Captain Purplehead

I have a big problem with people who keep going on about having a revolution and it is this: if you ask them what they will do, once the current government is ousted, they just say, “Jail the bankers”. Ok, fair enough, we’d all jail Fitzy, Fingers, Drumm, Bertie, Cowen and so on but what would you do to get the country back on its feet? The stock answer to that seems to be, “Um, well, my mate Mikey’s a fucking great economist”. The portents aren’t good.
Lately, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that we are fucked without some kind of revolution and here’s why. Our politicians are telling us that the austerity we’ve been forced into should start to ease around 2016 or so. Unfortunately, they tell us this because they constantly need to spin this yarn so it looks like they’re doing a good job, come election time. The reality is that we face a minimum of ten years of austerity because our politicians are more interested in PR than anything else. In fact, if you look at some figures, without some drastic overhaul of ours, the IMF’s and the EU’s recovery policies, we could still be facing austerity in 2040. We will continue to acquire debt that we can’t afford to repay. Yes, one would hope that something would give in the intervening 29 years, but this is Ireland and there’s no guarantee that we won’t happily take it up the arse ad infinitum.
As you know, there are people who are a lot better at writing about this shit than I am but I need point a few things out in order to make my point. Let’s take a look at Enda Kenny’s state of the nation address from early December. Remember, this was delivered before the budget. He started by stating the challenges faced by Ireland: to restore our economy, to create the environment of sustained jobs and to look after the most vulnerable people in our society. A lot of people, including this gullible pirate, watched that speech and said; maybe they’re finally going to go at the people who actually have money in this country. Maybe they’re going to make sure that the working class finally get a break. Maybe this is going to be a brave new world for Ireland. Ok, maybe I wasn’t that optimistic but I did hope. Of course when the budget came in, it did the exact opposite of what he laid out as challenges in his speech. Surely he has just lied through his teeth to us then. Surely we can legally call for him to stand down! Nah, we’ll just watch Corrie and pretend it never happened.
Our Taoiseach went to great pains to genuinely tell the people of Ireland that the economic mess isn’t their fault. “You did not cause this”. Yes, but we will pay for it, Enda. Meanwhile, he is paying ridiculous wages to his advisors and has reinstated the cronyism he swore so vehemently he would abolish when he was running for election.
Do we need a revolution? Yes, we most certainly do but it needs to be an intelligent, bloodless and well thought out revolution. Can that happen in this country? Probably not. Why can’t it happen in this country? Because, unfortunately we are top heavy with idiots. Yes, I said it; Irish people in general are fucking stupid. Tell the people that we are paying 3.6 billion next year to bondholders we absolutely do not and should not be paying and they say, “ah, for fuck’s sake”. Tell them they can’t hunt and brutally kill animals and they’re out on the streets protesting about how their “way of life” should be protected. Idiots! Think about that €3.6 billion. Think about how much more good could have been done in the budget, if we didn’t have to pay that.
We have bent over and said fuck me to Europe, when we should have said fuck you to a lot of what they demanded. Yeah, we need Europe right now but there were actions that should’ve been taken but weren’t and the status quo, for those at the top, remains completely unchanged, unchallenged and unbowed by the very obvious challenges faced by those of us at the bottom.
I’ll leave this with Enda Kenny’s state of the nation address. If you’re unfamiliar with the state of Ireland, please take my word for it. This is a staged outpouring of utter bullshit. We need to make a stand because the system doesn’t work. The system is unfair. The system is broken beyond repair and these fucking dickheads are trying to glue it back together with lies and ignorance. This current, broken system will never work again.

So, part 1 dealt with music, so there’s no real reason to revisit it. Yes, there are things I wish I’d said and didn’t but there’s always next year.
Part 2 will deal with two parts of the Christmas formula. Movies will be discussed and ravaged later but we will start, briefly, with the dreaded Christmas work do.
If you live in Ireland you’ll know and recognise our antiquated style of management, largely built on cronyism, obsequiousness and the odd outdated American management manual. Y’know, the kind of one written by a real go-getter back in the 80’s. There are some excellent people managers whom I have worked, and continue to work with, but there are also some pitifully awful pieces of shit who have not one clue about management. They fall into two categories: Those who are still craving parental approval and those who got way too much of it. They are aloof and snotty and are thoroughly detestable human beings who will live their pointless lives and never even question if they could have actually done something constructive with them. I recently had a chat about percentages with one of them that was akin to the “small. Far away” lecture that Father Ted gave Doughal.
Believe me, I could go on ad nauseum about these little fucking arse licking idiots but the point is that every year, you are expected to go out with these people, socialise with them and, very likely, get drunk with them. How anyone thinks this is a good idea is beyond me. You will invariably have the two who drunkenly jump each other’s bones and regret it the following morning, the moronic, unrealistic and stupidly dressed woman, who starts crying about the state of her relationship and you just know that she will gravitate towards you, because you are the one person trying not to get involved, you’re trying to be invisible so you can maybe slip away and join your mates somewhere. It’s fine if you go out with the people you immediately work with. They have probably become mates but the Christmas work do should be banned. They are normally tacky and unnecessary affairs that cost too much money and are invariably disappointing and embarrassing.
