Death becomes him

by Twenty Major on January 22nd, 2007

Sitting in Ron’s yesterday evening having a few pints and watching the football. After the last gasp winner sent Manchester United mad Dirty Dave into tears our mate Splodge, the one with the birthmark on his face, said, “Lads, if you had to kill Barry Egan how would you do it?”

“Great question, Splodge”, said Ron who was first to answer. “Nothing fancy for me. I’d just tie him to a chair, take an iron bar or some other kind of club and just beat the fucker to a pulp. The satisfying crunch of bone and his skull being crushed would be just fantastic. I would have to wear some kind of hazard suit in case any of his brain flew out and went into my mouth and I caught the stupid cunt disease he so obviously suffers from.”

“Old fashioned, I like that”, said Jimmy the Bollix. “Me, I’d do that thing from American History X where he made the bloke bite the curb then stamped on his head. After that I’d hire a helicopter and tie to him to the rungs underneath. Then we’d take off, hover at a nice height directly over the Wellington Monument in the Phoenix Park then cut the ropes so he would fall right on top of the spiked bit before landing on the steps below where all the children were running up and down.”

“Inventive!”, said Stinking Pete. “If it were up to me I would call him up pretending to be Lisa Murphy and I’d say in a sensuous but husky voice ‘Hey Barry Egan. I want to give you some good loving because I know you like that pre-op look I’ve made my own. Come to the Conrad Hotel, room 216′ and he’d be so turned on at the thought of getting the ride off yer woman that he can’t stop writing about in the newspaper that he would think the deepness of the voice was because she was so turned on by the thoughts of his ginger pubis. When he arrived at the hotel I would greet him in sexy Agent Provocateur lingerie and only when I slipped off my sliky knickers and he saw my Johnson would he realise that I wasn’t Lisa Murphy. It would be Crying Gametastic. Then I’d shoot the cunt in the eye.”

“Very good if a little bit a fruity”, said Lucky Luciano. “For me is a difficult. As a compassionate assassin is a hard to kill a someone for no money but for this Mick Hucknall alookalike I make a the exception. I a find out where he live and get postman outfit. Then I a call to the door and say “Hello Mr Egan, I am normal postman and a not a someone who want to kill you. I have package for you. Please to sign a here. When he a sign I give him package. I a leave but wait at gate. You see, in package is sabre toothed tiger that I have a made from DNA found in some old a fossil and when he open, Lionel - is name of a sabre tooth tiger - will a savage him then eat him.”

“Fearsome, Lucky!”, said Dirty Dave who had recovered from the beating his team got. “Me, I’d rape him. Except instead of raping him with my penis I’d rape him with the penis of a blue whale which is over six feet long and can shoot out 18 gallons of jism in one ejaculation. Of course the difficulty would be getting the blue whale into the Sunday Independent offices but nothing is impossible. If penetration didn’t kill him the sheer force of whale spunk shooting into him surely would.”

“Whale custard brilliance”, I said. “If I were given such an opportunity I would first go out and earn millions of euros so I could afford to pay the Russian space federation to bring us into space on a space rocket. I would invite Egan as a journalist and say ‘Look, this is unrivaled access to the first ever blogger in space and when you get back you can tell Lisa ‘equal parts Aphrodite and Ursula Andress’ Murphy that you were an astronaut and let’s face it being an astronaut is far cooler than being an Irish dancer and if she’ll fuck an Irish dancer you’d be in like Flynn.’

So we’d go into space and oooh and aaah about how beautiful it all was and how small the earth looked and blather about how insignificant we are in the great scheme of things. Then I’d say ‘Hey, Barry Egan, take a picture of me by this airlock’ and when he came over I’d shove him into the airlock then open the outer door and watch him float away into space. If the movies have taught us anything his head will swell up grotesquely and explode which would be fucking cool.”

“Astromungous”, said Ron. “What about you then, Splodge. How would you kill Barry Egan?’

He took a sip of his pint, his eyes never leaving the bar.

“Slowly”, he said.

Fuck off with your naked calendars

by Twenty Major on January 20th, 2007

In the paper this morning comes the story that some students from UCC are posing nude as part of ‘rag week’ to make a calendar to raise money for charity.

Look, this has gone far enough. There are a million and one ways to raise money for charity but frankly I’m tired of this idea that people want to see ordinary people naked. As if that is some kind of motivation to buy a calendar.

“Oh, it’s March. Must turn over to see some old minger’s arse while she tries to smile coyly and covers up her pendulous knockers with her arm.”

Get to fuck. If I want a naked calendar then I will contact Pirelli who make a fine one indeed but students, old ladies, firemen and whoever the fuck else - put your fucking clothes back on and go out with a bucket like everyone else.

You’re scaring the children.

