Judges are cunts part 917

by Twenty Major on March 14th, 2007

Man holds three kilos of cocaine in his house - jailed for 8 years.

Alcoholic assualts man while in his cups - jailed for 3 years.

Man starves dog to death by locking it in a shed for a month - 180 hours community service.

Man breaks into house and rapes woman in her own bed while her three children are asleep in the next room - 3 year suspended sentence and woman is forced to travel home on same train as rapist.

If it wasn’t so tediously believable it’d be unbelievable.

Update: Sweary has comment.

Sometimes I wonder about my friends

by Twenty Major on March 14th, 2007

“Twenty”, said Stinking Pete, “if you could be a samurai, a ninja or a zulu warrior which would you be?”

“Hmmm, an interesting question”, I said. “Samurai were fierce and intelligent. Ninjas, if the world wide web has taught us anything, are totally awesome and have real ultimate power. Zulus, meanwhile, are eight feet tall and can snap a man’s spine with one hand. However, their costume of a nappy and feathery head thing really wouldn’t suit me.

With regard to the other two the discipline required for both would disturb me greatly as I am a lazy cunt at the best of times and having to follow any particular ‘Way’ wouldn’t really suit me. So, this time I’m afraid to say I’d rather be none of the above although I’d rather be one of them than Wayne Rooney’s girlfriend.”

“How unusual that you haven’t chosen. Most unlike you, Twenty. Do you know which one I’d be?”

“A zulu?”

“No.”

“A ninja then.”

“No.”

“Hmm, a samurai?”

“How did you guess? Anyway, the reason I’d be a samurai is not because of their intelligence, their code, their fighting skills, their philosophy but because an anagram of Stinking Pete samurai is ‘mistaken pig urinates’.”

“Erm…”

“You see I find that incredibly hilarious. Not so much that the pig urinates, because every pig urinates, but that the pig was mistaken. What would a pig have to be mistaken about? Do they even have the self-awareness to know that they’re mistaken and would that bother them when they were urinating? Would a pig be standing over his urination spot and contemplating the mistake he made? I don’t think so.”

“Ron, could I have a pint of your finest poison, please?

Paddy’s day and off-licences

by Twenty Major on March 13th, 2007

What exactly is the point of the Gardai asking off-licences to open late on St Patrick’s Day to prevent people getting pissed too early?

If someone wants to get pissed early on Saturday won’t they just buy their booze on Friday? They’re also going to patrol outside some off-licences to ensure alcohol is not served to drunk people, people engaging in anti-social behaviour or to miners. Or even minors. In the old days did they have minor miners?

Anyway, the kids’ll just stop people and ask them to go into the off-licence for them and there’s always someone who’ll do it.

I suppose it’s obvious when someone goes in and asks for 7 naggins of the cheapest vodka you have and then asks to pay for them separately.

Paddy’s day being a Saturday this year means everyone will be less up for it. For a lot of people the drinking all day is only really special when you’re spending a day in the pub when you should be in work. Stinking Pete’s going to call in sick on Tuesday and go on the piss on his own but that has a lot to do with him being a lonely cunt.

I’m rather indifferent to the whole thing this year but Lucky Luciano is bringing a friend of his over from Italy. His name is Paolo and he looks like Jesus apparently. It’s said he once killed a passing mule with one punch to the face. It could be interesting to have him around.

The best covers band in Dublin

by Twenty Major on March 12th, 2007

Many years ago myself, Jimmy, Dave and Stinking Pete decided we’d fulfill all our musical ambitions by setting up our own band. We soon realised that we were no good when it came to writing songs of our own so we figured doing cover versions was the way to go.

Jimmy played the drums, Stinking Pete was the guitarist, I had one of those keyboards that looked like a keyboard-guitar (naturally I had a very thin leather tie on too) while Dirty Dave, despite his filth and unspeakable stench, has the voice of an angel so he was the singer.

