutes.”

Away he’d go and back he’d come interrupting my thoughts about how I was going to kill him fatally to death and he’d hand me a piece of paper.

“There you go!”, he’d say, proud as punch to have come up with the best radio script of all time.

Female VO 1: Hi Mary! Where did you get that lovely dress?

FemaleVO 2: Oh hi, Betty. I got it in the sales from O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop!

Female VO 1: O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop, you say.

FemaleVO 2: Yes, O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop!

Female VO 1: And where is O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop?

FemaleVO 2: It’s on Main Street right beside the post office. O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop really do have some nice dresses!

Female VO 1: I guess that’s why it’s called O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop then!

Female VO 2: *girly laugh*

Male VO: If you want nice dresses make sure you go to O’Reilly’s Nice Dress shop, Main Street, beside the post office. Sale on now!

“Oh, very good”, I’d say and a little smile would break out on his face. “Just one small problem though. It’s 5pm on a Friday afternoon, the only female voice here is the fucking cleaning lady and she sounds like Ronnie Drew’s mother. Do you want me to pull another two women out of my arse or something, you fucking moron?”

At that point I’d have to write, voice, record and produce a commercial last thing on a Friday and it drove me mental.

From what I heard yesterday it’s the same bunch of sales reps doing the same old shite. It’s fucking rubbish. It’s so bad that I would never, ever consider buying any product advertised in those ads. Even if it was something that I really wanted at half the price it was everywhere else I still wouldn’t buy it as a matter of principle.

They say Ireland is a country that produces great writers and that may be true. None of them are writing radio commercials though which I suppose is fair enough because great writers surely have higher ambitions.

However, if we do have so many great writers we must have lots of pretty good writers too who aren’t quite great but not totally shit. They could certainly do a job writing radio commercials and leave the great writers to get on with their unfinished novels in the style of Banville meets Don DeLillo.

I wish somebody would do it though. I can’t take much more of this rubbish.

Not in my pub

by Twenty Major on November 22nd, 2006

So there we were in Ron’s last night, watching a bit of football, drinking some pints of Guinness, discussing important political and socialogical matters and generally being high-brow and erudite and not at all awful when in walked Stan Ridgeway.

“Hey, aren’t you Stan Ridgeway who had a big hit with that song ‘Camouflage’ then disappeared never to be hear of again?”, asked Stinking Pete.

“I certainly am, you big marine”, said Stan before ordering a pint for himself. A few moments later he stood up and said, “Excuse me, fellas. Nature calls. I’ve got to go logging, if you catch my drift!”

And off he went. When he came back he skulled his pint and left without so much as a word.

“How odd”, said Ron and turned his attention to the football.

Not 20 minutes later in walked the lead singer from The Buggles and he ordered a Jack Daniels and coke.

“Hey!”, said Dirty Dave, “if video killed the radio star the internet has like ..erm… double killed and eviscerated the video star!”

“True enough”, said the lead singer of The Buggles before adding, “Every time I drink a Jack Daniels and coke my bowels clench like I’ve been out on the pints and curry. If you’ll excuse me I’d better go to the men’s room because I’m touching cloth here.”

He came back, finished his drink and fucked off again.

“That’s very strange and a bit annoying”, said Ron who was happy enough because Celtic were beating Manchester United. It’s not that he’s a Celtic fan but he hates Manchester United.

About half an hour after that the door opened again and who walked in only Oran ‘juice’ Jones.

“Hey, Oran ‘Juice’ Jones”, cried Dirty Dave, “it’s a shame you’re not with some friend of yours on a wet night because then I could say ‘I saw you (and him) walking in the rain!’”

“Christ, Dave. Is that the best you could come up with?”

“Not to worry”, said Oran ‘Juice’ Jones, “I hear it all the time. Now, can I have a pint of Guinness and a shot of Middleton’s please?”

Ron gave him his drink and we sat around shooting the breeze, as you do. Then Oran ‘Juice’ Jones said, “I love Guinness but it doesn’t half go through me. I’m off to the jacks to give birth to a brown baby boy!”

So off he went, did what he had to do, then quickly finished his drinks and left. Not even a ‘See ya, lads!”, the rude fucker.

“Right, that’s it!”, said Ron. I’m sick of those fuckers coming in here and taking advantage. From now on those fuckers are barred.”

“Which fuckers?”, asked Pete.

Ron looked at him like he was Wayne Rooney’s scrotum.

“Those fuckers, Pete. Those one shit wonders.”

We’re all the same, except different

by Twenty Major on November 21st, 2006

Within the Irish blogosphere there’s been a lot of talk in the last few days about things like gatekeepers and how girls are just as good as boys at blogging.

To be fair there hasn’t been any suggestion from any of the boys that girls are not as good but some of the girls want to make sure that we know they’re as good even though we never said they weren’t.

What is a gatekeeper anyway? Is there a blogging Rick Moranis scuttling around saying “I am the keymaster. Where is the gatekeeper? All hail Zuul” while Sigourney Weaver floats seductively above a bed while the wind blows in the through the window?

We should be thankful that United Irelander is in semi-retirement because can you imagine his experts list?

Cooking - some bird
Cleaning - some chick
Ironing - some lassie
Knitting - some dame who should never have got the vote

Technology - a bloke
Driving and cars and stuff - a bloke
Blogging - definitely a bloke

Man, that really would have got the debate rolling. Where are you, UI? The blogosphere needs you.

The point is though that if anything is asexual it’s blogging. There are lots of blogs you have read for some time before you know the gender of the person writing. While I think there are probably still more men than women blogging in Ireland you only have to look at this list to see how many women there are on the scene (Fatmammycat as ‘family’ though - heh).

And it’s great. I’ve always had a good number of women bloggers on my blogroll not because they’re women but because I enjoy their blogs. Now, if I didn’t enjoy any women bloggers and I didn’t have any on my blogroll I’d hate to think people would get on my back to include them because surely that’s just tokenism of the worst kind?

There is this strange need amongst humans to be categorised and to try and pigeon-hole one’s existence. It happens in the blogging world. People object to other people’s personal choices. They want equality. They want a representation of the whole scene rather than simply allowing people to get on with what they want to do.

I don’t buy into the gatekeeper thing. Firstly because I don’t really understand what it means but secondly because it implies some kind of masonic influence over the Irish blogging scene by a covert bunch of testicle sporting man bloggers. It’s patently not true.

Anyone can blog. Rich, poor, fat, thin, beautiful (like me), ugly, male, female. And that is the beauty of blogging.

Let’s not make blogging ugly. Just blog your blog and let other people blog their blogs without trying to make everything about something, if that makes sense.

Now, which one of you dolly-birds is going to make me a cup of tea, then?