The Day After Christmas

‘Tis the day after Christmas and all through the house, creatures are stirring.  Mice, dogs, hung-over teenagers, men with a boiled ham where their head should be.

The young people selected their favourite movies and comedy videos to give me as presents and so we all watched the X-Men and Frankie Boyle.  Also, because we all love the stuff, they gave me a basket of their favourite cheeses, which they very thoughtfully helped me to eat.

I bought the dogs a special festive  tin of minced-up disgusting stuff for that special meal, and they had a lovely time eating their dinner off the ground outside while watching us humans through the window.

Now, you filthy cur, I said to Satan.  Clear off!! and he slunk away in search of some furry mammal to slaughter.  Grrrr, he muttered because he loves Christmas.

I got loads of presents, I’m glad to say.  My electric cattle-prod was beginning to wear out from too many interrogations, and so I was delighted to find a new one from my children under the tree.  It’s an extra-special super one with a Fatal setting for those times when an ordinary shock just won’t do.  Sweet and thoughtful of them.  From Auntie Bridie there was a small bag of brown acid and a voucher for a Latvian hooker.

And of course, from my staff at the Bockschloss, there was the usual tsunami of sullen indifference.  I must remember to step up the beatings, though of course, I will at all times remain jolly and cheerful.

It’s all about image.  A couple of years back, in a fit of spendthrift carelessness, I happened to buy a woollen jumper in one of those big shops where everything is supposed to be reduced down from a million euros to fifty.  It was the real thing, complete with snow-flake patterns but that’s not why I bought it.  The deal-clincher for me was the wind-proof inner lining which would allow me to go out shooting polar bears while looking rugged, craggy and interesting with perhaps a slight Scandinavian beard emphasising my firm jaw-line as I carefully took aim and squeezed the trigger.  Except that it’s bright red and any polar bear with an eye in his head would spot me five miles away.

It just made me look ridiculous and everyone laughed at it so I stopped wearing it, but this year, when it got a little cold, I dug out my woolen jumper, and this time, to my surprise, nobody laughed.  Instead, they all said Nice Christmas jumper!  At first I thought they were secretly laughing at me until I began to notice people everywhere with Christmas jumpers, and none of them as good as my one.

Result.  Now I can wear my Christmas jumper along with my gift of Christmas socks, secure in the knowledge that I led a trend in dodgy festive fashion.

Today, I don’t plan to eat excessively like yesterday, though I may well treat myself to one or two tinctures.  There are two rugby matches to watch and although I could probably stroll out to Thomond Park for the Munster game (John Hayes’s last), after yesterday, I don’t feel entirely capable of standing up for an hour and a half.  I’d say it’s the telly for me, though that television may well be situated in a public house.

Yep.  That looks like the start of a plan.  Unboil the head with a hot shower. Get into town.  Secure a warm spot in a good vantage point with a clear view of the screen and within easy shouting-distance of the bar.

How could you go wrong?

Whenever I find myself in a quandary about what to do the day after Christmas, I ask myself one simple question:

What would Saint Stephen do?

Well actually no.  That’s not true.  Just a year after Jesus shot off into the clouds, Stephen was stoned to death by an angry mob led by a fellow called Saul of Tarsus who would later go on to become Saint Paul.  Stephen’s crime was to utter  something religious that really pissed them off, so I suppose you could say that Saint Paul was a lot like your average Iranian cleric today.

Anyway, Saint Stephen’s judgement was suspect.  While he was busy putting soot on his face and runnning around trying to catch a small bird, he failed to notice the People’s Front of Judea picking up rocks to fling at him.

Much better to ask yourself what Jesus would do.  He’d say, let’s celebrate this bastarding winter solstice.  More wine?

What a good idea, Jesus.  A loaf of bread beneath the bough, a book of versem a jug of wine and rugby.  Maybe drop in to hear my friends the O Malleys playing in Nancy’s.  The day is but a pup.


Happy Christmas To One and All

Just this once, I’m not going to be grumpy.  No indeed.  Instead I’ll wish you a happy, peaceful Christmas and leave it at that.

