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Congrats to Keith of the Immigration Control Platform Youth Division on his appointment with RTE.
In other news, check out The Covers of the Fuggers That Never Were!

PROTESTANTS EXIST!!!!

Fugger has long been dismissive of Cryptozoology and its practitioners. Put simply, there is no such thing as Big Foot, Nessie or the Kuupachadós (or whatever they call that goblin that hassles goats in Mexico). When Fugger pictures a Cryptozoologist, Fugger imagines a profoundly unmarried man with a tartan flask and mini-DV camera, sat on a fishing stool in the freezing cold waiting for something to come along and change his life that isn't going to come along and change his life. After several hours of this, Fugger imagines the Cryptozoologist retreating to a nearby hostelry, scanning his footage and finding nothing. A discarded plastic bag snagged upon a hedge will be faintly visible in a couple of grainy frames and the Cryptozoologist will, upon repeated viewing, slowly convince himself that this is actually Kuupachadós afterbirth or something. Up to recently, Fugger has considered Cryptozoology nothing more than a kind of existential disorder and overall expression of discontent/boredom (a bit like keeping a blog). That is until I saw the recent footage of Protestants.

We've all heard about Protestants. Like the faery (who were once the proud Tuath De Dannan) Protestants are a mythological race of people once said to have ruled Ireland. Since their banishment at the hands of John Charles McQuaid, Protestants are now said to be shy creatures, daring only to creep around the twilight peripheries of existence. For a while now, Irish Cryptozoologists have argued that Protestants actually exist and may be a form of primitive man, a 'proto-Catholic' or something that chose a different evolutionary path at some crucial stage. As expected, these theories have met with derision, that is, until now. I invite the blog reader (a.k.a. You) to click the link below and view some astonishing footage.


CLICK HERE: PROTESTANT FOOTAGE!

It seems to Fugger that this could be no trick of the light. Sleight of hand also seems a remote possibility as I have had the footage analysed by Windell's Tech Division expert Prof. O'Shea (Ireland's heaviest baby circa 1978) and he has removed all possibility of post-production tampering. I think it is time Fugger, and society at large, viewed the once ridiculed school of Cryptozoology in a new light. It seems Cryptozoologists may have produced findings as shattering as Darwin's and, when you think about it, might not Darwin have been considered a Cryptozoologist in his day?

Paddy's Day Frivolity!

I had a deadly Paddy’s day. What about yourselves? Do anything? Have the craic at all? I went into town to see the parade. Missed it. It starts early. Got cans. A few Dutch. Twelve. Drank them with the lads: Anto, Byrno, Cunto, Umbro. Nice enough day it was. Nice outside. Called a garda a geebag and ran. He didn’t catch us. Too much chocice and Malteasers in him. His head went all red. I think he died. Had a few more cans. Took pisses on the road. Scraped the word ‘geebag’ into perspex. Rode Annette Healy. Stole her smokes. Climbed some railings. Not sure what I did that for. Climbed down. Called a garda a geebag and ran. He didn’t catch us. Fat legs on him. Too short for running after lads. Long enough to walk to the sweetshop. Ran over the bonnet of a car. Shouted the word ‘geebag’. Not sure why. Why not? GEEBAG! Took pisses on the road. Called a garda a geebag and ran. He didn’t catch us. Too much brack and sugary tea with his mammy on Sundays. Shouted ‘geebag’ at the Viking bus tour. Ran over the bonnet of a car. Driver started crying. Kicked a lad to death nearly. Shouted ‘giz a look at your tits you sexy bitch’ at some oul wan. Called a garda a geebag and ran. He didn’t catch us. Fat garda. Big arse made out of jelly on him. GEEBAG! Had more cans. Got taken to Clara Lara Adventure Park by David Coleman. Was given a pad to write my angry feelings in. Wrote geebag on it. Had a few more cans. Took more pisses on the road. Went a bit quiet walking by a scary looking lad. Called a garda a geebag and ran. He didn’t catch us. Jelly hole on him. Too much Fanta. Too much Monster Munch. Fierce angina. Had a few more cans. Scenes of carnage. Took pisses on the road. Went back to gaff. Studied for King’s Inns exam. Daddy says he’ll get us a car. Lovely Paddy’s Day. Deadly buzz. You’ll never beat the Irish. GEEBAG!

Assets!

Going forward. Due diligence. Standards of excellence. Increased liquidity. Best international practise.

