A call

by Twenty Major on February 29th, 2008

* bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Howdy, Twenty. It’s me. Stinking Pete.”

“Oh, hello Stinking Pete. What’s up?”

“I was just wondering why it is that if somebody gives you a CD of an album they’ve copied for you they simply hand you a disc, most of the time without a box and never with any artwork?”

“Huh?”

“Why don’t people make their own artwork like they used to with blank tapes?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s a worry, Twenty. It’s a real worry.”

*click*

Watch out

by Twenty Major on February 29th, 2008

February 29th. A day that comes along only once every four years. It is, of course, a leap year.

It’s also a day when women go mad with themselves going around asking men to marry them. It’s the only day they’re allowed do it by law and dammit if there isn’t going to be mayhem on the streets of Ireland today. Everywhere you go there’ll be a woman waiting to jump out at you and propose marriage.

Knees will be scuffed as they are knelt upon and rings shall be thrust upon unsuspecting male victims who will shriek in fear of committment.

There’s only one way to avoid all this and that is to spray yourself with a solution made up from nettles and dandelion wine as women are allergic to it. It makes them break out in hives and sends them back to their lairs where they will have to wait another 4 years to prowl the streets with the Breretons box, containing the diamond ring they were inspired to buy during the pre-film advertisements in the Savoy on a Saturday night, and the speech they had practiced over and over to get it just right.

Men, be careful out there.

Clichés turned Newspaper headlines

by Twenty Major on February 28th, 2008

Starter for ten:

A ROLLING STONE SAVES NINE - Jagger a hero as he helps kids from sinking minibus

….

On scum

by Twenty Major on February 28th, 2008

Quality ranting here from One for the Road about the scumbags involved in the murder of two Polish men in Drimnagh and the rise of the scumbag across the city in general.

Scumbags are not a new invention, there have always been scumbags, there will always be scumbags, but now this generation of scumbags is getting way above its station and it needs to be taken down a peg or two.

There seems to be this strange sense of entitlement, that they should get what they want, when they want and how they want. And the how is the most worrying part. I knew some seriously scummy lads when I was growing up. Not that I hung around with them but I knew them, I knew where they liked to be and generally I avoided places like that. From time to time you’d run into them and depending on various factors like their mood, our mood, the time of day, the lunar cycle, how windy it was, if the day had a letter W in it or whether or not you had a football with you there may or may not be a bit of trouble.

But by bit of trouble I mean a chase (not a tee-hee ‘chase me! chase me’ chase, apart from Phil the Fruit who loved the boy on boy action) or some brief fisticuffs but none of these scumbags, and they were scumbags, would ever even have thought about stabbing somebody in the neck with a screwdriver then stabbing another person in the side of the head so hard it punctures your brain.

They shoplifted, they drank cider, they smoked John Player blue, they wore pants too short from them and those squiggly jumpers you used to see in Dunnes Stores and they got up to no good. They sniffed glue and generally made a nuisance of themselves rather than being a serious threat. And remember, none of these lads had much to do. It was a time of four channel (if you were lucky) TV and days and nights spent out of the house because going out was all there was to do.

But these little cunts nowadays have everything. They have whatever the fuck they want. TV, DVD, xBox, mobile phones, internet, cheap drugs, cars, cheap booze, fancy clothes and trainers and pretty much everything else you can think of. When we were growing up there was one bloke with a Commodore64 but his mother didn’t like us in her house all day long so we got fucked out on the street and amused ourselves with football and making ramps for people to go over on their bikes and then go arse over tit and land on their face.

I’m not saying that the olden days were so much better, of course society changes but we’re not changing with it. We’re expecting ‘olde worlde’ values from modern kids and we’re never going to get them. We need to show them that the kind of behaviour they’re going on with won’t be tolerated. Are we going to get more prisons? No. Are the already chock-a-block courts going to do any more than spew kids who beat up people and film it on their mobiles back onto the street in no time? I doubt it.

So where’s the solution? Education? Community policing? Social awareness? Ad campaigns? All reasonable ideas in the long-term but there’s too much going on now for this to be simply a long term plan.

Vigilantism - let these fuckers know if they continue to behave this way then they’ll suffer for it. We need the Dublin equivalent of the Black Panthers. Masked marauders prowling the streets looking for scum and dragging it face first across a gravel driveway.

Public humiliation - parade them through the streets, these anti-social vermin, wearing sandwich boards. Name and shame them - although you fear in this internet generation when every part of their lives are paraded on Bebo that this would just be another badge of honour.

