Naomi Campbell Sentenced

So Naomi Campbell was convicted for doing this.

So what?

Why is it news that a spoilt, cossetted, empty-headed, adult child gets a community service order for throwing a tantrum?

I was looking at the news this evening, and there was the idiot attention-junkie surrounded by about a hundred photographers outside the court, and revelling in the limelight. 

This is punishment?

You can see the old judge putting on his black cap.

You’re aggressive, violent and abusive towards everyone you meet, so we’re going to punish you severely.  That’s right, Naomi.  It’s endless publicity for you, and I hope you’re sorry now.

I am, Judge.  Very sorry.  Now go and find my fucking bag!


Advice On Sensible Cocaine Use

You fucking fool!!!

Pets Stupidity

My Dogs

I have two small dogs: Satan and Dermot.

Satan is a Jack Russell, highly intelligent, faithful and brave, with the heart of a lion. Satan is clean and never, ever dirties the house. This is a good thing in a dog. On the downside, Satan is a psychopath, willing to attack any living thing no matter how big or how small. Postmen, Rhodesian Ridgebacks, Warthogs, Indian Wild Boar, Tasmanian Devils, Portuguese Men o’ War, none of it matters to Satan because Satan is an equal-opportunity creature-hater. There isn’t a bishop in Ireland willing to knock on my door looking for a vote. It happened once.


I leaned out. What?

It was an old guy in a black cassock. Alternative Bishop Party. Can I have a word?


I’ll excommunicate you?


That was the last bishop-politician ever to call at my door. I still have one of his dried feet.

This is true: I came out of my house one day to find two fully-grown tinkers standing on the pillars, one at either side of the gate, with little Satan doing synchronised snarling between them.


I’m afraid of him, Boss, said one tinker.

Will he bite us, Sir? asked the other.

He’ll tear the fucking arse off you. What the fuck were you doing in my garden?

LIke the girls from Texas, that’s the way it goes with Jack Russells, but I wish I knew it before I got Satan.

Dermot, on the other hand, is a fool. A Pomeranian fool, with a beautiful thick, furry coat and the cutest curly tail you ever saw. The fucking fool. He attacks other animals by rolling over and hanging his tongue out at them.

I take the two of them for a walk along the River Shannon, and everyone I meet recoils in horror at Satan, but melts over Dermot. Girls love Dermot and they want to take him home and say Aaaawwww!! to him all day and all night, and shampoo him and cuddle him, and brush him and squeeze him and say Aaaawwww!! some more, but there’s one thing they don’t know about Dermot. One thing that makes Dermot fifty times worse than Satan.

Dermot shits.

Dermot shits wherever he feels like it, and whenever he feels like it.

He cannot be trained to desist from fouling my house, and that’s because he is fucking retarded.

Would anyone like a beautiful yet stupid, friendly, peaceful mega-shitting dog, who’s used to living outdoors?

Favourites Humour Politics Stupidity

Bertie’s Parallel Universe


And they laughed at me for being such a big fan of Stargate! Ha! I bet they’re sniggering on the other side of their faces now that scientists have discovered an earth-like planet only 50 million light-years away, orbiting the Sol-like star, Mu Arae.

See? See??


I suspect this discovery is more significant than the scientists realise. I suspect, in fact, that they have discovered the home-world of our esteemed and beloved Prime Citizen, Bertie Ahern.

Jaysus, dat was some ride.


Why do I think this? Well, it seems to be our nearest Earth-like neighbour, its gravity is such that its inhabitants are likely to be short, thick-boned and squat. Furthermore, to judge by what our Prime Citizen said yesterday, he can’t possibly be from Planet Earth, but must come from a parallel reality just slightly skaw-ways of our own. The Bertieverse.

Did you hear the shit he was talking about the electronic voting machines? I’m sure everybody remembers the e-voting debacle presided over by Bertie’s moronic minister for some-crap-or-other Martin Cullen. No? Oh, really?

Well, it was like this. They bought a big pile of computers from this Dutch company called NEDAP. They were special computers you see, and all you had to do was push buttons to select whoever you wanted to see elected. This was great for Bertie, cos, see, it meant Ireland was all modern, see, not like in the dark old days when we made a mark on an old-fashioned piece of paper with an old-fashioned pencil. Oh, and an old-fashioned pile of votes in a box that you could count again if you thought somebody was attempting electoral fraud, but that would never happen in our modern democracy, would it? Not according to Bertie, anyway.

OK. So here we had these special computers which were really just PCs with no keyboards, and they were programmed with this special Dutch software, but the special Dutch programmers wouldn’t let our people see the special Dutch source code, even though we were paying for it, and our civil servants said No bother, Boss. That’s fine!!

The fucking fools.

What? You call that a voting machine???

