They just get worse
Posted in Blog, de-punz 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.’
Oh. Sweet. Fuck.
November 27th, 2007 at 12:41 pm
Juande at a time…
Sweet Jesus!
November 27th, 2007 at 12:42 pm
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haha
November 27th, 2007 at 12:47 pm
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ha ha ha - absolute quality!
There should be some sort of pun award comissioned for this.
November 27th, 2007 at 12:58 pm
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First oh dear! And second I was at that concert last night it was bloody excellent and Neil Finn was wearing the super sharp suit-although his hair is large and fulsome. They played about four encores too, and turned the light off as the whole stadium sang Better be Home Soon. Really terrific gig
November 27th, 2007 at 1:10 pm
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Love, of course, conquers all things. All things that is aside from the urge to thump somebody when you are at the football. That’s the way it is. So when I’m asked which emotion will cure all evil I always answer,,,
‘Love will, Terrace apart…’
November 27th, 2007 at 1:23 pm
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haha
Duplicate comment detected; it looks as though you’ve already said that!
Ye, well I want to fucking well say it again. Fuck off wordpress ya cunt
November 27th, 2007 at 1:27 pm
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this would’ve been funny if i didn’t have to google the name of the new hotspurs manager to get it.
November 27th, 2007 at 1:27 pm
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comment
November 27th, 2007 at 1:28 pm
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Easons isn’t the biggest bookshop in the country. Either you have made up that whole story or you don’t know Dawson St, and by extension, have never been to dublin. Come clean you charlatan.
Oh, and just to add my voice…………oh dear!!
November 27th, 2007 at 2:24 pm
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hahaha…amazing.
November 27th, 2007 at 2:35 pm
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Vintage stuff!
Of course, the FA had to keep a record of what type of monument was being inserted into the various passages, and to simplify the process they distinguished between “major” and “minor” ones, so the list looked something like this…
To Sir Alec, Major
To Arsene, Minor
To Rafa, Minor….
And finally….
To Juande, Major.
November 27th, 2007 at 2:38 pm
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Ah gaylord focker with a touch of highly contagious nob rot I would have loving to see them I seen them last year and they where magnificent.
November 27th, 2007 at 3:09 pm
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Can someone tell me the result for kempton at 3.30 today as all the sites are blocked!
go rosenblatt
sorry for inconvenience
November 27th, 2007 at 3:50 pm
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rosenblatt by two lengths
November 27th, 2007 at 4:29 pm
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Thanks
Nice little earner. got down to the bookies and noticed it had gone from 20 to 8s. The form was shite but stuck a fiver on anyway. somebody obvoiusily had him jacked up on tranquillizers.
cheers
November 27th, 2007 at 4:34 pm
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Bwahahahaha but seriously crowded house….eek…reminds me of when I was dating the now ex.missus manuel…….[shudder]
November 27th, 2007 at 4:44 pm
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Jaysus Twenty you sure got the bit between the teeth there, fer fucks sake!
So did you get E23 & a guitar or was it another ashtray ha’ ha’ ha’
November 27th, 2007 at 5:28 pm
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…dear sweet god in heaven.
November 27th, 2007 at 7:53 pm
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So Twenty?…. How much do you want for that guitar?
November 27th, 2007 at 11:50 pm
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There are dark alleyways of your mind that I fear, Major. Dark, dank, drippy alleyways with half-eaten spice burgers, slowly pulping LP sleeves of the 80s, and a cuckoo-clock that runs backwards saying koo-oock every five minutes in a compellingly mad-making way. Ron’s is down the end of that alleyway, I reckon.
November 28th, 2007 at 12:13 am
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And while you are talking about Neil Finn….not only can he write and belt out a tune - he is also a farking good guy. He and his family hosted an international exchange student - imagine that, you sign up to do a student exchange - and end up being hosted by an international rock star. That’s called lucking in, big time.
November 28th, 2007 at 12:48 am
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Assuming that this is a pun based on a song title and the concept of shrinking buildings and premiership managers, I have to admit defeat, which New Order song are you referring to twenty?
November 28th, 2007 at 9:46 am
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Not New Order, Crowded House.
The song is ‘Four seasons in one day’.
Easons is a big book shop here. Juande Ramos is the manager of Spurs. Hopefully that clears is all up.
November 28th, 2007 at 9:48 am
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Ye, I thought it was supposed to be a New Order song as well. Didn’t recognise the names and didn’t cop you were been sarcastic when you said “Yeah. Are you that bloke from New Order?”
But I copped on eventually
November 28th, 2007 at 11:09 am
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10 for the obscure references, Twenty
3 for accessibility for antipodeans
and 10 for the reference to Dr Who
December 3rd, 2007 at 1:03 pm
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You need help…lots of it…and very quickly.
December 14th, 2007 at 4:27 pm
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You need help..lots of it..and quickly
December 14th, 2007 at 4:28 pm
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haha, you love it.
December 14th, 2007 at 4:28 pm
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