The Final Solution

I know that Dario has blogged his arse off about skobies, the new track-suited, Buckfast-fuelled underclass of Ireland. We have a similar problem in West Belfast, with the 'Smickers' as we call them, infesting the place like rats every night of the week with boxes and bags of drink and the subsequent madness that ensues.

So I was interested in this story in the local Andersonstown News on Monday. A reporter and a photographer toured the West last Friday night, and their findings make pretty interesting reading.

Now I am not against drinking. I like a drink myself, and a toke from time to time as you know. But I do everything in moderation, because my job's headmelting enough without having to roll in with an Oliver Reed-size hangover at 9am. Most importantly, I don't impose on other people's rights or freedoms when I do sup a Magners. But the explosion in people in their mid-teens to early thirties drinking on the streets, in all seasons, in this city is fucking crazy. Not everybody does it... but the ones that do are easily identifiable.

* Short hair with a gelled-down fringe (baseball cap optional)
* Thin strip of hair above the lip commonly known as a 'cider-tache'
* Tracksuit, usually Adidas or Kappa
* Gold chunky chain that Del Boy Trotter would be mighty proud of
* Trainers, white, must be of no lesser a brand than Nike or the aforementioned Adidas - otherwise you'll get 'battled'.

Does that sound familar? The men don't look any prettier either.

They stand on main roads, outside taxi depots and chippies until all hours of the morning swigging their cider and tart fuel (WKD - Woman's Kind of Drink), smashing their bottles, leaving their illiterate scrawl everywhere, damaging people's property... so it begs the question - where the fuck do they get the money from? It wouldn't be from the taxes of the very people they are tormenting, would it?

Many people have tried to come up with solutions, and have failed. I think I have the answer... if any of them are prosecuted for any misdemeanour whatsoever, stop their benefits. Cut the flow of the dough, and it will make them think twice about making the lives of the people whom they live amongst a misery. I know it's probably against the Human Rights Act, European Law, blah, blah, but it's much more humane than my first choice of solution, which is to round them up and, while still alive, take out their hearts and kidneys for transplant victims.

The sick men (and women) of Northern Ireland

Have to get a laugh at this - Finance Minister Peter Robinson has let the world know that Civil Servants in Northern Ireland take an average of a fortnight off on the sick per year and in a written answer to the Assembly, he said that 'managing sickness absence was a key priority for government'.

Is this prick for real?

Let's remind ourselves that Mr. Robinson, along with 107 other right honourable members, spent four years - yes, four fucking years - sitting on their collective backside doing dick-all and getting paid for it; now they have the audacity to turn round and lecture their poorly treated, poorly paid staff about managing sickness and giving taxpayers value for money.

It appears that now the hands on the greasy levers of power are local, those who have the misfortune to be Civil Servants are going to get it in the neck. Just remember one thing Mr. Robinson - this time, we voted you in and we can throw you out on your hole again.

Spinning out of control

Maybe I'm a bit late with this one, but is anyone as pissed off as I am hearing about that kid McCann that has been missing for a month? I would like to see her returned to her parents as much as anyone else would, but I don't want it shoved in my face everytime I turn the TV on or open a newspaper.

The blame, I suppose, lies with gutter right-wing British tabloid press who have taken this story and made it into a money-spinner to sell their rags, á la Princess Diana. The esteemed parents, Kate and Gerry, now have a campaign manager and are undertaking ' a European tour' to secure their daughter's safe return. Who do they think they are, the fucking Rolling Stones?! And... I think having a meeting with the German Shepherd was particularly pointless and tasteless, given the Catholic Church's particularly poor track record on all matters children. What's he gonna do, ask his foot soldiers if any of them have her?

The next time person to send me an e-mail saying 'click here for Madeleine' is going to get a swift kick in the hole...

AWOL

Ok, ok, so I know this is my first post in 2 months, but I got tied up in a few things that needed my time, care and attention. Nothing much has changed - I still work for the pricks that are the Civil Service, I still like getting stoned and shitfaced on Magners, and I still hate George Jones on U105 with a passion. Oh, and I'm still an angry bastard.

What they really said...

The deal unravels

So Jim Allister has left the DUP over Ian and Gerry's love-in. How noble. It would have been more noble if he actually resigned his Euro MEP seat too, because let's face it, he's only there because he was the DUP candidate, and he knows he'll be bollixed in any future contest. And now David Simpson, the man who ousted David Trimble as the MP for Upper Bann, says he has reservations about the deal and effectively wants a quarantine period before the Shinners can hold office.

What fucking planet are these people on? Here we have the two great enemies sitting down to break bread, and up pipes Jim and Davey to say 'no taigs in government'. I'm not happy about Paisley becoming first minister, given Third Force and Ulster Resistance, but I'm prepared to tolerate it, especially if it means that cunt Hain fucks off back to Blighty. What the betting that some ragtag bunch of tattooed loyalists take Simpson's words to further action?

Allister, Simpson and the likes of Geraldine Taylor and that other wanker Gerry McGeough have fuck all to offer this country. Taylor and McGeough were told to stick their brand of politics up their hoop at the Assembly election. I pray it won't be too long before Allister and Simpson are given the same message.

Scattered

Sorry that posts have been a little bit scattered this last while back, I've been busy. I'm hoping that normal service will resume shortly.

By the way, I've had to change the settings so that only registered Blogger users can comment. Unfortunately there's an arsehole who doesn't have the balls to give his name making comments that I have to delete. Honestly, you would think that someone who interferes with the genitalia of pre-pubescent boys wouldn't have the time to troll on blogs, but it just shows how wrong you can be.

Here's hoping that you catch a fatal illness and suffer a horrible demise, you time-wasting, shirt-lifting, pillow-munching, turd-punching, child molesting waste of jism.

Stamina Required

I hear that the Ministry of Defence are issuing Viagra to their soldiers in South Armagh because they just can't keep their choppers up...