Why on earth, you might be wondering, did I have this sudden softening of the heart?  Well, it crossed my mind that we’re all feeling pretty miserable these days and the last thing you need on this Christmas Eve is another old curmudgeon reminding you how bad things are.

So that’s it.

May your Santa go with you.

I’ll probably take tomorrow off and get down to some serious over-eating and excessive drinking.  There will be no Bock on Christmas Day, but I’ll see you back here on the 26th with another outpouring of spleen, venom and bile.

Feel free to send in pictures of your new toys and I promise to put them up for the world to admire.




Happy Yuletide

A bit late in the day, due to being busy fixing my relatives’ burst pipes, may I wish all our readers a happy and cheerful Yuletide?

I’m afraid I couldn’t get any of the sullen, indolent lazy oafs in the Bockschloss to write anything special to mark the occasion, but let me assure you, the readers are constantly in my thoughts.  Bastards.

Here are some posts of Christmas past.  If they haven’t already sickened you, this is your chance to be repelled by the moral void that is BTR.

Time for a drink and a mince pie.

Talk to you later folks and thanks for taking the time to read this fucking drivel.


Good King Wenceslas and Other Christmas Songs

They’ve started again,  Christmas songs in the supermarkets, as if any of us was feeling good will towards our fellow man.  As if, in fact, our hearts were not consumed by a hollow murderous rage  towards the political and financial boys’ clubs that have bankrupted us and that now plan to drain us of all our money for the next ten generations so that they can continue  to enjoy their unearned wealth.

Today, as I blundered around a shop in search of something edible and cheap, my ear happened upon a saccharine drone in the background, a re-blanded over-muzakked spewing of Good King Wenceslas, and I thought to myself, why are we celebrating this bastard? This fucker Wenceslas is exactly the same as Fingers Fingleton and that jerk Fitzpatrick, and Cowen and Yehudi Lenihan.

So what if he saw a poor man in the snow and felt sorry for the pathetic  starving bastard?  Well he might, the smug, self-satisfied prick, when all his wealth and money and castles and concubines and all the rest of the shooting gallery were acquired on the misery and sweat of these same poor peasants.  So what if he dragged his manservant off on a jaunt in the snow to feed this freezing peasant gath’ring winter fu-u-el.  The peasant’s kids were probably dying of hypothermia and plague while Wenceslas’s pampered lazy brats were rolling around in front of a giant fireplace burning half a forest and sucking on chocolate fat-fuckers.

And anyway, what about all the other frozen peasants living right against the forest fence? Do you think Wenceslas went around to every one of their reeking hovels with food and fuel on the Feast of Stephen?  He did in his bollocks.  Come on, he told his page-boy.  Let’s get the fuck out of here.  I’m fuckin frozen.  After salving his uncomfortable conscience with a few rashers and a bag of twigs, he fucked off back to his palace for a feast and a romp with the concubines, the hypocritical bastard.

A bit like those Irish billionaires who pay no tax here but salve their consciences by ego-massaging philanthropic gestures and patronising lectures to the rest of us compliant taxpayers.

Right, Bono?  Right JP?


Previous Christmas grumpiness from Bock:

Preparing for Christmas

Christmas Songs in the Supermarket

The Christmas Crib

Bar Staff

All a huge misunderstanding

Christmas Toys

Christmas gift ideas

Customs Religion Society

Saint Patrick’s Day

This is the day we Irish celebrate the fucking lunatic who talked us out of our free-spirited, fun-loving pagan ways, and replaced them with an oppressive, guilt-ridden, sex-obsessed delusion: Christianity.

Isn’t that a great thing to celebrate?

Some mad bastard over from Wales, waving a bunch of shamrock at us and shouting in Latin. This little plant, he represent the three tenors!

Latin! His family were from Rome but they lived in Wales. I think they ran a chain of chip shops.

Latin. I kid you not.

What’s he saying?

Dunno. Something in Italian.


How the fuck do I know? Something about football, I suppose.

Oh right. Football. Maybe he’s starting a club.

Maybe he is. We’ll all join. It’ll make a nice change from dancing around naked, painted blue and shagging our brains out all night long without a care in the world.

