Captain Purplehead

Yep, it’s finally happened. Yer jolly ol’ Cap’n has been put on a diet. Yes, I know that people normally agree to go on or decide to embark on such things but I’ve been put on one and I thought I might as well let you know how it’s going.
Firstly, the person who put me on this diet is my doctor. If he wasn’t a doctor he’d be a nice guy but the mere fact that you are a doctor precludes you from being a nice person because you have to be a bit of a bollox. You have to go along and say, “Hey, y’know all that stuff you love doing? Well, it’s killing you.” Fuckers!
Y’see, I didn’t go to the doctor because I was overweight or because I felt any general malaise. I went because I had hurt my back. That’s right! Give me one handful of painkillers, another handful of anti-inflammatories and I’ll be on me merry fucking way. But no! Before I knew what was happening, he had blood tests taken and he weighed me.
So it turns out that I’m two stone over weight. He weighed me at 96kg - around 15 stone. So, says I, give me the skinny - pardon the pun - what do I have to do?
Well it seems that my doctor has phoned in a bomb scare on the ol’ ticker but gave me the instructions to defuse it. Here’s what I can’t eat.
Red meat.
Bread.
Sugar.
Not too bad, right? Wrong! The fucking things I love most in the world are bread and sugar. I used to have fucking sugar sandwiches for fuck’s sake! Red meat doesn’t bother me. I can do without that. I’m also supposed to cut back on potatoes. So, without further adieu, here’s how I’ve done on my first week of eating cardboard for breakfast, lentil soup for lunch and veg and fish for dinner.
Starting weight: - 96kg.
Week one breakfast: Porrige made from water and with no sugar or fruit and fibre or all bran.
Week one lunch: Soup and a banana.
Week one Dinner: A variety of vegetables and fish or chicken.
Week one Supper: A fucking rivita with a sprig of crap on it.
Week one final weight: 95.95kg.

That’s right! After a week of fucking torture I’ve lost .05 of a fucking kg!
The other thing is that I was quite enjoying being a fat git!
I’ll keep you posted on week two if I don’t wither away to nothing in the mean time, such is the alarming rate of my weight loss.

That’s right! You heard me! If the lions share of our population aren’t speaking with mid-Atlantic accents and telling us all “Ish wuz todally like fontostic mon,” their Irishing up Americanisms. And that’s fucking worse.
“Good luck” is an Irish way of saying goodbye. I suppose it came from when we were running from British subjugation and were indeed lucky to make it home. That’s fine. I use that term myself and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. There isn’t even anything wrong with shortening it to g’luck. I mean that’s fine as it just sometimes runs that way in conversation. Nope, nothing wrong with any of that. The problem I have is when you call someone and, as you’ve finally managed to end the fucking half hour conversation that somehow sprouted from you asking someone if they’re going for a pint, they end the call by stringing four or five or sometimes seven g’lucks together. FUCK, that annoys me. “Alright so, I’ll see you in the pub. G’luck g’luck g’luck g’luck”. Is there some fucked up part of their brain that equates this with cool acceptable or even sane. It’s like a fucking speech impediment.
Similarly, there’s nothing wrong with the word, “cool”, I’ve used it many times as it’s one of the colloquialisms that has survived for generations and has, thus, become engrained on our vocabulary. Nothing at all wrong with using the word “cool” outside of the frozen food section of the supermarket. It’s cool. I mean, they’ve tried to replace it with “radical” and other such stupidity but it has remained… until recently some Irish fucking idiots have tried to Irish it up.
If someone uses the term “coola boola” when addressing you, you have my permission to smack them one. What the fuck does it mean. It’s not Irish, it’s not cool, it’s not fucking funny. It drives me fucking crazy.
The worst thing is that the same “g’luck” brigade that like the word so much they repeat it at the end of every telephone conversation, have now started stringing two coola boolas together at the end of a conversation. “Coola boola coola boola.” And it’s always uttered in the kind of “I’m really confident of your respect for me” kind of tone, which really fucking winds me up.
If anyone, and I mean anyone, uses these strung together terms with you, just string a few “fuck off you miserable cunt”s together and you’ll be alright.
Sermon over.

Hello again. As a blogger who has become dramatically less prolific of late, I don’t feel completely qualified to plug a new blog but I will anyway as it sounds like it may evolve into something quite interesting. The blog in question is Master Reset is a music blog. I’m reliably informed that, while it will concentrate on album reviews and gig news for a start, they will be focussing on Irish bands doing original music. In other words, they will do nothing to promote the evil doings of Louis Walsh, Simon Cowell and the trained monkeys they get to do their bidding.
So please drop in and see them and spread the word. My blog is simply a vent through which my frustration escapes so that I don’t explode but Master Reset seem to be intent on using their power for the good of the Irish music scene.