Captain Purplehead

Ok, sorry about this but, FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK FUCK HOLE BOLLOX SHITTING FUCKITY BOLLOX HOLE!! I’m willing to bet that all of you have, at one stage or another, looked at an entertainer and said, “I could do that.” Yes, it’s a lot easier these days as everyone including Slimey Pete’s rotten crotch could do a better job than most entertainers these days but I’m willing to bet that one or two of you have tried something, failed utterly at it and decided to consign it to a murky and never to be spoken about corner of your past. Maybe you thought you could sing and decided to get up on stage only to discover that your performance made Pia Zadora’s worst performance seem like flawless virtuoso. I once fancied myself as a bit of a professional stuntman but I still can’t get clearance to jump over Ronan Keating, Brian Kennedy, Ryan Tubridy, Louis Walsh and Westlife on a steamroller. I mean, what have we got to lose? My point is that, after trying something and failing miserably at it, you’re not going to go out and do it again when you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you’re completely fucking useless at it. Well, you might attempt a second time, given enough mind-bending drugs but surely not a third, fourth or fifth time.
Well it seems that RTE haven’t learned their lesson from the bruising failure of every single attempt at reality TV. They are now besmirching a comedy institution by announcing their new reality show, Failte Towers. They can’t get real people to star in this reality TV show, so they’ve chosen a mish-mash of crap from the Irish celebrity circuit. Thirteen morons who simply cannot reconcile themselves to the fact that their ill-deserved fifteen minutes has elapsed and they should be going back to shovelling shit or french fries. The point of the show is that these morons will try to run a hotel. Now I wouldn’t trust any of these people to run a fucking flag up a pole.
Ok, I’m not being entirely honest. The fact is that, being Irish celebrities, I’ve only actually heard of a couple of them but here’s the list - a veritable whose who of “who?”. Evelyn Cusak, Brian Dowling, Patricia McKenna, Luke Thomas, John Creedon, Michelle Heaton, Liz O’Kane, Don Baker, Sean O’Domhnail and Donna and Joseph McCaul. Who the fuck are they? Why the fuck are they getting another chance to be forgotten and why the fuck is our national broadcaster inflicting this fucking shit on us once again. For fuck’s sake, what are they playing at? Remember, Pat Kenny, Gerry Ryan and Ryan fucking Tubridy are the three highest earners on RTE. I guarantee you that you get any of them or all three into a room and it would be the most boring fucking experience of your life. Gerry Ryan would have the biggest cigar known to man hanging from his fat fucking face and he’d still be able to talk shite, Pat Kenny would be smiling politely while Ryan Tubridy parumps away on a table, in a vain effort to seem like David Letterman. There isn’t an original bone between the three of them and that just goes to show the lack of originality coursing through the one remaining anaemic vein of the RTE programming department. I mean, they still consider fucking Twink and Linda Martin to be fucking celebrities! This piece of shit is apparently the brainchild of Bibi Baskin. Yeah, that pseudo-intellectual wannabe milf.
Y’know I’m even getting bored writing about the fucking thing. I haven’t seen it but I know it’s going to be complete fucking banal, moronic shit. So I say again, FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK FUCK HOLE BOLLOX SHITTING FUCKITY BOLLOX HOLE!!

I was going to write at length about the blatant cover up of the murder of an innocent Irish man in America but, as usual, me oul mate Bock The Robber has done it better than I could have attempted. Head on over and read all about it. Some great comments on this post but none of them are from J.P.
Bock the Robber talking about Andrew Hanlon’s murder.