So they used it in a couple of elections. Oh, did I mention PR? No? Silly me. Unlike, say, in Britain, we don’t have a first-past-the-post electoral system. No. We have the single transferable vote: proportional representation. Which means that the NEDAP software has to do all sorts of things it isn’t used to, like tranferring surpluses, and lots more besides, and it’s very important to be sure it’s doing it right. But of course, as we couldn’t look at the code, we couldn’t really tell.

Now, people started to object to this. They started to say, well how the fuck do I know my vote was counted at all? Where’s the paper trail? they started to say. And where’s the verification of the software, they asked.

That was when Bertie called us Luddites.


Bertie Ahern: Soldier, Statesman, Poet and now Software Expert, found himself confident in dismissing all the IT professionals who spoke out and questioned the new Dutch voting system. All the people who were concerned to protect our democracy, Bertie found himself able to dismiss as Luddites. Not to mention people like myself, who aren’t IT professionals but aren’t stupid either.

Minister Martin Cullen explains his plans for the system

What do you think happened? There was such a public clamour, the government had to set up a commission of investigation. And what do you think the commission found? Yup. The whole thing is a crock of shit – that’s what it found.

So the special Dutch machines went into storage, where they remain, and so far the whole ridiculous saga has cost €62 million. How about that? But I’m not finished. After the commission reported, a Dutch team used the data it produced to hack the very same machines in Holland, proving that the system was far from secure and could easily be subverted by any unscrupulous person with sufficient access to it.

NEDAP’s chief software engineer arrives from Holland

Now. Fast forward to yesterday, when Bertie told the world that Ireland was the laughing stock of Europe for using paper and pencil to hold elections. He was embarrassed because the French had used e-voting in their presidential elections, and we were still stuck in the distant past.

What Bertie either neglected to say, or didn’t know, was this.

The French used mostly paper and pencil, except for a pilot test on 1.5 million voters.

They used three different suppliers of machines on trial, including NEDAP.

They weren’t operating a proportional representation system like ours, but a straight first-past-the-post system.

There’s great concern in France about electronic voting due to the same worries as we have here in Ireland.

I dunno. Push a button, see what happens!

Now. Did Bertie acknowledge any of this? No.

When asked by the Opposition politicians about the waste of money on a useless system, did he hold his hands up and say Sorry, lads. We made a shit of it?


Well then, did he blame his idiot minister, Cullen the fool, for wasting €62 million of taxpayers’ money?

Eh, that would be a No.

Who do you think Bertie blamed for wasting all that money?

That’s right. In spite of the fact that an independent government-appointed commission reported that it’s a big pile of crap, he blamed the Opposition politicians for objecting to the system. He didn’t blame the people who bought it without knowing what the hell they were doing. Oh no. By speaking out against a flawed, anti-democratic system that was riddled with weaknesses and open to electoral fraud, the Opposition were somehow responsible for wasting all that money. They were supposed to let Bertie implement this big pile of wombat-droppings so he could strut around in front of his urbane European colleagues and feel a little less like the thick lumpenprole he is. And the rest of us were supposed to lie down and shut the fuck up. Bertie knew best.

Were the cretin Cullen or his civil servants responsible at all? Ah God no.

This my friends, is a terminal case of hubris. This is a man who has forgotten that he is only a man and not the Sun King. Now, unfortunately, we have as an Opposition a crowd of complete muppets, so I don’t know what to advise you. I suggest you vote everybody out.

Eh, let’s see. Just hit B for Bertie, right?

This ludicrous outburst by the Prime Citizen reminds me of something else. Did you know that you can walk into a bookie’s office now and you can watch a computer-generated horse race, with little cartoon horses and jockeys running around a make-believe track, all coming out of a computer chip? I swear to you, it’s true. Maybe that’s how Bertie would like to see our elections.

Our new President: Vlad the Impaler.

This is the planet Bertie inhabits.

This is Bertual Reality.


See also

The Power of Belief



I’m as mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore

Right. We’ve had a lot of badness mentioned here over the last few weeks. We’ve had murderers and rapists. Kiddie-fiddlers, frauds and violent thugs. Crooked cops. Traffic wardens. Barry Manilow Other awful bastards too numerous to list.

But this evening, I just want to say a brief word about a crowd of bastards that enrage me more than all of the others put together.


I’ll tell you who if you’ll just give me a minute.

I was in the supermarket this evening. Superbuying a superload of superfood because it looks like I’m having a supercrowd of superfuckers at the weekend for a superdinner, where they all drink my superbeer and fuck off.

Great. I don’t mind. It wouldn’t be the first time I hoovered out the contents of somebody’s fridge. Speaking of which, I also decided in the last week or so that I need a second fridge exclusively for beer, because somehow there never seems to enough room in the one I have and I end up throwing out a large amount of food every week because I can’t fit it into my fridge with all the competing beerage. But anyhow, I digress.

