Northern Ireland the most bigoted place on earth

by Twenty Major on February 7th, 2007

It’s true.

They were asked how they would feel living beside Muslims, Jews, homosexuals or people of another race. Forty-four per cent of respondents in the North said they did not want people from these groups living next door. The main targets of the prejudice were gays, followed by foreign workers.

Quite honestly I’m shocked. That just can’t be accurate. If they’re so bigoted explain to me how a man like Julian on Friday becomes Northern Ireland’s most important TV celebrity.

You can’t, can you? Our northern brothers and sisters have been stitched up good and proper, it’s the only possible explanation.

Fuck you, Gary Numan

by Twenty Major on February 7th, 2007

Has anyone else noticed the significant rise in pedestrians being killed since the turn of the year? It’s not just me, is it?

Every time you look at the newspaper another one has been knocked down or run over. What does it mean though? An increase in careless road crossing? No.

What this means is that the cars have taken notice of all the bad publicity they got last year when they kept crashing into each other and now they’re rising up. They’re mounting pavements, not slowing down at zebra crossings and paying no heed whatsoever to lollipop ladies. It’s like that Stephen King book where all the people are trapped inside a petrol station and the trucks are going mental outside and running them over when they try to escape.

The crafty bastards are going after pensioners too. Oh yes, everybody cries and wails when another young person, driving like a cunt, loses their life but where’s the outcry when the elderly are being bumped off by these mechanical beasts?

Now with some families having two or three cars the population is growing and their killing potential is enormous. There might be more people than cars at the moment you have to consider the fact that one car, bent on taking out as many pedestrians as possible, can knock down dozens of people in go like so many skittles.

They’re keeping it small scale at the moment though because they don’t want to be caught out. They didn’t reckon for my eagle eye though.

I’m onto you, cars, you fucking cunts. Just fucking watch it or I’ll put sand in all your petrol tanks.

Something fishy

by Twenty Major on February 6th, 2007

Once upon a time there lived a flat fish called Evan. He wasn’t like the other fish though. He was always a bit of a rebel and tried to do things differently.

Each morning he and his brothers would get up to go to school with all the other fishes.

“Hey”, he’d say to his brother Paul, “let’s go over to that fissure where the water is hot and bask a bit.”

“No, Evan”, he’d reply. “That’s where the squid hangs out and he loves to eat fish like us. It’s too dangerous.”

“You’re such a cowardy custard”, replied Evan. “I want some danger.”

He was an inquisitive little fish too, always asking questions of his parents.

“Dad, what’s down there where the water gets really deep?”

“Monsters, son. Strange fluorescent monsters with eyes on stalks and more tentacles than a room full of octopuses. Whales too. Great big whales who just open their mouths and swallow you up.”

“And what about over there amongst those rock formations?”

“Eels, son. And stingrays who don’t care if you hunt crocodiles or not. And Manta Rays who are always hungry and looking for a snack and they love little fish like you.”

“And what about where the light shines near the surface?”

At this his father grew serious.

“You can never go up there son. It is a place without water. Instead they have a dry substance they call air. This air will get into your gills and kill you. As well as that there are disgusting bipeds up there who would cut you open, pull your guts out, chop your head off, stick a smelly bulb inside you, cover you with salt then bake you in a place called ‘the oven’ where the air is as hot and dry as a camel’s flange. Promise me you will never go there, son. Promise me!”

“I promise, Dad”.

“Good lad, now lend your mother a fin with the dinner. I’m starving. I hope it’s seahorse again. Mmmmm, seahorse.”

Now, those of you reading who have children of your own will know that the best way to make a child interested in something is to expressly forbid them from having anything to do with it. And so it was with Evan. He became obsessed with the land above and sought out those who knew about it.

He went from one old wise fish to another and each one of them told him the same thing. That if he went there he would surely die and that his life was sub-aqua with his family and friends.

One day though he met a flying fish. They were highly regard by all the others as they could leap out of the water and when they weren’t being pulled out of the sky by a castaway and fed to a Bengal tiger they could look around them and see what was going on. It was well known that they had lots of information about what went on above the surface.

“Hey”, he said to the flying fish. “Can you tell me what happens up there?”

“Sure kid”, said the flying fish, whose name was Arnold. He went on to describe in vivid detail everything he’d seen. Islands, lagoons, rock formations and even the strange bipeds his father had warned him about. The only problem was the fact he couldn’t get up there. No matter how close he swam to the shore he was unable to get out of the water and onto the beach.

Once again though Arnold was able to help him. Every day after school Evan would race over to Arnold’s crevice and take lessons on how to jump up and out of the water. At first he was given exercises which made him waggle his tail fin and swim fast. He was impatient though, saying to Arnold “When do I learn to jump?”

Arnold replied, “Better learn balance. Balance is key. Balance good, jumping good. Everything good. Balance bad, better pack up, go home. Understand?”

Soon though he learned to focus on the job at hand and before long he was making mighty leaps through the air and back into the sea. He practiced and practiced until he became expert and then he knew it was time.