You might have noticed that the Thirsty Kipper has had a bit of an overhaul. Well, due to a couple of emails I received, I have upgraded it again. Whoever said a pirate shouldn’t concern himself with customer care, never boarded the Kipper, me hearties.
Whilst I realise that I haven’t been sailing her as much as I used to, I can assure you I will be getting back into the swing of things over the coming months. If there’s one thing I hates more than Paris Hilton, tis a quiet pirate. Thar be no place for a pirate who doesn’t speak his mind aboard this vessel or on any of the nine seas - I discovered two more that I told no one about.
While I’m getting ready to unburden myself upon ye - as the bishop said to the actress - I want to talk briefly about a group of people who are currently getting on my nerves. I must stress that I have met a section of this group that I actually liked but, by and large - and I mean large - I have had it up to me wooden eye with these fuckers.
I speak, of course, about American tourists. Yes, I realise that I’m running the risk of offending some of my American friends but I simply cannot stay silent anymore. What is the fucking deal with these fuckers and their sky-blue fucking slacks and clickety fucking cameras? Whilst in Rome recently, I witnessed some of the most offensive yet banal tourists in the history of tourism. I said I’d take a look at the colloseum and I found myself sandwiched between two groups of American tourists. I thought the group in front were insane when on guy had the great idea of taking pictures of the fucking floor. Imagine the inevitable slide show when he got home. Holy fuck! What was worse is that the others noticed that he was doing this and, instead of saying, “hey pal, it’s a fucking floor. Save your film,” they all followed fucking suit. Clickety clickety fucking click! At this point I was bemoaning my luck for getting stuck behind a group of tourists but admitting it could be worse. Oh it could be worse alright. It was fucking worse because a member of the group behind me began to speak in that unmistakeable twang of the American tourist. Not all Americans speak like that but the fucking tourists do! “Man, if they bombed this place, it’d be down in a heartbeat,” said one of these utter fucking morons. It’s been there for fucking thousands of years and seen some of the most flamboyant and colourful characters in history but the first thing a fucking American tourist thinks about is the damage that would be done of “they” bombed it. Why in the name of fuck would they bomb the fucking thing? I said as much to him in English with an Irish accent and when I turned around, he said, “man these Italians are really ignorant”. I fucking kid you fucking not.
Moving on to the Piazza de Venizia, there was a guy blocking people from moving along a footpath. His lack of uniform suggested to me that he wasn’t working in any official capacity so I looked to see why he was doing this. Just as I looked, that unmistakeable twang came again - this time issued from a female - “We’re nearly finished, Mike. Just hold them back for another thirty seconds”. Were they defusing a bomb bound for the colloseum? NO! They were taking fucking pictures of eachother. I barged past and again one of them accused me of being an ignorant Italian. I replied by informing them that I was Irish and, if they thought I was ignorant, what did they think of a crowd of people so full of their own self importance that they were holding up traffic so that they could take pictures of eachother. Fuck me, what is with these people? Are they actually tourists or are they Al-qaeda operatives, travelling the world in order to make everyone hate Americans. I must point out at this stage that I don’t hate Americans. I just hate their government, their gun laws and their fucking tourists.
8% of Americans hold a valid passport. 8 fucking percent! What are the criteria for obtaining one? Do you have to go through a moron test? For fuck’s sake! 8 fucking percent and they have to be predominantly fucking annoying.
A few years ago, I was sitting in a cafe, smoking a cigarette, which you were allowed to do at the time. I was sitting in a smoking section and an American tourist twanged at me, “Hey buddy, do you mind extinguishing that cancer stick?”
“Yes,” I replied, “since I’m sitting in a section of this cafe where smoking is allowed, I do mind putting it out and, furthermore, I will not put it out.”
“We don’t appreciate your secondary smoke,” this smiling moron twanged.
“Well I don’t appreciate your foreign policy but I don’t go around bugging you to stop arming small countries so that you can go to fucking war with them!”
They left, I finished my cigarette and I felt something weird. I think it was a slight pang of regret but it was too small to be significant so I just ignored it.
Americans; if you wish to travel that is absolutely fine. You’re as welcome as the flowers in May. Just go through the checklist I’ve provided below and it will be of invaluable assistance to you. This is a list of things that you should know before you leave.
The rest of the world does not consider Americans to be superior beings who should be waited on hand and foot.
If you come across someone who is being overly nice to you, they’re probably trying to rip you off.
Colourful slacks are fine but only if your stated occupation is Clown.
Talking in a loud twangy voice doesn’t impress anyone.
The rest of the world isn’t out to get you.
The rest of the world isn’t paranoid about terrorism.
The rest of the world thinks the 2nd amendment is fucking ridiculous.
The rest of the world doesn’t worship weapons.
The rest of the world deserves a break from annoying tourists.
Leprechauns don’t exist and Irish people don’t like wear green unless we’re hiding in the forest to avoid American tourists.
You don’t have to drink Guinness when you come here and then say, “man that’s disgusting.”
We used to be the land of a hundred thousand welcomes but now we’re as pissed off as the rest of the world and pissing us off further is not a good idea.
Nobody wants to see a picture of a floor, not matter where it is.
There you have it. In parting, I’ll just relate to you something that was actually uttered by an American tourist who was visiting Bunratty Castle.
“How come they built the castle so close to the freeway?”

