Couple Refuse to Return to “Haunted” Council House

This story was doing the rounds about six months ago, but now it’s back in the news.  A Cork couple, Laura Burke and Richie Hewitt, moved out of their council house in the Hollywood Estate along with their four-year-old son Kyle because they claimed it was haunted.

According to Laura and Richie, little Kyle was thrown out of his bed by an evil spirit, keys went missing and the cooker kept switching itself on.  In scenes remarkably similar to things you might notice on the average rented DVD horror movie, cushions flipped over on the sofa and glasses flew off the counter.   Cupboard doors opened and closed with the contents of the cupboards flying all over the kitchen.  Instant mash powder and TV dinners everywhere, though there are no reports of former Taoisigh hiding in the cupboards.  Holy pictures were flung from the shelves.

Screams were heard in the dead of night, which I underestand is not an unusual thing in Hollywood Estate.

Things went from bad to worse.  They even called in Paul O Halloran, a Shamanic healer, which strikes me as a bit odd.  Why did a couple who had traditional holy pictures call in a Shaman?  Was he the only exorcist on call?

Anyway, moving quickly on, Paul the Shaman performed a ritual cleansing of the house but it made no difference.  Doors banging.  Drawers opening and closing.  Heads rotating.  Boils breaking out on the dog.  Mothers sucking cocks in Hell.  Portals to another universe.  Projectile vomiting. Lightning conductors falling off churches and impaling priests.

It was fucking awful.

It was awful, said Laura.

Awful, agreed, Richie.

Fucking awful, said little Kyle.

The family saw glowing orbs floating in the air, and the child saw eyes following him around the room.  Orbs, now.  Not globes or balls or bulbs.  Orbs.  It’s such a common word, isn’t it, on Sky TV ghost-buster programmes?  Wouldn’t it be a terrible thing if you allowed your 4-year-old to see things like that on telly as you sat up eating your quadruple pizza super-meal with extra Cola?  It might put ideas in the poor little tyke’s head.  Scary ideas.

Laura was adamant: I get the feeling something is evil.  I don’t believe it means us well.

Something evil, agreed Richie.

Fucking evil, said little Kyle.

They called in a priest, who tried to put holy water in the font, but couldn’t.  Holy plaster ducks went flying everywhere.  Holy pots and pans jumped off the cooker.  Get out, said the priest,  there’s evil in this house, before being cut in half by a sheet of glass.

A former tenant who returned to visit his old home at Laura’s request, reported feeling an unnatural coldness in the house.

It’s unnatural, he said.  Unnaturally cold, almost as if there were glowing orbs flying around, and an evil presence present.  He was subsequently pulled into a mattress by unseen hands and cut into small pieces.

Fucking small, said little Kyle.

Meanwhile, Laura and Richie denied that their demand for a new house had anything to do with the scumminess of the neighbourhood.  Dismissing suggestions that the lowlifes sitting on the garden wall were far more dangerous than any ghost, Laura said I know what I seen.  There was a cold, cold feeling about the place, and an evil presence. Even drinking holy water didn’t help.

Cork City Council have now issued a formal statement on the matter.  They can take a flying jump at themselves, said a spokesman.  The big knackers.

Big fucking knackers, said little Kyle.




Sinéad O’Connor’s Arse

Sinéad O’Connor reckons she has a fine arse.

The shaven headed former priest, or was that a bishop, is on a Sunday broadsheet today extolling the virtues of her derrière

Well actually, her piece was about the media intrusion into her recent marriage to Steve Cooney – but she did reference her arse on three occasions.

She didn’t mention exactly who the papers were. I’m assuming it wasn’t the Irish Times, Indo or Examiner.

That would leave the Sun, Mirror or Mail. I reckon t’was the Sun. After all, this is a paper that had a reporter impersonate a Sheikh to rumble ex England boss Sven Gormless Erikson – he’s straight out of central casting for Gollum in Lord of the Rings – for a front page exclusive.

The Red Tops will leave no stone unturned in their heroic quest to unearth their version of the truth.

