Politics Religion war World

Muhammad MacGyver

I’m not yet completely familiar with this latest terrorist extravaganza and I’ll therefore withhold judgement about what the police have said. I don’t know anything about the plot, or about the plotters, or indeed about anything at all to do with it. And so on that aspect of things, I’ll remain silent for the moment.

Let’s just shut the fuck up for now until we find out what’s going on, ok?




You can’t bring liquids onto a plane?

Is this the end of duty-free as we know it?

Let us just back-track a little bit, here. There’s a book that I heard of called the SAS Handbook, or something like that. I didn’t read it because it involves sleeping in a piece of tin-foil and eating lizard-shit for a month, but the main point is that it’s been around for years and years. And it contains all kinds of dangerous information like how to turn a tooth-pick and a piece of cotton wool into a thermonuclear device.

This is not new. This is stuff that anybody with even the most rudimentary knowledge of chemistry would have been aware of years ago. Yes, you can walk into a hardware shop and yes, you can buy ingredients that, yes, you can turn into a fucking bomb. Every geek and nerd on the planet has known this forever, and therefore, you would imagine, so has every security agency in the world. You’d imagine that, wouldn’t you? In fact, you’d hope so.

Therefore, given that MI5 and the CIA and the KGB and all the rest of the fuckers had this information since the formation of the universe, why is it that only now are they preventing you from taking bottles of stuff onto a plane? Are they saying, Shit! Are you serious? You mean it’s real? You can really make a bomb out of ordinary stuff?

Oh fuck off.

The security apparatus that developed facial recognition software didn’t know that a bottle of stuff might burn?

Come on! I don’t mind being fooled, but for fuck’s sake, don’t take me for a total idiot.

As I said, I haven’t worked out the implications of this stuff yet, and therefore it’s too soon to express any opinion about the operation that’s happening as we speak, but I can’t help remembering one thing: the people in charge of this are the same ones who assured us Jean Charles deMenezes was a terrorist. Hey, I know everyone is entitled to a bad day at work, but still, you gotta think, well, let’s give it a day or two before we make our minds up. Nothing personal, you understand.


Pope offends Muslims

Imagine being a dead Muslim

Suicide bombers 

Idiots, religious lunatics and the war on terror


Bomb alert at Dublin Airport

Dublin Airport was evacuated for a second time yesterday when somebody found an unattended bag with a copy of the Koran on top.

I wonder would they have closed the airport if there had been a Bible on the bag instead of a Koran?

Politics Sport


I nearly didn’t bother watching the World Cup at all. I nearly lost all interest in soccer after the Heineken Cup, and my prejudice was nearly confirmed by some of the earlier games in this competition. However, Argentina vs Mexico rekindled my faith in the Beautiful Game, and today has restored it fully.

Today we witnessed two people being totally true to what they believe in, and doing it in such style that nobody could walk away unconvinced. First there was Rooney demonstrating to the world – as if we didn’t already know – how a fat knacker behaves under pressure. He got sent off, and fuck him. He deserved it. People are saying it was an accident, but let me tell you, Wayne Rooney has such awesome footballing skills, and such astonishing spatial awareness, that he knows precisely what his feet are doing at all times. He stamped on Carvalho’s crotch, and he knew he was doing it, so fuck him. He’s a knacker, he lost the game for England, he got sent off and now they’re all going home.

At the other end of the scale, we had the opportunity to witness the incomparable, the sublime Zinedine Zidane deliver a master-class in footballing virtuosity to his Brazilian acolytes, and though the Brazilians could never hope to reach Zizou’s level, perhaps they picked up one or two pointers on their way out of the competition. I don’t have a video of tonight’s game yet, but here’s some vintage Zidane for you to enjoy.

This is the best footballer I have ever seen. Better than Ronaldinho. Better than Cruyff. Better than Maradona. Better than Eusebio. Better than Pele. The best.

To his great credit, he also took a stand against resurgent fascism in France. Can you imagine Rooney doing that? Can you, in fact, imagine Rooney having a single idea in his head? Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous!

Zizou is the Anti-Fat-Knacker made flesh, and after tonight, I want ZZ to win the World Cup.

