Johnny Foley's Pub

Seeing red

2008-06-04T01:18:00.001-07:00

Red traffic lights. What are they for?

You guessed it. A signal to stop and wait for a green light.

What are they NOT for? I'll tell ye now lads - they are NOT for:

Fixing your makeup to make you look more like a slag

Sending texts to your gay friends

Turning, like actually rotating, in the chair to talk to that gimp in the passenger seat

Fixing your stupid fucking "is it a hairstyle or a bad joke" mullet

Getting out of the car to retrieve something from the boot

Lighting a fag. Smoking should be made illegal while driving - bastards

Dicking about with the SatNav that you don't need because you're never any more than 8 miles from your shitty house

All of the above lead to one of my biggest pet hates - Shitbox in the car in front sitting at a green light because he just wasn't ready and then driving through the junction as it turns back to red.

IF THE LIGHT IS RED, IT WILL SOON TURN GREEN. EXPECT IT AND BE READY, COCKASS.

OK, rant over - now shut your face.

Ooooooh yeah.

2008-04-04T09:32:00.000-07:00

New template, is it?

Feckin lovely, do we?

Diggin' it.

Latest News: Rachel Síne O'Foghludha born on the 26th of March at 13:31. Another beautiful girl to add to my collection! Working like a dog in anticipation of 3 weddings in 20 years' time. Flights booked for Amsterdam in June for a weekend of culture and history. Loving my new Yamaha XMax which glides through traffic and is a pleasure to drive (see pic). Poor old Bertie. Go Braves! That's about it.

Rant: Saw a tracksuit tramp with a fag box full of pre-rolled joints staggering across the road in Whitehall today. He was walking in the gate of a school - probably to sell them. He was in such a jocker that he dropped them all over the road and the footpath. 3 times. Then he put the smokes in his pocket and littered the pavement with the empty box. I hope he's dead now.

Burn, scumbags, burn

2008-02-18T17:55:00.000-08:00

Friends and neighbours of mine have just last night been burgled. The dirty theiving scumbags broke into the house via a downstairs window, took the car keys from the jacket pockets - yes I said pockets, plural - and made off with a nearly new 5-series and a nearly new japjeep as well as a couple of iPods and other things.

Well, you dirty shit-licking theiving motherfuckers, if you're reading this (which I know you're not because your whore of a mother and your drugged-up alco petty criminal faggot father didn't send you to school, so you simply can't read this) I hope you burn in hell squealing like a live piglet on a spit.

The more I think about this, the more I get annoyed, because, if these crackheads get caught, what happens? For a long time, nothing. Then, at best - AT BEST - they get hoofed into the 'Joy for a few months to see their mates, work out at the gym, watch telly, take drugs and get free meals. And at whose expense? The poor bastard whose cars they robbed!

Our friends in far eastern locations may have some loopy ideas about a lot of things, but I see nothing wrong with lobbing the limbs off these scumbags. Or stoning them. Or whipping the back off them with a length of frayed cable.

Knackers.

SASH! AAAAAAH! Saviour of the universe.

2007-12-14T09:44:00.000-08:00

Or not. I saw this in a news article recently. The jaffas are trying to "cool-up" the narrow-minded, ridiculous, non-sensical, priority-lacking pile of shite that is the orange order with the introduction of a twat-faced arsemonger in a pair of tights.

Apparently, there's a competition as to what this gimp should be called and the odds-on favourite is "Sash Gordon".

Like, fucking hell.

As if our bigoted bretheren weren't already the subject of much ridicule. An orange "super"-hero. Anyone reading this (and maybe a prior post or two) could be forgiven for thinking that I have something against the jaffas. I don't really. I think they're idiots. I think they're backward. I think they're to be more to be pitied than scolded (Before you shell out any pity on them, laugh at them first. Always with the ridicule.) but they're just so ridiculous in everything they do that there's no way they could possibly instill any sort of hatred in me.

So I say "keep it up, citrus-boys.... you couldn't write this sort of comedy"

Stupid technology...

2007-10-10T15:35:00.000-07:00

...stupid in that it was too late arriving. I love learning stuff but as an antiauthoritarian in school, I wanted to learn the stuff that I was interested in and scrap the rest. Stick your binomial theorem up your ass, mate. Weights, measures, percentages - I can see that being useful. Probability? You can probably fuck off with that too.

Naturally, this attitude proved a bit of a problem as it is fundamentally the complete opposite of a structured school curriculum. As a result, I went through the motions of schooling rather than really applying myself as well as I could. I did feck all study and passed my Leaving but all the while resenting working on things that I had no interest in. All I needed was enough of a Leaving Cert to become a pilot (which was the original plan) and, to that end, I succeeded.

But NOW, Bob Technology has decided to come up with, what would have been for me, the best idea since breasts were invented. I give you duenow.com. I remember thinking to myself "Jaysus, if only I had the internet when I was at school - homework would have been a breeze" but this beats the smelly jocks off wasting time Googling about the place and compiling the information into some sort of readable entity. The first parargraph on the site says it all:

Are you sick-and-tired of spending hours in a library or online searching for an essay on your topic -- only to end up with no essay and no quality information? Tired of slaving all night long writing an essay -- only to get a garbage grade? Do you have better things do with your time than spend it writing a useless essay? In the time it takes you to brew a cup of coffee, you'll be done your essay and be free to have a social life, relax, or do anything else that you desire -- simply by using the power of the world's largest essay website. You'll be done your essay and be on with your life in record time and with unparalleled results.

If you have a younger brother, sister, niece or nephew in school, a subscription to this site would make an excellent Christmas present. On Crimbo day, they might look at it and go "great, something for school, thanks a million" with a face on them like a smacked arse, but watch their face do a complete turnaround and light up brighter than the sun's bumhole when you explain to them that you have bought them freedom for Christmas. Free-fucking-dom.

As I said - bollocks to you technology, you're twenty-odd years too late.

Ye ponce.

I have fffffffffffuggintourettes!

2007-10-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was walking down the local main street and I realised something that has never occurred to me before. I have tourettes (ARSE!).

All jokes aside, I thought it would make my short journey slightly more interesting if I hurled subtle if not subliminal abuse at people that I just plain didn't like the look of. Which it turns out, in my gradual transformation into a grumpy old fart, is quite a few members of our local population.

So there I am walking along and just as I pass random people, I mutter "gobshite"...... "twat"...."ringpiece"...... "bumhole" ......"bender".

That can't be right, surely.

Apparently, more people than you might imagine have tourettes in one form or another. Tourettes is just a nervous tick that's manifested by (fucking hilarious) verbal outbursts. But many people have it without even knowing it. If you stub your toe on something and shout expletives, that can be construed as a form of it. Having said that, if I stub my toe, to say I utter expletives is somewhat an understatement. To say that I'd embarrass a docker with my language and then go about seeking revenge on whatever it was that got in my way would be more accurate.

This brings me on to my vengeful nature which probably isn't a healthy thing either. I was stung by a nettle yesterday while picking blackberries and, after a short outburst of tourettes and wondering why there were so many fucking nettles but bollocks-all dock leaves, memories from the distant past came rushing back. If I was stung by a nettle as a kid, I'd march into the house and march back the hell out again wielding a bamboo or a similar nettle-killing weapon and I would obliterate every bastard nettle in sight.

So don't piss me off.

(If you're a nettle)

Spam Corner

2007-08-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

In my oh-so-very-humble opinion, eircom are shite. Have a look at the pic to the right. That is a screenshot of my Googlemail inbox which I have set to check my eircom mail as well. Over the last few days, I have amassed 129 spam emails to my eircom address and as you can see (if you click the image to enlarge), EVERY fucking spam mail that goes into the gmail spam folder comes via eircom. The paranoid of us would suggest that because I declined eircom's kind offer of a subscription-based spam filter, that I am now subject to even more crap than ever before. I think the reason is that they're just a bunch of cockmonkeys.

