Freudian Slip.

Doctor Tim and Willow seemed to hit it off after that,we
could never fathom what the doctor got out of it but
Willow was Quite pleased to drink with the only man
in the bar who didn't consider him a wanker.Tim now
joined us most afternoons before catching the dart to
Greystones.He was a most affable and charming man,
with a wide range of experiences to call upon,although
he had the uncanny knack of turning the conversation
to rugby.
On Monday,having tasted his pint and sipped his
Paddy,Tim smiled to himself and said,

"I made a Freudian slip over the Weekend,when I
was in the States."

"A wha'?",said his new friend.

"A Freudian slip.Its when you mean to say one thing,
but something else comes out."

"I see.",lied Willow.

"Yes,you see I was going on the train to Picksville and
the young lady selling the tickets had the most
enormous breasts.Instead of asking for two tickets
to Picksville,what I asked for was two pickets to
Titsville."

"Yes",we all laughed.
Yesterday,Willow informed us,

"I had one of those Freudian slips myself today."

"Really."

"Fuckin' sure.What I meant to say was,pass the
marmalade dear,but what came out was;
You horrible fat cow,you've ruined my life.

So Whats Been Happening ?

Ah,there you are.I must have left the keys in the blog
'cause nothing's as I left it,but theres no scratches or
dents so no harm done,I suppose.These Joy-bloggers
are a real nuisance,mark my words,somebody is
going to be badly insulted by a joy-blogger before
the government acts.That they come from broken
homes or illiterate families is no excuse for such
anti-social behaviour as there is plenty of help out
there should they chose to look.I would like to
apologise here and now for any insult,real or
unintentional,made by a third party using my
blog as I should have insulted you personally.

I was going to give you my recipe for Spit-roast
stuffed Greyhound today but there is'nt enough
time.All I can do is give you bloggers a timely
reminder to make sure your blog is securely put
away when you're finished using it as there are
a lot of unsavoury characters about.

Sunday morning Going Up

Happy days are here again,the course of anti-biotics
is nearly gone.The next time you hear from me,I
will be outside half a bottle of the purest Vodka
in my cellar (Cupboard ) along with some amber
nectar,perhaps a modicum of cider and a geeful of
Hennessy,but thats all as I don't want to overdo it
at this stage and feel I should ease myself back in
to the land of the un-living.Slainte.

Don't you hate it when everyone agrees
with you ?

Raison D'Etre

During one of my brief periods of sleep last night I dreamed
that there was no George Bush or Dick Cheney.What a result
this would be for the States and the rest of the world,if only
it were true.Bush must be the most detested little bollocks
in the history of the planet.At least half of Americans can't
stand him,together with the Canadians and Mexico.He's
done no favours for South America,and I think we know
where the citizens of the old Soviet Bloc stand.The Chinese,
if they thought about the insignificant little cunt,wouldn't
piss on him if he was on fire,while he's angered quite a few
Africans in his time.Then we have the State of Islam,what
can you say ?

But what about the poor bloggers ?The B.B.C. reckon that
there are 19 million of us out here,with another 70,000
coming on line every day,now thats some bullshit getting
spouted every week.I reckon at least half of which is
anti-Bush and that Bush is the very reason so many blogs
were instituted in the first place as you can't piss so many
people off without getting some kind of reaction.As most
bloggers are reactionaries,we'd be rightly fucked without
Bush and some evil cunt would have to invent the
preposterous little Poultice.

Happy Thankfuck Day

The nice lady doctor had warned me about it so it should have
come as no surprise to me that after three days without a
drink I have developed the side effect known as (gulp)
the Galloping Neo-cons.The symptoms are that my
eyes have been opened as never before,and so far,the
following truths have become apparent to me ;

(a) The twin towers were not attacked by a bunch of
cave-men who got lucky,but were destroyed by the
master criminals of al-Queda.

(b)Al-Queda was not a figment of the fertile mind of
George Bush who did not need a real Bogey-man to
frighten the American people and to prise more money
from Congress.

(c) The biggest threat to world peace,harmony and
prosperity is al-Queda,an organization richer,more
evil and more powerful than S.M.E.R.S.H.,S.P.E.C.T.R.E.,
the K.G.B. or the Klingons could ever hope to be.

(D)Saddam fully intended to conquer the world and
did have weapons of mass-destruction,we just didn't
find them,yet.

(e) Not all Muslims are evil but you can trust nobody in
the middle-east who is not Jewish or Christian.

(f)George Bush did not plan to bomb al-Jazeera.

(g) David Kelly was not murdered by M.I.5 /6 or any
other spooks.

(h) Barney is not evil and may well be the second
coming of our saviour.

The fidgets and shakes are back so I'll finish my
truths here for today but feel free to add your own
on this thankfuck day.

Jimmy with the big fuckin' head.

Last Sunday Jimbo was,as usual,moaning about the latest episode
in his son's life.By now we're all thoroughly sick of hearing about
him but there was nobody else to talk to as they were all watching
the match.It was all Jimmy with the big fuckin'head did this and
Jimmy with the big fuckin head said that and having heard the
story before ,ad nauseum,didn't bite,but the new barman did.
Obviously enthralled by Jimbo's monologue while pretending
to wipe the table he asked,

"why do you call your son Jimmy with the big fuckin head?"