Right, now that that’s out of the way, we make our way towards TV movie scheduling for Christmas. Willy Wonka, It’s a Wonderful Life, The Champ, The Great Escape, Titanic, ET, Die Hard, A plethora of James Bond movies, Little Women and, of course, Star Wars, will all feature heavily in the Christmas schedule. You will be able to see some of them more than once, should you have the urge for repeated punishment.
Most of these movies have very little to do with Christmas, yet they pick them every fucking year. Why is that? Why show the fucking squirm-fest that is Titanic at a time when we’re all supposed to be happy and getting along? This is a three hour movie about a love affair between two nauseating characters that just happens to have the Titanic as a backdrop. A Night To Remember is a far superior film and they had none of the special effects technology open to James Cameron. He had a chance to tell a powerful story about a tragedy the many of us are fascinated with but he fucked it up. What’ll he think of next, Dances With Wolves in Space… oh, wait a second…
The Great Escape is an excellent, if slightly flawed, movie about actual events and I’ll admit I look forward to seeing it when it’s on. I still don’t know why they choose Christmas to show this film but that’s fine.
Star Wars is a great trilogy. The original had everything; space, fascism, good vs evil, heroes, villains, latent incestuous longing and colouredy swords. That’s all well and good. I don’t subscribe to the belief that these are amongst the best ever made, though. As a kid I loved them. Then that fucking wanker, George Lucas decided to milk the cash cow and make prequels to the original. That’s actually ok as a concept, there were some unresolved issues. I mean, Darth Vader suddenly becomes a good guy right before he pops his clogs and they all meet up in the afterlife for a bit of a party and a natter and it never quite made sense to me. The prequels go into exhaustive detail about his fall from goodie to baddie. The problem with the prequels is that they are such unbelievable shit, I wanted to go to George Lucas’ house and bludgeon him with Spielberg’s severed arm. He basically tied me to a chair, held my eyes open with matches and made me watch as he smeared his own shit all over my childhood. As I squirmed and wailed, he laughed maniacally, scooping another handful directly from his fat, hairy hole and happily applied it to those precious memories I had held so dear. Fuck you, Lucas, you fucking knobhead!
Have we become so enslaved to formula that we actually yearn for it? I remember years ago, hearing someone complain that they weren’t showing Willy Wonka that year. WHAT? Who fucking cares about Willy fucking Wonka! Wait until next year or buy the fucking DVD!
We live in a time when originality is in criminally short supply. In music, it is beginning to show signs of life again but those signs are very faint and, if Darth Walsh finds out, he’ll wipe it out entirely. Movies, however, are dying on the vine. Everything’s a remake, a sequel, a prequel or a bad rendering of a comic book hero. Yet, we lap it up. I recently read a book by Thomas Harris called Fatherland, that would make a great movie but they won’t make it. Yes, there are some exceptions that give us hope but they are very few. In fact, the only truly reliable director these days is Clint Eastwood. He is, in fact, the only remaining superstar on the planet.
Look at what they’ve stolen from us. Vampires are now lovely people in search of true love and loveliness, for fuck’s sake. It used to be that, if you had a poster of a vampire in your bedroom, you weird. Now it’s fucking normal. How did this happen. What’s next? Derek and Peggy – a Zombie Love Story. (Love never dies, even for the undead). Sweet suffering fuck!
So, now that you’ve read this, scurry away and lap up your formula and live in the nice bubble with the message emblazoned upon it, “DON’T WORRY, NOTHING WILL EVER CHANGE”. To quote John McClane in Die Hard, “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem, buddy”.
So, to finish, I genuinely wish you all a happy and peaceful Christmas and a truly great New Year, it probably won’t happen, but I hope it does. Hey, why don’t you give yourself a real present this Christmas and try something different.

I wasn’t going to do a Christmas post this year but, everyone seems to be so full of fucking cheer, despite having being shafted from every possible angle and in every orifice by greedy right-wing pricks, I feel I need to point out a few fucking home truths to people. No, I’m not going to go on about the worsening European crisis or fascism or anything political because you’ve heard enough of that and there are people out there doing it much better than I could. No, I’m going to talk about the Christmas formula, particularly – (ah fuck it, exclusively) – the entertainment side of it. Because of this, I’m not going to do just one post, I shall do two.