Anyway here's one of the fine nuggets of spam that came through this morning:

Good morning,
When I looked in the mirror after every shower, I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not I was average. After doing some research online, I realized that I was slightly under-average
Mukesh Castle

??

erm...... Dear Mukesh, thanks for that. You fucking freak.

Honestly.

Are you taking the piss?

2007-08-25T04:01:00.000-07:00

I am beside myself with grief, shock, amazement and disappointment. And a certain amount of hilarity. The fucking mullet is back. Come to think of it, it was never "here". It was never "in". It was never "cool". I was a child of the 80's and while most of us had pretty appalling haircuts, they were the standard haircuts of the time. None of my mates had a mullet. Nobody I knew had a mullet. If they did, they probably would have got a kicking - right in the fucking mullet.

Now there are mullets fucking everywhere! You have your tassley-tail style thing with the short hair on top and the rats tails at the back of the neck. You have the banjo-playing, tobacco chewing, no-mirror-in-the-house style with the shaved sides, no fringe and tassle-tail combo and then you have the diehard kids with the "pick the worst fucking haircuts of the 80's and blend them all into one hairy fucking noggin-abomination". There are kids around here with a bowl haircut fringe, a spike on top, shaved sides and fucking bleached mullet-tails coming out the back. They're walking around in their tracksuits cut off halfway along the shin like they are the height of fashion! They look like fucking spackers! They're actually trying to out-mullet each other!

Whoever decided to reinvent this piss-poor excuse for a hairstyle should be shot with balls of Dame Enda Everidge's shite. I'm all for being individual and not following the crowd. But heads up you fucking gobshites - the "crowd" are doing the mullet dance! Get a fucking life you mickey-lickers.

You should see some of the female variety! I'm convinced that they go into the "hairdressers" and say "spray my melon with hairspray and then place a small charge of TNT in me bonce-fluff and let 'er rip"

Bastards.

Jealousy is an ugly emotion...

2007-08-02T16:18:00.000-07:00

....and I'm not jealous of this guy. In awe would be more accurate. One of my favourite songs and played fantasically by this punter. For those of you without sound (in work or whatever), you're missing out.

I got a feckin' deadly new guitar recently (from my feckin' deadly wife) and I've been determined to become a better guitar player because this new yoke is an absolute joy to play and after seeing this guy, I'm even more determined. God damnit.

How's yer noggin?

2007-07-27T04:39:00.000-07:00

Here's a wee noggin melter that will keep you occupied for a few minutes. It's based on the old ceann scratcher of the farmer with the fox and the chicken. I got this one sorted last night in 7 minutes but then I totally forgot how I did it. I did it again today in only a couple of minutes and again, I've forgotten how I did it. Either way, it's good for the oul' grey matter. (Says your man with the memory of a goldfish with alzheimers.)

You click on the blue circle to begin, but there are a few rules afore ye go:

Everyone has to cross the river (dur)
There can be a maximum of 2 people on the raft at any one time and only adults can drive the raft (ie, the mother, the father or the copper)
The criminal can't be left alone with any of the family
The father can't be left alone with any of the daughters or he will batter them (wtf? but it is actually quite funny)
The mother can't be left alone with any of the sons or she'll physcially abuse them (the bitch - again, quite funny)

Apparently this was used in Japan as a sort of recruitment IQ test. I'm surprised they didn't just dangle cavity blocks from the ceiling and make the applicants run around the room naked and blindfolded shouting "BANZAI!"

(Thanks to the weird fella giggling in the corner for this one)

Orangemen - the energy, not the enemy

2007-07-26T18:29:00.000-07:00

Orangemen have got to be the biggest bunch of fucking idiots ever to have walked (or marched as the case may be) the earth. Personally, I think they're quite funny and in some ways I feel slightly guilty laughing at them because it's kinda like laughing at a child who can't get the wrapper off his packet of Toffos. In fact, the more I think about it, the Orangemen are EXACTLY like a child who can't get the wrapper off his packet of Toffos. It's a mixture of immaturity, naievity, stupidity, frustration and just plain old going about things the wrong way.

Anyway, that's not what this post is about. This post is about making a useless bunch of bumwipes into something that people will actually admire and even applaud for a change - an energy source.

How? It's very simple. They like marching, don't they? Construct a fucking big treadmill and put them on it. Hook the whole lot up to an ESB-style dynamo turbine thingy and Bob's your Auntie's naughty neighbour who keeps jumping over the back fence to stick spaghetti up her bumhole (?).

You could get a couple of hundred of the Laurel and Hardy looking gimps on a massive treadmill and generate a shiteload of watts so we can sit home and look at the Nuacht while sipping on a nice cup of Barry's. Just the fucking job.

They could take shifts. Say 200 of the Oompah Loompah lookin' geebags are on the treadmill in rows of 10 across. After a couple of hours, 10 could jump off and have a nice wheaten scone and a cup of Earl Gay while another 10 hop on to take their place. You could even have a feckin' big poster of Drumcree at the front of the treadmill to make them march a bit faster.

Energy crisis? Not if I was feckin' Taoiseach, lads.

Emerald Bile

2007-07-20T16:16:00.000-07:00

This has to be one of the funniest blogs on Blogger. Written by a pair of fucking cunts (you'll see why I said that when you read the blog) called Ball Bag & Noreen who pretty much just give out shite about everything. I thought I was bad, but this makes me look like Mary Poppins.

The Subtitle is:
What are you fucking looking at? Ball Bag and Noreen would like you to fuck off. We don’t want people here. People who comment on blogs are normally arseholes. This is somewhere for us to discuss things, things we care about. Things like skiing and tennis and the never-ending coverage of that fucking wave, and the fact that Robbie Williams is a cunt. We don’t like John Lennon much either.

Schcope 'er out. Emerald Bile.

Johnny Poxes

2007-07-15T14:10:00.000-07:00

No, I haven't turned "pox" into a verb. I was up at the aforementioned pub today after a ramble around Powerscourt with the chiselers. For about 5 minutes. The place wasn't even 30% full but we couldn't get a seat. Why? Because there was a "reserved" sign on every poxy table. It seems some ringpiece had booked the entire pub for the afternoon - despite not actually being there to avail of his reservation. There were quite a few pissed off people there and those who couldn't be bothered complaining or just leaving (as we did) sat outside in the cold and drank pints in their jackets in the drizzle and wind.

I hope they made plenty of money out of the gimp who reserved the place because I, for one, won't be going to the kip again and I'm pretty sure a good few more of today's potential punters share the same sentiment.

Johnny Foxes can go and bite my shite.

Gerrup!

2007-06-24T03:15:00.000-07:00

Some years back, we had a problem with a neighbour's dog shitting on the doorstep. Almost every single morning, you'd come out the door to go to work and there'd be a turd on the step. It was 2 steps up to get into the house and the little bastard would do it on the top step. Not in the garden. Not on the driveway. On the top step only inches from the front door. A couple of times I caught him and gave chase and it was one of the funniest things you could possibly ever imagine. Me with the big morning ceann on me chasing this little runt down the road and him scuttling away down the road like a rat out of hell. A couple of times he even did the cartoon thing where initially, the legs are going twenty to the dozen but he's not actually getting anywhere - then he gains traction and off he goes.

Anyway, the shitting stopped and I was later delighted to learn that the little bastard had been run over by a car.

So this morning, a cat saunters across the front garden. As usual, I wound up our dog and showed her the cat walking across her turf and, as usual, she went ballistic and started barking at the window and running about like a lunatic out of sheer frustration. The cat was outside going "Yeah, yeah, woof, woof, whatever. You're behind a window and you can do feck all about me goofing around on your grass."

But then the little fucker took it one step further and decided to start digging. And we all know why cats dig. He was going "What do you make of this? I'm going to drop one in your garden and there's really fook all you can do about it, ye loppy-eared moron."

How wrong was he. I don't mind cats using the garden as a short cut - in fact, I quite enjoy watching the poor oul' dog go bananas - but this was a step too far. I picked up the dog and fucked her out the window.

