Favourites Politics

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

OK. I can’t help it. Sorry. I just can’t help saying all this because the time is right and there’s an election coming up and it has to be said.

I know – all right? I know I’m repeating myself. I know I said all this yesterday, but there’s an election coming up, which is a thing we don’t see every day. In fact, if the government had their way, you wouldn’t see one at all.

Let’s get it absolutely clear.

This government gave €1.2 billion to the religious orders because Bertie used to work in the Mater hospital and they have some hold on him. They paid one thousand two hundred million euros of your money to cover the claims against the rapist clergy, instead of making them sell their extensive land banks.


Because the nuns have some hold over Bertie.

This government decided to locate the new national Children’s Hospital in the Mater because Bertie used to work there, and they have some hold on him. They put it in the wrong place for the sick children and their families, but that doesn’t matter when the nuns have you by the bollocks.


Because the nuns have some hold over Bertie.

This government gave National Toll Roads (Roadstone) a gigantic pile of money for the bridge that they used to rob Irish people on the M50 for 20 years because National Toll Roads are buddies of this government.


Because Roadstone have some hold over Bertie.

This government failed to tax second and third homes, because it would inconvenience their builder pals, allowing the property market to inflate to such an extent that our children will never afford a house.


Because the builders have some hold over Bertie.

This government handed a national resource free to Shell Oil because the crook Ray Burke was in charge of the deal. Ray Burke, the convicted fraud, handled the transfer of our national wealth to Shell and nobody is asking what’s going on. There are 200 police in Rossport beating the local teachers, farmers and and lifeboat crew off the roads because Ray Burke, the crook, gave our national resources free to a company that has killed many people across the world. Free! This crook! This fraud!! This gangster in charge of giving away what belongs to you and me!!!


Because Big Oil has some hold over . . .

ah, work it out for yourself. I hope you’re angry.

Crime Stories

Friends of the Earth

I was sitting out the back with my neighbour Jimbo the other night, relaxing by the light from a pile of old tyres we were burning.

Jesus, said Jimbo, this is the life.

Indeed it is, I agreed. Slosh another gallon of diesel on that fire there.

Right, says Jimbo. I’ll just throw on some of the plastic guttering we took off that old lady’s house.

Good idea, said I. And while you’re at it, make a start on that big pile of electric cable. Fling it on the fire there. Good man.

We sat back again, relaxing in the quiet of the evening as the flames roared above our heads. The huge plume of oily smoke spread out across the town like a beautiful black communion dress and I was suddenly struck by the sheer wonder of Nature.

Jimbo!, I ejaculated.


Jimbo, isn’t it a shame we can’t do this in the daytime any more? The people should see that lovely cloud.

Ah no, said Jimbo. All the old ways are gone now. Well do I remember our traditions from my father’s time, and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his father before him and his fa –

All right!!, I screamed wistfully.

Ah, they were great days, Jimbo went on. When we needed to get rid of a big pile of stuff, all the men of the village would get together, and they’d load it all up on the back of a wagon. Or ten wagons. Or thirteen. Or seventeen. Or thirty-four. Or a hundred and eighty-two or –

Well, by God, I muttered.

It’s true, he went on.

I remember it well, I said.

And do you remember, Jimbo said, his face brightening, becoming younger before my eyes as he delved fondly back in time, do you remember the way we’d go down to the canal?

Indeed I do.

And we’d fuck the whole lot in!

Ah, great days, I agreed.

Jimbo went quiet for a long time. He seemed to have something in his eye. Without speaking , he reached for an old television and threw it on the fire, sending a golden plume of beautiful sparks singing into the night sky.


Yes Jimbo?

Bock, do you remember my old Dad?

Old Billy the Aardvark? Of course I do.

Yeah. Billy the Aardvark. Of course we never called him that. To us he was always Dad.

Jimbo, why did they call him the Aardvark?

Because he used to eat ant-hills, but that’s a different story. Oh, how well I remember Dad as he stood on the banks of the canal, and by Jesus could that man work! He could do the work of five men. It was wonderful to watch him as he threw cookers, washing machines, old couches, mattresses into the canal. As fast as we threw them off the wagons, he’d catch them and toss them into the water.

He was a craftsman, I said.

An artist, agreed Jimbo. And all the time talking to us kids. There was thirty seven of us in the family.

Really? Talking as he worked?

Jimbo nodded. Yeah. He’d be down there among the reeds, knee-deep in canal water. Dad! we’d shout down to him. Are you all right there? And Dad’s voice would answer from the darkness, It’s like a jungle. Sometimes it makes me wonder how I keep from going under. Huh?, we’d say. U-Huh! he’d answer. U-Huh? U-Huh!

By Jesus, I said. And all the time, heaving furniture into the canal?