Right, let’s briefly speak about the music side of it. I don’t mind the old crooner songs because they are not invasive and annoying, they are what all Christmas songs should be; something to be played lightly in the background to build atmosphere. The crooners knew that. The orchestras that backed them knew that and that’s correct and proper because that’s just how it should be. I don’t mind a Christmas atmosphere. No, I’ve come to hate Christmas because people tend to just shove shit in your face and expect you to swallow it. There is never an acceptable occasion to do that to anyone. My personal peeves are that fucking horrible Driving home for Christmas song. Fuck me, how pathetic is that piece of fucking horrible rancid shit? Chris Rea was obsessed with traffic jams at the time. He wrote a song called The Road To Hell. It was a song about a metaphorical traffic jam. He likens the world’s slide towards doom to a traffic jam. He uses this imagery because it occurred to him when he was stuck in a traffic jam once. His bad mood about being stuck in traffic gave voice to some dark thoughts he had about the plight of the world. “It boils with every poison you can think of”, chirps little Chris. He’s right, I fucking hate traffic jams. When it comes to Christmas, however, he writes a happy little ditty about Christmas. What is the subject matter? Being stuck in a traffic jam as you’re driving home for Christmas. All of a sudden, that murky, dark, hopelessness evoked in an earlier recording is transformed into “Top to toe in tail lights”. Suddenly, he’s so delighted to be in this traffic jam that he’s singing to himself. Not only that, he looks at the driver next to him and he’s fucking singing too. Too much fucking Prozac on the motorway is never a good fucking idea! MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND, CHRIS!
Slade seem to have started this fucking all encompassing need for bands to bring out fucking Christmas songs. This is mainly because more singles are bought around Christmas so it is the hardest No. 1 to get. Call me cynical but I guarantee there is NO other reason for Christmas singles. They don’t fucking care if you’re out in a fucking pub, covered in glitter, singing it between shots of over-priced luminous fucking syrup. They want the cash! Simple as that.
Look at Mariah Carey, for instance. I’ll be the first to admit that she can be quite pleasing on the eye. Not so much the ear though. Look, being able to reach high C may be a talent or it may simply be an ability akin to being double jointed. I haven’t given it much thought and it doesn’t matter either way. The point is this. The fact that you are able to reach high C, does not mean, under any circumstances, that you fucking should. Mariah Carey is a disgusting little fucking money grubbing trollop that is less fucking appetising than a marmite and toejam sandwich with extra fucking earwax. She bleeds cheese. She almost makes Jordan look fucking classy. And, yes, she spouts some fucking horrible Christmas shite. “All I want for Christmas is you”. I’m willing to bet that they had to put a fucking small mountain of cash and a diamond encrusted rampant rabbit to inspire her to sing that. Fuck off, Mariah, you fucking toerag!
We cannot discuss Christmas songs without mentioning that fucking nut tumour, Cliff Richard. What a fucking spoofer that man is. If you play the Lord’s Prayer backwards, it says, “fuck off and die, Cliff, you old fucking cunt”. I haven’t tried it, but I’m reliably informed. Enough about that fucker.
Then we have the Bandaid song. There won’t be snow in Africa? Really? I’m not even going to go into how badly conceived that song was. Yes, their heart was in the right place but it’s a terrible fucking song.
Fairytale of New York is a very well crafted song. It is an excellent song but it’s overplayed. How Ronan Keating ever thought it was a good idea to cover it is, frankly, beyond me. The idea of the younger Cliff Richard singing “T’was Christmas Eve, my love, in the drunk tank”, is hilarious.
People like Dana and Cliff order us to remember the true meaning of Christmas. They want us to remember that it is a time when our saviour was born. He was unique because he was born without original sin. Original fucking sin! For fuck’s sake! They want you to believe that you never had a hope. They want you to believe that you can’t possibly amount to anything good without the guidance of their makey uppy religion. Your children are born without a malicious thought or intention. They are born innocent and beautiful and precious but these fucking zealots want you to believe that they are born sinners. How utterly disgusting! How fucking dare they. Of course, this is just to coral you into a ball of fear and confusion, which can only be fixed by the guidance of the church. If you’re lucky enough not to be dicked in the ear by one of them, you may grow up to understand that the whole thing is a load of bollox.
Part 2 of this rant will be up shortly. Stay tuned, or don’t, it’s up to you.

Right, I’m not even putting a warning in front of this one. If you don’t like what I have to say, fuck off on a fucking pilgrimage or something. I have just heard something that has really raised the fucking hackles and this is going to get fucking ugly.
For many of the people who access this site from America, Westlife is a fucking stupid boyband, manufactured by a fucking deviant little cunt called Louis Walsh. They largely sing syrupy ballads because they’ve got no talent and the general Irish public has no fucking taste. Count yourselves lucky that they never made it in your country. Right? Ok, you’re up to speed. If you want an idea how they actually made it, read the previous post. On with the diatribe.
Recently, Westlife decided to do the only decent thing they’ve ever done and announce that they’re splitting up. They even did this on the same week that the Stone Roses announced they were reforming. A fucking great week for music. Yes, I realise that the split is only a marketing ploy and they’ll push out another greatest shit album, do a fuck off tour, embark on failed solo careers and reform in 2014 but, for now, we can imagine a world not blighted by their insipid shit! That is not the point of this post.
I have heard tonight, via a snippet of a rubbish Irish chat show sent to me by a friend, that our resident fucking stick insect, fuckhead, Ryan Tubridy thanked Westlife on behalf of the Irish people for everything that they’ve done for Ireland.