The important issues

Corporation Tax ya-de-dah.

Income Tax down by 2p - yawn

Gas guzzlers double tax hike - dum-de-dum.

How much are the fegs and the drink up by Gordon, ya cunt?

Know Nothings

Why does every St. Patrick's Day bring the absolute dregs of society out into the open?

I went out for a walk on St. Patrick's morning at around 11am. In a wooded area near where I live there were 15 young scumbags congregated, armed with bags of drink. At 11am. Each one had a Celtic top on and one or two had draped the national flag around their shoulders. They were noisy, shouting at the top of their voices to the wanker standing next to them, and smashing their empty bottles on the pavement.

Some display of Irishness. If I had asked them who the Taoiseach is, or what is the county town of Clare, their eyes would have have bulged, and then their heads would have exploded. They know nothing of their country's history or culture, or even of St. Patrick himself - no, they show celebrate Ireland's national holiday by dressing in the shirt of a British football team and wearing the national flag, of which they know nothing of it's meaning.

Let's round them up and chainsaw them to death. It's the only way.

St. Patrick's Day

Saw an ad for Magners while stuck in traffic on the Lisburn Road today. It has the customary 'health warning' with it now:

'Enjoy Magners Responsibly'

I promise I won't spill a drop.

Hope you all get blitzed this St. Pat's weekend.

Green taxes my hole

Am I the only one that is getting sick and tired of hearing about green issues and global warming?

It's in the paper every fucking day now, and seems to be a particular favourite hobby horse of the beard-stroking, cardigan-wearing, 'hug-a-Muslim' Guardian. I know that it is a serious problem, but what is the point in me cutting down in car usage and electricity when big business just doesn't give a bollix about what it pumps into the air?

My humble opinion: the government is gonna squeeze this green agenda thing for all it is worth, and that can only mean more taxes for the plebs. Look at it this way. The powers that be could turn round and say, 'Right Treason, me old china, we're putting your car tax up by £200 a year and we're slapping 25p on a litre of petrol.' That puts me and a lot of other people off the road. The rich, however, will just shrug their shoulders, pay the extra whack and continue to drive little Timothy 100 yards to the prep school every morning in the gas guzzling Merc. Ordinary Joe Bloggs will be priced off the roads in pretty much the same way he has been priced off the property ladder and out of third-level education.

And what will the government do with that extra money? Spend it on environmental concerns? Fucking sure they won't. It'll end up the way all taxpayers' money does - spent on keeping the lazy workshy bastards sitting on their fucking holes all day long, and paying for people to be in this country who shouldn't be here; and all the while the stupid cunts like myself who actually work for a living get screwed left, right and centre. That's why I see it as my personal, moral obligation to pay as little tax as I can possibly get away with. I get my petrol from over the border. I get my booze at knock down prices. When I smoked, I bought contraband cigs. And I have a wee sideline that brings me in a bit of cash that the taxman doesn't see.

If the government can't spend my money responsibly, then it will see less of it. Cunts.

It Beggars Belief

Why are there so many beggars on the streets of Belfast these days?

I don't mind the odd one who looks like he's been dragged through a hedge and is looking 50p for a cup of tea. I usually end up giving him a pound, there for the grace of God go I and all that. But today was different. There was a guy begging outside the Mall in Great Victoria Street. He was of south Mediterranean appearance. He put the lid of an aerosol can in front of my face and asked me for spare change. He was kitted out in the best of gear. He had better strides than me, better shoes than me and a better coat than me. All in all he was better looked after than me! I just looked at him and walked on. He'll probably end up getting a few quid and then drive off home in his new Beemer or something.

I know charity begins at home, but I'm starting to get pissed off with it. Also in Great Victoria Street a few weeks ago, some local guy begging reached his arm out and tried to pull me towards him. He may have been going for the friendly approach, but he also may have been going for my throat with a knife. I told him to fuck away off before I ripped his head off and stuck it up his hole. He was not so quick to come near me when I walked by again 10 minutes later.

They're starting to become as bad as the charity wanker headlockers than infest the city centre. I wonder how much cattle prods go for on eBay?

While I was away..

No, I wasn't kidnapped by rock n'roll lovin' aliens, I've been very busy watching all the election results and laughing really hard at Rainbow George getting more votes than Bob McCartney. If there's anyone that fully deserves to have a rusty pole shoved up his bangle until his eyes bulge, it's McCartney. Equally delighted to see that Anna Lo cleaned up in South Belfast, especially at the expense of the DUP.

So what's happens now? Will we get our government? I think we will. Big Ian's looking towards his own legacy, same as Blair, and he will want to be Big Chief Dirty Bum of this place before he croaks it, which will hopefully be sooner rather than later. He's got the green light from his electorate to do it (to do a deal with the Chucks, not croak it).

I was kinda hoping, just for a laugh, that the Shinners would have came out with the most seats. That would have really set the cat among the pigeons to see Art Garfunkel as First Minister. The look on Nigel Dodds face would be priceless!

Other than that, I've been trying to kill Phil Collins in GTA Vice City Stories. An honourable pastime I'm sure you'll agree.

Death Becomes Them

As you all know, I want to set up a Department of Cultural Cleansing when I become Taoiseach, and I've been thinking about the ways in which Westlife can be executed live on national television (hosted by Marty Whelan and Gráinne Seoige). Here's what I have so far.

1) They are stripped naked, each tied to a post and smeared in honey in a locked room, then a million wasps are let loose in there.

2) They each have to stick their cock in a ball of mince steak, and four rottweilers are let off their leashes. They'll snuff it from the shock alone.

3) A battle-to-the-death Gladiator style contest in the Point Depot. The last one standing is hole-rimmed to the grave by UTV's Julian Simmons.

4) An old fashioned game of Russian Roulette with unidentified pills.

You gotta help me out here folks. Whoever comes up with the best suggestion gets a seat in the cabinet as Minister for decapitating B-B-Bertie Ahern.