Jailing parents - such a difficult one, there are good people who produce bad kids, and bad people who produce, against all the odds, good kids. Where it’s blindingly obvious though that a parent’s neglect or lack of interest/guidance/responsibility is a factor in their little Johnny or Jenny becoming a piece of shit then I’d have no problem prosecuting them. We go after people who have dangerous dogs, why wouldn’t we go after people with dangerous kids? A dangerous person can do much more damage than any Rottweiler.

Something has to be done though. You can’t even say ‘Don’t stand for it’ or ‘Fight back’ because respect for elders is a thing of the past, you’re as likely to get a screwdriver in the side of your head the moment you open your mouth, but unless the problem is addressed and addressed with the kind of seriouness it merits it’s only going to get worse.

Now, anyone for the stab vests? Five for €50 the stab vests.

Update: Green Ink has a grand idea.

The spire is a bit crap, but I have a plan

by Twenty Major on February 27th, 2008

Last week, for the first time in ages, I had occasion to walk down O’Connell Street at night. While skillfully managing to avoid the drug hustlers, the eastern European mafia and these strange LED people that seemed to be following me up the street, I couldn’t help but notice the spire.

Now, I quite like the spire. I know lots of people didn’t, or possibly still don’t, but at least it’s something. It’s sticky-up and pointy and you can see it from miles away.

However, at night time it’s just a bit crap, isn’t it? This idea that beams of light were supposed to shoot from it’s tip were thwarted by the Corpo’s insistence on using regular 40W Solas bulbs. There’s a bit of light towards the top, and a bit reflected on the side, but for the most part it’s dark.

This thing is supposed to be a shining symbol of the nation’s capital. It should resound, it should be quite obviously ‘there’, it should glow and radiate and gleam and say “Here I am! I am the Spire! Now you, drunken sot, know where you are and which direction you need to stagger to get home”. Instead it’s dull and lifeless, sort of like an evening out with the members of The Panel.

I think that it should be updated, rejuvenated, revitalised and overhauled. It should glow like a 390 foot tall lightsaber. Pic below - click for big.

It should cast light across the city and, when you get close to it, it should make humming, buzzing lightsaber sounds. How fucking cool would that be? What a tourist attaction.

‘Come to Dublin. Visit the world famous Guinness brewery, the Phoenix Park, the book of Kells and come visit the world’s tallest lightsaber.’

Fuck me there would be enough planes for even Ryanair to bring the people to our fair shores. The hospitality industry needs to start a lobby group about this. If the spire was a lightsaber at night then pubs and bars and clubs and restaurants and hotels would be full to bursting with the people crying out for something new in their touristy lives.

The Colloseum? Old hat. Eiffel Tower? Passé. Sagrada Familia? They’ll never finish it. The Empire State building? Skyscrapers are ten a penny.

A 390 foot lightsaber? Awesome.

At home

by Twenty Major on February 27th, 2008

“Yes, good evening to you too, sir. You’re looking well. Had a good day out the back did you? Did you have a good day out the back? Yeah. You were all right. Where’s that fucking cat? Off all day ripping throats was he? I bet he was. Didn’t bring you a thing back either, did he? Nah he’s a right greedy cunt.

You hungry? Are you hungry? Yeah, I bet you are. What do you fancy? I’m a bit peckish myself, I have to say. What’s that? You don’t care. Just once it has some meat in it. Right, let me check the freezer. Hmmm, nothing in there that’d defrost in time. Will I get takeaway? Might as well. Pizza? Chinese? Curry, you say? Hang on then. I’ll give them a ring.”

“Yeah, an order for delivery please …. yeah, that’s the address. 15 red chicken curries please. 10 steamed rice. No drinks, no. How long? Ok, that’s grand. Cheers.”

“That’s gonna be about 45 minutes old pal. See if you can hang on till then. Right, I’m gonna go check my email, back in a few. Oh, you’re coming with me, are you? Not like you to be so clingy. Better get a drink first. Do you wanna drink? Do you wanna drink big fella? Not sure what I fancy to be honest. Beer? Always a good option. Rum? Perhaps a little too tropical for the cold night that’s in it. What about wine? It’s been a while since we had some wine and I haven’t touched those bottles that Jimmy nicked from that house in Dalkey. Let’s have a look. Chateau Lafite. Chateau Margeaux. Chateau Valandraud Saint-Emilion. Chateau Latour Pauillac. Spätburgunder.

Hmm, well we’ll go with the oldest. 1797? Fucking hell, who waits that long to open a bottle of wine. Corkscrew, there it is. Grand job, here’s a bowl for you. Don’t go mad now. You know how you get when you get a half pint of wine into you. I’m too tired to go out hunting knackers tonight. And a glass for me. Mmmm, delicious. Wonder how the fire’s doing. Best check. Crackling away, lovely. You know I think I should get one of those new really thin Apples. I do love a new gadget and that way I could in the sitting room and do my blog and stuff and there wouldn’t even be a cable for you to trip over and then pull the laptop off the side of the couch making it fall and shatter into a load of pieces like the last one.

