Captain Purplehead

Ok, I’ve gone on and on and on about how crap TV is these days. Yes, there are some exceptions like the Sopranos and the show from which the clip below is taken but these exceptions merely prove the rule. First of all we have reality TV. Is there a more vapid and pointless medium of entertainment? I mean what’s the point in watching a shower of morons being morons in a house on TV? Is there a point or are you being brainwashed by penny-pinching TV execs? If you are someone who has bought into this collective dumbing down of our crumbling society, you’re probably not going to like this post very much. No, you don’t receive mail on this site you ju… No, a post is another word for an article on a blog si… look, here’s a banana. Go sit in a corner and play with your thumbs. Ahem… sorry about that.
The show of which I am about to wax lyrical is the marvelous, Never Mind The Buzzcocks. For my American friends uninitiated with the British Punk revolution of the late seventies, Never Mind The Bollocks was an album by the Sex Pistols - no, that doesn’t mean phallic-shaped firearms, they were a band. The Buzzcocks we… ah fuck it, if you’re reading this, you probably have Google; look it up.
Right, so Never Mind The Buzzcocks is a spoof music quiz that’s been running for quite a while and it is, at least for me, compulsive viewing. I’ve mentioned a couple of well known bands but there is a lesser known band called The Ordinary Boys who are, quite frankly, crap. The lead singer is a moron called Preston who wasn’t happy with the undeserved fifteen minutes he had already been given and so signed up for Celebrity Big Brother. Celebrity Big Brother is just Big Brother with morons who had already been on TV. It doesn’t mean you’d recognise any of them but it’s just a kind of catalyst to help them gain a second fifteen minutes of fame.
I don’t watch these things but you can’t avoid hearing about them. It seems that they put a nobody in with the kinda-nobodies and told them she was a celebrity. Preston, one of the latter, fell for this empty vessel and married her. Surprisingly, they later split up. You’d think that even an idiot like Preston would have a sense of humour but noooo.

Whilst Dubya isn’t intelligent enough to be considered an idiot, I have highlighted other idiots like Wayne LaPierre, Tom Cruise and L. Ron Hubbard but I am about to introduce you to an idiot who claims, through song, to be an idiot.
Ok, we’re all pretty tired of celebrities preaching to us through the five minute window between the renovation of their 22 million dollar summer houses and the production of their new, private sex tape but there are those amongst us who still buy in to their false sentimentality.
Chief Running Eye is a good American name but Alan Jackson is a better one. If there is a more detestable fucking wanker singing country songs, I haven’t met him. Garth Brookes is bad enough but AJ takes the fucking biscuit. Where were you on that September day? I, like many others, sat horrified at what I was seeing. I looked at a needless loss of innocent life and grimaced at the reprisal that would surely cost more. Alan Jackson apparently stared at it and thought that a cheesy country ballad about the tragedy would boost his album sales.
This is the result. This is a needless, pointless, clueless, useless and fucking soulless attempt to tell the world that Christianity rules all and, if you wear a Stetson, you’re an all-round good egg. I’m not going to put this in the music category because it isn’t. What amazes me is that he has a huge band with him and a marginally bigger audience and not one of them said, “SHUT THE FUCK UP, ALAN, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!! IF YOU DON’T KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN IRAQ AND IRAN, DON’T FUCKING SING ABOUT IT BECAUSE NEITHER OF THEM HAD ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE SEPTEMBER 11th ATTACKS!!!”
Now here is a blithering fucking idiot.

Now, if you want to write about something that pisses you off, this is how to do it.

