Monday, April 29, 2013


 (click to enlarge)
Courageous Mayhem, the new comic anthology by National Tragedy!  
Launching at The Little Green, 13 High Street, Dublin 8. 
Saturday, May 4th, 4pm until evening or maybe even later.

Art. Everyone loves a bit of art. Even Hitler enjoyed a bit of art. He did some drawings himself but they weren't very good so he decided to kill millions of people instead. Anyway, there's a little book of drawings and stories and art and all that being launched at the above venue at the above time and you should really go along. If you don't the artists might give up the drawing and take it out on various minorities. So come along and save the world from a load of future Hitlers. If you say, 'I'm here to save the world from a load of future Hitlers' you'll get a euro off when you buy the book but you have to say those exact words.

There will be a bar and a cafe. Modest drinking and civilised chat are encouraged. No shite talk and vomiting. Here is some footage of people drinking so you can get the gist of what is expected:
...just like that except less musical. See you there and remember, if you don't go you're a Nazi causer coz you cause Nazis.

Saturday, April 27, 2013


Hate for dinner and love for dessert, all washed down with a cup of relief. The Emovore feeds on human emotion. He gobbles it up and shits out ideas. He lives in your head. He is in your brain. He wriggles around in there like the creepy crawly that he is. He mainly hangs out in the deep limbic system, waiting for feelings to be cooked up and served up. He's an electrochemical feelings gobbler. He takes the feelings you feel, grabs them in his pincers, chews them up, swallows them down, digests them for a bit, and then poos out the reasons why you feel whatever emotions you feel. The Emovore poos these reasons out into the toilet of the brain. You know the brain toilet as the frontal lobe. You think the frontal lobe governs reason but to the Emovore it's just a jax.

If you hate or love something you just do. You 'feel' and then you decide why you 'feel'. Feelings come first and the reasons why you feel them come later. Reason is just shit, feeling is the food of existence. All supposedly rational thought is ex post facto and all ex post facto rationalisation is basically Emovore poo. Hitler felt a lot of hate. Why? Who knows, a specific development of a genetic trait probably. Hitler's Emovore ate up all that hate and then shat out all this ex post facto nonsense about Jews. Really though, really, really, and fundamentally, Hitler just hated. He just did. If there was no such things as Jews Hitler would have still hated and his Emovore would have shat out some other reason for it. We just feel things like the wind just blows. In fact, in pre-Socratic Greece they considered emotions might blow through us randomly like wind. They thought reason mightn't have much to do with it. They were right.

You may wonder what the purpose is for all this feeling and for all that Emovore shite dribbling down into our frontal lobes and infecting us with fanciful ex post facto notions. However, you wondering such things is just you looking for reason and, like I've already made clear, reason is shit. Reason is just an illusion. There is no such thing as reason. Reason is just Emovore poo. Got that? Reason is nothing but Emovore poo! So, now that you know what's really going on, tell me - how does it make you feel?

Wednesday, April 24, 2013


FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! Sandy Hook! Aurora! Boston! False Flags are everywhere! They do it to keep us scared so they can introduce martial law and inject us all with the MMR vaccine! None of it's real and even if it is real it's fake! Open your eyes and you'll see the false flags everywhere! It all adds up to something! Terrorists on TV? FALSE FLAG! High school shooting spree? FALSE FLAG! Neighbour's chimney caught fire? FALSE FLAG! Two dogs fighting in the park? FALSE FLAG! It's fake calamity designed to make us panicked and hysterical so we'll do as THEY say! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!

I went to see that James Bond film that was out recently. At the start of the film a bad fella fired a bazooka at 007. Being no complacent slouch I had my eye on my watch. By my timing, the bad fella fired the bazooka at exactly 9 minutes and 11 seconds into the film. 9 minutes and 11 seconds. 9-11! I immediately stood up and started shouting 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' Then some Illuminati guy disguised as an usher asked me to leave the cinema. Everyone clapped as I was escorted to the door. They clapped! The Goddamn sheeple clapped!

My sister rang the other day. I asked how she was. She said she was grand but her bike got a puncture and she had to walk to the library. Puncture!!! There are eleven characters in the word 'Puncture!!!' (if you include the three exclamation marks) ALSO! - if you turn the first letter of the word, the 'P', backwards, you get a '9'. 9-11! 9-11! 9-11! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! I said as much to my sister. I roared the warning at her. Sheepishly, she hung up the phone. I think they've gotten to her. I think they've MMRed her already!