I was in the supermarket this evening and when my trolley was full of beer vital provisions to keep my guests happy and my child fed, I trolleyed on up to the check-out, as one does. Bouncing along, you know? Laid back, with the old iPod tucked into the shirt pocket, just strolling along with my new Tom Waits album growling away quietly. Just me and Tom and a bottle of whiskey and forty thousand cigarette-blurred nights behind us but we’re still here, me and Tom. Still standing upright, somehow or other.

There’s a woman ahead of me with a huge pile of shopping loaded onto the belt, and the stuff begins to move. The check-out guy is really efficient (cos he’s Polish or Hungarian or something and he has a PhD in quantum physics) , and pretty soon the whole lot has gone through the check-out and there’s this kid from Young Munsters rugby club packing bags to raise money and he’s really efficient too so that, before you know it the whole lot is packed away neatly in the trolley.

What’s the woman doing?

OK, let me put it another way. What would you be doing?

You’d be getting your money ready, wouldn’t you? Or your credit card, or whatever you plan to use for paying.

Is that what the woman ahead of me is doing?


The woman who is ahead of me simply stands there until the Czech or Polish guy says, that’s 157 ninety four please. And then, and only then, does the woman who is ahead of me realise Oh Jesus, you have to pay for this stuff!! And then and only then does the woman who is still ahead of me reach into the trolley, search for a handbag, open the handbag and take out a small purse, open the small purse and slowly, very slowly peel out eight twenty-euro notes, one by one. And when the Polish or Czech guy hands her back the two euros and six cents, she slowly places it into the small purse, and replaces the small purse in the handbag, and then slowly replaces the handbag in the shopping trolley.

While the rest of us stand there. Looking. Thinking It would be wrong to act on this rage, but it might be worth it.

Now, what is wrong with these people?

I’m convinced they’re part of something bigger, because they’re everywhere. There you are, walking up to an ATM, when suddenly, from behind a parked van, here comes this fool with a wallet full of cards, and you just know he’s going to use them all. Every fucking one of them. He’s going to use each of them twice because the cretin gets the PIN wrong the first time on each one. Sometimes, he’ll even put the card in, check his balance, eject it and put it back in again just to piss you off. I have actually killed several of these people before the banks started putting cameras on ATMs to take pictures of Romanians.

Do you know what these people do at the weekends? No? Well, I think I know. I think they put on hats and go driving old Ford Anglias in the middle of the road, swerving out to stop you passing them. I think these are the same bastards who drive tractors at twelve miles an hour in the middle of the road. The same motherfuckers who get on a bus and then realise, just like when they’re in the supermarket: Oh! You have to pay?

Bastards. I hate them all.


Update: Mr Sneeze points out that he has posted in a similar vein recently. Here

Sexuality Stupidity

More Latvian Hookers

Jesus, what is it with Latvian hookers these days? I remember a time when you’d hardly see a single one in the whole country, but now, all of a sudden, they’re everywhere.

I loved the story on the front page of yesterday’s Limerick Leader. Two Latvian hookers were in court, accused of operating a brothel, which on the face of it doesn’t seem to be such a bad thing. In other countries, such as Australia, these things are considered normal, and are regulated. But anyhow, Ireland is still in the process of moving on from its screwed-up Catholic past and who am I to take issue with that?

What a question. This is for future Bocks. In the meantime, back to the Latvian hookers. Local lawyer, John Devane, spoke up in their defence after they were convicted. Pleading mitigation, Mr Devane addressed the court as follows:

They were sucked into a messy situation.

Oh God. How lucky we are to have such people protecting us.


Happy teenage mums

Here’s a picture of the Williams sisters from Derby with their babies.

Natasha Williams is 16, Jade is 14 and Jemma is 12. They called their babies Amani, T-Jay and Lita.


Their mother Julie said, “I blame the schools – sex education for young girls should be better.”

See? It wasn’t the girls’ responsibility. It wasn’t the responsibility of the child-abusing perverts they had sex with. And their mother certainly has no responsibility whatever to tell them about sex. No. Not at all. That’s right: it was the schools’ fault. The schools made them pregnant. Of course: how stupid of me not to see that straight away.

I’m not sure about the girls. Though they seem exceptionally thick, they are only children. (Thick children.) But their mother seems to qualify as a guaranteed, fully-certified, cast-iron fucking chav, what do you think? A fucking chav who now, apparently, has the brit-pound equivalent of an extra 900 euros a week coming into the house.

Not bad for doing fuck-all. Literally.

Incidentally, I wonder what someone would get if they gave up work to look after a sick or old relative? Not a lot, I’d imagine.


