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Showing posts with label comic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comic. Show all posts

Thursday, June 18, 2015

INCORPORATING ALAN

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My sitcom about a writer of superhero comics who aspires to be the next John Dee has been commissioned. It's called 'Incorporating Alan'.

In episode one of Incorporating Alan, Alan hilariously sets out to prove that Paul Daniels is not a proper magician.

In episode two of Incorporating Alan, Alan is unamused to discover his publisher merchandising plushies of one of his edgy rapist characters.

In episode three of Incorporating Alan, Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Warren to stop dressing like him.

In episode four of Incorporating Alan, Alan struggles to find a polite way of getting his friend Grant to stop pretending to be him.

In episode five of Incorporating Alan, Alan refuses to partake in a Q and A at a Batman convention unless it is entirely conducted in Enochian.

In episode six of Incorporating Alan, Alan is at loggerheads with his publisher when he decides to kill off their most popular character again.

In episode seven of Incorporating Alan, Alan kicks off his two-year stewardship of the Pokémon comic by placing Snorlax in Chapel Perilous.

In episode eight of Incorporating Alan, Alan is infuriated when a critic describes his new experimental writing style as 'Krypto the Super Doggerel.'

That’s it for the first series. I was asked to produce more episodes but I referred the broadcaster to the occult properties of the number eight, saying that any other amount would exhibit preternatural ignorance.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

SELF-ASSEMBLY THE MOVIE

SELF-ASSEMBLY from Ray Sullivan on Vimeo.
Ray Sullivan's film of the Windell comic of the nightmare you are going to have.

Monday, April 29, 2013

BIG COMIC LAUNCH


 (click to enlarge)
Courageous Mayhem, the new comic anthology by National Tragedy!  
Launching at The Little Green, 13 High Street, Dublin 8. 
Saturday, May 4th, 4pm until evening or maybe even later.

Art. Everyone loves a bit of art. Even Hitler enjoyed a bit of art. He did some drawings himself but they weren't very good so he decided to kill millions of people instead. Anyway, there's a little book of drawings and stories and art and all that being launched at the above venue at the above time and you should really go along. If you don't the artists might give up the drawing and take it out on various minorities. So come along and save the world from a load of future Hitlers. If you say, 'I'm here to save the world from a load of future Hitlers' you'll get a euro off when you buy the book but you have to say those exact words.

There will be a bar and a cafe. Modest drinking and civilised chat are encouraged. No shite talk and vomiting. Here is some footage of people drinking so you can get the gist of what is expected:
...just like that except less musical. See you there and remember, if you don't go you're a Nazi causer coz you cause Nazis.

Sunday, April 8, 2012

LAUNCH INVITE: ROMANTIC MAYHEM!


Come along why don't you? Saturday the 14th!!!
Check here for detals:
ROMANTIC MAYHEM!!!!!

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Sunday, October 17, 2010

More Shite About the Telly


I loved writing about the telly in the last post. You can’t beat a bit of telly. I’m always sitting down for a dose telly myself. I’d go mad without it. Are you the same? I bet you are. Some people prefer the radio or books to the telly but you know what they call those people don’t you? They call them perverts. Other people say they spend their time online but sure what’s the internet for only discussing the telly?

There’s great stuff to be had on the telly. Did you see that thing the other night where the lads went mad and started shooting guns at each other? It was great. They were having some kind of disagreement about money or something and one of them pulls out a gun and off they went. They crashed a car in it too and an actress took off her blouse. It wasn’t the actress whose blouse I was hoping would come off, that was a different actress, but you can’t have everything.

There’s some rubbish on the telly of course. You can’t deny that. All those documentaries about countries that can’t get their act together or historical things about old kings who died of gout or something. I hate all that but at least it’s in the minority. Most telly is great. I love the shows where the people get their hopes and dreams crushed. Reality shows they call them because they actually took place in reality (whatever that is LOL!). I love the reality shows. I love seeing the hurt in the eyes of the contestants.

