popular culture


America exists because the English and the French killed all the local people and took over their land. Isn’t that obvious?

Fair fuckin play to them. If there were enough Irish, we’d have killed a load of local people somewhere and we’d have taken over their land too.

People are complete bastards, but European people are the worst bastards of the whole lot, and if we Irish didn’t have to contend with the neighbouring bastards, we’d have been out there, being total bastards just like all our other European neighbours.

Can you just picture it? The Irish Congo. Irish Guyana. Perhaps even the Irish Commonwealth, if you could imagine such a thing. Isn’t it an amazing concept: a network of nations across the entire globe, united for a common economic good, and at its centre a country where they can’t even treat people in hospital. I think that’s fuckin great. We patronise these wonderful eastern European people who come to work in our country temporarily. These people who can speak many languages (unlike us), who clean up after themselves (unlike us), who care that a job is done properly (unlike us), who believe in honesty (unlike us). I drove through Limerick last night, during the excellent Riverfest, but I have to tell you that I was saddened by what I saw outside the city centre. At the top of Hyde Road, I saw a huge pile of plastic objects on a bonfire, including a wheelie bin. A wheelie bin? Why? I saw three supermarket trolleys on the fire, even though they don’t burn. I saw small children running around the fire, without supervision. Where are the adults? Worse, do the adults have the slightest idea what’s right or what’s wrong? I suspect not. I suspect that areas like Weston have been taken over by total idiots, and the decent people have either been driven out or intimidated by the arsehole faction: the underclass.

So, going back to the matter of the immigrants, let me ask you this: which of us has the advanced society? Celtic tiger my arse.

NAMA popular culture

Horse sense

I love Lidl. Their special offers are just great, and they manage to keep us in a constant state of joyous expectation, but it would be hard to beat next Monday’s solar-powered garden gnome.

Isn’t that classy? I think it’s even better than the telescopic yard-brush they had last year. I’m going to buy about 252 of them and put them all around my front garden where the neighbours can see them. Won’t that be great? 252 pulsating coloured gnomes all blinking away in the middle of the night. I think that will give our area the lift it so badly needs, and I’m certain the neighbours will love it.

I’m hoping that Lidl will soon have illuminated wagon-wheels I can fix all along the front wall of the house. I’ll also be the first in the area with musical horses’ heads on the gate-pillars, just as soon as Lidl put up that special offer.

I had an idea to help the property developer a little bit up the road from me. He’s just “released” Phase One of his exclusive development, all of which, I think, will be bought by the children of The Rich. So, I was thinking, if The Rich were going to have a look around the nearby areas to see what kind of place they were buying into, wouldn’t it be a great idea to have a sulky in the drive of my house, with the shafts pointing skywards? And a little Conamara pony tethered to one of the trees on the grass verge.

Every Saturday and Sunday, I could get on my sleeveless t-shirt and my gold chains and drive my sulky down to the exclusive development and shout encouragement at the purchasers. “D’ya want a nice three-piece for the new house, Boss?” “Great Arse, Missus!” That kind of thing. If they tried to stop me, I’d say it was part of my culture and I’d set the Equality Authority on them if they didn’t fuck off.


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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