First of all, I don’t need some fucking watery fucking sewer rod with a fucking Dublin 4 accent and a fucking David Letterman fixation to speak for me at any time. Ryan Tubridy is one of those fucking bluffers who thrives in this fucked up puke bucket of a country. He has all the charisma of a lanced boil on the top of an obese leper’s fucking knob! He is as good at being an interviewer as a sparrow is at being an electrician. The man is a fucking welt on a wart on the fucking arse crack of society. I do not need this type of talking toe jam to speak for me on any fucking topic!
Secondly; what in the name of fuck did Westlife ever do for Ireland? Tubridy claims they have been great ambassadors! WHAT! Were they sent on fucking diplomatic missions of which I have been unaware? Ambassadors? What are you fucking on about? Are we trying to attract people with no musical taste and a penchant for fucking stamp collecting to this country? What kind of impression would Westlife give to anyone, other than we are fucking wet, useless fucking morons with bleached teeth and no fucking talent. The land of saints and scholars? If Westlife are anything to go by, we’re the land of fucking apes and morons! Who would possibly want to come to this country because they met Westlife? No one we actually want in this country, I’ll tell you that!
Fuck off Ryan fucking Tubridy, you fucking festering arse biscuit! You don’t speak for me or for anyone else!

Ok, so I can already hear the chorus of discontent and people researching any article that could tell me I’m full of shit after you read this, but the point in this post is undeniable. After you read this, you will come to the conclusion that I’m calling everyone an idiot but I’ll explain why that isn’t so later. I’m not saying you’ll be happy with my explanation, but you can’t keep everyone happy.
Ok, so let’s get started. Back in the day, the day being the early sixties, The Beatles were becoming a phenomenon. They were a special band; driven, talented and focussed. You have to wonder what would have happened if they had everything absolutely their own way. From a record company point of view, they pretty much did but I wonder how big an impact the emergence of The Rolling Stones had on them. That question is for another post, which I may or may not write sometime. For now, let me get to the kernel of a lot of my angst.
When the Stones renegotiated their contract, their manager, a fella so young he needed a more adult partner to accompany him to the office of the record executive, asked the band to attend the meeting. He instructed them to just stand around behind him and look broody and menacing. After a short meeting, they came away with the best contract in the business, including three times the standard royalty rate. Brilliant move from a truly brilliant band. That record executive was probably insanely pissed off about the contract but couldn’t let a band of the stature, popularity and power of The Stones move to another company. Since then, there has been a catalogue of rebellions by bands. Jimi Hendrix seriously pissed off his record company because he wanted to experiment with his music. There are a few stories of Led Zeppelin being less than compliant in dealing with their record company and, of course, you have Prince.
Love him or hate him, you absolutely cannot deny his brilliance. He is one of the most creative and talented people to grace the music business. He deserves that seldom correctly used term; genius. Prince is also responsible for the most public and creative protests against the business side of music ever staged. Everyone said he had lost the plot when he started producing albums as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince and Symbol. He wasn’t mad, he was rebelling against his record company, who wanted him to stick to a formula and were stifling his creativity. It was brilliant and it worked but it also marked a time when record companies, and so-called gurus, finally got sick of talented people getting in the way of their profits. They came up with a plan. They would force the public to listen and love compliant and grateful pretty people.
Don’t get me wrong, there have always been novelty acts. The Monkees was probably the first big manufactured band. There’s nothing really wrong with novelty acts and The Monkees actually had some decent songs. Pleasant Valley Sunday and Stepping Stone are excellent songs. Most of their songs were written for them, but they had their own relevance and their own place. Country music is littered with novelty acts, some good, and some bad. What record companies have decided to do over the past couple of decades is actually capitalise on their own faltering status. In 1990, you would’ve had to sell around 20,000 copies of a single to get it to number one in Ireland. By 1995, it was less than two and a half thousand. People like Louis Walsh and Simon Cowell realised that you could put a monkey farting the theme tune to Jaws at number one and the kids will just automatically love it. If it’s so easy to get to number one, why not buy the requisite amount of singles and get them to number one. Once the kids love them, that’s enough. Think about the first time Boyzone were seen on TV. That Late Late Show appearance. Why did RTE agree to let them on? Who knows but the fact that they were clearly lacking in any kind of talent eventually became a brilliant marketing ploy. A short time after they displayed their unbelievable lack of talent, they’re topping the singles and album charts. That’s just how sinister the music business is. They give you a number one single, they bombard you with these bands on TV and radio and the general public end up loving them because they’re famous. Because they’re famous. Think about that. Real musicians don’t want to be famous, they just want to earn enough from what they do to survive and to get their music heard. You might think that that is a desire for fame but it’s not. It’s a love of music. The music business loves a formula. Musicians love to create music.
Now it’s gone one step further. We now have shows like X-Factor, which puts flakey karaoke pub singers in front of you and asks you to invest in them emotionally for a short time. Very few actually make a meaningful career out of that show and none of them ever challenge the formula. It’s the perfect crime. An absolutely perfect situation and the public love it because they don’t know any better.
