The final cover

by Twenty Major on January 31st, 2008

To distract you from the terrible post below here’s the signed off, final cover of the book which should be in the shops in about two or three weeks time.

Click for big. Extract to follow in the next week or so.

Cheers to Sean for the funky image plug-in and tips.

Pete’pau

by Twenty Major on January 31st, 2008

Not too many people know that Stinking Pete was a founder member of T’Pau. At the time Carol Decker was going out with a large German chap and himself and Pete did not get on.

Just a classic clash of personalities. Plus Pete kept trying it on with the flame haired singer much to the German’s displeasure. Now, Carol Decker had a teapot given to her by her grandmother in which she kept scraps of paper. The bits of paper would contain song lyrics, ideas and her hopes and aspirations for the future.

One day a furious row broke out between Pete and the German and in the blindness of his anger Pete de-trousered the teutonic twat and shoved the porcelain teapot right up his hole. Just then Carol Decker came in and was understandably aghast. She ranted and raved, firstly about the stretched anus of her lover, but secondly about the valuable contents inside it. She kept nagging and baiting him.

It got the point where Pete was about to quit the band, saying “Don’t push too far” and “Your dreams are china in your Hans.”

Could you just fuck off now, Bertie? Kthanksbai!

by Twenty Major on January 31st, 2008

One of Bertie Ahern’s great skills is the art of talking shite. You might not think it a skill, that any old fucker with a few pints on him down the local can do it, but he’s a master at it.

Someone will ask him a pointed question like ‘Where did that money come from?’ or ‘Do you mean to tell me you’ve been sorting out passports for people?’ and he’ll reply with such a stream of effluence that you end up wondering what the hell the question was in the first place. We all know politicians practice not answering questions at home. They get their wives to do it.

“Are you ready for tea, Minister.”

“Well, whether I’m ready or not isn’t the issue. I think we have to look at the background to this sitation and accept that there are mitigating circumstances.”

“But are you hungry?”

“It would judicious of me to examine all the facts of the matter before I gave a definitive answer.”

Bertie is the best of all time though. Speaking about this tax-clearance cert last week he said the Tax authorities would have to wait until after his appearance at the Mahon Tribunal next month before they could sort it out. But yesterday he said this:

“It is not correct — if I said so I wasn’t correct. I can’t recall if I did say it. But I did not say, or if I did say it, I didn’t mean to say it, that these issues could not be dealt with until the end of the Mahon Tribunal.”

It’s like Glenn Hoddle, sacked as England manager for making remarks about God and handicapped people, “I did not say them things”.

‘I didn’t say it, but if I did I didn’t mean to say it’- what the fuck is he on? What did he mean to say then? The opposite? Something completely different? Does he have some kind of Tourette’s where things he doesn’t mean to say just pop out?

I heard Minister with responsibility for integration Conor Lenihan (yep, the man who made remarks about Turks and kebabs) on the radio yesterday slamming the Mahon Tribunal. He said that it was a waste of money, that the dogs in the street knew it was a waste of money, that the question of the Taoiseach was out of order and that the people of Ireland wanted to see it closed down because of all the money it’s cost.

I agree that it is overblown and that it has cost a fortune but I think I’d be right in suggesting that most people don’t want it shut down because they really want to see if they can nail Bertie. I couldn’t give a fuck if it cost a billion trillion euros if they managed to get that little cunt. The weight of evidence is mounting and FF’s panicked bleating about the cost of the tribunal is because they know the further they dig into Bertie’s affairs, and the more than Bertie prevaricates, the more questions there are.

Will he resign? I don’t think so. Not yet anyway. He’s a stubborn little fucker. Still, it’s like supporting a football team that’s gone a long time without a trophy. When you do finally win something it’s all the sweeter.

Furk off

by Twenty Major on January 30th, 2008

It seems animal rights activists have ‘upped their campaign against fur farming today, demanding Minister for Agriculture Mary Coughlan introduce a ban’.

Inconsiderate bastards. It’s much easier to skin an animal that’s trapped in a cage than to have to go out every day and hunt the little fuckers.

I bet these do-gooder hippies complain that traffic on the M50 makes their working day longer so why won’t they show the same courtesy to people just trying to make an honest living? They make me sick.

You couldn’t make-up it up

by Twenty Major on January 30th, 2008

A woman called to my door today.

“Hello”, I said.

“Hello”, she said. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine”, I said, “and you?”

“Very good. I’m here today to tell you about the new range of cosmetics from Mac.”

“Apple are making cosmetics now?”

“Oh you, you joker. But seriously, they have a new range out full of all kinds of stuff which is cosmetically fantastic.”

“That’s good. Would you mind if I asked you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do I look like the kind of person who uses a lot of make-up?”

“Well…”

“Do you think a fantastic new rouge would give my beard a healthy glow?”

“Erm…”

“Could a tinted foundation of some kind bring out the subtle tones in the bags under my eyes?”

“Uhm…”

“Might I be the kind of man who wants his full lashes curled and long-lasting?”

“…”

“I’m very sorry, but I’m really not in the market for any cosmetics.”

And not a word of a fucking lie her face fell and her shoulders slumped. Like she honestly thought she might still be able to make a sale from her suitcase full of face-crayons and powder boxes.

I don’t mind someone chancing their arm trying to sell me something I don’t need. Let’s face it, most of us buy stuff we don’t need all the time but this was just ridiculous.

And staying with the cosmetics theme I see Beaut.ie (where I go for all my make-up tips! I’m joking, I don’t need tips. I know how to apply. The headline just caught my eye on Irishblogs, honest.) are giving away colonics (Dirty Dave has already entered. He reckons there must be at least three stone of impacted shite stuck to his inner-tubes).