Food & Drink Our lives Politics Religion


Well, what a terrific weekend. I’m sorry for not boring you over the past few days but it couldn’t be helped. I’m sorry about that but I’ll try to get right back to it toute de suite, and with any luck I’ll be as crushingly boring as ever.

I went to Donegal for the weekend. I went to visit my old friends whom I haven’t seen for about ten or fifteen fucking years. Amazingly. Due to shit happening. And stuff. And all the cocksuckers you have to put up with in the course of your life that you have to deal with, depriving you of time to spend with your real friends that you know all your fuckin life and that you should have stuck with in the first place instead of wasting your time with other cunts. Pause. Pause again. Short break . . .

. . . . and a deep breath. Good! Much better.

So anyhow, I went to Donegal to revisit my friends, the Little Dove of Peace and the Fact-Bastard. He’s known as the Little Dove of Peace from his well-known habit of nutting people he disagrees with, but as it’s a cumbersome title, we’ll just call him “Ed”. The Fact-Bastard is known by many names, all of them accurate, and therefore, to preserve his anonymity, I’ll just call him “Gallagher”. Among other thing, I went to Donegal to see if I could meet Garda Joan Gallagher, no relation to the Fact-Bastard, it’s just that pretty much everyone in Donegal is either called Gallagher or Doherty. A handsome woman, Joan Gallagher, as fine a specimen of BanGardahood as I have seen, and a native speaker of the Garda dialect. Shut the fuck up, ya wee cunt!! Sorry Joan.

It took about six hours to drive to Letterkenny on Friday. Can you believe that? Six hours? Imagine if it took six hours to drive anywhere on the east coast! Jesus, they’d be passing laws to build Luas tracks faster than you could say “The Pale”. But anyway, it did. It was a long journey. Long.

I stopped at Knock. Another pause while everybody laughs. What? Yes, Knock. I stopped at fucking Knock because I was hungry and I was tired and I was looking for some kind of meaning in my pathetic little fucking life. OK? No, that’s a lie. I was looking for food. What can I say about Knock? What can I say that hasn’t already been retailed by a million people commenting on the place? Nothing. I can say nothing extra. Knock is fucking weird and may well be the weirdest place I have ever seen in my entire life, including Scunthorpe. They have the St Mary’s gift shop. They have the Queen of Peace Nursing Home in case you decide to die of depression in the fucking place. There’s a row of shops selling Haily Marys and Haily Holies and Haily Hallelujahs and Holy fucking Molies. They have Knock holy water pistols. They have portraits of Pope Ratzo the First. They have inflatable sex dolls of Ratzo the First. They have holy water beds.

By the time I’d finished wandering past the Knock shops, I found myself wishing they had a Satanist shop, just to break the monotony. I think the postcard outside one of the shops unwittingly summed it up. You can’t fool all of the people all of the time, but you can fool enough to make a living.

As I said, I was starving, and so I wandered into one of the many fine eating establishments they have in Knock. First class grub. First fucking class, I was sure of it, for how could such a devout Christian people ever offer a traveller less than the best? Unthinkable for anybody who follows the word of Jesus, and by Christ there was never a people who followed Jesus better than the people of Knock. Or not. Let me just check that for a second.

No. Oops, sorry. I just checked and in fact the people of Knock couldn’t give a flying fuck about Jesus. No, in fact they’re standard Irish Catholics who don’t believe in Jesus at all at all at all at all and just worship his mother instead. Right. Over to you, Ratzo.

Now, this is where I put my foot in it because, you see, I was fucking starving after hours on the road, and really a man needs a good feed after that. It didn’t seem unreasonable to ask the girl at the counter for a steak and chips but I might as well have asked for a young boy and a private sacristy.

Steak? Yeah: with chips.

Steak? But it’s a Friday!!

So fuckin what? Gimme grub!!

It’s a fuckin Friday. You’re gettin no fuckin steak here, ya bollocks.

Right then. Fuck you. Gimme a frozen cod and chips.

All right. That’ll be nineteen euros.

See me? Rebel.

Late now. Will write more on this tomorrow.

Politics Technology

The power of belief

I don’t know if we should develop nuclear power plants here or not.