This is where you tell me I’m calling a lot of you idiots, but I’m not. I’m probably a bigger idiot than any of you. The difference is that most people only want to hear background music. Most people prefer glamour to talent and that’s why a hell of a lot of people buy OK magazine and other such pointless publications sell like hotcakes. People worship celebrity, even though most of it is ill-deserved. Let’s move it a step further. TV executives cottoned on to the same idea. Why do we pay a crew, writers, a costly cast and director to produce a quality drama series when we can just put a collection of morons in a room or a jungle or a farm, get them to do moronic tasks and film it. People will lap it up and, once the series finishes, that same public will want to watch their lives outside of TV, they’ll want to worship them because they’re now celebrities. They will place their collective cock in your mouth and you will suck, whether you want to or not. Most of these faux-celebrities become casualties and the public laps it up. They watch these people unravel because that is all part of the entertainment package. That is what the public wants. So morons are paraded like sacrificial lambs so the public are appeased and the big money machine can just keep on rolling. Art is the biggest casualty, however.
Paris Hilton became famous because she’s a rich kid. That notoriety wasn’t enough so she filmed herself fucking her boyfriend and allowed it to go public. Once she was a proper celebrity, she decided to make an album. She then decided that she wanted to be an actress and it was made so. Art looks on and issues its death rattle.
Jordan gets her tits out and goes on reality TV and is called an inspiration by some misguided people. She has done nothing but she’s everywhere. Her life is lived in a bottle and the public gather around and ooh and aah, in unbridled awe at a nonsense person. Art has a bit of a puke, tries in vain to rally but to no avail.
So what would be a perfect world for art? Imagine if art was a trade, just like being a plumber or a carpenter but without the constraints of design. Imagine if you just got a moderate wage for being a successful musician. Think about it. Would there be a Jedward or a Westlife or a Boyzone or a Sinita? No there wouldn’t. I would imagine there may not be a Pink or a Madonna either. Madonna would probably have been a slight loss but not by much.
I’m not saying that there would only be the music I want to hear. I firmly believe there would be an Elton John and a Take That. They are acts who write great pops songs. I think Gary Barlow is an excellent songwriter. I don’t like to listen to the songs he writes and, yes, they are quite formulaic, but he has talent. That is undeniable and Take That would exist if music didn’t lead to fame.
Let’s face it, the world is fucked and the reason it’s fucked is because we’re all compliant. Music is vital. It’s important. Music forms the soundtrack to your life. In your last moments, you will probably think of some song or other that is important to you. I would hope that most people would prefer that their soundtrack wasn’t just from a bad comedy.

Limerick, like every other town in the country has had its fair share of trouble because of low life fucking pond life who have no respect for anybody or anything, other than their “gangsta” personae. Pathetic fucking people, who prey on innocent, law-abiding people and bring children into their ranks so as to perpetuate the problem that successive governments have done absolutely NOTHING about.
The murder of a decent and well loved rugby player, Shane Geoghan resounded around Limerick City and united us in our disgust and our sorrow. Shane was killed because he was mistaken for someone else. He was innocent. He was never involved with the utter filth who ended his life. I remember the rage I felt when I heard this. My rage, as you know, mostly manifests itself as aimless ranting and raving. Shane’s family and friends, however, reacted in a far more cerebral and inspired way. They decided that Shane’s death would not count for nothing. It would not go down as another statistic uttered by some mono-syllabic politician for the purposes of ousting an opponent, and end in the usual lack of action that has blighted the political landscape of this sad country of ours. No, they have dedicated their time and energy into raising awareness of the problems that exist in Limerick and have set about doing something about it. Certainly more than our government and judiciary combined have ever done.
The Shane Geoghan Trust was launched in Limerick in October 2009. Building on its motto, “helping lives shine”, the Trust aims to offer children a range of community-based sporting and creative activities as alternatives to anti-social behaviour. A registered charity, the Trust was founded by the family and friends of Shane Geoghan, as the necessary positive response to Shanes Death in November, 2008. The Trust recently concluded a second season of the highly successful Street Games programme. The objective of Street Games is to deliver sports activity in the community, ensuring that it is delivered in the right place, in a style to engage young people who do not warm to more traditional opportunities.
The people behind the Shane Geoghan Trust are living evidence to the integrity that lives in this town and is never reported on because positive news simply doesn’t sell.
On Friday 11th of November in Dolan’s Warehouse, a collection of some of the many great musicians Limerick is blessed with will get together and play for The Shane Geoghan Trust charity. Admission is €7 and the line up includes The Legendary O’Malleys, the fantastic Damien Drea and The Healers, a really incredible band, amongst others.
If you’re around Limerick on Friday night or, if you’re simply looking for a place to go, why not make a stand for Limerick and come to what is going to be an incredible gig in Munster’s best venue, Dolan’s Warehouse. I guarantee that this will be a gig you’ll remember for a long long time. Not only that but you will be lending your support to a cause that is actively trying to improve our much maligned city.

