Captain Purplehead

Little did I think that I would have written six rants about an idiot like Richard Shepherd. I don’t normally spend my time picking the carcus of an intellect that was never fully formed but I have read some of the submissions to his website and some of them are really good. Y’see; the problem is that some people were born to be writers and they never fully believe in their ability. I am willing to bet that the World’s Greatest Novel has not been - nor ever will be - published. Enter Dick. This guy - a guy who has failed in everything he has set out to do - including his dream of being in the RAF - decides that he wants to make money for nothing. He sets up a site that costs him nothing and invites people to submit work in the hope that a thread will be found that others can follow and what will transpire is THE WORLD’S GREATEST NOVEL. He starts by selling the opening of the novel on ebay, heartened by the fact that a fifty year old’s pubic hair sold for $7. As you may have already guessed; his plan falls on its arse. Think about it. A fifty year old reprobate plucks one pubic hair and makes $7 and old Dick features can’t make pound one. Far from being discouraged, he ploughs ahead with his project stating that, though you are submitting your work to the hands of a talentless RAF throwback, you stand to make no money. Well, he got twelve people - of which I was two - to submit work and “shortlisted” them as the best of 367. In reality I was twelve of 57.
Enter Rochelle Moore - an extremely talented published author - and Debra - an extremely talented published author who runs a real writers’ forum called online scribblers. Debra, being a consumate professional, pointed out a few home truths to Dick and had her posts were consequently removed. Rochelle took offence to the fact that NEGATIVE criticisim that had been aimed at her work had been removed - writers term this as constructive criticism.
Enter Captain Purplehead - with what had to be the greatest load of literary dross known to man and one that he wrote in fifteen minutes. Now, with two “selected” entries, I asked to be removed from the the scam - sorry, website - because I believed that it was run by a facsist wanker. Upon asking for this, I went back to look at the forum and discovered that, both Rochelle and I had been “ejected” from the website for cheating.
Ok, enough with the boring stuff: Dickhead - I mean shit for brains - sorry, Richard the knuckle dragging, banana eating fucking idiot changed his ways after our initial altercation and printed a half arsed apology. He also promised to stop deleting posts. He has now banned four people from his shite - site. I was banned because I asked him why he was telling potential advertisers that he was gettin 3500 hits a day when he was actually getting around twenty. He has at least two fraudulent agencies advertised on his site - he says he’s powerless to remove these ads, which is another lie. Once I pointed this out on the forum, he banned me and removed an entire subject on the forum. The contributors to this forum were people who actually care about writers. If any of the shortlisted authors read this; please leave a comment with an email address, which I will not publish, and I will point you in the direction of a variety of reputable sites.
Dickcheese; if you are reading this; one agency had given me your address - again, I won’t publish this - and has told me that, on receipt of the plethora of evidence I have, you will be dealt with. You have again crossed swords with the wrong pirate.

Man the rigging and prepare to overhaul! Sail ho me squiffy men! Thar be no takin a calk whilst ye raise yon Jolly Roger. Preparrr the cannon, we be goin to warr. YYYAAAARRRRRR!!!!
I knows many of you men were aghast when I called off me war with Richard Shepherd. I knows that every man jack of you beseeched me to do more but I declined. I declined because Richard gave a half arsed apology. I know that many of you are weary from seeing sculduggery and knowing that no one will do anything but I promise you I will not rest until the bidfortheworld - worldsgreatestnovel site is banished from the internet. Many of you have wondered what has happened to the death threat that yer Cap’n has received. Well it had nothing to do with Richard. T’was from a knuckle-draggin, banana eatin piece of shit called Simon Holgraffe of Aspen falls and I aint finished with im yet I tells ya!!!
Damn yer eyes Richard! Ye’ve pushed me too far and I say TO HELL WITH YER ENTERPRISE YAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!! I be wantin more than a farced apology now me hearty. I be wantin you to vacate your site and banish its url from my sight. Ye’ve run your course and were beaten by the better hare.
So why have I decided to re-engage the less than wily Richard? Well my friends, he has failed to answer my questions and he has AGAIN banned me from his piss-poor site. Don’t worry, me hearties, I won’t dedicate time on this site to someone who is not worth that time. There are other things in the works at the moment but watch this space because Richard Shepherd has once again skulked away from genuine scrutiny.