But leaving all that aside, it was Sinéad’s claim that she has fantastic hindquarters that caught the eye of the nation on a day when Pool keeper Pepe Reina made an bollocks of it after flinging the ball into the back of his own net against the Arse at Anfield.

Meantime, in regards to Sinéad’s arse I had to seek advice from the boys in the Duck ‘N Drake on the subject.

One of the boys keeps a meticulous record of birds’ bottoms. He’s a keen and discreet admirer of the female posterior. He’s also a bit of a Reuben’s man in that he likes the big ones, as opposed to the bony ones that are all the rage these days.

This probably explains his risible opinion that Mary Harney’s hindmost, which can be measured in lines of longitude and latitude, is, when viewed in a certain light, of greater aesthetic value than Angelina Jolie’s arse. He nearly got barred for that one.

He even has special code words to alert the boys when a filly with an upwardly mobile chassis on her is passing. “Note d’arse”, is all he has to say to bring a conversation to an abrupt halt.

However, he wasn’t entirely sure about Sinead’s arse – formerly called Mother Bernadette Marie’s arse. She did possess a fine one, he admitted, back in the 90s – when she was also reported to be flirting with the idea of becoming a Rabbi. However, that was then he added. Sinéad a Rabbi? Nothing compares to Jew.

Sinead is not amused however, and today she let the offending scribes have it with both barrel’s, telling the female journalists in particular that they were jealous of her freedom, courage, talent and arse, adding that she was one of the finest artists and women born in this country.

“I think she’s gone mad Ted,” said Father Dougal.

Sinéad then went into the prerequisite rant about females scribes being victims of the patriarchal society, as personified by male editors, all of whom are, suffice to say, bastards.

Ah the auld patriarchal society. Aren’t us men demons for keeping the sisters down all the time?

Continuing with the same theme she then dragged up the past about her abusive mother. This raises the question. Are there any musicians/artists out there struggling with the legacy of a happy childhood? It can spell the death knell for your career.

? My father didn’t bate me
The brothers didn’t rape me
A contract has escaped me
Give some good old family angst ?

“Sorry son but that offer from EMI is off the table. Surely you must have an uncle that gave you an auld flaking, a nun that touched you up – in the sacristy preferably – or a 90 year old granny who slipped you her tongue whilst having a firm grip of your balls? The auld hetrosexual bit isn’t helping either I may add.”

Meantime, has anyone got objective proof that Sinéad has a fine arse? Maybe if Sinéad is reading this she can send us in a picture of her butt so we can put this matter to bed once and for all.


Virgin Mary Goes on the Net

I see Joe Coleman is back again, predicting apparitions of his favourite demi-god, the Virgin Mary, who was due to appear yesterday.

This time, however, the Knock Shrine people told him to get stuffed, so poor Joe had to kneel outside the church and grin at the sky with  his eyes closed.  Sensible old Joe.   Unlike the crowd of knackers he enticed to Mayo last time, Joe knows the sun blinds you.

He issued this appeal  to his followers, and not without good reason, considering the behaviour of the gang of pikeys he attracted the last time:

I would urge everyone who attends tomorrow to please show respect for the Knock Shrine and the people who run it. Not only in terms of the way people behave, including litter management, noise, and keeping safe at all times but I would also urge people to dress appropriately.

That, translated, means no boob-tubes, no mini-skirts, no stilettoes, no changing babies and throwing the shitty things on the ground, no getting drunk, no screaming your favourite Celine Dion songs in the church.  In fact, trying not to behave like the crowd of pikeys you are.

Joe says that he received yet another message from the virgin Mary, but if you want to see it, you’ll have to read it on his website.  I think this might be due to copyright issues with the BVM’s agents.  Apparently, IMRO have been calling on people who spoke the messages out loud, demanding royalties.

There you have it.  The virgin Mary has decided to abandon the old people and speak exclusively through the internet, probably because the young ‘uns have lost the faith.  There’s going to be a lot of stuff cooming down the line.  Already, the people at Apple have produced a BVM app for the iPhone.  iBelieve.