Even The Mother is in on it! I shouldn't be surprised that she's on their side. She was always a suspicious sort. The other day The Mother faked a tumble on the stairs. 'I've taken a tumble on the stairs' says The Mother, lying there acting all injured and false flagging her head off. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!', roars me. You'd do the same in the face of such deception. I stood there yelling it! Tell the world, I thought. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' I screamed as The Mother crawled to her emergency button and the St. John Ambulance arrived giving me these really Illuminatish looks.

It's getting so bad I'm beginning to suspect I might be in on it myself. Just yesterday I was getting out of the shower and the floor was wet and I fell on my arse and smashed my coccyx to smithereens. 'FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG!' I started roaring. No one heard me. I was roaring it for hours. I'm still roaring it now. This false flag hurts like fuckity. When are those St. John Ambulance Illuminati bastards going to show up and help me out here? Where are they? I'm cold. I'm hungry. I'm false flagged out of it. But at least I know what's going on. At least I'm not part of the Matrix. At least I have woken up! I might be sore, cold, wet, and hungry but I will not be their hysterical pawn. I may be banjaxed here screaming on the bathroom floor but FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! FALSE FLAG! ...don't say you weren't warned!
...jaysus, I need the jax now too.

Saturday, April 20, 2013


Hey guys, I've been on Twitter for almost a month now. It's really good fun. Why don't you come and join the party? Everyone is on there being nearly funny like Jimmy Carr or almost intelligent like Warren Ellis. It's quick and it's brief and it allows you speak without saying anything, which is all the rage these days. It's just stuff really. Like, a kind of thing you do like.

Once, when I was a small boy, I climbed into a huge metal silo on a farm. It was completely empty and there was nothing in it but myself. Being a young fella, I took the opportunity to shout the word 'boobatits' really loud. The word echoed around the interior of the silo until the sound faded out leaving only this faint, emptyish, metallic ringing. Then I started laughing really hard and then the sound of my laughter ricocheted all over the place and kind of freaked me out so I fled in tears. Anyway, Twitter's a bit like that only Jimmy Carr and Warren Ellis are in the silo too and now Fugger, a.k.a. me, a.k.a. the people's blogger, is there as well.
So... FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER! TWITTER MY HASHTAG! FÜTTER MEIN EGO! FÜTTER MEIN EGO! FÜTTER MEIN EGO! FÜTTER MEIN EGO! ...that's a link to my Twitter account by the way and here's a bit of an old tune...

Wednesday, April 17, 2013


My mate Barney was always putting women on pedestals. He'd just be getting to know them and next thing he'd be placing them on a pedestal. The pedestals would get very high. Higher and higher. Into the heavens they'd go. Way beyond Barney's reach. 'Ah Barney, you had a chance there but you had to go and put her on one of your bleedin pedestals.' But he'd never listen to you. He always did the same thing.

Barney trying to climb these pedestals was a pitiful sight. Up he'd go, like James Stewart ascending the bell tower in Vertigo. One time he actually made it up past the cold clouds and angry gulls to find the object of his affection chatting to some bloke who had been set up there on a pedestal by some female down below. There they were, the pair of them, yakking away on their pedestals, side by side. Barney's girl had quite forgotten who he was. She liked her new friend though. Barney climbed back down and met the girl who sent the fella up there. They had a lot in common. I thought I detected a frisson. They got a few drinks in. They sat at the base of their respective loved ones' pedestals boozing away and complaining about how 'stuck up' their objects of desire were. I was right about them. Something clicked. There were sparks between them but then, well, same old same old. I saw Barney constructing a pedestal for this new girl and setting her on it as she constructed a pedestal for him and placed him on that. Off they went, higher and higher, soaring upwards and upwards into the psychosexual stratosphere. At least they are up there together though, even if they don't talk. The pair of them are too dizzied by the heights to construct a decent sentence and the passing air traffic can be pretty noisy. I hear there's this one seagull that can make it up that high. It seems to have a routine where it soars up and does a quick shit on Barney's head. I'd imagine it's a humiliating thing.

I've a feeling, over time, the pedestals will grow creaky and weaken and ultimately disintegrate. I've a feeling that the mutual illusion will eventually collapse and two skeletons will finally fall to earth. They'll land in heap of bones, one skeleton indistinguishable from the other. Intermingled. Together. At last.

Anyway, did I tell you about my other mate Gregory? He's been carrying a torch for this particular woman for ages now. It's a massive torch, a big Olympic torch. Gregory can no longer see other women because he's blinded by the flame. Another hopeless case. They won't even let him on public transport anymore. He's been done for arson twice. He has to take the torch to bed and rarely gets more than a couple of seconds sleep. It's a dangerous thing. He woke up the other night to find his flame drooping and his duvet on fire.