Non-fucking-stop, said Jimbo. But he was careful, my old man. He didn’t want to fall in cos he couldn’t swim, so when we all crowded around him, he’d he’d make us stand back. Don’t push me, he’d shout, cos I’m close to the edge. I’m tryin’ not to lose my head! Uh-Huh!

Uh-Huh, we’d reply.

Ah, I said. The old ways. All lost now.

True, said Jimbo. We took care of the environment by cleaning up after ourselves. These days? Like my old man used to say, these days, broken glass everywhere. People pissing on the stairs, you know they just don’t care.



kick it on


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


The paedophobe has moved

You might remember the child-hating thing that called me a monster. It’s now posting its comments on Dickler’s blog. In fact, it has threatened him with legal action for inciting hatred against child-molesters.

If you’d like to fling insults at it, go HERE.

To read earlier posts, go HERE

UPDATE: OK. We got tired of ridiculous whining perverts trying to justify their existence. Dickler has deleted the pathetic fools from his comments. Likewise, they won’t get a platform here.

This has been a real education. Here you have these people who claim the right to be alone with children because they see nothing wrong with their tendencies.

Let’s be clear about something here. There is no comparison between these jerks and those who are of a straight or gay orientation. Straight people and gay people engage in sexual activity with other adults. Very simple. Sex with a child is rape. Also very simple. So therefore, what we have been hearing from is a pervert who fantasises about child-rape, and claims the right to be close to the objects of its rape-fantasies.

It’s that stark.

Well, now we have seen evil at first hand. Let’s draw back before we become soiled by it.


Paedophile Speaks Out

Here’s a reply I received to this post: Paedophile is not a word.

Anonymous said… I know you aren’t going to post this comment, but paedophilia is actually a word coined by Kurt Freund more than 100 years ago and it means a sexual attraction to pre-pubescent children. The fact that you can’t understand the difference between an attraction and an action makes you a monster, IMO.

This is a lie. Kurt Freund coined nothing 100 years ago. He first carelessly used the term in 1972, and it was immediately grabbed as a flag of convenience by every child abuser and pervert in the world. As I said already, what these guys engage in is paedophobia, not paedophilia.

I heard that paedophobes think everyone else is in the wrong, but I never saw it in action till now. This creature believes I’m the monster?

I think that tells you all you need to know.

kick it on

Crime Religion

Paedophile is not a word

Let’s get this nonsense out of the way right now.

Paedophile is not a word. I remember when the perverts invented it about twenty-five years ago to cover up what they really do, which is the rape of children. The perverts started this thing they called the Paedophile Information Exchange, because they thought Paedophile would be a more acceptable term than Miserable child-raping bastard.

Look at the etymology: it means child lover. These people are anything but that. They are child haters, or paedophobes, and that is what we should be calling them instead of using their own perverted terminology. So from now on, I’m going to say paedophobe.

Right. That’s that out of the way. On to current events.

Unless you live on Alpha Centauri or Ferbane, you must have heard the awful story about the young boy who seems to have been the victim of a ring of paedophobes. For obvious reasons, I shouldn’t mention the details of the case for fear somebody’s trial would be prejudiced and the miserable pieces of shit would get off on a technicality. Therefore, I’ll only talk about what was reported in the mass media.

It seems that a vigilant mother found inappropriate text messages on her fourteen-year-old son’s phone and went to the police about them. It further seems that up to ten men might have been involved some way in sexually abusing this child. Sensationally, it appears that a young policeman has been suspended because he is suspected of befriending the boy in order to draw him into this circle of perverts. This is looking more and more like an organised thing, the same as the Dalkey horror I wrote about recently.

My first comment is this. What a wonderful woman the boy’s mother is to confront this thing head on.

Secondly, what kind of godawful bastard would hurt a child?

Thirdly, it’s just as well I have no power in this country, because I would feed these people into a tractor’s gearbox feet first if I had the chance, and I wouldn’t lose a second’s sleep over it.

I am furious right now, and it isn’t good for me. Do you remember when the schools first introduced the Stay Safe programme? Do you remember the opposition of the Catholic Right to its introduction? I do. I remember it very well. I remember these loud, domineering holy-joes telling us that not only would they prevent their own kids from finding out about child abuse, but by Jesus, they were going to stop my kids from taking part as well.

I hope they’re proud of themselves, the miserable sanctimonious bastards. They lost and good riddance to them, but they haven’t gone away, you know.

Favourites gardai Policing Scandal

The Heart of Darkness

Dalkey is one of the most charming and salubrious of South Dublin suburbs, retaining most of the character it used to have when it was just a village, clinging to the edge of Dublin Bay. These days, it’s full of bistros. Art galleries. Bijou residences for a million bucks a shot. In its way, it would remind you of Cornwall fishing villages like St Ives and Mousehole. Charming.