Right, now all that is out of the way we can proceed:

I was asked to form an independentish body of experts to properly assess the value of assets being transferred to the state via NAMA. I’ve rounded up the best people for the job. Sean Fitzpatrick is aboard (wearing a Groucho Marx mask to ensure there is no conflict of interest) as is Bernie Madoff. Also on the job are Eddie Hobbs, Arthur Daly, Joe (Hulk) Joyce, Micky Fingers Fingleton, Brush Shields, Amy Huberman, the Mekon and Judge Death.

We rented Joe’s van from him and drove out to the Midlands to assess the various lands and properties that will be transferred. First up was Manna Manors. A fine little estate of houses entirely constructed from bread, Manna Manors boasts the legend: ‘As if From Heaven Itself’. By the time we arrived, the whole estate had been eaten by birds and we were faced with an empty building site populated by a multitude of half-heartedly flapping belching birds that had grown too fat to fly. Despite this, we decided the state was still getting a good deal because you could always staple the birds together and make new houses out of them. The insulation from the feathers would get an A1 BER rating too. So, Manna Manors, check. Good deal!

Next up was La Vulcana, advertised with the slogan ‘Home is Where the Hearth Is’. This estate was built out of petrol cans and matches. ‘You could go up like a tinder box living here,’ noted Huberman before adding, ‘and that certainly beats freezing to death.’ Good point, good deal, La Vulcana, check.

Of the other estates we checked out, one, Summer Meadows: Breathe In - You’re Home, comprised solely of fresh air (environmentally sound, check), another, Fanciful Notions: For Those Who Dare Think Big, was built from pure hubris (positive vibes, check) and another, Dreamlands, was similar to the previous two in that the estate itself was entirely imaginary, with prospective buyers invited to imagine their ideal home, describe it to the developer and then pay for it. The houses would never be built but, as it said on the brochure, you could ‘Imagine Yourself Home Today’ (innovative, check).

The last two assets we viewed also received the thumbs up. Aqua Delights, Beating Mother Nature to the Punch, featured homes constructed entirely from water, cunningly making them unfloodable, which is handy seeing as the whole place is built on a swamp. The last estate, ‘Shitland, Made Out of Shit’, was made out of shit and we liked that because it was cheeky.

I really think it is time to quit the nay saying. The Irish people stand to gain a great deal from these bargains once they are obtained by way of the transparent and straight-forward process of the National Assets Management Agency Special Purpose Vehicle Something Or Other that will not be the subject of a tribunal in fifteen years going forward.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to McSorley’s to kick Johnny Ronan in the bollix. The girls in Krystle’s tell me it’s all the rage these days.

For the Attention of Bernadette!

Bernadette, if you are reading this, please consider coming back. Things have changed and so have I. I think I’m ready to return to dentistry now and stop all this silly business. My confidence has returned and the tools of the trade no longer engender the profound terror they once did. Sure, I lost a patient but so do the best surgeons occasionally. Needless to say, the chances of reopening my doors in this country are slim so I’ll have to head abroad. Somewhere that is less uptight about credentials and all that business. I’m actually feeling good about this. I’ve looked up where all the teeth are on the internet and, despite some uncertainty as to the whereabouts of the bicuspids, I feel I am good to go.

I realise now that you were right, I should never have permitted Mother to remain in the surgery while I performed complicated procedures. Mother sees that now too. The drinking, shouting and playing of UK Subs CDs (full blast on her ‘wireless’) was intensely disconcerting and it is no surprise the periodontal probe slipped and cost the boy his life. I know you are still angry and I know that anger is compounded by the fact that the boy in question was our own. I remember how you tearfully roared ‘why didn’t you take him to a proper orthodontist?’ but I still feel that, despite losing our only child, we did save a substantial sum of money. Orthodontists charge the sun, moon and stars Bernadette. Money is hard to come by but we can always have another child.

Now that some time has passed, I hope you can see that it was not just me at fault and we can begin a process of mutual forgiveness. The Mother says she will play ball too. I miss you Bernadette. I miss the nape of your neck, your toes, the small of your back and the house has become very untidy. Our new house (in Afghanistan probably) will need to be kept ship-shape too and the Mother says you’re the only one for the job. She never did get along with the Filipino we employed after your departure. They fought bitterly and the Mother lost an eye.

