My top 10 Christmas songs

by Twenty Major on December 19th, 2007

Here are my 10 favourite Christmas songs.

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Questions questions

by Twenty Major on December 19th, 2007

“Twenty”, said Dirty Dave, “what’s your favourite colour?”

“Erm, I dunno. Red?”

“Right so. And what’s your favourite food?”

“Meat.”

“And what’s your favourite leisure activity?”

“Smokinganddrinking.”

“Thanks. Can you tell me your favourite day of the week?”

“Friday.”

“And are you a jeans or slacks man?”

“Jeans.”

“Would you drink full-fat or semi-skimmed milk?”

“Full fat.”

“And would be more partial to a cup of tea than a cup of coffee or would it be the other way around?”

“The other way around.”

“Tea, it is.”

“No, coffee.”

“Right so. My mistake”.

“And if you were to describe your personality in one word would you say you’re extrovert or introvert.”

“I’m introvertedly extrovert.”

“I like it.”

“If you saw a shirt on the ground would you lift it or would leave it where it was?”

“Erm, leave it.”

“Finally, are you age 15-25, 26-35, 36-45, 46-55, 56-65 or ‘older’.”

“Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“I’m filling in a form for a dating agency.”

“And is there some reason why you couldn’t just invent stuff that you think the women might like?”

“Yes, there is.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m signing Pete up for a gay dating agency.”

Dickheads of the year, 2007

by Twenty Major on December 18th, 2007

As per Damien’s gentle prompt here are Ireland’s Dickheads of the Year 2007. I couldn’t be arsed putting them in any kind of order but the last one is, in my opinion, the supreme all-conquering Dickhead of the Year. Let the dicking begin, as they say around Michael Barrymore’s swimming pool.

Bertie Ahern

Not really a surprise, this one. The Taoiseach was already having a bad year leading up to the election but still managed to get back in. Since then his explanations about cash payments and digouts haven’t convinced anyone apart from Eoghan Harris, he practically cried on TV (and we all know that only girls and doves cry), he has been aggressive and belligerent when anybody has tried to challenge him on points of government or his personal finances and days after being given a €38,000 payrise he was moaning about being ‘poverty stricken’.

The lawyers at the Mahon Tribunal don’t believe him, I’ve yet to meet anyone who believes what he says about getting money from his old mates and bank loans and dollar lodgements, the country is going up the fucking swanny and this man still passes the buck and shirks responsibility for anything. I hope someone spikes his drink with Katy French’s cocaine.

Enda Kenny

Winning the last election should have been a breeze. The government was rocked in the polls, blighted by tales of corruption and all it needed was somebody with an ounce of charisma to come along and pull the rug right out from under Bertie’s feet. Unfortunately we got Enda who has all the magnetism of Steve Davis singing a Leonard Cohen medly. Not really a dickhead but crap enough to earn a place in here.

Martin Cullen

As Minister for Transport he presided over the wonderous deal in which the government took control of the M50 toll bridge from National Toll Roads who have run it, and creamed the money in, since the ‘motorway’ opened. The state will have control from 2008 but will pay NTR €50m a year until 2020. So the same company that has made millions and millions in tolls will continue to make millions and millions, from us, because the government bought it with our money.

Then he awarded the contract for barrier free tolling, so we can be more conveniently fucked up the arse as we sit in traffic jams trying to get to work/the airport/home, to a French company at a cost of €113m. Twat.

Tim O’Reilly and friends

In March some blogger or other got some death threats which prompted Tim O’Reilly and a few other hand-wringing, bleeding heart morons to propose a ‘Blogger’s code of conduct’. No, really. They did.  O’Reilly said:

I do think we need some code of conduct around what is acceptable behaviour, I would hope that it doesn’t come through any kind of [legal/government] regulation it would come through self-regulation.

The whole thing was a hysterical overreaction and while death threats aren’t nice the idea that blogging could be regulated was as ill-conceived an idea as Hitler the Musical in the Tel Aviv Opera House. I hope they look at it now and realise what complete dicks they all made of themselves.

Justice Paul Carney

He gave a three year suspended sentence to rapist Adam Keane, forcing his victim to travel back to her home down the country on the same train. Mary Shannon was raped by Adam Keane while her three children slept in the next room. Adam Keane claimed he was out of it on booze and drugs and didn’t remember.

Justice Paul Carney gave him a three year suspended sentence. The only way that would work is if he had suspended Adam Keane by his balls from tree.