A little while ago, I posted about being jumped by two knuckle-dragging idiots and the response I got from our local constabulary. They basically asked me, “what do you want me to do about it?”. I had been attacked but this cop was more interested in his sandwich than he was in my plight and that’s fine. I don’t blame that useless waste of taxpayers’ money for the fact that I was attacked. Before you get carried away with the title, I haven’t been attacked again.
As I told you earlier, I am sad at the demise of pirating - so much so that I’m almost tempted to call it piracy and launch myself, hammer, thongs and eye patch into the 21st century. Tonight I was happily pottering around the Thirsty Kipper, when a crewmember alerted me to a piece of work that needed my attention. Now, it didn’t really need my attention but I said I’d do it as a favour to him. As a reward for this selfless act of cooperation, he invited me to the local hostelry for a pint. As I haven’t pillaged for quite a while, I decided to pillage his needless generosity.
We arrived at the pub and ordered two pints each - it was getting towards closing time. The pints duly arrived and were lovelier than I could have imagined. We were quickly joined by some friends and a humorous conversation ensued. We were doing what all acquaintances do; we talked about the old days. We talked about the days when you could dock in any Irish city without having to fear for your safety. This led to stories about when we were young and the stuff we got up to. In short; it was all very innocent.
Before long, the proprietor of said hostelry joined us and told us a story about homemade butter and honesty that will stay with me until - well - next week at least. No, seriously it was a great story. There was also a story about a sheep shagger who asked for a room with a ewe. Need I say more? It was a quiet conversation between people who were enjoying each other’s company. To put this in context; I was the youngest person in the pub. I mightn’t have tasted forty yet, but I can smell it. There was one guy - a very interesting and funny guy - who had celebrated his 81st birthday two weeks previously. I know I could probably set the scene a little better but I have been drinking.
For the many American friends I have just made, I should explain that we don’t trust our government to utter a single honest word and they don’t trust us to drink past half eleven - eleven thirty - on a week day. In fact, up until a few years ago, you couldn’t drink between two and four on a Sunday - and I’m talking two and four PM!!!!!!!! This was called “Holy Hour”. It was the Catholic way of telling God, “I can’t promise I’ll be sober at Mass but I promise that I’ll give myself two hours to recover afterwards.” Y’see, up until recently, the Irish government had to bow to the Catholic Church. The Catholic Church was hellbent on telling the Irish people what we could and couldn’t do. They ensured that alcoholics taught alcoholics temperance and paedophile wankers, who had taken a vow of celibacy, taught you how to conduct yourself in marriage. To this day, you can’t have a catholic church wedding in Ireland without having a mandatory wedding course first. They controlled our youth clubs. They controlled our schools and they controlled our polling booths. They instilled guilt while they fucked our children not all of them, but far too many of them. Anybody who has ever been at a Redemptorist disco will testify to the hypocrisy of this senseless organisation. Listen; Ireland was grand before Catholicism took over… but that’s another rant.
Where was I? Oh yes, the pub. One of the topics of conversation was about a sixty four year old man who had been stabbed last week because he corrected a knuckle-dragging, hoodie-wearing primate, whilst the latter was waxing lyrical about Sinn Fein. He wasn’t stabbed in the pub. The brave little twat with whom he had the misfortune to engage in conversation, called his little fish-brained friends and they waited for two hours until the former left the pub before stabbing him. We talked about the past because we had nothing good to say about the present.
Last call came at 23:45 and we all called another drink - I wasn’t paying for mine but that’s beside the point. The aforementioned publican then called for his employee to supply us with another two pints, which he would pay for. We got through the first one, and were halfway through the second, when the bold gendarmes arrived. By that I mean our impossibly brave constabulary, who will not shirk at the merest sight of an old lady jaywalking. The very selfless warriors of peace who will not shy away from going on strike when they feel they’re not being paid enough to deal with pesky Credit Union loan defaulters. The very police farce who will ignore a riot in favour of moving a busker on for disturbing the peace. They didn’t just come in and tell us to move on because we weren’t causing any harm; they took names. I gave the name, Felonious Harlot. They then moved to the till and asked said proprietor to show them the receipt of his last sale. Now, I’m no solicitor but isn’t that something that should require a court order - warrant?
An enjoyable conversation should be allowed to wind down to tired boredom and eventual silence. It should never be abruptly ended because there are so few times when you come across nights like that one. As you can imagine, there was any number of actual criminals these two valiant guardians of the peace could have been hassling but they decided to hassle a group of happily drunken pirates having a happily - and quite innocent - conversation.
I decided that I didn’t want to engage these brave purveyors of order in a debate and so I left amidst a flurry of questions about my identity. Faced with these much-put-upon captains of society, I simply left but - unluckily for me - one of them followed me and demanded that I give my actual name. My response was to smile politely and say, “I’m sorry, Hieronymous Nipple is my name - but you can call me Harry.” This seemed to infuriate this selfless servant of the law and he responded, “you’ll give me your name or you’ll spend the night in Roxboro.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with my name?” I replied.
“You made it up,” this young hero replied.
“How dare you,” retorted I.
“Show me some id,” replied this sentry of society.
“Will a passport do?” I asked.
“That’ll be fine,” he replied.
“What about a drivers’ licence?” I continued.
“Yes, yes; that will also do,” this uniformed lord replied.
“A birth cert?” I queried.
“Just show me some id or you’ll spend the night in a cell.”
“Now,” replied I, “I know you have no legal claim to any of my belongings or, in fact, my continued cooperation. Should you charge me with an actual crime, I will be more than happy to prove my identity to you but you can’t charge me with a crime because I - to the best of your questionable knowledge - haven’t committed one. I’m sure that you know the law better than I, so I won’t press the point.”
“Right,” replied he a little more vehemently, “What’s your name?”
“Hieronymous Nipple,” I replied.
“That’s it. Get in the car.”
“No,” I replied.
He then moved his face to within a hair’s breadth of mine.
“If I catch you drinking after hours again, you’ll be fucking sorry.”
I didn’t continue the conversation because, to be quite honest, never was there a fucking idiot in more need of a resounding thump than this moron. I walked home and passed a crowd of drunken teenagers who were breaking bottles on the road. Their self-elected spokesman called to me in their unique language, “waddayoolookinah”.
I was tempted to tell them that I was looking at a sad statistic but I relented.
I have rambled on for a bit now and I’m sorry. I’m a bit drunk but not half as drunk as I want to be. Had these brave, valiant and consummately amateur policemen actually done what I pay them to do, I could have avoided meeting the missing links that I happened upon on my way home. I could have had a needless but enjoyable conversation with some nice and generally law-abiding people. People who still feel that a Stanley knife’s best use is for cutting carpet.
Well I’m back on the Thirsty Kipper now and I feel like having another rum.
Good night.