Well, you should have seen the look on the cat's face who was now mid-crouch and about to have a litter of shit kittens. His poxy beady eyes turned into saucers and nearly popped clean out of his head. The dog went peeling after it barking and yelping all the way. The cat took off like a polaris missile - probably with half a turd sticking out of his ass - and I don't expect to see him back again too soon.

Foley - 1

El gato - 0

Earwig go again with the insect rant

2007-06-21T01:22:00.000-07:00

Anyone that knows me knows that I'm not a big fan of insects. I'm not afraid of them at all, I just don't like them. I feel they have no place on this earth. Some might say "yeah, but if there were no insects, other animals in the food chain would die, like frogs for example". My response to that is that the frog can go and get a fucking sandwich from O'Brien's, okay?

I suppose if I thought about it more, I'd have no real problem with insects as long as they stay well the fuck out of my way. The same applies to benders, knackers, smokers and many other forms of living litter.

So the other night, I was sitting in my house on my chair watching my TV and drinking a bottle of my beer when upon taking a swig of beer, I found a foreign object being swirled around my mouth with the Warsteiner. With oral dexterity I manouvered the object to the front of my mouth and transferred it to the palm of my hand.

It was a fucking earwig. Like who the FUCK does he think he is? I think I said something like "grewuddcgyxsfugginspahrrff", flung the little prick across the room and spat the remainder of the beer in my mouth across the floor much to my wife's amusement.

Now, the big problem here is that, when I have an encounter with an insect, I take it kind of personally. (Silly I know, but hey, I gotta be me. Proof, as if anyone needs it, can be seen here and here. ) So I hunted that bastard down with a view to slowly removing his limbs starting with his arse pincers. But I couldn't find him. So in lieu of that, I have the following to say to a variety of insects:

Bees: Guys thanks for the honey, but fuck off with the slow buzzing about the place like you own the world.
Wasps: You're scum. Sheer scum. Little yellow and black tracksuits on you. Burn in hell.
Ants: What's with the devoting your life to some fat bitch sitting in a nest? (Wasps and bees should listen up too.) And get some independence for god's sake. Is there no such thing as a one bedroomed anthill?
Daddy long legs: You fucking stupid gangly haven't-got-much-of-a-clue-what-direction-to-fly gobshites. Fuck off.
Flies: It's a window. A closed window. Stop banging your head off it. And stop eating shit. Nobody likes you.
Mosquitoes: My blood, shithead. Mine. Not a fucking free-for-all when you get a bit thirsty from flying uselessly about the place. And your proboscis looks like a cock - making you, my friend, a dickhead.
Earwigs: What the fuck? Like, you have nothing to do with ears and you are quite possibly the ugliest of all the insects listed here. Apart from...
Moths: "Oh look, a light" Bang! "Oh look, a light" Bang! "Oh look, a light" Bang! You fucking stupid bug-eyed hairy cunts. What the fuck is that all about? You get yourself stuck inside a lampshade and flap about like it's someone else's fault? Fuck off.

Bastards.

(I'm kinda tired after that)

The Regime

2007-06-11T01:52:00.001-07:00

It's here. It's fair. And by jiminy, the Irish government should implement some of the rules and put manners on the rule-breakers. Ladies and gentlemen, with thanks to unnecessary pressure from Puppy "The Voyce" Diablo, I am scared to present tHe ReGiMe...

Gravediggers!

2007-06-10T12:42:00.000-07:00

I've watched about 5 minutes of Big Brother, I'm ashamed to admit. I've actually watched a good bit of it in previous years and I'm even more ashamed to admit that. But this particular season looks exceptionally shite. And one girl got thrown out for saying "nigger". Thing is, she wasn't even saying something derogatory toward black people.

If you're going to throw people out of Big Brother for saying "nigger" (ooooh, I've said it again!), my advice to Endemol: Never get Snoop Dogg on your show.

When I was in the States and hanging around with a load of brothas, they called me nigger! It's not a bad word anymore. It's the sentiment behind it that makes it bad or good. "Yo my nigger, whassup?" is a friendly greeting for fuck's sake. I mean, what does cunt mean? It means vagina. If I said to someone "You're a cunt" as opposed to "You sir, are a vagina" it would evoke two completely different reactions, but for the same thing.

People take words far too seriously. At a recent wedding where I was the best man, I said the word "bollocks" 3 times. The spinsters in the front row at the table with the nun nearly passed out! In London, "bollocks" has become the equivalent of saying "rubbish". People say it over there without so much as a flinch from the elderly or the pious.

And who decides that these words are more rude than others? Who makes them up and categorises them? If I called you a "snerfle", would you be offended? Probably not. If I told you a snerfle was a new word that I made up and it means "three cunts and a wanker", you might be offended, but probably not as much as if someone actually called you a cunt because it's "not a proper word". Well heads up, fucknuts, neither was cunt until some bespectacled spacker put it in a big book!

Yis cunts.

Hilton Goes 1 Star

2007-06-10T12:20:00.000-07:00

OK, so I haven't blogged in a while. I've been away. And busy. I've been away busying myself. But when I read the news this evening that uber-rich, uber-skank Paris Hilton has been thrun back in the slammer, I had to laugh. I laughed out loud. Apparently she was in tears as she was told that she had to go back.

Hello? You drove drunk, got caught, got banned, drove drunk AGAIN, got caught AGAIN and then tried to weasel your way out of a bit of bird time by feigning illness? YOU DESERVE A YEAR IN PRISON YOU HOOKER!

The poetry of this whole thing is that having done that excuse for a TV show, The Simple Life with Nicole Richie, she now finds herself in a Simple Life-esque situation that she can't giggle, cheat, suck or buy her way out of. And I, for one, think it's fucking hilarious.

Gue on the judge!

Looks Can Be Deceiving

2007-03-13T16:31:00.000-07:00

Aren't appearances mad? When we look at someone, we instantly make a pile of assumptions based on their appearance. We're all guilty of it and probably nobody more than me. Some would call it stereotyping and they'd be absolutely right. If you see a guy wearing a tracksuit with a bumfluff moustache and a burberry cap, you instantly think "knacker". If you see a woman wearing inch thick orange makeup, heels that would thread a needle and a skirt that looks more like a cummerbund, you think "slapper".

And that's what stereotyping is all about. Some say it's not fair, but these people bring it on themselves and have nobody else to blame. If I covered myself in ketchup and walked down the street with an axe, I would fully expect people to think I was a murderer.

I was thinking recently about some looks that are completely deceiving and the funny situations that they bring about.

Camp Savage

I was in a chipper in Newtownmountkennedy years back and it was late at night. In walks this SAVAGE looking fellah, covered in piercings, dirty, with docmartins and a scuffed leather jacket. He looked like he was about to cause GBH of the most horrific kind. I avoided eye contact with this massive savage as he approached the counter. The girl behind the counter had her back to him and I was sure she was about to get the shock of her life when she turned around to come face to face with this beast. After a minute, she did. "Ah howya Trevor!" she says. "Howya Mary" says the beast "Could I have a bunburger and chips please?". I cannot stress enough how much this guy sounded like Fr. Noel Furlong (Graham Norton) from Father Ted. Camp as a row of tents, he was. I didn't feel too hungry after that as I had chewed my lip to ribbons trying desperately not to burst out laughing at Trevor the camp gouger.

Scumbag Snooker Hall Guy

I used to play a bit of snooker (a real man's sport - ahem) in a place in town and there was this guy behind the counter who looked like he'd gone one too many rounds down at the Sherrif Street boxing club. He had the type of squinty eyes and furrowed brow coupled with a flat nose that would make any adversary - be it a boxing opponent or his latest mugging victim - absolutly cack their pants. He was a lad of few words. You'd go in, ask for a table and he'd give you a set of snooker balls, a couple of cues and off you'd go. Turns out, the guy was seemingly keeping schtum, because if any of the inner city locals had heard this outrageous D4 accent, he would have got a hiding on a regular basis! I heard him talking one day and he was saying that he "had to get the bleeding Dort into town today because Mum had the old jom jor"

Pukey Clerk

This is my favourite. One of the girls who works in the bank is quite attractive apart from one attribute. She constantly looks like shes about to vomit all over your cheque! It's nuts! You know when you're about to barf and you get the spits - the old vomlube - your mouth turns to an upsidedown smile, your eyes go a bit heavy and you have to keep swallowing until you get to the jacks to hurl your guts up? She looks like that ALL THE TIME! It makes me a bit nervous but cracks me up at the same time. She's great.