I like the soaps too. The soaps are great aren‘t they? I love the one where they stand around talking to each other angrily. That’s brilliant. They all live on this road and there have been so many murders, explosions and rapes on the road you’d think the police would have just permanently cordoned it off by now. I can’t remember what that particular soap is called. It might be called Balamory or maybe it’s The News. Either way it’s bloody good stuff. It’s mayhem on that road. Seriously bad vibes. But, y’know, that’s what life is like now isn’t it? It’s all a load of shite. Unless, you’re watching telly of course. The telly is great. The telly is absolutely fantastic. I prefer telly to my friends. My friends are a nice enough crowd but they’re a bit dull. They never fire guns or anything. Though, in fairness, one did take her blouse off once but I didn’t even notice. I was too busy watching the telly.

Click the link to read the comic I did with Ms. PureDaft de Barra. It’s about the tellies you can get now that make you feel like you’re actually in the shows and not sat at home on a crap old sofa eating stale digestives and wishing you were dead.
Here’s the link: DIMENSION 5!

Oh, and here’s a lovely song about how great the telly is: TV PARTY

. . .right, you can go now.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Oh yeah, ...comics.


Out of date satire. Click. Enlarge. And sock it to the man daddio.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

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Friday, November 27, 2009

A RAFT OF SOLUTIONS!


(Pictured: two members of the establishment to the rescue)

I hear the Taoiseach and ministers are awaiting the go ahead from IBEC re: the implementation of profit making flood relief ventures. It is proposed that water charges be introduced as an incentive to those with water logged homes/work-places to return said liquids to their (newly) privately owned places of origin or face financial penalties. This will 'incentivize' floodees to not just spend their time floating around the place on lilos expecting the exchequer to bail (pun unintended) them out. As the Taoiseach put it himself, 'Everyone's a winner'.

In addition to this measure, Cardinal Desmond Connell has been appointed to head up a National Emergency Flood Response Action Force Committee. This committee includes AIB's robust fiscal dynamo Colm Doherty and other luminaries of good governance, such as various members of The Knights of Columbanus and/or Opus Dei. 'It'll be like Thunderbirds but without the actual Thunderbirds', suggested the Taoiseach.

'Legitimate' needs will also be dealt with via the altruistic issuing of vouchers that will go 'some way' toward covering the cost of life-jackets from participating outlets. The vouchers will be awarded to means tested parties after they present the required documentation (utility bills, proof of address etc.). Soggy documentation will not be accepted going forward.

'We've set aside €67 for this now, so we're serious', mumbled the Taoiseach.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

FOR THE LADIES...


Seeing as the last post was lads only, this post is strictly for the ladies (and I know a lot of broads visit this equal opportunities blog).

Ladies, simply enlarge the image above, print and pin up on your wall. It's the one you've been waiting for. To quote the mother, 'mmmmm, dishy'.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Health is Wealth!


I went to the doctor the other day and he told me I was going to die. When I asked him how, he said 'I don't know, I've just got this feeling'. I asked him if he could at least give me a check up to see if anything could be done but he said he didn't think it would be any use.

I started to get a bit worked up about the whole thing, which I think is understandable, and demanded that he at least tell me how long I had left to live. 'I don't know,' he said 'about half an hour, maybe three quarters'. I began to raise my voice, loudly insisting that he could do more but the doctor just asked me to leave. 'You're freaking me out,' he said, 'and I don't want you dying in here and then all the patients outside thinking I killed you by accident because I'm a crap doctor'.

I was charged €60 as I left.

Speaking of matters health, why not check out this great rediscovered episode of the Windell Comics superhero THE HAT?

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

BERTIE AHERN


'Ah, lay off now. I did me best by yiz. I'm just a man. A normal Drumcondra fella. Love the rasher sandwiches and the Bass. Did you go see the Dubs? Man U played a blinder there, absolute blinder. The daughter likes writing the stories. Loves the bukes. Makes a few bob from that. Did an old buke meself there. A normal enough few pages. Nothing special. A modest buke of recollections and things. Do you like a buke yourself? Mine is seventeen euro. Rasher sandwiches.

Good times. Good times were had by all. There were a few blips on the landscape but we always had the few euro for the Bass. Don't mind the loopers and the whingers, the failures, failed people. Don't mind them feckin' eejits. Feckin' failures. I'd rivet them! Do you hear me? DO YA? I'd rivet that shower! I'LL RIVET THE LOT OF YE!!!!