I hate Country & Irish music. It’s kind of hilarious for a while until you find out that these guys are actually fucking serious. My one abiding nightmare is seeing the legendary Johnny Cash sitting on a stairs and singing a duet with the nauseating Sandy Kelly. Fuck me, I needed months of therapy after that one.
That said, there are some really good country artists out there. Steve Earle, James McMurtry… fuck it, there are too many to mention. I’m not talking about the whiny crap that the Alan Jacksons and Garth Brooks of the world sing but real music. I never thought I’d admit that I liked country music but, after sitting through a concert with Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Emylou Harris and Kris Kristofferson, I was converted. I was so convinced that I would hate it that I didn’t tape the fucking thing and I’d love to see it again.
The point of this post is my abiding admiration of Country song titles. You can get away with anything in Country music and that can be both good and bad. Here’s a list of some of the most hilarious Country song titles ever. These are absolutely real.
• Drop Kick Me, Jesus, Through The Goalposts Of Life
• Get Your Biscuits In The Oven And Your Buns In The Bed
• Get Your Tongue Outta My Mouth ‘Cause I’m Kissing You Goodbye
• Her Teeth Were Stained, But Her Heart Was Pure
• How Can I Miss You If You Won’t Go Away?
• How Can You Believe Me When I Say I Love You When You Know I’ve Been A Liar All My Life?
• I Been Roped And Thrown By Jesus In The Holy Ghost Corral
• I Changed Her Oil, She Changed My Life
• I Don’t Know Whether To Kill Myself Or Go Bowling
• I Fell In A Pile Of You And Got Love All Over Me
• I Keep Forgettin’ I Forgot About You
• I Would Have Wrote You A Letter, But I Couldn’t Spell Yuck
• I Wouldn’t Take Her To A Dawg Fight, Cause I’m Afraid She’d Win
• If My Nose Were Full of Nickels, I’d Blow It All On You
• If You Don’t Leave Me Alone, I’ll Go And Find Someone Else Who Will
• If You Leave Me, Can I Come Too?
• Mama Get The Hammer (There’s A Fly On Papa’s Head)
• My Every Day Silver Is Plastic
• My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, And I Don’t Love Jesus
• My John Deere Was Breaking Your Field, While Your Dear John Was Breaking My Heart
• My Wife Ran Off With My Best Friend, And I Sure Do Miss Him
• Pardon Me, I’ve Got Someone To Kill
• She Got The Gold Mine And I Got The Shaft
• She Got The Ring And I Got The Finger
• She Made Toothpicks Out Of The Timber Of My Heart
• Thank God And Greyhound She’s Gone
• They May Put Me In Prison, But They Can’t Stop My Face From Breakin’ Out
• Velcro Arms, Teflon Heart
• When You Leave Walk Out Backwards, So I’ll Think You’re Walking In
• You Can’t Have Your Kate And Edith Too
• You Can’t Roller Skate In A Buffalo Herd
• You Done Tore Out My Heart And Stomped That Sucker Flat
• You Were Only A Splinter As I Slid Down The Bannister Of Life
• You’re The Reason Our Kids Are So Ugly
• If She Hadn’t Been So Pretty, I mighta seen the train.

