Ian Paisley Junior loves gay people

by Twenty Major on May 31st, 2007

I love this fuss about Ian Paisley Jr. The son of Northern Ireland’s most famous cabaret entertainer has revealed he’s no fan of the Friends of Dorothy or Navratilovettes. He says:

I am pretty repulsed by gay and lesbianism. I think it is wrong. I think that those people harm themselves and – without caring about it - harm society.

Now, many people have called on him to apologise for his remarks but why should he? If he truly believes that gay and lesbian people harm society isn’t he perfectly entitled to that view, no matter how ridiculous and prejudiced it is?

If he apologises he’s only doing so because he’s been forced to not because he is actually sorry. He might be sorry that he said what he said in public but he won’t be sorry for his point of view. So apologising not only makes him homophobic moron it makes him a hyporcritical homophobic moron who doesn’t have the courage of his own convictions.

It’s like the countless people who get pulled up for saying something on American TV then appear weeping on camera about how they’re not racist. Fuck off, would you?

If you believe something at least fucking stand by it and don’t bow to media and public pressure to make an apology that you don’t really mean.

Isn’t it just the equivalent of the teacher making you say sorry to the kid you’ve been fighting with and you say ‘Soooooorrrry’ in a voice that makes it obvious you’re not really sorry at all.

Personally I’m repulsed by politicians. I think they’re wrong. I think those people harm themselves and - without caring about it - harm society.

And if that bothers you just shove it up your hole.

Cover versions

by Twenty Major on May 30th, 2007

I have to say I’m a sucker for a good cover version (and regular readers will know we once had a covers band). A classic 80s pop tune reworked can be just the ticket as you’re storming through town with your ‘personal music player’ dishing you up the tunes like the radio used to.

However, there appears to be a tendency amongst those in the covers industry, so to speak, to go down one of two roads.

The first is an entirely acoustic road where they strum their guitar and sort of sing in a whiney voice. These are generally very irritating although can be all right from time to time (witness Luka Bloom’s crazy version of ‘When doves cry’).

The second appears to be making a thrash metal version of whatever song they’re covering. These groups in particular appear to think it’s tremendously ironic to sing songs like Candle in the Wind or some other piece of crap that no self-respecting musician would touch with a ten foot pole.

There’s another vague sub-genre which is to get an old man in ill-health to do versions of modern songs before he dies although this has yet to be properly exploited.

Where’s the improvisation? The interpretation? The putting your own stamp on the song?

Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place. So today I will scour the web upon your recommendations.

What’s your favourite cover version?

King of the jungle my arse

by Twenty Major on May 29th, 2007

I woke this morning at around 5.50am to hear a terrible wailing sound somewhere down the end of my garden. It was a cat of some sort. At first I thought it was Throatripper but then I realised he was slumbering at the end of the bed, reward for savaging the bloke who had tried to deliver me a Domino’s pizza menu yesterday afternoon. He won’t be doing any more junk mail drops, even when he has his fingers sewn back on.

I padded into the kitchen, looked out the window and blinked at the light. Stupid summer with its bright early mornings. The noise continued. There would be a low wail, then a noise like it was fighting another cat, then more wailing, then plaintive meowing. I tried to get back to sleep but it was no good. There was only one thing for it.

I threw Throatripper out the back to go and check on it/kill it and went back to bed. Even though my bedroom is at the front of the house I could still hear it. Fucking loud cunt, it was. After a while of not getting back to sleep I went back out to check again and found Throatripper and Bastardface sitting underneath the big apple tree staring over next door’s wall. The noises continued and this was no time of the morning to be awake.

‘Go Throatripper’, I said and the cat went over the wall. Luckily for me he’s a cannibal cat so he killed and ate whatever it was that was making the noise.

I suspect it was an escaped lion from Dublin zoo who got hit by a car coming through the Blackpitts and who sought refuge in somebody’s garden. How fucking inconsiderate are lions though? Couldn’t he have waited until a more normal hour to escape and frankly he should have taken more care crossing the road. Then he wouldn’t have been hit and subsequently killed and eaten.

Lions - when will they ever learn?

It took a lost weekend

by Twenty Major on May 28th, 2007

“What did you do at the weekend then?”, Dirty Dave asked Stinking Pete.