I think there are valid reasons why we should, and I think there are equally valid reasons why we shouldn’t. I don’t know. I think we need a debate on it, for certain, but right now, I just don’t know, and why would I when even the committed guys are beginning to have doubts?

We all admired James Lovelock, the founder of Gaia theory, but even he thinks now that we’ve fucked the Earth up so much we have no choice but to go nuclear, even if we don’t like it. He thinks we’ve left it too late to do anything else. Unlike him, I don’t have a deep knowledge of the subject, and so I still don’t know for sure.

But I’ll tell you who does know, in case you needed a bit of certainty in a hurry. Bertie Ahern knows, that’s who. This is what he told a conference on the issue:

“I’m opposed to nuclear. I’ve stressed that in the Dáil as late as yesterday. I’ve never believed in the merits of it from an environmental point of view or from a sustainable energy point of view.

We must consider all the alternatives that are available to us, including the development of alternative technologies and promoting the uptake of more energy-efficient options.”

No room for doubt there.

Bertie is opposed to nuclear power, so that’s all right then. We won’t be building any nuclear power stations, and we won’t be importing any electricity from Britain either, if it was generated at a nuclear station.

Isn’t that right?

It is of course. We have incredibly high principles here in Ireland. We have such high principles that we can afford to be “neutral” in Ireland. No war here! Down with war! All right, so we’re protected as part of the EU by the military power of Britain and France, but still, Down with War!

The same incredibly high principles changed our constitution to include a ban on abortion – remember? And what a roaring sucess that was. Not a single Irish woman has had an abortion in twenty years thanks to SPUC and SPIC and SPOCK. Not one. So that’s all right too. No abortion here, and no nuclear power either.

If there’s even the hint that any of the electricity we buy from Britain was produced at one of those places, we’ll send it back. We’ll have inspectors to check samples of electricity as they come across the border. Take back your filthy nucular electric, ya Brit fuckers! Our forefathers died in the GPO to stop filthy Brit Nukes. Fuck it, we’ll have nuclear sniffer dogs. I know what we can do: let’s write a ban on nuclear power into the constitution, and that will solve the whole thing. It will just go away and we won’t have to worry about it at all at all at all.

You might be interested in what Sustainable Energy Ireland made of Bertie’s diktat. SEI was set up by the government as Ireland’s national energy agency to promote and assist the development of sustainable energy, so you’d imagine they might know something about the subject. But no. Their head of energy policy development, commenting on Bertie’s statement, said Ireland would have to look at nuclear power as an alternative to fossil fuels from 2020 on.

You see? Fucking experts – what do they know?

Now, as we’re on the subject of power, I’ve been thinking about the power of belief. To the best of my knowledge, Bertie has no formal training in anything whatsoever, not that this is in any way to demean him.

No indeed.

Many people have no training in anything whatsoever, and more luck to them, but they don’t all come out with absolute statements of belief on subjects they know fuck-all about, and they aren’t all Taoiseach either.

Sorry. Sorry, let me correct that statement.

Did I say Bertie had no training? My apologies. Doesn’t his CV claim that he attended the London School of Economics? Of course it does. It’s just that he didn’t enrol for any courses there or attend any lectures or sit any exams or receive any academic awards, but apart from that, he did go to the London School of Economics where, no doubt, they teach nuclear physics. So, armed with this formidable academic arsenal, Bertie has vetoed a national debate on nuclear power.

He hasn’t said “I’m not convinced about all this Nucular stuff”.


He has said “Fuck off. I’m Bertie and yiz are not talkin’ about Nucular, full bleedin stop!”

This is a deeply impressive level of conviction, and it seems there isn’t anything Bertie is unable to believe, once he puts his mind to it. For example, as we’re talking about energy, and resources, he has no problem believing it’s a good thing to give away all our natural gas to a private consortium, at no cost at all. Not a penny! There you go, lads, take it all, and if anyone tries to stop you, we’ll fuckin jail them. He also believes it’s good for us as a nation to buy back our own gas from Shell at full market price, once they’ve extracted it from beneath our coastal waters.

