Archive for November, 2007
The people that care
by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2007
Walking through town today. A blind man is standing at a bus stop, as are about twenty other people. A bus pulls up. They get on. Not one of them thinks to ask the blind man if he’s looking for that bus.
I ask him, he says he is. I take him by the arm, because he walks off in the other direction, and help him on to the bus, where he sits surrounded by the pig ignorant cunts who ignored him in the first place.
I hope he let some rotten farts. It’d be only fair.
Hard as nails
by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2007
Woke up this morning with absolutely nothing in the house to eat. I’ve been meaning to do some shopping since October but haven’t gotten around to it.
As well as that I was starving so I popped around to Ron’s for some breakfast pints of Guinness. Sitting at the bar was Dirty Dave and he appeared to be muching on some kind of corn snack or crisped potato.
“What are you eating?”, I asked, my stomach rumbling.
“Toenails.”
“Oh fucking hell, that’s minging”, I said, not feeling too hungry any more. “You really ought to be careful. I’ve seen your feet and there are fungii growing there that scientists haven’t yet discovered. And as you only change your socks once a month and shower even less there must be all kinds of dirt, sweat and other assorted residue. A true melting pot of bacteria and disease.”
“Don’t worry, Twenty”, he said, “they’re not mine.”
Kegs
by Twenty Major on November 30th, 2007
Thievin’ Terrence came into Ron’s. He’s the thievingist fucker I ever met in my life. I once saw him steal someone’s sense of youthhful optimism, and there aren’t too many who can do that.
He came up to the bar.
“Howya, Twenty?”
“Fine Thievin’ Terrence, how are you?”
“Ah sure, you know. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”
“Get your hands where I can see them, you fucker.”
“Hahaha, fool me once, eh Twenty?”
“Just get away from me. You could will the wallet out of a Cardinal’s back pocket.”
“Is Ron around?”
“He’s changing the keg on the Guinness.”
“Ah good, it was beer I wanted to talk to him about.”
So we shot the breeze for a while. I kept all valuables as close to me as possible. I even made sure I didn’t think about anything bad because that fucker could steal your thoughts, the slippery cunt. Ron came back then.
“Ron”, says Thievin’ Terrence, “I may have just what you’re looking for.”
“Damien Rice’s heart on a stick?”
“No. Beer. Few kegs came my way yesterday. Thought you might be interested.”
“I may well be. I’ll take the Guinness.”
“Sorry Ron, I sold the Guinness to Charlie down in Kilmainham.”
“Fuck ya. Give me the Carlsberg then. It’s a bit gay but I can fool them into drinking it at some stage.”
“No can do. The Carlsberg went to old Mick up in Rialto.”
“Then what the fuck have you got?”, asked Ron.
“Budweiser. All yours, great price too.”
“Budweiser”, said Ron.
“Yeah”, said Thievin’ Terrence.
“Why would you come here and try and sell me Budweiser? Do you think I’m a cunt?”
“No, Ron. I just thought-”
“Do you think I’m a cunt?”
“No. Honestly, it was just that-”
“Because who drinks Budweiser, Terrence?”
“I - er - uhm…”
“Who drinks Budweiser?”
“Cunts, Ron. Cunts drink Budweiser.”
“And you think I’d let cunts who drink Budweiser in my bar, because there’s no other reason you’d try and sell me Budweiser. You think I’ve got a market for it and if I let the kind of cunt who drinks Budweiser in here then that would make me a cunt and that’s why I’m asking why you’d come here and try and sell me Budweiser.”
“I … I’m sorry, Ron.”
“Hold him there, Twenty.”
“Now wait, Twenty. Let go. Come on, please. Let go. Please let me go. Let me go, let me go.”
“Good man, Twenty.”
“Not the cellar, Ron. God. Jesus. Not the cellar.”
So Ron took Thievin’ Terrence down to the cellar and that was in 2001. Nobody’s seen him since.
Harney and Bertie - a marriage made in poo
by Twenty Major on November 29th, 2007
So the Government managed to quash the Labour party’s motion of no confidence in Minister for Health, Mary Harney. It really does make you wonder quite how badly you have to do your job to be held accountable or responsible in any way.