Smoke? No? Fair enough. After dinner, yeah. I hear ya. Oh there’s that fucking cat. The noise of it wailing out the back there. Sounds like a retarded deaf kid trying to make a fire engine sound. I know, I know, get a catflap - but I don’t want any holes in my doors that a really tiny ninja midget could get through. Yes, I know you’d eat him but what if he got caught in your throat and you died? I’d never forgive myself. Come on, you stupid moggy. Get in the fucking house. Oh, what is that all over your face? More blood. What have you been eviscerating now? I don’t know. You pair of reprobates. Yes, there’s food for you too. Stop miaowing. Stop it. Go on, pppppssssssssssssshhhhhh. Get into that sitting room. I’ll just get a book, check my email later.”

*bring bring*

“Hello? Ah, howdy Jimmy. Yeah, might pop down later. You going? Oh, how come? You’re fucking kidding me? Really? And they won’t say why? Fuck. Right enough, so. I can understand that. Well, I might just have a quiet one in. Read a book, drink some wine, smoke a joint or something. Fire’s lit, it’s cold out. Yeah. I know. Gay. Fuck it. Sometimes I just need a night off from Tweedleflid and Tweedlemong. Yeah. Grand. Good luck. Talk to you tomorrow.”

*click*

“Can you stop groaning? I’m trying to read here. Well then don’t sit so fucking close to the fire, you spa. Yeah, rubbing your snout on the ground and rolling around on your back is going to make all the difference.”

“Throatripper? Was that you? Ooooh, you smelly fucking cunt. Jesus Christ, it’s a like a poo came to life and crawled up your arse then died. Where are the matches? I should get a fucking gas mask. I swear to God if I didn’t think you’d hunt me down and kill me I’d take you out the woods and let you go. Ah what am I saying? I wouldn’t do that. You might be the worst cat I ever owned, in fact you’re the only cat I’ve ever owned, but you’re all right really.”

*bring bring*

“Hello? What’s up? Yeah? Yeah? Yeah, I know. Fucking hell. What? Yeah. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Hmmmm. Ok. Right. Fair enough. Not for that price I’m not. What? Well, of course you can get someone to do it for less but do you want it done properly or do you want it done by some half-wit? Up to you. Well you let me know. Me? Nothing much. Fine. Later.”

*click*

“Argh, get off my lap you stupid cat. Stop kneading my thighs. Jesus, your claws. Fucks sake. Are they samurai claws? Ow. Stop. What if I rub that bit behind your ear. Hah, not so tough now are you? No, you’re not. Fucking cat. Yeah yeah, purr all you like. You’re not so tough. OW, get your claws out of my leg.”

“What? Yeah. I know. They’re late. I know. I’m hungry too. Huh? Well I didn’t have a shetland pony for breakfast, did I? You gluttonous beast. They’ll be here any minute so until then just shut up. The little whines won’t make them come any faster. Oh, you want under your chin rubbed. You want under your chin rubbed? There you go, buddy. Oh jesus, do you have to get the back leg going like that? The noise of it off the floorboards. Fucking he-”

*ding dong*

“Shh, stop barking. Stop it! I’m hurrying. Fucks sake. Howdy. How much is that? There’s €150, keep the change. You’re welcome. Right, you fuckers. Let’s eat.”

George Cook does the Irish Blog Awards

by Twenty Major on February 26th, 2008

Ahead of the Irish Blog Awards this Saturday George Cook interviews two of Ireland’s top bloggers.

dirty money on tv3 with PAUL WILLIAMS

by Twenty Major on February 26th, 2008

I watched this programme last night on TV3. It was presented and voiced by Paul Williams and sponsored by the Sunday World, the newspaper in which he writes his crimetacular column.

It was about how the CAB (Criminal Assets Bureau) came into being and some of the stuff in it was really interesting. From the state solicitor in Cork who went on the Late, Late Show in the early 90s saying “Er, watch out. There are serious drugs people using Ireland as a base and nobody’s doing anything about it” to the murder of Veronica Guerin there was a lot of fairly good stuff.

We got some lovely home footage of John Gilligan and family singing ‘The Wild Rover’ and their imitation Sopranos lifestyle was quite funny. And we heard about the opposition of some of the Labour Party to then Justice Minister Nora Owen trying to strengthen legislation which would make it easier to make life difficult for the criminals.

It was typical docu-drama kind of stuff, the talking heads, the moody shots, the slowing down of the audio and it echoing away when showing video clips but it was quite watchable, even with the Williams voice-over.

