Ban election posters

by Twenty Major on July 23rd, 2008

So Minister for having a Cushy Job, John Gormless, is thinking about a crackdown on election posters.

Here’s an idea, ban them altogether. Having a bunch of hideous, ugly cunts staring at you for weeks is no fun for anyone. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it probably puts people off voting.

As well as that it might get politicians going door to door to let their consituents know who they are, what they stand for and to answer questions that people might have. As it stands they get a load of posters made up, lash them to posts and trees, and that’s about as much contact as the vast majority of people have with the person they’re supposed to choose to represent them.

So forget the environment, despite them being a waste of paper and ink and a blot on landscape when they’re up, ban them because it will make politicians work harder.

The slack cunts.

Famine day

by Twenty Major on July 23rd, 2008

Apparently some taxi driver is trying to have an annual Famine Day to honour the memory of those who died in the great famine all those years ago.

Seems a bit mawkish to me. The great famine took place between 1845 and 1849 and over a million people died and a million emigrated - a fact which inspired one of the greatest comedy lines of all time. Alan Partridge, meeting two Irish writers (Graham Linehan one of them), said, ‘If they could afford to emigrate they could afford to eat in a modest restaurant’.

But back then there were no telethons, no Bob Geldofs to raise some ‘focking money’ and I can always remember in my history book in school there was a picture of a woman holding a baby and with just a couple of quick scribbles you could make it look like she had a great big giant mouth and she was trying to devour the youngster to stave off the hunger.

But isn’t all so long ago that we don’t really need to be doing anything at all? How long in the past does something have to take place before we can stop hearing about it? Of course it’s a huge part of our history but history is what it is. Who exactly are we honouring? It just seems a bit pointless to me.

But wait, here’s a quote from the taxi driver himself. He says:

If the Famine didn’t happen, there could be 12 million people living in Ireland and eight million could be native Irish speakers.

Well, there’s a cause for celebration. Eight million Irish speakers, fuck me. What a nightmare. Add those to another eight million people in the country and this place would be a right shithole. Imagine the traffic on the M50 if Dublin was a city of 5 million. Jesus, nobody would get anywhere and half of us wouldn’t be able to understand the fucking Nuacht telling us there was a delay at the Ballymount exit.

So do it, Mr Taximan, let’s celebrate the famine and how natural selection has made Ireland a better place to live.

Slán go fóill.

Words

by Twenty Major on July 22nd, 2008

So many words, so little time.

It’s easy. Just get the words, put them in sequence so they all make sense. Look at how many you’ve got to choose from.

Goat. Slurp. Ribald. Pernicious. Gazump. Flittering. Crank. Wobble.

So many more as well. How can you be struggling? There’s no need for it. Try the Bowie cut-up method. Just cut up some words, throw them in the air and lash them in as they come down.

Large boulder on in a barf-coloured to nun’s throbbing lawnmower.

Ok, scrap that one.

Here’s the thing. Just make it up as you go along.

Belly laughs

by Twenty Major on July 22nd, 2008

We were sitting in Ron’s last night, bored with the summer. It’s been a dull one all round. I keep thinking about starting a fight with someone, just for the want of something to do, but then I figure I’ve got better things to do. Maybe not so much better as less pointless.

Anyway, in came Stinking Pete, all excited.

“Jesus”, he said, “did you see out on the road there?”

“What?”, said Jimmy.

“There’s a dead fox. You don’t see too many of them round these parts”.

“Was it squashed, like it had been run over, or did it appear relatively injury free?”

“Looked to me like it had died of natural causes”.

“Is that so? How interesting”.

“Why is it so interesting”.

“Never mind”, said Jimmy, “you wouldn’t be into it anyway”.

“Into what?”

“Tell him, Twenty”.

“Eh?”

“Tell him what’s so interesting about a dead fox that hasn’t been run over and has died of natural causes”.