Both Gregory and Barney are young fellas, full of overwhelming life and emotion. I'm well past all that myself. My torches have all gone out and I can't remember who I've left on top my old pedestals. I do have one torch left but it's the one I hold for myself and I've set myself on a sky-high pedestal too. I stand there and look out over the clouds. I see other middle-aged solipsists standing in the distance. Stoic. Resigned. Too wise for words. Dripping from head to toe in gull shit.

Saturday, April 13, 2013


Fugger (a.k.a me, a.k.a. the people's blogger) is writing a movie at the moment. It's called We Were Dead All Along and I think it's pretty original myself. It's about this family that go on a caravanning trip and they stop off at this weird foggy lake and they find a burnt out caravan there and it looks a bit like theirs. 'It looks a bit like ours', says the daughter (who is about eighteen and wears cut off jean shorts all the time and is quite hot). Then the family keep complaining of the cold and have a few rows and things for around seventy minutes. Then the family see other people walking around the lake and fishing and all that and they try talking to the other people but the other people just ignore them as if they aren't even there. Then, after all that stuff happens, this hooded man shows up in a row boat and beckons the family to get into the boat, like a River Styx type ferryman right? Right? Get it? Right? And the family get into the boat and they sail off across the lake shouting: 'We Were Dead All Along, We Were Dead All Along', because they were dead all along and the the name of the film is We Were Dead All Along and the audience will go: 'wow, they were dead all along' and then the audience will leave the cinema and stand outside it only to discover that the building they just watched the film in burned to the ground in 1974 and they were in it and they were dead all along and then they too will say 'We Were Dead All Along!'

I think making the audience realise that they were dead all along could be the new 3D. I think that's pretty original stuff myself and people won't have to pay extra for special glasses.

Wednesday, April 10, 2013


(She'll be greeted at the Rearden metal gates by Airey, Augusto, Milton, and Ayn.)

She may have left her physical body but her gaseous essence still permeates this world as an omnipresent ideal, a rancid idea, the awful and only way of doing things (T.I.N.A. - There Is No Alternative). She is not dead and those celebrating the decommissioning of her corporeal form still live with the consequences of her spirit. To be honest, most of you dancing on her grave are probably possessed by her. You espouse her values, talking of the cure-all of complete privatisation and complaining about welfare scroungers. It's like being glad the Devil is dead while possessed by that very same Devil.

The Baroness' dark spell has you all enchanted. You can rejoice in the expiration of the source of that spell but that doesn't mean you are lifting the spell. Thatcher placed a black curse on all your heads and then she died peacefully in her sleep. Put simply, in terms we can all understand these days: Maggie Thatcher - Epic Win!

Sunday, April 7, 2013


ANTS! Have you noticed the ANTS! They are everywhere! EVERYWHERE! They are watching! Did you know that ants use boats? They do. They use bits of old twigs and crisps packets to float across puddles. Ants LOVE sugar! Did you know that ants take slaves? They do! They take aphids and termites and they turn them into SLAVES! Ants are everywhere! Ants are no joke. Ants LOVE sugar! Have you seen the Ants? They are bigger now aren't they? They ARE! They are bigger! They are getting bigger and bigger so they can become our LOVERS! Do you want to love an ant? No, I do not want to love an ant! ANTS will be your LOVER! Ants are under the ground and in the engine of your car. Ants are the second largest stakeholders in the World Bank. You should not have poured boiling water on those ANTS! You should not have held a magnifying glass over those ants! When you were small you killed ANTS! You are NOT small anymore. AntS are not small any more! Ants are Getting bigger and Bigger and BIGGER! Ants will be your Lover! Ants will make us work for them and aNtS will make us listen to Tangerine Dream! Have you noticed the ants? Ants LOVE sugar! They will take all the sugar and there will be NONE left at all even in the restaurants and HOTELS! You will have NONE to put in your tea because of the AnTs that will be your LOVERS! If we refuse to be controlled the ANTS will say we are pests and call pest control and we will be CONTROLLED! We will LISTEN to Tangerine dreAM because of the ANTS!!! Do you listen to Tangerine Dream? No, I do not listen to Tangerine Dream! YOU WILL LISTEN TO TANGERINE DREAM because of the ANTS!!! They will have boats and we will have to listen to TangerINE dreaM!!! ANTS will laugh at BULLETS and eat fire! We can NOT FIGHT them! I want to WARN you now before it is later! ANTS! I warned my uncles and I WARNED my aunts. They said I had ants in my pants BUT SOON it will bE the ANTS that wear the pants! And they WILL take off their pants and get into the bed with us and they WILL be OUR loVERS! Have you seen the Ants? They are bigger now aren't they? They ARE! They are getting bigger and bigger so they can become our LOVERS! Do you want to love an ant? No, I do not want to love an ant! BUT you WILL love the ants the Ants the ANTS The AnTSANTSaNTSants!!!! THE ants will WEAR the panTS and they will MAKE us say 'Thanks Ants'!! ANTS!!! They are everywhere! They are WATCHING! Ants LOVE sugar! Ants love sugar and Tangerine Dream! Did you know that ants use BOATS?

