THE QUEEN’S VISIT: FUGGER'S SUGGESTION

(pictured above: out in our droves)

Perhaps, if I may be so bold to suggest it, your majesty, God bless her, could, just as a gesture, do a few circuits, not too many mind, just one for every year of British rule, of Croke Park, in full regalia, the crown, the fancy gear, the whole lot, on her hands and knees, while Jedward dance around her and give her the odd boot in the arse, not too hard mind, as she crawls around, as a kind of act of penance, just so, y’know, we can finally move on and forget all this nonsense. . .

. . .it’s just a suggestion.

. . .no takers?

Oh, very well then, forget it. Drive her around the place, buy her a bag of Tayto and let John Bruton get her autograph. Just make sure she's gone by teatime and for God's sake no one start with that Dublin Monaghan shite. She's a famous old lady not a member of MI6. It’d be like them blaming Maureen Potter for Airey Neave (which they might have done had she been in the vicinity-but let's not start with any of that either and just let the Sunday Independent staffers enjoy their big day).

May 17^th though, . . .could they not have picked another day to have her over?

CLAWS

Some people find them creepy but I think claws make great pets. You don’t have to clean up after them and they don’t require feeding. They can be quite affectionate too in their own way and it is nice to see them scuttling down the hall to meet you when you get home. If one makes the effort to overcome initial squeamishness, one finds that, as pets, claws are second to none.

There is a wide variety of claws to be had and each one is unique. You can’t break them down into species categories but there are certain types. Some are long and bony, some have talons, some are hairy, and some just look like normal human hands. The human hand types are the easiest to come by and not really valued by most collectors but I find them to be the most intelligent and you can even set them little errands, like fetching the TV remote. Try getting your typical hairy claw to do that, not likely.
(pictured above: teach them tricks)

Claws are also handy (excuse the pun) when it comes to intruders. I had a break in about a month ago but the burglar didn’t get very far before Eugene (my favourite claw) leapt upon his throat and squeezed the life out of him. At least that was the coroner’s summation. We can’t be absolutely sure as no one was there at the time but for the claws and the late criminal himself.

Women are often reluctant to entertain my fondness for claws and it’s hard to get another date once they’ve been over to my place. How many times have I seen that wide-eyed look of horror when they realise the hand creeping up their thigh is not mine but in fact a monstrous disembodied claw? It’s as horrified a look as you could expect to see. It’s almost as bad as the look I get when they realise the hand is mine. Claws are a large part of my life and if these women can’t accept that then fine. I’m sure I’ll meet a goth type or something who will be perfectly happy with my pet claws or maybe some kind of hard ass carnival woman with tattoos and all that.

The only real drawback when it comes to claw ownership is the difficulty in getting a license. I had to apply several times and they really don’t make it easy for you. It’s obvious that the authorities don’t want to encourage the domestication of claws but I see this as down to basic ignorance. There is a prejudice against claws thanks to the media and silly horror films. If treated right, claws are harmless. Yes, there was that one incident with that little girl last year but you have to wonder if she was provoking the claw that throttled her. In my experience, claws are gentle creatures as long as you respect them and are not the subject of their occult vendetta (all claws have a vendetta, it’s just their nature).

If you are interested in claw ownership there are lots of websites and books in the library with useful tips. Remember, you won’t find claws in your local pet-shop and buying them online is inadvisable as you never know what you might get. It is best to try and bag one yourself. There should be no shortage of them crawling around your nearest graveyard or place of Satanic worship.
(pictured above: provide your claw with a 'safe place'-old Tupperware is ideal)

So, that’s all I have to say about claws. I hope I’ve at least changed a few minds about our taloned friends and will just finish by reminding you that I will be on Nationwide (RTE, after the 6-1 news on Thursday) showing my claws to the delightful Mary Kennedy, so programme that into the Sky Plus and happy clawing.

FLOGGING SH1T£

When I was a kid, we made money collecting empty bottles and returning them to the supermarket. You’d make enough for a 2000AD comic and maybe a choc-ice. My brothers were a step ahead though. They used gather up any useless old shite they could find and sell it to modern art collectors for several grand.

