Things you never grow out of

by Twenty Major on October 31st, 2007

Your starter for ten…

1. Picking scabs. Mmmm, bloody and crunchy.

As I’m suffering from a serious head trauma you cunts will have to think of the rest.

My left eye

by Twenty Major on October 31st, 2007

So there we were in Ron’s last night. The whole lot of us. Me, Jimmy, Dirty Dave, Stinking Pete, Splodge, Lucky Luciano and old Paddy and old Larry at the end of the bar. The place was hopping, so it was.

Everyone was in great spirits. Jimmy was telling stories about the things he saw when he worked, briefly, for the J Geils Band back in the 80s. Yes, it had something to do with centrefolds, tubs of industrial lubricant and strange fruit he’d never seen before.

Lucky was regaling us with tales of people begging him for mercy before he killed them. Hilarious. Especially the one about the bloke who wept as he tried to convince Lucky to let him live for the sake of his invalid wife and his three children under the age of 5. As you all know Lucky is a compassionate assassin. He will only kill somebody if he believes they deserve to die. This man was a Chelsea fan. Not quite a death sentence in itself but the fact he switched allegience from Aston Villa in the last 90s was enough to convince our Italian chum to garrotte him.

Stinking Pete and Dirty Dave were their usual mongariffic selves. I can’t even begin to relate the stories they were telling but it was the regular mix of the ridiculous without so much as a hint of sublime. Splodge sat at the bar and said little as he was having a read of the bits of the book in which he features.

With so much good stuff going on we hardly noticed the strange man who entered the bar. He ordered a pint of Miller (fucking weirdo) and sat down at a table to drink it. I noticed him looking over at us at one stage, then looking at a piece of paper, but I paid little heed to it. That was my mistake. I should have realised he was a mentalist. His clothes should have set alarm bells ringing in my head. He wore a white shirt, a suede jacket (like a suit jacket), had ripped blue jeans and some old trainers on. His wispy beard was not the beard of a real man but that of a fan of that most heinous of monsters, Damien Rice.

As I excused myself from the group to spend a penny, having broken the seal much earlier, I made my way to the bathroom, whipped my lad out and began to wee. The door opened behind me and in came this man. I do not like being followed into toilets by strange men. It always makes me nervous. He had his hands behind his back.

“Are you Twenty Major?”, he said.

“Who wants to know?”

“You’re the one writing that book. You’re the one who fails to see the glory of Damien Rice. You’re the one who turns people against him.”

“He does that quite well enough himself”, I said trying to finish my wee but there was a lot of wee to be weed.

“You must be stopped. I cannot allow you to besmirch our Lord Damien Rice”, he intoned.

“Ok, you need to go away now”, I said still weeing. And that’s when he hit me. From behind his back he took an ashtray he’d picked up off the table and swung it with his left hand into my left eye.

“Ouch”, I said. “That smarts”. The blow to the head stopped the flow from my bladder. I put my hand to my head and thought I’d gotten away with it. A couple of seconds later my hand began to fill with blood. It spurted and poured and as I fiddled to put away my mickey, because I don’t like to fight anyone with my genitalia exposed, he raised the ashtray to hit me again. Just then the door of the bathroom opened and Stinking Pete walked in.

“What the fuck?!”, he shouted.

“Eeek”, said the Damien Rice fan. “We’re watching you Major. Next time you won’t be so lucky”, he said and then bundled past Pete and fled from the bar. I got myself straightened up and went back inside. Ron gave me an old bar cloth to hold over the wound and Jimmy drove me down the hospital where they stuck in 7 stitches to the deep gash just below my eyebrow.

The picture to your left is an actual picture of my eye this morning. I look like Paul Gascoigne’s wife. My head is thumping despite painkillers and I fear my modelling career may well be over. And for what? What causes a man to commit acts of random violence upon another man? Certainly it’s not something I would ever do. No chance.

And to break the unwritten rule that one never clobbers another man while he is urinating. Even the most savage bands of men, from the Mongol hordes to the Ninjas, from South American jungle warriors to the vicious gangs that roam the streets of Sandycove, know that you do not strike a man while he is weeing.

Anyway, this means that it is now well and truly on. Revenge, sweet heart puncturing revenge, will be mine.

Preparations

by Twenty Major on October 30th, 2007

“Well, did you get all your stuff in?”, asked Dirty Dave.

