Thursday, April 28, 2011




Wednesday, April 27, 2011


Do you know that look on a three year old’s face just after she drops a brand new ice cream? It’s the facial expression that comes before the inevitable bawling. A stunned look. Open mouthed. Wide eyed. Shocked at cruel fate’s sudden hard slap. You know it? Well, in the future everyone in Ireland will have that look on their face. 24/7.

We’ll have that look on our face as our piebalds pull our Mercs past lay-by picnickers. We’ll have that look on our face as we travel potholed roads to the mall. The mall: a near derelict hulk. Creaking and wheezing. Cracked glass and corroded chrome. A junkyard Death Star coated in a film of dust. Once a temple to aspiration, now a salve to desperation. Shuddering escalators will carry us around inside. Crackling musak will attempt to sooth. But we’ll still have that look on our face.

We will go through the motions. Buying the remnants of better times in a gargantuan jumble sale of half-assed items that guarantee dissatisfaction. But we’ll soldier on. What else is there to do? A torn bath mat. One Ugg boot. Tattered chick-lit. A bent 9 iron. There’s a dead house spider in the powdered milk. Someone bursts into tears and their spouse tells them to keep it together. ‘You’ll set everyone off’. But they can’t contain themselves. Trembling lips. Rolling tears. Gushing snot. ‘Waaaaahhhhh!’ Oh Christ!

The spouse places a hand over their loved one’s mouth but it’s too late. A grating voice barks from the P.A. ‘Transgressor-floor three-aisle seven.’ Here comes security. The couple flee. A chase. Other customers watch, glad they are not the ones being pursued.

The couple run past displays of punctured soccer balls, dented bean cans, withered fruit and veg, wilting copies of Eddie Hobbs’ You and Your Money magazine. They are surrounded before they reach the fire exit. They are shot with tranquiliser darts. Their unconscious bodies are loaded into shopping trolleys and wheeled away. The P.A. growls again: ‘patrons are advised to stick with the programme or face the consequences’. Everyone does as they are told. What else is there to do? There’s bargains to be had. They saw it on the telly. They read it in the paper. Now is not the time to be cribbing and moaning. Things are looking up. Just don’t look up! Transgressors are dangling from the ceiling by their necks. Take that look off your face and welcome to the Planet of the Shops.

Saturday, April 23, 2011


(pictured above: Pádraig Pearse-note the smirk, probably thinking about wee lads in the nip)

Up to recently, Pádraig Pearse was thought to have been homosexual. There was strong evidence for this.
A: Pearse was crap around women.
B: He founded a school for ‘boys’!
C: He spent much of The Easter Rising dancing around the G.P.O. to Depeche Mode’s song Master and Servant (wearing only bicycle shorts).

However, it has since been discovered that homosexuality isn’t evil* and so we must reappraise Pearse because there can be little doubt that the Butcher of 1916 was sublimating dark urges of some sort.

Perusing the new book by Ruth Dudley Edwards, Perverts All: A History of Irish Self-Determination, I was shocked to read Pearse’s poem Little Lad of the Tricks. Considering this piece, one can only conclude that Pearse was a rampant paedophile. Here’s an extract:

Little lad of the tricks,
I wanna kiss your mouth:
It makes me feel so good
Who’s the Daddy now?

Lad of the grey eyes,
That flush in thy cheek
You’d be white with dread
If ya could see inside my head!

(Guitar solo)

Ooh I’m gonna touch ya!
Kiss ya and caress ya!
Who’s the daddy now?
Little lad of the tricks
Little lad of the tricks
Little lad on my dick
Little lad on my dick

-Repeat to fade-

(Courtesy of Alternative Tentacles records, all rights reserved.)

Fairly conclusive I’d have thought.

