Government cancels grand stretch in evening

In a stark warning that the crisis is not yet over, Junior minister for weather, Tarquin Clynch (FG), has announced that the stretch in the evening will not be declared grand.

The government has decided that for the moment, we will be having a decent stretch in the evening, said Mr Clynch (26). Perhaps it might be possible after the election to have a great stretch in the evening, but that will only be after consultation with our European partners.

When asked if the stretch in the evenings would ever be restored to grand, Mr Clynch was non-committal.

That depends on circumstances, on developments on also on how things develop, he said. Let me be unambiguous about this. If the grand stretch in the evening is ever restored, it will be thanks to the hard decisions taken by this government. The Irish people have endured many years of fairly good stretches in the evening, half-decent stretches in the evening and lately great stretches in the evening.

The Irish people have put in the hard work, and this government is determined, if re-elected, to give them back their grand stretch in the evening, thank God.  After the election.

A spokesman for the Labour Party stated that a grand stretch in the evening is something the Irish worker fought long and hard for and that it won’t be relinquished easily. When asked if Labour would defend the grand stretch in the evening in a future coalition, the spokesman conceded that Ireland might have to go through a brief period of good stretches in the evening but that concessions would be hammered out guaranteeing the Irish people grand bright mornings, thank God.

SInn Féin, in a terse press release, condemned imperialist forces for  depriving the ordinary people of grand stretches in the evening. Let me be absolutely clear. Was it for a mediocre stretch in the evening that Pearse gave his life? said a volunteer outside the GPO. Elect us and we’ll give you grand stretches in the evening all year round. All year round. Let someone try to stop us.

Meanwhile, the Green Party explained that grand stretches in the evening are all very well but what we really need are smart broadband bicycles and very nice architect-designed window boxes.


Humour Stupidity

Denis O’Brien threatens to sue Waterford Whispers

This is the letter sent to Waterford Whispers by a law firm purporting to represent Denis O’Brien.  Personally, I think it’s a hoax, since the letter is obviously signed by a six-year-old, but maybe it’s real.  Who knows?  Maybe six-year-olds qualify for JobBridge these days.

Anyway, Denis doesn’t like being laughed at, it seems.

What kind of sad, vulnerable little man would feel threatened by a satirical website? Not exactly a Master of the Universe, that’s for sure.  Even a pirate of the Caribbean would dismiss this kind of thing with a Haar and an Aaar, but not The Denis.

You will absolutely not the laughing making at the Supreme Leader!  Not Waterford Whispers and not our national parliament.

A boy named Sue, indeed.


Denis O Brien Waterford Whispers



Humour Our lives

Chicken Evolution

As we enjoyed our delicious minced pork in spicy barbecue sauce, the conversation turned to eating habits.

We eat too much meat, said somebody.

You can never eat too much meat, I replied.  If God didn’t want us to eat meat, why would he give us canine teeth?

Why would he have made chickens in the shape of little round balls of delicious meat? asked Bullet.   Little round balls of meat that are really easy to catch.

foghorn leghorn

Why would he have made Japanese oven-ready turkeys for Christmas? asked someone else.


You know.  The turkeys that kneel in front of the cooker, disembowel themselves, slit their own throats and jump into the oven.

What’s the next stage of evolutions for chickens? asked somebody.  Breadcrumbed?

Say what you like, said Bullet, but it’s a pretty successful way to protect the species.

Getting eaten is a survival technique? 

Of course.  Do you really think the world would be full of chickens if they were inedible? It’s an interesting evolutionary strategy.  Evolve into a delicious food and the survival of your species is guaranteed.

Jesus, said someone, if they ever evolve into drugs the planet will be knee-deep in chickens. Planet of the Chickens.



comedy Humour

Ex-model turned artist who danced with Mick Jagger faces eviction

Ex-model turned artist who danced with Mick Jagger faces eviction.