Nice One Frank

Must give a big thumbs-up to Frank Mitchell who gave this blog a mention on his U105 mid-morning show today. I caught the tail-end of a discussion about blogs and I was pleasantly surprised to hear the Voice of Treason held up as 'a blog not for the easily offended'.

World domination can't be far away.

Now Frank, if you really want to get into my good books, you can take a meat cleaver to George Jones' head.

Bob McCartney talks balls

I was watching 'The Politics Show' on BBC1 earlier; it was an hour-long special on Norn Iron, seeing as we are off to vote early and vote often on Wednesday.

The first part of the programme had representatives from the Ulster Unionists and the DUP, and the one-man show that is Bob fucking McCartney QC, the biggest pain in the hole to walk this earth since David Beckham.

Bob was giving both the UUP and the DUP a strict telling off about having/intending to share power with Sinn Féin, and then he came off with the statement that 'both parties want to go into government with those who murdered Protestants and destroyed their property'.

To listen to McCartney, and other unionists, you would think that the whole war here was just an exercise in republican brutality, and that unionists sat back and suffered in silence. From 1987 onwards, loyalist paramilitaries slaughted more people than republicans, and continued to wipe out all round them after the ceasefires were called. The silence from the unionist parties was deafening; some of them such as that tone-deaf preacher Willie McCrea chose to share public platforms with the likes of King Rat. More tellingly, the unionist parties also said absolutely fuck all about the state murder of scores of people when the report into collusion was published a few weeks back. And these people expect the electorate to believe that they are democrats? What chance of them sharing power with nationalists when they shout each other down in a television studio?

The very fact that Bob has to stand in six constitutencies simultaneously for his fUKUP party speaks volumes of his political irrelevance. He also conveniently forgot to enlighten us as to what his alternative to devolved government is. Another 4 years of being under the thumb of Hain and his other blow-in fuckwits from Blighty? Stick that one up your bangle, Bob.

Dead Ringers, 2

Ulster Unionist Party leader Sir Reg Empey and evil Springfield power plant owner Montgomery Burns. Separated at birth? Excellent!

Don't kid yourself

All over the news today: a report on discrimination in the workplace has found that women with young children fare worst of all when it comes to employment.

Not in my workplace they don't - mothers with young children milk it for all it's worth, pardon the pun. Wee Johnny only has to sneeze and they're taking five days off because 'the child's not well'. In fact, there's women in my workplace who, having managed to be absent for most of the year because of their brats, then get their promotion boards. Who are they, Paul fucking Daniels? How can you prove your suitability for work at the next grade when you're never there to do the work at your current grade? I can hear toes treading lightly among the management.

Anyway...

As far as I'm concerned, having children is a lifestyle choice. If you can't afford kids, don't have them. It's as simple as that. Hearing women complaining about work and kids is a bit like me buying a top-of-the-range Beemer and then grumbling because I can't keep up the payments. Either be a mother or an employee. Don't try and be both. I resent paying taxes to keep up other people's kids when I, as a single, childless man, get fuck all tax breaks from the government for not being a drain on the state. And before some smart arse says, 'The taxes from today's kids will pay for your pension', answer me the question why I pay national insurance contributions now if it is not going towards MY pension.

Piracy is communism

I got a glimpse of this on the BBC's website, a story of how a Bit Torrent site is planning to introduce a pay section to download films, music, etc. The story goes on to state that it (the Bit Torrent site) acknowledges that it will have a hard task convincing those who currently get all the movies, TV shows and music they want without paying.

Fucking right they will.

I think that the ease with which I can go on to the internet and download entertainment, especially music, is fantastic and the record companies deserve all their lost profits. When the cassette tape became popular in the late 70s/early 80s, the record bosses re-released most of their back catalogues on the new format and charged punters full price for an album that may have been, say, 15 years old. Then they did exactly the same when compact discs were launched. Add to this the fact that the record companies have been artificially inflating the price of CDs in Europe for years, and it does them no PR favours to be complaining of punters illegally downloading material when they have been ripping these same punters off for God knows how long. It stinks to high heaven the way that these companies are stamping their feets and huffing because they can't get their own childish way.

I will continue to download music as I have done for the last five years because I'm only getting back what I shouldn't have paid the cunts. If the record companies don't like it, I really don't give a fuck, and neither do millions of other people.

Overstaying a welcome

Let's pretend.

Let's pretend you invited people round to your house for tea. Let's pretend that these people then proceeded to rearrange your furniture, criticised your choice of curtains or carpets and asked you to change the TV channel because they didn't like the programme that was on, despite the fact that you had been watching it. Then, because you forgot to offer them Jaffa Cakes or put sugar in their tea, they called you all the fuckers under the sun and threatened to smash your windows and burn your house down.

What would you do?

Yes, the same as I would. Your would stick your boot right into their bracket, tell them to fuck off and don't come back.

Why are the simplest things in life so difficult to do?

RSF Rent A Protest

I had the misfortune of hearing the first ten minutes of the Pat Kenny Show after the news on RTÉ this morning and, wouldn't you know it, the topic was about THAT match at Croke tomorrow. The vice-president of Republican Sinn Féin, Des Dalton (who sounds like a Wild West outlaw) was on complaining about the match and how it was a disgrace that God Save The Queen will be played, blah, blah, blah.

Does this prick not have anything else to worry about? The health service is a shambles, high politics is corrupt as it's ever been, you need to be Richard Branson to buy a house and all RSF can do is moan at the fact that a song about a German granny and her in-bred offspring will on the loudspeaker at Croker. Obviously RSF are very adept at reading the pulse of the nation.