It seems now that Richard has deleted a complete thread from his forum. This is because I asked him why he was telling potential advertisers that he was getting 3500 hits a day on average when his hit counter shows less than 2000 in three months. Jeez; I was just curious, man. This goes to show that Richard is just interested in selling advertising space, which we pretty well know already. I feel that it would be remiss of me not to inform certain watchdogs about his practice. Google “worldsgreatestnovel” and tell this piece of shit what you think of his little dictatorship. I feel it only fair to warn you that he is easily offended so you may end up getting some juvenile replies to your posts. Richard has now been caught out and he hasn’t even seen the half of it. In the coming weeks, I will be putting such a shit storm in his lap that he will be swallowing valium like they were smarties. Of course he knows what it’s like to be thrown out of something himself. He was thrown out of the RAF. Richard, this is just the tip of the fucking iceberg pal. Here’s a thought; post a comment.
OK boys; let’s have some fun with this knuckle-dragging dipshit.

Richard Curtis wrote Blackadder. Why am I telling you this? Richard Curtis wrote Blackadder and he also wrote Notting Hill and Four Weddings and a Funeral. Oh I can feel it. I’m going to go off on one.
For those of you who have ever been to Notting Hill, you will know that it is a multicultural place. In other words; it isn’t populated by cheery, foppy haired, middleclass white people. If your only experience of Notting Hill is the film, you would be forgiven for thinking it was so. Y’see, in this so-called enlightened 21st century, racism hasn’t gone away, it has just become more subtle. Why are all the cast of Notting Hill white? Because Richard Curtis obviously believes that no one is interested in the lives of black people. You can hug all the starving kids you want on T.V, Richard, if you don’t actually feel it it’s just a publicity stunt. I’m glad that money has been raised for people who should not be allowed to go hungry in the first place but, let’s face it, if any of those kids became a celebrated actor or actress, would you put them in one of your movies? Fuck no. Not while Hugh Grant is still fooling everyone. Bill Gates has given most of his fortune to help these people and he didn’t need the carrot of a TV soundbite to do it. He, like most of us, saw the pornography of cruelty and injustice that could be stopped if the governments of the wealthier nations actually gave a fuck and realised that he could make a huge difference. Bill Gates, I salute you.
When I was a kid, I idolised Phil Lynott. I didn’t even think about what colour his skin was because he was ours. He was Irish. He was The Rocker. The funny thing about racism is that the biggest racists spend a fucking fortune trying to make their skin darker. They go on sun holidays, wear factor .000000000002 and then come home unhappy with being lightly browned so go off and get a spray tan. The result is that their skin looks leathery and orange. Anyway, this rant was not supposed to be about racism because, if I start on that, I’ll turn the fucking air a healthy shade of fucking blue!!
Let’s get back to good ol Richard Curtis for a moment. Four Weddings and a fucking Funeral? I know the clue is in the title but what the fuck was that movie about? Here’s an idea for your next movie Richard: You get Hugh Grant, right, and you cast him as a foppy haird, wealthy, middleclass, unemployed piano tuner living in a penthouse studio apartment in Picadilly Circus. He’s dating a quirky, hippy-chick pigfarmer - played by Martine McCutcheon - whose catchphrases include, “don’t mind me, I’m a thick fucking bint” and “it better be Prada.” Their relationship is pedestrian at best and Hugh just can’t reconcile himself to a life of middle-aged, middle-class mediocrity. Enter Sharon Stone - as I’m sure many have - as a former superstar pianist, trying to relaunch her career in London. She’s engaged to a domineering, former Nigerian Ambassador named Faruq - played by Mike Reid - and she grieves daily about the lack of rommance in her life. One day she discovers that her priceless steinway is out of tune. She likens it to her lovelife. A montage of her former glories ensues and is set to a soundtrack of Cliff Richard singing, What Becomes of the Broken Hearted. She decides to call in a piano tuner. Enter Hugh. He’s in a bit of a quandry because he is supposed to have a date with Martine but he can’t turn the work down. “Bugger” he says.
In the meantime, Faruq - far from happy at the lack of attention he is getting from his wife - decides to go out with his mat, Mohammed - played by Jim Davidson. Hugh and Sharon fall in love - though it doesn’t manifest itself straight away but through a series of hilarious misadventures, punctuated by Hugh saying, “bugger” - and Faruq, Mohammed and Martine get it together with hilarious results. The film ends with a double wedding and, over the closing credits, we have Bryan McFatarse and Victoria Peckham singing a duet of Endless Love. Instant hit Richard. You can send my share of the royalties to Captain Purplehead, The Thirsty Kipper, Half way Around the Cape of Good Hope.