Joe O’Reilly

Rachel O’Reilly was a mother of two who was brutally murdered in October 2004. Soon suspicion fell on her husband Joe but Gardai were unable to find enough evidence to charge him. Eventually he was charged with her murder in October 2006 and this year he was convicted based on evidence from mobile phone signals and sentenced to life in prison.

He’s appealing but he’s also appalling. He was found guilty of murdering the mother of his children, he thought he was clever enough to get away with it, he was wrong. He’s on the list.

Amy Winehouse’s friends

Some so-called friends of troubled minger singer Amy Winehouse were disturbed by her behaviour. They thought her drug taking was out of control, her drinking that of an old sot and that her career and life were at risk if she didn’t make a change to her lifestyle. So what did they do? They set up a group on Facebook.

None of these people even deserve to live long enough to see their names in such prestigious company. Facebook groups have as much impact as The Thrills latest album. Fuck off.

Rock the Vote

Earlier in the year we had the general election. Some bright sparks came up with the idea to encourage young people to vote by showing them pithy videos featuring celebs. Wait, no, they got the idea from the US where they had real celebrities. We had Ryan Tubridy, some halfwit cunt called Frazier and lots of other famous and not so famous people telling us to ‘Rock the vote’. Seriously, what does ‘Rock the vote’ even mean? Wouldn’t ‘Vote the vote’ be a better idea?

Rock the Vote resorted to spamming, not just by email, but in comments boxes in blogs and refused to accept that what they had produced was a load of shit which was embarrassing, cringeworthy and irrelevant.  Many young people simply refused to vote in protest and I can state for a fact that Fianna Fail’s victory in the election was entirely down to these cretins putting people off going to the polls as they were so offended and patronised by the whole campaign.

John Delaney

John Delaney promised Irish football fans a world class manager and then gave them Steve Staunton. That’s kind of like promising your mate a blind date with a beautiful, sexy girl and then sending him out to meet Mary Harney. Despite some early promise it became apparent that putting the cones out for Paul Merson at Walsall was not sufficient to get results against decent European sides. Or half decent European sides. Or even crap European sides.

Ireland had no chance of qualifying for Euro2008 yet still Delaney championed the manager he had stood behind so firmly at his appointment. When public opinion and Eamonn Dunphy’s bleating and teeth-gnashing got too much Delaney had to admit his mistake and Staunton was fired. As soon as that happened Delaney reminded us all that it was a three man committee that had appointed Staunton and he could hardly be expected to take the blame.

I want people to support him and the Association. I and the board have full confidence in Steve Staunton - John Delaney, Feb 2007

It’s unfortunate that I’ve been personally linked to the appointment when there was a sub-committee of three which was ratified by the board of the FAI, which is a committee of 10 - John Delaney, October 2007

Muppet.

The HSE 

Ireland has a health service run by managers, clerics and accountants, which is kind of crap when you consider we need doctors, nurses and other medically trained staff. It’s gone way over-budget, there’s a freeze on recruitment and people are being messed around like they’re expendable and experimental.

Women are being told they don’t have breast cancer when, in fact, they do. Other women have problems yet cannot get seen by a doctor for months at a time, superbugs are rampant and the whole thing would make you desperately afraid to ever get sick, whether you have private health care or not.

When you hear opposition politicians actually crying on the radio at what a disaster the health service is then you know something is terribly wrong. Once again though, the lack of accountability and responsibility from the top levels of government mean nothing is likely to change any time soon.

“Hi everybody!”

“Hi Doctor Nick!”

David McSavage

When Steve Coogan wrote Alan Partridge he must have dreamt about the ultimate sketch. Something so toe-curlingly awful that it would go down in the annals as a definitive moment in television comedy. I bet he never thought he would be comprehensively out-Partridged in real life by a feckless Irish ‘comic’. However, that’s what happened when David McSavage (roundly called a cunt on his own website’s guestbook) appeared on the Late, Late show some weeks ago.

It was truly horrible, jokes that raised barely a titter, a stomach churning impression of host Pat Kenny having sex and all round it was without question the most cringeworthy moment of the year.  Don’t believe me? See for yourself and there should be a prize for anyone who can go beyond 3 minutes.