Here’s the very peculiar part: the Norwegian government has a substantial share in this consortium, and is bound by law to invest all the profits for the good of its citizens. Hence we have the surreal situation where Irish gas is extracted without payment to us, taken away, sold back to us, its original owners, and the profits invested for the Norwegian citizens. Bertie believes that this is the best deal achievable in the circumstances. He believes that nobody would be interested in bringing the gas ashore unless we give it to them free, even though energy is such a precious resource that all future wars will be fought for gas and oil as reserves dwindle.

I see.

I might just point out in passing that this deal with the Shell consortium was signed by Minister Ray Burke, as fine and upstanding a convicted crook as you could hope to meet.

You think all that was an impressive act of believing? That’s nothing. Bertie is also the man who believes Condoleezza Rice when she tells him that no “extraordinary rendition” flights passed through Shannon. I love that expression though. It reminds me of weddings. Did Uncle Phonsie recite Gunga Din? Yeah – it was an extraordinary rendition.”

Anyhow, this all leads me to my suggestion. Since Bertie is able to believe – without considering the arguments for and against – that nuclear power is unviable, why not get him to believe some more things? For instance, we could have him believe that global warming is not happening.

Go out there, Bertie, and just believe. Use the training you got at the London School of Atmospherics. It’ll go away. It will, I promise you.

Global warming will reverse itself and everything will be hunky dory again, thanks to Bertie’s belief.

Dear Bertie,

Thanks very much for fixing me.

Best Wishes,

The Gulf Stream.

We can send him to Africa, where he can believe there’s no water shortage in Kenya, no AIDS epidemic and no corrupt leaders anywhere on the continent. Bertie’s belief will sort the whole thing out, and all the problems of Africa will go away, once Bertie chooses to believe they don’t exist. He can deploy the unique insights he gleaned at the London School of Africomics. There are no despots in Africa, none of its problems were caused by Europe, America or Russia, and it’s ok anyway: we’re on top of the problem.


Bertie could be a true global ambassador, out there among the suffering people of the earth, believing their problems away, just like he can with nuclear power.


Bertie Ahern 2
The Friends of Bertie
Bertie’s Parallel Universe

Business Politics


I’ve been in fairly frequent correspondence with my old friend Joe-who-works-for-Halliburton-the-unprincipled-bastard. Let’s call him Joe d’Arab, for simplicity. Actually, he’s a baldy fucker from Tipperary (hock-thooey!) but we’ll overlook that. His second most recent email was to point out to me that Denis Leamy is from the next parish to him outside Fethard, and I thought to myself, well isn’t that a good one. Here’s a guy living in some 99th floor luxury penthouse in Cairo. His business card says something like

Hyper-mega-vice-deputy-assistant President,
Halliburton Asset-stripping Division,
Northern Hemisphere
The World
The Universe

And he’s up there on top of a gigantic tower there in downtown Cairo, relaxing in his tennis whites after a hard day schmoozing with the King of Bhutan, and what is he thinking? Is he thinking, Christ, what a tycoon I am. Dick will be delighted with me and the next time we go hunting together, he won’t shoot me or anything? No. Is he thinking, that was great the way I bought all the oil in Iraq for fourpence, and now I’m going to sell it for 93 squillion hobnobnillion dollaroids? No.

He’s thinking, I can’t let that fucker get away with calling Leamy a Limerickman.

Nice one Joe.

Politics war

Pro patria mori

This is a poem by Wilfred Owen, who fought in WWI.

Dulce at Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoot
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!  An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s, sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen was shot and killed on the 4th November 1918, aged 25.

A week later, the First World War ended.


Oh we’re off to Dublin on the train, on the train

Smug self-satisfied moment coming up.

My very good friend Dickler delivered the goods in two tranches yesterday and today. One for The Bullet, a schoolboy ticket, and one nerve-frayingly late entry-voucher pour moi. Thank you Dickler. Thank you. Thank you again. Thanks. Thank you. Woooo Hoooo!!!!

Now we have a big decision. Do we rush home after the game, or stay the night. Did you hear that gobshite mayor of Limerick urging people not to stay in Dublin on census night, because it would reduce the official population of Limerick? Oh fuck off. Gimme a break. Isn’t it awful, in smallish places like Limerick, what parochial, small-minded gits manage to slither into public office? And not-so-smallish places. I need only think of the pricks that took over Dublin County Council and for years enriched themselves by passing Section 4 resolutions in return for cash.