I know loads of mothers who I used to think deserved to be given an award but have never received one. Why have they never received a mother of the year award? Well, I can only go by the qualifications of previous winners. Right, here’s what you apparently need to do to qualify for Mother of the year - the celebrity version - ok, I know you need to first become a celebrity but that’s easy these days:
First of all, you must parade around in designer maternity-wear smoking crack and drinking like a fountain. I know, I know; that’s probably going to damage your unborn child but, look, do you want to win the fucking prize or not? Right, once you’ve been seen doing all of that, book yourself into rehab and sell your story to some nonsense fucking paper like the News of the World. A discreet call to OK magazine is also essential as their brand of cutting edge journalism is just what a chain-smoking, alcoholic, junkie, moronic expectant mother who is going for the mother of the year award needs.
Ok, so what do you do when you’re not pregnant but you already have kids? Worry not, my lovelies, help is at hand. Ok, actually being a mother is a very small part of being in with a chance of winning the Mother of the Year award but there is a lot of stuff you can do. You simply must go on all-night benders with your drug-dependent husband - if he’s not already on drugs, you might try spiking his morning coffee with heroin or something - and then arrange for him to throttle you so that you can go on T.V and talk about what a fucked up marriage you have. I know you might think that’s the opposite of what you should do if you’re a mother but you haven’t a fucking chance of winning the award if you go around setting a good example for your kids. I mean what kind of mother are you? So you’ve entered the public eye and they can see what a kicked little scrubber you are. This is just the beginning. You absolutely must get your kids into rehab. At least get one of them in and just give the other one an inferiority complex. Once your kids are nice and fucked up, you invite MTV to film every fucking second of your life and turn it into a money-spinning reality show. This is just what your kids are going to need to deal with their self-esteem issues. I’ve skipped a bit ahead of myself. I almost forgot. You - and this is vital so listen up, sisters - you must have extensive plastic surgery before you start showing your private life to the world. Not only must you have this but you must advocate the benefits of plastic surgery. As a mother, you must know that you shouldn’t be teaching your kids to be happy in their own skin. Promote plastic surgery even though it only turned you from an ugly duckling into a kicked swan with bigger tits. You need to turn yourself into an arrogant self promoting fucking twat in order to win Mother of the Year. Even though, you have become the most blatant sycophant in the history of humankind, you must slag off other celebrities for being taltentless. Pot and kettle? Absolutely yes but if you’re not taking up column inches in the Sun for being an overbearing tub of fucking shit, how the fuck can you possibly hope to win Mother of the Year? I mean, cop the fuck on, sisters! You have a lot of work to do. If none of the following list applies to you, you officially have no chance of becoming celebrity Mother of the year:
Cocaine.
Heroin.
Crack.
Whisky.
Vodka.
Beer.
Wine.
Infidelity.
Double.
Penetration.
Rehab.
Arrested.
Community.
Service.
Titjob.
Plastic.
Surgery.