Cast your mind back about 18 months or so to the Love Ulster rally in Dublin. While I have no truck with the right-wing, drug dealing, pimping, racist loyalist scum that wrap themselves in a Union Flag (and I would personally love to see Willie Frazer in a wooden suit), the blame for the riots on that day lies solely with RSF and their Celtic jersey-wearing hangers on. If they, and the media (that includes the wankers that work at the Sunday Indo) had paid no attention to the Love Ulster rally whatsoever then we wouldn't have had a pitch battle riot in the nation's capital and RSF could have had the moral high ground. But no, they had to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and hand Frazer and his sectarian fuckwits the kind of publicity coup they could only dream of. RSF let this country down badly that day, and now they're planning to do the same with 25,000 England Rugby fans tomorrow. I have no doubt that our guests will be well behaved and will expect to be treated in the same manner as Irish fans are abroad, and that includes playing their national anthem. While the rest of Ireland is moving on, RSF still think it's 1916.

So please Des, do us all a favour, and fuck up.

Die, you fuckers

For those who don't know what an 'ASBO' is, it's an Anti Social Behavioural Order. Far from being a deterrent, it is worn as a badge of honour by scumbags such as those pictured. My own deterrent would consist of a 9mm to the back of the head. It is a proven fact that 100% of those who receive capital punishment don't re-offend.



...and I would shoot this wee cunt first.

McDowell is a stupid cunt

For someone who is supposed to be the second-in-command of the country, Tánaiste Michael McDowell doesn't seem to have a fucking clue what is going on.

A few days ago he stated that the Mahon Tribunal would cost €1 billion. No it wouldn't, retorted the head of the Tribunal, it would cost only €300 million. I think Alan Mahon is in a much better position to judge the cost of his enquiry than the interfering bastard love-child of Maggie Thatcher and Karl Rove. Now McDowell is contradicting Dublin City Council's plans to build an incinerator at Poolbeg. Yes, this dickhead gets a salary of €222,000 a year for this sort of shite.

So what the fuck is happening? Either McDowell hasn't a baldy notion what the government of which he is a senior member is doing, or he is stoking up fears in advance of the election. The only fear the public has, Michael, is that you will still be in the same job in six months time. You gotta give Mary Harney some credit, at least she did an ok job at keeping Fianna Fáil in check, despite the fact that if she gets any bigger she will need her own time zone.

My money goes on a repeat of 1992, an FF/Labour coalition. The PDs won't have enough deputies to go back into government, and Rabbitte will jump at the chance of becoming Tánaiste. Forget about the Mullingar Strategy, Fine Gael, and all those weasel words about Fianna Fáil and B-B-Bertie's generous mates over the term of the present Dáil. Labour will be up for it, like a whore on heat.

As for McDowell? He will lose his seat. History will repeat itself. He won it in 1987, lost it in 1989, won it in 1992, lost it in 1997, won it in 2002. He's due to lose it again, and I can't wait to see his face when he's packed off back to Ranaleigh with a huge 'fuck off' from the electorate.

Our Oriental Friends

I like Chinese people. I like them because they're pleasant, hard-working sods who are the fourth emergency service the length and breadth of Ireland (Phone Numbers: Fire/Ambulance/Police/Local Chinkers) and despite the odd internal Triad decapitation execution job, they cause no bother. So I was pleased to see that a Chinese woman, Anna Lo, is fighting the Assembly election for the Alliance Party in South Belfast. She should take a leaf out of Gerry's book and get her supporters to vote early and vote often. Let's face it, if you were a polling station clerk would you know any different if the same Chinese people each voted two or three times in the same day? No, neither would I. Fianna Fáil will be doing it next, just you wait and see.

... and I bet you didn't know that I used to go out with a Chinese girl when I was at university? Strange but true. The relationship didn't last long though - I asked her for a 69 and she told me to cook it myself.

Men and Women

Why does my employer have a 'women's officer' and not a 'men's officer'?

Now I know that women like to talk to other women about when the painters are in and all that carry on, and that's fair enough. But do they really need a dedicated officer in work for that sort of thing? Can they not just phone up one of their mates like they usually do? If I have an embarrassing problem with my hoop or my jap's eye, I don't have a men's officer to go to and waste half the day whinging about it - I'll get drunk and stoned, and then think about going to the hospital or something when I've sobered up.

Discrimination, that's what it is. I can feel a claim coming on...

Safety in the skies

I'm due to go on the big flying tin to Blighty this week, and once again my mind is turned to the issue of safety in our skies, especially when you have the country overrun with the crazy cunts of Islam. Now I know there's not much chance of Abdul Ahmed al-Madfucker blowing up a flight to or from Belfast, but hey, maybe they hate Guinness and soda bread for being 'un-halal' and the black gold of the devil.

So, to assure my piece of mind whilst flying over the Irish Sea I have decided to implement my own safety measure. A bacon sandwich in my hand luggage. Yes, the humble bacon sarnie is enough to throw even the most mentally unstable carpet-kisser into a complete blinder. Must be something to do with the pork. I might even bring a packet of Denny's sausages too, in case there's a few of them. Then, while our would-be hijacker is cowering from the raw banger, I'll get up and stick my size 10 boot full force right into his bollix, and then his throat. He'll meet his virgins in heaven a bit sooner than expected. Cunt.

Muslims. I fucking hate them.

Black Hacks Rule

My car is a piece of shit. It needs loads of work done to it, costing hundreds of pounds, and will be off the road for about two weeks. So I'm gonna have to rely on West Belfast's very own transport system, the humble black taxi.



For those who don't know, the black hacks go up and down the area like buses, all day long, and are reasonably cheap. They're quite an experience, a bit like riding in a rickshaw in China I would imagine. Five people, who don't know each other, squashed into a confined space for their journey. It's a bit like Big Brother on wheels. The black taxi drivers are a breed of their own, the men often going bare-chested on hot days (the only part of them that gets a tan is the forearm, which is perpetually bent out the window), and you can always be sure to hear David Dunseith on Radio Ulster's Talkback when travelling in the early afternoon. Drivers have their own spoken and sign languages, which is a curious mix of pigeon Gaelic and Belfast slang but are amongst the hardest working people in the city.