Respected crypto-historian Marianne Elliot also raises some interesting points about another ‘hero’ of 1916, Michael Collins. In her new book, I’ll Fuck Anything That Moves: The Life of Michael Collins, Elliot asks if Collins was into livestock. You know like, as in riding farm animals. Considering Professor Elliot’s thesis, I can’t help but agree. Collins grew up on a farm after all didn’t he? He did you know. Why did he choose to grow up on a farm do you think? Easy access to beasts? It’s disgusting to think of it, the Big Fellow, cornering some traumatised lamb. God, really, I have to say, I’m ashamed to be Irish. Like Edwards and Elliot, I’m ashamed to be Irish but, unlike Edwards and Elliot, I am not in a position to write of that shame and so will have to forego the compensation of profiting from it financially.

(*if only we could discover another Casement black diary with something really mad in it. I can’t imagine what so I’ll leave that to Prof. Elliot. She’d come up with something deadly.)

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


(pictured above: Doctor Who and K9 if they were Catholics)

Have you seen that shite on the telly called Doctor Who? It’s about this weird Protestant who lives inside a magic box that can go into the past or the future or land on the moon and all that type of thing. Lots of people are mad about the show but I think it’s a disaster. I wish they’d show Tarzan instead. I loved the old Tarzan films when I was a boy. Tarzan was great. He lived in the jungle and spent all his time battering the shite out of creatures. He had a big knife too and he was forever ramming it into beasts. He had no time for beasts at all. He was pally with one monkey who he thought was OK and he hopped up on elephants to get around like they were jungle buses, but besides that, if you were an animal, you were looking for a beating. That was quality entertainment. That you could understand. I can’t understand this time Protestant stuff at all though. There are a few creatures in it alright but half of them don’t even exist and some of them look like kitchen appliances. The nephew tells me that they are ‘monsters’ but I told him that there are no monsters. I said that to him. I said ‘there are no monsters’. Roared it at him to be honest. He started crying and being a little geebag so his mother came running in and called me a monster. I found that a bit ironic.

I’ll tell you another thing about this time Protestant fella, he’s a vagrant. He never settles down. He goes from place to place causing trouble like some sort of space knacker. He’s like a Protestant knacker from outer space. What could be worse than that? A Protestant knacker? It’s the stuff of nightmares. Jaysus, I’ll tell you, Tarzan would’ve wasted no time sticking his dagger into the likes of that.

This time Protestant thing is blasphemous too. I’ll tell you why. I’ll give you an example: let’s say Tarzan gave the time proddy a bit of an old stab with the dagger like, well, instead of dying, the time prod would ‘regenerate’ and rise from the dead. Something he has done ten times to date according to my geebag of a nephew. Now Jesus Christ only managed it once but this fella on the telly has done it ten times. Is this an attempt to make a new type of Protestant Jesus? A proddy Jesus with extra powers? Is that what the game is? As if that wasn’t bad enough, the geebag nephew says this weird prod character was also responsible for the Big Bang. The Big Bang! The very creation of existence. So, this time prod, he’s not happy just being Jesus, he has to be God as well? Well he can fuck off. He can fuck right off out of it. We have Jesus and Tarzan in Ireland and we don’t need any of this British time prod rubbish!

I hear the blasphemous gobshite is back on the telly again this Saturday. Saturday at around six o’clock. Just when I’ll be sitting in front of the box with my dinner on my lap. Well, I’m not having it. I’m unplugging the telly and placing it face down on the floor. I don’t need to be looking at that nonsense with its bloody monsters. There are no monsters. There’s only creatures you can batter and kill. There’s no monsters. No! There’s no need to be worrying about them. The thoughts of a Protestant knacker from outer space might put the wind up me but not bleedin’ monsters. I’m not scared of monsters because there are no monsters. Got that? There are no monsters. There’s not and I’m not scared. I’m not. I swear I’m not. Why would I be scared? There are no monsters. THERE ARE NO bleedin’ MONSTERS!!!

R.I.P. S.J.S.