You’ve just gotta admire the lyrical freedom of Country music. Nothing is too cheesy.

We pirates love takin’ the earnings of innocent people to fund our debauched lifestyle. We have a nasty habit of putting to the sword anyone who gets in our way. You’d swear we were Republicans without a republic. I think I’ve illustrated that I am definitely not a detestable right-wing nut-job and I’m proud to say that my sister in piratehood, the wonderful Cap’n Dyke, is of a similar stance. I have pointed out the similarities between Dubya and Hitler before but I think you’ll find Cap’n Dyke’s blog about Shitler to be to your likin’ - be you Republican or human.
There seems to be unrest in the nest of Republicans across the pond. Let’s face it, sometimes you have to admit to your mistakes and putting a monkey in the Whitehouse was a fairly big mistake.
Cap’n Dyke, I raise a glass of rum to ye.

Whether you like to admit it or not, music plays an important role in your life. It makes up the soundtrack. You can choose to support contrived and meaningless morons like boybands, girlbands and people whose only creative thrust comes from sampling other people’s music but is that the music you would want in the soundtrack to your life? I’m not telling you that you should like what I like but people should place more importance on the music they listen to. There is incredibly beautiful music out there that is just waiting for you to discover it. Before I took to the decks of the Thirsty Kipper, I was a musician. I wasn’t a particularly gifted or unique musician but I wasn’t bad. My problem was that I simply couldn’t go down the road of playing songs simply because they were popular and familiar to the audience and that’s kind of necessary if you want to achieve any kind of longevity on the periphery of music. I have lost count of the amount of times I heard people say, “play something we all know”. Now why in the name of fuck would I want to do that? Why do people want you to play something they’ve already heard on the radio in the taxi on the way to a gig?
I’m not saying that I deliberately chose obscure songs - some of the songs I played, when playing covers, were well known - but I did choose songs that I liked. There’s nothing worse than watching a band go through the motions in order to get paid. What’s the point? I always believed that, if you could infuse what you play with passion, you will win the crowd eventually - or at least find a following. If you do that, people will remember you. How many times have you heard someone say that they were at a pub gig last night but they couldn’t remember the name of the band?
Live music in this country is dying. In fact, it’s being murdered. The people perpetrating this crime are those fuckers that stand in the corner of your local pub with and acoustic guitar that is little more than a prop. The instrument that they rely on is the bank of midi files that accompany their annoying drum machines. What they are basically doing is removing the vocal track from a cd and singing over it and you wouldn’t believe the amount of morons who lap it up because they’re too fucking lazy to find something decent to listen to. People like to categorise music. That, of course is utter shite because, if your refuse to accept a decent song simply because it’s sung by someone you detest, you are being provincial, dishonest and you’re losing out. I can’t stand Elton John but I will readily admit to liking some of his older material.
Look, my point is this: while you’re wasting your time listening to shite that is churned out for the sole purpose of making money, you’re simply looking at the window dressing of musical possibility. I’ve chosen two beautiful songs to illustrate my point. I know that the Jeff Buckley one is a cover of a song by the brilliant Leonard Cohen but I think his voice lends its own beauty to the song. I’ll be back to my irreverent self soon but, for now, enjoy.
Sorry, but I was about to hit the “publish” button and send this post out but a car just passed with the stereo blaring that horrible fucking Cher song, “do you believe in life after love.” I mean, for fuck’s sake!