One day she's gonna call my bluff and blow mixed veg all over me lodgement.

(HEY! No smut, yis tinkers!)

The Low Airline

2007-03-04T14:56:00.000-08:00

They're cheap. They're not cheerful but they get you there. I still don't like them, but a while ago, I flew with them. Some might say that I sold out, but I say I took advantage of them - "I hate you, but I'm going to avail of your cheap fares because I can!" I liken it to saying that you don't believe in God, but you go to mass for the free biscuit - the ultimate insult. Anyway, here are the pros and cons of flying with Ryanair:

Pros

They're cheap
They have a fair few destinations

Cons

They're cheap
They have a fair few destinations - miles from anywhere
They close their checkouts early
They fleece you on baggage weight
They have shite loads of hidden charges
You feel like cattle
Their aircraft smell
Not many of their staff speak properly
Customer service - nil
They charge outrageous money for bottled water
There's no way to complain to them except "in writing and things can get lost in the post, can't they?"
This list could go on for a while, so I'll stop here...

Ah yes. The lowest of the low in the airline industry. Ye gotta respect them for bringing down the cost of flying overall, but you can't help but hate them for their blatant lack of compassion, understanding, humanity and god damn it, customer service. So here are Johnny's top tips for flying with the excuse for an airline that is Ryanair.

Get there early. Damn early. There's nothing they like more than sitting there with a smug look on their faces as they tell you the check in has closed and you'll have to pay McStupid money for a "seat" on the next "flight". One time, I was at the check in desk 2 minutes before they were supposed to close (by the terminal monitors, not my watch) they closed the desk. Despite my subsequent argument, I had to pay 90 large for the next flight.

If you're bringing baggage, make sure it's the right size. And weigh it. Check this out: Think about the maximum sized hand baggage you're allowed to carry with these clowns. Now think of a large suitcase. You'd get about 4 times the amount of stuff in the hand baggage into the large suitcase, right? So can someone explain why the maximum allowed in your suitcase (15kg) is only one and a half times the amount allowed in your hand baggage (10kg)? Arseholes.

If you're checking in luggage, CRAM your hand baggage with clobber, especially jeans. Jeans don't take up much room as they fold nice and flat, but relatively, they weigh a lot. Keep the space in your suitcase for light, but bulky stuff. As a final check, find an unmanned check-in desk at the airport if you have time and weigh your baggage on the "official scales" before checking it in. That way they have NO leverage.

Wear your heavier clothes when travelling. I know it sounds nuts, but that cotton jacket (?) takes up a lot less space in your baggage than your puffa jacket made of ...erm...gold. And you can always tie your aran sweater around your waist. Wear the boots and pack the runners. You know where I'm going with this.

Bring some drinks and a few M&Ms or something with you. They close their check in desks on time (or early - grrr) with no exceptions so they can round you up in a stuffy kip before cramming you on to a plane. Dublin's not too bad, but some of the shithole departure gates in other airports make Guantanamo Bay look like the Hilton. I think it's the airport authority's little prank on Ryanair. The aviation equivalent of telling them to go and get a glass hammer. And while they deserve nothing more, it's us schmucks that bear the brunt.

When you get to the departure gate, try to get near the actual gate and be ready to pounce when they announce the flight. Normally, I sneer at twats who do this, but with these gimps, it's a necessity. It doesn't really matter if you're travelling alone or if you don't give a shite who you sit beside. But if you have kids, the staff don't give a stinky tuppence if your 2 year old chiseler is wedged in the middle seat between a knacker and a drunk down the back while you're stuck somewhere at the other end of the plane admiring the beautiful McDonald's style seating and rolling your eyes to heaven at the morons who buy scratch cards to win a free Ryanair flight.

DON'T use these twats on ANY part of a transfer flight. Trust me, it's not worth the 20 quid you save.

Lower your expectations to a minimum. Then get a shovel and dig a large hole - deep as you can. In the basement of that hole, carefully place your expectations. This leaves little room for disappointment when you fly with Ryanair.

Finally (although, I could go on for a while), don't put up with any nonsense from them. If you're within your rights, shout it from the rooftops. Us Irish are ridiculous for putting up with being treated badly and saying nothing about it. And these guys exploit that to the max, so the more people that kick their heels, the better the chance of a bit of decent treatment.

That's all.

Benders.

Red Hot

2007-02-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

I cannot stop listening to this song. It's sheer class. The riff in it makes me beat myself up for not learning the guitar properly when I bought one back in 1990.

I didn't rate BloodSugarSexMagic much at all when it was released, but Californication was class and Stadium Arcadium is pretty damn good too. Especially this horribly good song.

SNOW (HEY OH) (by Red Hot Chili Peppers)

And Flea looks like he's from Athlone.

That's all.

Size isn't everything you know.

2007-02-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

Isn't techmology (thanks Ali G) wonderful? Seriously.

I was walking the dog a few nights ago and I was listening to a bit of Tom Petty on an MP3 player that came free with a mobile phone. iPod's aside (very far aside - I don't rate them at all), this thing is a simple device with only 128MB of storage which is enough for about 25 songs - plenty for walking the dog around the block with the obligatory "throw the ball" stops along the way. Anyway, this MP3 player is about the size of a fat man's thumb and I got to thinking - "Isn't technology just the dog's mickey?" There I was walking around with this tiny thing in my pocket with no moving parts and I remember my first personal music player; A walkman that was about half the size of a VHS video tape! I thought some more and I thought about the 8-track cassette player that my dad used to have - the tapes were about half the size of a VHS tape! Fast forward 25 years and you have SanDisk who have come out with a memory card called the Micro-SD card. I draw comparisons between the 8-track cassette and Micro-SD card as both are removeable media.

Look at your little finger. See the fingernail? If you have average sized hands and you keep your nails trimmed, THAT'S about the size (& thickness) of a Micro-SD card! The latest Micro-SD card to hit the shelves has a capacity of 2GB!! That's about 400 MP3s!!! (at 5MB)

Four bloody hundred songs on something that would fit under the label of an audio cassette and hold about 25 times more music at far superior quality?? I remember looking forward to the technology of the future as a kid, but I never expected this kind of stuff in such a (seemingly) short time.

So thank you boffins. As a closet nerd, I salute you!

Yis faggots.

(ehhhhh)

Homotextuals

2006-11-16T17:21:00.000-08:00

Recently, I started receving texts from 57030 asking me if I want to enter this competition and that prize draw. Like any normal mobile phone user, I mutter "ask me bollix" and delete the message. I'm not one for examining my bills (stupid, I know) but recently, I had a gawk at my Vodafone bill and was horrified to learn that these arseholes are CHARGING ME to RECEIVE THEIR TEXT MESSAGES AT €2.50 A POP! Can you believe that shit? My bill was only €52 and €15 of that was for some poxy machine sending me phonespam.

I was advised by Vodafone to text "Stop" to the number in question which I did, but it made no difference. So I did some research and found out that Zamano own the number and "Pulse Solutions" are the "company" who "operate" it. The overuse of inverted commas there indicates that I don't believe for a second that Pulse are a bona fide company.

Anyway, I emailed Zamano and cc'ed RegTel on the email along with a couple of other bigwig email addresses (that I can't mention here) to make them shake in their boots a bit. I also contacted them by phone and hurled semi-polite abuse at them.