I remember we had this old record player with a wobbly turntable so my brothers glued an ornamental clog my mam picked up in Holland to it and headed off to the Hugh Lane Gallery. When they got there they plugged in the record player and the little clog began to revolve in an undulating fashion. They told the curator the record player/clog was a ‘piece’ called I Can Hear Them On The Stairs and was inspired by The Diary of Anne Frank. The curator got very excited and gave the lads 17 grand. When they got home they found Mam a bit narked about the missing clog so cheered her up by paying off the mortgage.

I remember deciding to try it. I was a novice though. Being younger, I had a narrower frame of reference than my brothers and so found ‘flogging shite’ (as we called it) difficult. I did have one success though when I scooped up a load of golf balls from the bottom of a boating lake near the local pitch and putt course. I put the golf balls in a laundry basket I pinched from the house and carried them up to the Hugh Lane. I told the curator the basket of balls was a piece called Amazing Grace. When she asked me why the piece was called Amazing Grace, I smiled smugly and said the golf balls ‘once were lost but now are found’. Pretty clever I thought.

My confidence deflated when the curator gave me a sceptical look and sighed. I knew I had to come up with something better if I was to make the cash I needed for a swimming pool I was planning to install in the garden. Sudden inspiration struck, from who knows where, and I found myself telling the curator that my work was ‘a bespoke retro-flexive analogism re: the betrayal of objects by the unconscionable neglect of both distance and time’. The curator liked that and forked over enough cash for both a pool and a waterslide. I was fairly fucking delighted I must say.

I never made another sale after that and, once they were financially secure for the rest of their lives, my brothers gave up ‘flogging shite’ too. I hear a new crowd has gotten in on the act since. Apparently there’s this English girl called Tracy Emin who’s been sorted for 2000AD and choc-ice money for around twenty years now. Good on her I suppose.

Oh, the wittiness, . . .the awful bloody wittiness of it all.

The LOL Equation MK 2

I’m a bit uninspired today. I can’t think of what to write. Mmm, let’s see, what do I have for you. Eh, I bought some cheap biscuits in Lidl earlier. Not bad tasting. Um, and, oh yeah, ever notice how Lidl is always empty until you get to the check-out and there’s a huge queue? Yeah, mad isn’t it? Um, let’s see, what else. Mmmm, . . .dee da dum, ta dee dee dah. . . Oh yeah, I’m a bit worried they’re going to increase the management fees here. Yeah. That’d be a bit, um, crap. . .

OK, look, this obviously isn’t working out and I’ve other things to be doing. No really I do. I swear. I need a bath for a start. I think I’ll hand you over to my computerised blog post generator. I’ve fixed it up so there shouldn’t be a repeat of THE LAST MISHAP.

Right, I’m turning it on now. It’s humming. It’s coming to life. Fingers crossed. Here goes. Enjoy. . .

TITLE: RANDOM THOUGHTS...

MAIN BODY OF TEXT: Hello again Readers.

Needless to say, I like gardening so my favourite website is politics.ie because there are lots of vegetables on it. LOL!

Also needless to say is that films are rubbish these days so they should change the name of the cinema to the binema. That’s BINema, as in ‘rubbish bin(ema)’. LOL! Did you get it? Did you LOL? You should LOL! LOL Now! LOL! LOL! I command you, LOL!

I see the Arts Council have awarded Cathal O'Searcaigh some money for a new van (pictured above). ‘It’s not much but it suits my needs’, said the celebrated bursary hunter yesterday. Needless to say, the insinuation here is that O’Searcaigh is a predatory paedophile. That is LOL! LOL Now! LOL! You will LOL! All Hail LOL! YOU MUST AND WILL LOL! PRAISE LOL FOR I AM THE LORD OF LOL AND YOU WILL DO MY BIDDING! LOL! LOL! LMFAO! OMFG! NEEDLESSTOSAY! LOL! ROFL! PAED0101110100101001PHILE^PWNED+ I-AM-THE-LOL-THY-GOD{LMFAO ~ RATFLMFAO^BFF < LAWL ‰~ OMG¬ E=MC²101000101000100010101001110101001. . . BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Ah, Jesus. What’s happened now? I go away for two minutes and you break it again. What did you do to it? You’re too demanding. Christ, do you know how long it took me to set up? Now, let’s see. Good Lord, what was it saying to you? This is worse than the last time. Look, just go away. Give me a bit and I’ll see what I can do. Really though, it’s not looking good is it? It looks like I’m stuck with providing these twice weekly brain farts myself. Sod it, maybe I should just give this machine to Twenty Major. He could probably make some use of it.