Try and recall the good times Bernadette - there were good times. Remember when we let you out for a bit of a run in the garden. The sunshine. The fresh air. Remember how you held up your arms to the heavens, as if attempting to grasp it all before the Mother’s stopwatch ran to zero and she blew her whistle, summoning you back inside to continue the chores. After a time, (when you had come around to our way of thinking and stopped prattling on about your other husband and children) I felt we were really making a go of things. However, you had to contact the authorities and then there was the siege and my gun shot wound. I forgive you for the wound Bernadette, perhaps you can forgive me for the boy. He was quite overbearing all things considered and, as I said earlier, there is more where he came from.

I’ll finish by saying that we leave next week. I’m packing now and the Mother has chosen a lovely crate for you. Please come back Bernadette. I admit things were not perfect but at least we provided your life with structure and purpose, the fundamental desires of the human psyche. At least you knew where you were with us. Do you feel the same certainty now, in the company of those post-traumatic councillors, all running around the sorting office of your mind, putting stuff back where it does not belong? Like God or the government, we relieved you of the burden of self-determination and existential dithering. Freedom is overrated. In fact it is a myth. Come back to the fold Bernie. Everyone goes back to some fold or other, after a fashion, eventually, when it all gets too complicated.
Just think about it,

Your (common law) ex,

Fugger.

P.S. Remember ‘our song’?

Legalise EVERYTHING!

My private security firm of choice.

Here is my proposal going forward: legalise everything and abolish law enforcement. Shocked? Don’t be. Let me explain:

With the abolition of law enforcement, anyone seeking protection from theft or physical harm will be compelled to hire a private security firm, thereby obtaining a quality of protection that exceeds the current norm (competitiveness from other firms will encouragize the maintenance of standards going forward - unlike the sloppy state run system we currently endure).

The legalisation of violent crime (let’s face it, most other forms of crime are effectively legal so we’re talking knackers here) will enabalize those who lack the funds to hire a security firm to generate the revenue to do so. In short: you have no money for a bodyguard to protect you from muggers/thieves/kidnappers therefore you go mugging/thieving/kidnapping until you have made enough money to hire a bodyguard. Hence, crime creates the market for crime prevention which in turn is paid for by crime. The snake eats its own tail. The books balance. Harmony is attained.

By embracing the violent crime sector into the fiscal food-chain we also create a range of new market opportunities. Cosmetic surgeons are currently suffering because people can’t afford to get comedy breasts anymore. Under my proposed system, the cosmetic surgery market would be inundated with requests for post-violent assault reconstructive procedures. Violent crime (I keep using the term ‘crime’ but such activities would of course no longer be ‘crimes’ per-se) would also create markets for bullet proof jackets, homes and automobiles not to mention microchip tag insertion procedures that will enable loved ones to find your body no matter how remote the ditch it is eventually dumped in.

Ideally, protection against violent assault should be just that, protection, and not prevention. The market does not solve problems but rather copes with them. To actually solve a problem upon which your livelihood is based is to make yourself redundant, which would make you poor and that would be silly.

Now, the bed-wetters out there will moan about how my proposed system affects quality of life but that whole ‘quality of life’ thing is getting a bit tired. It’s exactly what they said about the privatisation of health and that works perfectly. Besides, since when has ‘quality of life’ been mankind’s ultimate aim? Never, that’s since when. Mankind has reached this evolutionary stage for one purpose and one purpose only, Harmonisation of the Market. If ‘quality of life’ is to be compromised in the process of market harmonisation then so be it. Besides, when I consider ‘quality of life’, I quite fancy where my proposal might eventually take us. I see an exciting kind of futuristic feudal system (the feudal way of life being the one to which mankind is inherently drawn) where we compete for resources in thrilling pitch battles that involve hired soldiers of fortune shooting at each other from dune buggies and/or engaging each other with samurai swords as they rollerblade into the jaws of death. Vehicles will overturn and spectacularly explode causing their occupants to somersault through the air and then land with a ‘Kathunk’, impaled upon spiked railings. Needless to say, many of these soldiers of fortune will be hot women donned in scant post-apocalyptic attire. These warrior women will shriek wildly as they swing chains above their heads, leap from rooftops onto passing battle-trucks and cut the driver’s throat without a moment’s hesitation, their lust for carnage causing their beautiful wild eyes to roll in their heads as they lick the blood from their daggers, climb from the cabin, jump onto another racing vehicle and do the same to the next driver. The conflict ends and they are victorious. They prowl the debris, regarding the corpses and body parts of their vanquished foes as satiated panthers regard their slaughtered prey. Their athletic physiques perspiring, glistening, streaked with blood and powdered by dust. Have them stripped and washed and brought to my quarters AT ONCE! This is the free-market dream going forward. Who’s with me?