I told them that I texted "Stop" to their number and get this - they told me that the "Stop" command only ceases the "free texts" not the "subscription texts" (I SUBSCRIBED TO FUCK ALL, YOU DICKS). So how do you stop these texts from coming to your phone? As far as I can see at this stage, you can't.

They tried to direct me toward "Pulse Solutions" who don't answer their "phones" so I immediately pointed the Foley Fickle Finger of Fate back at Zamano and made it clear that I wasn't going to let this lie.

They caved. I got a cheque. Eventually.

If you or anyone you know is receiving these texts, here's what you do:

Contact your mobile phone provider or check your bills to find out how many of these messages you have received, tally it up and write down the total (don't forget the VAT)
Phone Zamano on 4885820 and tell them you're calling about your refund. If they try to tell you to contact Pulse, politely say "Now, you and I both know that's not going to happen" and again, request your money back.
At the same time, email Zamano at customerservices@zamano.com, cc info@RegTel.ie and anyone else you know with a bit of clout (newspapers, TDs, councillors, hitmen, etc) and outline the full scéal of this rip off carry on.
You should get notification by email and a cheque back within a week. If you don't, email them again and again, cc RegTel.

If all of this fails - which it shouldn't and didn't for me - there is one final ditch attempt: Next time you pay your mobile bill, leave it short by the amount that these texts add up to and include a note as to why. Let's face it - YOU didn't subscribe to this crap and your mobile provider is basically giving these twats YOUR money WITHOUT your consent, so they can deal with claiming any costs back from the text thieves. If you rant enough, it'll deffo work. If not, you can always use a line like "Hmmm, I believe Meteor have great deals on at the moment" and if your mobile provider even dreams of suing you for 15 blips, I'd place a decent wager on who'd win in the small claims court: Multinational Mobile Phone Provider vs Joe Public? No contest. Just ask Michael O'Leary who at this stage has a private booth in the small claims court with about as many wins as San Marino FC.

So I got a result and I'll let this lie. Oh, hang on. No I won't. It's payback time. Watch this space, people.

Bastards

2006-10-05T15:18:00.000-07:00

OK, I couldn't think of a decent enough headline for this rant, so I went for the most appropriate rather than the cleverest.

I've noticed recently a lot of people (women in particular - sorry girls) driving around in their cars with their poor unfortunate offspring who, not only didn't ask to be carried around in their mother's pock-marked bellies for 9 months, didn't ask to be 'thrown' out of their 'front bum junkyards' but most certainly did not sign up for being put in the back of a Punto while "Mammy" smokes her knacker lungs out.

Anyone who knows me even remotely will know that I abhor cigarette smoking but in fairness to some of these chimney parents, they occasionally open the drivers window to let the smoke out. But the fag is only ever outside the window when they're tipping their ash. (ALL OVER MY FUCKING CAR)

The rest of the time, the fag is inside the car and the only effect that the open window has is to ensure that the smoke circulates nicely around the car and straight into the poor unfortunate kid's lungs. I saw one skank the other day at it - you could barely see the poor kid in the back for all the smoke - and I really felt like dragging her out of her car and punching the face off her. Then I thought about it and decided that I'd only be doing her a favour by making her better looking. The hooker.

I was outside the Rotunda there a couple of weeks back and there were a right handful of geebags outside puffing their lungs out while still heavily pregnant. I don't get this. I really don't. It beggars belief, comprehension and any iota of logic. A child is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most precious thing on this planet and these tramps are trying to kill them before they're even born.

There's a simple rule that should apply: Don't smoke anywhere near a child. Not in a house, a car, or to hell with it, even outside - one gust of wind and they get a lungful. And one lungful is a lungful too many in my not-really-humble opinion.

It's simple, 'ladies' - Don't smoke ANYWHERE near children. Don't even let them see you smoke if you can avoid it. It's not big and it's not clever.

And it makes you look like a two-bit whore.

NCTS - The 'S' is for Scam, not Service

2006-09-26T01:41:00.000-07:00

I welcome any form of test that makes our roads safer and prevents people from driving around in smoke spluttering pieces of shite. I mean, the standard of driving in this country is appaling. Add to that a dodgy set of brakes and some wobbly suspension and you've got yourself a Fiat killing machine.

What I don't welcome is a red-tape-and-bullshit system that wastes my time (No. 1 item on the list entitled "How to become Foley's enemy" is "Waste his time") and looks for things that have absolutely no bearing on the safe and environmentally sound operation of a motorised vehicle. I know someone who failed the NCT because he didn't take the hubcaps off the car prior to the test (a nonsense pre-test pre-requisite) and the last time I had the car in, it failed because one of the wheel bearings was loose, but it also failed because one of the rear seat belts was (visible but) down the back of the seat and the twat that was testing it was obviously too noodle-armed to pull it out.

So I put the 97 Merc through the NCT there a few weeks ago and it failed. Thing is, I wouldn't mind if it failed for something decent. But here's what the German NCT operative with the ridiculous looking train driver's hat failed it on:

A wire hanging down from the inside of the boot lid. A fucking disused speaker wire I might add. I wasn't aware that a 6 inch piece of wire was going to cause mayhem of catastrophic proportions on our roads.
The middle rear brake light wasn't working. The middle one. You know, the one that isn't a fucking legal requirement? The same one that wasn't working when the car passed the NCT last time around.
Loose wires under the bonnet. Not loose - attached to a third party alarm which I disconnected and which you have absolutely no right to even look at as it doesn't fall within your remit. You pox.

Another thing that I noticed in the NCT centre (apart from the smell of piss, the smell of knacker, the smell of knacker's piss, the broken coffee machine and overall prison-like atmosphere) was the testers' bedside manner. "That's a great car, but......" and then they go on to give you a list of the most ridiculous things that shouldn't have failed the car in the first place.

The NCT should test: Headlight alignment, emissions, brakes, tyres, suspension, steering, seatbelts and chassis. And that's it.

Fucking speaker wires. I ask you.

Bluetwat

2006-09-06T12:47:00.000-07:00

It's been over a month since my last ~~confession~~ blog and guess what? Yep, I'm going to rant.

What in the name of Mick is it with these Bluetooth earpiece things? They make the wearer look like a cross between a total gicklicker and robocop (who, by his very nature is a twat). Actually, the guy in the pic there looks reasonably cool compared to some of the tools you see wearing them. I used an earpiece for a while (not a Bluetooth one - the old fashioned type), but I only used it when I was on my motorbike or driving a car. I felt like a bit of a plonker in the car because people could see it, but on the bike it was grand because it was covered by the crash helmet.

Truth be known, I'd rather see someone talking through one of those things than actually on the phone while driving (which is something that really boils my blood) but surely to god when you're not driving, it's time to take the stupid bloody thing off your ceann? So, with that in mind, I have a couple of questions for a couple of people.

To the fat guy in B&Q: Man, you had nothing in your hand! There was nobody on the phone. Was the phone in the pocket of your comically-sized pants too heavy to pick up should you receive a call from Weightwatchers? Are the buttons on your phone too small for your jumbo sausage fingers to operate? YOU DON'T NEED A HANDSFREE DEVICE WHEN YOU'RE DOING FUCK ALL ELSE WITH YOUR HANDS!

To the middle aged Asian woman in the back of the banged up Nissan Almera: Erm, dude, you're in the BACK OF THE FUCKING CAR! Probably because your husband, who also insists that you walk at least 10 feet behind him, put you there. So why the Bluetooth headset, eh? Got caught doing a bit of pilferage back in Saudi, hmm? Lobbed off the mitts, did they, hmm? Or is it just that you're expecting a really important call from your stockbroker and the time taken to get your phone from under your yashmak could cost you millions on Wall Street? You pox.

Ahhh, that's better.

Right back at yis!

2006-08-03T13:43:00.000-07:00

So the phone rang today. And I picked it up, but not before I took the obligatory peek at the caller ID. I recognised the number as eircom sales and I knew they'd be giving it loads of "Mr Foley, we could save you at least 20p a month on your telephone bill.."