Ah no, I'm only coddin'. Love an old cod. I love a cod but I'd prefer a Bass. That's a fish joke. Did you get that? It has a double meaning, you can read it two ways. Man U. Rasher sandwiches. Ash Wednesday. Ash Wednesday's great. Big lump of ash on the noggin there. Smudge. Big smudge of it there and then off we go for rasher sandwiches. Great days. We did right by yiz anyway. Brian's fumbled the ball a bit, not too much. Terrible when that lad painted him doin a shite in the nip. That can't have been easy. Lehmans didn't help either and now there's the uncanny darkness overtaking the place. I'd rivet that darkness. I'd rivet it but I'd rivet Higgins first! I'd rivet that bollix! Rivet him! RIVET!

The future? What of the future you ask? Well, we'll wait and see what comes. I'll still be here, still being Bertie, still watching the matches, drinking the Bass, but I might be doin' it in the Aras. Yiz still love me don't yiz? Yiz still love the Bertie. You'd love to have me up the Aras wouldn't yiz? Oh yeah, yous would n' all. Rasher sandwiches.'

Monday, October 12, 2009

GREENS WILL NEGOTIATE WITH MASSIVE SPIDER GODDESS


In the hopes of implementing some of their policies, the Green Party recently spoke of a possible coalition between themselves and spider Goddess Nyx. 'As it stands Nyx has no mandate, if we make her seem credible then maybe we can get something positive in return,' said John Gormley at the Green Party conference last week. 'Let's face it,' he continued, 'she's hardly any worse for the nation than FF.'

In consultation with the interesting thinkers that comprise their party membership, the Greens have made a list of rock bottom terms which would absolutely have to be included in a programme for government should one be formed with the telekinetic, genocidal, horrifyingly large, arachnid, spectral freak.

The terms are as follows. . .

1: Vending machines that serve organically sourced vegetarian quiche to be installed in all significant locations of social interaction around the country.

2: The state issue an apology to badgers for the part it played in leaving the cruel pastime of baiting go unaddressed.

3: A monument to bikes and the people who cycle them to be erected outside the General Post Office.

4: A proposal be made to European Parliament that harsh economic sanctions be brought against the French for their rampant consumption of escargots.

5: That the constitution be altered so as to recognise creatures and animals as 'forest, field and kennel dwelling individuals of other species'.

6: That loud lorries stop travelling through Dublin South-East.

In response to this proposal, Nyx mummified a Green Party delegation in webbing, sucked them dry of essential fluids and hung their petrified husks from the railings of Government buildings going forward.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

The Thing in the Road.


Seeking a solution to the aforementioned supernatural/paranormal tomfoolery/high-jinx that is afoot in my town and spreading throughout the country at large, I have found myself consulting the work of Lady Gregory. In her attempt to assemble an archive of Irish folk beliefs, Lady Gregory spent a large part of the early 20th century travelling the hills of Sligo collecting tales of Fortean phenomena said to have been experienced by the various bog men she found there. It was amongst the folk wisdoms of these first hand accounts that I hoped to find some remedy to our current economic/occult predicament.

Gregory records an odd event that took place late one February night on a muddy road that ran raggedly from the foot of Ben Bulben. The tale of The Thing in the Road became one of the most celebrated paranormal incidents of its time and is even said to have once been referred to by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself, during a drunken tirade launched at his wife.

Anyway, without further ado, I will reproduce the accounts, as recorded by Lady Gregory, of the people who were actually there on the night. If you catch sight of anything that may be of assistance amongst the insanity of the garbled rustic parlance below please let me know.

The Thing in the Road: testimonies by boggers of a fiend that they happened upon whilst drunkenly travelling a pitch dark path at four o'clock in the morning (possibly after taking mushies).

Husband: 'There was something in the road that night. You could tell it was there because it wasn't somewhere else. It had a shape but it wasn't like a shape and it rolled forward like a duck doesn't or a goose either for that matter. It was as big as it was small and twice that size again. It wasn't comely, you wouldn't go toward it.'

Wife of Husband: 'I saw it also. At first I thought it was a cow but it wasn't. It was nothing like a cow and there was no reason to think it was a cow at all. It wasn't a cow or anything like that. It wasn't a horse either. I thought it was a cow and it could've been I suppose but for the fact that it wasn't.'

Brother of Wife of Husband: 'It was fierce. It looked fierce and it smelled it also. There was a stench of fierceness in the road and that is all I will say on the matter.'