Wednesday, April 3, 2013


An impossible ascent. A sheer icy sheet. An insurmountable tombstone punctuated only by danger spots: Dead Man's Traverse, Skull Crag, Hypothermia Pass, Howling Drop. Climbers have a name for this place. They call it The Way of Thanatos, Thanatos being the personification of death. All who attempted it retreated, perished, or, most ignominious of all, perished whilst retreating. Limp cadavers dangle from the lips of the overhangs. This is the graveyard of mountaineering's elite. The best of them met their end here: Brompton, Ferris, Clanton, Spellman. The frozen screaming faces on their crystallised remains - a warning from above. 'Go back, go back', they wail, their shrill voices mingling with the shrieking wind, but I was not dissuaded. I could do this. I was certain. What's more I could do it without the required boots and gloves, cords and carabiners, quickdraws and harnesses, picks and axes. I had all I needed. I was wearing my warm crombie and I had my cans. 

Yes, all I really needed was my cans. Six LCL, six Dutch, that should see me right. 'Don't do it Mr. Fugger!' they said, 'it's suicide!', 'you'll end up like Dicko!' I told them I'd be OK. I told them I'd be better than OK. I told them I would be the first to reach the top. 'Ah, fuck it lads, I'll be up it in no time. It'll be a laugh', were my exact words followed by the pop of a tab and the fizz of the first sup. It would be, to quote myself again, 'a piece of piss'.

Acute gusts stabbed at my face as I approached the base of the cruel slab - a physical assault by a psychotic Jack Frost. The wind is this mountain's murder weapon of choice. It prizes fingers from their purchase and throws climbers down from the heights. I laughed. I was warmed by the booze. Thanatos had not reckoned on a challenger armed with cans. Trusty cans, loyal and true. They will always see you right. A dozen 500ml 5% portions of masculinity's lifeblood. Oh yes, the cans were the game changer.

I attempted to set my shoe in what I thought might pass for an initial foothold. It was slippery and shallow and my foot failed to grip. I searched for another starting point but it was the same. It was like glass. I sighed in irritation and muttered an obscenity. I tried to find another foothold and then another but the pattern kept repeating. It occurred to me that I might have underestimated my geological nemesis. The fact that I would have to make the ascent single handed (I needed a free hand for my Dunnes Stores holdall of intoxicating equipage) was not going to make my attempt any easier. It began to seem as if it might be no use. Still, I persevered. I kept trying for at least three to four minutes as my small audience tensely observed. Finally I cursed out loud and turned away from the source of my frustration. I was done. The Way of Thanatos had defeated me. Like all men, I was not up to the task. I felt such shame, not just personally but for our species as a whole. Nature had issued us a challenge and I wondered if we would ever meet it. I thought it would be me. I thought I was the man. Alas, no. I was just a bit pissed really.

'Ah fuck that', I said and proposed we return to the chalets and see if the bar was still open. The others agreed and placed comforting arms around my shoulders as we trudged away. I turned once more as we left. I turned back and saw The Way of Thanatos smugly regarding my retreat. Nature mocking. God taunting. I vowed to one day return. I would be back another day but not with cans. Not cans, no, but something else. Something far better. I would bring a quarter of hash and some 'yokes'. Dropping an E would be mad half way up that bastard. It would really enhance the buzz and I'd feel extra good when I reached the summit and danced upon it. Big fish, little fish, cardboard box. I'd probably bring a few valium too, in case I encountered a detoxifying drop in serotonin during the descent. Best not to forget about the way down when you're coming up. That's what my mate Dicko always used say. He was a bit of a climber too but sadly brained himself during a failed ascent of a bus shelter near Kimmage industrial park. He was never the same after that. Not the man he used to be. He's no longer fit for work and his long suffering mother has to spoon feed him and give him baths in case he drowns.

Yes, I will return and defeat this mountain and I will dedicate my victory to Dicko. I will write his name in the snow with piss so God will see it when he looks down from above. A sweet revenge on God for endowing us with the hubris that is so often our undoing. A sweet 'fuck you' for providing us with the booze and pills that lead us to our ruin. Yes, I will be back and I will do it for Dicko. For now I will return to shelter and get a few down me and see what comes of the rest of the night. I'm sure more adventure awaits. We men are all about adventure. Thanatos has its way and we have ours.