Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Non Stick

Last night, Disgrace could be seen bent uncomfortably over the cooker, flapping about manically with a spatula (and no, he wasn't filming a scene from Fake Empires latest porn flick). Amid the pots, pans and (strangely) shampoo, was what the lord of the Manor later wearily referred to as dinner. It was Chicken, Pollock style. With a gentle touch of Major Roadwork's.

Even members of the National Disgrace Cat fraternity were disgusted, and considering one of them had just spent a good 20 minutes choking on his own testicles, that's pretty severe. Anyway, it was during the 'cooking' of this meal that something interesting happened. Having almost lost a leg whilst trying to crush garlic, and just about preventing a major fire whilst boiling the rice, the 'BFD' (Big Fucking Disgrace) was having problems with his 'fried something'. It was stuck to the pan, in the same way a hedgehog sticks to a motorway. It was obviously a non-stick pan and this infuriated Disgrace as it quite obviously had some kind of food stuff stuck to it. So, naturally, he took out a ultra pointy and sharp knife and began to hack at the skillet like he was some sort of crazy kitchen based lumberjack. Of course, this act of chef rage did not help and soon Captain D was staring at a pan with it's Teflon surface in tatters and hanging off the side. It was just at this second, that one of the cats (obviously giving his balls a rest) somehow un-muted the TV by stepping on the remote. As the non-stick pan lost the stuff that makes it non-stick because something stuck to it, the air was filled with sinister tones of Bertie Ahern on 6:01 News, explaining to the Mahon Tribunal how he wasn't even born in 1997. Again, for the second post in a matter of weeks, old el Disgraceó was impressed by the irony

Thursday, September 20, 2007

French to be Fried

Despite the rumours. Despite the performance. Despite the poor choice as replacement Back. Despite form. Despite reason. Despite everything.

This match is now on

Ballymun in the Rain

Now, it's well known that 50% of people who arrive into Ireland and travel along the Aircoach route to Dublin City Centre, request that the driver turn around and return them to the Airport. Some of the others, particularly the Germans, will have dropped a cyanide tab, and it's not unusual to hear foreign tongued squeals before ultimately, gunshots. Those that do stay on, are usually the Driver and Dubliners.

Strategically planned, the route takes in all the glories of destructed and desolate Dublin. It's a beautiful sight, to be safely sped along Dorset St as track suited grannies engage in fist fights outside the Bookies and Pubs. I can only imagine tourists mouths salivating as they press up against the glass and look on jealously at Ginos chipper or any of the 70 or so fast food joints on the route, full to the brim with Celtic jerseys and drunks.

Disgrace took this route at the weekend as he returned from his holler's. Swapping the Prado and St Peters for the Sun and the Sea, our hero had one week earlier, nervously approached his first resort holiday. Filled with images of stabbings, England jerseys and 'Ballymun in the Sun', I arrived and spend a wonderful week of relaxation and non life threatening incidents. The sun beamed down of me like a huge hot ball of light and the Beer, ice cold in nature, went down easier than a paraplegic prostitute. Put simply, it was bliss on a stick. Without the stick.

Disgrace even ventured into a bar that was showing a televised soccer event featuring England. Half joking to Mrs D that she'd better get ready 'to be glassed and savagely beaten' they enjoyed nothing but courtesy from our cross channel cousins.

So, having tasted this and being completely surprised by it, I returned home to Ireland with a spring in my step. As the Aircoach sped along Dorset St, with all the jerseys gathered around corners like a Finglas funeral, and the men urinating against passing dogs, and the girls with skirts over their heads, and the drunks walking on their elbows and head butting themselves, I finally understood irony

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

It's not like he invaded Poland or anything

"Ireland is a coarse place with a sad history where the natives are obsessed by money" <linky>

He's right though, isn't he?

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Martina Navratilova in Hulk Hogan Outift

Inspired by onefortheorads hilarious post about sick surfers, I decided to lay down a test and see if the following search terms are used and how much traffic it generates. This, I must stress, is not to garner traffic, but more to expose the sick nature of the general public. I refer back to this as an example...

So.. Let's drop some keywords and see how sick you guys are.

'Mickey sandwich'
'Nude pictures free in cornflakes'
'Romantic Rapist'
'Martina Navratilova in Hulk Hogan outfit'
'Sucking off Elephant'
'Dead Corpse Tits'
'Postcard with picture of pineapple in bikini on it'
'Nun face painting'
'Bertie Ahern in Lingerie'
'Balls the size of Jupiter'
'Kangaroo kissing Granny'
'Gentleman fiddling with penis'
'US drop Slut Bomb'
''Shamrock rovers fan naked'
'Where did you put the bounty bar? Urrghh, I'm not eating that now'
'Queen romps with Monkey'
'US ambassador covered in chocolate'
'Arse filled with tennis balls'
'Santa and dog action videos'
'Horse found in hotel room with TD'
'The Knuckle Jam Rap'
'Major sperm spillage on main street'
'Derek Davies talks 'boob jobs''
'Jim's Seedy Syrup'
'Sexy Sadamn Hussein'
'Set fire to pants and ride a bike'
'Naked golf players'
Jesus' cock'
'Sliced pan nude'
'Removing foreskin with stapler'
'Carrot stuck to donkeys back in orgy'

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Not Again!!

Airbus treated Hong Kong residents to an an exciting fly over by the worlds largest aircraft yesterday, in a bid to recover from recent bad publicity.

Perhaps they should of chosen a better photo then?

Monday, September 3, 2007

Celebrating Stupidity - Brian wins the UK's Big Brother

I was watching a cleverly shot, art house classic about a train driver who gets a haircut the other night when one of my feline friends accidentally stood on the battery powered television channel switcher and changed my viewing from sexy film noir, to sexless bag of shit. He had switched on Big Brother.

There, parading in front of me like a procession of members of the Myra Hindley appreciation club at the world crèche championships, were a veritable who's who of absolute stupidity. First, we had two vacuous twins. Giggling and bouncing around like a duo of happy ping-pong balls, and just as pointless. Where in the world could you be presented with two attractive and innocent blonde twins and not be remotely interested in naughty thoughts? On Big Brother that's where. This pair, with their ringtone charm and fake telepathy, are so devoid of sex that it make a month old pancake with pencils stuck in it attractive..
But that's not what this is about.
You see, the next character to present themselves for my accidental viewing was a gentleman by the name of Brian. Brian, from here on in will be a metaphor for Britain in general.

Brian was the winner of this years show, a show that I like to think of a reverse quiz show. A competition whereby the most stupid person wins. Less 'Where in the world' and more 'Where is my brain'. Possibly Brian, it could be on the moon, which according to you, is MUCH bigger than the earth. Yes Brian, the Earth. You do remember you telling one of the Lobotomy Twins that we lived on Earth, but being a little unsure?. I'm not too sure either Brian...

So this guys wins. He was a likeable sort nonetheless, but then again, Battenberg cake is likable, but I wouldn't rely on it to fill in my tax returns. Despite him being 'astonished' that Ireland had it's own flag, because he thought it 'was an island'. He was right about that at least.

What is it with Britain and it's rewards for stupidity. Remember this is the country that voted David Beckham as prime minister (well, kind of). This is the country where Ant and Dec are the high brow, high point of entertainment, despite the two of them being captains of the idiotic.

Then again, we were all conned. I mean, once I discovered that William Shakespeare DIRECTED Romeo and Juliet, I knew that the Brits had been having us on all along