"I have to start years ago when first I met my darling wife,
she was the sweetest and most innocent creature I had ever
set my eyes upon,with jet-black hair you could see your
reflection in."

"Yes but,"said the barman and I laughed to myself.

"Her eyes were dark pools of mystery in which I wanted to
drown and her neck would have graced any swan in the land."

"Yes but,"

"She had the type of breasts yer man would've painted on
the Mona Lisa if she was a nude painting,with the sort of
figure a porn queen would die for."

"Yes but,"

"Her legs went on forever,leading up to the nicest,sweetest,
tightest little cunt any man could ever imagine in his
wildest dreams,...........until along came Jimmy with
his big fuckin' head."

Calamity (Sort of )

Your host is feeling very sorry for himself today as I have
developed a large abscess on my cheek because a loose
tooth has become infected.This,painful as it is,is not the
main reason for my discomfiture and agitation,but the cure
for the cuntish abscess is.I went to the doctor yesterday to
see about reducing the size of my pumpkin-like features
and had to consult with a lady doctor with whom I had
never met.

Whatever the fuck information was on the computer about
me,I don't know,but as soon as she typed my name in ,her
eyes widened and she looked at me and back to the screen
several times,I could only describe the look as a kind of
morbid fascination but at least she didn't tut-tut.You'll
know,of course,whats coming next,as I did.

"You can't drink with the anti-biotics,if I prescribe them
for you.",she said and waited for my face to drop,she wasn't
disappointed.Having achieved the desired result,she continued

"You'll get a severe reaction,your head will swell up and you'll
get what we call Big Red Head syndrome."

I don't know if she was taking the piss or not so I've decided
not to chance it (too much )and to try and cut down for a week.
I have gone the odd day without drink,and nearly went two days
without drinking once.Last year I spent a week in hospital
after getting a new hip and found that Vodka washes Librium
down quite nicely,and is a great sleeping aid,along with sleeping
tablets,of course.

So far,so good,and I've hardly touched a drop today,but if you
should read about the assault rate increasing in the Dublin area
or if you hear that the authorities wish to interview an
aggresive 6ft 4in male with a massive red head,I'd be
grateful if you didn't contact Crimewatch.

Christy's Pringles

The powers that be have just informed me that this year
the Barney household will be having Christy's Pringles,at
least thats what I thought she said.After it was explained
to me,the one present giv and got,I still couldn't believe
my ears,I've never heard of anything so mean and
miserable in my life.Sez I,"have we turned into a fuckin'
Welsh family or what,or Jews or Scots,for fucks sake,
miserable cunts."To make things worse,like most evil,
horrible and mean things in the world today,the idea
comes from mother sour-tits herself,the Great Satan.
(Who else can I insult today while I'm at it ?)Out of all
the shite they send us,and lets face it,some people seem to
like Mc Donalds,and cow's lips and eyebrows have to go
somewhere,toxic cooking oil has to be used up,single
fathers need somewhere to waddle to at the weekends
with their obese offspring,out of all the things, they
could've kept Kris poxbottle Kringle and stuck it up
their septic satanic arses.Dirty evil miserable cunts.

I've never fallen for that oul shite that its better to
give than to receive,what a load of bollocks.It must
have been thought of by those same gobshites who
are waiting to inherit the earth,but even those soppy
cunts who believe that will only get the pleasure of
giving one present.Unless they joined several Kris
Kringle clubs,or whatever the fuck you call them,
and that would defeat the purpose anyway as he'd
still git as much as he giv.What a conundrum,We'll
need a so-fuckin'-doku expert to sort it out.

To make matters worse,we're supposed to give
and receive none too subtle hints about the expected
present.(Fuckin' singular )Now call me old-fashioned,
but I think Christmas shopping should be like sex,i.e.
exciting and spontanious,and should leave you
bolloxed when its over,financially or phsyically.
Imagine if sex was set to a timetable,"BE home at
7.45 dear,I'll have something warm for you to slip
into."Or,"we can't come to your party on Friday
as we ALWAYS have sex after the 9.30 news,
he'll be going down on me,won't you Frank."
See how long that relationship would last.

I'm not even a great lover of Christmas,it fills in
a few days while waiting for Leopardstown,the
real spirits of Christmas.I do like a few Christmas
songs,although I usually play them around June
just to annoy people,and am thoroughly sick of
them by 16th.Dec.But gazing into shop windows
at shit you can't afford and buying useless junk
that seemed like a good idea at the time is more
like my idea of giving presents.They're given
and received and forgotten in a few days,
except for that time I bought the mot a new
sewing-machine for which she's never
forgiven me.

Now that the decision has been made,and
there wasn't even a white paper for discussion,
not with me in any case,I shall have to go along
with it,but I'll still buy some crap that I'll like and
they probably won't,and Christmas day I'll
curse the Americans again,they should be shot
with balls of their own shite.

Its just occured to me that you don't have to
stay mad at the Americans for long as they're
always guaranteed to give you a new reason
to be pissed-off.

