Sole Control Solutions – Chancers and Gobshites

This individual left a couple of comments on my site under different names and with different email addresses.

Great post, thanks for the info – Dag

Is there a way to recieve a review of this? – Dade

Normally, my spam filter would have picked up this shit and filtered it before I had to bother looking at it, but somehow it got through this time, so I had a look at the associated site, and I was surprised to see that it was actually written by a real human being.  It’s called the Small Business Website Blog and it’s obviously written by an idiot who thinks he can get away with spamming me, you and everyone else.

The company behind this bullshit calls itself Sole Control Solutions, and they are registered with the Companies Registration Office.  I know this because I checked their background.  In fact, I went a step further and downloaded the CRO’s details on them.

The registered office is at 32 Millers Lane, Skerries, Co Dublin.

The owners are Alastair and Brian Kay, of the same address, and the company was registered on the 18th December 2006.

They claim to be web designers and more, according to their website.

Do not deal with these fools.  By spamming sites like mine, they have demonstrated absolute incompetence and they would be the last people you’d need to spend money with.

Advice to bloggers: delete these fools’ comments.  Do not give them free advertising.  Mark them as spammers and forget them.

Advice to everyone else: do not pay these gobshites anything.  Tell them to fuck off.

What are they thinking? What can possibly be going through their little brains?  Already, after only an hour of their spamming me, this is what a Google search produces:

And these gobshites claim to be web experts?  Dear God!



I see they’ve posted this on their site:


We recently hired someone on contract to do some marketing work for us. They seem to have decided that spamming blogs half way across the Internet was a good way to build some links. We found this out when a number of, quite rightly, offended bloggers contacted us to complain. At this stage we are still unsure as to how widespread this was.

This is not an approach that we support in any way. If your blog has been affected by comment spam linking to this site then we apologise unreservedly. It is the result of an error that we should not have made and it won’t be happening again.


Pathetic.  I don’t believe them.  If they had the backbone to write to me directly I might have some respect for them, but to post this lame excuse on their own little-read site and to assume that sorts everything out just underlines how poor they are at their job.


Beautiful Losers

Well, we went to see I’m Your Man tonight, and I have to tell you I enjoyed almost every second of it.

Almost, Bock? Why not every single second?

Oh, that’s simple. I can answer that in one word: Bono.

Was there ever such a pretentious, self-obsessed, insincere twat as Bono? Is there a single word this man can say that isn’t rehearsed? Look at him. Look at the preening, self-satisfied holier-than-thou gobshite and tell me you’re not looking at a fraud. Christ all-fucking-mighty, I just cannot look at that man without wanting to commit mass murder. Or mass shopping. One or the other. I can never tell the difference.

I mean, listen to that ludicrous mid-Atlantic accent. Where the fuck did he get that growing up in north Dublin? What a knob-head. There he is, in the Cohen movie, standing in the shadows, sharing his ridiculous opinions while wearing sunglasses. In the dark!! Question for you: what are sunglasses for? Correct. they’re for sun. So why does that fool Bono need sunglasses in the dark? Answer: he’s a knob-head.

Nick Cave, meanwhile, came across as a guy who hadn’t given a second’s thought to his answers, and do you know what? I believed every word he said. Unlike Bono, who looked like he’d spent twelve hours in front of a mirror, getting it right.

I have always loved the music and writing of Leonard Cohen. I’m a true believer, and I loved this movie, apart from the random intrusions of Bono’s vacuous twitterings. Watching the film develop, with all these wonderful singers covering his songs, it seemed that the right thing would be if Lenny finished it himself, by singing Tower of Song, and that’s exactly what happened. Imagine my horror, then to discover that he had U2 as his backing band. Oh Noooooooo!

To his credit, Leonard looked both embarrassed and in pain.

Bono is a self-important, unlettered twit. Leonard Cohen, by contrast, is a humble genius, and I thought I might bring you a little evidence of this. His book, Beautiful Losers, was translated into Chinese in 1999, much to Lenny’s surprise, and this is the foreword he wrote to his new Chinese readers. For people familiar with him, it confirms what they already know, and for new arrivals, it’s as good an introduction as any to the kind of man he is.

Here we go:

Dear Reader,

Thank you for coming to this book. It is an honor, and a surprise, to have the frenzied thoughts of my youth expressed in Chinese characters. I sincerely appreciate the efforts of the translator and the publishers in bringing this curious work to your attention. I hope you will find it useful or amusing.

When I was young, my friends and I read and admired the old Chinese poets. Our ideas of love and friendship, of wine and distance, of poetry itself, were much affected by those ancient songs. Much later, during the years when I practiced as a Zen monk under the guidance of my teacher Kyozan Joshu Roshi, the thrilling sermons of Lin Chi (Rinzai) were studied every day. So you can understand, Dear Reader, how privileged I feel to be able to graze, even for a moment, and with such meager credentials, on the outskirts of your tradition.