Walk around Dalkey today, and you’ll still hear some of the old accents, in spite of all the brash young tigers who crowded in there over recent years, as if somehow the old ways are being unconsciously preserved because people remember the good old days.

Good old days like 1973, when an eleven-year-old girl gave birth to a baby conceived in her family home at White’s Villas. The good old days when a woman relative killed the baby with a knitting needle in the same family home, put it in a plastic bag, and dragged the traumatised little girl out with her to get rid of it. The same woman who pushed the little girl into the sea from the edge of the charming fishing-village pier, and then dragged her to an alleyway to dump the bag, for the dogs to find.

Two, and perhaps three, of that family have since committed suicide amid allegations of abuse. Children in that house, it seems, existed only for the gratification of adults, and for the use of perverts, or “friends of the family”, as they are described. One broken young girl wrote a thirty-page suicide note detailing all manner of vile sexual abuse by close relatives and others but her mother doesn’t believe the note: the young girl, on the point of suicide, apparently found time to invent a pack of lies.

There are suggestions that the children were being routinely sold to child abusers, for sexual and satanic rites.

That’s correct.

I said satanic.

And when you have the sort of people who involve themselves in satanic rituals, you always have an organisation, and you always have people from every walk of life and every level of influence involved.

So when the baby was discovered, what happened? You would imagine that our police would throw all available resources at it, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. So what did they do?

Did they listen to the little eleven-year-old girl? No.

Did they preserve the scene? No.

Did they examine the evidence? No.

What about the body – did they carry out any tests? No: they allowed it to be buried in a communal grave so that it became intermingled with the remains of hundreds of other infants.

As for the bag that the baby was put in, well they just lost it.

The eleven-year-old is now grown up. Her name is Cynthia Owen, and she described to the Dublin coroner’s court being abused by a group of at least nine men. Last Friday, a jury at the inquest finally believed her story. Dublin coroner’s court found that the baby was that of Cynthia Owen (then Murphy) and that the cause of death was stabbing.

There are so many disturbing questions it’s hard to know where to begin. On the night Cynthia was dragged out by the woman to dump the baby, two Gardai stopped and questioned them before letting them go. No record was kept of this. No fingerprints were taken from the bag, nor were there any tests on certain other material inside it. No blood samples were taken. It’s not clear that any meaningful investigation was carried out, or that the little girl received any treatment or was even seen by a physician.

When Cynthia was asked in the Coroner’s court why she didn’t tell the two Gardai what had happened, the Coroner intervened to explain that there were external reasons. What? What external reasons would have made an eleven-year-old afraid to approach the police about a rape and murder? I know why the Coroner felt he couldn’t go down that road, but I also think the implications are very disturbing.

This incident raises such serious questions about the institutions of our State that it eclipses all the tribunals that have so far taken place and all the previous child-abuse inquiries. If pursued fully, it has the potential to explain why this State for years tolerated blatant abuse of children by people in positions of privilege, from Daingean to Letterfrack, to Artane, and in the Diocese of Wexford and in all the other schools and parishes across the country. But it also has the potential to completely destroy careers and even entire organisations.

That’s why I haven’t much confidence that it will be investigated properly.

After all, we live in a country where our Prime Minister declared that he didn’t want an organisation to become bankrupt just because its officers had abused thousands of children. He was talking about the Catholic church, to whom he gave a blank cheque using tax-payers’ money, with a bill currently running at about €1,200,000,000. Contrast that with the Catholic diocese of San Diego which today announced that it would have to file for bankruptcy because of the compensation payments it had to make as a result of clerical abuse.

If our government will go that far to protect the Catholic church, imagine what it would do to protect the institutions of State. We have seen the extent of corruption in the Gardai exposed by the Morris Tribunal, and yet there has been no root-and-branch review, just the odd disciplinary action against some individuals. I think the Dalkey case carries within it the possibility to torpedo the Garda Siochana and possibly the Department of Justice, and I don’t think any government will countenance that. As old Denning said: it’s an appalling vista.

It doesn’t matter to any government if it’s all true.


Interesting article on a more recent murder in the same vicinity.




Ryanair : the low-standards airline.

Well, so much for our weekend in Scunthorpe.

Yeah, they checked us in at Dublin Airport no problem, so we headed off to the bar for a quick drink, feeling really good about this hassle-free experience. Half an hour later, we’re in past security, gawping at a monitor that says cancelled.

What? Cancelled.

Why? Very simple: fog at Dublin Airport.

Now, I’m not an experienced pilot, and neither are the Wrinklies. I know nothing about airports, or airlines, or how a jet takes off. Same goes for the other two. But one thing we were all agreed on: we’re not fucking blind. Despite the fog in the morning, we were now looking out at a beautiful, crisp, sunny Spring day. No fog.

So what do you reckon this is about? I don’t know, and I wouldn’t like to cast aspersions on Michael O’Leary, so therefore I’m not suggesting that it has anything to do with the reports earlier in the week. You know the ones I mean, where Ryanair were criticised for landing in the fog at British airports.