I mean, not only do we have to endure an hour and a half of utter shit, he ends one with Wet - fucking Wet - oh not again - Wet and the other with Ronan - will you fucking shut the fuck up - Keating singing cover versions of fucking horrible songs, which inevitably go to number one so that every time you turn on the fucking radio you have to hear the fucking things and then you go to work with a nagging pain in the back of your mind and take it out on your colleagues who say, “what’s up with you” and then you go on a rampage, stabbing everyone in sight with a fucking bic biro and then you go to court with an armed escort and they keep singing “I feel it in my fingers I feel it in my toes” all the way to the courthouse and you keep thinking, “what were they singing about, rheumathoid arthritis? Fucking shingles?” and the judge sentences you to seventy two hours community service, spent cleaning the puke out of the carpet in Teds before returning to his chambers singing, “Itsh amazshing how I get way with thish voish” and you get to Teds andthey keep playing the summer party album form nineteen eighty seven eventhough it’s November and it’s pissing and, on your lunch break, and you are made to read Jodie Marsh’s autobiography… AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH. DANTE’S FUCKING INFERNO SEEMS LIKE HEAVEN IN COMPARISON!!!!! You sadistic bastard Richard! What did the public ever do to you? Take a holiday, Richard, a fucking long one.
Now we come to chick lit. These are books about office girls with no self-esteem who eventually bag a hunk because of their strong, never say die spirits and their caustic wit. FUCK OFF!!!! With the possible exception of Marian Keyes, FUCK OFF!!! I won’t call it a variation on a theme because, whilst there certainly is a theme, there is little fucking variation. Bertie Ahern’s daughter has just signed a bumper fucking publishing deal and an even bumpier fucking movie deal with her chick lit offering, P.S I love you. Just look at the fucking title for fuck’s sake!!! Did she write a book about growing up with a crook for a father? No. Did she write a book about her take on the corruption she was helpless to stop? No. She should have called it “P.S I Screwed the lot of you” or “P.S I’ll get back to you as soon as I get my tongue out of George Wanker Bush’s Arse” or “P.S Thanks for the backhander” or “P.S stands for Pitiful State.” But no, she writes a fucking chick book. A formulaic pandering to women who should fucking know better. J.K Rowling is a wonderful author who is almost single-handedly responsible for making kids passionate about reading again. She has opened up a world for them and given them reason to believe that other authors can too. J.K Rowling received countless rejection letters from publishing companies and agents. Cecilia Ahern did not receive one. Jordan was invited to write a book. Ashley - who really gives a fuck - Cole was asked to write a book. Wayne Rooney was asked to write an autobiography before he was even twenty one. Ronan Keating has written TWO autobiographies and he isn’t even thirty yet! FFFFUUUUUUCCCCKKKK!!! I know that none of these idiots actually put pen to paper. No, they had someone else to write it for them but do you see something wrong with this picture?
As long as we’re entertained, we can be momentarily distracted from the dismal reality of what’s going on around us. Books and films are supposed to move you. They’re supposed to illicit a response. Books are now disposable pieces of rubbish. Films are now forgettable. Music is now FUCKING SHITE!!!!
I’m going to write a chick book. I’m going to call it, “If You Swallow Marmite, You’ll Swallow Anything.” Na, probably too long winded, “Sorry About The Pearl Necklace.” … Na, I’d never get away with that. “Louis Vitton Designed My Sack”. Na, too typical. I’ll get back to you on the t….. Wait a minute… “I’ll Get Back To You.” Perfect!! It’ll be about a bored housewife, working in the Social Welfare office who keeps losing people’s paperwork. Her life is pointless until a foppy haired, wealthy, middle-class, unemployed banana straightener who lives in Moyross comes in to her life. Richard; I think we’ve got another hit. I’m thinking “Gonna Write a Classic” covered by Will Young for the end credits.
We’re in the money. We’re in the money…… So long me hearties.

Well me hearties, my Ryder Cup photos won’t upload to the site. If anyone has any ideas, leave em in the comments section. What the fuck is a pirate doing messing around with computers anyway?