This is a difficult book, even in English, if it is taken too seriously. May I suggest that you skip over the parts you don’t like? Dip into it here and there. Perhaps there will be a passage, or even a page, that resonates with your curiosity. After a while, if you are sufficiently bored or unemployed, you may want to read it from cover to cover. In any case, I thank you for your interest in this odd collection of jazz riffs, pop-art jokes, religious kitsch and muffled prayer æ an interest which indicates, to my thinking, a rather reckless, though very touching, generosity on your part.

Beautiful Losers was written outside, on a table set among the rocks, weeds and daisies, behind my house on Hydra, an island in the Aegean Sea. I lived there many years ago. It was a blazing hot summer. I never covered my head. What you have in your hands is more of a sunstroke than a book.

Dear Reader, please forgive me if I have wasted your time.

Los Angeles, February 27, 2000

Leonard Cohen

kick it on


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.

popular culture

Suing a hospital

Did you see those reports during the week about a couple who sued a hospital because a sterilisation operation didn’t work? It seems the woman had a tubal ligation in the Coombe, and on the face of it, that appeared to be that. The end. No more babies.

It’s very final.

No more puking into people’s faces. No more howling at five in the morning when your head is hanging off with the sleep. No more tantrums or rolling on the floor. The end of falling off tables. Goodbye to lollipops walked into the carpet. No more pissing on the furniture.

And that’s just you.

No nappies, no dragging buggies through revolving doors, no shite everywhere, and maybe, for a change, a little money left in your pocket at the end of the week.

So obviously, when I saw that these people went on to have another two children after the operation, I was outraged and overwhelmed with sympathy for them. Damn right, they should sue the hospital! That’s ridiculous!! You have an operation and they tell you everything is fine, but then you go on to have another two children. Fucking disgraceful!

That’s what I thought.

And then I thought: TWO? Did they say two children?

Right. Let’s just retrace a little here, shall we?

Ah, ehrm, ah, um . . . How do I put this?

Did they not have the tiniest hint after the first child that maybe the operation didn’t work?

Apparently not. OK. Right, Ted.


Steve Staunton: Genius

Steve Staunton has called Andy Keogh up to the Irish international squad.

I suppose Andy was no good until last week because he was playing for Scunthorpe, but this week, now that he’s with Wolves, he must be brilliant. Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that the great man, Mick McCarthy, manages Wolves and thinks Andy is very good. Steve is absolutely the boss in Irish soccer. He told us so when he took the job: “I’m the Gaffer.”

Yeah, Steve, that’s right. You’re in charge.


Beckham goes to Hollywood

There’s Beckham off to America for 250 million dollars.

I needed a new challenge, he explains.

Challenge? He’s going to a country where everybody is shite at soccer, and he’ll be playing against children. That’s a challenge?

Gimme a break, Davy-boy. He’s going because they’re kicking him out of Real Madrid and the Yanks have a pile of money to spend on washed-up footballers. They can’t tell the difference.

Also, he’s going to a place where his ridiculous wife will look normal.

Those are the reasons.

kick it on

Food & Drink

Happy New Year

Aren’t artists great?

I went into two of my pubs of choice tonight.

The first one has pleasant staff who are always friendly and cordial to us and what’s more, they talk to all of us very nicely. We congregate there and spend a lot of money in the course of the year. It’s owned by a well-known painter.

The second one also has pleasant staff who are always friendly and cordial to us. What’s more, they talk to us nicely and we tend to congregate there. We spend a lot of money in the course of the year. It’s owned by business people.

Tonight, most of us enjoyed the night in the second establishment, who recognised our years-long patronage by providing music, food and a couple of complimentary drinks which didn’t cost much in the great scheme of things.

How did the artist-publican acknowledge our years-long patronage?

He didn’t.

Favourites Humour Sexuality

Bondage accessories

Did you ever try googling “bondage furniture”?


You should – it’s hysterical. Hold on there a minute. I’ll go off and do a bit of googling.

Dum dee dum dee dum dee da de da dee dee dum

Right. I’m back, and I got a few pictures to show you what we’re talking about. You see, what I can’t get over is the money they charge for this stuff. Here’s a thing, now, for example:

It’s a cross, for getting yourself crucified. Have a close look at this thing. It consists of three boards that would set you back maybe 15 euros. How much do you think they charge for this item? Would you believe that some fuckin eejit is going to hand over 425 dollars for this? About 300 euros? And then he’s going to get himself tied to the fuckin thing and get his arse lashed by some mad old bitch with one eye closed from cigarette smoke and a flat gin-and-tonic in the other hand.