“Ahh, of course. Well …erm … you know the way you’re a bit worried that you’re getting thin on top, Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“They say that if you eat the stomach of a dead fox it’ll make your hair grow back really thick. But it only works if you find a fox that hasn’t been run over or shot and 98.6% of all foxes are killed that way”.

“Fuck off, you’re having me on. Right?”

“It’s true. Ask anyone”.

“You’re all messers. I’m going into the snug to ask old Charlie. He wouldn’t lie to me”.

So off he went and came out looking quite amazed. He then dashed out the door and came running back in carrying the dead fox. He slapped it down on the bar and asked Ron to give him a knife. Ron obliged and soon there was ginger fur and blood everywhere. It was like a Carrot Top abortion.

“Is that the stomach?”, he asked.

“No, that looks like a mangled kidney to me”.

“What about this?”

“No, liver”.

“This?”

“That just looks like a tumour”.

Eventually he found the stomach - which was oozing at both ends as he wolfed it down as quickly as he could, gagging between bites. Just then old Charlie passed by on his way to the toilet.

“So you ate it then?”

“Glorm”, Pete nodded.

“You know it won’t do anything to make your hair grow back, right?”

“What?! But you told me it would. I trusted you and you were just in on the joke with the rest of these fuckers”.

“I wasn’t in on it but if someone comes up to you and you have the chance to make them eat a dead fox’s stomach then you’d be a poor man to not make it happen”.

Pete wiped the blood from his face. Charlie continued into the jacks and had a piss.

I’m pretty sure…

by Twenty Major on July 21st, 2008

…that the Green Party, as a political entity, has no connection with my green bin but I’m still using it to dispose of non-biodegradable or recycleable rubbish all the same.

Stinking Pete and his Mizunos

by Twenty Major on July 21st, 2008

Stinking Pete, despite his various handicaps, is quite the sportsman. Well, sports sounds a bit wrong. He was only ever good at one sport, golf.

His father was a keen player, a scratch golfer in in time of wooden clubs, feathery balls and a complete lack of motorised trollies. He doesn’t play any more though after a series of accidents suggested to him that he might be better off giving the game up.

Accident 1 - When trying to teach Dirty Dave how to play, his malodorous friend failed to hear Pete telling him to hang on and caught Dave’s 7-iron backswing right underneath his jaw, causing a large cut which required aroun 12 stitches. He didn’t get the stitches though and just put a cloth plaster over it which crusted up, got infected and is the reason for the large scar he sports to this day.

Accident 2 - Playing the 10th hole at Corballis his hooked his drive left. That meant he sent it in the direction of the 9th green which was unfortunate for the one-eyed man who had just finished putting out. He stood up and got the ball straight in his good eye, knocking it clean out of his head and danging from his socket on a stalk. Despite the best efforts of doctors the eye could not be saved and the one-eyed man was now the no-eyed man and unable to adapt to life in the dark he killed himself by leaping in front of a DART at Connolly Station.

Accident 3 - One day he found himself playing a round with Red Hurley, the renowned cabaret singer. They were playing in Howth Golf Club, right at the very top of Howth Head. Now very aware of safety on the golf course he was astonished at Hurley’s devil-may-care attitude to walking ahead of the man playing his shot and his complete reluctance to cower behind his golf bag when someone far away cried ‘fore’. When the inevitable happened and a ball came flying towards Red, Stinking Pete leapt into action pushing him out of the way. Unfortunately he pushed him so hard and the hill was so steep that he rolled all the way to Sutton Cross, his body ruined with broken limbs and lost skin and a large piece of briar that somehow got lodged up his anal passage, the removal of which caused the kind of damage a hand grenade might do.

Accident 4 - The 2nd hole at Royal Dublin the night after a huge night out. Waiting to putt out he lifted his leg slightly to fart and unleashed a torrent of liquid poo down the inside of his legs. He said the next 16 holes were the most uncomfortable of his life.

It was that final one that convinced him to give up the game. The hours spent trying to chisel off the dried up Guinness and chips and battered sausage from his legs when he got home meant his love affair with the game was over.