So I answered the phone like this: "Good afternoon, thank you for calling eircom, how can I help you?"

There was a pause. Quite a long pause.

And then the phone went dead. Very dead.

Foley - 1.
eircom - 0.

In other news, I was watching telly the other night - it was one of these chart-type shows - 100 best films or actors or some such drivel where they get B-listers to wax lyrical about their favourite stuff. Anyway, Roland Rivron was on it and my blood started to...well, warm up a smidge. I don't really have anything against "The Riv" but as far as I'm concerned, he's a writer and a presenter. And a twat. But on this show, it said "Roland Rivron - Comedian"

Comedian? I thought you had to be at least vaguely funny before you could put that qualification beside your name. The guy is not in the slightest bit funny. I've seen funnier roadkill. Why didn't they put "Roland Rivron - Presenter" or "Roland Rivron - Gimp"? The thing is, this guy actually thinks he's funny.

I know how the human heart works and I have a pretty decent grasp on the skeleton, liver, kidneys and reproductive system. Does that mean I can put "M.D." beside my name? I can say "Take two aspirin and call me in 3 days if there's no change" like the best of them.

I'm partial to watching Jools Holland's Hogmanay Hoofer Doofer (or whatever it's called) of a New Year's Eve and every year Rivron is on it. Every year Jools stupidly puts the mic in front of Rivron's stupid gob. Every year Rivron says something that he considers to be absolutely priceless while the rest of the audience, guests and every single viewer at home remain deadpan. Because he's not funny. Not funny at all.

The bastard.

The 'C' is for Crushedunderthewheels

2006-07-27T03:38:00.000-07:00

I drove this car yesterday and it's official. I want one. It's got full leather throughout and when you take the key out of the ignition, the seat slides back to let you out. That sold it for me. Not that you need room in this beast.

From the outside, this car says "Get the fuck out of my way". From the inside, you find yourself saying "Erm...you might want to get the fuck out of my way as I'm not quite sure where the front of this car ends."

I thought the Mercs were the quietest diesel cars on the road but this car with it's 3.0 power plant beats it for silence by a country mile. Just perfect for sneaking up behind a knacker on a pony and trap and just rolling over the lot of them. From inside this car, you wouldn't hear the howls of the piebald as his noggin gets crushed to the tarmac much less the squeals of the flattening tinker. The thing is - this IS a Merc for all intents and purposes. It's on an E Class chassis with a Merc engine. I'm guessing that this car is quiter than the Merc because the engine is buried under 3 feet of solid metal (probably). I love this car but I ain't paying 60 large for one - not with so many people starving in the wor.....in my house.

The pros: Peasant crushing capabilities. It's just a class car from start to finish.
The cons: Too pricey for most budgets (but if it were cheap, all the BMW 3 Series driving arseholes would have one). And if you go for the 5.7 petrol version, you'll need to remortgage your gaff to keep it in petrol for six months.

On next week's motor review - Fiat rebrand the Punto as the Cunto. For the obvious reasons.

I'll fly YOU to the moon!

2006-07-20T10:02:00.000-07:00

Vapona fly and wasp killer. That's what it says on the tin. But, unlike Ronseal, this doesn't do exactly what it says on the tin. This isn't a complaint, this is a commendation. There's probably not enough room on the Vapona aerosol to describe accurately what it does. So in the absence of the description on the bottle, here, my learned friends is what happens from start to finish:

Shit eating waste of life buzzes around your room and, like a complete fucking idiot, tries to fly through solid a glass window. Several times.
You open the window to let the bastard out to save yourself several minutes of flapping and potential personal injury/damage to property.
Enough becomes enough. You go delving into the cupboard that contains an unusually wide variety of aerosols, most of which you don't recall buying.
You find the Vapona (you definitely don't remember buying THAT) and you set about pursuing the flying gick muncher with the notion of removing him from the planet.
He's against the window (the gobshite - why does he keep trying to fly through the main glass when there's a wide open window 8 inches to the left?) and you give him a quick blast of Vapona.
Ooh, he didn't like that. He didn't like that at all. Now, Mr. Fly, we're starting to realise what it's like to be very very annoyed. The shoe is on the other poxy miniscule hairy little foot now, isn't it?
Another quick spray. OK, the room is starting to smell like a hookers handbag, but that's the very least of your worries. Marty McFly is going absolutely apeshit at this stage. If I had a super powerful microphone, I'd say the screams out of him would be enough to give Bin Laden the heebie jeebies.
Another spray just for the sake of it. He's starting to slow down a bit now and is actually trying to run away. Run away from the excrutiating pain.* When I say "run", I mean tumble, flap, stagger and roll. (*do flies feel pain? probably not, but let's hope so - on some level at least)
Oh dear. It was "bzzzzzZZZZzzzZZZZZZzzzz" a few minutes ago, wasn't it? All you can muster now is "bzzt...ba...zzt..zz..z.......zzzt..ba..zzzt...zzz" That doesn't sound healthy. Not so funny now, are we?
It's over. The buzzing has stopped. The leg is still twitching though. It's time to finish this. One piece of bog roll to pick him up and drop him in Davy Jones widdly locker. Down the jacks with him.
Hmmm.....I need a wee about now. 15 Seconds and one flush later and it's game over. Next fly please.

Who said pigs have no sense of humour?

2006-07-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

It's not often I have an encounter with a pig. Last time I did, it cost me a hundred blips for allegedly breaking a red light and not having my license in the car at the time of the aforementioned incident, your honour. Anyway, I was due a 300 quid fine but with a bit of quick thinking and smooth talking in the dock, I managed to get the license "offence" stricken off because the dopey copper said that I brought my license to Cabra station instead of Swords and smart-arse here contradicted him on it.

So I was at Newgrange Farm for Megan's birthday today and I took a picture of Garda Eoghan's cousin and would you believe the fecker stuck his tongue out at me! This is not photoshoppery - this is real. I'll be uploading loads of photos over the next while as I am the veritable kid with a new toy.

Cock a doodle doo, old boy.

2006-07-12T19:00:00.000-07:00

I'm doing a bit of DIY in the house which, among other destructive things, involves tearing off the skirting boards and replacing them some time later (other stuff happens in between, I don't just reef them off and put them back on for the hell of it), so I need a fair amount of painter's caulk.

And it occured to me; I can't say "caulk" without sounding like a snooty Brit saying "cock"

"Painter's caulk? No, that's a builders bollocks, old chap"

Back with a vengeance

2006-07-12T18:44:00.000-07:00

Yes folks, he's back - Ranty McRant. I finally got broadband in the new abode (thank you eircom - thank you for only making it a four month wait, I mean, it's not like my entire business depends on it - oh hang on) and I've found a few seconds to have a quick assault. The rants have been building up over the months, with no release. I'm like a jerry can of petrol in a match factory who is just about to walk into the match testing room....

What is it with these women who wear the massive sunglasses that totally cover their faces? Not that in general I want to look at their faces. Or anything else for that matter. They look ridiculous. It's this whole new thing that punters like Paris Hilton (not to be confused with Moore Street's Jacinta Jurys) have brought about; "Deliberately make yourself look like an idiot, it's the latest thing"

We all know that the very addition of sunglasses increase a woman's attractiveness by 60% (feckin deceptive buggers they are) but these stupid looking things just leave you guessing. It could even be a bloke. Who looks like a fly.

A fly.

Get the point? Erm, no. No I don't.

2006-04-09T17:24:00.000-07:00

Have ye seen the new penalty points "system"? Until just recently, there were only a handful of "offences" for which you could get slapped with penalty points. One of them is not ensuring that your rear seat passengers are wearing seat belts. Now, in my day, it wasn't mandatory to have the rear seat passengers strapped in. That is, of course, until some genius decided that if you weren't wearing a seatbelt in the back of the car, you'd turn into an elephant. This caused uproar among the bulemics and anorexics and they started wearing seatbelts in sheer terror of turning into a five ton mammal with a big nose and the inability to wipe their arse (?). So, the skinnys started wearing belts and the rest of us followed. That's how it happened, isn't it?