Where it became absolutely top class was when Williams was on camera. They would cut to him maybe once per section (there were 4 parts) and he was sitting in front a massive poster about the General, which I assume was a blow-up of his own book. Doing his most sincere face he would then read a bit from a script and then, no joke, read aloud from another one of his books - a tattered paperback in his hand, tilted so you could be sure to see who wrote it.

And here’s the best bit. Reciting a statement John Gilligan made to the Gardai he read it out in a ‘Dublin’ accent, just so you’d be sure to know this was a criminal he was talking about. He spat the word ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ because only a Dublin criminal would say ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ on TV. It reminded me of my old English teacher, a failed ham actor who, when he would read to us from the great works of literature, would put on an accent for each character.

It truly was hilarious. Toe-curlingly, double-squirmingly hilarious. Then, when he wasn’t reading, we saw him in various other situations, such as:

1. Concentrating hard at his desk writing his article for that week’s paper in the newspaper office
2. Sitting in his car, journalists notebook in his hand, obviously on some kind of stakeout
3. Walking along outside the Four Courts (I think it was) at night, long black coat on, chewing gum and looking like he was a hard boiled reporter who was merely prowling the streets of his town looking for a story

It allowed him to use all the nickname he’s made up for the criminals Tom “Fatso” Murphy, Johnny “The Penguin” Reilly, Micky “The Hippo” Quinn, Bertie “The spoofer” Ahern, and such. And each nickname was spat out the same as the ‘fuck’ or ‘fuckin’ when he was playing the part of the Dublin criminal.

The ad breaks too were sponsored by the Sunday World with slogans. I can’t remember them too well but one of them was something like “If you think cocaine’s a party you’ll be going to a wake”. Whose wake? If it was your own wake you wouldn’t be going to it, would you? You’d have already been buried. The others were about following thugs and putting them on the front pages and things.

To me Paul Williams glamourises what he claims to hate. His stuff in the Sunday World is really terrible. It’s salacious, gossipy tripe, most of which is fed to him by Gardai and really does nothing to stop crime, only boost the profiles of the criminals who wallow in the infamy, and the author who, of course, has books to sell. One of the best things I ever heard in my life was that guy from jail calling him a ‘cunt’ on the Joe Duffy show. Criminal he might have been but that deserves some serious kudos.

Anyway, it’s on again next week and I highly recommend watching it. RTE must be sick to their back teeth TV3 have managed to produce laugh-out-loud comedy like that.

It’s a strange day

by Twenty Major on February 25th, 2008

Is it just me or does today have a really strange feeling?

You know the way most days are just normal, you don’t think about too much, but sometimes you just get a feeling about a day and it seems weird in your head. Like if you were autistic and you were one of those people who seems numbers as colours and you can do complex maths problems in seconds because 456 x 6454.4634 / 53% - 74/2 x 905443 + 765546675,84556.967 is simply ‘blue-blue-indigo-purple-brown-red-yellow-pink-baby poo green-burnt umbre’ and you could see days as visual shapes then today would be ‘big waves-skull-time vortex-chris isaak-owl-large hill-castle tower-dwarf’.

If you see what I mean.

What a quiet weekend

by Twenty Major on February 25th, 2008

I had a very quiet weekend, I must say. Went for an Indian with the lads to celebrate the book coming out. We had the most unsmiling waiter of all time though. This vexed Jimmy the Bollix.

Although the waiter was reasonably efficient Jimmy didn’t like his straight faced antics. When it came time for the bill, and we’d stuck a decent tip on top, Jimmy says “Smile?!” at the waiter.

“Yes”, says the waiter, his face not moving from the stern expression he’s carried all night.

“Can you smile?”, asks Jimmy.

“Yes”, says the waiter not smiling.

“Give us a smile!”, says Jimmy.

“Yes”, says the waiter without so much as the slightest upturn of his mouth.

Jimmy eventually accepted he was dealing with a deadly serious waiter and not a smiling, happy-go-lucky waiter. So we made our way back to Ron’s and as we got to Leonard’s Corner we saw a car waiting at the lights, about to turn left at the Headline Bar to head towards town.

Now, I’m sure you’ve all seen those ‘hip-hop’ cars where all the hip-hoppers are chillin’ and all that other stuff they do. The hip-hop music is blasting and as the arms rest out of the window the guy driving makes the car look like it’s dancing in time to the music by braking and revving and such stuff. Generally these cars are big American cars or pimped-up motors with spoilers and lights and a trunk full of bitches.

I have to say the effect is more than a little hilarious when you see it being done by some cunt in Carlow registered 03 Micra.