I love the black hacks.

... that is until I get my car back on the road again. Then when I'm stuck behind one, or one pulls out in front of me without indicating, I'll be back to calling them all the fuckers of the day.

Things you may not know about me...

Following on from Brian's challenge over at Rantings Diversified, I now have the pleasure of revealing to you six things that you did not know about the Voice of Treason.


1) I was arrested for being drunk and disorderly when I was 17.

2) I went through school without ever receiving a detention. Would you spend an hour in a classroom on your own with a Christian Brother?

3) I have every album ever made by the Australian band INXS.

4) Cómo Brian, hablo un poco español tambien. Pero no demasiado. Gringos!

5) I can tip my nose with my tongue. Who says I'm not popular with the ladies?

6) I once worked at a car wash. The boss don't mind sometimes if ya act the fool.


And while poetry has never been my strong point, here's an addition to Jefferson's ditty...


'There was a wee man from Leeds,
who swallowed a packet of seeds,
after an hour his cock was a flower,
and his balls were covered in weeds.'

Happiness is...

Just seen this on the BBC's website: Why are Dutch children so happy?

Ummm... the age of consent is twelve and marijuana is legal.

Robbie goes to rehab

I didn't know there were rehab centres designed to cure you of being an annoying, talentless cunt. Somebody tell Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse, quickly.

Love is in the air

My mucker Big Pat has just came home from a humping tour of Liverpool. Now Big Pat is a bit of an internet slut. Seriously. He goes on to the chatrooms, sweet-talks the ladies, gets their phone number, melts the panties off them with his thick Belfast brogue, and before you know it he's been on the Easy Jet website and has his next conquest booked. 'Pussy-baiting from the comfort of your own home', as he so articulately refers to his activities. 'Isn't technology wonderful?'

So I picked him up from the airport last night, and asked him how he got on. 'Very well', he replied, 'but one of the birds I went over to see spoiled the moment'.

'What happened?' I enquired.

'Well, she stripped off her clothes, and it ended up she was wearing knickers with the middle part missing', he said.

'I think you'll find they're called crotchless panties', I advised.

'Anyway', he continued, 'she pointed to her blurt and asked if I wanted to lick it. No fucking way am I going near that, said I. Just look what it's done to your knickers!'

Stupid cunt.

About time too

I'm glad to see that the British Government plans to stop the benefits of those who cannot speak English as 'it is an impediment to finding work'.

About time too. How in the name of John Hume's arsehole are you supposed to find work if you can't speak the language of the land? I mean, if I went off to Berlin or Tokyo and couldn't speak a word of German or Japanese, do you think they would say, 'No problem Mr. Treason, come on in and we'll pay you to sit on your arse and watch 'The Jeremy Kyle Show' all day long. Hell, we'll even give you a house too, and money to get shitfaced on Magners'. My fucking hoop they would. I'd either end up on the next flying tin back to Dublin, or as a contestant on one of those mad gook TV game shows.

The Social Security people spend about £4.5m a year on interpreters at benefit offices, and they say that money would be better spent teaching English to claimants. No. It would be better spent rounding these people up and deporting them. Especially if they're Muslims, whom, as you know, I hate with all my heart and I would gladly execute every last one of the cunts, giving them a slow and lingering death.

If they haven't paid into the pot, they shouldn't be paid out of it. Simple really.

And another thing... what's all this carry-on about Tory leader David Cameron having smoked a spliff when he was 15? So fucking what? I would be more concerned at the fact that he was fucked up the arse at school. He went to Eton, and we all know those public schoolboys are fond of blowing their load up the dirt track. The Christian Brothers didn't happen to set the school up, did they?

A Sense of National Pride

'Historic'.

'A break with tradition'.

'Unprecedented'.

'Giving Ireland a sense of national pride'.


Nothing to do with THAT match in Croker today - these are some of the quotes used to celebrate the fact that there was no gangland murders in Dublin last night.

In short supply...

First they were bumping off prostitutes, now they're bumping off turkeys...

you just can't get a gobble in Suffolk anymore.

What's in a name?

Sitting in Big Pat's last night having our pre-weekend toke and watching some shite programme on UTV. On this particular show, there was a pub called 'The Spread Eagle'.

'If you owned a pub', he asked, 'what would you call it?'

That one caught me. All the usual shite runs through your head, like the King's Head, the Queen's Blurt, whatever. Then it came to me.

'The Dirty Muckle', I said. Think about it. Saying to your mates, 'Right, I'll meet you in the Dirty Muckle about eight', or, 'the two of us were down in the Dirty Muckle earlier'. You'd have no end of craic.

Of course, if it was near the seaside, I'd call it 'The Fishy Quim'.

I love stoned conversations.

Stick your 'developmental opportunity' up your hole

Always willing as I am to better myself, and to escape the cunt-infested farce that I currently work in, I decided a few weeks ago to apply for an internal 'developmental opportunity' that came up. I sent off the application, and after the Christmas holidays I received my invitation to attend their testing session at Wellington Park Hotel.

Now, I hasten to add to that this was not a promotion, it was a sideways move. An IT Technican job at Stormont Castle. I would be staying at the same grade. So off I went to the test.

When I got to the hotel, there was literally a couple of hundred people there. 'Not good', I thought. With tests over five days, around 2000 people would be tested. For 20 fucking jobs.

When I opened the test paper, I expected to be asked questions on aspects of IT, like protocols, network topologies, that sort of thing. Stuff that I'm qualified in. Oh no. What I sat was a glorified IQ test that Stephen Hawkings would have had trouble finishing. I left the room that day feeling demoralised and deflated.

I got the 'wise up and fuck off' letter today, which was what I had been expecting. With no disrespect to those who were successful, you can bet your bollix that those who will get the jobs will know fuck all squared about IT, which makes me think the whole thing is a stitch-up designed to give a veener of legitimacy (ie, Equal Opportunies and Fair Employment compliance) to a process in which who was getting what job was decided long before the competition was even advertised. Think I'm bitter? Cynical? Fucking right I am, and I'll tell you why.

