Favourites Humour Society

Christmas Toys

Well, it’s been a long hard road, but they’re finally here. My new range of action figures will be in the shops for Christmas, and I’m hoping every little girl and boy will want one, or even a whole family of them.

I refer, of course, to Power Pavees® , realistic movable action figures to thrill every kid, young and not-so-young.

The grown-up Power Pavees® will have special powers like no other action toy available anywhere. Take Francie, for instance. Francie has the power to get 40 caravans onto an unopened motorway without anyone noticing. And Pa has the power to make all the insulation disappear off a coil of copper cable by setting fire to it. Winnie has ten times the power of a normal human to trip over a crack in the pavement.

Then, for the younger ones, we’ll have the Pavee Power-Tots ®: little Beyoncé, Courtney, Wayne and Rio. They have the power to ride quad-bikes. When they become teenagers, they’ll have the power to not bother their arses going to school.

They all have the power to fit new plastic gutters for old people, lay tarmac on old people’s driveways and sell three-piece suites to poor people.

You’ll be able to buy a range of accessories for your Power Pavees®. Just like with the old Scalextric game, you’ll be able to get little sections of unopened motorway, and nice little caravans to put on it (but we call them trailers). Fit them together to make an unofficial halting site, or an exciting sulky-track. We also have sections of green space, and new roundabouts to occupy. You can get your own Power Pavee Sulkies®, Hi-Aces and Navara 4x4s for our latest model, the English Cousins®, Power Pavees® .

Other accessories include little movable greyhounds to hang around the trailers, little car-batteries and black bin-liners to throw into the green space beside your motorway, and tiny coils of cable you can set fire to.

And for that favourite little girl in your life, why not rush out now and buy her our adorable My Little Piebald® ?

popular culture


I saw these reports today about two Leaving Cert students who were awarded 12,000 euros because they were discriminated against. The money was awarded by the Equality Tribunal when the students took a case against the Department of Education. Why? Well, it seems that both students are dyslexic and apparently the certificates issued to the students had some footnotes which stated that their English exam didn’t test their spelling, punctuation or certain elements of grammar.

This, to me, seems a bit silly. Why didn’t the exam test their spelling, punctuation or grammar? That way, they could just have been given a straight result, with no controversy. But no. It appears that, because the students have a disability, they are exempt from having their spelling and punctuation assessed, and this is the way the Equality Tribunal would like it. In an English exam, you don’t bother looking at the spelling, because a lot of people have trouble spelling.

Do you know what we should do? We should stop testing people on things they find hard. Great. Why not take it a step further, and let people who can’t read a single word do the English exam? We’ll test them on absolutely fuck-all, and therefore we’ll have to give them top marks.

Well done, you illiterate fucker: you got an A in English.

And in future, people won’t be bad at maths, or have crap teachers who turned them off. Instead, we’ll have dyscalculia. Ha, you think I made up that word, don’t you? Well, I fucking didn’t. It’s in use, and pretty soon, all hard sums will be banned from maths exams because people with dyscalculia might feel left out.

Can’t you just see them in a few years, down there in Houston? On the mission to Alpha Centauri, reaching out to our nearest intelligent neighbours who recently beamed us back an episode of Neighbours.

Challenger II, you are good to go.

And the mighty transquadriplinthalistic engines rumble to life, propelling the gigantic ship upwards, upwards, upwards and straight into the side of a fucking mountain.

What the heck, Houston?

Ah, sorry there, Mission Control. Um, seems one of our navigation controllers has dyscalculia, got his flight equations a little knotted up, y’know?

Dyscalculia, you say. Well shoot! Why’n’y’all say so sooner? Why we can’t go all upsettin’ that poor disabled boy. Let’s us jest ferget the whole darn thing an’ start over. What y’all say?

Why stop there? We could award Physical Education degrees to multiple amputees. No test necessary because no fuckin legs for fuckin trampoline. Only fair. And if you don’t like it, we’ll be off to the Equality Tribunal. By the way, so what if I have no arms or legs or a head? I’m equal to you and I’m entitled to that black belt in Kung Fu.

They estimate that 5,000 students every year could have dyslexia and could all be covered by this ruling. Who says 5,000 students have dyslexia? I don’t know. Are there that many people in the country qualified to make a diagnosis, or is it just something you can claim to have? Were they diagnosed, and if so who carried out the diagnosis? In this country, children have to wait till they’re forty-three to get orthodontic treatment. People have to drive a hundred miles to get dialysis. Old people have to lie on an A&E trolley for a week before they’re seen. But somebody somewhere is able to diagnose 5,000 kids every year with dyslexia.