It couldn’t possibly be that O’Leary said, Fuck ’em then. We’ll cancel a few flights on beautiful sunny days, just to make fools out of them.

Of course it couldn’t. After all, that would mean that Ryanair couldn’t give a shit about their customers. And for the same reason, it couldn’t be because they lost some lucrative flights earlier in the day due to fog, and to make money they had to cancel the flights of bums like us.

Certainly not.

Ryanair. The no-care airline.

Of course, the other effect it had on us was that we had to go back to the bar. To regroup and gather our wits. And have six more pints. It’s the first time I ever went to an airport to get drunk.


Ryder Cup blues

Did you see the weather yesterday morning? It fucking pissed from the heavens. I’m talking about walls of rain, horizontal driven airborne tsunamis. And the forecast is for it to get worse.

Isn’t that fuckin great?

It means that, with any luck, there will be a gigantic monsoon-like deluge on the fucking Ryder Cup. All of those stupid bastards in their canary-yellow trousers and lime-green underpants might get washed away to their deaths in a dreadful flash flood. Not to mention all of those sad, over-compensating, under-educated wankers that pass for Irish business people. Little puffed-up auctioneers from Ferbane, and gobshite under-bank-managers from Terenure, complete with the newest fake business accent. Pricks. Fuck off and die.

I hope there’s a huge typhoon, and a hurricane too, and a flood and a deluge and an enormous blizzard. And a plague of frogs, dogs, stoats, lemurs, meerkats, aardvarks, gavials, sucking loaches, shrikes, fuckheads, dickheads, howler monkeys, jesus christ lizards, komodo dragons, mayors of Limerick, warthogs, tasmanian devils, piebalds.

I hope they all catch the flu, the clap, scrofula, scurvy, gangrene, herpes, genital warts, malaria, ingrown toenails, piles, plague, rheumatic fever, typhoid, TB and impetigo.

I hope they all get struck by lightning. The whole miserable fucking lot of them.

Golf? A sport? Ah for fucksake!


British Aerospace gets a conscience

A headline caught my eye today in the Sunday Times. Lead-free bullets for environment-friendly wars.

What the fuck?

Well, it seems that a company called BAE Systems, one of the biggest armaments manufacturers in the world, has developed a conscience. They’re going to reduce the lead in their bullets so that you cause less pollution when you riddle a crowd of villagers.

What a good idea. In my time, when we riddled a crowd of villagers, that was the end of it. We went home with a sackful of ears and had a good old chin-wag in the mess, with a brandy and a game of snooker. These days, the environmentally-conscious mass-murderer doesn’t even set fire to the village after riddling the villagers. Certainly not. Think of global warming, old bean. Got to do one’s bit, y’know?

Another spiffing idea they have is sustainable artillery. Apparently, the shells have a longer shelf life and don’t blow up unexpectedly. They don’t? Really? So you can buy these things, and they won’t blow your fucking head off while you’re looking at them? Isn’t that brilliant? I love the whole armaments thing. You buy, for instance, a hand-grenade. It costs as much as a BMW, but you have no guarantee AT ALL that it will work, and it might even kill you before you use it. Isn’t that great?

I bought a camera a while back and it was fucking expensive, let me tell you. Very fucking expensive. It gave me problems though, and didn’t take pictures the way a good camera should, so I brought it back to the shop and they changed it.

Excuse me? This camera doesn’t work.

Doesn’t it, sir? No problem – here’s a new one.

The end.

Imagine if I bought a camera from BAE systems, before they brought in their new ethical policy.

Hello. I want to bring this camera back. It exploded and killed my entire family.

Did it, sir? Well, you can fuck off.

They have a director of corporate responsibility. Isn’t that great? One of the biggest arms makers in the world has a department of ethical responsibility. They have, for instance, a policy that their tanks won’t emit harmful substances from their exhaust pipes. Good. That’s very good. Here I am in some rebel Tamil village in Sri Lanka, and here comes a government tank, and I’m thinking Thank God, at least it won’t produce harmful emissions. BAE systems saving lives.

So who exactly are BAE systems? Well, as far as I can see, they’re British Aerospace under a new name, merged with Marconi, but they’ve moved on a bit, and now they build lots of things. As well as planes, they build ships, submarines, tanks and artillery. You might remember the controversy over the Hawk trainer aircraft they sold to the Indonesian government some years back. Before they had an ethical policy, obviously. Here’s what their blurb says about the same plane today: Hawk can be configured to meet customers’ specific requirements. Of course it can, as they did for the Indonesian government when they fitted it with rockets to kill villagers in East Timor, for training purposes of course, as it is only a trainer after all.

But that couldn’t happen today, could it, now that they have an ethics department. What great news for all of us.