I’ve never understood the roots of superstition. The magpies thing, for example. One for sorrow; two for joy; three for a girl; four for a boy. Does that mean that, if you see two magpies, you’ll have joy or does it mean that, if you’re a girl and you see three magpies, you’ll have joy but if you’re a guy, you have to wait for four of the fuckers? There’s also this thing that, if you wave at a solitary magpie, it kind of negates the imminent sorrow that awaits you for being unlucky enough to see one on its own. What would happen if you were to kill that solitary magpie instead of waving at it? Surely that just means sorrow for the magpie’s friends.
I’m not superstitious and I’m not advocating cruelty to birds - except maybe Beverly Cooper Quinn, but she’s more of a slag than a bird - but I am in a quandary. I mean, these days, you’re well advised to hedge your bets. What if this superstition is correct? There used to be a pair of the filthy fuckers who used to hang around on my back wall but one of them must have popped his or her clogs or maybe they had a fight and one of them moved all their stuff out of the nest and crapped on its partner’s tuxedo. Every time I look out my window, I see this one solitary fucking magpie. Now, I’m not saying I’ve had much sorrow - although my beloved Aston Villa have been miserably quiet in the transfer market since this fucker started showing up - but I can’t help feeling a little antsy. The fucker lands on exactly the same place on my wall every fucking day. I’ve tried little anti-personnel mines but he just shits on them and the neighbours are beginning to grow tired of the constant pyrotechnics. I even bought and exploding magpie from ACME but he just kind of puts it off skew and, when I go to set it right, it blows up in my face.
What do I fucking do? Should I try and find his partner and attempt to get them back together? If there are any magpie experts out there, I’d appreciate some help.
I’m just going to pick my hat off the bed, grab my newly polished boots off the table and head to the pub. I wish the fucking painters would finish, their fucking ladder is leaning right across the door. I hate having to crouch to walk under it.

Aye, tisn’t easy being bonafide pirate in the 21st century. Tis a fine life to be sure but t’aint what it used to be. There was a time when the word pirate was associated with danger, glamour and hats. Now, if you mention pirating, people think you’re flogging dodgy dvds. Pillaging aint what it used to be either. There was a time when I could set a course of a Monday morning and pillage seven or eight vessels before sacking a fishing village and still be docked by supper time. Now we have the dratted Coast Guard, with their fast boats and demeaning banter. These days I’m lucky if I get to rob a canoeist of his watch. The Thirsty Kipper used to cut a forboding silhouette upon the horizon. Now, people think it’s a fucking tourist attraction.
The other day, as I was about to liberate the jewellery from a passing wench, a group of Japanese tourists came up to me and asked if they could have a photograph with me. A PHOTOGRAPH!! There was a time when I would have taken to them with my trusty cutlass but, alas, there’s laws against that kind of thing now. I mean, were I to kill these innocent people with a sharp blade, I’d be looking at a three-year suspended sentence. Similarly, if I was to just kill the husband and rape his wife, they’d be throwing more fines and suspended sentences at me than you could shake a stick at.
That’s not all; because of the down turn in pirating activities, I have to watch a lot of television. Now, here’s where it gets tricky. A pirate doesn’t feel he belongs to any particular country and, as such, does not feel bound by their laws. So, when I bought my first TV, I thought that the only thing I’d have to worry about was the crap service from Chorus - but no - I also have to pay a fee in order to be permitted to use a television. Now, if I refuse to pay my TV licence fee, I get real jail time - well, unless I change my name to Beverly Cooper Quinn.
But there’s still more. As I my takings from my pirating activities make miserable book-keeping, I had to take out a loan to buy my television. If I default on those payments, I also get thrown in jail. I spend most of my time in Ireland now and you’d think that a country run by criminals would be a little more lenient on those of us whose income is supplemented by less than virtuous means.
The biggest criminal in the world goes and kills thousands of people and he gets to live at the most exclusive address in Washington, while I have to eek out a living in fear of judicial reprisal!
Pirates are not naturally meek people. I can’t just sit here in the Captain’s quarters watching the worst shite known to man and still call myself a pirate. I need some validation. I need someone to say, “No, Cap’n, you’re the greatest pirate to sail the seven seas.” I just don’t feel like a pirate anymore. I feel hemmed in. I feel marginalised. I feel claustrophobicised. I feel… Now, I’m just being whiny.
Fuck this pirating shit; I’m going into politics!