Death Support

George Best on life support

One final money making idea for Georgie's estate would
be to organize a lottery for people willing to pull the
switch on the useless fucker's life-support machine.Players
could pay ten or twenty pounds (I would happily pay fifty)
for the chance of being the priviliged one.The whole event
would be televised with commentary by Prince Charles
with analysis by Ron Atkinson and Pamela Anderson.
That useless wank-bean,Jamie Oliver could serve the
live audience a hearty breakfast of deep-fried
marinated liver and onions.I can smell the money
already.

A.B.U.

Roy Keane leaves Man. U.re

The knacker leaves the knackers

Lechyd Da

Half a lifetime ago I found myself working in Port Penrhyn,a small,bleak fishing port at the
entrance to the Menai Straits in North Wales.I found it to be most unfriendly and miserable,
not unlike it's inhabitants who were also dour and miserable.I've had no time for the sullen
bastards ever since and over the years have taken great pleasure out of any misfortune
to have fallen on their Soccer and Rugby teams,the jabbering Welsh-speaking cunts.My
reasons for being there were manyfold,but mainly because I was in an un-cooperative
mood with the local constabulary,and was unwilling to help them with their enquiries into
an unsolved arson case in which a "Listed" hotel was gutted.The Corporation had wanted
to preserve the hotel,a property developer took the opposite view,An "Italian Barbeque"
settled their dilemma and I fuckled off on the Mailboat.

All the sourness and dourness started to get me down so one day I approached a local in the
pub (even the pubs were miserable,closing all day on Sundays ),

"What is it with you Welsh people,I try to be friendly and all youse seem to do is ignore me
or worse still,turn your backs and jabber away in welsh."

Somewhat taken aback,he answered

"well you see,it's like this.North Wales is a Welsh-speaking area,is very old-fashioned and
we don't trust you English.As soon as you open your mouth we know you're one of THEM."

Ignorant of his unintended insult, he continued,

"What you want to do is learn a little of the language to impress the locals,they'll loosen
up a little then."

"You must be fuckin' joking."

"No no no,Boyo.(I swear he said this) Its not hard,for instance,Lechyd Da means Good Day."

"Yakkie Daw" I repeated.

"Close enough "says he."and Bori Da and Nos Da mean Good Morning and Good Night "

"Borrie Daw,Nos Daw,Yakkie Daw."I mimicked.

Full of resolve to try out my newfound linguistic skills ,I went out and headed back home
through the pissing rain and cold,in truth it was more like a mini-hurricane.Just to spite
me there wasn't a Welshman to be seen anywhere,the miserable cunts.After walking about
half a mile I came across a car broken down in a huge pool of water with the unfortunate
driver knee deep in water and half under the bonnet.If anything the poor fucker was even
wetter than me as the wind drove the sheets of rain directly at him.

Not being put off by a little thing like two foot of water,I waded out and tapped him on the
shoulder,"Yakkie Daw" I said proudly.The poor fucker got such a fright he banged his head
on the bonnet and dropped his tools in the water.He looked at me with disgust and temper
and in a venomous English accent spat,

"Fuck off,you Welsh bastard."

Cameo

Just one more thought from Cheltenham,a mere cameo in the great theatre of humanity.
It is neither clever or witty,not even very interesting,just a little sad really.I don't know
what to think but it remains on my mind nonetheless

Any mixture of men,money and gambling will invariably be accompanied by their sibling
vice of sex,usually in the form of prostitutes.I have no problem with prostitution,they
provide a service and are paid for it,winner all right,except for those unfortunate souls
who are forced into it and it then becomes a sordid,sleazy and abhorent degradation.
The working girls at our hotel, all well presented and easy on the eye, kept to their own
company until approached by a client,a deal struck,they'd head off upstairs and return
when finished.

One particular lady who looked no more like a prostitute than I,fitted the company of
racegoers she was in,like a glove.She wore the uniform one associates with female
racegoers,ie. tweed skirt,black turtle-neck and one of those padded jackets with no
arms in,and might have passed for a groom,an amateur jockey or an owner.That was
Friday and on Saturday I noticed her again with racegoers,whether the same ones or
different I couldn't say,but on Sunday morning she was on her own.

There was about twenty of us at the bar,mostly male,all packed up and checked out,
some sipping coffee, more sipping brandy,all in good cheer, exchanging jokes,form
and information.From the corner of my eye I couldn't help but notice her making
her way through the line of drinkers,eliciting no responce from any.When she
reached me,I too ignored her untill she rubbed my shoe with the toe of hers and I
glanced in her direction.With alcohol-laden breath she enquired if I wanted to do any
"business" and it was then I looked at her and saw the state the poor cratur was in.
Her hair ,in places,was matted in cum,while her black turtleneck,the same one, was
almost covered with sperm stains.Holy fuck,what some poor cunts have to do
for a shilling.