OBAMA BOMBA OSAMA!

(pictured above: Osama during his residency at the Embassy Club, Manchester, 2005)

Really, I don’t know what we’ll do without him. Remember the little videos he used to leave? They were kind of vlogs really. And remember the funny little hat? I loved that hat. Remember the way he and his mates used hang around in caves? They were like The Clangers weren’t they? They were a gas little shower, popping up out of the caves and leaving videos for CNN. And his name, it sounded a bit like Aladdin didn’t it? It would’ve been class if his name was Aladdin Bin Laden and he had a flying carpet and they chased him around on it with their jets. Imagine that! Rat-a-tat-tat! Fwooosh! Alas, we won’t see it now.

Now, I know he wasn’t perfect. I know he was a bit nutty, but you have to hand it to him, he made some very exciting telly. It’s all ended a bit anticlimactically though hasn’t it? We’re not even going to get a televised funeral, like with Diana. They buried him at sea. What use is that? They just threw his body to the sharks. So, no funeral, what a let down. Where's the closure? You need a bit of decent closure to wrap things up properly. It’s like Lost all over again. I mean really, who is writing this shit?

Anyway, I’ve got to go. I hear his prayer mat is selling on E-Bay and I want to get my bid in.

CRAP MAN V HUBERMAN

DO AS THE MAN SAYS AND CLICK THE LINK BENEATH HIM!

LINK: CRAP MAN V HUBERMAN!

THE PLANET OF THE SHOPS

Do you know that look on a three year old’s face just after she drops a brand new ice cream? It’s the facial expression that comes before the inevitable bawling. A stunned look. Open mouthed. Wide eyed. Shocked at cruel fate’s sudden hard slap. You know it? Well, in the future everyone in Ireland will have that look on their face. 24/7.

We’ll have that look on our face as our piebalds pull our Mercs past lay-by picnickers. We’ll have that look on our face as we travel potholed roads to the mall. The mall: a near derelict hulk. Creaking and wheezing. Cracked glass and corroded chrome. A junkyard Death Star coated in a film of dust. Once a temple to aspiration, now a salve to desperation. Shuddering escalators will carry us around inside. Crackling musak will attempt to sooth. But we’ll still have that look on our face.



We will go through the motions. Buying the remnants of better times in a gargantuan jumble sale of half-assed items that guarantee dissatisfaction. But we’ll soldier on. What else is there to do? A torn bath mat. One Ugg boot. Tattered chick-lit. A bent 9 iron. There’s a dead house spider in the powdered milk. Someone bursts into tears and their spouse tells them to keep it together. ‘You’ll set everyone off’. But they can’t contain themselves. Trembling lips. Rolling tears. Gushing snot. ‘Waaaaahhhhh!’ Oh Christ!

The spouse places a hand over their loved one’s mouth but it’s too late. A grating voice barks from the P.A. ‘Transgressor-floor three-aisle seven.’ Here comes security. The couple flee. A chase. Other customers watch, glad they are not the ones being pursued.

The couple run past displays of punctured soccer balls, dented bean cans, withered fruit and veg, wilting copies of Eddie Hobbs’ You and Your Money magazine. They are surrounded before they reach the fire exit. They are shot with tranquiliser darts. Their unconscious bodies are loaded into shopping trolleys and wheeled away. The P.A. growls again: ‘patrons are advised to stick with the programme or face the consequences’. Everyone does as they are told. What else is there to do? There’s bargains to be had. They saw it on the telly. They read it in the paper. Now is not the time to be cribbing and moaning. Things are looking up. Just don’t look up! Transgressors are dangling from the ceiling by their necks. Take that look off your face and welcome to the Planet of the Shops.