This is straying a long way from wooo hooo. Let us return to Planet Rugby, and I’ll tell you one thing: whatever the pundits say, there’s no way Cardinal Cathal Daly would have the pace to outrun an international full-back in the modern game.

Humour Politics

Italian Elections

It looks like Prodi has both of the houses.

Politics Religion

Daonáireamh na hÉireann

This census thing promises to be a bit of fun. I’m just looking at it here now, as we speak, and I have to tell you, there’s a few things in it I’m going to need help with. I’m actually stuck at the introduction and, in particular, the definition of a household. This is what it says:

A household is

  • one person living alone or
  • a group of related / unrelated people living at the same address with common housekeeping arrangements, that is, sharing at least one meal a day or sharing a living room or sitting room.

Hokay! Leaving aside their execrable grasp of punctuation and grammar, what precisely are they talking about? This could demand a house-call from Gonad the Ballbearian.

A household is one person living alone. Where? In a ditch? In a cardboard box under a bridge? At the top of a gigantic stone pillar? Hello there. I’m the Census Enumerator. Would you be Simeon Stylites the Elder? Good, good. I was wondering if Simeon Stylites the Younger would be at home? No, no I’m not blind. I’ll fuck off so. Thanks. Let’s say I’ve lived my entire life on the back of an enormous fish, but I live alone. According to the census instructions, that makes me a household.

OR, a household is a group of related / unrelated people living at the same blah blah . . .

What’s this about a group of related / unrelated people? Doesn’t that just mean the very same thing as a group of people? Listen, I’ve lived in houses where there were hundreds of people, and they shared fuck-all. Sharing one meal a day? What does that mean – we gnaw at the same bone? You order a pizza for four, I order a blindingly-hot curry, he has chips, and we swallow them while we’re running for the bus to town to get rat-arsed. Is that sharing a meal? Furthermore, what is this thing you call Living Room? Perhaps they mean Lebensraum? Oh Jesus, sorry with the darkness.

OK, now we’re on to the first page, and that has to be progress, right?

Here’s a sample of questions, with suggested answers. Perhaps Bock’s People will rise up as one and fill out the Census as they feel their beloved Bock might.

The first question that piques my interest is Question 13: What is your religion?

Here, I’m hoping, people will eschew the usual bland, fuck off and mind your own business, and instead enter First Church of Bugs Bunny.

After that comes Question 14: What is your ethnic or cultural background?

Now, as you know, I’ve been concerned for some time about the increasing marginalisation of the Travelling Community. Therefore, in an effort to bring them into the mainstream, I’ve decided to tick the Irish Traveller box. The more people who do this, the less marginalised Travellers will be, which can only be a good thing. Also, as there’s no legal definition of a Traveller anywhere in Irish law, nobody can tell me I’m not a Pavee.

Question 15 Do you have any of the following long-lasting conditions?

The interesting one is (d) A psychological or emotional condition. Yes / No

What??? If you’re fucking alive, you’re in some kind of psychological or emotional condition. This is more of it. They’re afraid to say the word illness. What the fuck is an emotional condition? What does it mean? Nothing.

Yes. I have nothing.

Question 16 If Yes to any of the above . . .

All right, let’s cut the shit. Yes, I have dismembered close relations. Yes, I have immured their bodies in the new storey-and-a-half house I built just outside the pressure zone. Yes, I am planning to attack innocent people in a shopping mall with a chainsaw, just as soon as Lidl sell me a cheap petrol one. I’ll only need it the once.

Question 25 In the last four weeks, have you done any of the following activities without pay?

What the fuck? Are you mad?

Question 26 How would you describe your present principal status?

What sort of nonsense is this? It isn’t even English. I can half understand it because I have a reasonable grasp of English, and I’m equipped to decipher it to some extent, but what about foreigners? We need to know about the new people in the country and yet this is the standard of the census questions. How can you survey people properly if you’re going to ask people this kind of horse-shit? And look, let’s be honest. At least the Poles and Lithuanians speak good English. As for the knackers, forget it. Marginalised as usual.

Question 29 What is (was) your occupation in your main job?

Hired Assassin