Ok, ex Fianna Fail ball boy, Sean Gallagher, is apparently leading the race to be the next President of Ireland. I personally think the guy is a lying piece of shit. If we vote this cunt into the ceremonial post of President, we should immediately call the IMF and ask them to rape us even more savagely than they already are because we will have proven ourselves to be a completely idiotic little island.
This won’t be a long post but here are some facts about Sean Gallagher. You make up your mind if this fucking hairless nut-tumor deserves to be President of anything more than a fucking bridge club.

Sean Gallagher promised funds to budding entrepreneurs on Dragon’s Den but declared his income at €212 per month.
Sean Gallagher considers himself to be a savvy businessman but can’t remember picking up a cheque for €5000 personally from a fuel smuggler’s house.
Sean Gallagher is a black belt in Karate and Judo but, when he lies, he’s a subtle as an elephant on rollerskates.
Sean Gallagher would like you to believe that he is an entrepreneur but his brilliant business idea was to sell people something they already had.
Sean Gallagher has more hair than integrity.
Sean Gallagher learned his trade from one of the most vile criminals in Irish history; Charlie Haughey.
Sean Gallagher is a member of the most self-serving shower of dipshits in the history of the Irish state.
Sean Gallagher was a member of the party that brought Ireland to its knees.
Sean Gallagher can’t answer a straight question.
Sean Gallagher should NOT become president of Ireland.

This list could go on and, should you want to add to it, please feel free to do so in the comments section and I’ll paste it in to the post.

Readers’ suggestions:
Sean Gallagher is a fuckbadgering cunthook

I am in the middle of writing a post about an extremely irritating and somewhat unfortunately hilarious development in the ongoing issue with Kate O’Brien’s house but I have recently been reminded that the Cap’n is getting a little too serious so I thought I’d lighten the mood somewhat by relating to you an experience I recently had with a Catholic.
Let me start by saying that I no longer consider myself to be Catholic. If I had subscribed to a service while I was drunk or in a coma or otherwise incapable of making an educated assessment of said service, any court would consider my contract with that company null and void. I consider the same applies to the Catholic Church. I was subscribed while I was an infant so don’t give me any fucking bullshit about being a lapsed catholic or a non-practicing catholic. I am NOT a catholic. I was once considered to be a Catholic but at no time in my life did I buy that bullshit. Ok?
Right, that’s out of the way. Because of the smoking ban, I find myself outside of the pub more often than I’m in it. It is a piece of legislation I agree with and it has a surprising side effect: sociability. Yep, you end up having conversations with complete strangers and, once the initial couple of conversations have taken place, you wave at them as you pass, you become acquaintances. This can be a good thing but it can also be a catastrophically bad thing. Y’see all people are weird. You may think you’re normal but you’re not, you’re weird so accept it. Why am I saying you’re weird? Well because you don’t like the same things I do. That makes us kind of weird to each other. Yeah, weirdoes are fine but fucking freaks are a pain in the fucking nutsack.
You can tell a freak right off. The second you see one, although they may be trying to act normal, you know they are freaks because freaks simply can’t act normal. Normal to these fuckers is sitting in a twitching mass of anxious insanity, while attempting not to make eye contact. Now, before you start going on about mental health issues, let’s make the distinction here. These people have chosen to be freaks. I’m not talking about people with actual mental health issues so get the fuck off of that high horse straight away. Now let’s get another thing straight before we get to the point of this post; freaks are not cool. Ok? There’s a school of thought out there that says freaks are cool but it is a school populated by fucking freaks and NOT ONE of them is cool.
I met one such freak recently in the smoking area of a bar. It was around eight o’clock in the evening and I was enjoying a pint with a non-smoking friend. The second I walked into the smoking area, I saw this clump of flesh in the corner, eyes darting everywhere but in my direction. “Fuck”, I thought, “a freak”. Ok, so there are ways of dealing with a freak but you must first accept that there is no way of dealing with a freak so, therefore, the only effective way of dealing with a freak is to ignore the fucking freak. My method of doing this is to smoke my fag and look through my emails on my phone. More often than not, you get lucky and the freak just stays there, stewing in a fetid pool of their own madness but occasionally you get the pushy freak. Ignoring a pushy freak is like trying to tie a knot in a titanium rod. They will try, for a very short time, to respect your boundaries but will then suddenly remember that they are freaks and will approach you. This was one such pushy freak. I just knew it. He shifted uneasily in his seat as if my failure to engage him in conversation was causing him physical discomfort. Eventually, the pain must have become unbearable because he approached me. His opening line was this:
‘Have you got a light?’
Right, at this point it’s important to set the rules of the game that is about to take place. You don’t want to come across as ignorant but you can’t be too ready to engage in conversation. So I idly searched in my pocket while pausing to fully read an email I wasn’t really reading. I find 7 seconds to be an adequate delay in these situations, so I eventually started to hand my lighter to this freak when I noticed his cigarette was actually lit. I pointed this out to him and he immediately stubbed it out, took another one from its box and used my lighter to light it. I was, for the first time, witnessing that rare phenomenon; the particularly pushy freak.