€˜Twill. Football, you say?

It’s a very Irish day, and it has been ever since 1903, when the UK government passed a law proclaiming it a public holiday in Ireland.

And let’s not forget the the very first parade, which was held in Boston in 1761, or the second in New York the following year.

A very Irish day indeed, brought to us by a Welsh Italian maniac, made law by a British government and celebrated by Americans long before we ever thought of it. And then we saw the value of believing all the bullshit about us, and started to paint our own streets green (and not Saint Patrick blue as you might have expected). And we’ll send our fucking fools of Prime Ministers over to the White House every year with a bowl of fucking shamrock.

Shamrock! Did you ever see a more pathetic weed than shamrock? If you found it in your garden you’d spray it with the worst poison you could buy. At least the Prime Minister of Jamaica brings a big bowl of sensemilla on Haile Selassie Mad Bastard Day and they skin up all of it and the whole White House gets fucking smashed, including the President and the guy holding the suitcase with the red button. All they do with our bowl of shamrock is hand it to a Secret Service agent who takes it out the back and throws it on a compost heap. And you know what? We seem to get away with all that fucking bullshit.

Why? How do we get access to the White house like that? Beats the hell out of me, especially when you see the mumbling, shuffling fools we send over there, year after year, to represent us. (Just for a second there, I was going to say speak for us but that’s ridiculous).

What a great bunch of fun-loving rogues we Irish are. That must be it.

Customs Humour

Halloween Beggars

The big night approaches fast, but I’m on it.

I’ve stockpiled large quantities of goodies to hand out to the little trick-or-treaters when they knock on my door, though I haven’t yet had a chance to add the drugs to them. I’m hoping Bullet will give me a hand tomorrow to lace the sweets with minute amounts of PCP and psilocybin. And perhaps strychnine, depending on how the mood takes me.

Let’s see now. Do I want demented-running-around with visions from the pits of Hell, or do I want agonised writhing with foaming at the mouth?

Hmm. Not an easy choice. Never easy. Pits-of-Hell / agonised writhing. Agonised writhing / pits-of-Hell. Gnnyyaaahhh!!‚  What to do?

I know! Let’s have both. We’ll mix a little strychnine with some arsenic, some ricin, a bit of cyanide, some Polonium-210, hemlock and botulism. Take that, you botulist bastard!! Now we’re cookin’! Let’s mix it all in with some lysergic acid, the old PCP, psilocybin, a bit of peyote for sudden jumping up on mountains, a little bit of sensemilla. Throw in some DMT, 2C-B, mescaline, DOM, some skunkweed and a healthy lump of old-fashioned DOPE.

There. I think we’re finished. Get to work, Bullet.

I’ve also bought dozens of eggs to pelt the little fuckers’ parents with because I hate these smug yummy-mummy holier-than-thou bastards that shepherd the kids from door to door and stand back there on the footpath watching you in case you abduct the little vermin and cut them in half in front of their smug, horrified middle-class pushy-parent eyes. As if you’d be bothered. As if they’d be any loss.

Fuck you!! I’ll howl at them while my beloved son feeds their little middle-class spawn a fistful of sweets laced with psychoactive chemicals, deadly poisons and radioactive isotopes. Then I’ll pelt their SUV with rotten eggs. Clean that, you condescending fucker!

I have the dogs wound up to a crescendo of rage — achieved very simply, by showing them pictures of people in furry gloves and then kicking them, hard. My plan is simple. Any child that won’t accept the psilocybin-laced sweets will have to run the gauntlet of starving, maddened dogs (mine and all my neighbours’ — we’ve banded together this year). Any survivors will be shouted at in unison by a phalanx of enraged householders: Fuck off, you horrible little prick. You’re ugly and you’ll never amount to anything. And you won’t get into that fee-paying school your crawling slithery furry-hatted parents wanted for you, so there!! Mwooohahahaha!

We’re practising this chant, and it’s starting to gel. Actually, it’s a great way to bring a neighbourhood together.