In addition, especially for Joe and his followers, there will be a number of other apps.  i’mAFuckingEejit.  iSwallowAnyOldShit and i’MBlind.

Joe’s grasp of theology is somewhat tenuous.  I don’t know if the Blessed Virgin actually designed his website or just provided consultancy, but even the most rabid Catholic Marian-cultist doesn’t claim that the BVM is divine.  Yet here we have on Joe’s celestial website, a section called Divine Messages.

Now look.  I’m not a believer, but I know a bit about Catholic teaching, and they do not say that Mary is a god.

What could this be?  Is it just a mistake, or is the BVM planning a takeover using Joe as a stalking horse?  Is that it?

Maybe the Virgin Mary isn’t so innocent after all.  It seems to me that the old girl has already started to think like the real boss:

I am sad for my priests at the Holy Shrine of Knock. You must inform my people to pray for them on Tuesday 11 May next. You must request that my Most Holy Rosary be said for all my priests at Knock.

Get that?  My priests?  My priests!

I think Joe is actually a Bond-movie henchman and I think this could make the best Bond movie of all time, as the Virgin Mary tries to take over the world and overthrow God.  From Galilee With Love.

If Bond isn’t interested, I’ll have to take on the fight myself.  I can’t wait to hear the Virgin Mary saying Very clever Mr Bock, but not clever enough, mwoohahaha, as she sits in a swivel chair stroking her pet.



The rise of the idiot classes

Knock apparition

Virgin discovered in Rathkeale

Knock Virgin Mary Appparition


Time To Rehabilitate Ron Atkinson After Stupid Racist Comment

Back in the 80s the bulbheads in the National Front used to write match reports on their rag about the English national team.  Nothing strange in that you may say.  After all they are English.   Indeed.   However, the match reports would contain glaring omissions.

For instance, if England beat someone 2-0 and a black player scored one of the goals they would write the match report as if it was a 1-0 win to England.  There would be no mention of any black player on the English team, least of all if he upped and scored, either on the field or the subs bench.

The authors, heads shaved to the bone, were pursuing a course of racial purity through ethnic editing.

I was reminded of this recently when a person said to me that United only won the European Cup (their win over Bayern Munich) because of white players.  Two dramatic injury time strikes from substitutes Teddy Sheringham and Ole Gunnar Solskjaer secured the trophy against the Bundesliga side.

The person concerned, a respectable man, was deadly serious.

What can you say to such endemic racism?

Meantime, Ron Atkinson, is still being cold-shouldered by the mainstream media following his infamous remarks about black Chelsea player Marcel Desailly six years ago.

Big Ron, pursuing a successful career as commentator and newspaper columnist,  forgot that the microphone was still on  following a Champions League game between the Londoners and Monaco and made the following statement about Desailly – which initially went out via the Middle East and then rebounded back.

He’s what is known in some schools as a fucking lazy thick nigger.

Atkinson said after the comment, which led to his resignation:  I made a stupid mistake which I regret. It left me no option but to resign. At the moment I can’t believe I did it. If you look at my track record as a manager, I was one of the first managers in the game to give black players a chance.

He signed black players such as Cyrille Regis, Brendan Batson and Laurie Cunningham when manager of West Brom.  At the time Carlton Palmer defended his former manager despite his appalling comment about Desailly.

I’m black and I’m gonna stand up for Big Ron not because he’s a friend of mine, I’m standing up for him because I know what he’s like as a bloke. If we’re going to deal with racism then let’s deal with the bigger picture of racism not about a throwaway comment that wasn’t meant in that manner

I like Atkinson, especially his wit. When he was manager at Aston Villa he was asked by the BBC why he left his usual vantage point in the stand to come-down to the touchline in the first half.
I came down to pass on some vital tactical information to my side – like the fact that the game began 30 minutes ago, he replied.

He also told some great yarns about former Liverpool boss Bill Shankly, including one when Tommy Doherty, an ex-Man United manager (as is Atkinson), received a call from Shankly when Doherty was managing a lower league side. Shankly was enquiring about his striker.