“What stuff?”, I said.

“The stuff for hallowe’en!”

“What stuff?”, I said repetitively.

“You know, for the charming children that come to your door and ask you to help the hallowe’en party.”

“I have a big stick with which to beat them with. Is that what you mean?”

“Oh you. I got all their favourite stuff in.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, it is right. When the kids come to my door they’ll be greeted by me in my scary costume and-”

“What are you dressing up as?”

“Ian Huntley”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Stinking Pete is coming over dressed as Wayne O’Donoghue.”

“Maybe I’ll come as Wayne Williams.”

“Who’s he? Does he play for Blackburn Rovers?”

“-”

“Anyway, they’ll come to the door and we’ll give them a fright then let them take their pick from all the goodies that kids love. They can have an apple or a Nutella sandwich made with Lidl’s own brand Nutella which tastes more like poo than it looks like poo and as it really looks like poo that’s really something or they can have a sticky date or a tin of prunes or as many Rich Tea biscuits as they want or some of those purpley-red flowers that when you pull the stem off you can suck some sweet, sweet nectar out of or a freshly cooked plate of liver and onions or a drink of that delicious orange squash you used to get in the cinema all those years ago or some homemade popcorn that I made last week and which has been sitting in a bowl out in the open air since or a slice of chocolate cake made with chocolate which has all that weird white stuff on it.”

“Sounds like the kids will have a wonderful evening all thanks to you.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“They’re still going to egg your house and throw fireworks through your letter box like they do every year, you know that.”

“I know.”

“That’s fine then, once you know.”

“Why do they hate me, Twenty?”

“It’s because you’re a smelly old fucker.”

“I thought so. Oh well. I’ll get them back. You just wait and see.”

Bank holiday announcement

by Twenty Major on October 29th, 2007

Please note that as today is a bank holiday the blog will be operating a Sunday service. This normally consists of no post whatsoever but as a gesture of goodwill I feel a post advising there’ll be no post is appropriate (if a little confusing).

Refusal to post has nothing to do with hanging one on in Ron’s last night and playing that ‘Who can sink a bottle of Jameson the quickest?’ game that is sweeping the nation. Nothing at all.

Still, seeing Dirty Dave vomit out of his nose, into a pint glass and then drink it all again was worth it. What am I saying? It wasn’t, it was disgusting. He even chewed some of it.

I need to lie down again.

For your information

by Twenty Major on October 28th, 2007

Only a seasoned cereal eater could take a blindfold test and taste the difference between real Shreddies and Tesco’s own brand malt flakes.

Noel Dempsey is a stupid cunt

by Twenty Major on October 27th, 2007

This whole learner driver thing is ridiculous, is it not?

To be fair I think something had to be done about people who could drive forever having never taken or consistently failed their driving test but you’d like to think a little more than 4 days notice would be applied.

But then we shouldn’t be surprised about anything that the hapless Minister for Transport is part of. Remember he was the Minister for Communications who presided over a communications system that’s one step above tin cans and string and tried to tell everyone how great it was.

He’s also been a huge part of this interminably boring Aer Lingus/Shannon saga. Personally I couldn’t give fuck what Aer Lingus do in Shannon but the fact that we’ve been bombared with this most tedious of news stories for months is reason enough to hate him.

The L driver thing is fucking ridiculous though. How can you tell people they have just 4 days to make alternative arrangements, especially when the waiting times for people to do their test are so long? On the official driving test website they show the longest waiting times for some of the test centres:

Raheny (Dublin) - 43
Birr - 44
Clifden -42
Loughrea - 32
Roscommon - 35

Just a small sample. Oh, and those waiting times are WEEKS. 43 weeks to get a driving test and he and that cunt Gay Byrne are giving people 4 days? They’ve allowed this situation to exist for years without any attempt to rectify it, now they’re rushing through rules and regulations which do little but create more problems. What a fucking shambles.

While I understand the need to be seen to cut road deaths there are ways and means of doing it. You’d hope those would come about from long term planning, not short term headline making measures brought in without even informing the Gardai first.

But I think it’s a perfect indication of how seriously the government are taking road safety when they appoint a pious, bumptious ex-chat show host to the top job in the Road Safety Authority. So cunt off Dempsey, go fucking ride your bike, Gaybo, and get somebody in with just a touch of common sense to sort this mess out.

