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.
Wednesday, 31 January 2007
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.
Let's hope Westlife are next... to meet Mark Chapman.
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
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.
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.
Monday, 29 January 2007
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.
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?
Sunday, 28 January 2007
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.
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?
Friday, 26 January 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, 25 January 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, 24 January 2007
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.
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.
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.
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