We rehearsed in Jimmy’s garage and soon we had all the hits sounding as cool as the original artists. From ‘Hold me now’ by The Thomson Twins to ‘Wishful thinking’ by China Crisis to ‘Solid’ by Ashford and Simpson we were smooooooth, let me tell you. We asked Ron if we could do a night in his bar but he told us to fuck off and hit Stinking Pete in the head with one of those old soda water dispensers.

So we asked around and eventually we got a landlord so desperate for anything to bring extra custom in he gave us a shot. We got some flyers printed up in Prontaprint and plastered them around the area and soon there was a great buzz about our first gig. The band was called The Separated Bags on account of how difficult it was, back in those days, to separate supermarket plastic bags.

Now, we were all confident performers but Stinking Pete suffered a bit from stage fright. He was a very accomplished guitarist though and had been taught many years previously by Jose Feliciano, the famous blind guitarist. He told Pete he’d never seen a talent like his but not even such supportive words from such a great strummer could help him overcome his nerves.

At one jazz club performance Pete was so nervous he fingers kept slipping off the strings and he inadvertently invented acoustic death metal. Jose Feliciano was most upset to see his protegé suffer so badly, knowing that unless he could overcome his stage fright he’d never reach his true potential. One day he handed Pete a small bottle and told him that he should use the precious liquid inside to coat his fingertips before each live performance and they’d never slip again. When Pete asked what it was he was reluctant to tell him what it was but when pressed he revealed he’d stuck a needle into his own eyeball and drained all the liquid out of it.

“What do I care? I’m blind already!”, he said. So, whenever Pete had to play live he used some and it always helped him calm down.

So, our first gig went reasonably well. There were a good few people there including BP Fallon and Niall Stokes from Hot Press (who got bottled in the back of the head because some woman said his ’stupid curly fucking hair’ was blocking her view) and the reaction we got was great. Our version of Wordy Rappinghood by Tom Tom Club had everybody talking. Soon we were pulling in the crowds and while that was great we had some problems as the more people that came the more nervous Pete got.

One night he felt the effects of the magic liquid wearing off and in the middle of Golden Brown he ran off to apply some more. Afterwards I was furious.

“You couldn’t have waited until the end of the song?”, I shouted.

“No. I’m sorry. I was going to poo in my pants. I was touching cloth, Twenty.”

The very next gig the same thing happened. We hadn’t even got to the chorus of Bette Davis Eyes when he chucked down his guitar and ran off stage again. We carried on as best we could but his funky wah-wah pedal made the song. This was crazy. Again I had a big row with him and he promised he wouldn’t do it again.

But wouldn’t you know the next gig, with even more people despite his madcap antics, the very same thing happened. Right at the crescendo of Living in a Box the cunt fucked his guitar off the stage and ran shrieking to the dressing room for his priceless fluid. We got through the rest of the night ok but this time he had the three of us giving him grief.

“You better get a fucking grip or I’ll shove that guitar up your hole”, said Jimmy.

“Stop being such a fucking fanny”, said Dirty Dave who was revelling in the limelight as the singer in Dublin’s best covers band and didn’t want to lose the little appeal he had.

In retrospect I suppose that did nothing to make him feel less nervous and when we got word on the grapevine that there’d be some VIP guests at our next gig he was an absolute bag of nerves. When he peeked out on stage and saw Mike Murphy, former Miss Ireland Olivia Treacy, Terry Hall from the Fun Boy Three, Martin Fry from ABC and John Craven from John Craven’s Newsround - amongst all the other special guests - I swear you could see the bulge in the seat of his pants as his turtle’s tail emerged.

I knew I had to do something or the gig would be a total shambles but what? Then it came to me in a flash.

“Pete, where do you keep that vial that you need so badly?”

“In my soon to be retro foldover satchel. Why?”

“No time for why, just shut up.”

So I ran off and got the stuff, another small bottle and a ball of twine. I shared out the solution between the two bottles and then all I had to do was attach them to him so if he felt like he needed it during the performance he didn’t have to run off stage. It was devilishly simple in its devilish simplicity. With the gig just moments away I ran up to Pete and lashed the bottles to the insides of his elbows with a double highwayman’s hitch.

“There you go!”, I said.

“What the fuck is this?”, he replied.