The department that I work in has a very high turnover of staff. Which is no big surprise, because the senior management are about as much use as tits on a nun. The wrong people are filling the wrong jobs, and it shows, because you have cunts working in IT sections that know nothing about computers and people with severe personality disorders in charge of staff. The Chief Executive is a complete and utter wanker, and his fluffers that works directly beneath him come up with hare-brained like moving masses of people from building to building every couple of months solely to make it look like they're 'doing' something. They waste thousands of pounds a year on monthly glossy in-house magazines and hiring Samaritians-type counselling firms to listen to staff whinging, while most people in the department have to take on another part-time job solely to keep their heads above water because they are not paid a decent wage. Promotions are decided on whether you join your senior managers in the bar on a Friday night. Nepotism occurs on such a scale that it makes Fianna Fáil look like a child's fucking picnic party.

Never, EVER, get a job in the Northern Ireland Civil Service.

Charity begins at home

Walking down Belfast's Great Victoria Street today (which is probably the windiest, and the busiest, street in Ireland) during my lunch hour, and all of a sudden I see them. Loads of the fuckers. The professional charity headlockers. They are probably the most annoying dickheads in the world, after Westlife of course.

You know who I mean. The young 'uns who work for Oxfam or Save the Children, who carry clipboards and wear those fluorescent bodywarmer type things, and who Joe Public generally dread to see when they're late getting back to work.

'Hello there, have you ever thought of...'

'No. Fuck off.'

'But you don't even know what...'

'Yes I do, you're gonna ask me to sign up for your charity'.

'Well sir, we ask a small donation...'

'Listen my friend. I'm on the lowest rung of the ladder in the Civil Service. People on the dole earn more than me. I'm lucky if I have my bus fare to work everyday. Where the fuck am I supposed to get the money to give you £15 a month?'

But then I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. When I'm stopped by them now, I sign up for a donation, giving the name of the head honcho in my department (yes, with a little digging, I got his home address) and asking them to send me out the direct debit forms. Not only does that cock get loads of junk mail from every Tom, Dick and Harry, but the melters that stop me in the street don't get their their commission either, because no payment has been settled.

Life is much sweeter when you're devious.

Dead Ringers, 1

North Belfast MP Nigel Dodds (seen here in rare moment of humour) and cartoon hero Homer Simpson. Separated at birth?

Football Crazy

What is it about this particular game that makes otherwise sensible and rational people turn into fucking wingnuts?

Now the Voice of Treason is not a lover of the beautiful game. Never has been. So you can imagine how fucked off I get when the two guys that work on my floor start. All they ever do is talk about football. The premiership is their only conversation. Now I appreciate that they have a passion for the game. That's fair enough. My passion is to slaughter all the wee spidey fuckers in Ireland by poisoning the water that makes Buckfast and Old English cider, but I don't go on about it 24/7. So please, you football-mad melters, do me a favour and fuck up.

Then there's Italian soccer. It's getting interesting. The object of the game is not to put the ball behind the net, but to see how many peelers you can decapitate with a box of fireworks. This new 'Sicily-rules' game will be all the rage in Ballymurphy soon, you mark my words. It reminded me of a few years ago in North Belfast when every time there was a Old Firm game there were pitch battle riots in the middle of the streets. One set of cider-tached wasters (in green and white) getting stuck into another set of cider-tached wasters (in blue). They're probably the best of mates when they go to Corporation St dole office next day to sign on.

'Right Smickers, Saltic and Rangers is playing on Sunday, rite? Have the bricks and the petrol bombs waiting, cos 'em peelers is getting too crafty nigh, the fuckers'.

Give me a nice civilised game like Gaelic Football. In this discipline, the players do the fighting on the pitch, not the supporters. I wouldn't like to mention any names of course. Like Dublin. Or Tyrone.

Drink!!!!

No post yesterday, was a bit tied up... ended up as the meat in a Gráinne Seoige/Sharon Ní Bheoláin sandwich.

I promised myself at 1 this afternoon that I was never, ever drinking again... here am I, at 8, on my way out to help the managing director of Magners build that exclusive villa and hareem in Monaco.

Gis a job!

The rush for applications has started...

On the hustings...

I love elections. In the Occupied Six Counties/This Here Pravince, we see them more often than that tedious wee bollix Jamie Oliver; everytime I turn the TV on, he's greeting me with his cheeky-chappy Cockney chatter and telling me what I shouldn't eat. Fuck off you ballbag.

Anyway, we're have another election on 7th March and this is gonna be the mother of all elections, apparently. So to inject a bit more fun into the proceedings, I think the politicos should do more to reach out to the general public. And this is how I think it could be done.

1) Bring back the Broadcasting Ban. We could have someone doing an overdub of Daffy Duck's voice when Gerry Adams speaks.

2) Have Mary McAleese do a sponsored run through Sandy Row wearing a T-Shirt emblazoned with the slogan 'Seig Heil, you Orange bastards'. First UDA member to bring her down with a brick to the back of the head wins a complimentary round of golf and cocaine at the K-Club with her Martin.

3) Forget 'Hearts and Minds' and 'Prime Time'. Michelle Gildernew and Iris Robinson in a Celebrity Death Match fixture. Now that would be worth watching.

4) Kerry Shinner Teresa Ferris to do a 'one-night only' appearance on Red Hot Wives with Reg Empey. Show us yer cumface, Reg!

5) Nigel Dodds has to speak with a lisp.

6) Martin McGuinness is not allowed to use the words 'move the situation/process forward' in any order during the election campaign. He'd be fucked then.

7) Mark Durkan must make all his public appearances looking like Father Jack.

8) Paul Berry must canvass dressed up as the cop from the Village People and MUST be accompanied by a construction worker and a red Indian.

