Cure thyself from illness

by Twenty Major on September 20th, 2007

“Well, it’s good to know Dave is going to be all right”, said Stinking Pete. “I’d miss the fucker if he was to die, you know. We share a special bond, he and I.”

“Having serious hygeine problems is not exactly a special bond.”

“You know what I was thinking?”

“No. Probably something really dense like what would happen if you crossed a Condor and a killer whale. You’d call it a ‘Corca’ or an ‘Ordor’ and invent some strange use for it.”

“Ooooh, that is worth thinking about. Since the return of the condor to Irish skies I have been curious about them. But it wasn’t that. I was thinking that the next time one of us gets sick we simply need to travel by Dublin Bus to get better.”

“Dublin Bus? How the fuck does that work?”

“Well, remember a couple of years back a Dublin Bus crashed on the quays and crushed about five people to death?”

“Yes, I do remember. ”

“Ok then. Yesterday another Dublin Bus crashed, this time in Crumlin, and three people were merely injured.”

“Right.”

“Well, what I’m thinking is that next time a Dublin Bus bus crashes the improvement will continue and somebody will, instead of being injured and killed, be cured of some disease or ailment that has been causing them illness and suffering and the vomiting and such like.”

“It’s an interesting theory. How would you know which bus it was going to be though? With all the Dublin buses going around to the far reaches of the city the chances of you being on the right route at the right time are fairly slim, wouldn’t you think?”

“It’s going be the 39 on the Navan Road somewhere around the end of November 29th during evening rush hour. Mark my words.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s a feeling I have and like Irene Cara said ‘What a feeling’.”

“Who am I to argue with Irene Cara?”

“You know it, Twenty. You know it.”

I’m just saying…

by Twenty Major on September 19th, 2007

…anyone who talks to me like a pirate today is going to get a kick in the heart.

He’s alive! He’s alive!

by Twenty Major on September 19th, 2007

Dave went into his coma on Sunday afternoon. Very early this morning he woke, complaining that his balls felt swollen and when the nurse looked they were like two enormous coconuts wrapped in a strangely pink coloured shiny plastic as his scrotum stretched with their size.

She immediately called a doctor who said ‘Goodness gracious me’ and then immediately called for a consultant. He arrived very quickly as consultants in our health service really earn the big salaries they’re paid by being available no matter what time of the day or night it is.

‘Holy crap’, he said when examing Dave’s goolies and immediately went online to Google ‘enormous balls’. After he’d had his fill of gay mutant porn he returned to tell us that there was nothing to worry about. Somehow the toxic shock syndrome had caused another ailment called ‘Massive Bollocks Sydrome’ which should go down in a few days when he passes the fabric of the tampons in his stools.

In fact, in order to speed that up the doctors told the nurse to give him an enema in case there were any bits stuck in his passageway. It seems to have done the trick.

“How’re you feeling?”, I asked him as it was my shift on the bedside vigil.

“Been better”, he said. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything beyond last Friday, when I went to the cinema to see Transformers. After that it’s all a blank. I have hazy snippets of stuff. I was dreaming I was in Northern Ireland and a load of protestants were after me and I had a gun but it was empty so I tried to shit out some plastic bullets, but that’s it.”

“Crazy dreams”, I said. “And you don’t remember being in Ron’s and eating a load of tampons?”

“Why would I eat tampons?”

“We tried to stop you, Dave, but you insisted. Said you’d give me €50 for each one you crapped out again with its wrapper still on.”

“That sounds like me all right.”

“We were saying ‘No, don’t do it. What if you get toxic shock syndrome?’, and that’s exactly what happened. You’ve been in a coma since Sunday.”

“Fucking hell. And how many did I manage to shit out?”

“Eight.”

“Wow. That’s €400 I owe you. I’ll sort you when I get out of here.”

“Look man, don’t worry about it. €400 is a lot.”

“No, a bet’s a bet. I insist.”

“Well, look. How about €200 and we’ll call it quits? You’ve been very sick an’ all an’ anyway.”

“Ahh, Twenty”, he said taking a sip from his glass of Bols Advocaat, “you’re a good pal.”

Pilot cunts

by Twenty Major on September 18th, 2007

The other day some pilot left a comment on an old entry saying I should educate myself and asking me did I know how much hard work went into being a pilot.

Then I read this:

A charter flight carrying more than 100 passengers went off course on landing at Dublin Airport after lights from a near-by building were mistaken for the runway, it emerged today.

Fuck. Me. Some Mr Magoo in the cockpit thought a building was the runway? I know airport buildings can be long but if the pilot can’t tell the difference between flat ground and a big fucking concrete structure packed with, you know, people, then he really needs to reconsider his choice of career.

It’s like mixing up a goat and a skyscraper.

So, pilots are cunts.

It’s not looking good

by Twenty Major on September 18th, 2007

Dave remains in a critical condition in hospital.

Apparently his liver is failing, his kidneys are failing, his heart is failing, he’s likely to suffer some kind of embolism or clot which would kill him in an instant.