I looked at him a moment before speaking.

“Eye juice tied in your arms, tonight.”

The new seekers

by Twenty Major on March 10th, 2007

* bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Hello Jimmy, Twenty here. Were you looking for me?”

“Nah, why would I be looking for you, you cunt? I know where to find you.”

“Right you are.”

*click*

*bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Howya, Dirty Dave. It’s Twenty. I heard you were looking for me.”

“No. Someone’s spouting shite, Twenty.”

“Fair enough so. Must be Pete.”

*click*

*bring bring*

“Look, just fuck off and stop calling.”

“Pete?”

“Oh, Twenty. Sorry. That was NTL technical support. They just won’t stop calling me. What’s up?”

“Are you looking for me?”

“I am not. Why?”

“I just heard someone was looking for me. Figured it’d be one of you guys.”

“Not me.”

“Grand so.”

*click* 

I wonder who it is that’s looking for me. How strange that they don’t seem to be able to use email. Anyway, whoever you are, I’ll be in Ron’s from about 8. See you there.

Bus stop newsagents on Grafton Street are cunts

by Twenty Major on March 9th, 2007

Earlier this afternoon.

“Hello, I would like €20 credit for my mobile phone.”

The bloke does the doohickey on his whatsit and the slip comes out.

“That’ll be €20.60, please.”

“No it won’t. It’ll be €20, you’ll find.”

“No, €20.60.”

“What’s the 60c for?”

“Service charge.”

“Fuck off. What service charge? Is this the mobile phone company’s idea or the shop’s?”

“Erm… er…. ”

“You can shove that ticket up your hole.”

“But I’ve already issued it. It has to be paid for.”

“You pay for it then, you cunt.”

I went around the corner to Spar on Nassau Street and bought €20 of credit for €20.

So, don’t buy your phone credit in Bus Stop newsagents on Grafton Street. It’s because they are cunts, you see.

Too much fucking choice

by Twenty Major on March 9th, 2007

 Stopped into a cafe on my travels yesterday in a particularly trendy part of town.

“I’ll have a cup of tea, please”, I said to the waitron.

“What kind of tea would you like?”

“Erm, tea tea.”

“Ok, well we have green tea, white tea, oolong tea, jasmine tea, mint tea, camomile tea, strawberry and raspberry tea, chai, bla-”

“Stop. Just put a normal teabag in a cup and pour some boiling water over it.”

“What kind of teabag? Green tea? White tea? Oolong tea?”

“Fuck off.”

I went for a pint instead. It’s the same with coffee now. People are so into these mocha-choca-halfcaff-lattes that when you ask for a cup of black coffee they stare at you like you’ve just raped them with a whale’s cock.

How long before it starts on Guinness? Would you like a Diet Guinness? A strawberry Guinness? A decaff-double latte-Guinness? Cunts.

As well as that I come back to find Ron has put the price of a pint up by 5 cents (and that’s another thing, why do people insist on using cent as the plural for cents? That wrecks my fucking head. Cents aren’t sheep, you wankers).

“Nothing I can do about it lads”, he said but he’s put the price of a pint up by 10 cents for non-regulars and 50 cents for Tony Fenton.

I hate flying

by Twenty Major on March 8th, 2007

See you, you stupid fat cunt, did you not hear when they announced that boarding was for passengers from rows 16-36? I only ask because your big fat hole is blocking people getting to those rows when you’re in row fucking 4, you ignorant prick.

“Please sit back and enjoy your flight”

Fuck off. What’s to enjoy? Small seats, smelly fuckers in front of me and behind me, recirculated air, oh, and the fact I’m in a tin tube which could fall out of the sky at any time. I’m sure there are some people that enjoy it in the same way there are people who enjoy felching spunk out of arses.

And Mr Assistant Pilot, or whatever the fuck your not-good-enough-to-be-a-pilot name is, I don’t give a fuck which runway we took off from, what speed we’re doing or what the fucking weather is like. I’ll find that out pretty much the moment I arrive, won’t I?