Crocodile tears from politcal veteran Harney might have fooled some but the bottom line is that the HSE and the entire health service is a fucking shambles and people are dying because it’s so bad. The health service, which is supposed to make sick people well, tells sick people they are well then informs them via the media that they’re not. To me that’s tantamount to a bus driver mounting the pavement and mowing down a bunch of waiting passengers.
When that happened a few years ago the driver found himself up in court yet Minister Harney remains untouchable. At a time when more staff are needed, when better staff are needed, the HSE have put a freeze on recruitment because the middle-management administrators that run the thing have decided that is the way it must be.
Fuck the patients, fuck the staff who work there already, fuck the waiting lists and fuck the families who are watching sick people get sicker. Sure maybe they could get a few redundancies in to help balance the books. Not consultants though. We need those. Mary Harney said so and each consultant, along with the back-up staff required with them, costs us in the region of €500,000 per annum. We can’t hire any nurses for €30,000 though.
Hospitals are dirty, people are literally afraid to be sick because they know there’s every chance they could get even sicker by going to the place that’s supposed to make them better. It’s like being afraid to go to church in case you get raped by the devil.
Meanwhile the man at the top, the head honcho, El Berterino, is having his own tearful moment challenged. He went on RTE News and sniffled and blubbed like a fucking baby about how hard his life was and how difficult a time he had when he got divorced. Well boo-fucking-hoo. His explanations regarding the money he received are being openly questioned. Not by me, or by you, but by one of the people who gave the money in the first place. With that complete lack of accountability at the top why would anyone further down the ladder think they have to act any differently. Just pretend to cry a bit and carry on doing what you’re doing.
Harney should have resigned. I appreciate the fact she’s got a difficult job but ultimately she’s really fucking shit at it.
Orange you glad you read this blog?
by Twenty Major on November 28th, 2007
Sunday night Dirty Dave came to me looking for advice. Normally I would listen intently to what he says and then provide him with the kind of advice that would provide us with comedy moments for years to come. However, this time I felt I should do the right thing and help him out.
In fairness there’s only so many times you can have a man arrested/hospitalised/traumatised/circumcised. He said he had to go to an important family function with his brother, Shiny Simon, and that his only suit was now too narrow for his waist due to overconsumption of mini Battenburgs. A trip to the tailors saw them let out slightly but he still needed rapid weight loss in just a few days.
Having considered the situation for some moments I gave him my top-secret weight loss tip. A pointer so very pointy that I should have kept it to myself, written a self-help book and started a whole industry like that fat cunt Atkins or Johnny Weightwatcher. ‘What could it be?’, I hear you ask. ‘Is it some kind of amphetamine?’ It is not. It is entirely natural. ‘Is it some kind of strange Amazonian nettle?’ It also is not. These were the questions Dave was asking too until I couldn’t stand the sound of him any longer and I just told him straight out.
Satsumas. He was dubious. And who can blame him? How could sweet, juicy satsumas bring about such drastic weight loss. My prescription was thus: Buy one bag of Satsumas (should contain 12-15 satsumas), bring them home then eat them all in one sitting. Then let nature take its course. He said he would give it a try but wasn’t hopeful, as experience has taught him that advice administered by me is not always as effective as I insist it is.
Last night Dave came into Ron’s and slapped me on the back and pointed to the pants which were part of his only suit. They might as well have been tailored to his very specifications they hung so well upon his ghastly frame.
“Fair fucks to you Twenty”, he said. “I wasn’t expecting this to work at all but it did. I ate the satsumas and within hours I was crapping myself stupid on the toilet. Well, actually the first one dribbled out a bit before I made it to the toilet but I was only in Tesco so nobody noticed. For 12 hours I shat and shat and shat and I swear to God you could insert the whitest of white things up my arse and it would come out clean, such is the enematacular effect of the simple satsuma. It’s colonic irrigation without having a pipe shoved up your hole. You sir, are a true friend. I must buy you a drink.”