OK. You can see where this is going. Next!

What do you make of this? It’s a saw-horse, and it’s yours for only 385 dollars. What a great idea. When you’re not getting your knob crushed with a garlic press, you can use it to knock a few shelves together.

Let’s move on.

What about this? I like this.

A handy massage table that doubles as a secure cage for your pet Rhodesian Ridgeback. It’s really a very clever design, because you can be getting massaged with a lump hammer while the Ridgeback is chewing the bollocks off you at the same time. Only 750 dollars.
You’ll probably want some of these as well, to go with your massage table, and at only 35 dollars they’re well worth it.

Have a look at this fuckin eejit. This could be you. And if you’re really lucky, you could also be wearing THIS! I’ll leave it up to you to figure out what it does, but it costs a derisory 90 dollars.

But if you thought that was bad, how about this gobshite?

Here’s a fucking fool who voluntarily allowed his knob to get trapped in an adjustable torture machine. What a prick! And do you know how much he paid for the pleasure of getting his member mashed? 450 dollars.

Let’s not knock it, though. I’m working on a plan that’s going to make us all rich. You see, with the new property market, houses are incredibly expensive, and also incredibly small. Your average suburban semi-dweller can’t afford a fully-fitted dungeon, much though they might want it. So I have my staff at the Bockschloss working on a range of convertible furniture. By day, you can feed the kids on the kitchen table, serve the dinner, do a crossword, all that normal stuff. But by night, with one flick of a lever, your kitchen table converts into a rack with extra ball-crushing features and electrodes. Another flick of a lever, and your kitchen cupboards swivel backwards, turning into cold and slimy granite dungeon walls. With chains. And skeletons!

I’m going to call my new company Dungeonisation and all our vans will have prominent logos. We won’t actually do any work ourselves. We’ll just park outside your house until you pay us enough to make us go away.

I can see it now on About the House. Here comes Duncan with his wild staring eyes and his clenched fists.

Oh hello there, Declan and Nuala.

Ah, Duncan, is it yourself, you mad fucker? Here, climb into this cage till we pour boilin’ tea all over ya!

After much consideration about how we can distribute these great products around the country, we at the Bockschloss decided that it would be better to use an agent. We asked for tenders, and finally we’ve decided.

It has to be Screwfix Direct.


True story

Years ago, when I used to live in Dublin, I went to a match at Blackrock. In those days, Limerick guys living locally would turn out in support of any Limerick club coming to play a Dublin side and petty rivalries were set aside for the duration, while the Limerick crowd beat the shite out of the D4 mob. For all I know, it’s still the same.

Anyway, one year we all trooped out to Blackrock in support of Shannon, and it was a pissing wet day. The pitch was like the Somme, which suited Shannon who went on to win the game and therefore the League for that year.

At the final whistle, everyone immediately crashed into the club-house to sing The Isle and enjoy the discomfiture of the ‘Rock old-boys. Everyone, that is, except one of the girls, Mary-Jane we’ll call her, who fell into conversation with a chap in a sheepskin coat.

Dammit, said Sheepskin, wasn’t that dreadful?

What? says Mary-Jane. Sure I’m delighted after coming all the way from Limerick.

Sheepskin stood back, aghast.

Limerick? he whispered, looking Mary-Jane up and down.

My God, I thought you were far too well-dressed for that.

kick it on


Naming a shopping centre

If you were going to build a shopping centre, would you call it The Mountaineering Centre? No, you wouldn’t, unless you were a fucking eejit. Would you call it the Cancer Research Centre? You would not. Would you call it the Pre-School Education Centre? Of course you wouldn’t! Maybe you’d call it the Gastronomic Centre – no you would not.

Here’s a list of names you wouldn’t call a shopping centre unless you were a total gobdaw. In no particular order:-

The Jehovah’s Witnesses Blood Transfusion Centre
The Minge-hoovering Centre
The Tinker Environmental Awareness Centre
The Damien Rice Music Centre
The Journalistic Standards Centre
The Islamic Peace Centre
The Anti-Islamic Peace Centre
The Wear a Fucking Veil Tubridy You Cunt Centre
The Clint Eastwood Gunfighting Centre
The Itchy Mickey Centre
The David Lynch Appreciation Society Centre
The Fat Knacker Fitness Centre
The Spodo Komodo Comedy Centre
The Jacques Cousteau Grouper-Spearing Centre
The Outer Space Arse-Fangling Centre


Why would you not want to call a shopping centre any of the above? Because it’s a shopping centre – that’s why. A fucking shopping centre. So why the hell would any twat want to call their shopping centre The Opera Centre?

Let’s be clear about this: there will be fuck-all opera going on in the Opera Centre. None! Not a sausage!!

Opera Centre me bollix!