And, clouds, you’re fucking cunts too. Stop making the plane rock sideways and drop suddenly. I fucking hate that.

And pilot, nearly overshooting the runway and causing us all to die is not good.

You cunts.

Dirty Dave talks law

by Twenty Major on March 7th, 2007

“See this new law they’ve brought in Twenty?”, said Dirty Dave.

“Which one is that, the one which says you’re not allowed skateboard after 9pm on a school night?”

“No, the one which closes the loophole in the law which meant perverts could solicit children for sex and do sex to them and get away with it because no law said they couldn’t.”

“Aye, what about it?”

“Well, I think there’s another loophole.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, it’s to stop adults soliciting sex from children and it’ll probably stop children from soliciting sex from adults but what about children soliciting sex from other children.”

“Erm…”

“What would happen, for example, if a five year old spent weeks and weeks on MSN Messenger grooming a three year old and then they met in the park one day and they totally had sex? Would this child be tried to the full extent of the law? Would he have to sign on the sex offenders register?”

“Now, I might be oversimplifying things here a bit, Dave, but in my experience five year olds aren’t particular tech savvy and probably don’t have access to MSN Messenger. Then there’s the whole thing of three year olds being even less internet friendly. As well as that five year olds generally think that girls are ‘icky’ and would rather kiss a spider than a girl. Add to that the physical limitations that these young children are restricted by and the whole thing is very unlikely to happen.”

“Oh, you reckon Michael McDowell has put himself inside a five year old? Inside the mind of a five year old, I should say. You’re a PD apologist.”

“Dave, you are a fucking idiot. Ron, pass me my glassing glove.”

“Ahh now, there’s no need for that.”

“Dave, sometimes a good glassing is what you need to make you see sense.”

“No, no. Fair enough. I see the error of my ways on this one. I remember when I was five I spent my time pretending to be a fire engine so I’d start fires and then go ‘beee-baaa beee-baaa’ and try and piss them out which always worked apart from that one time when I burnt old Mrs Ryan’s house down when she was still in it and the police blamed some tramp who was seen nearby and he went to jail and subsequently got bummed to death in there.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Yeah, I only groomed my pets.”

“Ron, give me that glove at once.”

“I meant actually groom. Like brush their coats and stuff.”

“Fair enough.”

“Then I’d fuck them.”

*Smash*

14 stitches I have.

Grafton Street

by Twenty Major on March 6th, 2007

Hasn’t Grafton Street become a lot more entertaining than it used to be?

Of course there are still the old reliables to laugh at. Those young girls who flock from clothes shop to clothes shop, all of them with the same hairsprayed blonde hairstyle and D4 accents. The young lads who hang around outside McDonalds and HMV, the people who queue outside the AIB at the bottom of the street for the ATM when the queues inside are always shorter and the flower ladies with the voice like the offspring of Ronnie Drew and Chris Rea.

But nowadays Grafton Street is becoming like Barcelona’s Ramblas except much shorter, wetter and without quite as many pickpockets, petty thieves, ‘guess which cup the ball is under’ blokes and stalls selling wild animals of every shape and size (Dirty Dave once bought an ocelot until we made him bring it back. We had no need for an ocelot that day).

There are street performers galore. There’s an old guy with a tin whistle. There was one guy before Christmas dancing around doing the rumba and cha-cha with a Japanese sex doll he’d dressed in a black gown. There are lots more buskers. There are those strange people who dress themselves up to look like statues and then stand on plinths all day long, moving only when somebody puts a coin in their cup. I said cup. Nautrally, I’m not counting the fuckers who sit in doorways playing the accordian. Those cunts need to be shot in the face to show that accordianism simply will not be tolerated.

The other night, as I was wandering up Grafton Street, I even saw some street theatre with a group of six or seven young Irish lads acting out a scene where they kicked the fucking shite out of some Eastern European bloke. The special effects of blood and gore and bits of teeth flying through the air were very realistic, I have to say. It’s all terribly chic and bohemian.

It’s a long way from the days when that bloke with the green mohawk sat on top of the bin and sold copies of the Big Issue. How Dublin has grown up, eh?