More D.t.s

Sorry about all that,that oul' pisswater English beer mustn't agree with me.Now where was I?Ah yes I was telling you about the naked bishop at the card school,no,I can't tell you that,were
we discussing the trainer's wife and the three jockeys re-enacting the melee in Fionavon's
Grand National,up in the bridal suite ?No,You'll have to wait for the book to be published after
my death for that one,no,it's coming back to me now,I was telling you about Matt lying in a pool
of blood

Only thing is,while there may have been blood in it,there was lots more besides.As I gaped at
him in horror,he let out an unmerciful,scuttery, wet fart and turned over,face down,into his own
vomit.Apparently,some time after I left him,Matt,the dirty bollocks, and his new Russian friends had switched to
Bloody Marys,and proceeded to drink the hotel's entire stock of both Vodka and tomato juice. I
couldn't wake him so I grabbed the bottom sheet and tossed the smelly fucker onto the floor and
heaved him onto his side.I didn't envy Steve coming home to that,with the stench of feet,farts,
Vodka and vomit,it could have been the last circle of Dante's Inferno.

Getting back to my own predicament,the duty manager was unable to open my room door
either,as there appeared to be,indeed was, a wardrobe pressed against it. With brute force and
ignorance we managed to open it enough for him to squeeze in,but only for a split second 'cause
he came out past me as if there was no door at all.I must have woken half the residents with the
laughing as there was the purse,bollock naked,head on the floor,hairy arse in the air,snoring his
head off enough to waken the dead.It turned out the miserable bollix,not trusting the hotel safe,
and unable to sleep for fear of being robbed by the English heathen,did fall asleep while trying
to hide his money under the carpet.


*Whodies ;Derogatory term for sales reps.,their only conversation on meeting with each other
being...........who d'y you do for?


Footnote ;Matt had to pay an excess laundry bill of 60 pounds,Sterling.

Delirium tremens

I just can't understand what went wrong,my unpatented cure-all never let me down before,until now that is.It works so well that I take it every morning,purely as a preventative
measure,you'll understand,without fail.Yes,a tumbler of Paddy and a few cans of cider and all's
right with the world,I'd recommend it to anyone.All I can think of is that I must have got a dodgy pint somewhere,come to think of it,that ninth pint on Saturday afternoon looked a bit flat.
Still,what can you do when you're allowed drink AND smoke in every establishment,would'nt it
be the height of ignorance not to.We all know the English beer is like piss,and their" shorts"
measures would'nt satisfy a gnat,which is why any normal drinker has to order "doubles",but I
still should'nt feel this bad.It can only have been a bad pint,or else some hussy dropped me a
"roofie" with a view to taking advantage of me.

Even if I could remember much about it,I can't talk about the weekend because as anyone
who has ever been on an outing knows,"what happens on tour stays on tour.",thems the rules.
Besides,certain people take an occasional interest in this site,despite stating a preference for
one Mr.G.B.and one particular brand of cigarettes.Its a sad day when one is relegated in ones
own family behind a bleedin' gorilla."Why can't YOU be more like that nice Mr. Bananas or the
gentle Dr. Maroon or the witty Mr.Major.",they say.I say,"a pox on you all,why be nice,gentle
or witty where vitriol,sarcasm and obnoxiousness will do ",so,on with the story.

We stayed at the Thistle Golden Valley,formally THE Golden Valley,scene of many an
extraordinary celebration,most notably in the eighties,when Galwayman Danny Heaslip,whose
horse "For Auction" having won the Champion Hurdle,promptly rang the manager to order
"A piano in the lounge and put two hundred bottles of Champagne on ice."Its gone down-hill
since and seems to cater mostly for Whodies* nowadays,but who are a bunch of Paddies to
complain.At about four o'clock on Saturday morning,I decided to go to bed early,having sobered
myself up in a card school.I was bunked-up with "the Purse" Sweeney,so called because of his
legendary meaness and frugality,and because of his use of a purse long before such use became
fashionable among certain European gentlemen.This was the purse's first ever trip abroad,but
he was determined not to miss it as he had been hearing all about last years craic for so long.

All the banging and kicking in the world elicited no response from my room,so I headed
down to reception before awakening the entire hotel.Three doors down the corridor was the room of two other members of our party,Matt and Steve.Steve had gone into town,and when I
last saw Matt,he was guzzling Vodka at the bar with a group of Russians,teaching them Irish
rebel songs while learning a few Russian ones,much to the annoyance of the other residents.

I should have known something was wrong when Matt's door was slightly ajar,but nothing
on this earth would have prepared me for the horror scene I was about to witness.I heard the
gurgling as my eyes fell on the prone figure of poor Matt,his pillow a mass of crimson,red
saliva/liquid bubbling out of his nose and mouth."Sweet holy mother of gee,they're after cutting
his throat and robbing him.",I thought to myself.A vaguely familiar sickly -sweet smell filled my
senses and I felt my knees start to buckle.



I'm really sorry to have to leave it here as my visibility is deteriorating,and while the
shaking is not manifest in the key-board,it is nontheless having a severe and adverse
effect on my typing finger.

Q & A

Q ; What do you call a semi-comatose,incoherent,gibbering imbecilic pauper ?


A ;Unfortunately,in my case,its husband.


The feckin' oul ' eejit thinks he's still a young lad,able to drink for four straight
days like he used to.Just before he lapsed into unconsciousness,he mumbled
something to the effect that he will be in touch with you if his eyesight returns.



Yours,in torment,

Mrs.Anti-Barney.

Holly and ............