‘Checking the oul textses?’ he asked and it was here that I made my fatal mistake. The rule here is to continue looking at your phone, respond with a “yuh” and hope the fucker gives you your lighter back. I didn’t do this because I’m given to occasional acts of utter idiocy.
‘No’, I replied, ‘emails’. I fucking knew the second I said it that I had just played into his hands. I had just rugby tackled Cristiano Ronaldo in my own penalty area and then took a piss on his head, before teabagging the ref. Yes, that is the breadth of the mistake I had just made, which was evidenced by the subtle but undeniably smug grin that crossed his face.
He took a long pull from his cigarette, exhaled loudly and said, ‘I don’t own a computer. Had one, got rid of it’.
Right, I had a chance here. If it was merely a pushy freak and not a particularly pushy freak, that is. He wanted me to ask him why he got rid of his computer so I nonchalantly replied, ‘Oh’. There was no interrogative inflection at the end of that “oh” sound. It was more of a grunt of acknowledgement.
There was a pause and he began to feel that physical discomfort again. He had to finish what he wanted to say so he pulled up a seat beside me and said, ‘Nope, never going to replace it, don’t miss it’.
At this point I did something I don’t normally do and just said ‘Ok, see ya’ and started to leave. Normally nothing would stop me from leaving but he unwittingly found my Achilles heel.
‘I don’t have a computer because I reckon they’re taking people further from the Lord’.
Ok, I can’t resist taking born again Christians, Catholics and other religious zealots to school. I fucking love it. I turned around, quickly assessing him, noticing the cheap looking Ferrari badge on the breast of his jacket and the Marlboro cigarettes on the table. This would be enough for an opening gambit, from which we wouldn’t recover. And so I lit another cigarette, turned to face him and said,
‘What?’
‘Computers’, he repeated, ‘they’re taking people away from God’.
‘Are you saying they are a tool of the devil?’ I replied.
‘No’, he said smiling, ‘they are a tool of man but they are taking people away from God’.
‘Which God?’ I replied.
‘There is only one God’, he replied.
‘No’, I said, ‘there are several different ones, depending on who you speak to. What I’m saying is, to which denomination are you affiliated?’
‘I’m a catholic’, he replied proudly, ‘Aren’t you?’
‘No’, I replied, I’m not a catholic’, and before he could latch on to that little gem, I quickly followed with, ‘So you believe that, when you die, you will go to heaven’.
‘Of course’, he replied, shocked that I should even hint that this just might be a bit of a ridiculous notion.
‘So why would you like to go to heaven?’ I asked.
He laughed, a very shrill and disturbing laugh that almost made me continue back into the bar but once I’ve started on Catholics, I have to finish.
‘What do you mean, “why”?’ he asked. ‘Heaven is heaven, bud. It’s paradise, full of joy and love and light and bliss and all our sins will be forgiven’.
‘Ok’, I replied, ‘you like Ferraris so I’m assuming you like fast cars, yeah?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’, he asked.
‘Ok’, I said conspiratorially, ‘I’m just going to say this and then I’m going back in for my pint but I want you to think about it. Don’t think about for a moment or even an hour. Take a few days and, when we meet again, tell me if you still want to go to heaven.’
‘Go ahead’.
‘Ok, there’s no point in having fast cars in heaven because you are immortal in heaven. There’s no risk so survival is no longer an option. There is no thrill because the thrill of a fast car comes with knowing that you could die at any second. Similarly there’s no sky-diving, white water rafting or bob sleighing. There’s probably bungee jumping but it’d rather pointless and boring, as is everything else in heaven. Ok, so that’s one of the joys of your life gone. When you consider it, that’s most joy gone.
But that’s just a small thing. I suspect you weren’t really expecting to have fast cars in heaven anyway but there’s more.
Human empathy is an evolutionary trait, imprinted on us to help us to survive and to prevent us from killing each other. Over the years we’ve learned to empathise with other people feeling pain. Empathy is a very scientific thing and is connected to our mortality. Therefore, there is no empathy in heaven because mortality isn’t in question. There is no pain or sadness so there’s no need for empathy and, without empathy, there can’t really be love because there’s nothing to really define it. You basically walk around smiling at everyone and that’s going to get on everyone’s nerves before too long because there’s no empathy or love in heaven. There’s no more murder because you’re immortal but that’s a pretty piss poor pay off.
So, there’s no love and no real joy and, without the awareness of the fragility of life itself, there’s no challenge or thrills or excitement. I mean, why would you get out of bed?
And that brings us nicely along to bliss. Bliss is kind of a subjective term but if you’re not loved, you’re not cared for, you’re not challenged or thrilled or excited, there can’t be much bliss about so the only real chance of bliss is via some narcotic supplement. And, why wouldn’t someone who presides over a loveless, boring place like heaven forgive your sins? I mean, forgiveness is a small return for all the shit you’re going to have to deal with.