100,000 wouldn’t buy him, said Doherty.

You’re right, said Shankly, and I’m one of them.

Great stories. He was on the papers again the other day, spinning his yarns and passing on his vast knowledge of the game. The elephant in the room (the Desailly incident) wasn’t mentioned.

As usual he was funny. However, there is a sadness attached to it all these days.  He’s heading into his 70s now and I believe it is grossly unfair that such a fine career should be almost defined by one stupid, albeit terrible remark.

Isn’t it time Atkinson was invited back in from the cold?


Remove Topless Calendars Or We’ll Close Your Business, Says Health and Safety Authority

You might have heard reports of a garage here in Limerick that was visited by an inspector from the Health and Safety Authority.

It’s a small, one-man operation, and the mechanic had a couple of topless calendars in his workshop.  Pirelli, and that sort of thing.

The inspector didn’t like the calendars.

Take ’em down, she told the garage owner.

Excuse me? replied the mechanic.

Take ’em down or I’ll close you.  You dirty, dirty, dirty man with all that filthy pornography on your wall.

It’s just a few calendars, said the mechanic.  Classy, arty photography.  By top snappers!  It’s Pirelli.  And anyway I’m the only one working here.

Working indeed, said the inspector.  Thinking dirty, dirty, dirty thoughts, more like it.  Well I’m not feckin havin it, d’ya hear?  Dirty man.  Dirty!

But, said the mechanic, everyone has the same calendarsThey’re famous.

Dirty, dirty, dirty people, said the inspector.  Dirty feckin men!  Men, d’ya hear?  Dirty evil thoughts.  Dirty.

I thought you were the Health and Safety person, said the mechanic.

I’ll tell you what to think, said the inspector.  And I’ll tell you what not to think.  Dirty, dirty, dirty thoughts.  Dirty!


The HSA later wrote to the mechanic about his “display of pornographic material at the place of work”.  The HSA confirmed that the mechanic had been sent a written warning relating to “dignity at work issue”.

I was fascinated by this threat to close down the business because the mechanic had a couple of nudie calendars in his workshop, and so I sent the following query to the HSA.

Can you  please advise in a general sense what criteria your inspectors employ to determine whether displayed material is pornographic or otherwise?

Can you also please advise what training your inspectors receive to assist them in making this determination.

Also, can you please advise to what extent such a determination relies on an inspector’s privately-held views on such matters?

The reply soon came back in the form of a press release.

In the course of the Health and Safety Authority inspection referred to in the Irish Examiner article today (March 3rd), it is clear that the garage owner had a very unsatisfactory experience. A range of issues were highlighted and we will be in contact with the garage owner to clarify the specific issue in relation to the display of nude/topless images and to confirm to him that the removal of the images as indicated in our correspondence does not apply. We fully accept that the HSA acted in an over-zealous manner in this matter. In relation to the headline in the Examiner that the garage owner may face closure as a result of this issue, this is completely without foundation.

So there you have it.  The mechanic can continue harbouring dirty, dirty, dirty thoughts, the filthy pervert.

The language of the HSA statement is interesting though, isn’t it?  The garage owner wasn’t intimidated, threatened or bullied.  No.  He had a very unsatisfactory experience.  This is just as well, since the person giving him the unsatisfactory experience is also responsible for prosecuting bullies.

I was still a bit confused though.  What is this dignity at work business?  Is it part of a health and safety inspector’s remit?

I wrote to that HSA again, and they confirmed that dignity at work is not covered by any H&S legislation, and therefore the inspector was acting well beyond her brief.  She was, in fact, using her power as a HSA inspector to enforce her own personal views of what is tasteful on a small trader, and if he didn’t have the presence of mind to contact a newspaper, he might well have found himself facing prosecution.

I wonder what other personal views this inspector has imposed on businesses using the threat of HSA action?

Did she tell people to smarten up?  Shave off that beard?  Give up drinking?  Lose weight?

You’re a fat bastard as well as a dirty, dirty, dirty man.  If you still have that belly in six months, I’m closin’ ya down, ya dirty filthy man.