So; the rant. Well I recently broke my arm and had to take some time away from my chores on the Thirsty Kipper. A man just can’t pillage with one arm. So, being a 21st century pirate, I got my social welfare certs so that I would be entitled to my share of the spoils in absentia. To be fair, the staff of the Kipper were more than fair with sharing the wealth but their patience understandably ran out when I entered my fifth week without so much as a cursory brandishing of me cutlass. Tis grand, said I, the social welfare service will send me my disability cheque and all will be well. Oh but I was wrong. I received a letter asking for proof that me arm had been broken. I thought this to be curious as I had submitted documentation signed by a doctor in good standing. Not one to give in lightly to the tedious demands of any government agency, I questioned this and was curtly told by some bored phone jockey that I had no right to ask these questions. I then asked what kind of proof they wanted. Did they want x-rays? She told me to stop being “smart” - something one could hardly credit to her. I momentarily stopped polishing my blunderbuss and asked what proof they were looking for, to which her reply was, “signed documentation from a doctor.” Hhmmm. “But that’s exactly what I presented.” said I. “Well we don’t have it.” said she. “Well how in the name of fuck do you know the exact dates of my absence then?” said I. This question was followed by a ten second silence which, in turn, led to some horrible hold music before eventually leading me to ANOTHER bored phone jockey.
“How can I help you?” said she, in a voice that gave me no confidence in her intention to lend assistance.
“Well,” says I, “I am at a loss as to why I have been put through to you but I have just been told that I have to present proof that I have already presented. Over to you, fair lass.”
“What are you talking about?” says she. So I went through the whole story again after which I was subjected some more hideous hold music - Greensleeves, I believe t’was.
“How can I help you?” Came yet ANOTHER bored fucking phone jockey.
“Ok,” says I, “I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to transfer me to anyone else unless you tell me AND them why you’re transferring me.”
“Do you have a complaint?” said she.
“I do.” says I.
More fucking hold music. I KID YOU FUCKING NOT!!!!!
“How can I help you?” No, I’m not joking.
“Look,” says I, “If you put me on fucking hold, I…”
“Sir, do not use that tone with me.” said she.
“Ok,” says I, “You asked how you can help me. Did I hear that right?”
“Yes.”
“You can help me by not transferring me until you tell me to whom I am being transferred. How’s my tone.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you want?” said she.
So I went on to explain my problem AGAIN!!! This time she informed me that she was putting me on hold but that she would be right back. When she came back, she informed me that the Limerick Social Welfare Office had my certs but had subsequently lost them and would I mind going back to the doctor to get more and resubmit them. She added a rider to this. She said that they couldn’t guarantee that my claim could be dealt with quickly as it is now a retrospective claim.
“Let me get this straight.” said I. “You want me to take another day off from robbing and pillaging so that I can pay my doctor for something he already gave me and you lost so that you can sit on my claim and deny me for submitting it too late? Do I have that right?”
“Well we…” she began, a tad more timidly.
“Here’s what you’re going to do.” Interrupted I. “You will take a look at the computer - since I have now given my PPS number four times, I assume you have my details there - and you will see the days of my absence. You will then issue a cheque for the amount that I am owed and you will go back to scratching your arse or whatever it is you do when you’re not losing people’s paperwork. How’s that?”
“Well we can’t process…” She began in a shaky voice.
“Now lass,” says I, “there’s no need for you to be upset. There is, however, a gargantuan need for me to be upset. So take a second to pull yourself together and put me through to your supervisor.”
More hold music - An Dearg Doom, I think it was - but not as played by the Horslips.
“Mr. Purplehead.” Came this new voice. “We have lost your certs.”
“Indeed,” says I, “tell me something I don’t know.”
“We can’t…” she began.
“The words, “we can’t” will not make me happy.” interrupted I - again, “the words, “you’re cheque’s in the post” will not only make me happy but will save you a star appearance in the small claims court.”
“We c…”
“Now, please don’t underestimate the ire that will result from you finishing that line.”
“May I put you on hold, Mr Purplehead?”
“You may.” says I.
After a full five minutes of some radio debate between two fucking idiots - the hold music had thankfully disappeared. She came back.
“We … won’t… be able to get that cheque out to you in today’s post. Is tomorrow ok.?” says she.
“No,” says I, “but t’will do.”