Sunday, April 17, 2011


(pictured above: ‘Hi God’)

I used never know the words to prayers. Especially the big long ones you only ever heard at mass and didn’t learn to say in school or before you went to bed at night. I used just make up my own words and mumble them along with the congregation who were often making up their own words too in the hope that it would result in one big agreeable sounding murmur. Effectively we were all making up new prayers and this is grand because prayers are just made up things anyway and not the word of God.

Most prayers are not from the Holy Bible, although they often include quotes. Instead, prayers are things that originate centuries after the New Testament and have often been changed over time to incorporate some new elements and drop some others. For example, the bit in the Hail Mary about sending ‘all the gayers to their eternal damnation’ was removed in 1987 and the bit about Mary being ‘really good at billiards’ was added in 1993.

Anyway, here’s a prayer I have invented. I’m kind of hoping this one catches on as I’m keen to pay tribute to the Lord my God and also hope to be paid royalties every time it’s said on the radio or in movies etc.


Good God my Lord in Heaven

dissuade us from happiness

And all things wanton

and Lord bless us and save us.

And let us not stray down paths unrighteous

or accommodating of sin

Are you receiving me?

Thank you Lord for the harvest

and the beasts of the field

and all we put in the dinner

and thanks for dessert and for fizzy drinks.

Thank you Lord for letting us partake of this Bounty

and Mars and Curly Wurly and Kit Kat

If that’s quite alright with you.

Blessed be your house Lord

and all the classy stuff that dwells within it

And give us comfort in our prejudice

By the power vested in you

and that of Greyskull

I now pronounce you man and wife

and fair dues to you Lord, it must be said.

Over and out.

I think that’s a fitting tribute to the man upstairs and ask that you teach it to your kids or your nieces and nephews or whoever you can get your hands on. Let’s see if we can get this thing ‘trending’ in the Religiousphere.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


I once composed a piece of music on my Stylophone and it was the saddest music you ever heard. A heartbreaking little melody that seemed at first to be almost struggling to survive but gradually grew stronger, eventually swelling into a tsunami of profound grief. It really was quite something. My eyes grew watery as I composed it and by the time it was complete I was bawling like a baby.

I put it online and in no time at all it went viral. People the world over were weeping into their keyboards. Those who downloaded it at work were so overcome they had to be excused for the rest of the day. The work absences actually began to have a detrimental effect on the global economy but, excluding a handful of deaf economists, everyone was too busy listening to the music to notice.

I found myself performing the piece in the world’s largest arenas. Images of poverty stricken children, the war dead and washed up whales were projected onto a large screen behind me. These concerts were nothing less than orgies of emotional divestment with communal sobbing, mass wailing and group hugging. As my tune approached its climax, audiences would tumble from their seats and inconsolably writhe around on the venue floors, which would be wet and slippery with tears. When the performances concluded, the concert goers would pull themselves together. Sniffing and snuffling, they would slowly get to their feet, don their coats, and form an orderly queue for the exit. It was very odd.

The music was used in several feature films and in advertising campaigns for various products, the promotion of which required staggering poignancy. A new social phenomenon sprang up where suburban types gathered in certain houses on certain days to listen to the tune and weep together. These get-togethers were effectively car key parties only with tears as the principle bodily emission. My tune then became a much requested funeral accompaniment, which I found off-putting. What disturbed me most though were the thousands of unhappy citizens jumping under buses and from high buildings with my tune looping on their MP3s. I decided it was all becoming a bit unhealthy.

I returned home and set about writing a piece that would lift the spirit of the human race. A jaunty little thing that would pop and fizz its way along until it burst into a rousing chorus of anthemic joie de vivre. When completed, I kept this new tune under wraps as the promoters set about booking me into the world’s major venues. My C’mon, Let’s Smile tour kicked off under the stunning glass dome of the Frankfurt Festhalle. The place was packed with Teutonic misery junkies eagerly awaiting their next fix. Well I was going to ‘fix’ them alright. I was about to turn them on to a new kick. A kick called happiness.

