And if any further evidence were needed…

by Twenty Major on September 28th, 2007

…that the smoking ban was a ‘bad thing’ then this should do it.

It has given rise to cleaner and better sounding accordions.

Bring back smoking in bars before it’s too late.

Euro Millions

by Twenty Major on September 28th, 2007

Tonight’s jackpot is €130m.

Think of how many people you could get Lucky Luciano to kill for that money. He’s doing his ‘Three for €499′ special this week too.

Watch out Bananarama.

The little boy’s conker

by Twenty Major on September 28th, 2007

The small boy passed the horse chesnut tree every day on his way to school. Despite the bag on his back being rather too heavy for him and putting him in danger of toppling backwards when he chose to look up at the tree he did so each morning.

There, on a branch which was way too high for him to ever hope to throw a stick or a stone, was a conker that almost glowed. As the days went by this conker became an obsession for him. He would try and knock it down from the tree but his arms were too weak and his aim was off.

He wanted it though. It spoke to him. He knew it would be the most champion conker of all time and garner him the respect of the playground. One windy Friday morning he stood looking up, wishing the conker would fall, and lo and behold it didn’t. But lying there was a stick which he took and vainly threw in its direction. Perhaps it was a combination of adrenalin and the wind (and possibly the Ready Brek he’d had for breakfast) but the stick flew straight up and dislodged the tree testicle from its branch.

He couldn’t believe his luck and couldn’t wait for school to finish that day. When it did he took the conker home and sat looking at it at the kitchen table. It was almost perfectly round and he could almost see his face in it when he looked. He knew he had the best conker in the world. Now he had to ensure it was even better.

Consulting the schoolboy manual of conker legend he very carefully and painstakingly bored a hole through it with a screwdriver. Then he baked it in the oven for twenty minutes before leaving it sit for a full 24 hours in a cup full of brown vinegar. This would harden the surface but also strengthen any slight cracks he might have made when making the hole. He was thinking about using common twine but instead purloined a fine shoelace from a pair of his father’s Italian leather shoes. He pushed it through the hole and knotted the far end.

He spent the rest of the weekend practicing his swing and by Monday morning he could not wait to go to school. At the first short break the other boys took out their conkers.

‘Mine’s a 12-timer’, one would say.

‘Mine’s a 32-timer’, another would crow.

The little boy with his 0-timer took them all on and in 15 minutes he had become a 6-timer. The other boys were in awe of his awesome conker and word spread quickly about its power.

At lunch break he had beaten two more when he was punched in the side of his head and had his conker stolen by a larger boy from a more senior class. A boy he had no chance of getting his precious back from. It burned the little boy. He felt shame spread across his cheeks, his stomach flipped, the inability to do anything about it made his little brain rage. That rage never left him.

Now, 30 years later, as the older boy sat desperately trying to hold in his intestines as they spilt across the kitchen floor where his wife and children lay butchered, the little boy felt some kind of peace.

He also remembered he had to pick up milk and bread on the way home.

Fuck off you farmers

by Twenty Major on September 27th, 2007

I am aghast. Listen to this:

FARMERS stormed an EU Commission event at the ploughing championships yesterday to protest against continued imports of Brazilian beef despite disease risks and lower standards. Placard-wielding Irish Farmers Association members, with slogans such as “Give Brazil the Red Card”, demanded an equal playing field for Irish beef farmers.

IFA President Padraig Walshe confronted EU Commission representative Martin Territt over what he claimed was an “EU cover-up over double standards on Brazilian beef”. Over 90pc of people surveyed by the IFA this week believed that Brazilian beef did not meet EU standards on food safety, foot and mouth disease controls and traceability, and wanted it banned, he said.

Right, well who did they survey? Other farmers, I bet. And it probably went something like this:

Do you believe Brazilian beef, which is rolled in corpse sweat and then floated downriver on a rickety old raft before being left out in the sun for flies to lay their eggs on and then exported to Ireland in the open air on a slow boat, is safe?

I wrote a little while ago about the taste of meat and how it was all so samey and homogeneous and that’s entirely down to Irish farmers being crap and making meat. South Americans know how to make their beef taste good and I don’t care how they do it. They can pump them full of whatever the fuck they want once it tastes good on my plate.

Of course Irish farmers probably do exactly the same but they’re no good at it. Am I right in thinking it’s illegal to import Argentinian beef into Ireland? I’m sure I read that somewhere. They probably say it’s something to do with safety but it’s entirely due to the fact that once people started to taste Argentinian beef then went back to the crap produced by Irish farmers they’d never buy Irish again.