Astonishing attacks

by Twenty Major on January 19th, 2007

Ever read in the paper about somebody launching an ‘astonishing attack’ on someone else?

For example: ‘Lily Allen launched an astonishing attack on Madonna saying she was using black babies as a fashion accessory and that her music was boring crap’.

Or instead of an astonishing attack someone might lash someone else, such as, ‘Andrea Roche lashed gossip blog Blogorrah saying she’d caught them going through her rubbish bins and found editor Derek O’Connor upstairs sniffing her underwear and making strange mewling sounds’.

Now, who amongst us in the blogging community hasn’t had a pop at someone at some time or other? Whether it’s me about Damien Rice, Damien Mulley castigating anyone related to providing broadband or Tom Raftery trying to get anywhere with countless customer service departments we’ve all done it.

However, it’s rare that a blogger’s opinion on anything makes it into the papers or mainstream media. It does happen every so often but not nearly enough, in my opinion. I would like lots of people to know that I launched an astonishing attack on the Vintners Association of Ireland for their cosy cartel and price fixing or that I lashed Charles Haughey after his death instead of doing the whole ‘Ahh sure he’s dead, he was grand really’ thing that so many others did.

What amount of celebrity status do you need to achieve this? I saw the front of the Irish Sun today when I was at the shop buying milk and that Irish guy that won Big Brother about 6 years ago was lashing and launching an astonishing attack on that Jade thing that looks like a pig for being racist to some other woman in that show that nobody should really give a fuck about. Now, as far as celebrities go he’s right down there. He’s not so much ‘Z list’ as ‘z list’ having gone through the alphabet in capitals first.

Why should he get to lash someone when I don’t? Let’s be honest about it, any blogger could be as famous as some twat who won Big Brother simply by exposure in the press.

So here’s the question for you? Why is there no regular column in any daily newspaper which covers blogs or what’s being said by blogs in Ireland.

I remember there was one in the Tribune for a while but that died off. There are sporadic articles about blogs and although I’ve been featured on a number of occasions nobody has ever asked me anything about blogs or blogging. I’m not that scary, you know. I’ll quite happily meet any journalist to talk about blogs once I can launch an astonishing attack on somebody in return.

Is it that bloggers don’t really matter and that’s why we’re not featured? Perhaps, but we matter a lot more than the chimps who win reality TV shows and we’re a lot more talented. There are some tremendously entertaining writers who could spice up any newspaper with a good lashing or an astonishing attack.

Do newspapers here not want to give coverage to blogs and bloggers? Maybe that’s it but wouldn’t a weekly, or even daily, round-up of the Irish blog scene only promote both the blogs and the newspaper that had the balls to do it? Maybe we need a Irish blogs HQ from which we can fire off press releases.

Date: 19-01-07 - Embargoed till 14.30pm

Irish blogger Twenty Major has launched an astonishing attack on Gerry Ryan saying “Any man who says ‘lurry’ instead of ‘lorry’ should not be polluting our airwaves.”

….

Look, I want to be scathing, savage, blistering, vitriolic, caustic and virulent. I can do it here, you can read it, but damn it all I don’t think wanting to have to same influence as some no-mark ex-air hostess is too much to ask, do you?

I should mention that I will launch an astonishing attack and lash anyone who disagrees with me except the astonishing attack will be me running at you wearing a pantomime horse costume and I’ll lash you with a length of birch that’ll sting the arse off you.

Lies, damn lies and statistics

by Twenty Major on January 18th, 2007

A report commissioned by the National Roads Association and carried about by the HSE ‘found that 21pc of fatal road crashes between 6am and noon were alcohol related.’

It’s another attempt to justify the ‘morning after’ breath tests through which statistics are being nicely bumped up while critics complain it’s a bit like shooting fish in a barrel.

What the report, or the newspaper, fails to tell us is exactly how many fatal road accidents occur between 6am and 12 noon. I’d be surprised if the figure was in any way considerable so 21% of fuck all is not much, is it?

If they can turn around and say ‘There are X amount of fatal road accidents between 6am and 12 noon’ then fine, I’m quite happy to accept their findings but to give us half the story makes it all a bit suspicious to me.

Like a fox…

by Twenty Major on January 18th, 2007

So Dirty Dave came into Ron’s last night with his face and arms all cut up in bits. He had bandages, stiches and swollen cuts with iodine surrounds giving them that diseased yellow look.

“What the fuck happened to you? Cut yourself shaving?”, quipped Stinking Pete who was standing at the end of the bar drinking a pint of some new fancy lager Ron has got in. Starpompomen, or something. I worry this place is turning a bit poncey. He’ll be hiring lounge staff and making them wear aprons next.

“No, I fell”, he said as he ordered a pint and a packet of prawn cocktail crisps (another worrying development).