It's that time of year again when thoughts naturally turn to Christmas trees and Holly,or to
be more precise,the robbing of them.Even as we speak,the location of likely trees and Holly
bushes have been noted,the better to be "collected" in the darkness of some early morn.We must be in for a hard Winter as the Holly bushes are laden with berries at the moment,but as
you know,a few frosty nights would change all this and berried Holly would become as scarce as
hens teeth.Each year me and the mot* collect all the old wreaths from the graveyards after
Christmas and store them untill nowish,where a few sprigs of fresh holly renders them very
saleable to the oul' wans in Moore Street**.Christmas trees are a different kettle of fish as their
bulk makes them harder to disguise when collecting and transporting them and we nearly came a cropper last year.

The "Jockey",for he used to be an apprentice jockey,had been doing the snags on that new
hotel out in west Dublin and had befriended the general manager of the hotel .This manager had
told the Jockey that he wanted a fantastic-looking Christmas tree for the centre of the lobby for
their first Christmas,no expence spared.No sooner had the manager uttered the magic words
than a price was agreed,a monkey***.Obviously the manager didn't know his onions as he'd
have got a whole fucking forest for a monkey,this is where I came in as the Jockey knew fuck-all
about trees,but knew a man who did.

As luck would have it,I had spotted the very tree during the previous Summer,at Brittas Bay,
while on the way to the beach.This was the best Christmas tree I,or anyone else had ever seen,
the centrefold of Christmas trees,the sort of tree that Chrismas tree perverts might pleasure
themselves over,you know the sort.It was about twentyfive feet high and picture perfect from
every angle,just what we wanted.The only ever-so-slight drawback being that it was growing
in the front garden of a large bungalow and obviously someone's pride and joy,still,Christmas was coming and a monkeys a monkey.

The deed itself took but a few seconds,however, the racket a chainsaw makes at four o'clock
in the morning has to be heard to be believed.Every single fucking light,inside and out flashed
on,dogs started howling and the front door burst open but we were scattering gravel by this
stage.I didn't know if he had got our number but I did know he would'nt follow us,due to the
lack of pressure in his tyres.We were heading out the Naas dual-carriageway,in a mild and
inoffensive manner,when a dirty big cunt of a squad-car pulls alongside and flags us in."holy
gee,"says the Jockey,"we're fucked". "Say nuthin.",I told him.

This big lummox of a guard jumps out of the drivers side of the car followed by the tree's previous owner from the other side,now wearing his full sergeant's uniform."Oh holy g......"
"shutthefuckup",I hissed.
"You've really done it this time,Barney,we have you at last,you stupid fucker.",crowed the piggie

"what are you scutterin' about"

"You know fuckin' well,yis cunts,yis are worse than the knackers,Yis stole me tree.Eighteen
fuckin years I've been growing it ,and youse dirty fucking lousers just took it in front of me eyes,
yis fuckin' bastards.Just wait till I get yis to the station."

Jockey whispered,"I've heard pigs can't swim and I've heard pigs might fly,but I'm fucked if I
ever saw a pig dancing before."It was true,the oul' bollocks of a sergeant was frothing at the
mouth,had steam coming out of his ears and was dancing up and down like a demented Zulu
with rage and temper.We both chuckled in spite of our predicament and ,of course,this made
him worse,even more animated.

"How do you know it's your tree",says I,"we bought it off the knackers yesterday,we're just
dropping it off."

"I can prove it with this."he said,producing a sheet of cardboard with a circley drawing on it.

"Its a template I drew from the stump youse cunts left behind."

"Oh holy g....."."Shutthefuckup."

He went to the back of the truck and tried the template every way possible,up and down and inside out but could'nt get it to match our tree.

"It's not it sergeant,it's not your tree,can't be."said the driver

"I can fuckin' see that,"he snarled,"yis hav'nt heard the last of this."as off they fucked.

I don't know if the piggies were more puzzled or the Jockey for none of them could have known
that I'd sawn another eighteen inches off the bottom of our tree for that very eventuality,and I
hope the oul' bollix is reading this now.


*mot ; Dublinese for wife or girlfriend

**Oul' wans in Moore St. ; Traditional traders,usually women,catering for Dublin's poorer
population.


***Monkey ; Racing parlance for five hundred pounds/euro/punts.




By the time you read this I'll have fuckled off to Cheltenham for the Weekend.I've always wanted to say this, so here goes,

I'm just stepping outside,I may be some time.

Children are like Farts.

Children are like farts,you can just about stand your own.Paying to raise your own children
is bad enough without having to shell out on someone else's little fuckers.If you must have children,one or both of you can stay the fuck home to look after them and don't expect the state
i.e.the tax payer,i.e.me to subsidise childminders if you work,or state funding if you stay home.
If both parents have to work to pay the mortgage then get a smaller house,if you can't afford a smaller house then move to Clare or Limerick,or some other backward and cheaper place.If you
still can't afford a house then rent an apartment or don't have children.The world does'nt need
any more kids,the place is overrun with them,Ireland does'nt need them for our future work-
force,it's far cheaper to import fully grown workers from Eastern Europe than to grow our own.
You don't raise a pig out the back garden in case you need sausages at the weekend or a piece
of Ham for Christmas,no,you buy them if and when you want them.