I sat poised, the Stylophone on my lap, the immense throng hushed before me. I lowered the stylus and began to play. My new number made its merry way out into the audience, permeating the sea of heads with good vibes, growing catchier and more joyful all the while. Or so I thought. Over the sound of my melodious merriment I began to hear boos. Paper cups were thrown on stage. People started roaring up at me: ‘Play The Sad One!’ ‘Play The Sad One!’

I ignored them. I gritted my teeth. I persevered. They will be happy! They WILL! I stabbed the stylus down into the tiny machine and it began to squawk. The notes became sustained and intense. My happy tune distorted into a twisted mockery of good cheer. My frustration transformed the piece in such a way that it became a subversion of its original intention. If you can imagine a Dalek singing Jingle Bells, it was something like that. I was horrified. I tried to calm down but then I realised that the audience were cheering. The music had told them that happiness was an unsustainable sham and they agreed. In the grip of something far stronger than my conscious agenda, I had no choice but to improvise a segue and go straight into the sad tune. A huge roar of approval and then a mass outpouring of tears. I had failed. My muse had betrayed me. It was on their side.

I have played the sad tune so often now that it no longer affects me. I have been inoculated against its melancholy appeal. You might still see me weeping as I perform but it is not because I am moved by my work, it is because I am imprisoned by it. I am doomed to forever peddle the pornography of misery to an audience that never wanted to be happy in the first place.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

The LOL Equation.

(pictured above: Fugger's lovely staff at work generating gags)

I really want to keep this blog regular but it’s hard work at times so I’ve invented a machine that generates posts. It’s a kind of quantum computer that works on the basis of a system I call The LOL Equation. It’s pretty smart, if I don’t mind saying so myself. I like to think of these generated posts as the contributions of my very own LOL Hadron Collider.

Here’s the first of the computer generated posts. It should be similar in style and nature to the usual stuff but probably a bit better. Right, I’ll leave you in the device’s capable hands. Enjoy.


MAIN BODY OF TEXT: Hello readers. Sexting is the sending of risqué SMS messages. Needless to say, it can cause inconvenience if you send a sext (text) to the wrong person. For example, you could possibly send the following communiqué to your mother: “I have a lovely big knob”.

Needless to say, a sext (text) of that nature would be meant for your sister. An added inconvenience would be if the information comprised in your sext (text) was false and you did not, in actual fact, have “a lovely big knob”. Needless to say, your mother would know this.

Needless to say, there would be red faces around the kitchen table come teatime let me tell you readers and needless to say-LOL + ROFL {{LMFAO ~ RATFLMFAO^BFF < LAWL ‰PWNED ~ OMG¬ E=MC² 101000101000100010101001110101001. . . BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Jesus, the thing’s on fire . . .OK, obviously still some bugs to be ironed out there. I’ll try and sort it for next time. My apologies for any distress caused. I wasn’t expecting that kind of content myself to be honest. Not really appropriate behaviour really, least of all from a machine. LOL?

Wednesday, April 6, 2011


I love the blacks. I’ve no problem with them and am not a racist in any way. I really love the blacks and it’s no trouble at all. There is no need to thank me or anything. The blacks are a great shower and I never miss an opportunity to remind them of that. Take the other day, I was going to Aldi and saw a family of the blacks passing me on the opposite side of the road. ‘G’wan the blacks!’ I roared over at them and gave them a double thumbs-up. They looked a bit puzzled to be honest and that just goes to show how rarely they are offered a kind word. Things are so bad the poor blacks are actually confused by friendliness.