“What happened?”, I asked him.

“Well, you know the way at the back of my house I have those sliding doors?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well, I was sitting in the sitting room, doing some sitting and reading the latest Hannibal book - ”

“Any good?”

“Not really, no. In fact I’d go so far as to say it was even worse than the last one.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I was sitting there reading and something caught my eye in the garden. I turned slowly and there it was. A fox. You know me and foxes, Twenty. Ever since that incident in my childhood I’ve had this inexorable need to catch them and throw them in the river Dodder. Strange, I know, but other people like to be pissed on or like Ryan Tubridy’s radio show so I won’t be judged.”

“That’s fair enough, Dave.”

“So, I put down my book and crept across the sitting room. The fox, and fuck knows how he got over the wall, he must have special fox powers like a fox, was just snuffling about looking for scraps or a family of voles in the flower beds. I was very careful not to make any sudden movements or sounds - and given my flatulence problems that is not easy - and I soon was in the sprinter on his blocks position, ready to pounce with my catlike reflexes.”

“Ok…”

“I mopped a solitary bead of sweat that was rolling down my brow and rubbed my eyes so as to better guage the distance between me and the beast himself. I cracked my neck, flexed my shoulder muscles and was about to set off when all of a sudden someone behind me said “THAT’S ALL DONE THERE MISTER!”. I’d forgotten there was a bloke upstairs fixing the radiators in the bathroom and with the shock of it I took off, smacked into the sliding door which I’d forgotten to open anyway, bounced off it, tripped over the chaise lounge and went face first into the glass coffee table which smashed into pieces hence the cuts you see.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch. Fucking five hours in A&E at Tallaght hospital before anyone would see me. I swear I nearly bled to death. If I’d been Mary Harney’s mother I’d have been seen a lot quicker, I bet”.

“If you were Mary Harney’s mother your gee would have split in two giving birth.”

“So, what happened to the fox?”, asked Stinking Pete drinking a cosmopolitan (what the fuck is going on there?).

“Shot him”, said Dave. “Boom! Boom!”

Is the weather really bad…

by Twenty Major on January 17th, 2007

…or have all our fisherman just turned crap?

What is going on?

Dancercise and the next logical step

by Twenty Major on January 17th, 2007

Got a leaflet through the door yesterday promising a new way to get fit. Forget gyms, forget aerobics, calesthentics, yoga, pilates and running on the spot

Get ready for DANCERCISE. It’s true, you can learn to cha-cha, samba, rumba, jive, tango, hokey-cokey, birdie dance and lots more including ‘Latin line dancing’ so you can do teh achy-breaky heart while dancing around the Mexican hat.

Not really my cup of tea, I have to say. I’m a bit more traditional in my keep fit methods. I believe in the power of the mind. I sit and think about getting fit and it seems to work although I do try not to exert myself. They do keep coming up with new and zanier ways of trying to keep people interested in getting fit though, don’t they?

Most people hit the new year with great intentions, join gyms, promise to eat less, drink less and exercise more. By the end of January the gym membership is a €70 a month chain around their neck that they’re too embarrassed to cancel (if they’re not part of a gym that requires a 12 month contract and sends heavies after you to collect if you default).

So to keep people’s gumption up they invent things like Dancercise. It got me to thinking. What sort of exercise would I be interested in doing? It would need to be something that was challenging, didn’t get boring, had some excitement, a bit of danger and wasn’t anything like all the others. I racked my brains, so I did.

Vertical cycling? Sounds good but how the fuck do you do it? Treadmill 360, where you run and play xBox? Tried it, it’s hard to control things and it’s hardly dangerous. How about headbutting 50 scorpions hanging from threads? Then it came to me in a flash.

“Throttling a grizzly bear-ercise”

Let’s face it, the sheer size and power of a grizzly bear would ensure that you received a full cardio-vascular work out, the potential for having your stomach ripped open and for the beast to feast on your innards would bring that element of danger while the thrill of throttling a grizzly bear to death would certainly never get boring. I know I’d be Throttling a grizzly bear-escising all year long!

I suppose the main problem would be the supply of bears but I suppose you could get a few mammy bears and a few daddy bears and start breeding your own. Bear skin jackets and grizzly burgers from the grizzly corpses could help finance the thing too.

Soon strangling animals to death will be de rigeuer but you’ll know when you see ‘Choke a Gnuercise’ or ‘Garrote a panthercise’ where it all began.

Won’t somebody please think of the rural communities?

by Twenty Major on January 16th, 2007

“Do something now or we’ll lose our rural communities forever”. That was the warning from TDs and community leaders as people in remote areas of the country fall foul to the laws of the land.