I swear to you I did not make up that headline.  It’s taken from a piece in the Sunday Independent about Jennifer Fitzgerald,  who faces eviction from a house in Dalkey on which €1.8 million is owed, with nothing having been paid off the mortgage since 2010.

irish independent niamh horan jennifer fitzgerald

Ms Fitzgerald’s ex-husband signed an agreement with the bank consenting to repossession, but Jennifer Fitzgerald denied under oath that she had consented to the raising of loans on the property.  The judge said that Ms Fitzgerald’s evidence was untrue.  Not only had she consented, but she had done so by way of  documents signed in the presence of a lawyer witness.

Contrary to Jennifer’s  claim that she had been forced to sign the documents under duress, the judge, Jacqueline Linnane, stated plainly that  she did not believe the sworn testimony.

That’s the background, but in many ways it’s not the story.  For me, the real story was an article in the Sunday Independent by Niamh Horan.

I’d never heard of Niamh Horan before, possibly because she’s not that widely known outside the Indo, but I thought the article was a masterpiece of comic genius.  I thought it was wickedly funny, a beautifully-judged, sardonic, devastatingly dead-pan  satire.  After all, Barbara Cartland is dead, and who else could come up with lines like these, apart from a comic genius of parody?

Her steel-blue eyes are a striking reminder of the girl who started to make waves on the international modelling scene at the age of 18.

I won The Look of the Year, I represented Ireland in Supermodel of the World, I did very well.

And hilariously,

Her tales of the night she danced with Mick Jagger while the crowd cleared the floor are wildly at odds with the reality of her life today.

But most tragic of all was Jennifer’s experience of Social Welfare.

I was sitting there in my Henry White coat – I used to be their house model – saying: ‘I can’t believe this is happening to me.’

Well done, Niamh, I thought.  A new comedic genius on the block.

And so I said, in a tweet on the Twitter machine.

NIamh Horan comic genius

I thought that would be the end of it, but no.  Game to the end, Niamh played along with the joke and replied with this tweet.

NIamh Horan comic genius

In fairness, it takes a well-honed sense of comedy to carry on a joke that way.

I’m not usually given to making predictions, but I’ll predict this: if Niamh Horan is serious about her comedy, and if she works on her art, she has a long and illustrious career ahead of her.

Watch out Ricky Gervais.  There’s a new kid in town.




d’Arcy-Einbahnstrasse Gets a Pet

It was my friend, Darcy-Einbahnstrasse, in a solar topee.

Why are you wearing that pith helmet and why did you grow a huge handlebar moustache? I demanded.

I say Bock.  Don’t creep up on a chap, there’s a good fellow.

I didn’t creep up on you, and why are you talking like that?

Like what?

Like some bloody colonel from the East India Company.

Oh I say, Bock.  No need to be so hard on a chap.   I’m just back from the colonies, doncha know.  Ceylon, to be precise.

You mean Sri Lanka, surely?

Yes, I believe that’s what the local wallahs call it.  Anyway, I shall soon be supplying all Europe with tea, thanks to my meeting with this prince chap.  Hadhurmisalvidaradharmuslaiviatasuriya, his name was, if memory serves.

You bought ..?

That’s right.   All the tea in Ceylon.  The prince was damned pleased with the bargain.  He even gave me a present.

He did?

Yes.   A little lizard that changes colour and tells jokes.  Would you like to see it?  And with that, he whipped out a small reptile and placed it on the table where it stood on its hind legs.

I say, I say, I say, said the lizard.  My dog has no nose.

No nose?  said Darcy-Einbahnstrasse.   How does he smell?

Terrible!  said the lizard, bashing a tiny drum.

I’d heard of these creatures, though I’d never seen one.

Do you realise how rare these things are? I demanded of my friend.

Course I do, old boy, he chuckled.

But it’s a … it’s a …

Yes, grinned Darcy-Einbahnstrasse.  It’s a stand-up chameleon.