I have to say I can’t help feeling a little guilty - but there’s no point dwelling on things like that at a time like this. All we can do is keep vigil by the side of his bed and hope he pulls through. He might be a filthy moron but he’s our filthy moron, you know?

Life, while altogether more fragrant, would be far less interesting without him around. I remember the first day I saw him at school, all those years ago. We were outside at break time having a game of football. It was me, Jimmy and Colossus Sheridan (he was 5′10 in 2nd class and he needed to shave twice a week) against the rest. Me and Jimmy had the skills, he had the ability to boot other children further than we could boot the football.

All the kids played football at break time. If you didn’t it meant you were a girl and therefore gay. So it was a surprise to see one young fellow stay away and lurk suspiciously near trees. He sat under them and appeared to just have his sandwich or whatever. One day when the ball was kicked over there I called at him to kick it back.

‘Kick it back!’, I yelled.

He just shrugged. I tried in vain to shout and explain what I wanted him to do but he remained rooted to the ground. I decided I ought to go and retrieve the ball then explain him in the face a couple of times. When I went over I asked him why he didn’t kick it back.

‘I was trying to figure out if I was left or right footed and I couldn’t make up my mind.’

‘What?’

‘Do you think you can tie lots of worms together and make a really, really long worm?’

‘I, erm, I suppose you could try.’

‘Yeah!’

‘Right. I’m going back to play football.’

And I never really thought about it until at home time he came over dragging a steadily shortening length of earthworms, all tied in little knots at the end. His little hands and face were covered in worm slime and other assorted goo.

‘Did it.’

‘So you did’.

‘My names Dave. What’s yours?’

‘I’m Twenty.’

‘You don’t look twenty.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Twenty Jesus?’

In the end I managed to set him straight and later I told Jimmy about this mad kid who was absolutely filthy.

‘Dirty Dave’, said Jimmy.

‘Dirty Dave. Hah’.

Now, all those years later here he is, cleaned up to the best of the hospital staff’s ability, hanging onto life by a thread. Like an Extreme sports bloke who mountain bikes down avalanches and stuff, he’s going to die as a result of doing something really, really stupid.

I have to say if you asked me how he was going to die I’d probably say ‘as a result of doing something really, really stupid’. Now that the time has come though there’s no pleasure in being right. I look at his face. His grotesquely mishapen nose which was perfectly normal until the day he managed to get it trapped in a car door and got stuck for three and a half hours. The mottled skin from years of drinking pints of Southern Comfort and eating a whole battenburg every night for the last 12 years. His hair, normally so greasy, lank and capable of producing a resin that can be boiled down and used as a powerful hallucinogenic, is damp but lacking in the qualities that made it so uniquely Dave.

And those eyes. Not that I can see them as they ‘re closed but I can imagine them open, so hopeful, so full of trust when you tell him something’s a really great idea but in reality it could really hurt him. Like that time I convinced him to let me shave him with the spinning back wheel of a mountain bike. It took him about 10 minutes to realise we were having him on. When he got out of hospital after six plastic surgeries to graft some skin back on his face we had a right good laugh about it.

And there he lies in St James’s Hospital, hanging on. I really hope he makes it through. Good friends are hard to find and he’s a good friend. It’s hard when you don’t get a chance to say goodbye after so many years, despite the ups and downs.

On the other hand I save €400. It’s win-win, really.

How Dirty Dave got into a coma

by Twenty Major on September 17th, 2007

Dirty Dave is in a coma.

Time: Saturday night
Location: Ron’s bar

Dave was there along with Pete, Splodge, the two old lads who sit at the far end of the bar, Jimmy, Ron’s cousin Handsmasher (so named because he smashes people’s hands up with a lump hammer), and Lucky Luciano whose wife was out of town so he was avoiding a trip to the cinema. Conversation was flowing.

“And then they reckon they sedated her and cut her up into little bits”, said Splodge.

“Wow”, said Jimmy, “I had been wondering what happened to Samantha Mumba”.

“What about those McCanns though?”, said Pete.

“I have a pain in my gee with the McCanns”, said Jimmy. “We could do with another natural disaster to give them something new to talk about on the news.”

“Kate McCann?”, said Dave. “I would.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“I would though. She’s lost a bit of weight recently too. Looks like a supermodel, what?”

“Dave, you really are a big stupid cunt.”

“What’s stupid? I’m not stupid. Here, do you think if you swallowed a load of tampons with their plastic covering on them you could shit them out intact?”

“I have no idea”, said Pete.

“Dave”, I said, “I’m pretty sure you could do that and for each one you shit out intact I will give you €50.”

“You’re on.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a great idea”, said Handsmasher. “What if the acids in his stomach ate away at the plastic bit and then the tampons absorbed all the acids in his stomach? Then he’d have to shit out enormous wads of acid tampon fabric. It could burn his arse away entirely.”

“I don’t think you should be so negative, Handsmasher”, I said. “I’m sure it’ll fine and I personally am quite interested in the outcome of this experiment. Pete, blem on down to Londis there and buy some tampons. We’ll give it a lash. You still on, Dave?”