That, my friends, is a true fucking story. Why is it that you have to work part time in this country just to make sure the government agencies have their shit together? Why is it that people working for the social welfare offices, have to treat you like a piece of shit that just won’t come off their heel? If they used that attitude in any other job, they would quickly find themselves in need of the service that they are currently pretending to provide.
Some time ago, whilst the Kipper was in dry dock for a while, I found my self in need of unemployment assistance. I didn’t want to have to pull a number and wait to talk to some middle-aged housewife who hadn’t been up the Jolly Roger in years, but I had no choice. Not only was my claim delayed by six weeks, I needed to claim rent allowance because of the temporary unavailability of the Captain’s quarters. The woman, who came to visit my temporary abode, looked around in a judgmental manner and then asked to see my bedroom. As it happened, there was a tasty young wench still asleep in said room and I had no choice but to tell this dried up bint that I would prefer she not look in there. My claim for rent allowance was delayed by four - yes four - MONTHS, by which time I was back on the Kipper in gainful employment again.
I understand that they have to put up with a hell of a lot of people whose needs are questionable but do they have to treat us all like we are sub-human? Well, I’ve vented my spleen enough on this.
Here’s something that they could put music to and use as their hold music:
You can promise me heaven but send me to hell
You can dance on my face and I won’t even tell
You can send me to work in the hail rain and sleet
But please don’t send me to Dominic Street.

Before I post my final Ryder Cup rant - did we whip those yanks or what - I must vent my spleen about something that has been bugging me for a long time: Rugby songs. Now I must admit that I have been guilty of singing the odd sea chantey whilst in my cups on the Thirsty Kipper, but in the privacy of one’s vessel tis allowed.
The other night, my comely wench and I went to a local Limerick hostelry to partake of a few jars of the ol amber nectar. The point of this exercise was to have a few drinks, shoot the shit about all and sundry and head back to the Kipper with the warmth that only beer can bring. As we settled down to our beer, a crew of young rugby players entered the bar. Limerick, being the home of Irish rugby, seems to be tolerant of these rowdy young whippersnappers. They began their visit by playing a game, the point of which seemed to hinge on who could speak in the loudest voice. One guy would start, another would speak over him, then another would add more volume until a veritable cacophony ensued. The problem with this game was that they didn’t have an umpire to declare a winner and so it just went on and on and on. When they eventually decided that no winner could be chosen, they decided to start shouting about their favourite bits from their favourite American teen-comedies. One would have assumed that, between them, surely one person would have had something to talk about but apparently they didn’t. I tell you people, I was very close to unsheathing the ol cutlass and going all Errol Flynn on them.
I know you’re probably asking yourself why we didn’t just leave. Well it wasn’t as simple as that y’see. We had arranged to meet a couple of friends of ours and they had yet to arrive. After my third jug, I needed to wash the porcelain wall and so I ambled to the jax. As I released the dragon from its cave, three of the rugby players barged through the door. One of them was shouting “AAWWWOOOOGGGAAA!!!” and the others were laughing as loudly as their little tonsils would allow. Having shaken the bald warrior sufficiently and washing my hands, I went back to my seat only to be greeted by a song which can only be described as the anthem of the most idiotic tribe in the history of tribalism. “ARRROOCHACHACHAROOCHACHACHAROOCHACHACHACHA”. I don’t know what this chant was about nor do I have any desire to find out. What followed was a medley of songs about achieving victory and deflowering large breasted women.
Now I don’t mind rugby but I take exception to knuckle-dragging fucking idiots shouting as loud as they possibly can whilst in a quiet pub. The last I heard, cauliflower ears did not impede your fucking hearing!! My personal theory about this ritualistic male bonding is that they need to reaffirm their masculinity after taking a shower together. I mean, is it because of what went on in the scrum unbeknownst to the watching public? Well here’s some advice; SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! What is it about rugby that brings the primate out in people? Yes, soccer’s reputation has been tarnished by hooliganism on the terraces but those guys are probably just rugby fans who have become confused and angry at the off-side rule. I say again; SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!
My experience with rugby players didn’t stop there. Oh no! The following day, I decided to go and get a movie to watch while the crew was debarnacling the hull of the kipper. The car in front of ours was a zero six merc and it parked across three parking spaces. To say I was annoyed would be a bit of an understatement. I was not surprised to see that, when the driver emerged, it was an ex-rugby player. What was he doing? The white lines aren’t there to measure the length of your car you fucking primate! You’re supposed to park between them so that other people can park too.