‘I bet that never happened to Padraig Harrington’, he said yesterday as he learned of the Irishman’s win in the Open.

I didn’t have to the heart to tell him I knew differently.

A friend in need…

by Twenty Major on July 19th, 2008

Last night was drinking some pints in town and close by was a chap with no legs and really short arms. His mate had to hold his beer for him while he drank it.

Now, his mate also had to accompany him to the jacks when it was pissing time. And we all know that beer = piss.

I like to think that I’d be that good of a friend if something happened to one of the lads. Actually, I don’t like to think that at all. Accompanying Dirty Dave and having to whip out his mud-coloured chopper while he took a slash is making me feel distinctly unwell.

I’m pretty sure whoever did have to do it would certainly encourage him to drink fewer pints and simply partake of shots of whiskey instead.

What happens to that bloke when he’s on his own though and he gets a power-itch right on his chocolate starfish? That must be fucking maddening.

It heals all wounds

by Twenty Major on July 18th, 2008

*bring bring*

“Hello?”

“Twenty, it’s me. Dirty Dave. I’m in big trouble”.

“What’s up?”

“I just killed a man”.

“What?”

“Seriously. I think I killed a man”.

“You think? How?”

“Well, I was walking down Hatch Street and he was coming towards me and I just couldn’t help myself”.

“What did you do?”

“I tripped him up”.

“You tripped him up?”

“Yeah. It was like I had no power over my own actions, my leg went out, he went stumbling and hit his forehead on the corner of a pillar by some steps going into some building. There was this almightly clonking sound, like a coconut shell being hit by someone playing a cowbell, and he fell on the ground and then all this blood started coming out”.

“What did you do?”

“Well, I did what any good citizen would do. I ran off”.

“And did anyone else see you?”

“No”.

“Well then you’re all right”.

“I just can’t help feeling a bit bad though. Why didn’t I just keep my feet to myself? If I hadn’t tripped him up he’d be alive. Now his family will be distraught, his kids will be left without a father, his wife in pieces, his dog will run to the front door every evening at 5.45 like he always did but the man will never come back and all for what? Because I couldn’t resist tripping him up. I swear the guilt is eating me up. His face will haunt me, I’ll never forget that sound, and it was almost like a movie the way the blood spread from the wound on his head and I remember seeing the reflection of the clouds in it as it moved across the pavement. The shame is burning me. Oh God, what have I done?”

“Ahh, you’ll get over it in time”.

“You’re right, thanks Twenty! See you for pints later”.

*click*

A quacking tale

by Twenty Major on July 18th, 2008

There once was a young man who lived in a small town by the side of a river. He was an enigmatic chap, quite the dandy and he was renowned for his sartorial elegance as much as his hare-lip and his peculiar odour.

Most of all though people knew him because of his hat. No matter what outfit he put on of a morning he always had the same tattered fedora perched atop his head. He wasn’t a tall fellow but for some reason his hat made him easily visible in a crowd. Not that the small town had much in the way of crowds, apart from the one day a year when the annual mallard timetrials took place.

They came from far and wide with their beaked contenders and the birds would have to follow a course downstream to get to the finish line. The winner of the event would be treated like a king for the duration of the year and should anyone manage to defend their crown, well, near legendary status would be bestowed upon them as it had never happened before.

The young man, despite his outward flashiness, was somewhat troubled on personal level. He knew, due to his face, that he would never be a catch for the prettiest girls in the village and even if he won the race with his duck he’d be hard pressed to find a bride. Still, he took the event seriously, spending hour after hour training with Lloyd, who had wonderful plumage and a kick in the final stages of the race that put him in mind of a young Eamonn Coghlan.

So soon the big day came. All the contenders were there. Milky O’Shea’s ‘Cannonball’, Moralising Mick and ‘AJ’, Daithi Ryan with last year’s winner ‘Aidsy’ and the only woman to enter, Gobnait Branigan and her bird ‘Flappy’. The young man was nervous but confident that day. He put on a linen suit with a black shirt and with his trusty hat on his head he set off.