Wife of Brother of Wife of Husband: 'My heart was above me at the sight of it. My heart was above me and to either side of me and behind and below me and there before me at the sight of it on the road.'

Father of Wife of Brother of Wife of Husband: 'I'll neither confirm nor deny that I saw it but see it I did and it wasn't there at all.'

Brother of Father of Wife of Brother of Wife of Husband: 'I thought it was something the faery ride upon. It had no hooves. It let a tremendous belch. It called me a gee-bag.'

Random Bogger: It was faery but not good faery, not comely, you would be reluctant to make its acquaintance. There was badness to it. You should never cross a faery's path. Never close a gate upon a faery or speak badly of one's footwear. It called us gee-bags. I didn't like it at all. It might have been a protestant. You know, the grass is so thick there you could grease your boots with it.'

The End.

I'm not sure if reading endless streams of this Lady Gregory stuff is helping. Beyond my window I can hear the pitiful wails of a nation being poisoned, paralysed and slowly eaten alive by the hideous scuttling mega-spider that is Nyx. There must be something that can be done, something, . . .going forward.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

'Giant Spider Collapsed Housing Market' Claims Councillor


Telekinetic spider Goddess Nyx's continuing rampage has spread into the Irish Midlands causing councillor Gutty (Gut-Bag) O'Gorman (Fianna Fine-a Gael Fail) to claim that the paranormal assault is now the single largest contributor to the collapse of property prices in the area. O'Gorman, a long time advocate of the Jackson Pollock school of land rezoning, said on local radio that 'some minor misjudgements by certain parties in the past may have played a part in the decline of property values but really it's the spider that's to blame. Who'd want to be living in a place overrun by supernatural entities and malignant arachnid demons looming down on you from the heavens? Let's get real on this issue'.

Naturally, Nyx's effect on the locality is also of great concern to people living there. Taking their first step on the property ladder, James and Sorcha Healy moved out to the commuter belt. Now they find themselves deep in negative equity and unable to leave the house for fear of an Old Hag that lays in wait in their front garden. 'Property around here is worth next to nothing what with the goblins coming down everyone's chimneys and the human skeletons hanging from creepy grey webbing in the sky' says James. 'It's so true,' agrees Sorcha, 'the amount of money we've invested in this place, . . .I mean, we may as well have burned all our cash and gone to live on the North Pole in a house made of shit'. Neighbour, Shane Curley, concurs, 'as a private sector employee I find myself thinking of the sacrifices I have made already, I doubt Missus Colossal Spider Goddess out there even cares. Why doesn't she go attack the knackers on some corpo estate or eat one of those over-funded libraries no one goes to?'

Tourism has also been badly effected by the recent transformation of the Midlands into a web strewn supernatural jungle of death. Just listen to this disgruntled visitor from Germany: LINK. I doubt he'll be back.

'The spider will be the ruination of the country, don't we have sprays for this sort of thing?' asked an emotional O'Gorman before his radio interview concluded with the arrival of a Hat Man in the studio and the ensuing sounds of petrified screams, cardiac arrest and soul consumption.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Mummy . . .is . . .HERE!


Tonight, more so than every other night, a great cloak will be thrown over the heavens and darkness will fall. It will be the time of Nyx, the Goddess of night, and she will slide up from the depths of our sleeping minds and crawl like a colossal spider across the land, casting a shadow blacker than a starless night.

Animal headed children will twirl and shriek in the air amongst spinning dead leaves and the psychic transmissions of disturbed rests. 'Mummy is here! Mummy is here!' the children will scream with malign delight and then unmask to reveal themselves to be the offspring of Nyx. The goat faced girl is Lyssa, the Goddess of Madness, the ravager of reason and comprehension. She takes the mind, every individual's only true haven from her expanding realm of unreason. She will slip into your head and stomp and whirl until nothing is where it should be. She will ensure you never again escape the grip of Phobetor, the pig faced boy, her nephew and the God of Nightmares, who bangs remorselessly and senselessly upon the shrill keyboard of rational cognitive processes.

Some of us will perish this night when the rabbit faced Thanatos unmasks, a monstrously deformed child, the God of death, who will drag us forever into a great unknown where science and empirical determination mean less than nothing. Where you are but a frequency in a hissing static discord of paranormal incomprehensibility.