Well I leave it at that with rugby players - FFFFUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKK!!!! - and just finish by saying SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!
By the way, if you have something you want to rant about, leave a comment and I’ll see if I agree with your rant.

Blow the man down hearties blow the man down. Yarrrr haarrrr…. *ahem* ….. excuse me drunken banter but t’was the free bar, I swears it!
Ah yes, Cap’n P has returned relatively unscathed from the opening ceremony of the Ryder Cup and has much to tell ye land lubbers. I’ll keep this one short because I forgot me camera and sure tis nothing without the photographic evidence.
I will tell ye about the hospitality suite that I was ushered into. We started with a hearty breakfast that can only be described as a full Irish Jamtart. That’s right, after several long hours at sea I had built up guite an appetite but was greeted with a small, scrambled egg filled pastry with a bit of a rasher and a cocktail cocktail sausage. I have eaten bigger polo-mints I tells ya. Tis but a minor gripe but one I had to get of me chest all the same. So t’was with a less than full belly that I went in search of some golf. Now, Cap’n P knows as much about golf as Cliff Richard knows about cunnilingus but I was game.
The first thing that struck me was how great the place looked. T’was truly a sight to behold. Lots of grass and water and American tourists walking very slowly in front of me and talking about what a nice little country Ireland would be if it could stop raining. I was about to point out that it had stopped raining but, as an invited guest, I held me tongue.
I happened upon a group of people who appeared to be looking at a blemish on one particularly short circle of grass. T’was a hole. I’m glad they pointed it out to me because, if my peg leg had gone down it, I’d be buggered. To my surprise, a small ball arrived quite close to the hole. “MAN THE CANNON”, I roared but was assured t’was all part of the game. What followed was some good-natured banter from the European team.
Well me hearties, I’ll be posting more once I get the pictures uploaded.
Regards,
Captain Purplehead; The Official Pirate of The Ryder Cup.

Tis true me hearties; I’ve been invited to attend the opening ceremony of the Ryder Cup. I kid you not, the Thirsty Kipper will be setting sail to the K-Club on thursday morn - so long as the winds are true, YAARRRR!!!
It seems that all walks of life had been accounted for except pirates. Ex- US presidents, big brother contestants, football players, pop stars, models and even people who are just famous for being photographed a lot had all been invited to represent their people but, until recently, not a single pirate had been invited to bask in the reflected glory of the glitterati. Been put to rights it has … yaarrr harrr harrr. So, you can expect my usual even-handed expose on the biggest event on the golfing calender on my return to these shores.
The last time I saw me a tiger, t’was on the island of Doom. YAAARRRR HEEE HEEE HARRRR HARRR YARRRR!!!
Aparently security is tight so I will have to dock the Kipper somewhere outside Kildare and make my way by horseless carriage to the do. True, they are planning to soften my tongue with a champagne reception but ol Cap’n P is used to drinking rum out of an old shoe!!
What does a pirate know about golf, I hear ye cry. Well about as much as Britney knows about birth control but not quite as much as the Leinster rugby team knows about Brown Thomas says I but t’will be an interesting voyage.
I will have to travel light as mobile phones, cameras, large bags, cannon, cutlasses and toothless wenches are strictly forbidden.

I have been criticised recently for my anti-American sentiments. I have pointed out to my critics that I am anything but anti-American. Far from it; I am anti-American government but not anti-American. In fact an American has just put a big ol’ smile on this pirate’s lips. Yes; Randy Lerner - a truly great American - has taken over as chairman of Aston Villa. So let me, for once, sing the praises of some of our American friends. Stevie Ray Vaughan - what an American. Jimi Hendrix - fucking superb American. Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Michael Stipe, Grant Lee Phillips, Johnny Cash, Steve Earle, Bill Hicks, Joni Mitchell, Emylou Harris, Robbie Robertson, John Lee Hooker, Bob Dylan, Albert King, Willie Nelson, Al Pacino, Robert DeNiro, Johnny Depp, Richard Pryor, Kris Kristopherson, Dennis Leary, Jenna fucking Jameson; all great fucking Americans and I haven’t even scratched the fucking surface. It’s not Americans I have a problem with! DO YOU UNDERSTAND!!!!!! I do, however, have a problem with brain-dead, trained chimps running the Whitehouse!!!!