I’d like to know what other small businesses have been warned about things outside the remit of the HSA.  This inspector’s previous prudish activities need to be examined.


Extreme Weather in Ireland

Just chatting there to my favourite taxi driver as we headed home after yet another motherfucker of a night in Foleys with the 54 Club pumping out devil-inspired negro Delta blues of the kind that the DUP would not like. Oh certainly not.

Down to the crossroads and falling down on my knees?  Not unless my name’s Iris, thank you very much.

We were chatting about the devil-inspired weather currently afflicting our country.

You know?  The freezing weather that the government has finally noticed, now that it’s affecting Dublin?  Now that it isn’t just imperilling unlettered rednecks like us?

Yes indeed.  That fucking weather.

The weather that has prompted the creation of an emergency committee, three weeks after it started because this is Ireland.   This is what we consider urgent.

Some people believe that the Irish are laid back, like the Jamaicans, but in fact we’re quite different.  In Ireland, the authorities are laid back as long as the problem isn’t affecting their innner circle of pals and cronies and good buddies, and as long as it isn’t affecting the real Ireland, because, as every fool knows, Dublin is Ireland, and everyplace else is just a theme park.   Irelandworld.  Populated by grunting inbreds with three ears.

That’d be us, folks.  The Damned Irrelevant.

Pay your motherfuckin taxes and shut the fuck up.

Anyway, as I was saying,  we had a discussion, myself and the taxi driver, and it was along the usual lines: Why the fuck can nobody plan for anything in this fucking country?

After all, there’s a quarter of the island, just across the border, where they can even arrange to locate enormous bins of salted grit at strategic locations so that the citizens can take it away and deposit it on the roads themselves.  And where, according to their officials, they employ four times as much salt as we do in the winter, even though they’re only a quarter of our size.  Or to put it another way, where they devote sixteen times the effort to deal with these problems.

That, you see, would be yet another example of oppressive British jackboot rule.  Imposing freedom and safety on the public.  Jesus you couldn’t have that, which is why, in this republic, we don’t have that.  Wouldn’t do to be like those Brits, with everything working right.  Not good.

But what exactly were we discussing, this congenial taxi driver and I?

Well, we were thinking, if the Nordies can deploy  huge bins of salted grit in case there’s ice, why not put out other bins as well?  Huge containers of sand, with plastic shovels and windbreakers and cheap emergency sunglasses, just in case there’s an unexpected outbreak of good weather?  Factor 50.  Candy floss.  We could get the army to set up travelling carnivals with chair-o-planes and push-penny machines.

Fuck it, if we’re going to be prepared, we might as well be prepared for everything.



Our friend Charles sends us these pics from Norway.



Know what?

I’ve deleted this bullshit because it’s all about one gobshite’s narcissistic need for attention, and I’m not there to help him in his quest.


Model Stampede

You couldn’t make this up.

Hundreds of women were waiting to audition as America’s Next Top Model when a car pulled up, belching smoke.

Someone shouted Fire! and everyone immediately panicked, forgetting that they weren’t inside a building and therefore, even if it was a real fire, there would be no problem.  They’re models, of course, let’s not forget.  Things took a turn for the worse when a man jumped out of the car and started grabbing women’s purses.

Omigod!  Omigod! they all screamed and ran around waving their fingernails in the air. 

Six women had medical treatment for feeling faint, and three people were arrested, including the smoke-belching thief.

The street was littered with chairs and sleeping bags as well as clothes and shoes abandoned in the panic.  Expensive clothes and shoes.  A city spokesman declined to place a value on the damage in broken heels, torn hemlines and ruined hair, saying simply, This is a tragedy.  A real, human tragedy with real victims. It won’t be easy to get over this.

President Obama pledged aid, including a team of fashion designers and emergency manicurists.  Other agencies to offer support include Coiffeurs Sans Frontières, an aid agency specialising in supplying hairdressing to disaster victims.

A spokeswoman for the models made the following statement:

It was like, totally, you know, Oh! My! God?  I was like, Omigod.  It was Un! Believable!