There are others but introducing a few of these into your life will exponentially increase you chances of selection for the singular honour of being celebrity mother of the year. It might also be a good idea to have your boyfriend/husband sleep with a couple of hookers or fellow celebrities - normally amounts to the same thing - and then sell your story to the Daily Mirror. Make sure you come across all heartbroken. A tried and tested method of keeping in the laughter is to have a convicted car thief or a drug dealer to go down on you while you’re doing the interview.
So there you have it. If it worked for Kerry Katona and Sharon Osbourne, it should work for you. Don’t bother with actually being a good mother; it’ll only hinder your chance of winning.

You may have noticed that I got a bit sick of the green background. I’ve gone ahead and changed this so, if it’s hurting anyone’s eyes, please let me know. DAMN YER EYESS LAD!!! No, seriously, let me know.

Well, I don’t know what’s worse. A judge failing to tell her fellow judges that one of the contestants worked for her modelling agency, the fact that a nonsense person involved in a nonsense controversy makes a nonsense story in a nonsense newspaper or the fact that they give prizes for people who manage to dress themselves. I mean, fuck me, I’ve raised many an eyebrow in me pirate garb but nobody ever sent me on an all expenses paid trip to Dubai - not that I have any intention of visiting such a vulgar testament to opulence in close enough proximity to abject poverty.
So here’s the thing. Apparently horse racing and over priced clothing have always gone hand in hand. Y’see, in order for a man to watch horse racing in rainy old Ireland, he needs wellies, a sheepskin coat and a pair of binoculars. For a woman to go to the races she needs to wear high heels, expensive clothes and a totally fucking ridiculous hat. You can just bet that it was a lecherous old fat fucker that originally came up with this idea in the first place but it is now tradition for the more pointless and vacuous members of the female population go all out to get noticed. Is this the stealthiest form of sexism? I think it is. The men ogle the horses and the fillies, as it were. The horses have no choice in the matter but the women not only go along with this but they get dressed to the fucking nines and HAPPILY go along. You fucking go, SISTERS!! No matter how hot it gets, you’ll never see a burning bra at a horseracing event.
So my favourite old windbag, Celia Holman Lee apparently got herself in all kinds of hot water with a lie of omission. Apparently Lorraine Nolan dressed herself better than anyone else and her garbing talent was noticed by someone other than Celia and she was put forward for best dressed idiot, a prize she subsequently one. Now wily old Celia failed to mention that Miss Nolan worked for her modelling agency part time - (when she wasn’t coming up with cutting edge and exciting ways of dressing herself).
Is this newsworthy material? Maybe to the utterly pointless but to the rest of us, no it fucking isn’t. For fuck’s sake! What are we coming to? Alright, it was in the Irish Independent, that most pointless of fish n’ chip wrappers but fuck it. Surely there is enough news out there to write about. Look, here’s how it is. If you ever thought Celia Holman Lee had devoted her life to honesty, you’re as delusional as a fish who thinks it’s Elvis. Who fucking cares? Nothing she does is news worthy. Now, maybe if she came up with a cure for cancer or a tax system that allowed prosperity to be constant rather than cyclical, or she invented an alternative power source. If she even wrote a decent song or came up with a recipe for potent homemade beer or something. Maybe then she might be newsworthy but the fashion industry is pointless, facile and vulgar so why is it newsworthy? If you’re the world’s most dedicated moron without a single original thought and vocabulary that would fit on the back of a fucking stamp you can still make it in the fashion industry and I’m not just talking about Victoria Beckham. Now before you model types start leaving comments stating how this model and that model are the nicest people you’ve ever met and they regularly gather together in secret in an attempt to end world poverty and cure disease, I’m not saying you’re all stupid. I’m simply saying that it doesn’t take much in the way of intellect to make it in the fashion industry. There are countless fucking magazines dedicated to documenting, stalking, photographing and adoring the vacuous; do we really need our national newspapers to report on them too?