Captain Purplehead

Well the New Year, (or the anniversary of the invention of the calendar; which ever way you see it), is upon us. This is the time of year when everyone and their granny makes predictions for the coming year. I’ve done so before and I’m going to have another go. Okay, so I didn’t get too many right the last time but Tony Blair did postpone his resignation and George W. did continue to lose his grasp on reality but Donald Rumsfeld didn’t form a death metal band and unfortunately Ronan Keating wasn’t ordered to cease all crimes against music. Still, it was good to hope for a while. So here we go.

Sport
Liverpool will be forced to sell their entire squad to Yeovil Town due to their owners’ financial ineptitude. Yeovil will be relegated as a result.
Alex Ferguson will have his head cryogenically frozen and placed on the board at Old Trafford. Limited blood distribution will mean he will have John Delaney appointed as chairman and Steve Staunton as manager. They will lose to Yeovil Town in the play-offs in 2011.
Padraig Harrington will give up golf and start touring as a drag-artist called Molly Ringworm.
Munster will rule all.

Entertainment
Ronan Keating will release a cover of Garth Brookes’ When the Thunder Rolls and will be shot with balls of his own shit as punishment. He will decide to retire and manage Padraig Harrington.
Westlife will release a live album and be sued under the trade descriptions act. They will release a best of album to pay their court costs and be sued again for the same reason. Fuck off, Westlife.
Jude Law will come to the shock realisation that he’s actually not that talented. This will take a major toll on his confidence and he will start writing childrens books about a frog who learns to fly.
Tom Cruise will divorce Katy Holmes after falling head over heels in love with an up and coming artist called Molly Ringworm.
Amy Winehouse will marry Pete Doherty.
Danni Minogue will marry a cardboard cut out of herself and ask friends which one of them has more facial expressions.
That misguided idiot X-Factor yoke who destroyed Leonard Cohen’s classic will be serving in McDonalds while she waits for her call up to I’m a Moron put me back on T.V via the Jungle.

The Economy
As the credit crunch really bites, governments will come to the conclusion that they will have to repossess all money made under false pretences. Simon Cowell, Louis Walsh, George W. Bush, all manufactured pop acts, people famous for being someone’s offspring, wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend or butler, reality TV stars, the entire cast of Fair City, Pat Kenny, Gerry Ryan, Ryan Tubridy, Linda Martin and many many many more morons will be forced to hand over their ill-gotten gains and work with underprivileged spider monkeys in Peru. The Peruvian society for the prevention of cruelty to spider monkeys will be up in arms about this move.

Well there’s a few for ya. If you’ve got any more, feel free to leave them in the comments section and I’ll post them if I like you.
Have a great new year. Mr Keating; if you’re reading this, please stop fucking annoying everyone. You’ve enough money made. Just shut the fuck up.

I’d like to wish all who sail on the Thirsty Kipper and those who simply stop by a happy and peaceful Christmas. I’ve been a bit bah humbug of late but I’ve decided not to go into my nightmare Christmas shopping misadventure today and just post this simple post instead. I haven’t been very prolific on the old blogging front this year but I’ll try harder next year.
Have a cool yule people and a merry ol’ YYYYYYYYAAAAARRRRRRRRRR to one and all.

Let me start this post by saying,
FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKK!
There, no wait… that hasn’t made me feel any better. I’ve spoken briefly about X-Fuckter but at the time I didn’t realise what the winner was going to inflict upon us for the tilt at the old Chrimbo No. 1. Look, I fucking hate all those cringe-worthy, cliché-ridden ballads that these fuckers churn out with alarming regularity but at least they found their level. At least they weren’t fucking about with classic songs written by people with actual talent. At least they were simply pandering to people wouldn’t know music if it came up to them in a thong and said, “Hi I’m music.” How can they honestly allow one of these idiots to sing Hallelujah? Written by the brilliant Leonard Cohen and covered by the excellent Jeff Buckley, it’s now being warble by a girl whose name no one will remember this time next year. That is fucking sacrilege. It’s a fucking crime against decency. It’s not fucking on.
Yes, I know that some of you will argue that it is bringing that classic to the attention of another group of fans but do fans who listen to fucking Westlife, Girls Aloud, Ronan fucking Keating and the like deserve to be exposed to this kind of brilliance. Yes I know that both Cohen’s and Buckley’s versions are now in the top ten but who fucking cares? Why gives Simon fucking Cowell and Louis Walsh and the other two smiling fucking idiots the right to fuck up a song like that. Previous to this they were just smug, annoying little fuckwits that only showed on my radar because of some annoying sound issuing from a stereo but now they have definitely crossed the line.
So I say again
FFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKK!!