And this night will howl and rage forever and we will all be its victims for the Sun is dead (kicked to death in a shop doorway as it slept a drunken vagrant's sleep). Screaming cats and birds will join every car alarm in the land, singing a panicked song of despair, an eternal cacophonous nocturne, a permanent soundtrack to this Hell on Earth. The agencies of the state will weep. Holy men will plead to a God long since murdered and then, worst of all, Nyx will crack open the Universe like a rotten egg and her summoned army will come oozing out.

Maybe you've seen the foot soldiers of Nyx, creeping from the dark recesses of your room and looming over your frozen bed bound body. The Old Hag, the Shadow People or maybe the Hat Man. Now they are here to stay, released forever from the nocturnal parole of sleep paralysis, defying the left hemisphere of the brain. These Archetypes of Twilight, these members of the Jungian Collective Unconsciousness, will become the new cops, the new teachers, the new doctors, nurses and priests. Un-Civil servants in a new state of infinite chaos.

It is happening in my town and will happen in yours. I warned you all. I wrote letters to both the Irish Times and The Herald, but it did no good. People scoffed, some mocked, Madame editor saw fit not to publish my missive . . . and now it has happened. The Twilight that ruled our pagan past has re-emerged. The shadow of the spider is spreading and soon it will swallow reality whole. We are all to be dead deranged dreamers and Nyx will rule this dominion for eternity.

. . . Eddie Hobbs can't save you now!

You were warned.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

A SUNNY TALE.


One day, like every other day, the Sun climbed up over the edge of the Earth, heaved his big burning body into the sky and made it morning. The cats all stood on the rooftops to greet him, the flowers lifted their pretty heads to see him and the birds sang his praises.

As the Sun continued to clamber up higher into the sky, people awoke and the Sun's celestial progress gave temporal cohesion to their lives. 'Now it is time to go to work', said the watches and clocks and they knew this because the Sun told their forefathers, the sundials, and the knowledge was passed down over the generations. 'Now it is time for lunch', said the watches and clocks later that day. 'Now it is time for the news to be on the telly', they said later on ...and so on and so on.

All day the Sun would roll up over everyone's heads until it came time to slide back down the other side of the Earth. What the Sun did when he vanished behind the horizon no one knew but I'll tell you. Every evening, when the Sun's work was done, he went and got pissed out of his mind. 'I'm fucking parched', the Sun would say and tumble like a big scorchy ball toward a hostelry that resides in the gloomy cosmic depths beneath our wonderful flat world. All the planets of the solar system would be there, drinking, playing darts, chatting each other up and complaining about politics. On this night, the Sun glided into the bar and took a seat next to his best pal Jupiter, who the Sun thought was wonderful fun. 'You're a gas planet', the Sun often told Jupiter, causing Jupiter to say, 'tell me something I don't know' and everyone would laugh except Mars who was usually just in the bar to start a fight.

That night, Venus was sitting at a nearby table and the Sun occasionally glanced over at her because he fancied her loads but was a bit shy. Sadly, Venus had no regard for the Sun. 'Mr. Hot Stuff over there thinks the world revolves around him', said Venus of the Sun to Pluto, who was always happy to hear a bad word said about somebody because he was bitter after being demoted from his status as a planet and relegated to being a mere floaty thing, no better than that eejit the Moon. Anyway, the Sun overheard what Venus said to Pluto and his heart sank. He decided to drown his sorrows in copious amounts of booze.

When closing time came the Sun tumbled out of the bar and tried to find his way home but he couldn't because he was so drunk. He span off one way and then another but it was no use, he was utterly lost. 'I think this is Ranelagh', said the Sun to himself upon spotting a familiar Spar, but it was not Ranelagh it was . . .well who knows where it was. 'This is awful', thought the Sun about his efforts to discover his whereabouts and he took out his mobile phone to call a taxi but his mobile was banjaxed. 'Oh no', said the Sun, 'my mobile has melted in my pocket because I am such a hot fellow, I'm up shit's creek for sure now'. Eventually tiring of futilely spinning this way and that, the Sun decided to settle down for a wee sleep in the doorway of the Spar.

