I was called up recently to say a few words about a recently deceased friend. Well, not so much a friend as someone we all knew and it was deemed most appropriate that I say something. It took place in Ron’s, his family were there, his wife, two sons, a daughter and assorted siblings.
I’m not much one for public speaking at the best of times but when duty calls I’ll do my bit. I got up.
“What can I say about Al that hasn’t already been said or printed in a newspaper along with a mugshot taken of him back in the early 90s? He was a family man, in that he had a family. I can only imagine their lives were much more peaceful when he was elsewhere. If that was prison, on a bender with the kind of people who ought to be set on fire just because of the way they look, or on the run from the countless folk who wanted to cave his head in with blunt objects, I’m sure it didn’t matter.
He was a man of peculiar odour, like a wet dog getting out of a dirty pond. When he sprayed himself with Blue Stratos … well … I can only describe it as the smell you might get if you rubbed gone off raspberrys, marinaded in hippo spunk, on a monkey’s armpit. He didn’t care though. He enjoyed the fact that time spent in his presence left you reeking of Al and only a week of bathing and scrubbing would rid you of the stench.
One night, when we were both drunk and I should have known better and left wherever it was we were, even if that meant being run down by a car and losing all sensation from the waist down, he confided in me his sexual proclivities. I don’t wish to go into great detail here in front of his thankful widow or his children, but his greatest turn on was finding someone else’s poo hardened to a toilet and then pissing it off. Don’t ask me. I don’t know. That’s just what he said. And what can you say when someone tells you that? Nothing. You just have to hope that neither he, nor any of his descendents, sorry lads, never encounter any daughters you might have yourself.
He was mean. If you were ever in his company when drinks were being had you soon realised he had T-rex arms. They never went all the way to his pockets. He wasn’t a handsome man. Sorry Mary, but it’s the truth. He was short, fat and balding. He looked like a testicle with legs. Uncouth too. I like a good swear as much as the next man but there’s a time and place. Witnessing Al berating a six year old as ‘fuckfaced little cunt who needs a good raping’ was rather too much for me, and indeed the poor unfortunate child who could do nothing but blow in that straw to wheel that chair away through floods of tears, wondering why asking for a line on their sponsorship card provoked such a reaction.
As a boss he was nasty, like Bill Cullen on PCP. His plundering of the firm’s pension fund would have made Robert Maxwell proud. His company funded the first Damien Rice album, bought David McSavage his first guitar, painted Ivor Callely’s house and, to this day, provides Bertie Ahern with his excuses.
His death was sudden and those of us who have watched loved ones suffer and waste away might think was a small act of mercy but it was nothing but a slap in the face. He deserved to piss and shit blood until there was little left of him and then the months of agony should have kicked in. It didn’t. He was jammy bastard and no mistake.
He was Al. I hated him and I’m glad he’s dead.
To Al”.
They raised their glasses and drank. Many of them said I’d been too kind to him.
I used to have Al and his ilk down as a 1 in every 1000 of people I know. He’s now everywhere. Half the world are pricks the other half are cunts. It’s a dull life.
word association
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AbEOgfq3CNc
Big Bad Al, you’ll never see his like again, you hope.
I’m looking forward to your Ahern obituary.
holy shit
irish dude top of the heap
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/cricket/england/8867902.stm
fulham going down
http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/teams/f/fulham/8866133.stm
i can understand that hard-shit piss thing Al had. it might explain things
Itchy, is he really Irish, sorry know nothing about the sport, but if hes irish why doesnt he play for Ireland, know we’re crap but did’nt we manage to beat England and kill their manager in 24 hours a number of years ago??
he’s from north county dublin. he doesn’t play for ireland now because he wants to prove himself at the highest level. we beat pakistan and we killed the pakistani manager. tony cascarino’ish. i’m half taking the piss hoping he pisses on the irish flag. i’ve changed nationality. again.
http://i27.tinypic.com/1zl6iqv.jpg
The appalling tribute is Twenty’s best writing mode. The post above made me laugh.
That laugh cost me no money in ticket cost or in terms of having to endure other humans.
This is much appreciated. The rest of yiz- back to work.
You can call me Al
Love it
had a smelly fucker working with us one time we called him c k one
I used to work with a bloke who we nick-named B.O. Baracus.
It’s a pity you can’t say what you really mean at funerals.
Bravo!! This got chuckles. Thanks!
Bertie: rest in hell
A WONDERUFL AND MOST VERSATILE EULOGY.
JUST CHANGE THE NAME TO ‘TWENTY’-OR ‘PEADER’-OR ‘CAPT. CON’-OR A MULTITUDE OF THE INBRED PADDIES THAT POST ON A REGULAR BASIS HERE- WHEN THERE TIME ARRIVES AND IT WILL FIT THE TICKET THEN ALSO….
*Yawn* Your fiction is shite, Twenty. Please just stick to non-fiction for the sake of our sanity, please. I mean really, I just cringe when I read about “Ron’s” or “Dirty Dave” or whateverthefuck.
Gluey,
You are probably right. The strawberry plants have no branches in Wexford.
Besides I do fancy Peadar, the perverted little tractorman.
You don’t have to read it, Cunt.
bravo, major!
sounds like your a jealous cunt!
HaHaHa.
Good one, particularly liked:
… I can only describe it as the smell you might get if you rubbed gone off raspberrys, marinaded in hippo spunk, on a monkey’s armpit …
When I die, you can do the same for me, I’ll throw a few quid yer way – or the “adoring” family will, more like.
“t-rex arms”…. priceless
In the days before mobiles I went to the wrong funeral once. Didn’t know the guy very well so didn’t know any of the family or friends. Arrived a bit late and sat at the back. Started getting a little concerned at communion when nobody I expected to be there went up. Realised at the end when the priest mentioned the wrong name.
The correct funeral was in the ‘other’ church. How was I to know he was Protestant.
Blue Stratos reminds me of FG, I must have him on the brain. That would be an interesting eulogy too. Hopefully not for a v long time obviously
Twenty, shouldn’t this be in de punz – as in you shouldn’t speak al of the dead?
People always say “you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead”. Well, why the fuck not? What’s the problem with it? When I’m dead yiz can say what yiz like about me.
And when I’m alive too (as yiz do…)
“It should be a comfort to his family that Al died a patriot’s death for Ireland.
Because by fucking off to Hell, he managed to raise the average charisma level of the whole country by a few points.”
worked with another lad who would go into the jacks after you had a shite just to get the smell’i kid you not’ that was his kick
The Twentieth Century had James Joyce
The Twenty First Century has Twenty Major
Great Post
@on the dry – where in the name of jaysus have you worked?
Dail Eireann?
I don’t think the shit in Dail Eireann is confined to the toilets, somehow…
His company funded the first Damien Rice album, bought David McSavage his first guitar, painted Ivor Callely’s house and, to this day, provides Bertie Ahern with his excuses.
Anglo Irish?
A tribute that could be used at manys the graveside.
Everyone’s fucking off for the weekend. Great.
I like Dublin on bank holiday weekends. It’s quieter, bars are better, more space, less roaring and shouting.
Got me in the mood for some Friday ones now.
You should have been called to say a few words at Ted Kennedy’s wake. He’d have raised his head to hear it.
‘fuckfaced little cunt who needs a good raping’ i think i might steal that one.