If you want to produce something,produce micro-chips or renewable energy,something that is scarce and needed ,anything in fact ,but children.If you insist on having babies,don't expect me to pay for them.You've made your bed,rolled in it,now fucking lie in it.You were'nt
subsidised,nor your parents so why the fuck should your off-spring be subsidised.84% of
households where both parents work favour a state payment for stay-at-home parents,what a
sur-fucking-prise,its like asking kids are they in favour of Christmas.Heres another shock,90%
of them think the state should provide tax relief to pay for childcare.Do they not think the
Government would claw it back some other way?,do they not think child-care costs would
rocket once tax relief was granted ?

If theres going to be grants,it should be for not having babies,Heres a thousand per annum
tax-free allowance,each,and here missus,five grand cash,tax-free,off to Holles St. with you to
get your womb hacked out,don't be late for work next week.Thats what I'd call family planning.

Taking the Piss

I don't hate women drivers,nor do I belong to that school of thought that compares
women drivers to dogs walking on their hind legs.I.e.its not how well or badly they do it,its
amazing they can do it at all.No,I don't hate women drivers,I hate all fuckin' drivers.Each and
every one of the bastards have no other purpose in life but to delay and irritate me.They come from miles away to cut me up,slow me down and block my gateway.I get road-rage
just thinking about making a journey.Some gobshite in my local suggested that as I am
inactive at the moment,I might consider trying my hand at taxi-driving,me who hates fuckin'
people and abhors fuckin' driving.On the other hand maybe they're the exact qualifications
required.

By a strange and cruel twist of irony,my sister.Jennie,has decided to start driving,not a
problem as such,except that I've become involved in the whole process.I'd had no intentions
of interfering untill I heard she was searching through "Buy & Sell " for a car.Now I know
what type of cunt sells stuff in this rag,having unloaded plenty of shite in it myself,and I
would'nt buy anything off me.To cut a long story short,I organized a grand little runner
for her and its been out in my driveway since.Jennie,being the honest,straight and decent
person that she is (she's the white sheep of the family ),taxed and insured the car and booked
herself a set of driving lessons,two Months ago.

Fair enough,sez you,ten one hour lessons.do everything right,bobs your uncle,but all the lessons have been in the instructors own dual-controlled car,not worth a bollix, sez I.So,
last Sunday,bright and early,I collected Jennie,to let her drive her own car,acclimatise,if you
will,and to give her some experience and confidence.Well,she was'nt too bad,no worse or
better than any other learner,but I'm fucked if I know what she's been taught for ten lessons,
it must have been knitting or the theory of evo-fuckin'-lution,but it certainly was'nt driving.
It transpired that she had never been in fourth gear,and when we pulled in to an empty
car-park to do some reversing,she'd never tried that either.What.Any semi-competent
half-witted imbecile of an instructor could train a monkey to drive in ten fuckin hours.As I
said,its not as if Jennie is any better or worse than any other learner,and all drivers are not the same ,but ten hours instruction without touching fourth gear or reverse is what I call
taking the piss.

Schadenfreude

One really is taken aback with the relish in which some Americans gleefully report

the ongoing riots in France.Commentators seem barely able to hide their smirks as they catalogue the 1400 burnt cars,2 Churches and 3 Schools destroyed on Monday night in the outskirts of Paris.To listen to the thick cunts you'd never think

it was anything to do with American foreign policy in the Middle East that stirred up the Muslims in the first place.I know these riots are about poverty and police

brutality and have little to do with the Middle East,but you can't go around pissing

off Muslims without reaping the whirlwind (or hurricane as the case may be).

Heres a Quote from some beut in the Riflemans Ass.

"You bastards made your bed and cuddled up to the Muslims,now you get to sleep in it.Don't bother calling us for help.We're busy bringing democracy and the rule of law to Iraq.Oh,and we hope you have enough fire extinguishers."

He's what we call "Some can of piss".What sort of arseholes are these people ?

I know most Americans won't subscribe to those comments as millions voted against the out of control,rogue government they are inflicted with,led by the

alcoholic,ex-drinker Bush and his co-conspirator,oul' "Go by the wall "Cheney.

Perhaps riots and public dissention may not seem like a bad option by the end of the present term.

On the slight off-chance that you did'nt know,Schadenfreude is the malicious

satisfaction in misfortunes of others.

Another Day at the Races

It's happened to all of us at some point,there you are enjoying a drink,in a mild and
inoffensive manner,when you are approached by the house "tapper".There is a tapper or bum
in every bar or pub that was ever opened and sometimes the tapper is also a "Character",thus
being well worth the tap for the entertainment he may provide.Tapping is a great tradition in
Ireland,and recent history shows that one of the great bums of our time,one C.J.Haughey,
went on to be leader of our great little fucking country.But I digress,and we'll come back to
that little bollocks at a later date.Sometimes you'd be caught on the hop and have to" donate"
a fiver,tenner or whatever,more often than not you'd tell him to fuck off,and off he'd fuck.
Occasionally the tapper being so notorious that as you know he'll catch you sometime,its far
easier to "lend" him a fiver early on,knowing you might as well flush it down the toilet,but at
least he can never ask you again,ever,thems the rules,pub etiquette if you like.