The next morning on Earth (or what should have been the next morning on Earth) found the cats, birds and flowers all eagerly awaiting the Sun's return but return he did not. The creatures and plants did not know what to do and grew quite worried. The humans were less worried, awaking and going about their usual business with the help of the watches and the clocks that no longer needed the advice of the Sun. As it turns out, the Sun was kicked to death as he slept by two random weirdos who were good at sports, went to private schools and took amphetamines (this sometimes happens to people who sleep in shop doorways and is said to be frowned upon by the law but I've yet to see anyone do time for it - LOL!). The Sun never visited the Earth again.

The end results of this rambling chain of events were that The Big Issue magazine ran an article on how shop doorway dwellers really should not be kicked to death and someone mentioned what happened to the Sun on the telly. Some arty types and the odd child said they missed the Sun and environmental whingers started a panic about how no more food would grow but the food did grow, hydroponically, and everything was grand because the human race are a great species that can overcome any problem except perhaps the problem of living with each other and their petty neuroses.

As for the solar system, well that dispersed with Jupiter and the other planets going roughly in one direction and Earth spinning off in another. 'I never liked that guy anyway', said Jupiter of Earth and the other planets all agreed except for Mars who was just contrary and Venus who secretly thought the Earth was gorgeous.

The End.

Monday, September 21, 2009

HOLY BUY OUT!


Garganex Corp. CEO, Howard Garganex.

Garganex Chemicals Corp. has bought out the Catholic Church.

Due to scandals involving the harbouring of demented sex criminals, market insiders have long believed the Vatican to be merely dragging the once lucrative Jesus franchise through the mud. Needless to say, shares have plummeted. However, like an ever vigilant carrion bird, the Garganex Corporation has swooped down.

The advantages of this new acquisition to the Garganex Corporation are many. The riches of the Vatican bank are an obvious windfall, not to mention the rights to all of the characters that appear in the Holy Bible. You can soon expect to see Noah, Moses and even Jesus Christ advertising Garganex related goods. The Pope, former CEO and money-changer in chief of the Catholic Church, said that he is happy with the buy out as it provides him with the revenue required for a multitude of out of court settlements. These settlements will save his holiness from a long term in prison for facilitating the world's largest ever paedophile ring. 'It's a liberation really,' said Pope Benedict, 'now we can quit wasting time pontificating about theological mumbo jumbo and spend more time doing things we really enjoy, like putting the boot into the queers, all that stuff'.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Parting, Sweet Sorrow Shock!


I don’t know about you readers, but I am very much looking forward to the impending demise of Kerry Katona. Mourning her promises to be even more cathartic than judging her has been. In a year when we have lost both Jade and Jacko, Kerry’s death would make 2009 a hat-trick year for Celebrity Bereavement.

I heard about Celebrity Bereavement on one of those afternoon TV shows that are
watched by home-keepers with a moment to spare, elderly viewers, the chronically
unemployed, or those too horribly disfigured to leave the house. A psychologist was on (I’d seen her on Big Brother and she’s pretty insightful) explaining the phenomenon of Celebrity Bereavement. She said that, unlike the grief caused by normal bereavement, Celebrity Bereavement (or CB) causes a kind of super grief. In fact, the amount of grief caused by CB is directly proportionate to the height of the celebrity’s media profile at the time of their passing. For example, Super Grief (or SG) can be caused by the loss of someone extremely high profile like Diana Spencer (a.k.a. the Princess of Hearts) whereas personalities that rank lower on the celebrity scale merely incur a kind of Extra Grief (or EG). Imagine if Kevin Keegan died, EG would be a bit like that.

The psychologist on the afternoon TV show said that perfect conditions for CB include the celebrity in question’s death being sudden and dramatic, perhaps with a tinge of mystery to add a layer of intrigue. ‘Something to make us cock our eyebrows as the tears run down our cheeks,’ was how the psychologist put it. Was Diana murdered? Was Jacko given too much OxyContin with his cocoa? Was Rod Hull pushed? . . .that type of thing.