So, Irish farmers, quite your yip-yapping and concentrate on making tastier steaks. Coat the grass with cajun seasoning, provide massages for your cows to keep the meat tender, let it hang for more than a couple of days before you flog it to supermarkets vacuum packed in plastic, do something to make it better or shut the fuck up.

The shooting won’t stop

by Twenty Major on September 26th, 2007

Yesterday a Garda was shot with a shotgun by some blokes who were going along in a stolen car. Luckily he seems to be all right, bar the whole getting bits shot off you with a shotgun thing.

Meanwhile the inquest goes on into the shooting of two robbers in Lusk a couple of years back. What happened there was armed robbers tried to rob a post office and armed police shot them dead. And for some reason there’s an inquiry into this.

My take is this - If you are armed and about to use your arms to commit a robbery you then put yourself in a position where shooting you is perfectly acceptable. If you have a gun we can only assume you’re willing to use that gun and the best way to make sure you don’t use that gun is to shoot you. In the face, probably. Can’t have an open coffin? Boo fucking hoo.

Now, the thing is the Garda that trailed that stolen car had no weapon beyond a truncheon and the criminals have all kinds of weapons. Honestly, to them it’s like a Grand Theft Auto game where they pick up shotguns, Magnums and rocket launchers as they go around the place being criminals. And the Gardai have sticks. It doesn’t seem very fair to me.

But what to do? Do we accept the fact that the criminal gangs in this city and country are now sophisticated and heavily armed, which means our police should be at least able to deal with them? Or do we accept the fact that the criminal gangs in this city and country are now sophisticated and heavily armed and give our police slightly bigger sticks to try and stop them with?

They have now gotten to a point where they have no compunction in shooting a member of the police force. That means they wouldn’t even think twice about shooting a member of the public if they had to. So where’s our protection? How are the Gardai supposed to protect people from scumbags like that?

I just find it funny that we have to go so in-depth into the Lusk shooting. Two idiot cunts with guns got shot. So fucking what? If they hadn’t tried to rob a post office they’d be alive now. They chose to go in armed, they’re dead. I’m not bothered one bit.

I am bothered by the fact that the police force in this country seems to be falling further and further behind in its ability to control and deal with the criminal elements.

I say give the Gardai whatever weapons they want. Bazookas, flame throwers, whatever. Just don’t send the poor cunts out with sticks. It’s like sending someone into a sword fight with a drawing pin.

Mary McAleese to visit New Zealand

by Twenty Major on September 25th, 2007

Wouldn’t it be hilarious if she did a John Cleese Ministry of Silly Walks style version of the haka when introduced to political leaders?

Maybe then they’ll realise what complete cunts their rugby team looks every time they do it.

How do you get out of bed?

by Twenty Major on September 25th, 2007

You know, I was going to write something about Bertie this morning, and about how after all his ‘evidence’ not only are we none the wiser as to his finances, we’re even more confused.

He changes his story more often than a character on Law & Order.

“I never knew her. Ok, I knew her but I didn’t see her that night. Ok, I was in her apartment that night but I left at 10pm. Right, well I was in her apartment and we were having a big fight and I cut myself when she threw a cup at me and that’s why my blood is there. Ok, fair enough. I killed her.”

The word unbelievable is bandied around too often but it’s the only word that fits. The shit that comes out of his mouth is just completely beyond belief and his stage-managed goons applauding and cheering when he was being interviewed outside afterwards are sycophantic gobshites of the highest order. Get a fucking life, you morons.

Anyway, I said I wasn’t going to talk about that so let’s move on to something much more important. Getting out of bed.

There was a big discussion in Ron’s last night about how we all get out of bed. Dirty Dave was insistent it was one simple movement. You lie there and when you decide it’s time to throw the covers back you simply swing your legs out and get on your feet straight away. Most of the others seemed to agree with that apart from Splodge who says he makes himself as stiff as a board and simply rolls out of bed onto the floor because getting up off the floor is better than getting out of bed so being up and about doesn’t seem so bad when you’re coming from such an uncomfortable position.

Me? It’s a two part movement every single time. You lie there thinking about how you have to get up and how much you don’t want to but when the time comes it must be done like so:

1st movement - Get your legs out of bed and move to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Rub your eyes and/or scratch whatever needs to be scratched. Stretch your neck, perhaps causing it to click, then grip the edge of the bed with both hands.

2nd movement - Using your hands which are on the edge of the bed push yourself upwards and then on to face the day. Scratching of areas that are hidden when sitting on the bed can now be carried out.

And that’s it. Two simple steps. Personally, I think anyone that gets out of bed in one movement is some kind of Scientologist or something. How do you do it?