School Hires Forensic Barber

JL Pagano had an interesting post on a school in Galway that suspended a student for having long hair.

You see, the school’s Principal, Mr Gilmore, decided that young David Knott’s hair was too long (the Principal doesn’t have a first name: these people are called Mister at birth).

David, a Leaving Cert student at Dunmore Community School, Galway, was told by the deputy Principal Ms O’Brien (who also lacks a first name, having been called Ms at birth) that he was to cut his hair. Clearly there was some vital educational reason for this, though I haven’t yet been able to find out what it was.

When David didn’t cut his hair, Ms O’Brien confronted him about his girl’s hairstyle, and asked him if he wanted to be a girl.

Ms O’Brien is a professional educator.

Enter Principal Gilmore, who instructed him to to cut his hair by the end of the week or go to another school.

Mr Gilmore is also a professional educator.

David’s mother wrote a letter to Principal Skinner Gilmore, pointing out that David was in his exam year and saying that he had his mother’s permission to grow his hair.; The letter also requested that the school deal directly with David’s mother on the matter.

Mr Gilmore wrote back with enormous self importance, saying that he was concerned at the tone and content of Mrs Knott’s letter, and that he was referring the matter to the board of management.; I can only presume that this incredibly pompous reply from a professional educator was intended to deter Mrs Knott from further impertinence in questioning Mr Gilmore’s wisdom.;

The board of management looked into this vitally-important educational matter, and agreed with Principal Gilmore.; They wrote to Mrs Knott to say that David would be suspended shortly.

Mrs Knott appealed to the Department of Education, an action I have to say, I agree with in the face of this kind of overbearing idiocy.; The Department concurred, saying David should be readmitted if his hair was groomed to collar length.; Now, even this is ridiculous and petty, but it was slightly less bone-headed than the position taken by Gilmore, O’Brien and the board of management. And so, David duly had his hair cut.

However, when he returned to the school, he discovered that the board of management had hired a barber to inspect his hair.; A barber!; The school had used scarce money, better devoted to educating its students, for the purpose of hiring a barber to advise on the length of a young lad’s hair.; Imagine that, at a time when schools all over the country are crying out for educational resources.; A barber, to check how long this young fellow’s hair was.

I remind you again that principal Gilmore is a professional educator.

The world-renowned forensic barber-detective said that David would need another inch off his hair, and in the face of such idiocy, David enrolled in another school.; I don’t blame him.; I wouldn’t want my children taught by a person who thinks the length of a student’s hair has something to do with education.

I’m glad to say that an equality tribunal has awarded David â€3,500 for victimisation, but never one to leave a scab unpicked, I thought we might be able to dig into the story a little deeper, so I asked one of our staff to send this email to Principal Gilmore.

Dear Mr Gilmore

Arising from this article in the Irish Times, we intend to run a piece on you in the coming weeks ridiculing your pomposity.
Before we publish our article; I am writing to you to check that you really did what the Irish Times suggests, as we find it hard to believe that any professional educator could be so silly.

Best wishes etc.

If Mr Gilmore replies, I’ll be sure to tell you what he says.; If he doesn’t reply, I suppose we should just run a piece ridiculing his pomposity.

What do you think?



It later came to light that Mr Gilmore has retired and that the new Principal is Mr Gabriel McManus.; What a coincidence.; As I write this, I’m watching Mr Declan McManus performing on television, but I digress.

It seemed only fair to send a second email, correcting our mistake as follows:

Dear Mr McManus

We have subsequently learned that Mr Gilmore has retired.; Please accept our apologies for addressing the previous email to you.

However, it is still our intention to run the piece as outlined, ridiculing the mindset behind the David Knott story, and therefore, if you have any comment on the school’s policy regarding the educational relevance of students’ hairstyles, we would be happy to include them.

Best wishes etc


Hypothetical Question

Help me out here, people, if you wouldn’t mind.

Have you ever found yourself in a situation where you felt like a complete idiot?

Just asking.

If you have views on this, I’d appreciate your response, and maybe your story.