Anyway, that's not the issue here. My problem with the whole thing is the allocation of points.

If your rear seat passengers aren't wearing a seatbelt, you get two points.

If you drive the wrong way down a motorway, you get two points. What in the name of Jaysus is that all about?

Two fucking points for driving the wrong way down a motorway? I’d nearly do it for the craic at that rate!

If I was in control of the penalty points system, an excerpt of my penalties might look a little bit like this:

Non-wearing of seatbelts: 2 Points
Luxembourg: 1 Point (sorry, couldn’t resist that)
Sending text messages while driving: 900 Points
Driving the wrong way down a motorway: No Points. But you get dragged out of your car by the arresting officer, punched in the face several times and then run over by your own car. Twice. In each direction.

Rant over.

Ad enough

2006-03-24T01:28:00.000-08:00

Advertising Slogans. Where would we be without them? In a cheese-free world, that's where. This has probably been done before, but not by me. So here are some advertising slogans and my version of what they should say:

Danone Actimel - Your Daily Defence Drink
should be
Danone Actimel - Your Daily Miniscule Portion of Watery Yoghurt

McDonalds - I'm Loving It
should be
McDonalds - I'm Luggin' It (my fat arse, that is)

Honda - The Power Of Dreams
should be
Honda - The Power To Devalue An Overpriced Car By Making It Appealing To Knackers

Carlsberg - Probably The Best Lager In The World
should be
Carlsberg - Probably Not The Best Lager In The World. But Probably Not The Worst Either.

Berocca - The High Performance Vitamin
should be
Berocca - Fluorescent Wee, Interesting

Ryanair - The Low Fares Airline
should be
Ryanair - The Low Airline

Red Bull - Gives You Wings
should be
Red Bull - Gives You A Hangover Even Without Adding Alcohol

Bisto - Aah!
should be
Bisto - Ugh!

Kilmeaden - The Fillet Of Cheddar
should be
Kilmeaden - It's Cheese

There are tons of them out there. Suggestions, as always, are vilkommen.

Watch your (lack of) house!

2006-03-22T15:51:00.000-08:00

"Pash the fuggin' ball"

HOMELESS SOCCER: A fundraising night is being organised to help raise money to send a team from Ireland to the Homeless World Cup in South Africa later this year.

That's a headline from the Northside People this week. Am I alone in thinking the notion of a bunch of Fisher-King-style hobos kicking a pseudo-spherical piece of rubbish about a field is absolutely priceless? The goals probably consist of a burning barrel at either end of the pitch.

That's all I'm saying.

Oh, and "gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahah"

Simple Mimes

2006-03-08T17:28:00.000-08:00

Aren't mimes funny? I don't mean "funny hahah", I mean funny feckin' odd as a three-bob-note. Honestly, at what point does someone say to themself "Right, that's it. I'm going to be a mime"?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a pilot. Some of my mates wanted to be firemen and, well, you know, the usual....copper, bus driver etc. But mime? What the hell is that all about?

"When I grow up, I want to look like a bender, ponce around public areas pretending to be stuck in a glass box and not say a frickin' dickie bird. Ever. Oh yeah, that's the life alright. Where do I sign up?"

Wouldn't it be the craic to go to a mime convention (they exist - how sad is that?) dressed as a mime and, instead of keeping schtum as mimes do, start talking to people? These black-and-white minstrel-looking weirdos take their "art" very seriously, so if some gobshite turns up and starts doing it all "wrong", they'd freak out. It'd be like throwing a pork chop into a mosque.

Then it struck me. Another way to freak out the Orange gobshites. You know the way mimes follow people and poke fun at them and when the unsuspecting victim turns around, they immediately stop and pretend they're not doing anything? Do that!

Instead of rioting, dress up as mimes and follow the ponces on their march. The ultimate pisstake!! Let's face it, if some of the pasty-faced "bretheren" wore a stripey shirt, it'd be hard to tell them apart from a mime anyway - what with their bowler hats and silly grins. So next time you're on O'Connell St. and the eejits decide to march, follow them and mimic them. And pretend you're in a glass box occasionally.
(Don't forget the pointing and laughing)

Orangemen and mimes. They take to the streets with the deliberate intention of looking gay. Why would ye bother?

Micro Knackers - What Next?

2006-03-07T16:01:00.000-08:00

I have the flu. Leah has just come out of the viral frying pan and into another one except this one is hotter than the last one. My kids have just recovered (I hope) from the winter vomiting bug.

Viruses, eh? What'll they think of next? The government are trying to kill us. It's as simple as that. I believe in providing asylum for those desperately in need, but when it gets to the stage that there are thousands of different strains of thousands of different types of virus driving around in 1985 Mazda 323's with oil leaks, then it's time to rethink. (Hey Mungo, Bertie gave you 3 grand to spend on a car - what did you do with the other €2,995 after you bought that pile of shite?)

So, I have come to the conclusion. Viruses are knackers. Not necessarily Irish knackers either. But knackers nonetheless. Micro-knackers. And there MUST be something that can be done to get rid of knackers of every shape and size.

But don't look to the government to help out there. I mean, look at what happened last time things got a bit overcrowded. You can just imagine 17th-century Bertie and 17th-century McDowell having a talk:

M: Taoiseach, things are getting out of hand here. Our prisons are getting very full of cream crackers.
B: Right you are, Mick. What'll we do about it?
M: Let's just feck them off to some other country. A barren land.
B: Genius idea! Let's do just that!

Did they send them off to Antartica? No.
Did they send them to the Arctic? Fook no.

"Off to Australia with you. Year-round sunshine, palm trees and miles of sandy beaches for the lads. And pretend you hate it. You're supposed to be prisoners, remember?"

Cock-knockers.

Cramp-ache Tuesday

2006-03-06T12:07:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday was Pancake Tuesday as we all know. And I made pancakes. And they sucked. The following day was Ash Wednesday and I made some ash. That was quite nice. A bit burnt maybe, but nice. OK, stop talking poop, you fool. No but seriously - I made up for otherwise disasterous pancreas-cakes on Wednesday and again a couple of days betwixt then and now. And it's official - I'm frickin' SICK of eating batter.

For those not in the know, the whole idea behind pancake Tuesday was to get rid of your excess foodstuffs (in the days of yore, flour, butter, eggs and milk were the essential basics) in preparation for several days of fasting.

OK, I get it. You get rid of all of the stuff that, let's face it, isn't so good for you in preparation of 40 or so days of drinking water. (If you're like this spacker, you're already a shoe ahead. Or should that be, "..you're already a shithead"?)

Anyway, here's my recipe for the modern day pancake based on modern day vices.

Half a pint of milk (naturally)
4oz of flour (where would ye be without the basics?)
2 eggs (yes, I said 2 - in fact, crepes have 3 eggs for this amount of milk & flour)
20 Marlborough
1 Pint of Guinness
2 pages (centrespread) of Hustler magazine, shredded

Combine the milk, flour and eggs in a mixing bowl. Sift the tobacco from the fags and add to the mix. Gradually stir in the pint of Guinness and sprinkle with Hustler shreddings. Fry in a hot pan and serve garnished with the remaining fag-ends.

Bon Apetit!

Twisted Firestarter

2006-03-01T03:15:00.000-08:00

Have YOU got travellers burning rubbish near your house?
Do you resent scruffy scroungers warming their mangy mitts on a fire while they sit about and discuss the merits of tax evasion?

There are several ways to deal with this problem and this one ranks pretty high on the evil scale. A trap. This could be used in warfare too. You set a campfire, unlit, complete with nice rocks surrounding it for authenticity. When your target comes along of a cold evening, he sees the fire and thinks to himself "ooooh, that saves me having to hunt for tinder/rob a bag of solid fuel from Statoil" and sets about lighting the ready-made fire.

He sits down as the fire begins to warm the cockles of his (miserable scrounging state-robbing) heart.

