I’ll keep this brief. My buddy Darwin is doing a great series on the misguided wankress that is Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin. I’ll just add a big of weight to the argument by posting a few of the issues she stands firm on. As Darwin points out, she loves nothing better than sitting in a plane with a high powered rifle, shooting any wolf that happens into view. In fact, she seems to have very little respect for animals at all. She loves guns and, despite not having a clue what the Bush doctrine is, supports it unwaveringly. She is a firm supporter of America’s right to bear arms but not arm polar bears as there are apparently way too many of them around. Endangered? Nonsense! Next thing they’ll be telling her that she can’t hunt Beluga whales!!!!!!...
Well, I don’t know what’s worse. A judge failing to tell her fellow judges that one of the contestants worked for her modelling agency, the fact that a nonsense person involved in a nonsense controversy makes a nonsense story in a nonsense newspaper or the fact that they give prizes for people who manage to dress themselves. I mean, fuck me, I’ve raised many an eyebrow in me pirate garb but nobody ever sent me on an all expenses paid trip to Dubai - not that I have any intention of visiting such a vulgar testament to opulence in close enough proximity to abject poverty.
So here’s the thing. Apparently horse racing and over priced clothing have always gone hand in hand. Y’see, in order for a man to watch horse racing in rainy old Ireland, he needs wellies, a...
‘Thot’s jost graysh, Copton,’ spake the Dublin 4 gobshite before I made a map out of his face.
For the uninitiated amongst you, let me just advise that the aforementioned idiot was simply saying “That’s just great, Captain”. You see, Ireland has been divided for years. We have Northern Ireland, who are subjects of the Queen, The Republic of Ireland who are constantly being screwed by our government and Dublin who bow only to their own arse biscuits. Now, within the Republic of Dublin there is a sub-republic called Dublin 4. For my American friends, the fact that there is a digit after the name doesn’t mean that it should have a tag line. If Dublin 4 did have a tag line, it would read something like; “Dublin 4: Be aloof….. Be very...
It has been widely rumoured that Brian Carroll is a journalist. I know, the very thought that a knuckle-dragging git like Brian could string together a coherent sentence even when he isn’t picking fleas from his brother’s scalp is ludicrous but these rumours persist nevertheless. I recently asked for proof and the only shred of tangible proof offered to me was the fact that he does indeed write for the Mail on Sunday. The Mail on Sunday? You hardly need to go to college to write for that fish and chip wrapper.
As I’ve mentioned in recent posts, I’ve decided to research before I rant and, in keeping with this new-found ethos, I borrowed the Turd on Sunday from a friend of mine who had just purchased it - I couldn’t quite stretch to actually paying for this...
It’s funny the way things go. Days after making the ludicrous claim on Sky Sports News that his time in charge of the Irish team was a success, Steve Staunton takes the post of assistant manager of Leeds. This also puts into stark relief the inanity of his appointment as Irish manager. Are we saying that the level we require is that of an assistant manager at a third division club?
Trappatoni is now in the frame for to succeed Stan and, though I would never question the managerial record of the great man, I sincerely question his passion for the role of Ireland. Firstly, he is seventy on his next birthday and has barely a word of English. Ok, I know that Stan had very little English but we should be looking to improve the lines of communication between manager and playing staff....
A long time ago. In an Irish town far far away there lived a man who had a dream. His dream was quite simple; he wanted to be a self made man. He wanted to be a captain of industry. He wanted to wear the smug grin of success.
Now, other people who have had this dream tend to do things like… oh, go to college or gain relevant experience. Not our man. He decided to get where he wanted to go by being a giant prick to the local musicians. He became a self-appointed entertainments manager but with a twist: he was a fucking useless one. Not only that, he had a nasty habit. No, it wasn’t a drug habit. Here’s the thing: Musician A has been hired to play by the aforementioned prick. Musician A arrives a few hours before the gig and drops in his gear. He then heads for a pint,...
A long time ago. In a Limerick far far away there lived a man who had a dream. His dream was quite simple; he wanted to be a self made man. He wanted to be a captain of industry. He wanted to wear the smug grin of success.
Now, other people who have had this dream tend to do things like… oh, go to college or gain relevant experience. Not our man. He decided to get where he wanted to go by being a giant prick to the local musicians. He became a self-appointed entertainments manager but with a twist: he was a fucking useless one. Not only that, he had a nasty habit. No, it wasn’t a drug habit. Here’s the thing: Musician A has been hired to play by the aforementioned prick. Musician A arrives a few hours before the gig and drops in his gear. He then heads for a pint,...