“Well, I decided I’d do something different for a change. Instead of hanging around this bar and getting pissed with all of you I decided I’d go hang around a bar in town and get pissed with strangers instead. Very friendly crowd they were too. The Front Lounge the place was called. All the men were very well dressed. Made me feel a bit scruffy, I have to say. What about you, Dirty Dave, what did you do?”

“Like you, Stinking Pete, I decided that my weekends were becoming somewhat staid and, dare I say it, a touch on the boring side. As much as I like my pints and the scintillating chatter we go on with sometimes one needs a change of scenery. I went and bought an easel and some canvas and I found my old mum’s paints so I went to Powerscourt and did some oils of the waterfall. It’s a bit ‘arty farty’, I know, but I’m more than just a half-wit who smells badly.”

“Yeah, you certainly are”, I said.

“And you, Twenty? Did you get up to anything strange this weekend?”

“Funny you should mention it. I left my house and walked all the way to the Hellfire Club bringing with me only a bacon sandwich, a bottle of water and a large amount of highly potent grass. When I got there I ate my sandwich and smoked a couple of big, fat joints until I began to hear noises coming from inside the Hellfire Club. In true horror movie style I went inside to see if I could find out what was making this noise. The long walk and being quite stoned indeed had me all set to come face to face with the devil himself, what with his history at that place, but it turns out it was a couple of teenagers who seemed to take quite a shock when they saw me and they ran away screaming. I merely smoked another fat one and walked home.”

“How very healthy of you”, said Jimmy. “And amazingly enough this weekend I too broke from the norm and varied my activities. I hired a recording studio and finally laid down some vocals for my album of 70s disco cover versions. I have to say ‘Ladies Night’ is particularly rocking. Lucky Luciano, how about you?”

“Is a strange. This weekend Mrs Lucky she a want to go cinema, like always, and you know I a hate a the cinema. So is impossible to say no a to Mrs Lucky so we go to cinema and when film she a starts I say ‘Bella, I have to go poo. Back soon’, but instead of making a brown baby boy I a go to the shops and buy Playstation a 3. I come back when a film is a nearly over and say ‘So sorry but I have a the arse of a fire and it burn me and the poo don’t stop a flowing’. She don’t even notice; is too busy looking at a the Johnny Depp in Pyrex of the a Caribbean.”

“What did you get up to Splodge?”, asked Dave.

“I went into town and lured a tramp to the Phoenix Park where I gave him a pint of whiskey, watched him drink it, then smothered him with his own filthy overcoat before setting his body on fire and burying him in a shallow grave in the gallops. Then I headed back into town and pushed a drunk bloke into the river before picking a fight with a pack of junkies on James’ Street who I zapped with the tazer I bought online from the states. Should have seen them twitch, the fuckers.”

“Same old same old, eh?”

“Aye. I’m a man of routine.”

Don’t complain, you stupid, stupid cunts

by Twenty Major on May 26th, 2007

So it looks like Bertie’s back for a third term. Brilliant, just fucking brilliant. Let me just say that if you voted for him and his shower of crooks then you may not open your mouth for the next five years. Seriously.

Don’t complain when violent crime increases and more innocent people get killed in the crossfire.

Don’t complain when the culture of passing the buck and not taking any responsibility for your actions results in you or a friend or a loved one being stabbed in the neck in Temple Bar for no reason at all.

Don’t complain when more jobs are lost as the Celtic Tiger becomes the Celtic Ancient Old Lion That’s Been In the Zoo For Years.

Don’t complain when the fucking shambles of a health service we have lets you down, leaves you waiting, misdiagnoses you and costs you a fortune paying for consultants and administrators. That’s if you get the chance before you die in a corridor.

Don’t complain when they sell off our national resources to greedy multinationals.

Don’t complain when more Garda corruption is uncovered and travesties of justice occur.

Don’t complain about the leader of the country, whose shifty, half-arsed explanations about his finances don’t fool anyone with half a fucking brain.

Don’t complain about the state of transport in this country, both public and private.

Don’t complain when you’re stuck on the M50 for hours or trying to commute to work every day from your home 50 or 60 or 70 miles away meaning you hardly get to see your kids.

Don’t complain about the price of a house and don’t complain when the whole stamp duty thing gets brushed under the carpet.

Don’t complain about the prehistoric communications systems we have which don’t allow you to get broadband and will never allow you to get broadband, and even if you have broadband it is a Ford Cortina to other countries Ferraris.

Don’t complain when you can’t walk down Grafton Street without some gypsy shoving a baby under your nose and begging for money while another one picks your fucking pocket.