I’ve also bought a number of catapults for our teenagers to shoot nuts and hard little crab-apples at the children when they see them crying.

With any luck, I’m hoping we can mentally scar even more of the little bastards this year than we did last year.


Customs Religion

Fuck off, St Patrick


What are we celebrating? Some Welsh [tag]religious[/tag] nutcase arrived over here and filled us with a load of bullshit that eventually went on to become the Irish [tag]Catholic[/tag] church? The most dysfunctional and oppressive organisation ever to screw up the Irish people?

This we should celebrate?

No surprise that people drink excessively on St Patrick’s Day. It’s probably the best way to blot out the memories of stupidity, greed, tyranny and abuse inflicted on the Irish people by the bastards that fucker Patrick introduced to us.

What was wrong with the laid-back fun-loving, relatively equal society that Patricius barged into with all his talk of hell and guilt and damnation, and all the other mentally-ill bullshit these proto-Catholics were so fond of? [Hint: Nothing!]

By the way, who selected the 17th March as St Patrick’s Day? It has to have been some miserable old bishop, doesn’t it?

Hmmm. Let me see now. July? No. They’d enjoy it too much. August? Ah no. The girls would be sunbathing and getting me excited. I know! We’ll have it in the middle of March when the weather is dreary and wet and cold and miserable. Great idea. That’s how we’ll do it.

But enough of this begrudgery. I’m off now to wait for the parade. God, I just love watching dozens of fat girls with frozen blue legs and double chins. And as for the ancient Americans staggering down the middle of the street and waving at us? Oh stop. The excitement is too much.

kick it on

Customs popular culture Religion

The Big Day here at last

Well, this is it. By now, I expect, the Fat Knacker Marching Bands will have wobbled their way through some appalling parody of Californian cheerleading and the Ancient Staggering Americans are back in their cryogenic cocoons for another year of undeadness. They’ll be handing out the prizes for the floats, selected by the assembled dignitaries on the stand. “An’ now it gives me great pleasure ta announce da prize for da Least Boring Display, an it goes ta Hegarty’s Windas, for da Hungarian Hoor!! Less have a Big Clap for da Hungarian Hoor, tank ya laze an jen men.”

Dignitaries. Now there’s a concept for you. Dignitaries. It really is such a parochial small-town kind of word, isn’t it? A word coined for towns such as Limerick, and countries such as Ireland. Bring out the local dignitaries for the occasion. Well what the fuck is a dignitary? Will I tell you? OK, I was going to anyway. A dignitary is some fucking shopkeeper who managed to slither onto some half-assed incompetent sheep-dipping committee and now thinks he matters. Even though he couldn’t put two words together in the right order and he can hardly scratch his name on the footpath with a broken bottle. That’s a dignitary. All you have to do is look at the mummified bums who call themselves the City Council, or even more laughably, the City Fathers. Oh come on. A shower of half-educated gobshites and illiterates. In Limerick dignitary circles, your importance is measured by the redness of your nose and the bagginess of your suit. Oh, and a wife who caught her accent off a sun-bed.

Anyway, it’s now time for the real celebration of our national identity. This is where we show the world the new self-confident Ireland, by all of us getting completely shitfaced drunk, vomiting in the street and starting fights at the taxi-ranks. Oh. Right. So actually, there’s going to be nothing different then. In Ireland, every day is St Patrick’s Day.

To my mind, at least, the annual St Patrick’s Day celebration illustrates as no other event can, how completely we have abandoned every vestige of genuine culture in this country. I was listening to that fool Tubridy on RTE this morning (or Radio Dublin as we call it down here), and he was at a table laid out with exclusively Irish food. Great. What a positive idea, I’m thinking. So, what exactly did this Gaelic gastronomic gamut comprise? Did he have freshly-caught baked fish, mussels in garlic, fillet steak in cream sauce with braised garden carrots and baked Irish potatoes in rich creamery butter? Irish Brie and cheddar? Free-range eggs, handmade preserves, chutneys, jams, brown bread? Did he present an array of crisp tender organic vegetables, lifted from the ground this very morning and cooked to perfection, al dente, retaining all their wonderful nature-given nutrition? Did he fuck! He had a table full of Marietta biscuits, Kimberleys, Taytos, Three-Counties cheese, instant mash and every other kind of ersatz processed shite that Irish kids were fed from the sixties on instead of real food. It’s only a small example, I know, but I think it’s a revealing one. This is how our culture has evolved: we think such crap is part of our heritage the same way some people think the Wolfe Tones play traditional Irish music.