Yesterday we'd arranged to go to Leopardstown,myself,Harry the Gelding and his father-
in-law.Harry was so called because of his habit of losing,no matter what the occasion.Be it
horses, dogs or poker,whenever one was to ask of Harry's financials,the answer invariably
would be a simple "I lost me bollix."Harry has lost his bollix so many times they're going to
bury him at the National Stud when he expires.He is genuinely fond of Paddy,his mot's oul'
man,and they get on great together ,more like brothers,and have had many a session together.We collected Paddy and headed off,Harry shoved a Twenty into Jimmy's pocket
just in case,amid feeble protestations it must be said,for Paddy had been looking forward to
this outing for weeks and had been gathering his own acorns,so he was on the pigs back,
flush with money and brandy.

I was fairly inactive at the races partly because of the heavy going but mostly because
I wanted to keep my powder dry for Cheltenham next weekend.I did a little harm to my
gambling pocket while my drinking pocket was full,and as any regular racegoer will tell you,
ne'er the twain shall meet.Further post-race analyses showed Paddy to have won a few bob*
While Harry,strangely enough, lost his bollix.Never being the types to let little setbacks like
losing money interfere with good a day out,we headed back to Paddy's local for anesthetics.

There is nothing Paddy likes better than showing off his son-in law to the locals,as Harry
never fails to make a fuss of him and usually buys a round for the shop whenever he goes
there,even if he had'nt a pot to piss in at the time.Paddy had managed to flash his wad at the
counter and we were settled in to our second round of drinks (three family-size Hennessy's and three pints ) when the inevitable happened.Tom the tapper sleeveened up behind Paddy
and whispered in his ear.Well Paddy's eyes twinkled mischieviously,he winked at Harry and
whispered ,loudly enough for the whole pub to hear;
"Begod Tom,I usually keep a tenner for lending,"pausing to pat his top pocket,"but it's out
at the moment,and as soon as it comes back I'll let you have it".
Fuckin' deadly**,you want to see the face of the poor fucker as he slunk away,as he'd neither
been refused nor granted the tenner.I will certainly use that in the future,fuckin' deadly.**




* Few bob ;in racing parlance a few bob can be any amount from fifty cents to thousands of
euro/pounds/dollars,the exact amount is never elaborated upon by gentlemen,and never,ever in front of the women.


**Fuckin' deadly;great,super,excellent.Always used in the positive,eg.The concert was
fuckin'deadly.

Tally Ho

The hunting debate has started again this year and once again both sides are preparing to
drag their jaded arguments out in front of a largely disinterested public.As usual you have your wide-eyed fanatics entrenched on both sides of the debate,but by and large the general
public have no interest in it as it has little or no bearing on their daly lives.This is not true as it is one of our great traditions,and must be protected at all costs or before we know it,they'll be introducing hospital waiting lists and legalising bullying at school and work.Don't
put up with it,the hunting of politicians with journalists must be protected at all costs.

Only last week we were treated to the magnificent sight of a baying pack in full pursuit of
a dishonest and arrogant pensions secretary.The fact that Mr. Blunkett was most concerned
with adding to his own pension being the reason for the chase,which was concluded
sucessfully and satisfactorily for all concerned,except,of course,Mr. Blunkett.But at least his
career died with the knowledge that it died by throwing the pack off the scent of the real
culprit,Mr.Blair.

This pack are now,as we speak,in pursuit of a large infestation of polititians said to have
gone to ground in Argentina,where the notorious leader of a rogue state is said to be among
them."our tails are really up for this now."said one journalist as he sipped from his Brandy
glass in the cold crisp morning air,his breath exhaled like cigarette smoke in a scene from
Casablanca,his nostrils flaring like a racehorse on the gallops.

Not all packs and huntsmen behave in a fair and sporting way,as we know,and bring
discredit to all,good and bad alike.Two weeks ago we had the disgusting and distasteful
actions of a few vindictive and amateurish "Journalists"from the Sunday Independent
hunting down a fatally injured prey.Having mocked and ridiculed his death ,then proceeded
to try to trample over his home,mate and young in a most dicpicable and unsporting
manner.

All packs can only endeavor to reach the dizzy heights of the level set by the legendary
huntsmen of the 60s.Stories of their prowess are legion,and misty-eyed journalists tell their
children that its because of huntsmen like these,they became journalists in the first place.
The same children,eyes like saucers,would be told how the brave Woodward and Bernstein,
against all odds,hunted through the dark forest known only as Watergate,infested by lies
and cover-ups,to land the big one .Their names have gone down in the annals of history,
and its because of men like these that we cannot allow hunting to be abolished.Prohibition
would only drive it underground,leaving us with magazines like Private Eye and Phoenix to
get our kicks from.

There is no greater sight than that of a politician in full flight,as he zigzags cross country
trying to throw the scent off,followed by a pack of baying journos with their tails up and
bloodlust in their eyes.Besides,isn't it fucking great craic?
,

White Powder

Jack has done really well for himself,I thought,when we met yesterday at a funeral."You
must've found a mare's nest",I said,as we embraced."Tell you later"he said and winked.Jacks
father was a Greyhound trainer and Jack had discovered his father's "Medicine"cabinet at an
early age,so while the rest of us believed the fairy stories about fried banana skins and Aspros
dropped in Coca Cola getting you high,Jack had experienced the dubious pleasures of Speed,Coke and certain slimming tablets.In all fairness to him,he never injected himself with
anything as he reckoned that if God wanted him to have more holes,he'd have been born with them.