And he did buy me a drink and the drink was good and I drank the drink. So, if any of you are fat cunts and need to lose weight, just eat lots of satsumas. You’ll thank me when your ringpiece stops burning, I promise.
They just get worse
by Twenty Major on November 27th, 2007
Sitting in Ron’s last night and in walked Neil Finn and Nick Seymour.
“Two pints of Guinness, please”, said Finn.
“And a package a Tayto”, said Seymour.
“What are you cunts doing here?”, I asked.
“Just did a gig in the stadium”, said Finn. “We’ve skipped the backstage shite to come for a real pint. We heard the Guinness is good here.”
“Are you Twenty Major?”, asked Seymour.
“Yeah. Are you that bloke from New Order?”
“Haha”, he said. “Bet you can’t make one of those stomach churning puns out of one of our songs.”
“Yeah”, said Neil Finn, “our songs are pun-proof. The best anyone ever came up with was a story about a bloke who invented gloves for trees and called them ‘tree mitts’ and then got around to delivering a punchline like ‘Don’t, tree mitt’s over’ and then he got punched in the face by an owl.”
“And you’re expecting me, off the top of my head, to come up with something?”
“Yeah”, said Seymour. “Except I bet you €23 you can’t.”
“And you, Finn? Are you part of this bet.”
“I’m not a gambling man”, he said, “but if you manage it I’ll give you a guitar.”
“The fuck do I want with a guitar? I suppose I could sell it on eBay.”
“You can do what you like with it, it will be my pleasure to give it to you.”
“You realise these stories are long and winding and very often full of complete crap that is just there to work the joke in at the end and ultimately it’s rarely worth your time getting there?”
“We have all night.”
“Fair enough then”, I said and proceeded to tell them all about this time when space aliens came to earth and were determined to wipe out the best places in all of our major cities. Big Ben - crushed. The Sagrada Familia - obliterated. The Eiffel Tower - pulverised. That really cool bar in Berlin I once spent a night drinking in - annihilated. Windsor Park - demolished. And soon they turned to Dublin. All our best places were getting blown up all over the place.
The Ilac centre - there one minute, gone the next. That video arcade on O’Connell Street that sells the doughnuts outside it - not a trace, not even a bit of the really fake tasting sugar. Meeting House square - now it’s meeting house canyon. You get the picture. Now, an emergency thinktank was put together and it was found that the only possible way of saving Dublin’s great places was to miniaturise them and put them where nobody would ever look for them. Some said they should be locked in a vault, others said they should be buried deep underground, others still thought we should disguise them and leave them out in the open as that’d be the last place they’d look - but in the end it was decided that they should be placed in the rectal passages of Premier League football managers.
There wasn’t a moment to waste and soon all the most awesome buildings and places in Dublin were shrunken with a device invented by Steorn who had given up on the perpetual motion energy thing and finally built something that worked. The managers were flown to Dublin and soon the hiding began.
Burdocks was inserted into the anus of Arsene Wenger, Freebird records was kept safe in the brown passage of Alex Ferguson, Sam Allardyce was to care for the Gaiety theatre and Rafa Benitez, caring soul that he was, kept three tapas bars from the clutches of the evil aliens. Soon every single manager, bar one, had done their bit and time was running out. From the office in Dublin Castle where all this was going on word was received that the aliens were searching for stores of knowledge and without them they would simply leave and go elsewhere.
‘You know’, said Arsene Wenger, ‘there is no greater knowledge than that found in books’.
‘He’s right!’, cried then Minister for Health Bryan McFadden. And with that a delegation was sent to O’Connell Street to shrink the biggest bookstore in the country. Unfortunately the machine was running out of batteries and the shrinkage didn’t work 1oo% correctly. Previously the managers had inserted buildings little bigger than a plum which caused little or no damage as they were held in Papillon style ‘chargers’ but this was the size of about six matchboxes, one of top of the other, and there was no time to find anything to help smooth its passage into the …erm… passage.