For the most part we don’t speak Irish any more, except within certain small geographical areas. Our kids are coming out of school, after eleven or twelve years of being taught the language, hardly able to speak a word of it. Jesus Christ, in Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Poland, you name it, they can teach their kids to speak fluent English in five years. And here, despite being taught Irish from the time they enter school, not only can our kids not speak it, in many cases they come out of school with a downright dislike of it. Now what the fuck is going on there? Is it just that our children are so exceptionally stupid they’re unable to learn? Or is it that the teaching of Irish was hijacked long ago by the language-fascists, whose methods turned the children completely against the language. Isn’t it ironic that the very people who claim to support the language might well be the ones who manage to eliminate it?

What exactly did St Patrick achieve anyway, that we’re all so proud of? Well, I suppose he brought with him the love of rugby football that kept many an Irishman going in hard times. (Although, admittedly, the league hadn’t a very big following in those days, and Richmonds had no club house. Not much change there, then.) But apart from rugby, what did he achieve? Christianity? Oh right. Christianity. Wasn’t that the religion that would later give the world the mass slaughters of the crusades. The Inquisition. The pogroms of Eastern Europe. And on a more local level, the gobshites of the Catholic hierarchy and the thick farmer’s sons they appointed as their foot-soldiers in the parishes. John Charles McQuaid. SPUC. Glin, Daingean, Letterfrack, Artane. Thank you St Patrick. The Magdalene laundries. Thank you St Patrick. Sean Fortune, Brendan Smyth, Ivan Payne and all the other pederasts. Thank you St Patrick. Catholic control of hospitals that would rather see a pregnant woman die in agony than administer pain-killers. The same Drogheda hospital, as it happens, where a god-like consultant saw fit to carry out hysterectomies on hundreds of women without their permission. Why? Because in their insanity, the fucking nuns who owned the place considered this more in keeping with Catholic teaching than a simple tubal ligation would be. St Patrick, thank you so very fucking much.


More St Patrick’s Day Shite

Here we go again.

After a long hibernation, we’ve built up sufficient reserves of smugness to begin patronising the planet once more. On Friday, we’ll witness the annual Festival of the Freaks in every town and village in the country. Here in Limerick, we’ll thrill as the local Fat Knacker Marching Bands take to the streets. Hundreds of frozen-blue little girls with goosebumps and double chins wobbling down O’Connell Street. After the Fat Knacker Marching Bands, we’ll have five-year-olds on quad bikes with a coordinated display of pedestrian-knocking, followed by the Throwing-a-Black-Bag-From-a-Moving-Vehicle competition.

If you don’t like any of that, you can have the (dwindling) bunch of ancient Americans staggering down the middle of our main street and waving at the locals for no obvious fucking reason. I always liked that one.  Always.

Dad, who are those old people and why are they waving at us?

Shut up, son, they’re our American ancestors.

Or you could have the endless line of trucks with advertisements and nothing else stuck on the side of them.  Buy Hegarty’s Windows, and win a night with a Hungarian Hooker!!

I love the car with the couple of balloons tied to the wipers. Look, Dad. A car!  With a strange orange-skinned person sitting on the roof, waving to us. Could it possibly be Gavin Henson? No, it’s even better than that. Please, Miss Limerick, wave at me!

Don’t knock it: it’s the only culture we have left these days, and you can believe that all the other Patrick’s Day shit is a whole load of guff.

Some years ago, I reached an agreement with my son, then 10 years old. Standing in the freezing cold and pissing rain, he looked up at me, and we exchanged that glance that only father-son pairs understand. The look that says This Is Crap. And we’ve never been back.

Nobody ever says “shitting rain”. Isn’t that strange?


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