The psychologist also said it's preferable if the death of the celebrity rehabilitates their reputation to some extent. ‘Everyone loves cutting celebs down to size, it’s natural and there is no shame in it’ said the psychologist, ‘then, when the celebrity is suitably humbled, all we have to do is wait for them to die and we can wail about how they were just like us or how they were misunderstood and so on, it’s great’. Jade Goody went from racist oik to patron saint of the smear test, Michael Jackson went from being a kiddie fiddler back to being the King of Pop, Diana Spencer went from being a right royal strumpet to England’s Rose and Kerry Katona will go from being a coke snorting hussy to an understandably flawed young woman who temporarily overcame her difficult formative years to become both Queen of the Jungle and Mum of the Year, not to mention the face of the Iceland frozen food retail chain. Oh yes, Kerry’s death is going to provide 2009’s third CB emotional work out. Pity it couldn’t have been Britney, bit of a lost chance there although she’s not out of the woods yet. Anyway, I’ll be happy to make do with our martyr to mumdom Kerry Katona.

Incidentally, when asked how the death of someone like Martin Bashir would rate on the CB index, the psychologist said something like, ‘no one will really notice except maybe his wife or people who expect him to show up at work, . . .and even that’s a maybe.’

So, roll on Kerry in a coffin and let's hear it for Celebrity Bereavement.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Letters to the Editor


OK, things have gotten out of hand and I've been forced to send strongly worded letters of complaint to both the Times and the Herald concerning this previous post and the post directly below this one .


Here is the letter I sent to The Irish Times:

Madam,
I would like to join intellectual dreadnaught John Waters in his lamentation of John Charles McQuaid’s Ireland, an Ireland where the young respected their elders. It may be unfashionable in these days of rap music and political correctness to assert the old adage ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ but, in light of recent events, unfashionable I must be.

I live in a peaceful coastal town. We are a respectable community that plies its trade during the summer months ensuring visitors feel at ease, enjoy their chips and have ready access to change for the slot machines. Welcome as these revenue generating visitors are, I wish to take issue with the behaviour of their offspring. Our gentle community has recently become besieged by levitating children in disturbing animal masks who worship Satan and have the power of telekinesis. These children have taken to floating into our homes in the dead of night and rearranging furniture in a topsy-turvy and somewhat poltergeist like fashion. Now, this may be all the rage in the cosmopolitan Educate Together crack dens of Dublin, where I presume these children originate, but here we call it trespassing or, worse still, haunting.

As if that wasn’t enough, these paranormal bowsies have taken to reviving the dead from the local cemetery and sending them bewilderedly staggering into the town. I myself received a knock on the door and opened it to discover my late Aunt Dotty in a confused state of advanced decomposition. I brought the poor dear in, gave her a cup of tea and then drove her back up to her final resting place and reburied her. She took some convincing when it came to getting her to lie back in her coffin and let the soil cover her up. The experience was more than a little distressing for both of us. I can still hear her muffled wails as I pass the graveyard on my way to Super Value. The hoodlums are there too of course, revolving in the air above the church, pointing down at us and laughing. Our parish priest, one Father Jim Fondle, did intend on having ‘words’ with the youngsters but, as you will note from the enclosed photograph (blog readers see above), things did not go well.

The authorities seem intimidated by these little monsters and become strangely withdrawn when requested to address the situation. I have been in touch with social services and they are currently endeavouring to track down the parents. Incidentally, should not these juvenile occultists be back at school by now as holiday season is over, or is school attendance considered ‘square’ by the wife-swapping sodomites of D4? . . . but I digress.

As a perpetually persecuted and neurologically beleaguered victim of PC Ireland, Mr. Waters would no doubt concur when I say that the time has come to call a halt to the libertine social experiment of recent decades. An experiment that has given rise to such evils as rampant drug abuse, gay marriage, strident women, levitating Satanic children and Montessori. Would this rot have set in had we not lost sight of McQuaid’s Ireland?

I’ll finish my missive with a suggestion, perhaps we should introduce the birch like they have on the Isle of Man? I saw some pictures of the Isle of Man in a brochure once and not one levitating, animal headed, devil worshipping delinquent was to be seen.

Is mise le meas, yours in indignant outrage, etc.
(Name and address with editor)

And here's my letter to the Herald:

Dear Herald,
Your paper is deadly and I think we should hit kids with sticks.

Cheers lads,
(Name and address with editor)

Now, as letters to the paper so often are, that should put a stop to things. Otherwise we'll have no alternative but to talk to the mother directly.

They cannot stop us sing!