I’ve always liked the blacks even before loads of them came over here. I really enjoyed it when Phil Collins teamed up with that black to sing Easy Lover. Do you remember Easy Lover? That was great. A black has moved in next to me and I always sing him a few bars of Easy Lover when I meet him in the corridor. He smiles politely and nods before rushing off to work, which is a sign he enjoys it. Smiling is the international language for enjoyment, unless it’s a gypsy or a traveller that is smiling. If a gypsy or traveller is smiling it’s the international language for ‘I am going to lull you into a false sense of security before I steal your wallet’. But that’s beside the point. Where were we? Oh yes,

She's an easy lover
She'll take your heart but you won't feel it
She's like no other
And I'm just trying to make you see

I’ve no problem with the blacks and am perfectly relaxed with the whole concept of blackness like I am with the gays. The gays are great and I don’t mind what they get up to at all. They can get married and buy houses and all that. As long as I don’t have to join in, the gays can be as disgusting as they want because that’s grand with me. It’s the same with the blacks. If the blacks want to slaughter goats in the garden for dinner that’s fine with me. As long as it isn’t my garden, they can do whatever they like with their goats and I’m sure Voodoo is a lovely religion. I have to say though, it must have been a bit difficult for Phil Collins when that black he sang Easy Lover with started cutting goat throats down the back of the tour bus. Maybe the black had his own bus. I’m sure they worked something out. Multiculturalism and all that.

I’m big into multiculturalism. That’s why I joined Residents Against Racism. That didn’t work out though. It seems I was too un-racist for them. Imagine that! I was going to the meetings and they were discussing things and occasionally I would just shout out ‘G’wan the Blacks’, just to keep our spirits up. Then, all of a sudden, they asked me to leave and never ‘darken’ their door again. Well now, ‘darken’, there’s a telling choice of words. Exactly how un-racist is Residents Against Racism? The lady doth protest too much, me thinks.

Anyway, seeing as R.A.R. didn’t want me, I decided to spend my Wednesday evenings with the local neighbourhood watch. We spent much of the time discussing the suspicious gypsy woman who sells Big Issue magazine outside the local Spar. ‘Gypsies are worse than homosexuals, they should all be air-lifted to a barren island’, said one of the Neighbourhood Watchers. Well, I was all set to defend the gays when I realised the man who made the offending remark was a black. I kept my mouth shut as I didn’t want to appear prejudiced.

To be honest, I sometimes find all this multiculturalism a bit confusing. What does one do in a situation such as the neighbourhood watch one I’ve just described? There should be a brochure on this or something. A government brochure with a league table of bigotry, one that tells you who it is more wrong to discriminate against and if two minorities fall out, which one you should side with. That would clear things up no end. Otherwise, we’ll just have to accept individuals at face value regardless of ethnicity or sexual preference and that would mean relying on our own discretion and that would very time consuming. I haven’t got time for that. I’ve work to do. There’s telly to be watched.

So, for the time being, I’ve made up my own league table. On my league table, the number one wrongest people to discriminate against are the blacks that are gay. They must get a terrible time. Near the bottom of the table are gypsies, because everyone hates them, and below them are travellers because, well, hating them is a tradition. Travellers cause awful trouble and Tommy Tiernan makes jokes about them being unhygienic so it must be OK to discriminate against travellers.

Anyway, that’s me sorted out multicultural wise for a while, until some official publication comes out or something. No flies on me eh? Unlike the travellers that is (ROFL! Nice one Tommy). ‘Gwan, the the Gay Blacks!’

Sunday, April 3, 2011


I bought a dog. It went a bit crazy and bit me so I bought a second dog and trained it to protect me from the first dog. The second dog started terrorising my cat but there wasn’t much I could do for her because if I punished the second dog he might have stopped protecting me from the first dog. Then I realised that what I needed was a third dog to protect the cat. This third dog protected the cat against the second dog but in so doing built up an alliance with the first dog, who also hated the second dog because he was protecting me. So, now the third dog took against both me and the second dog and was firmly allied to the first dog. I asked the cat to put in a good word for me with the third dog as the only reason I got him was to protect her in the first place. She said she would but only if I let her eat my budgie.

It was at this point that I appealed to the U.N. Security Council for military intervention and they fired a LGM-118A Peacekeeper missile at the lot of us. BOOOOM!