So, to finish, there are places on Earth, in this town, that are exactly the same as heaven. There is no empathy or love or thrills there. The people who preside over these places couldn’t give a fuck if you’re a murderer, rapist or kiddy fiddler. They forgive all of your sins, once you have money, they sell a form of bliss and they can make you believe you are immortal.
In some countries they’re called opium dens but, in less exotic towns like this, they’re called crack houses. Now I’m heading in for my pint but, think about it, a crack house is really hell, isn’t it?’
At this point my rather more to the point friend came looking for me.
‘You’re one insulting, blaspheming fucker’, the freak said. I wanted to use Bill Hick’s line and ask him, as a Christian, to forgive me but my mate just said, ‘At least you don’t have to drink with the cunt!’ and shepherded me back into the bar.
Haven’t seen the freak since but I did enjoy his company.

This is a story of two people from two different parts of the country who couldn’t be more different but have Irish law in common.
Our first is a young man who has no regard for anything but his own gratification. Some would call him misunderstood, others would call him a useless waste of oxygen. In 2006 this young man was part of a group who gang raped a woman in Cratloe woods. He later went on to clock up 43 other convictions for various types of scumbaggery. A couple of weeks ago, someone recognised this guy for the cunt he is and gave him a bit of a thumping. Fair play. Not the way I’d go about things but understandable nonetheless. He was admitted to A&E, where he decided to reclaim the testosterone he had lost by attacking the overworked staff of A&E. He was duly subdued and his injuries were seen to. He was recently up in front of a judge for this, his 45th conviction.
The second person in this story is a sixty fiver year old woman who lives on a farm. So proud is she of the land on which she resides that she has lovingly tended for the natural flora and fauna for most of her life. She has planted trees which she will not live long enough to see grow into their full beauty but is mindful of the fact that future generations will benefit from their presence. The ESB, Ireland’s electricity supply board recently informed her of their intention to cut down those trees and put pylons up on her land. They kindly informed her that she would be compensated to the tune of €150,000 for the inconvenience - not a sum to be trifled with by anyone in these lean times. Such is this woman’s love of her land and, indeed, her life’s work, that she refused that and asked instead if they could put the cables under ground, the European standard way of doing things these days. Ireland isn’t really up to speed on anything but the ESB are familliar with the practice, having used it in order to preserve the functionality and look of many a golf course and GAA club around the country. Obviously someone’s life’s work and passion isn’t as important as they ignored this request and took out a court order to gain access to her land and cut down her trees. She politely refused to unlock the gates to give them access and was, unfortunately, in breach of the aforementioned court order.
Which one of these people went to jail and which one was released on a short suspended sentence?

I’m going to give the useless Limerick City Council a break for one post to talk about that rare being, the truly cool man. I’ve met many cool people throughout my years but few fit into the absolutely cool category.
Is Johnny Depp cool? Yes, I believe he is but he has put a lot of work into being cool and, anyone who has seen The Tourist, will know that he is more than capable of lapsing into uncoolness. Is Samuel L Jackson cool? certainly but he has a propensity for being uncool in his pursuit of coolness.
Truly cool people don’t have to try. They don’t have to cultivate the right look or the right accent. These are people who could wear anything and make it work because their look doesn’t matter. You could force them to be a presenter on Bosco or, worse again, Loose Women and their coolness would not falter. Not for a nano-second.
I was recently introduced to a truly cool person recently, goes by the name of Wrinkly Joe. Before I met Joe, I was often possessed with a random feeling of calm and gratitude that I just couldn’t place. I’d be sitting in a pub having some pointless debate with some random fucking primate, teetering on the edge of some lunatic diatribe, when suddenly a calm would pervade the entire pub. I had thought this was just the wonderful way beer has of not letting you fuck up until it’s had its way with you. Later I realised that this phenomenon occurs because Wrinkly Joe has walked in. Man, he has saved so many knuckle dragging morons from a Cap’n’s ear bashing down the years. The thing is that he doesn’t need to do anything to create this calm, it’s just him. He has no idea he has this ability and, if he did, he’d probably shrug those shoulders, give that slanted grin and just be cooler for it.
Last night, while I was attempting to be cool myself, I saw Wrinkly Joe drinking with a slightly less cool friend of mine. I can say this because my friend knows that anyone associated with Joe is doomed to be less cool. I was kind with my use of the word “slightly”. Joe just stood there, drinking pints and taking in the atmosphere. As people passed him, they became some much cooler just because they were close by. They seemed to sense it, unwittingly feed from his coolness. I had an idea that Joe was drunk but when he shook my hand, he had still not lost an ounce of coolness. He and my, hobbit by comparison, friend wandered off home and the pub became duller for his leaving.

Can you feel the coolness? If you meet Joe and you value a truly cool person, buy him a pint. Just put the pint down, thank him for choosing the same pub as you did and walk away. Arthur’s Day was cooler in Limerick than anywhere else only because Joe was there. Here’s to Wrinkly Joe!