One morning having just left home he confided in his brother what he was going to do.

“I’m going to jump so far and then I will be where no fish has been before. The excitement, the danger, I’ll make history. People will know my name all over the sea. I’ll be famous. You can be my manager.”

“Please don’t do it!”, cried Paul. He knew his brother and realised that he hadn’t thought about how he was going to get back. He had visions of him flopping backwards and forwards as the poisonous air dried out his gills. “You’ll die, I don’t want you to die.”

“There’s nothing you can say to stop me, Paul. It is time for me to face up to my destiny. I will soar through the air and once I hit the land I will feel mighty. Then I will come back and claim my position as the world’s greatest ever fish.”

Paul knew now his brother had lost his tiny little mind. He tried to stop him again but his pleas fell on deaf ears. He knew he needed help and raced back home to get his father.

He swam as fast as he could and explained the situation as they swam like lightning back to where he’d left his brother but it was too late. As they neared the shore they saw something moving as fast as a bullet, silver glistening as the sun’s rays came through the water. Then with a flick of his tail he took off out of the water and landed thirty feet on the beach, never to be seen again.

“We were too late”, sobbed Paul, distraught at this loss of his sibling. “Evan is a plaice on earth.”

Amy Winehouse

by Twenty Major on February 5th, 2007

Multiple choice. Which would you choose?

a - Kick her in the gee with a steel capped boot
b - Insert a live scorpion into her anus
c - Cut her lips off and feed them to a starving tramp

I’d more inclined to go with b at the moment. My God, she is an irritating cunt.

No sugar

by Twenty Major on February 5th, 2007

“I’ve given up sugar!”, announced Dirty Dave in Ron’s the other night.

This came as a bit of a shock to us as Dave has a notoriously sweet tooth.

“So you’re not taking sugar in your tea?”

“No!”

“And no sugar on your cornflakes?”

“No! Sugar is bad for you. It’s full of calories and it makes your teeth rot. I’ve seen the light.”

“Dave, forgive me if I’m a little doubtful but you have a shelf in your larder with about 16 bags of sugar ‘just in case’ you might run out. I once saw you drink a pint of sugar. You’ve even snorted it off your kitchen table from time to time.”

“Yes, well that’s the old Dave. A thing of the past. An ancient relic. A decrepit being. A venerable phantom. A -”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. So what are you using now? Canderel? Hermesetas? That new lo-cal sweetener Splenda?”

“No. I don’t trust those things. I think, despite the rigorous testing these products undergo, that the long-term effects of them are not known. Sugar, makes you a bit fat and makes your teeth go black. These other artificial sweetener things could make you grow tits or shrink your balls or scramble your brain so that Mike and the Mechanics ‘The living years’ becomes an emotional song that makes you cry instead of a soppy load of MOR bullshit.”

“It’s a legitimate concern but how can you go from using sugar, and remember Dave, you used to put 5 table spoons of sugar in your tea, to not using any kind of sweetener at all.”

“Ahhh, don’t be daft. I’ve not gone totally mental. I use more natural methods now. Instead of sugar in my tea I break in a bar of Cadbury’s dairy milk and if it’s coffee I put in two Snickers.”

“That’s more natural?”

“Of course. And on my breakfast cereal instead of sprinkling sugar I squeeze about a half a pint of Aunt Jemima’s maple syrup and just a touch of ‘child’s tears’, the sweetest tears of all.”

“What?”

“For me it’s tears of disappointment that make the recipe work. I know you can get them in the supermarket or online but I prefer to harvest my own. I simply volunteer to play Santa in Arnotts each Christmas then tell them there’s no such thing as Santa. Or the Tooth Fairy. Or the Easter Bunny. And that Mommy got pregnant when Daddy weed up her bergina. Some people prefer tears of anger but I find them too bitter. I know one bloke, mad as this sounds, who likes the tears of falling down and scraping your knee on a gravel path and getting those little stones in the palm of your hand. Imagine!”

“Uhm…”, I said, before putting down my pint and going home, crying a little on the inside.

With him around it’s better safe than sorry.

Hahahaha Barry Egan, shove it up your cunt

by Twenty Major on February 4th, 2007

Love this from today’s Indo:

“On January 21 2007, we published an article entitled ‘Michael Flatley’s tawdry PR war against the woman he loved’, which alleged that Mr Flatley had declared a PR war against his ex-fiancee, Lisa Murphy.

We now accept that these allegations are untrue and we apologise to Michael Flatley and his family for any distress caused by their publication.”

All we need now is for the Indo to apologise for Egan’s pathetic, toe-curling, sycophantic, sub-par ‘journalism’ and for employing somebody so ginger. Come on then, we’re waiting…

Italian football

by Twenty Major on February 3rd, 2007

Lucky Luciano is very upset about the state of Italian football after the policeman was killed in Sicily last night.

“Is a terrible”, he said bemoaning the fact he wouldn’t see his beloved Livorno in action this weekend, “to have bomb and to throw at a policeman when you could a save it and explode a someone connected to Juventus. Is a very sad day.”