Much has been said in recent months about the importance of keeping these once tight-knit communities together and activists now feel that unless something is done Ireland, as a country, will sport more hermits per square kilometre than any other country in Europe. According to Seamus O’Flapperty of one particular interest group unless something changes the situation could be a disaster for those not living in cities.

“‘Tis is a sad state of affairs, so it is”, he told me yesterday. “Until recently like we could go out and beat a darkie to death without so much as a word from anyone. All the lads would get together, polish each others clubs and we’d set off till we found someone with skin that wasn’t milky white. Then we’d cave the fucker’s head in, gut the cunt then bury his body in a shallow grave before we went off to have a few pints and a sing song at the local.

It was a tradition and nobody got hurt. It was only when the newspapers started going on and on about it that they decided to crack down on it. Now we have nothing to do and it’s ruining our lives.”

His concerns are shared by Tim “The Spade” Connors whose links to local activities are also being cut down. Speaking on behalf of people who like to smoke crack cocaine and opium and run puppy farms he said “The government are going to be the death of rural Ireland. These so-called ‘laws’ are all well and good for those that live in towns and cities but why should we have to abide by them? We’ve been doing what we wanted for years and now they expect us to toe the line. Well, they’ll regret it when there’s nothing in the countryside but deserted villages andshops with no customers. I mean, look around you now. This town is getting like a ghost town.”

The government are not to be moved though. Speaking anonymously a well placed source in the Department of Justice said “Look, we know this whole making people obey the law thing is having an impact but we were under huge pressure. Every time you turned on the news there was another story about a road death or a drunken driver. We had to do something. Their wild west days are over.

However, they can’t turn around and say we didn’t give them anything back. Sure we practically took out a full page ad in the paper to say that shooting travellers was fine by us. I mean, if they can’t get to the pub in case they think they’re going to be breathalysed then what’s stopping them picking up a shotgun and shooting a tinker in the back? We give them a great new sport but still they’re moaning.”

Suggestions from local TDs have included an amnesty for those ‘just a pint and a chaser or two or three over the limit and sure couldn’t they drive home with their eyes closed they’ve been doing it for so long’ and for the government to pay for customers that don’t come in to local bars but it seems that those down the country will have to adapt or, like the Incas before them, simply die out and be remembered as a funny old tribe but without the wonders of civilisation (the ancient pyramids of Tubbercurry notwithstanding).

No, you can’t take my coat

by Twenty Major on January 15th, 2007

You know when you go to a restaurant and someone says “Can I take your coat for you sir?”.

I fucking hate that. It makes me want to punch them in the throat. I don’t want anyone to take my coat. Firstly they’ll simply put in on a rack amongst all the other coats and who knows what sort of filth they’ll pick up put in such close proximity to them.

Secondly it means they touch my coat and I don’t want anyone to touch it. Thirdly, how do I know they won’t, while I’m eating my meal (which will probably be not as good as they’d like to think it is), rifle through the pockets and touch my stuff. They might even steal something.

Fourthly, what happens if some cunt comes out from his dinner and the person says “Sorry, which coat was your coat again?” and they take the opportunity to replace their shabby garment with my obviously superior and higher quality attire? What happens is I come out after finishing the meal, which really wasn’t as good as they like to think, to find some disgusting old mackintosh where my finely tailored piece of clothing once hung and I go around punching as many people in the throat as I can.

So before you ask if you can take my coat ask yourself if you want to punched in the throat repeatedly. I’m sure the answer to that is no.

I remember one place where the coat jockey said it was a ‘fire risk’ for me to take my coat into the dining area.

“Has my coat, without my knowledge, been doused in petrol?”, I asked him.

“I doubt that”, he said.

“Is my coat made of plastic explosives or that stuff that old sofas used to be covered with that went up like a fucking Space Shuttle if you so much as dropped a spark on it?”

“No, it appears to be made of suede.”

“Does it appear that my coat is actually a coat of mischievous flames who are simply disguising themselves as suede but once they get into the dining area they will become flames again and run around setting light to everything?”

“No.”

“Then how the fuck is my coat a ‘fire risk’, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Erm…our insurance is invalid if …”

“Shut up.”

“But really…”

You can understand why I had to punch him in the throat.

Don’t touch my fucking coat, you poxy cunts.

Irish blog awards

by Twenty Major on January 13th, 2007

So the nominations for the Irish Blog awards are now open. Just go here to register your choices.

At the moment you can only nominate for one category at a time but I believe a new form is forthcoming with which you can nominate multiple blogs. For now though your browser’s back button will take a bit of a pounding.

Of course you can nominate me or any other blog you like. No pressure. It’s not like I know where each and every one of you live or anything. Certainly not. And it’s not like I don’t have anything better to do than wait around and ‘convince’ you to nominate and vote me.

I have a busy, fulfilling life, you know.