...but my favourite part of elections? All the election literature they put through your door. Keeps me going in roach material for weeks.

It Took A Little Time...

This is the the best news I've had in 2007. What a pity they had to inflict their shite on us for 19 whole years.

Let's hope Westlife are next... to meet Mark Chapman.

Fuck off home, you whinging cunts

Tory leader David Cameron, forever trying to convince the British public (unsuccessfully) of the bonafides of a political party that is just marginally less corrupt than Fianna Fáil, is now trying to shore up the 'moderate' Muslim vote (if such a thing exists). He has called for an end to the oppression of Muslim women who are prevented from going out to work or attending university.

You bold boy Dave. How dare you interfere with internal Muslim religious affairs, of which you know nothing. How dare you use the word 'crusade', which conjures up memories of Christians battling Muslims centuries ago. Dave was put in his place by Osama Saeed, of the Muslim Association of Britain, who warned that Cameron had devalued his own message. "I think it is extraordinarily sloppy language - which is the most charitable slant I can put on it," he said.

The same extraordinary sloppy language, no doubt, that was used when loads of the carpet-kissing fuckers chanted 'Death to Denmark' and 'Death to America' outside the Danish Embassy in London last year, and burnt their flags; they burnt the Norwegian Embassy to the floor in Beirut last year too, and for why? That's right, Norway committed the unspeakable crime of being Denmark's neighbour to the north. Why is it that they are allowed to criticise Western life, Western values; in fact some of them make it a virtue; while if their religion is subjected to the same treatment, death threats are handed out with more frequency than cocaine in a loyalist drinking den?

I think European governments should start the compulsory deportation of these pains in the hole. And before some bleeding heart PC prick says, 'they were born in this country, blah, blah', let the the Irish football rule apply. Send them back to the country where their parents or grandparents were born. So gather them up, put them on a flight to Riyadh or Islamabad or wherever, and when the plane is flying over the city, open the door and fuck them out. Bungee jumping, no strings attached.

You want sharia law? Six wives? A radio station pumping out the whinging that passes for Koran recitals 24 hours a day? The freedom to turd-punch pre-pubescent boys in the comfort of your own home? No problem. You can have it all in your own fucking country. And this is not it.

Money's Too Tight To Mention

Flicking through the channels on Sky, which is just one of a number of things I do when I'm bored off my tits, it's hard to avoid the advertisements for loan sharks. These are classic examples of how to play on a poor fucker's fears and troubles, which I suppose is what advertising is all about.

One of the companies' ads features two little cartoon birds arguing over money, two little birds being down in the dumps because they're skint, etc. All sweetness and light. This firm wants to 'help' you get back in the black. 'If you have debts of over £15000, we can help manage your repayments and set you debt free in 60 months'.

60 months is five years. Five whole fucking years. So they're expecting ordinary Joe and Josephine, who probably owe more than the Argentinian national balance of payments, to get themselves into even MORE debt in the hope of clearing all their debts in '60 months'. Are there people out there who are seriously stupid enough to fall for this keek?

There's a simple way of preventing yourself from getting into debt. Live within your means. Like Lennon said, it's easy if you try. Don't use credit cards. Credit cards are the financial equivalent of quicksand: once you're in, you sink deeper and then you're bollixed. Fucked. If I have no money to go out and get absolutely shitfaced on a Saturday night, then I'll sit in. It's probably preferable to sitting in a bar full of 17-year-old kiddies-with-titties who are fawning over 2Pac's new single, even though the cunt's been dead for 10 years.

And that advice is especially applicable to women. They see the likes of soap stars, movie stars and that tone deaf wench of David Beckham's running about in designer clothes and shoes, and they think to themselves, 'I gotta have that!' Listen up ladies. You live in the Bogside, Ballymun, West Belfast or Stab City. If people see you dressed up like Posh Spice, they won't think you're cool, or trendy. They'll think you're an balloon. So you'll get into thousands of pounds/euros in debt for people to say that when you put on that ill-fitting little black number, you have a hole on you that even the Road Service couldn't fill.

Getting into debt, and people thinking you're a wanker. It's just not worth it.

Wishing... and hoping...

We all have desires in life.

• I would like to be seriously minted.


• I would like to decapitate Willie Frazer for being an annoying wee cunt.


• I would like to give those who count 'The Fast and the Furious', 50 Cent and Kappa 'clothing' among their cultural influences, a round in the back of the head.


• I would like to hear the sound of my balls slapping off Gráinne Seoige's arse.

What's on your wishlist?

It's A Fair Cop

So the Chucks have gone and done it, and now those of us in the 'green zone' will no longer be required to mutter 'black bastards' under our breaths after we've been asked for our particulars by the boys in bottle green.

Today's events in Dublin make me kinda nostalgic for the old RUC, in a perverse, twisted sort of way. On one occasion, when I was about 17 or so, I was stopped by one of their finest (who was very anxious to up his tout-count) whilst on my way to school.

'Where are you off to, sir?' asked the peeler, who stood about 6ft 2" and was better tooled up than Robocop.

I took a quick glance at my blazer and tie, and gave him a look that said, 'Are you for real?'

'School', I finally, sheepishly, replied.

'Ah right', said he, and after taking my name and address, made some meaningless chit-chat about A Levels and university. He then came to the crunch.

'Do you ever notice anything up around here?' he enquired.

'Like what?' I asked.

'Like things that shouldn't be going on, you know what I mean. Do you ever notice people acting suspiciously?'

'Can say that I do,' came my reply, at this stage trying my hardest to contain my total indifference.

'Well, if you do...', our intrepid law enforcer stated, 'give me a wee call at the station. Constable Norman Brown, extension 2442.'

And off I went. I pondered Constable Brown's request for a few days, and then I DID spot something suspicious. Well, my law-abiding instincts kicked into action and I phoned the RUC switchboard.

'Constable Brown? Hi it's .... here, you were talking to me the other day, remember? Well I have something for you, it's about my next door neighbour'.