The Presley Story

Gonad gets arrested

The torture of TS Eliot





Reginald D Hunter at Dolans Warehouse

It would be very hard not to like Reginald D Hunter unless you had a heart of stone.  He’s an engaging mix of  old-fashioned courtesy, vicious, biting observation, well-read intelligence and down-dirty motherfuckin filth-talk.

What’s not to like?

Reginald D Hunter 001_2

Reg riffs on issues of race, of sex and of course, stupidity — the only eternal human characteristic.

He says the word nigger a lot, or at least, he threatens to, but on this side of the Pond, it somehow loses its potency and you wonder why.  Maybe it’s a combination of  things.  Perhaps it’s because that particular word didn’t gain traction in European countries, as it did in the United States, as a term of belittlement to black people.  Perhaps it’s because we have different trigger-words over here, for different classes of people.  After all, it’s not so long ago since Juden was such a word in some parts of our continent.  Who knows?

Even today, there are some in this sainted isle — I’ve heard them myself, and so have you — who speak of niggers and Jews with contempt but they’re few enough and we have equal contempt for their ignorance.

Reg doesn’t care about this, because he’s coming from a place where racism isn’t casual or random, as it is here.  Racism in his world isn’t the domain of the occasional bigot, but woven into the cloth of society.  He speaks of a place where a cop-cruiser passing by can petrify time in a black neighbourhood, where the women lock solid as they push their baby buggies and the basketball-boys freeze in mid-dunk, suspended in the terrified air in case those soldiers of the government-sponsored Cop Gang decide to make an example of someone, pour encourageur les autres.

We understand where he’s coming from with this, and as the evening goes on, it’s good to see that most of us also understand his stance on sexism, of the anti-man variety.

For generations, perhaps even centuries, we believed comedy was about some fool on a stage telling sexist jokes,  and in the end there was bound to be a backlash.  We got that with the hard-hitting observational stand-up of the 90s and Zeroes, but comedy is a hard thing, carrying within itself this personal tragedy — no matter how hard-hitting and radical, comedy always eventually becomes the status quo.  Even the radical cutting-edge comedy of the last twenty years is now the new orthodoxy in which men are exposed for the inadequate brutes they are.

Nope.  Reg is having none of this shit.  Reg tells how it is to be a man with all his faults, all his failings, weaknesses, foibles and peccadilloes.  He’s not pandering to all those comedians who traded on the anti-man meme over the last two or three decades.  I’m a man, Reg is saying.  I got my faults.  I fucked up.  You don’t like me being a man, that’s fine.  Just fuck off.

Every man in the audience loved his story of eavesdropping on the three 25-year-old girls.  

I turned him down.  Men love a challenge.

Excuse me?  Sorry to interrupt, but where did you get that information from? 

Where indeed?  Possibly from the same fool who assured all women that men never talk about their feelings when they get together.

And so say all of us, except Reg makes it funny, because Reginald D Hunter is one funny motherfucker, who  keeps his audience engaged with a stream-of-consciousness monologue that swings between the ridiculous, the scatological and the profoundly wise.

I had the pleasure of an afternoon in his company and I have to tell you, this fellow is an impressive individual.  The conversation ranges back and forth, touching on many of the things that emerge later as comedy.

Bin Laden.  How did Obama kill him?  Did he catch him climbing through the White House window?

Rednecks and crackers.  The difference between them.

Reginald D. Hunter is one of the cleverest, funniest guys you’ll hear on the circuit.  Go and enjoy him before you can’t afford the tickets.

Reginald’s father is the permanent, unvarying reference-point for all his stories, the old guy who grounds his ideas in one or two or three nuggets of logic.  For example, when Reg complains that Obama has done nothing for anyone despite all his campaign promises, the 94-year-old guy cuts right through the bullshit by asking one simple question.  Who wants to get shot in the head?

We all shiver and move on.