Having taken part in a discussion recently about the undeserved stereotype with which Limerick City has become inextricably linked, I found myself thinking about local talent again. Sometimes I think Dublin people are like all those Americans who don’t own a passport. Some of them seldom venture outside the smug confines of the Capital but are only too willing to castigate other counties. Limerick has its share of fucking low-life pricks. Yes, there is a violent feud in progress in Limerick but if they’re killing eachother, I’m not really bothered. They’re a waste of oxygen anyway. What these pieces of shit don’t do is represent Limerick, yet every Limerick man is tarnished by the biased media coverage they receive. Here’s some news for you: If the...
It’s been sunny skies here in Limerick over the last few days so I was dismayed to discover that we had a tornado. I tried calling the number on this clip for the Limerick Town Hall but all I got was that doodle-bip tone.
Can you imagine if that was a Garda spokesman?
Sergeant O’Rectum, who joined the Limerick Police Farce through years of dedicated and tireless nepitism, couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had this to say:
“Well, we were in the local Subway when it happened. I was on my second meetball and cider sub when a feckin mighty wind kicked up outside. Jaysus, we thought t’was typical June weather until the roof of Willy Sexton’s cross d’road blew off and took the feckin siren off the car. Hey Jimmy, show the man the picture...
This, my friends, is a true story. I can scarcely believe it myself but I assure you it is absolutely true.
Fearless protectors, clowns in uniform, overpaid-under worked burdens on the taxpayer or Subway’s best customers. Whatever way you describe Ireland’s police force, you can’t deny that almost all of them stick to stereotype.
Last week, as I strolled back to the Thirsty Kipper, I met my father on the road. He was not only walking his own dog; he was walking my dog also. As you may have gathered, from and earlier rant, I was fecked. Well this was the day after but I was still fecked. I stopped for a chat. As I was leaving, my father called back to me and I acknowledged his request. I didn’t think at the time it was at all threatening looking and either did my...
I’m fecked. Fecked fecked fucking bollixing, feckity feckin fecked! In Ireland, the word “feck” was invented to replace the far more effective, “fuck”. If you visit these fair isles you can still hear the odd Paddy use it. Fuck is way more effective because you can really get some venom into it but feck is perfect for describing how you feel when you’re hungover. That is why I must say, I’m fecked. Fecked, fecked fe… ah, you get the picture.
Even a Captain must perform menial tasks on board the Thirsty Kipper and these tasks must take place on bank holidays too. So it is that I find myself at work since eight this morning. Being fecked is one thing but being fecked at work is quite another.
The reason for my feckedness? Well I went to see...
“Cap’n, you’ve just got to manage your mood,” the stoney faced moron announced, whilst absently fiddling with her neckless in a vain attempt to draw my attention to her cleavage.
“And how might I do that?” said I, trying not to grimace at the sight of her badly applied, orange fake tan, which gave way to sickly white skin.
“You need to make a list of everything that has been bothering you and work through it methodically until you can come to an emotional compromise,” she replied, fluttering her eyelids in way that would have been sexy had she been.
“Oh, is that all?” said I, trying not to focus on the glob of mascara at the corner of her eye.
“Look,” she said in her Donegal drawl, leaning back and smoothing her...
Ok, Wayne LaPerre - the idiot - is just going to have to wait a little longer before I steer the Kipper in his direction because it looks like Bertie has retained his job.
What the fuck is wrong with the Irish people? You have been robbed, swindled and pillaged - and that’s just by me. The government have done all that in addition to lying to you and making a potential terrorist target out of Shannon Airport and YOU ARE VOTING THE FUCKERS BACK IN!!!
For fuck’s sake! I’m not saying that having Enda - confused - Kenny was any alternative but could we not have worked to hang the dail? A hung dail would have forced an agreement between all parties and they would have spent their time proving who would do a better job. This would have given the Irish people ample time to...
Further from my post about prisons in Ireland I came across a couple of interesting while putting myself through the rigours of my very demanding Friday liquid diet.
Now you know how aghast I’ve been at the rising property prices in this country but - though I wasn’t surprised - it nevertheless disgusted me to have it confirmed that the easiest way to get a house is to become a scumbag. Residents of Limerick’s most expensive hotel are asked if they would prefer a house or a flat. They needn’t worry about making any immediate contribution to society because our benevolent government will pay for the house. Don’t worry about those pesky bills, the government will sort that out for you. Don’t worry about being put back into a dangerous neighbourhood;...
There's an almighty row going on at the moment about the contracts being offered to new hospital consultants.An incredible uproar.And the reason? Well, the government is going to hire consultants to work exclusively in the public health service. They won't be able to have private patients under the new contract. They'll have to devote their full attention to their employer's requirements.This won't affect the conditions of employment enjoyed by the present consultants, nor will it reduce their income in any way, but they're not a bit happy. They don't want their money-making system changed, and they're not used to being questioned. You see, Irish consultants have a great set-up, whereby they get a salary from the government and can also treat private patients in public hospitals,...