It’s getting late. I have to be up early. I’m tired. So don’t get me fucking started on ADHD. OK?
kick it on


The Travelling Community’s Traditions

I promised I’d bring you pictures of the tasteful memorial erected in Kilmallock graveyard by the travelling community. Here are some shots of the graveyard and church.

The church is a national monument and two of the walls of the graveyard are the mediaeval walls of the town. Isn’t it beautiful?

Here’s the memorial erected by the travelling community:

Here’s a somewhat less ambitious erection by the same community:

As you can see, every effort has been made to stay in keeping with the general feeling of the graveyard, and to respect the sensitivities of neighbouring families.


Tinker Erections

You might not have heard about this, but the people of Kilmallock are pretty pissed off about a new erection in their old graveyard. You see, the graveyard is a national monument and an archaeological treasure, which is why the design of headstones is tightly controlled.

For me, that is, and for you. And for the people of Kilmallock. But not for the tinkers. No, not for the Pavees. It seems the travellers were told that they couldn’t build a large monument at one of their graves. It would have to be the same general size as all the others, and in keeping with the general tone of what was already there. Undeterred, the tinkers and their builder climbed the walls of the cemetery during the night, and constructed a huge marble edifice including three life-size angels, to the value of approximately a hundred grand. (I suppose it was all the impoverished, marginalised poor devils could afford). I’ll bring you a picture of this shortly.

Insertion from the future

Incidentally, do you know what the verses are called that they inscribe on these huge monuments? Paiku.

political correctness


What is it with social workers, “community workers” and the like? Why won’t they use the word “about” like the rest of us? The next time you’re talking to your probation officer, listen carefully to what he says and observe the world he inhabits.

In Social-Worker-World, people are never frightened of something. They have fears around it. They never object to a proposal. Instead, they have issues around it. They have questions around things, and misgivings around stuff. Worries around issues, and issues around worries.

Where you or I might say, “fuck off ya lyin’ bollox!”, a social worker will say “I have doubts around what you say.” Why can’t they pronounce the word “about”? Is it some bizarre and highly-specific speech impediment? No. I don’t think so.

I guarantee you, the next time you hear somebody talking about having “issues around this”, they’ll be either a social worker or a tinker who was sent on a course. Soft, woolly, touchy-feely, general vague-speak, reflecting soft, woolly, touchy-feely, general vague-think.

It’s Nature’s way of protecting these people from the real world.



Two young children were severely burned when three teenagers threw petrol on their mother’s car and set it on fire. The country is convulsed in horror and incomprehension that anyone could do such a thing. Nobody can make sense of it. Everyone is astounded at the sheer unthinking savagery and pointlessness of the attack. The whole country is baffled.

Why? What’s the mystery? These fuckers have been burning cats and dogs since they were four years old. It’s a short step from there to burning children. Listen, it’s about time we stopped all this denial and woke up. It isn’t about poverty. It isn’t about disadvantage. It isn’t about marginalisation. It isn’t about drugs or crime or alcohol or any of the other sociologists’ excuses.

It’s about cruelty. It’s about violent bastards walking around unafraid of the law. It’s about stupid, aggressive, ignorant, arrogant, inbred fucking SKOBES! It’s about generation after generation of thick, stupid knackers having thick aggressive knacker children while the rest of us pay for them.

It’s about time we said no.

Humour Society

Christmas gift ideas

Well, doesn’t time fly? Here we are and the Christmas season is upon us again, with the shops playing lovely Christian carols like Jingle Bells, and Chipmunk Christmas and Working for the Clampdown. My personal favourites were Nuts for You and Dirty Boulevard. Well do I remember, in days gone by, my uncle Johnny leaning against the piano with his old pipe in one hand and the other hand tucked into his waistcoat pocket as we all sat around drinking mulled wine. Give us another song there, Johnny, my father used to say, and Uncle Johnny, God rest him, would let on he didn’t want to and we’d all shout out More, More, More. So Uncle Johnny would set down his pipe, and he’d say with a chuckle, well maybe just one more then. Here’s something by the Velvet Underground. And my father would say, fuck that Johnny, give us Lou Reed on his own, or else something by Captain Beefheart!

Ah great days they were, right enough. Great days.

God, it doesn’t seem so long since last Christmas ended, but there you are: as you get older time just seems to conflate in a hyper-relativistic meta-vortex. At least, that’s what the old people used to say, long ago.