They looked out the window and saw the aliens approaching and knew they had to act fast. The only man without anything up his arse was the new Tottenham Hotpurs manager. He looked distraught at what was about to happen, knowing it would hurt, but was still prepared to do his duty.
‘It’s our last chance’, said McFadden. “It’s unfortunate this building is big but we’ll just have to use all our strength to hide it up there.”
‘What are you going to do?’, asked a tearful Alan Curbishley.
McFadden paused before answering.
‘Force Easons in Juande.’
As old as the hills
by Twenty Major on November 27th, 2007
“Ron”, said Dirty Dave, “how old are you?”
“That is not really any of your business, Dave Davidson, and if your old dad (Dave Davidson Sr) was here now he’d give you a slap for asking such an impertinent question.”
“Sorry if I caused offence but that’s the thing. This bar has been here for years and my Da used to drink here and you used to be in charge back then.”
“Somebody had to do it.”
“What about your Da?”
“What about him?”
“Wasn’t he in charge and didn’t he pass over control to you when he died?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what happened.”
“So when did your Da die?”
“He was shot some years back.”
“Was it the ‘Ra?”
“No, a few years before they started shooting people.”
“Was it the Brits?”
“Not really.”
“Was it Dickie Rock?”
“No. See they shot him when he stole Trevelyan’s corn.”
“So the young might see the morn?”
“No, so he could make his special home brew.”
“Ahh. So if they shot him during the famine … that makes you … fucking hell, at least 60.”
“Keep that under your hat though, Dave.”
“I will Ron. Except I don’t have a hat.”
“If I give you a hat will you keep that under it?”
“I certainly will.”
“Next time someone leaves a hat behind in the bar and comes in afterwards and says ‘Did I leave my hat here?’ I’ll hit them with a bat and you take their wallet and then I’ll give you the hat they left behind in the first place.”
“God, you’re as generous as a town crier, Ron. Pint of Guinness please.”
“To you Dave, that’ll be €17.50.”
A shocking new terrorist threat
by Twenty Major on November 26th, 2007
The US government has warned its citizens to be on the lookout for a new breed of Islamic terrorist. Recent reports suggest that they set upon people in secluded areas before rigorously sodomising them and then killing themselves.
Just what the world needs. Suicide bummers.
Fuck you Justine Delaney Wilson
by Twenty Major on November 26th, 2007
You think you’ve got a story? Phooey.
After weeks of undercover work I’ve got a video in which a government minister engages in the following:
- Snorting cocaine off a hotel bedroom table
- Rubbing cocaine on his gums in same hotel bedroom
- Talking about how really great cocaine is
- Sensually stripping a teenage boy before forcing the boy to snort some cocaine
At this point another government minister and an RTE celebrity arrive in the hotel with a teenage girl. The minister and the RTE celebrity engage in the following:
- Snorting more cocaine
- Making the teenage girl snort cocaine before they rip the clothes off her
- Forcing the boy and girl to copulate at gunpoint while they continue to snort cocaine and manually pleasure each other
Then, when they have propelled their man custard onto their slacks they are joined by a famous Irish musician, an airline pilot and a well known TV chef. As the boy and girl lie weeping on the bed a vicious drug dealer calls to the room to deliver more cocaine, of the cocaine variety, and the reprobates continue their drug-fuelled mayhem, including:
- Snorting even more cocaine, like loads of the stuff. Seriously. Loads of it.
- They begin to throw things like coins and books at the distraught teenagers culminating in them tearing them limb from limb in a frenzy of cocaine excitement before smearing the blood all over themselves like in the Lord of the Flies.
- They then snort more cocaine from the corpses before burning the bodies in the bathtub and calling junior ministers and other lackeys to clear away the evidence
- They then do even more cocaine before cleaning themselves up and going for a lovely French meal in l’Ecrivain
I have all this information not only on tape but on HD Hi-resolution DVD disks of which I made 50 copies which I sent to my publishers and their solicitors. However, the Mail on Sunday kept coming around to Ron’s bar and I got so very scared I had to delete it all, even the copies my publisher said they had, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.
But I’m not making it up. Honest.