I recently installed an LCD TV in the Thirsty Kipper. I thought it would be a good way to while away the time when things were quiet. I gotta tell ya, it’s fantastic. I love it but there’s a problem. I’ve gotten so into what it can do, I’ve started watching shite movies in order to hear the glorious surround sound and sample the visuals that I’ve always thought of as dross. For instance, I recently watched a movie called xXx merely for its aesthetic value. As a movie, it is the worst kind of shite. This is the stuff that Hollywood spits out when it wants to fucking annoy everyone. There is no plot, the performances of all involved - including Samuel L - are abject fucking rubbish and it makes me sick to think that there are people out there who actually...
Whilst fishing off the Kipper the other day, I received a phone call from a friend that I haven’t seen in around fifteen years.
“Yyyarrrr,” exclaimed I, lobbing another stick of dynamite in the direction of a school of blue fin, “tis been this many a year since last we spoke, lad. How do ye be?”
“Ah, Cap’n,” he replied, “I’m doin great. I’m home from New York with the wife. You’ve gotta meet her.”
“Indeed,” spake I, after sending a deck-hand to scoop up my catch, “t’would be a shame for us not to break bread before ye set sail once more. Yaarrrr…. Yaaarrr ha haaarrrrr….”
So, off I went to meet my old friend, reminiscing about the old days as I donned my finest garb for...
Before some of you go off thinking this is another Celia rant, cool your expensive, impractical heels and read on. No, my aversion to this waste of space hasn’t dimmed but I will be merely using her appearance in a local piece of junk mail to make a point.
As I have said before, I’m fucking sick of junk mail. If I’ve been away from dry land for a while, my letterbox is bursting upon my return. The amount of shit they shove through your letterbox is fucking incredible. The Limerick Weekender, for example. Elvis on a fucking stick!! This has to be the single biggest waste of paper since Jordan’s third autobiography - My Left Tit. Firstly; a tabloid should be structured to appeal to those who read them. On the rare occasion that I pick up a rag, it is either to wipe...
As a young lad, I was carefree and full of youthful optimism. I spent most of my play time as a child, outdoors. Climbing trees, playing soccer, getting into the normal trouble that kids get into and, surprising as it may seem, I was rarely sick. At Halloween, we used to build a bonfire and cook sausages and stuff by sticking twigs through them and holding them up to the bonfire. We’d go camping and cook fish that we caught over a small camp fire. The fish would be cleaned on a rock. I’m not trying to say that I was a Grizzly Adams type child but that’s what we did back then before fear drove our children indoors and property development all but wiped out the rolling fields. I got cut, bruised and sick from experimenting with alcohol but I was never struck down by...
I met a friend of mine recently who was just back from New York. He gave up piracy for life as a carpenter and hasn’t looked back. Me, I think he misses the joys of the open sea, serving under a drunken Captain and the general merriment attached to us sea-faring miscreants. We had a good chat about the old days and he reminded me of something that we witnessed long ago on the streets of Limerick.
T’was a time when one could smoke in bars whilst listening to live music performed by excellent local musicians. Westlife had been spawned by Satan but hadn’t been unleashed to empty aural shite into our reluctant ears. T’was a time before scumbags but silencers on their stanleys and you could get pissed, grab a greasy take-away and get a cab home for under forty quid.
Me...
I may have told you that, some years ago, the Thirsty Kipper was put in a dry dock for a while and yer ould Cap’n had to depend on the pittance that the state gave out for a while. It wasn’t long but it was long enough to notice two things. Firstly; if you weren’t demoralised by being out of work, you will be by the attitude of the staff in the dole office. In their eyes, you are guilty of trying claim off the government while working until they prove otherwise. The second thing I noticed is how abysmally awful daytime TV is.
For a long time afterwards, I couldn’t watch daytime TV without going into a blind rage. You had fucking awful chat shows like Vanessa - who gave advice on everything from obesity to failed marriages… WWHHHAAATTTTT???? So, Vanessa...
I mzt abologize for my absinth… Ahem… I have been quiet of late as I have switched Broadband providers. My experience with Eircom was less than satisfactory, to put it ridiculously mildly. Y’see I hardly ever look at through any bill that is sent to me. At the behest of a friend of mine, who had just left Eircom, I decided to look through my Eircom bill and guess what I found out? Yep, they had been over-charging me for seven fucking months. I was being charged for both broadband and dial-up.
The first time I called Eircom about this, I was put on hold. The horrible hold music was punctuated by a crisp voice. “Thank you for calling Eircom. All our customer care agents are currently attending other customers. Your call is important to us. Please hold and we will...
Election time is here again. That wonderful time, when politicians tell you that they’re going to be giving you more money and everything is going to be rosy in the emerald garden. We will be paying less tax, pensioners will be getting €300 per week and they will be giving free penis enlargements to anyone who has suffered the side effects of steroids. Frankly, it makes you wonder why they didn’t do all these great things during their term in office. The stuttering buffoon, known to many as Colin the performing monkey but more commonly as Bertie Ahern is talking up all the great things that Fianna Fail have done for us. I’ll sum it up for you in two single syllable words for you, Bertie - FUCK ALL.