Stinkleganger

by Twenty Major on February 2nd, 2007

“Twenty”, said Stinking Pete, “how long would you have to wait between taking out a massive life assurance policy and actually dying for it not to be suspicious?”

“At least a year, I’d have thought. Any sooner and people might start asking questions. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s just there’s this new bloke who has moved in about 4 doors up and he is the spitting image of me. The other day Mrs O’Leary, who has lived beside me for 23 years, asked me how the building was going and it turns out she thought she was carrying on a conversation she’d had with yer man a few days earlier. Even the postman said it to me.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah. So I’m thinking if I take out a big policy on myself, for a few million for example, then wait a year and kill this bloke nobody will ever know the difference.”

“Cunning.”

“Yeah, I can get his body and put it in my house. Then when one of you comes to identify ‘me’ you say ‘Oh God! That’s him. Waaahhhh. Boooo hooooo’ and things.”

“Yes, we can do that. Without the crying of course. That would raise too many suspicions.”

“So, a year, you say.”

“Yes, but have you stopped to think why this guy looks so like you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, surely it can’t be mere coincidence that someone who looks exactly like you has moved in just four doors up. Perhaps fate is telling you something. And, let’s be honest here, we all know what your old man was like.”

“Now, careful Twenty…”

“All due respect to him, Pete, but everyone knew he was riding young ones all over town. And, I say this with the greatest of respect too, but your mam was a complete fucking slut.”

“Ahhh here, Twenty…”

“Don’t even start, Pete. Do you not remember when we were young and Dirty Dave was sick and couldn’t go out to play football and then we went back to your house and there was Dirty Dave buried up to his bollocks in your mam?”

“Oh Jesus! I’d blocked that out.”

“And what about the other time when, I think it was at your confirmation, she went missing and someone said she was round the back of sacrasty blowing off the Archbishop of Dublin?”

“Ok! Ok! My parents were like girls from Alexandra College. No need to go on.”

“All I’m saying is that given that fact, and the fact this bloke looks exactly the same as you, there’s the possibility that he might be related to you. A long lost brother perhaps.”

“All the more reason to kill him then”, said Pete, somewhat troubled at the idea that he might not be the last of the Stinking family. “Although I’d best find out.”

“You do that. Let me know how it goes.”

“I will, Twenty. I will.”

And naturally I’ll update you when I know more. Now, today I have to go to County Kilkenny to get back the Lotto ticket which was destined for me when I bought it at Pearse Street Dart station the other day but somehow come out of a machine in Castlecomer.

This could be bloody.

People

by Twenty Major on February 1st, 2007

People are fucking crazy, aren’t they?

How else do you explain Cecilia Ahern being nominated for the Popular Fiction category of the Irish Book awards 2007. Certainly it’s popular and it’s fiction but they seem to have totally overlooked the fact it’s fucking crap.

What about those lunatics in Birmingham who wanted to kidnap a soldier, torture him, behead him, film the whole lot and put it on the internet? Like the internet isn’t full of enough shite already. I mean, seriously, what the fuck are they thinking?

Most groups of lads get together and make plans to go out at the weekend, get drunk, maybe get a bit off their face, watch some football and probably go to a nightclub and try and score with some ‘hot chicks’.

“Where’ll we go this weekend, lads? What about The Zoom Factory, great new club, music is excellent, top drinks too and the women. Wow! You should see them.”

“Cool”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Bob?”

“Actually, I was thinking we’d do something different.”

“Like what?”

“Well, what if we kidnapped a fella and, bear with me here, we stripped him naked and - I know, just let me finish - we tortured him with makeshift implements and then hacked his head off - stop interrupting, Giles - hacked his head off while one of us films it and puts it on our blog?”

“Ahh, now that you’ve finished it sounds like a great idea!”

People. Fucking crazy.

Email me your life story, why don’t you?

by Twenty Major on January 31st, 2007

Maybe this doesn’t apply to everyone but I’m sure you’ve come across it. You know when you send an email to someone and you can get an automated reply, saying:

I am out of the office for the week Please forward all relevant materials to somecunt@bunchofcunts.com

Regards,
Some cunt
www.bunchofcunts.com

Well, thanks for that. It would be good if you could go into a bit more detail though. For example, if you were out of the office but actually going on holidays I’d like to know that. If you could include your flight times, your home address, the code for the alarm and the names and addresses of any key holders that would be great too.

Then this sort of information would be useful to me. Leaving it so vague as to mean you might be on holidays from work but actually staying at home to relax and read books and do a spot of gardening is not much help. I mean, it would save us both a lot of hassle if you were more precise. Honesty. The last thing either of us wants is to come face to face in your hallway when you’re padding about your house in your pyjamas and I’ve taken a bit of a gamble and figured you’ve gone Ryanair to Girona or ‘Paris’ or somewhere.

It would pain me to have to bash you over the noggin with the sap in my pocket. Honest. And think how easily it could have been avoided if only you’d given me a few more details in your email.