I love John Prine. Ok, this is a bit too “down by the campfire” for my musical taste but it’s simple lyrics say what Dubya should hear. I should throw Sam Stone in there too because you just know that, when the troops eventually come home, their needs are going to be completely ignored - as usual. I’m not an American. I’m Irish. I, like most other kids, grew up thinking that America was some kind of utopia, where everyone wins, everyone is honest and everyone gets the girl. Well, I don’t know about the latter but I have come to know America as something else entirely. One man is responsible for the rest of the world resenting America. I don’t hate America but I’m fucking disappointed in America. I’m sure that most Americans are now disappointed IN America.

This isn’ the best version of Sam Stone but the video says a lot.

So Dayveed has finally joined L.A Galaxy, the team he says he joined for a new challenge. What challenge? Moving from one of the greatest clubs in the history of football to a nation whose football teams would struggle to survive in the Eircom League? Or is it the challenge of trying to live an even more lavish lifestyle? LA Galaxy. There’s just got to be a scientology connection there somewhere.
Anyway, the coverage that this farcical move is getting truly heralds the end of anything sacred. Why are people celebrating the fact that a footballer decided to sell out? From watching morons being moronic whilst locked away in a house full of cameras to talentless twats sitting in judgement on a talent show, we are witnessing the great dumbing down of the public and we are doing nothing except cultivating the ass-grooves in our collective couch. Dozens of people were killed in Iraq today but all I hear people talking about is Big Brother and Dayveed Beckham.
“Oh but, Cap’n, we don’t want to watch depressing news when we can bask in the reflected glory of glamour.”
Well don’t bother keeping up with what’s happening. If you’re on a plane that is going to crash, just stick on your Ipod and listen to the latest Big Brother podcast so you don’t have to face the harsh reality of your current situation. Dubya is desperately trying to buy time so that he can see out his final term in office but don’t bother with applying public pressure to have him impeached, just go and watch Dayveed train with L.A Galaxy. Don’t watch those horrible pictures of children dying of hunger. That’s way too depressing. You just surf on past that and watch a man retire from football for an obscene amount of money. If you live nearby, why not sling that Prada handbag over your shoulder, flick out your Dolce & Gabana sunglasses that almost cost you last month’s rent and go and see him train. Failing that, watch those moron moan about how bored they are. Give them your sympathy because it doesn’t matter that there is no equality in the world. It doesn’t matter that we, the minority, are living a comfortable life while the rest face hardship on a daily - if not hourly basis. When you pay over the odds for a loaf of bread, stick your loose change in the charity box. That’s right; you’re doing your part. It doesn’t matter that we elected a shower of criminals into the Dail AGAIN! It doesn’t matter that the man currently occupying the most powerful position in the world is a murderous moron. Nothing matters but your personal happiness and contentment.
Buy a Westlife CD. Pay €550 to see Barbara Streisand bore you to death. Go out and purchase the entire series of Sex and the City in a nicely packaged box set. Clothe yourself in expensive labels. Adorn yourself with diamond mined by impoverished people who will never see the finished product. Protect yourself from the elements with fur. Satisfy that hard to reach itch with an ivory back scratcher. Extend your hair length with real-hair extensions shorn from Indian and Pakistani children by force. Knock yourself fucking out because nothing matters. Let George W Bush flash you that fucking smug smile while he murders his way to ensuring America’s oil rights. None of it fucking matters.