My fervent hope is that Randy Lerner continues to warrant his place amongst truly great Americans and brings the good times back to Villa Park!!!! YYYYYYAAAARRRRRRRRRR!!!!

Doug Ellis has officially resigned as Chariman of Aston Villa and not before time. To be fair to Ellis, he has left us in a good financial state and with one of the best managers in the game.
Randy Lerner has now taken over as Chairman and will soon appoint a chief executive and Villa can begin to return to being a top four premiership team.
Ellis has spent 35 years at Villa over two spells. His service was broken from 1975 to 1982, during which time we won the league and European Cup. I have been critical of Ellis but I think that, since the O’Leary debacle, he has shown just how much he loves Villa and he has left us in the mercurial hands of Martin O’Neill. It is for this reason that he leaves with dignity and will be welcomed back to Villa Park in his honorary role.
I can see a top ten finish this season but I think we’ll just miss out on Europe. Next season, however, with the right players in place, I think we’ll cruise to a Uefa Cup spot and, over the next few years, break into that top four.
Ah tis a good day to be a pirate but an even better day to be a Villan.

Everybody and their cat has a mobile phone these days. Gone are the days when I had to signal from the crow’s nest with a torch. Mobile phone companies in general try to appeal to young people. There’s nothing wrong with this because, by the time you reach thirty you become far too cynical to believe anything but beer commercials. There is, however, a massive gulf between actual youth culture and what some mobile phone companies believe youth culture to be. I am speaking of the clown responsible for the Meteor ads.
There are myriad ways in which one can express the availability of free texts but Meteor choose two annoying girls who seem to be able to arrange the social lives of their friends through the medium of text. In one ad, they are attending a gig in which their friend is supposed to sing only to find out that the audience is full of Goths. So they get on their little phones and dial an audience. This is all fine until their friend starts singing some fucking plastic pop song that would have most young people reaching for the nearest blunt instrument with which to banish the annoying sound from their lives. Of course, in Meteor’s eyes, this is what most young people are into. Now they have added insult to injury by selling a phone with the bonus of a free Christina Aguilera track on it. What the fuck??? That woman sounds like she forgot to extricate a Rampant Rabbit from her nether regions. That shit might appeal to the fucking Dublin 4 crowd but it doesn’t play here in the cheap seats you fucking idiots! I mean Christina Aguilera?? Had they used the Scissors Sisters I could understand. They provide an adequate conduit between mainstream and alternative. The Gorillaz would have been perfect. Anything but that yoddelling, plastic boobed fucking bint!! Could it be that the guy in charge of advertising at Meteor is actually a fifty year old Johnny Logan fan? I think I’m on the right track there.
“Ok, we need someone hot and funky to be the face and voice of our new promotion.”
“How about Twink?”
“I already asked her but she muttered something about putting my cock back in my pants and called me a motherfucker.”
“Linda Martin?”
“No, she’s getting another arse lift for the next three months.”
“Who do young people like these days?”
“Johnny Logan?”
“Who?”
“How about Britney Spears?”
“Na, she’s concentrating on getting knocked up but there is Christina Egg…Og…Agui .. you know the one.”
How’s about that for having your finger on the pulse. Fucking idiots. What they have achieved is stating that having a Meteor mobile is the death knell for your credibility.
If that wasn’t bad enough, they recently invited Jeb Bush to our fair isle. For the love of fuck! What were they thinking? Jeb Bush - brother of George the killer. If that isn’t a blinding testament to their fucking ineptitude I don’t know what is. Yes, it was for some conference or other but they could have made a stand. They could have done more good by publicly announcing that they would not invite a Bush to Ireland out of respect for the beliefs of ninety nine per cent of their customers. What have they achieved? They have stated that owning a Meteor mobile not only strips you of your credibility but the money you spend on that phone is used to put the brother of a mass murderer in a swanky hotel. For FUCK’S SAKE!!!!
Come and try the new Hitler mobile with a cute little mustache for an answer button and a free Wagner ringtone. Or how about our new Pol Pott headset with the cries of a million innocent children as your ringtone. Not your thing? Well there’s always our Osama Bin Mobile. It’s free; you just run into one of our stores and claim it in the name of Allah.
Grow a fucking brain Meteor.