He spoke to Lloyd, who he carried in an old sports bag, along the way.

‘It’s just you and me, old pal. We can do this. Even if I’m always to be a lonely bachelor winning this race would give me some sense of pride, let me tell you’.

‘Quack’, said Lloyd.

‘Just keep focussed on the race now. Try not to dive under the water and stick your arse in the air, there’ll be plenty of time for that afterwards’.

‘Quack’, said Lloyd.

So they made there way to the start and the mind-games between the owners of the birds had begun in earnest. There was all kinds of talk about how one duck was going to beat another, how one owner had no right to even enter the competition because they once made a statement without having the full facts at hand, while Gobnait staunchly refused to be intimidated by the men and farted loudly at them whenever they came near her.

The young man stayed out of the way and tried to remain calm. He knew Llloyd had every chance of winning. He touched the brim of his lucky hat, the hat which had such sentimental value for him, the hat without which he felt naked. ‘Once I have my hat and my duck, I’m ok’, he thought.

The race marshall was Godfrey Reilly, son of the biggest landowners in those parts, whose teeth stuck out like the love child of Ken Dodd and Janet Street-Porter. Nobody could really understand a word he said but when he shot the cap pistol into the air everyone knew the race was underway.

It was a truly titanic battle with AJ and Aidsy out in front to begin with while Gobnait’s frantic yelling at Flappy as they chased the birds along the bank of the river scared the poor thing so much it spent all its energy racing into a 20 yard lead before falling back exhausted. The young man followed as Lloyd swam along in last place. He remained quiet, thinking encouraging thoughts only his mind as he knew he had a deep connection with his racer.

Cannonball, much to Milky’s disgust, found himself more interested in something below the surface of the water which had his owner crying out ‘Orange sauce, orange sauce, you feckless little prick’, but Cannonball paid no attention. It was now between Aidsy, AJ and Lloyd and soon Moralising Mick was cursing his luck as his duck swam into some reeds and decided he’d take a nap.

Lloyd was a good 5 yards behind Aidsy and Daithi Ryan was already thinking of the ovation he’d get as he would become the first man in the history of the race to win it in consecutive years. Would they build a statue for him? Name a street after him? And by Jesus he’d have the pick of the damsels despite being a toothless forty-two year old. But Daithi hadn’t considered Lloyd’s finishing speed and as the finish line approached the young man called out ‘lollipop’, the code word he’d developed to tell his duck to kick on.

He ran as hard as he could down the river bank, barely noticing as his hat blew off his head, so engrossed was he in the race. Lloyd, paddling with all might, his little duck feet going ninety to the dozen under the water, sped past Aidsy and he won it by a beak at the line.

‘Hurrah!’, said the young man.

‘Bollix anyway’, said Daithi Ryan.

‘Quack’, said Lloyd.

The young man ran into the water, scooped up his champion bird and lapped up the congratulations of all those who had witnessed the finest race since 1976 when it had been neck and neck between the twin brothers, Rory and Malachy Hughes, until Rory’s bird ‘Cary Grant’ just sneaked it.

It was only a few minutes later though that the young man realised his head was bare. His hat was gone. Leaving Lloyd in the care of Mary Dwan, daughter of the local publican, he ran back up the river bank to see if he could find it. He looked in bushes, trees, copses and shrubs but there was no sign of it. As he got more and more frantic he met old Jim Neary who ran a book on the race each year and had tidied up with Lloyd’s victory.

‘I suppose you’re looking for your hat’, he said.

‘Oh yes’, said the young man, ‘I sure am. Have you seen it?’

‘That I have’, said Jim. ‘I saw it come off your head and go into the water’.

‘Oh no’, said Lloyd. ‘Do you know where it is now?’

‘Aye’, said Jim, ’somewhere down duck racey river’.

Sarkozy

by Twenty Major on July 17th, 2008

“So I said to Carla, it might only be this big but it’ll do wonders for your profile”.