Sometimes you just don’t have an answer

by Twenty Major on October 26th, 2007

*bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Hello, Twenty. Dave here.”

“What’s up, Dave?”

“Is it normal that after you have a big poo your ringpiece remains a bit pushed out still?”

“What?”

“It’s just I had one of those monster craps and my actual hole is now sticking out a bit. The door won’t close properly anymore.”

*click*

Stupid emails

by Twenty Major on October 26th, 2007

“Please think of the environment before you print this email”.

Honestly, that’s what it said at the bottom of the email I got yesteray. And in ‘green’ too so I ‘d be doubly sure this was from an environmentally friendly person.

I thought about the environment for a couple of seconds then I printed out the email 500 times. I hadn’t planned on printing it even once but preachy cunts like that really get on my tits. Then I laminated the paper and littered the streets with it, knowing the plastic covered sheets are not bio-degradable in any way.

Printing so many emails left the printer cartridge empty so I threw that into a bird’s nest in the tree down the garden. The birds pecked away at it, getting lots of ink in their mouths, and then died.

So, Mr ‘I’m so environmentally aware’, you are entirely responsible for my sullying of nature, my blotting the landscape. If you had just had a normal signature at the bottom of your email, even one of those long ones with all that semi-legal shite that nobody reads (as if they wouldn’t forward on a salacious or interesting email just because they received it in error), none of this would ever have happened.

I hate good causes, especially if they’re for a good cause.

I also hate Bertie’s pay rise. Jammy fucker. What the fuck has he done to deserve any kind of pay rise? As far as I can see the housing market is about to crash, jobs are being lost left and right, the health service is still a fucking shambles, transport is still 18th century, his government has brought cronyism to new levels and he’s been nothing but an obstructive, arrogant spoofer when questions are asked about his dodgy finances - yet he gets a €38,000 pay rise.

Fucking nice work if you can get it. People ask why Ireland is a nation of begrudgers. Shit like that is why.

My weird hair

by Twenty Major on October 25th, 2007

I have this strange hair on my right arm, just on the ball of my shoulder, which is completely unlike all the other hairs on my body.

For a start it’s at least three inches long, fair and it grows really fast. What is this rogue hair? Why does it grow at a rate completely at odds with the rest of the hair on my body?

Is it possessed because sometimes it talks to me and tells me to do things. Bad things.

Luckily I’m not the kind of person who pays any attention when a long hair on their arm starts talking to them.

California

by Twenty Major on October 25th, 2007

“Here, Twenty”, said Dirty Dave, “why exactly do they go on about California being such a great place to live? I mean, it strikes me that it’s a bit shit.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, look at those old forest fires at the moment. Not even Lloyd Cole himself could have forseen forest fires like those. A million people being evacuated, thousands of homes being burnt. It’s not good, is it?”

“It is not.”

“And with so much wealth in California you’d think they’d install some kind of sprinkler system to help when things like this happen. It’s not exactly the first time, is it?”

“True enough.”

“So you have an administration that knows there’s a problem but doesn’t nothing to prevent it. And as we know prevention is better than The Cure. Even Robert Smith would agree with that. Then there’s the earthquakes. That there San Andreas fault is a cunt of a fault. The whole place could fall into the sea any minute. Yet people still want to live there.”

“They are quite rare, in fairness.”

“So are eruptions on Mount St Helens but you wouldn’t find people living on the side of it. Don’t they also have problems with rolling blackouts?”

“I think the things have calmed down since the Rodney King incident”, said Pete.

“No, you jamrag. The electricity goes off all the time, like someone has forgotten to feed the meter.”

“Oh.”

“Then there are celebrities everywhere you look. There’s a celebrity as governor. Arnold fucking Schwarznegger of all people. What the fuck is that about? You can’t turn around with bumping into some blonde actress or wannabe film star. And as we all know these are the most insipid, vapid people on earth. It’s good that they’re all in one place, like some kind of leper colony, but you wouldn’t go live in a leper colony, would you Twenty?”

“No, I don’t suppose I would.”

“The main cities. LA is a smoggy hellhole where you could be drive-by-shooted any minute and San Francisco is no place for anyone who likes to get around by bicycle.”

“It’s a compelling argument.”

“So why would anyone go live in a place on the brink of natural disaster inhabited by cunts?”

“They have some nice weather, I suppose.”

“Oh yeah, forgot about that. That explains everything.”