I thought he was going to spunk his trunks in excitement, thinking that before too long the peace of our little cul-de-sac would be shattered by the aggressive revving of grey Land-Rovers.

'Well, I think she's having it off with the fella round the corner. Big Seamy I think his name is. He comes to her back door every afternoon at 3.30, and all I can hear is the thumping of the headboard about 10 minutes later. It's that loud, he must have a cock on him that can knock six-inch nails into the wall. Lucky bastard he is too. I've been hoping that she would show me a few tricks, older woman and all that. You did tell me to contact you if I seen anything suspicious....'

'CLICK! BRRRRRRRRRRRR!' went the line.

And thus ended my brief career as a spook. It's not all it's cracked up to be, you know.

Taking the 'Mickey' .... update

Michael McDowell, PD leader and goose-stepping Minister for Justice, and Karl Rove, Dubya's jackboot-wearing fluffer. Separated at birth?

Grotesque, Unbelievable, Bizarre and Unprecedented

I must have been a complete bastard in a previous life because, unfortunately, I work for the Northern Ireland Civil Service, which is a bit like being back at school, except there's no Christian Brothers checking to see if you're 'wearing clean underwear'. So that makes the Oh Great Bronzed One, Northern Ireland Secretary (and for Wales, and for wherever the fuck else he feels like being in charge of this week) Peter Hain, my ultimate boss.

Now, Peter is a man of ambition. When Tony Blair pisses off to the lecture circuit and the House of Lords later this year, he'll take 'Two Shags' John Prescott with him; so when Gordon Brown takes over, he'll need a new deputy doormat, and our Pete wants to be the one that spunks his trunks when Gord says to him: 'Nip next door to the Spar and get me 20 Regal and the Daily Mirror, there's a good lad'.

So, in playing to the Old Labour gallery for support, our Pete decided to stick the boot into the whizz-kids in the City of London, criticising their £25 million bonuses. You won't get any complaints from me on that one. However, Hain goes on to say that 'Most people find it pretty grotesque that a couple of dozen City executives can share a billion pounds of bonuses between them'.

I'll tell you something else that most people, especially in our own Occupied Six Counties/This Here Pravince* (*delete as appropriate) find grotesque, Pete. They find the fact that you can pay your own employees just a fraction above the minimum wage 'grotesque'. They find the fact that someone doing the same job in the Welsh Office is paid more than someone in Northern Ireland 'grotesque'. They find the fact that you have given your top dogs in the NICS an £8000 backpay while ordinary Joe Soap gets a couple of hundred quid 'grotesque'. AND they find 'grotesque' the fact that you use that all that saved lolly to fund your sadist weekend naked mud-pit wrestling sessions with Carol Vorderman, Iris Robinson and Pat Butcher from Eastenders taking it in turns to pierce your bangle with a strap-on while wanking you off into Ronan Keating's gob. (OK, so I made the last bit up, but hey, it could explain why he looks so brown).

Let someone in London worry about the bonuses in the City. My only concern is my own backyard Pete, and you're not paying me a decent wage. So take your finger out of your fucking hole and do something about it.

Radio Ga-Ga...

Even though I'm a 30-something, my musical tastes are very much rooted in the 1970s and 80s. That's why I like the Belfast radio station U105 so much, because it's a welcome change from the unlistenable shite, aimed at teenage mothers/spides/car thieves/people who wear too much jewellery, pumped out on Cool FM and Citybeat. My favourite listening time was while I was crawling home at 2mph along the Westlink after work (renamed the 'Best-link', after George Best, because it's blocked by 4pm everyday).

But now, the devil lets one rip in my face once again...

U105 have decided to let none other than George Jones, he of Clubsound fame, loose on our airwaves. What the fuck are you playing at?! This guy was sacked by BBC Radio Ulster six months ago for being, well, bollix. And now you have the audacity to lump me with him on my way home? Last week I was listening the smoothie tones of David Johnson playing great early 80s tunes; this week, I'm listening to a 62-year-old man interviewing primary school children about their pets. This isn't School-Around-The-Fucking-Corner you know. And stop calling your listeners 'my loves'. You're not playing to the commode users and TCM-watchers now.

C'mon Havelock House, sort it out, for fuck's sake.

Education, education, education

Get a squint at this -

Yes folks, the mad fuckers of the religion of peace strike again. Not content with blowing up planes and squeezing every last drop from the hard-pushed taxpayer, this balloon insists on taking on a County Council to court to allow them to let his daughter wear the full niqab in class. For the benefit of those who don't know (or don't give a fuck), the niqab covers all of the face and this girl's teachers have asked that she not wear it because they won't have a facial indication of whether or not she understands what she is being taught. Seems fair enough to me. But no, her oul lad is determined to waste your money and mine in taking this through one of the highest courts in the land.

With me being a tolerant sort of fella and all that, I think that I have the solution that will lead to a win-win situation for all concerned, including me.

1) This man can pack his bags, and those of his indoctrinated brat, and fuck off back to Pakistan where he came from. In his home country, I am quite sure that his daughter can be educated to the highest standards for their chosen cult, sorry, 'religion';

2) Buckinghamshire County Council would not have to spend taxpayers' money on funding this mother of all court battles, which means I'll probably have a few quid more (not much more - thanks Peter Hain, you cunt) to buy a few bottles of Magners on Friday night and get stoned whilst listening to the Fratellis.

Here's Me Wha?!

Welcome to the Voice of Treason.

A little information about myself, if you give a bollix that is...

I'm a 30-something from Belfast, in Ireland's liberal and tolerant north, who has an opinion on everything. Mostly on what I hate. Like reality TV. And wee spides with cider moustaches. And those mad bastards, the followers of the religion of peace, the one and only Islam. Oh and my job, working for the perma-tanned fuckwit himself, Peter Hain.

Are you sitting comfortably? Good, then get the fuck up and get me a beer from the fridge.