Because he was his own guinea-pig,and fond as he was of Cocktails,Jack quickly mastered
the effects of most Chemicals,from Beechams Powders to whatever the Olympic sprinters
were using and everything in between.One day,much to our amusement,he produced a bottle
containing a white powder which,he assured us,when sprinkled on a womans fanny,made it taste
of oranges.

When we had stopped laughing ,he explained that his problem was Marketing and how to turn his invention into money.He had been turned down by all the banks bar one,and even that
one rejected his idea at head office.His invention was doomed and his wonderful white powder
was lost to the world forever due to lack of finance.He left Dublin shortly after that and I'd seen
neither hair nor hide of him till yesterday.

After the funeral he invited me to lunch,as much,I suspected,to show off his spanking new
Beemer and new found wealth as anything,but fuck it,I thought,a man is entitled to show-off
the odd time,as long as he doesn't make a habit of it.Besides,I was itch'n to know how he got it,
or if he'd won the Lottery.We'd a great laugh over lunch,especially when I mentioned the
white powder,fannies and oranges.It was then that the subject of his wealth came up.

He explained that he'd realised that there was something basically wrong with his formula
having been turned down by so many banks.After all,all those financiers and money men
could'nt all be wrong so he went back to the drawing board.What Jack eventually came up
with was a black powder,and what you do is,you sprinkle it on an orange..................................

Belle Du Jour.

Many moons ago,before the advent of DVDs,
Channel 4 and Satellite T.V.,the only chance we had of seeing any "rumpy pumpy" was by watching sub-titled French films.If one persevered long enough
one was usually rewarded with a glimpse of skin,all done in the best possible taste,of course,and purely in the name of art.Occasionally you could go to the
trouble of watching a whole black and white foreign film and end up seeing
nothing,thats the chance you took.
The following coversation took place a while ago between two Corpo men,i.e.
Corporation workers,as we waited for a premises to open.The two were standing
directly in front of me,and this,I swear ,on the life of my Desk-top,is the way it went;

"were you watching the box last night"

"Yea,fuck all on,as usual"

"Did you see that oul' French fillum,fuck all in it."

"Fuck all,nuthin,I watched it all."

"Would'nt ya wonder why they keep makin' them oul' foreign fillums,shure they
know nobody understands them."

Dark Side of the Moon.

I usually listen to one of those internet radio stations (live 365) as I amuse myself spouting off
about whatever takes my fancy.It plays 60s/70s music and the reception is excellent,and fills in
the time untill I have to go and study the Form and watch the Racing.(R.I.P. Matey).

The only problem I have with this is that every 3rd. or4th.record is a Pink Floyd although there is plenty of 'Stones and Zepps on it .I myself was a Stones/Small Faces/Who, man,but
never a Beatles man,you could'nt like both,was'nt allowed.What fun and frolics we had kicking
the shite out of Beatle-cunts at the local Marquee as the Showband belted out Hucklebuck or
some other crap.

Anyway,Pink Floyd,I never got them,what a load of old bollocks.I believed then and believe
even more now that most of their stuff to be just a load of self-indulgent oul' tripe.There,I've
said it,it may be a Mortal sin,but its off my chest now.May the Gods forgive me.

Game Pie

Ah ,1st of November ,the first day of the new Pheasant shooting season.I really do'nt know why I never go out shooting any more because I always found it to be very enjoyable and great craic.Its certainly not that I object to it or to those who do it,and I hav'nt gone off eating Pheasant,Mallard,Venison or any other
similar meats,as a matter of fact I anticipate with relish the forthcoming Game
season every year.Pheasants may be very pretty looking birds but are no less stupid
than any other,and I can feel no sympathy or pity for those that are brought down,
especially as they are bred and reared specifically to be shot.Not a native bird,
Pheasants originate in China and would be extinct in this country were it not for the
gun clubs who rear them.

I still have my guns though and keep them in the hope of catching a few Cream-crackers breaking in to my house,in which case I will blow their heads off with my
warning shots and any survivors I will shoot in the legs,from the waist up,cunts.
Other than them and Bluebottles I have no wish to kill any creature so much so that
I hate even stepping on insects.

Maybe its because the craic went out of it after I joined a gun club as I liked
poaching and probably still am a poacher at heart,its much more fun sneaking around an estate or farm and having to run like fuck having had a shot.Also the
majority of gun club members are insignificant little arseholes who strut around
waving their guns in loco penis.My ex-employer,a proper little wart if ever there was one ,is a case in point.I'd really hate to be the bird shot by that snivelling,squeaky-voiced,miserable little excuse of a cunt,not that it makes much difference to the bird,
but you know what I mean.Now hes the type I was talking about the other day,the
type of cunt that buys fireworks.

If this was an American blog,I would have a fancy clicky buttony poppy uppy
type section where I might share my wonderful recipes for game pie and roast
Pheasant with Brandy,Cream and Celery,but I do'nt know how to work it,and
anyway I'm far too selfish to share my recipes with you lot.