This government has had more money to waste than anyone else and they...
Dear Stan,
As a Villa fan, I have many great memories of you as a player. I remember the goal you scored against United at Old Trafford when Villa really were a force. Paul McGrath, Ray Houghton and Andy Townsend made up the rest of the Irish contingent at Villa Park and all bled for club and country. Those were great days indeed.
Do you remember when the Irish back four consisted of you, McGrath, Moran and Irwin? What am I saying; of course you do. That was when we had a defence that was the envy of most. McGrath and Moran were an intimidating presence whilst not being intimidated by anyone. Both yourself and Irwin were great dead ball specialists and we were a threat going forward. Ok, not a huge threat but a threat just the same. We were...
You may think, by the title, that this is about Katie Melua’s next single but it’s not. I know there are 25 billion blades of grass in Croke Park because I fucking counted the fucking things during yesterday’s game. Well it certainly beat watching the fucking game. What was that? I mean, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT??? Soccer, played well, is the most beautiful game in the world. Soccer, played badly, is worse than having your bollox stapled to a horses arse before someone yells GIDDYYYYUUPPP!!! Yesterday’s game couldn’t even be described as “Soccer played badly”. It can’t really be called soccer at all.
“We came here for tree pints and dass wha we goh,” intoned the Ginger Plank during his post-match interview. So, Stan, you...
So the tension is building like the steam in a dodgy kettle with no element. The long awaited clash between John Toshplank and the Ginger Plank is at hand. George Hamilton is dusting off his favourite shitty metaphors in anticipation of the meeting between the two biggest footballing giants in… well… in… erm… Ireland and Wales… ahem…
Bobby Robson is expecting Wales to play offensive football. I fully expect that he’s right about that. In fact, both sides will play football that is offensive to soccer fans.
It seems that every Irish player is rushing to the defence of the Ginger Plank and why not. Someone has to support him but they can’t be really serious. Richard Dunne has said that he knows the players better than Brian Kerr did and that...
Patience is everything. Your ability to be patient separates you from the common scumbag. Patience is the ability to be pissed fucking off yet hold your anger in. I was both patient and pissed off tonight but mostly I was angry.
Why was I angry? Well, I went and saw just the kind of crusty I’ve been talking about. A guy with a guitar and a drum machine singing Garth fucking Brooks songs. I didn’t go with the intention of seeing this guy, I simply went for a pint and was inflicted with him. This, again, put me in mind of the lack of proper venues for proper bands and the reasons for the current state of affairs. There are many reasons for Limerick becoming the cultural vacuum that it has become but I’d like to talk about one very annoying reason.
Long ago in the City of...
Well I docked the ol’ Thirsty Kipper at Limerick docks and went in search of some Paddy’s day cheer on the ol day of Patrick and a foine ol skinful I had too. Met some of my landlubber friends and watched in horror as an Irish TMO gave a try that he could not have seen unless they had cameras embedded in the fucking pitch. I rode that disappointment like a true veteran of disappointment. Of course you couldn’t fault the heroism of the Irish team but it did present something of a realisation in me.
Long before the ginger plank took over the hotseat of the Irish soccer team, there was a time when we were actually a decent team. The ginger plank himself played no small part in our success and, as a Villan, it pains me that he has now sullied his reputation by wearing his...
We are balls to the wall with great musicians in Limerick. There used to be a time when you could go on a pub crawl and find premier entertainment in most of the venues you visited. Not anymore. There are hardly any venues for bands. Dolan’s still flies the flag for Limerick talent but need to supplement this with acts from outside our city. Mick Dolan should not have to shoulder sole responsibility for the exposure of Limerick talent. We are supposed to be a major Irish city but we do not have enough outlets for our musicians.
Now, by musician, I don’t mean some plum with a guitar, a bank of midi files and a drum machine banging out everything from The Eagles to Billy fucking Joel. I mean real musicians who dare to be different. Musicians who aren’t afraid to harness the...
As many of you know, I’ve been vociferously critical of RTE in the past and I still think that they’re a load of shite but I must take my hat off to them for their honesty lately.
As you know, my televisual self-sacrifice knows no bounds. I am prepared to plant my attention where nobody should ever be expected to, simply to report back to you so as you may be spared the pain. I was at a loose end the other night and so I thought I’d check on RTE again. I was surprised to see that they were openly admitting their shallowness and lack of creativity with a show called How Low Can You Go? Seemingly, even RTE were admitting the abysmal nature of their programming. I watched a bit of this show and I can tell you that abysmal is not an adequate description of it. It consists...