Jack Frost roasting on an open fire.
His nuts stapled to his heels.
Yuletide Carols being sung by a cunt
And folks dressed up in pvc.

Oh well hello there and a mighty yuletide YYYARRRRRR to y’all. Tis the silly season and the crew of the kipper are getting excited. They’re already partaking of that old pirate Christmas game of bobbing for kittens. Of course, with things the way they are, I’ve had to make some cutbacks so they’re getting fuck all in their Christmas stockings. In fact I’ve flogged the Christmas stockings to buy some varnish for me leg. They won’t be best pleased when they wake up to find nothing but that’s the way things go and they’ll get over it. There hasn’t been a mutiny on the Kipper since Slimey Pete lost the rag back in ‘92.
Anyhoo, at this time of year I’m reminded yet again of the silliness that descends over even the most sensible amongst us. A friend of mine told me today that he didn’t feel very Christmasie. Now what the fuck is that. How does one feel Christmasie? Is it for fucking random turkeys who don’t feel that they’ve had their arses stuffed or is it that they haven’t been crucified? What is it?
Another thing is the whole idea of Santa Claus. I’m sorry but, if some fat, whisky faced fucking old geezer in a red fucking suit arrives on the kipper at fucking midnight on Christmas day, I’ll be getting out me trusty cutlass and go fucking medieval on the fucker. Is there any other time of year where you’d allow your kids to sit on a stranger’s lap and stroke his fucking beard? I don’t fucking think so. And what’s the deal with him working one fucking day a year? And why isn’t he sharing his transportation secrets with the rest of us. It appears that he can cover the whole globe in a couple of hours with minimal emissions apart from the flatulence of the reindeer? We have a planet in crisis and he’s not sharing this information with us. Fat fucker. I still reckon that Herpes the Wonder Horse should take over Christmas.
I’ve already mentioned Christmas songs but I feel I should mention them again as they’re insanely annoying. Boybands, girlbands, Cliff Richard and all sorts of fucking morons normally release something pungent and horrible and it all just serves to fucking annoy those amongst us who actually like music. Why can’t they all just fuck off. We’re in a recession and the last thing you should be doing is feathering the nests of some fucking useless fucking dickheads who have no right to be assaulting us with their fucking drivel.
I’m aware that I’m coming across as a hater of Christmas but I’m not. I just fucking hate all the fucking shit that has to come with it. Of course as soon as Christmas is over we’ll be getting into fucking full New Year thrust. It’s just another date on the fucking calendar.
Anyway, happy Christmas from all aboard the Thirsty Kipper. I’m sure there’s an oul King’s Bard out there somewhere who has bought me something nice.

I just tried to ring a mate of mine and his missus answered and asked me to call back after X-Factor. What the fuck??? She advised that it’s the final and the “winner” is about to be announced. So I can’t speak to my mate because the next has-been future member of Has-Been Big Brother, I’m not a celebrity stick me in the jungle and feed me rat testicles, lover of Jodie Marsh is about to be revealed? Stop the fucking world I’m getting off.

As the world plummets into a recession and doomsayers tell us all that we’re fucked, maybe it’s just the time to sit back and have a think about what the recession can do for you. If you’re not afraid of a little exploitation, you should do very well. So here are some ideas.
1. Stock up on BMW and Mercedez parts. They can be found at any ol junkyard and I’m sure there are quite a few people who will want to get rid of a whole car on the cheap this year. The thing is that you can exploit those dithering idiots who cemented their social status by buying an expensive car. They didn’t do this by finding a cure for cancer or helping under-privileged kids. No, they did nothing more than get themselves in serious hock for a flashy set of wheels and you can now profit from it. These idiots will find themselves seriously out of pocket in the coming year and they won’t be able to afford another car. When they see just how much their cars have depreciated by, they won’t even consider selling so you can help them patch up their cars and make a profit at the same time. Easy peasy japaneasy.

2. Get all your old clothes and start your own fashion label. Anything goes in fashion these days so those green wellies with the toffee coloured soles could make you the next Tommy fucking Hilfiger. Get an old jumper and cut one of the sleeves off. Attach a scarf and fashion the end into a cuff and you’ll be the darling of the Celia Holman Lee set. Don’t throw away those Farrah slacks. Cut them straight down each inside leg and make them into a skirt. Don’t just stop here. You need to cut halfway up each outside leg. Now here’s the ingenius bit. Remember that old hoola-hoop you have hanging in your shed? Stick that hoola-hoop half way up that farrah skirt so that it becomes wider at the knees. Remember; this is going to be your spring collection. We’re still not finished. You need to make a few stencils saying random things like “For Hire” or “Reverse into Space” or “Walk this Way” and litter your new creation with these things. If it sounds ridiculous, that’s because it is. That’s fashion for you and you can write your own cheque with that shit.