Bigod, they used to say, isn’t there an awful shrinkin’ in the Universe, altogether, faith, in a uniform region without discontinuities or singularities? It must be a chrono-synclastic infundibulum at work.

No. someone else would say, ’tis only because the ducks are in the nettles, but sure isn’t that a terrible sign in self? ‘Tis, faith.

That’s what the old people used to say, anyhow. Simpler times.

But back to today. I had an idea to ease the stress people are certainly feeling as the pressure mounts to buy all the presents for their children. I’m going to invent a few toys and have them made at an affordable price in one of my factories, and furthermore, I’m going to have an occasional series here, explaining to you the background to my creations.

This week, I’m working on something called Power Tinkers. These are little plastic figures that represent various tinker heroes, and they all have special powers.

For example, Francie has the power to strip the insulation off any sized coil of wire by setting fire to it. Winnie has ten times the ability of a normal human to trip over a crack in the footpath, and Dannyboy can fit forty caravans through a tiny gap between boulders and onto a new bypass without being seen. Ginger has the power to convince a checkpoint of Guards that he’s fully taxed and insured. The evil Small Minority has the power to give all tinkers a bad name. But the most powerful of all is Davy Crockett, a millionaire Power Tinker who can make the Council build him a free caravan park for his holidays.

We’ve been working on a hero who has the power to clean up after him, but there are still some technical issues to be ironed out.

I’m hoping to get these into the shops by the first week in October and if they prove a success, I’ll develop them further. I was thinking of maybe a science fiction spin-off series: Pavee Trek, about intergalactic knackers. I was also considering a Matrix-type movie about cyber-tinkers who camp on the side of the information super-highway, as their ancestors have traditionally done for generations. It could be a big hit in the gaming world, I’m telling you.


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.


Limerick Travellers Development Group

No. I haven’t suddenly become illiterate. I omitted the apostrophe from the title because the owners did so and I want to respect their right to leave out apostrophes if they wish. It’s probably part of their culture and we couldn’t be disrespecting people’s culture, could we? Of course we couldn’t.

Now, let me be plain. I’m writing this at a time when a crowd of people parked caravans on the land adjacent to the Parkway roundabout. I don’t know who they were, though some were obviously English, judging by their registration plates. These people all had new cars and new jeeps, leading me to think that they were probably not poor. How do I deduce this? Well, I’m not poor, but I couldn’t afford an ’06 Pajero, for example, and therefore anybody who can afford one is better off than me. And therefore not fucking poor. QED.

These not-fucking-poor people parked on the land of the former Dillon’s garage and for weeks used the neighbours’ gardens as toilets. I’m talking about people shitting in your garden every day, just so we can be clear about the details here. People shitting in your front garden, ok? Got the picture? Steaming turds?

And what do you think the Limerick Travellers Development Group had to say about this? Well, it seems the City Council are to blame for not providing transient accommodation so that these people can maintain their traditional way of life.

Let’s examine this. Let’s suppose for a moment that the City Council should provide free accommodation so that wealthy people can go on their holidays for free. OK. Let’s accept that for now. The City Council were wrong, and they didn’t provide accommodation.

So, here come the travellers. Do they say, fuck, the City Council didn’t provide us with free accommodation, and that means we can’t camp here? We’ll have to go home cos there’s no place to camp for free.

No. They said, OK, we’ll just shit in people’s gardens and make it their problem instead of ours. We’re entitled to our holidays.

Now, let me point out to you that the local people also have a history and a culture that need to be respected. It involves having a shit-free house and being free from disease. I wonder if somebody will set up a development group to vindicate their rights?


Calling Wayne

Chanterelle goes into the Social. “I wants to claim for a new baby.”

“No bother,” says the Social guy. “How many is that you have?”


“No bother. Just for the record, can I check what the others are called.”

“They’re called Wayne.”

“No,” says the Social guy. “I need to know what they’re all called.”

“They’re all called Wayne.”

“Right,” says the Social guy. “I see. But doesn’t that get a bit confusing? I mean, for instance, if you want to call one of them? So to speak?”

“Oh, that’s no bother,” says Chanterelle. “When their dinner’s on the table, I roars out the door, come in Wayne you little fucker, your dinner’s poured out!!! And they all comes in.”

“I see,” says the guy at the Social. “But supposing you just want one particular individual? One of them. An individual?”

Chanterelle pauses for an instant and then lights up with understanding. “Like, one of the fuckers and not the other fuckers? Like?”


“Oh, that’s easy. I just calls ’em by their surname.”