He’s back

by Twenty Major on September 24th, 2007

Dave was back at the bar last night and it was like he’d never been away. He’s a bit jaundiced and sickly, like he should have some kind of old blanket wrapped around him, but he got stuck into a few pints and a few pints never killed anyone, as we all know.

“What about that old cunt, Bertie, eh?”, he said. “Giving out shite about having to go to the Tribunal and there are journalism students gasping for a bit of work experience in a newspaper. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to be Taoiseach forever. What’s he going to do afterwards?”

“Erm…”

“And what a shark he is sending his bird off with a briefcase full of cash. If I’ve got more than a €100 in my pocket I don’t like walking around O’Connell Street. I’d shit myself if I had a case full of bank notes. They know. They can see it in your eyes. You wouldn’t last 10 minutes out there. And he sends his bird? You kind of have to doff your cap to that, in a weird way. No amount of talking about necks and jockey’s bollocks would get even close.”

“I see what you mean.”

“And you know what?”

“What?”

“I got home and there were a load of emails there about Ronan O’Gara. I mean, what the fuck do I care about Ronan O’Gara. He gambles does he? Well, shock fucking horror. Man who earns lots of money likes to bet. He’s the Irish Paul Merson. So what?”

“Except without the coke.”

“Of course. And do I care if his wife has thrown him out or not? No, I do not. Why should I take some perverse pleasure because some bloke who likes to gamble and get shitfaced now and again, like all of us, is having marital problems? What the fuck business is it of mine and why does anyone think I give a shit?”

“Right on.”

“And then I was on the DART yesterday because I had to go and do that thing out in Dun Laoghaire-”

“How did it go?”

“Grand. No problem.”

“Good.”

“Anyway, I went past Lansdowne Road. Just as a neat segue from O’Gara.”

“I like it.”

“And it’s gone. The whole stadium is gone. They knocked it all down. And do you know what? It looks small. Like the ground area is small and I can’t imagine how the stadium was ever there because it always seemed so huge. And then do you know what?”

“What?”

“I was thinking ‘I wonder if they’ll find any corpses buried underneath the stadium’, and then I felt a cold chill go down my spine but it was just the door had just opened and I was sitting in a way which made my pants fall down a bit so I suppose people could have seen the crack of my arse and the wind must have gone down there and up my anus and caused an internal chill which went down my spine which had nothing to do with the thought of dead bodies. You see?”

“Ron, triple Jameson, please. And a pint of Absinthe.”

Oh, what to talk about

by Twenty Major on September 21st, 2007

I could go on about the rain but fuck it. Rain is good sometimes.

What about the M50 who have bumped up the toll, yet again, and some drivers face a charge of €3 if they don’t pay with a pre-paid card thing. The cunts at the toll bridge will then photograph your registration and send you a bill for €3. Wouldn’t the administration of sending bills for €3 and accepting payments of €3 at a time cost more than €3? Pack of stealing fuckers anyway. One day that bridge will get blown to shit like it deserves. However, I don’t want to talk about that.

Bertie at the Tribunal. Nah. It’s still ongoing and he’ll be back in his box next week or something.

What I want to talk about today is Didier Drogba and his reaction to Jose Mourinho getting sacked at Chelsea. Now, Didier Drogba is a 6′4 African giant. He is a bit of a fucking fanny though as he loves to roll around on the floor screaming at the slighest touch. This was just classic though, a description of Mourinho saying his goodbyes:

Mourinho then put his arms around the hitman and hugged him like a departing father. As he moved on, Drogba failed to keep himself together and broke down in tears.

Hahahahaha. Oh God, I hope that ends up on YouTube. Surely one of the Chelsea players was recording it on their mobile phone. Drogba, big strong Drogba, crying like a little baby. Hahahaha.

Whatever you think about Mourinho the fact that his departure made Drogba cry, IN PUBLIC, is worth all the aggravation and annoyance he’s caused. It deserves its own comedy style playlist.

While my Drogbar gently weeps - George Harrisson
Wail meet again - Vera Lynn
Blubber Hotel - Chris Isaak
Ziggy Sobdust - David Bowie

Any more? This is just too funny.

Bertie Ahern

by Twenty Major on September 20th, 2007

The Taoiseach is up in front of the Mahon Tribunal today to explain where all those great big lumps of money came from. Continuing the theme, is the leader of the country - a man who signed blank cheques for Charlie Haughey, let’s not forget - :

a) The victim of a witch hunt
b) Fortunate to have such great friends who give him suitcases full with cash
c) A complete and utter shyster
d) A lying knacker
e) Looking to be punched in the testicles like his hero Sir Alex/Alec Ferguscunt