Now, I’ve heard of blogs taking the piss out of their readers but fair play to the girls for going that extra mile.

70s kids show deathmatch

by Twenty Major on January 29th, 2008

I’d like to see some of the characters from 70s TV shows thrown into a ring together. I’d say there’d be some epic battles.

Who would win between Mr Ben and Bod?

Could Chorlton take on both Rhubarb and Custard?

Would Morph’s morphing give him the edge against Bagpuss?

And could scary doll Hamble take on the weighty, but fairly immobile Great Uncle Bulgaria?

Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking about things like this and my overriding thought is ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’

Too many knives

by Twenty Major on January 29th, 2008

MURDERS UP 25%!!

MURDERS BY STABBINGS UP 100%!!

ATTEMPTED MURDERS UP 61%!!

It seems we’re now a society that has lost the art of conversation. A small dispute in a bar is no longer a battle of wits or verbosity, it’s a good old fashioned knife fight.

And most of the time it’s not a fight. It’s just one bloke with a knife. Or a sword. Or cutlass. Or sabre. Or scimitar. Lots of people have been down the road of complaining about knives and how these days it’s not safe to challenge anyone over anything. You just don’t know who’s carrying what.

It’s not an entirely new phenomenon though. I knew lads when I was a younger, more flexible man who carried around Stanley knives and carpet slicers or whatever the fuck those things are called. Now, to be fair, they rarely used them. Apart from Sean Thingymajig, can’t remember his last name, but he was mental. One day sitting around somewhere, could have been in school even, he took out his knife and stabbed another lad through the back of his hand and into the desk.

We laughed because we didn’t like the lad who’d been stabbed but underneath it all we knew that wasn’t acceptable. I’m lying. We just laughed.

But it was the exception rather than the rule. Nowadays every cunt has a knife. And it’s all well and good saying that anyone caught with a knife should be throw in jail for a while. That’s not realistic though, is it? Firstly because it’s impossible to tell if someone is carrying a knife. They’re so slim and handy to fit inside your pocket that it’s hardly obvious. Secondly because in this country you can strangle a pre-pubescent boy to death, hide the body, then join in the search and still only get a couple of years.

Based on that how much time do you do for just carrying a knife?

“You’re nicked, son. Straight to jail with you. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 … and out you go. I hope this has taught you a valuable lesson.”

And it’s impossible to regulate the sale of knives. You can make sure it’s only over 18s that can buy ornamental daggers and such, but it’s good kitchen ware that’s the most effective. I remember buying a proper chef’s knife and the first time I used it I was fileting some meat and the thing was so sharp it went flying through the piece of cow and sliced my thumb (right through the thumbnail too) right open. I don’t think I’ve ever bled so much, even when I was a woman for a day and had a lifetime’s worth of periods in two hours.

So what’s the answer? Well, there’s the Crocodile Dundee option. “That’s not a knife, this is a knife!”, we’ll all say as we draw massive rapiers from down our backs. Until someone gets smarter and choose the Indiana Jones method, which means when someone draws a sword on you they get shot right in the heart with a Colt 45.

So that’s it. How do you get rid of the threat of knives? More guns. Simple.

I don’t like him

by Twenty Major on January 28th, 2008

There’s a new bloke working my local shop where I go for essentials like bread, milk, delicious Major cigarettes, creme eggs and the odd newspaper.

I don’t like him. He’s a rather swarthy looking individual and he does not look you in the eye when he gives you your change. I don’t like that. And the very first day I had dealings with him he left me a euro short in my change which I didn’t notice until I got home. That euro went into his pocket, I just know it.

Now I’m going to have to find out which car is his and throw sugar into his petrol tank, which is rather like overkill after you’ve slashed the tyres, but I just can’t help myself.

A nice walk

by Twenty Major on January 28th, 2008

I prowled down Clabrassil Street looking left and right. So many people. Jesus, I really fucking hate people.

I skipped across the road without even looking. Cars screeched, horns were tooted at me. I stopped in front of one fucker in his 7 Series BMW who thought blowing his horn would frighten me. I stared right at him, he got nervous, looked the other way, took his hands off the steering wheel and checked his doors were locked. Cunt, as if I’d waste my time with him anyway.

I continued down the road, past St Patrick’s catherdal, up the hill towards Christchurch. There was purpose in my stride, I could see people looking at me, crossing to the other side of the street to get away from me. They could sense danger. Even the most stupid of them. I went down Castle Street and onto Dame Street, past that hideous new building opposite the Olympia. What were they thinking?

Through the lane and out onto George’s Street then down Exchequer Street. I didn’t know exactly where I was going, just following my nose, I suppose. Wicklow Street, I paused to look in the window of Brown Thomas, the delicate little guy with the silk scarf around his neck dressing the window looked petrified, even though there was glass between us. I continued up Grafton Street, it was busy but nobody got in my way.

Half-way up, outside Bewleys, I could see the gypsy woman begging. She came towards me. These people know no fear. Big mistake. She was carrying a small baby. What was I supposed to do? As she got near me I suddenly made a grab for the child, ripping it from her mother’s arms and then devoured it in a mess of blood and guts and crunching bone. The gypsy woman started to wail. I looked at her and she shut up as I ate the feet of her child, the last remaining parts.

As I spat out some gristle and made to keep going up the street I felt a hand on my shoulder. I span around, ready to snap but I knew the scent.

“You bad boy, Bastardface”, said Twenty, “I told you not to go wandering around town, didn’t I?”

I shrugged my big shoulders. What’s a dog to do?

He clipped the lead on me and we went home as the gypsy woman produced another baby from under her shawl and kept working the crowd.

And just because…

by Twenty Major on January 27th, 2008

…you can never see Anthea Turner getting blown up too many times.