Monthly Archives: March 2011
Paul Mayss, you little cunt
Paul Mayss is the little boy who scared the shit out of me in my dream last night. I was possessed by something, and attached to it by some kind of line, and after much kicking (which made no impact), … Continue reading
Some neck
I was in Fish Bar the other day. Getting fish. And some chips. And tasty it was too. However, that’s not the point. The point is this young lad called Karl came in. I know his name was Karl because … Continue reading
The TV licence
The TV licence fee annoys me. It didn’t used to as much as it does now but I have many great objections to it. Firstly, the TV licence money goes to a commercial organisation, not one like the BBC who … Continue reading
The swizzers
Last month I posted something about Tesco putting all their prices up. Now here comes the spin: Tesco yesterday hit back in a fledgling ‘price war’ when it announced that the price of 1,000 items on its shelves — including … Continue reading
Punch a heater, spray panel balance weight
What is it with Friday? Where do the people who spend the rest of the week on the internet go? Is it because they’ve spent the whole week on the internet and are now madly dashing to do the work … Continue reading
Sun good, everything else bad
I don’t mean the newspaper, I mean the ball of fire in the sky. How nice the last couple of days have been, it’s warmer, the evening’s slightly longer, the beer tastes just that bit better. I don’t understand people … Continue reading
Moriarty report
From breakingnews.ie Independent TD Michael Lowry has totally rejected the tenure of Moriarty report released today, saying the report is “factually wrong and deliberately misleading. That’s nice for him, isn’t it? He accuses Justice Moriarty of being ‘biased’ and suggests … Continue reading
Mad ad
For a play called The Big Fella at the Gaiety. VO bloke goes on about the play, how intense it is, full of caustic black humour. Comes to the end. “It will leave you … stunned” The … = a … Continue reading
Head dress
Every day I see him. In one part of the hood or another. Sometimes the top end. Sometimes the bottom end. Often right in the middle. He goes along with his arms and his legs, his face and his hands, … Continue reading
Every day I see him. In one part of the hood or another. Sometimes the top end. Sometimes the bottom end. Often right in the middle.
He goes along with his arms and his legs, his face and his hands, and the bandage on his head. Some days the bandage is shining and white, freshly applied. Others it is yellow and crusted with odd stuff, like dried up horse cum on a mummy.
Yet the bandage is always on. I like to imagine he’s got a weird hole in his head that can’t be closed up so he needs the bandage to stop the inside of his head leaking out. If he took it off, or if some young scamps grabbed one end of it and ran off, leaving him spinning like a baddy in Scooby Doo and then un-bandaged, there would be a small pause before brains and goo and pink bits would start to gush steadily onto the pavement.
He would look around, put his hand to where the bandage was, his knees would buckle, and people would pass by and say ‘Oh, there’s the man who always has the bandage on his head. You know I’ve always wondered why he always has a bandage on. Now I know’.
And the man without a bandage on his head would slump to the ground and the woman who always touches the cars when she walks past would step over him, into Boyle Sports, for a quick bet on the 3.15 at Beverley.