Don’t complain when the drinking water in whatever part of Ireland you live in becomes poisonous and gives you the raging scuts or the black death.

Don’t complain when the mythical Metro to the airport, which was supposed to be in place this year as per their manifesto in 2002, isn’t completed until 2023 and costs 5 times as much as they said it would.

Don’t complain about this government in five years time when they haven’t kept their promises because they did that last time and you let them away with it. Why would they think they had to do anything different this time around?

Just don’t complain. You have no fucking right to.

Ireland needed a change from the shifty, crooked, back scratching, self-serving, arrogant, deceitful and downright avaricious adminsistration we’ve had for the last 10 years.

Everybody complains all the time about Bertie and every other fucking little thing his government does or fails to do - but when the time comes to put their money where their mouth is they’re just as happy to bend over, get fucked up the arse by Fianna Fail and keep the status quo.

People might say the majority have spoken but all this does is prove that the majority of people in this country are stupid cunts.

Is it just me…

by Twenty Major on May 25th, 2007

…or does Liz O’Donnell look like someone took Madonna’s face apart then put it back together wrong?

Picture via Blogorrah.

Liz’s resignation - via IrishErection.com

Three times and you’re out

by Twenty Major on May 25th, 2007

I’m slightly confused by the story which says a teenager sold an undercover Garda cocaine three times in four days.

Isn’t once enough to arrest him? Did he want to make double sure the lad was a drug dealer and then just once more in case he fell and his head that night and had no memory of being sold drugs by him before?

I reckon he bought the stuff, had a bit of a toot, then another one, then another one and had himself a wild night out being the life and soul of the party with his sweaty forehead and incessant talking. Realising he’d made a mistake he went back and bought some more and because he was feeling a bit dodgy he had a little sniff and went off on a mad one again. He spent the next day in bed and, senses recovered, went back and bought some more and this time arrested him.

What the fuck is that about though?

If they caught someone killing someone they wouldn’t let him go to kill another couple of people before they arrested him. Strange.

Although the cops in Ireland are odd. Like the 6′10 bloke outside the polling station yesterday picking his nose. He was up to the second knuckle he was digging around so far.

I bet if I’d sold him some cocaine he’d have taken me down to the station straight away. Luckily for me I only had crystal meth on me. He bought 10 rocks.

Rock the Vote Ireland - spamming cunts

by Twenty Major on May 24th, 2007

Patrick Cosgrave, Director of Rock the Vote, is still sending me emails when I have asked him time and time again to take me off their mailing list. They have ignored me and in the last 24 hours I’ve received a number of unsolicited press releases that I have no interest in.

I wonder if Rock the Vote’s financial backers gave them money to become spammers. How long before they try and sell us Rock the Vote generic Viagra or try to phish our bank details?

For further comment please contact Patrick Cosgrave on 01 642 5030 / 086 3711925 or email press@rockthevote.ie

The delicate balance of nature

by Twenty Major on May 24th, 2007

We all know how finely tuned the earth is. The so-called ‘circle of life. As I wise man once said:

It’s the poo of the antelope, the poo of the giraffe
It falls onto the earth and becomes the blades of grass
The grass is eaten by the cattle, which comes out the other end
To make food for the humans and start all over again

How true those words are. On a more local level though everything is in balance, isn’t it? Work and play. Hot and cold. Wet and dry. Not cunts and Bertie Ahern.

And speaking of wet has anyone else noticed the balance between the snooze button on your alarm clock and the need to wee first thing in the morning?

It goes off, you wake up, realise you need to slash but the need to sleep outweighs the need to urinate. So you click ’snooze’. 10 minutes later the alarm goes off again and once more you become conscious of the need to piddle but there’s still dozing to be done.

Snooze. Alarm. Wake. Need to drain lizard. Can you hold off? Yes.

Some more shuteye. Snooze. Alarm. Wake. Bladder set to burst. Almost. Just a little more sleep.

Eventually though the need to piss becomes greater than the need to sleep so up you get and direct a steaming stream into the toilet (mostly) and soon your wee becomes part of nature.

Snoozing and weeing. Two wonderful things that go side by side but are probably best avoided at the same time. I love nature.

Mr Dundalk

by Twenty Major on May 23rd, 2007

Mr Dundalk - via Dangermaus (who are in the middle of discussing the possibility of a potential return with a new name. Maybe).