Independent Newspapers

The final entry. For me the Dickhead of the Year 2007. It may not be one person with just one head but it cannot go without comment. It reached its nadir with the appalling coverage of Katy French’s illness and death but there was so much else it did to make it the top of the charts this year. Such as:

• Plagiarising Irish bloggers, more than once
• Attacks on blogs and bloggers yet they approached bloggers and asked them work for free
• Championing Bertie Ahern during the run-up to the election, conveniently forgetting to ask any of the more diffucult questions, like ‘But seriously, where did that money come from?’
• Its obsession with z-list celebrity culture. They built up Katy French yet the same group which castigated anyone who dared say a bad word about Katy French after she became ill was the same group which delightedly pointed out her cellulite as she got out of a car to attend her birthday party. They even circled it to make sure we’d see it.  Hypocrites.
• Barry Egan and Brendan O’Connor’s pathetic, toadying writing, especially when featuring any female celebrity
• Their insistence on printing pictures of people in the throes of grief while at funerals.
• The culture of back-slappery and cronyism

And I’m sure all of you can add something to that list. To me the Independent represents all that’s wrong with journalism at the moment. At least with a tabloid you know what to expect but the Sunday Independent (by far the worst) may have a veneer of respectability due to its circulation but it is the biggest rag in the country.

The only thing I’m hopeful of is that after the last few weeks it can’t get any worse. But then this is the Indo, they constantly surprise you with their ability to sink lower and lower into the mire.

So congratulations Sir Tony and Co, you are Dickheads of the Year 2007.

I’m sure I’ve missed plenty and I apologise if any of them are glaring but then that’s what the comments are for. Go for it.

I am cold

by Twenty Major on December 17th, 2007

Stupid winter is really here now. I may emigrate to somewhere warmer. Like Donabate.

I am too kind

by Twenty Major on December 17th, 2007

The other night I was coming home from a high class function. Well, it was Stinking Pete’s Christmas party, held every year in O’Donoghue’s pub where the sawdust is authentically dipped in urine before being spread all over the floor.

Leaving to head back to Ron’s for some late ones at about 1.30am I hailed me a cab. In the cab was the driver and I suspect that he was from Nigeria. Not that this has any bearing on anything but I always enjoying speculating on where a person might be from. ‘That fella’, I might say to myself, ‘is from County Offaly, God bless him’, or ‘I have gathered from this lad’s accent that he hails from the far north of Coolock’, that kind of thing.

As I had run out of delicious Majors to smoke once I got to Ron’s I asked the cabbie to stop at one of these new fangled all-night garages, where on can purchase petrol, bread, milk, coca-cola and a wide range of other goods which seem like a good idea late at night.

After purchasing my smokes I decided it would be a nice thing if I bought something for the driver. There I was going to drink more pints of creamy rum in Ron’s and this poor fellow had to drive drunken ninnies around until dawn. Wouldn’t some small gesture of appreciation not go amiss? So I bought him a Mars bar. Honestly. I got back in the cab.

“I bought you a Mars bar” , I said.

“Thanks”, he said.

That was it. Nothing more. It was a silent taxi journey. I would have thought that the rarity of somebody buying him a Mars bar, someone who had the decency to think of him and his workload, would have sparked conversation. Not that we would have become great friends, not that I don’t have African friends before anyone accuses me of anything, but he didn’t say another word.

‘Oops’, I thought to myself, ‘perhaps I have boobed here. Maybe I have offended him in some way. My small deed, meant with late night kindness, has not gone down well. How could this be?’

I pondered the reasons why as we drove through the streets to Ron’s bar. I couldn’t really understand it. Were I a taxi driver and some bearded gentleman bought me a Mars bar I would be effusive in my praise whereas Dele, for that was his name, was impassive, emotionless and cold. It wasn’t until we got to Ron’s and I had just paid him when I realised why he had acted like he did, why he had essentially thrown my kindness back in my face.

“Goodnight, you diabetic cunt”, I said.  And I’ll never buy a taxi driver anything again.

So…

by Twenty Major on December 14th, 2007

…beer, beer, wine, gin & tonic, rum, bourbon, Irish whiskey, ale.

The European Council loves sperm

by Twenty Major on December 14th, 2007

Well, that’s the only assumption I can make having seen this on breakingnews.ie

Stupid itch

by Twenty Major on December 14th, 2007

When you get an itch on any part of your body and you scratch it, it makes the itch go away.

When you wake up and for some reason you have an itchy eye when you scratch the itch gets worse and your eye gets all red and weepy, like Madonna’s gee.

That is not the way to start a Friday, is it? Also, did anyone else ever get that thing when you blow your nose and air comes shooting out of the corner of your eye? That can’t be good, can’t it?

Tell her to come back…

by Twenty Major on December 13th, 2007

…and we’ll have a hospital kill her, problem solved.

I sincerely believe…

by Twenty Major on December 13th, 2007

…that you should be able to knock people off their bikes when they’re cycling along a main road with no hands on the handlebars.