“I am. €50 per successful tamplop?”

“Absolutely.”

So, Pete went down to the Londis and bought a pack of Lilets Super Plus Mega Godzilla Extra. There were fourteen in the packet. They were taken out and lined up on the bar. I bought Dave a fresh pint and he chugged them back down. All fourteen. A couple of them nearly choked him early on but they all went down easily enough.

“Right then. It’s going to be a while before I need to poo. What say we meet back here tomorrow lunchtime and I will hold off on having my first movement of the day then.”

“That sounds fair enough”, said Ron. “What about that cheating wee cunt then?”

“He’s a lucky I’m a used to proper crooked politician like a we have in Italy. This is a small a fry.”

And on it went.

Time: Sunday lunchtime
Location: Ron’s bar’s toilets

“How’s it going in there, Dave?”

“Grand. Just reading the sports section of the Sunday Times. Got the Indo here for the wiping. Haha.”

“Haha”, we all laughed.

This was broken by a groaning from the cubicle, a sort of slithering noise and then something dropping into the water.

“Well?”

“Mostly log, let me have a dig around. Oh! Oh! There’s one, fully intact”, he said before lobbing a plastic and poo covered Lilet over the stall door and onto the floor.

That meant I owed him €50 and this was not the result I had been hoping for. Soon number one was followed by number two (yes, number two) and within 15 minutes I was down €400 as the filthy bastard shot forth a total of eight Lilets still in their plastic wrapping.

“Haha, Twenty”, he called out, “I might buy meself a Playstation3 or 40,000 cola bottles with all that lovely money you’re going to give me.”

“Yes, well if I was you I’d be more worried about the six tampons still floating around in there.”

So he tried some more and he clenched and heaved and forced and clenched some more but nothing more came out. It was because it had been so noisy as he willed his bowels to move that we noticed the silence. That and the smashing sound which we later discovered to be his head on the door.

Time: Sunday afternoon
Location: St James’s hospital

We were in a waiting room which had those old school chairs but only in that really weird off green colour that you find in hospital waiting rooms. The doctor, looking quite worried, came over.

“I’m afraid your friend is in a very serious condition. We’re doing some tests.”

“You should probably be aware that he ate fourteen tampons last night.”

“Pardon me?”

“You see, he was wondering if you could shit them out with their covers still on. I told him I’d pay him €50 per tampon he shat out with plastic on it.”

“You did what?”

“Eight of them he got out completely perfect. We just gave them a wash and donated them to the poor.”

“What about the other six?”

“No idea. Still in there, I assume.”

He scurried off looking more worried and more than a touch confused. He came back later and told us that four of the six in his stomach had split and had caused toxic shock syndrome.

So that’s why Dave’s in a coma.

All Ireland final

by Twenty Major on September 16th, 2007

I don’t care who wins once it’s not Cork or Kerry.

Brian Cowen

by Twenty Major on September 15th, 2007

Now looks more and more like Roy Hattersley’s Spitting Image puppet by the day.

Taste sensations

by Twenty Major on September 14th, 2007

We know some things do not make a nice taste when combined. For example, drinking a glass of orange juice straight after you brush your teeth.

However, I have discovered that the worst taste in the world is taking a swig of Veno’s for Chesty Coughs after brushing your teeth with Sensodyne toothpaste (which has a 100% taste of that pink water your drink at the dentists).

It’s like a million scorpions in renal failure pissing while a grizzly bear sprays gone-off-salmon flavoured diarrhoea directly into your mouth.

NOT recommended.

Bertie at the Tribunal

by Twenty Major on September 14th, 2007

The usual guff and flapdoodle about dollars and no dollars, Gilmartin and no Gilmartin, lies, personal upset and all the rest of the crack.

Bertie said “I have been tormented about these issues since May 8, 2000. I have waited seven-and-a-half years for this day.”

He’s never looked particularly tormented to me and why was he waiting seven-and-a-half years? Was it to tell us he’d been waiting seven-and-a-half years or was there something else? Oh, it could have been the chance to clear his name once and for all and to put all this behind him.

Erm, did that happen? Maybe it happened. If it did, please accept my apology, Mein Fuhrer.

I loved the line from the report where it said ‘Mr Ahern was applauded by about 20 people as he left the Tribunal buildings at Dublin Castle’.

Were those people inside the tribunal or did he have his own cheerleading section outside? If they were outside what sort of sad cunts are they?

And what kind of applause was it? Was it rapturous? Was it the kind of applause people burst into when a flight, buffeted by winds and turbulence, manages a safe landing? Or was it the crap applause that some people feel compelled to make at the end of a half-decent film in the cinema? What the fuck do they clap for? It’s not like the director or the actors or anyone even vaguely associated with the film is there so it’s pretty fucking pointless.

Meh, it’s just more of the same with Bertie. Lots of talk but very few questions answered in a way that makes you not want to ask them again and again.