Stupid Jokes

I love stupid jokes. I just love them and yes, I am a child.  What do you want to do about it?  I’m childish, I’m silly and I love silly jokes.  I tell these jokes even when I know everyone has heard them already and then I fall down slapping my thigh and crying.  I am a child but there you go.  Sorry.


A man walks into his doctor’s surgery with a strawberry growing out of his head.

The doctor says, I’ll give you some cream for that.


A man walks into his doctor’s surgery with a carrot stuck in his ear and a parsnip up his nose.

The doctor says, You’re not eating properly.


A man goes to his doctor and says, Sometimes, I think I’m a wigwam and sometimes I think I’m a marquee.

The doctor says, You’re two tents.


A warhorse walks into a bar.

The bartender says Why the long film?



I know.  I know.  I’m a child but what the hell.  We all love this shit, so let’s find out what your favourite is.  Silly jokes anyone?



Favourites Humour Music

Great Rock Band Origins #23

As you know, I love a good loud rock band, and I’m always fascinated to find out how they started on the road to greatness.

One of my all-time favourite outfits grew up in abject poverty, living on the banks of a mighty river.

They were so poor that they lived in crude dwellings woven from plants growing by the river-bank and they were so cold that they kept warm by playing home-made guitars fashioned out of old wooden boxes that floated past them in the flood waters.

One day, they said to themselves, What’s the point of living here with no money, in a makeshift home fashioned out of watery plants with no heating?  Let’s form a band and dominate the rock universe!

And that was the start of the Reed-Hut Chilly Paupers.

Favourites Humour

The Road to Manila

Once, in December 1944, Bing Crosby returned from a trip to the Philippines where he was entertaining the US troops.  At the airport, he bumped into Bob Hope.

How’re you doin’ buddy? Hope inquired, cheerfully.

Aaaarrrggghhhh!! said Crosby.  I’m in agony.  Aaarrrggghhhh!

Good God, man, said Hope, aghast.  What’s wrong with you?

I caught the pox in a Manila whorehouse.  Aaaarrrggghhhh!!

You did what?


What sort of pox?

Over there, they got all sorts.  Blue gonorrhea.  Purple chlamydia.  Aaaarrggghhh!!  Yellow crab lice.

Really, said Hope.  And what kind did you catch?

Aaaarrrggghhhh!! said Crosby before composing himself.  Squaring his shoulders, he looked Hope straight in the eye and crooned, I’m screaming with a white syphilis.




Favourites Humour

Kitten Found Inside Nuclear Reactor

Workers in Britain’s biggest power station, Fletherington-on-the-Flange, could barely suppress a manly tear today as they told the story of finding a newborn kitten hiding among the cooling rods, just as they were about to set a giant nuclear reactor in motion.

Neutrino the Kitten

It’s like a miracle, said Les Metcalfe, general foreman in charge of the project.  We were about to hit the start button, when one of the lads heard sound of a kitten crying, so we cancelled the whole job there and then.  It cost millions, but you have to get your priorities right.  A kitten’s life was at stake.

So where did the little stowaway come from?

He must have come in with a consignment of cooling rods from Mexico.  It’s a miracle he survived the journey.

When they opened the giant reactor, workers found little Neutrino, barely alive, but they nursed him back to health using an eye-dropper.  Sadly, his little brothers, Muon and Quark, didn’t make it.

It was touch and go, Metcalfe explained, but eventually he began to rally and now he’s in fine fettle, killing five or six songbirds every day.

But not everyone agrees with the workers’ decision to shut down the reactor at a cost of millions and preventing the opening of a new children’s hospital in Fletherington.  Local councillor Eric Braithwaite is trenchant in his criticism.  What were they thinking? he demands.

Metcalfe is unmoved.  I know the children’s hospital needed power, but what were we supposed to do?  This was a kitten in trouble.

Asked to comment, the Chief Executive of East Britain PowergridCorp remarked He’s so cute.