3.Write an autobiography. This is going to be really fucking easy. All you need to do is take one of those banal celebrity biographies and change it around a little. By the time the book even makes the shelves everyone will think you’re a celebrity and you’ll be charging €1500 for opening a car park before you know it. The important things to remember here are as follows: You didn’t get on with your parents. In fact, if they occasionally beat you, you’re on a winner. It doesn’t matter that they never laid a hand on you, this is a work of fiction. You found your voice while dancing on the streets. This set your heart free. Feel free, by the way, to use these faux-heartfelt phrases liberally throughout the farce.

4.Start a rumour that you are the founder of a revolutionary new rehab programme. You can use the net for this and make sure that you throw in a few dead celeb names just to spice it up a little. Before you know it, you’ll be up to your eyes in confused, idiot celebrities trying to “find themselves” after they went on a babysham binge with their bandmates. Now, once a celeb commits to this, you can charge whatever the fuck you like. Can you cure them? Of their abject stupidity; no but you can send them home with a clean bill of health by simply telling them they’re cured. You can just announce it to them. Just beam and laugh and hug and they’ll fall for it. You can, by the way, also offer to ghost-write the next volume of their autobiography. Just dig out the one you’ve already written, change it around slightly and your on a major earner.

Well that’s it. Best of luck with the recession, people.

If ever there was a band that proved that you can push the bounds of music and sobriety at the same time, it is surely the Jaywalkers and I can confirm that they will play their customary Christmas Party in Baker Place in Limerick on the 21st of this month. Last year they put on an incredible display of drunkeness and played a few tunes into the bargain. My fellow blogger Bock was there and I think he can vouch for the madness merriment and general craic that ensued on the night.
No one really knows who the Jaywalkers are. Most bands can list their members on one hand but the Jaywalkers can’t do that as they’ve had most Limerick musicians in their ranks at one point or another. Many were heard to admit that you know when you’ve been Jaywalkered. Whoever turns up this time, they can be guaranteed at least one pirate in the audience.

If I fucking hear fucking Chris fucking Rea fucking singing driving fucking home for fuckin Christmas one more time I’m going to go fucking postal. The sad thing is that I fucking bet he wrote that while stuck in a traffic jam after he had written the other fucking awful song Road to fucking Hell. Fuck off Chris!
You can just see it; there he is all pissed off because he’s stuck in a fucking traffic jam. He gets it all out of his fucking system and feels so good he writes that fucking load of bollox that is Driving Home for Christmas. They’re all fucking at it. Cliff fucking Richard, Mariah fucking twat Carey, Slade, Shakin fucking Stevens. Even Ronan fucking Keating got in on the act by making shit out of the only Christmas song that I like; Fairytale of New York. Why can’t they all just take a break for Christmas?
My idea of the road to hell is being in a fucking traffic jam listening to Chris fucking Rea. FUCK OFF!!
There’s only one thing for it. I’m going to have to rewrite the song in a fashion that will ensure that no one thinks of Christmas when they read the lyrics.
Here we go and sorry in advance. I really have no choice. I know it’s juvenile. I know it’s horrible for those of you who actually like Christmas songs but I need to exorcise the twat that is Chris Rea. The ridiculous thing is that I had to change very little from the original.

Writhing Home for Christmas.

I’m writhing home for christmas
Oh, I cant wait to see that faeces
Im grinding home for christmas, yea
Well I’m pushing down that shite
And its oh so long
But I will be there
I sing this song
To take the pain away
Writhing on the bowl
Driving home for christmas

Its gonna take some time
But Ill get there
Top to toe in skidmarks
Oh, I wish I had the runs
But soon therell be a freeway
Get my feet on tiley ground

So I sing for you
Though you cant hear me
When it gets through
You won’t go near me
I am grinding home for christmas
writhing home for christmas
With a thousand hemorrhoids

I take look at the paper next to me
it’s almost gone
almost gone

Top to toe in skidmarks
Oh, I wish I had the runs
I’m pppuuusshing home for christmas, yea
Get my feet on tiley ground
So I sing for you
Though you cant hear me
When it gets through
you won’t go near me
writhing on the bowl
GGRRRINNDING home for christmas
Wirthing home for christmas