Fugger's Award Nomination!

Staring: note the technique.


Last night it came to Fugger’s attention that this blog (Your Blog, The People’s Blog) has been nominated for the Best Blog of All Time Award (sponsored by Moulinex: Moulinex make things simple and that includes the price). Fugger reckons whoever nominated the blog is known to Fugger as contact details had to be provided (although the Fugger email address has done the rounds, as my heaving Spam box will attest). Anyway, whoever it was from the handful of regular Fug-Heads that come here, I salute your taste, your courage, your strength and your indefatigability.

The last time Fugger was nominated for anything it was for the Most Unnerving Person To Have Staring At You Through A Restaurant Window Award (sponsored by A1 Office Stationary, Rialto). As the six or so regular visitors to this blog know, I am a dab hand at restaurant based acts of psychological terrorism. The ‘staring through the window’ tactic is a particular favourite of mine and one that finds its reward in the discomfort it causes diners. It’s a delight to behold the same old responses: the prolonged initial stage of affected ignorance at your presence, the eventual acknowledgement that there is someone at the window, the dithering and reluctant summoning of staff. You should see them, squirming over their little side orders of boiled carrots and glasses of sub-standard plonk. ‘Look at yiz,’ I mutter as I gape, ‘look at yiz with your little forks and knives and napkins. So typically bourgeois. As predictable as clockwork toys. Pitiful humanoids.’ How gratifying their unease. Just think, by simply pausing outside an eatery and pressing your face against the glass, you can ruin someone’s whole evening. Sometimes you can ruin several evenings at once, depending on the lay out of the restaurant and how many people you can catch in your gaze. The heady euphoria this affords the starer is akin to the feeling someone like the Silver Surfer must get as he death defyingly skirts the searing outer rim of a blazing supernova. Nothing can stop you. The cosmos is your plaything. You’ll ruin as many dinners as you like.

Sadly, I didn’t get the Most Unnerving Person To Have Staring At You Through A Restaurant Window Award, it went to some crowd called The Eclectic Micks (whoever they are, probably nominated themselves, where are they now? etc.) but I did get honourable mention and got to go up on stage and collect a little figurine of a man staring though a window. I didn’t say much by way of a speech but I did hold my hands up, cupping the sides of my face as if to shield my eyes from extraneous light, and deliver a cheeky wee pretend stare to the audience, who laughed and applauded. It was a good night and it’s nice to have your efforts appreciated.

However, the award brought with it a measure of celebrity that did not sit well with my staring endeavours. Some of my regular haunts (places that had yet to employ a member of staff physically intimidating enough to see me off) began to advertise my possible arrival. ‘Get watched as you dine by Mr. Fugger, Dublin’s second greatest dinner ruiner!’ their signs read. The pleasure derived from discommoding the middleclass shit heads inside these premises was extinguished by the fact that now, once spotted by a diner, I would be pointed out to the other diners who would all stare back and play act being put off their meals. The restaurants I frequented became hangouts for students, ‘knowing’ fans of irony, Neo-Situationists, researchers on RTE2 programmes, all those types of people. I was even invited to Trinity College Dublin to stare at History Soc. as they ate. Montrose called also, a last minute request to appear on the Podge and Rodge Show when The Eclectic Micks couldn’t make it (whoever they are).

My first reaction to all this attention was to up my game, deliver ever more disconcerting stares, to better the likes of The Eclectic Micks (whoever they are) but it was no use. It wasn’t meant to be a competition, just a simple hobby, a modest act of protest against the contrived pseudo-pleasures of semidetached dwelling somnambulists. But now it was ruined. Now it was all ‘look here he is!’, ‘he’s like toootally crazy’, ‘OMG, the goy is loik sooo looking down Sorcha’s top’, and ‘he’s loik almost loik as good as the Micks loik’. It was ruined. All ruined. Ruined! I tried emigrating and gave it a go abroad but, after receiving a sound kicking from an outraged pair of Spaniards, I returned home. I lay in bed for a spell, dejected and at a loss for something to do, when I had an idea. I know, I thought, I’ll do one of them blogs. Tell it like it is. Say what we’re all thinking. Do some straight talking. That’s what the Internet needs!

And so, here we are today, . . .Jaysus.