Haircut 100

I was intending to just let this go, but I can’t. It’s too good. There’s so much horse-shit going on among all the protagonists in this thing that I have to say a few words about it.

OK. Let’s be direct.

First. The Principal.

This guy is behaving like a complete twat, I think we all agree. A gobshite. I heard his justification on the radio, where he said that he saw his school’s role as preparing the students for the working world, and that nobody should wear a haircut like that to an interview. Let’s just have a small correction. His role is to educate the children, and if he thinks that this is mainly about getting them jobs then he is a very limited man indeed and should not be in charge of any educational establishment. He should be working in FÁS. His school is not an employment agency.

Second. The Issues.

I don’t know what hair has to do with education. Long, short or in-between, what goes on in the head it covers is the important thing. I haven’t seen this teacher and so I’m not in a position to form an opinion about his own hair, but this seems suspiciously like a fetish thing. Any school principal who expends this amount of emotional energy on the subject of hairstyles clearly has a problem, and as I said already for other reasons, should not be in charge of a school, or anything else for that matter, except maybe a tanning salon. This fellow, I repeat, has a problem and needs counselling.

Third. The Venue.

I always thought that the exam hall was rented from the school by the Department of Education for the duration of the exams, and that it was no business of the Principal what goes on there. But lately I’ve heard different views expressed. Maybe one of Bock’s People would provide the definitive statement on this, and in the meantime, I’ll try to find out the legal situation myself.

Fourth. Pamela the Mother.

Ah come on, for fuck’s sake. Here’s what she said to RTE: I begged him to go and he said no. He was going to try and repeat Third Year next year. I see. So who exactly is the adult in this situation? It appears that the fourteen-year-old makes all the big decisions and the mother goes on radio to justify what he decides. His mind just went blank, Pamela says. You know what that sounds like to me? That’s right: horse-shit. Another parent abdicating responsibility and blaming everybody else. So there’s an injustice. Yes, there seems to be, but what’s the important thing? I would have thought the important thing is to get the kid through the exams and deal with the injustice later. Pamela, however, doesn’t see it that way. In all fairness, he said to me, why should he go to Clara? He didn’t do anything wrong, it’s only a haircut. That’s right, Pamela. It’s only a haircut, but he should go to Clara to do his exams, and you can deal with the stupid headmaster another time. He can sit the exams there, and that’s why he should go, Pamela, you fucking idiot. The more I hear of Pamela, the more I’m thinking Thick Chav.

Fifth. The Child.

I wonder what the little fucker was really up to.


The strange case of the aeroplane and the knitting

I heard an item on the news tonight, about a woman who sued Aer Rianta for . . . for . . . well for what, I’m not quite sure. These are the facts as I understand them at the moment, but I probably got some of it wrong, so I’ll come back to you with corrections tomorrow if I find out any more. Essentially, here’s what it is. This woman was working as as a telephonist at Dublin Airport when a man with a “bin Laden-type” accent phoned to say that “there is a bomb at your airport”.

That’s it. There isn’t anything else. Those are the facts. All of them.

As a result of the shock, the woman suffered trauma and depression. She put on four stone weight and if a plane passed over her house at night, she had to stay awake until morning, knitting. When she went home after work, she saw imaginary mice running around the floor. Eventually, things got so bad that she took to the bed and didn’t leave it for a year and a half.

Dreadful, I hear you say, but what exactly has this to do with her employer (you and me)? The answer is, I don’t know. Some fucking nutcase phoned the airport with a bomb threat. The woman was a telephonist and took the call, as telephonists do.

Did Aer Rianta make a threatening call to itself? No, it did not.

Did Aer Rianta force the woman to stuff her face with mince pies and chocolate fatties, thereby piling 56 pounds straight onto her already-wobbly thighs? Of course it didn’t! Incidentally, the woman I saw on telly tonight was a lot more than four stone overweight. This was somebody who knows all about chip sandwiches, let me tell you. I mean, I’m talking somebody whose arse is made of scrambled eggs.

Did Aer Rianta force her to sit up all night knitting ? Certainly not!! Knitting? Knitting what? Willy-warmers? Who brought the wool up to the bedroom anyway, and why? What fool enabled this kind of self-pitying behaviour? Did nobody say “get up you lazy fat fucker and buy your own fucking wool what do you think I am – your fucking slave?” ?

Did Aer Rianta chain her to the bed for a year and a half? Please! The very thought of it. I don’t even want to think about the state of the bed. If you have the motivation to knit four hundred willy-warmers and eat a million chocolate fat-bastards, you surely have the energy to get the fuck up out of it and stop fucking wallowing.

And yet, Aer Rianta, on behalf of you and me, settled with her for 15,000 euros plus costs.


Serves them right for employing a fucking gobshite.