And then..... KA-FRICKIN-BOOM! He blows his maggoty ass to kingdom come!

How is this done? Well, some evil genius has dug a hole, planted a plastic container of petrol (20 litres should do it) in the ground, covered it lightly with soil and then built the campfire on top of it. Only after the first few minutes does it get hot enough to burn down and melt the plastic buried underneath for an outstanding Guy Fawkes-style display.

(Don't try this at home)

(And the pic isn't real, it's a movie prop, so any of you Jessies out there can simmer down)

You've Been Tangoed!

2006-02-26T15:24:00.000-08:00

OK, so the violence in Dublin city over the weekend was disgraceful. I agree. Having said that, if I was there and someone handed me a missile to "trun", it would have been duly "trunned".

Many would say that the nationalists are to blame, but if you ask me (and even if you don't), the parties who should accept most of the blame are:

The Irish government for allowing this nonsense march pile of shite to happen in the first place
The Orange feckin' Laurel and Hardy-looking arseholes with their provocative carrying on.

I agree with tradition as much as the next fellah, but when it comes to using your tradition to rile and provoke the opposition, well you have to suffer the consequences - and that sentiment goes out to Laurel, Hardy and Bertie. There's NO need for Orangemen to march down O'Connell St. and there was NO need for the Irish Governement to allow it.

I think a great way for Republicans and Nationalists to freak out the Laurelandhardyites would be to go to all their marches. With a load of tinnies. And laugh. And drink. Point and laugh and drink. No violence, just lots of pointing and laughing. And drinking. You know what they say about a job interview? If you're nervous, just imagine the interviewer in the nip. Well, the reps and nats should employ a similar tactic, but just imagine the Orange twats in tutus. Point and laugh, lads. Point and laugh. And drink.

Rant over.

(Yis faggots)

Ballybrack 3 - Preston-North-End 0

2006-02-24T13:43:00.000-08:00

Have ye heard this nonsense about the "Ballybrack 3"? Feckin' eejits. 3 brickies got turfed in jail for contempt of court after picketing at a building site because they claim that the contractors had said that they wouldn't employ punters from the local area or trade union members. In court, they told the judge that the'd be back picketing again the next day despite trade union (arseholes) bosses telling them not to be at that shite.

I have to say, I fully support any union. Any Union lock that keeps Socialist cockmonkeys out of me gaff, that is.

I had a conversation with my 3 year old daughter today which reminded me very much of the trade union attitude. It went something like this:

Me: Eat your sandwich
Katie: No!
Me: But it's a lovely sandwich. You should really eat it.
Katie: NO! I don't want it!
Me: OK then. I'll have it
Katie: NO!! You're not having it.
Me: Well then you have to eat it.
Katie: What do we want? Moremoneyforlesswork. When do we want it? NOW!

(OK, so maybe the last bit wasn't entirely accurate, but you get the idea.)

So, I say this to banner waving, circular-path-walking, wasters:
You want a strike? I'll give ye a strike. *WHACK*
You want to picket? How about I knock yer pea-sized brain out of your ceann and you can picket off the floor?
You want a tea-break every 45 minutes? I hope the tea scalds the shaggin' mouth off ye.

Coming up in next week's episode: Should prisoners live in their own faeces? Damn diggly doo-doo sure they should. Remember the old saying - Don't do the crime if you can't co-habitate with your own bum-product.

Rappa'

2006-02-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

Isn't it oddly amusing the way the tracksuit community pronounce various words? And it's not just a dialect thing. A dialect thing usually occurs with vowels like the northern words and southern translations below:

Paind - Pound
Ait - Out
Tain - Town
Iain Paisley - Shitbox

But with our vertical cap-wearing comrades, it's not only the vowels that get a bruising, but quite often, consonants get their heads kicked in, their limp bodies dragged into a piss-stinking lift in a deserted tower block while a rabid dog does his doo-doo all over their faces. Classic examples below:

Agen - Against
Sposebly - Supposedly
Bidet-ah - Potato
Rappa' - Retarded

(Any more suggestions are welcome.)

Ah, the oul' knackers- ye gotta love 'em.

Vigil Auntie

2006-02-21T13:31:00.000-08:00

Today wasn't very much of a blogtacular day. That is, until evening arrived. Last night, some local scrotes built a hut out of "borrowed" scaffolding and shuttering ply and lit a large fire in the development land across from the house and, being a bit of a pyro in my youth (and I have the burns to prove it), I decided to turn a blind eye. Today, however, I changed my mind. Nice people have bought our house and I thought that it would be just typical if they arrived and Scrotey McScrote and his merry band of....erm...scrotes had lit another fire and made the place look like the back of Ballymun on a good day.

So, having phoned the chocolate fireguard of a foreman to no avail, I took it upon myself to hop over the fence, (who am I kidding? It's 6ft with spikes on it - I wheezed and clambered up a nearby wall to gain access) I proceeded to tear the house down, so to speak. I bashed away in the rain and hail with a 4ft piece of scaffolding plank and tore down the little pigs house like a veritable big bad wolf.

I decided that, for exercise, I would take each of about 20 pieces of scaffolding the 100 yards back to its rightful owners, the builders. I'll tell ye what, pick up a piece of scaffolding - it's not heavy. Make ten 100 yard trips carrying 2 pieces at a time - it's heavy. I decided gloves would be a good idea. My hands were rapidly heading toward cobalt.

Anyway, I wheezed over the wall and back again with gloves, but this time, there were a couple of buckos standing there examining my work. Like rabbits in the headlights they were. 16-year-old rabbits in tracksuits. I had a few choices here, so I think I took the best option. I slowly pulled up my hood, put on the Charles-Manson-style oilproof gloves and started running toward them. Saying nothing, just staring them straight in the eye and running (not legging it) toward them. Did they shit themselves? Enough to drop a flick-knife and run like their scabby lives depended on it. And I just kept jogging toward them, saying nothing and staring.

Funnily enough, they didn't come back and the new purchasers of my house executed their visit without the glow of a bonfire reflecting off their new house.

Foley: 1
Shitballs: 0

White men can't jump....

2006-02-20T03:20:00.000-08:00

....and they sure can't feckin' dance. They look ridiculous on a basketball court and quite often even seem out of place in a boxing ring. Did I mention that they look absolutely ludocris wearing gold chains and baseball caps? Well I just did, but let's not get on to the subject of Chavs or I'll really start to rant.

No, I'm just giving the white man a bit of a slap in the chops as an interlude to today's vociferation: Black People - For The Love Of All That Is Holy, Don't Drive

Seriously though, I'm not being racist (I once heard someone begin a sentence like that and end it with "but I hate ni99ers") but our African friends, who are very welcome in our fair green land, have an atrocious standard of driving.

OK, we all have to learn and we all have to start somewhere, but I think someone should point out to our friends that the place to start is on the beach or somewhere equally vast with a qualified driving instructor. "Lessons? €20 per hour? Sure why would I pay that? I can bung me kids into the car (Nissan Sunny) and teach myself. On main roads."

Ever see a black man behind the wheel of a Formula One car? Q,E and furthermore D

PRIMERA!

2006-02-17T05:49:00.000-08:00

Fatima Mentions

This is the first post in my new blog and will probably set the scene for pretty much every subsequent post. When I get a strange notion in my head, it sits there and festers and rots and starts to smell until the next bizarre notion comes along to replace it.

So, to spring clean my noggin on a semi-regular basis, I'm going to empty the sludge from my grey matter (not my undercrackers) right here.

And my starter for ten is: Knacker's Names.

There are several words in the English language that, if pronounced like a two-bit slapper from Fatima Mansions, could actually pass off as a name for the first child they had when they were (supposed to be) in third year in school. So, I challenge you to say some of the following out loud in your best skanger accent and imagine that you're calling your manky offspring in for their "dinnor"

Primera!
Almera!
Lasagne!
Vendetta!
Lambretta!
Dorito!

There's loads of them out there - suggestions welcome.