Captain Purplehead

So, part 1 dealt with music, so there’s no real reason to revisit it. Yes, there are things I wish I’d said and didn’t but there’s always next year.
Part 2 will deal with two parts of the Christmas formula. Movies will be discussed and ravaged later but we will start, briefly, with the dreaded Christmas work do.
If you live in Ireland you’ll know and recognise our antiquated style of management, largely built on cronyism, obsequiousness and the odd outdated American management manual. Y’know, the kind of one written by a real go-getter back in the 80’s. There are some excellent people managers whom I have worked, and continue to work with, but there are also some pitifully awful pieces of shit who have not one clue about management. They fall into two categories: Those who are still craving parental approval and those who got way too much of it. They are aloof and snotty and are thoroughly detestable human beings who will live their pointless lives and never even question if they could have actually done something constructive with them. I recently had a chat about percentages with one of them that was akin to the “small. Far away” lecture that Father Ted gave Doughal.
Believe me, I could go on ad nauseum about these little fucking arse licking idiots but the point is that every year, you are expected to go out with these people, socialise with them and, very likely, get drunk with them. How anyone thinks this is a good idea is beyond me. You will invariably have the two who drunkenly jump each other’s bones and regret it the following morning, the moronic, unrealistic and stupidly dressed woman, who starts crying about the state of her relationship and you just know that she will gravitate towards you, because you are the one person trying not to get involved, you’re trying to be invisible so you can maybe slip away and join your mates somewhere. It’s fine if you go out with the people you immediately work with. They have probably become mates but the Christmas work do should be banned. They are normally tacky and unnecessary affairs that cost too much money and are invariably disappointing and embarrassing.
Right, now that that’s out of the way, we make our way towards TV movie scheduling for Christmas. Willy Wonka, It’s a Wonderful Life, The Champ, The Great Escape, Titanic, ET, Die Hard, A plethora of James Bond movies, Little Women and, of course, Star Wars, will all feature heavily in the Christmas schedule. You will be able to see some of them more than once, should you have the urge for repeated punishment.
Most of these movies have very little to do with Christmas, yet they pick them every fucking year. Why is that? Why show the fucking squirm-fest that is Titanic at a time when we’re all supposed to be happy and getting along? This is a three hour movie about a love affair between two nauseating characters that just happens to have the Titanic as a backdrop. A Night To Remember is a far superior film and they had none of the special effects technology open to James Cameron. He had a chance to tell a powerful story about a tragedy the many of us are fascinated with but he fucked it up. What’ll he think of next, Dances With Wolves in Space… oh, wait a second…
The Great Escape is an excellent, if slightly flawed, movie about actual events and I’ll admit I look forward to seeing it when it’s on. I still don’t know why they choose Christmas to show this film but that’s fine.
Star Wars is a great trilogy. The original had everything; space, fascism, good vs evil, heroes, villains, latent incestuous longing and colouredy swords. That’s all well and good. I don’t subscribe to the belief that these are amongst the best ever made, though. As a kid I loved them. Then that fucking wanker, George Lucas decided to milk the cash cow and make prequels to the original. That’s actually ok as a concept, there were some unresolved issues. I mean, Darth Vader suddenly becomes a good guy right before he pops his clogs and they all meet up in the afterlife for a bit of a party and a natter and it never quite made sense to me. The prequels go into exhaustive detail about his fall from goodie to baddie. The problem with the prequels is that they are such unbelievable shit, I wanted to go to George Lucas’ house and bludgeon him with Spielberg’s severed arm. He basically tied me to a chair, held my eyes open with matches and made me watch as he smeared his own shit all over my childhood. As I squirmed and wailed, he laughed maniacally, scooping another handful directly from his fat, hairy hole and happily applied it to those precious memories I had held so dear. Fuck you, Lucas, you fucking knobhead!
Have we become so enslaved to formula that we actually yearn for it? I remember years ago, hearing someone complain that they weren’t showing Willy Wonka that year. WHAT? Who fucking cares about Willy fucking Wonka! Wait until next year or buy the fucking DVD!
We live in a time when originality is in criminally short supply. In music, it is beginning to show signs of life again but those signs are very faint and, if Darth Walsh finds out, he’ll wipe it out entirely. Movies, however, are dying on the vine. Everything’s a remake, a sequel, a prequel or a bad rendering of a comic book hero. Yet, we lap it up. I recently read a book by Thomas Harris called Fatherland, that would make a great movie but they won’t make it. Yes, there are some exceptions that give us hope but they are very few. In fact, the only truly reliable director these days is Clint Eastwood. He is, in fact, the only remaining superstar on the planet.
Look at what they’ve stolen from us. Vampires are now lovely people in search of true love and loveliness, for fuck’s sake. It used to be that, if you had a poster of a vampire in your bedroom, you weird. Now it’s fucking normal. How did this happen. What’s next? Derek and Peggy – a Zombie Love Story. (Love never dies, even for the undead). Sweet suffering fuck!
So, now that you’ve read this, scurry away and lap up your formula and live in the nice bubble with the message emblazoned upon it, “DON’T WORRY, NOTHING WILL EVER CHANGE”. To quote John McClane in Die Hard, “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem, buddy”.
So, to finish, I genuinely wish you all a happy and peaceful Christmas and a truly great New Year, it probably won’t happen, but I hope it does. Hey, why don’t you give yourself a real present this Christmas and try something different.

Right, I’m not even putting a warning in front of this one. If you don’t like what I have to say, fuck off on a fucking pilgrimage or something. I have just heard something that has really raised the fucking hackles and this is going to get fucking ugly.
For many of the people who access this site from America, Westlife is a fucking stupid boyband, manufactured by a fucking deviant little cunt called Louis Walsh. They largely sing syrupy ballads because they’ve got no talent and the general Irish public has no fucking taste. Count yourselves lucky that they never made it in your country. Right? Ok, you’re up to speed. If you want an idea how they actually made it, read the previous post. On with the diatribe.
Recently, Westlife decided to do the only decent thing they’ve ever done and announce that they’re splitting up. They even did this on the same week that the Stone Roses announced they were reforming. A fucking great week for music. Yes, I realise that the split is only a marketing ploy and they’ll push out another greatest shit album, do a fuck off tour, embark on failed solo careers and reform in 2014 but, for now, we can imagine a world not blighted by their insipid shit! That is not the point of this post.
I have heard tonight, via a snippet of a rubbish Irish chat show sent to me by a friend, that our resident fucking stick insect, fuckhead, Ryan Tubridy thanked Westlife on behalf of the Irish people for everything that they’ve done for Ireland.
First of all, I don’t need some fucking watery fucking sewer rod with a fucking Dublin 4 accent and a fucking David Letterman fixation to speak for me at any time. Ryan Tubridy is one of those fucking bluffers who thrives in this fucked up puke bucket of a country. He has all the charisma of a lanced boil on the top of an obese leper’s fucking knob! He is as good at being an interviewer as a sparrow is at being an electrician. The man is a fucking welt on a wart on the fucking arse crack of society. I do not need this type of talking toe jam to speak for me on any fucking topic!
Secondly; what in the name of fuck did Westlife ever do for Ireland? Tubridy claims they have been great ambassadors! WHAT! Were they sent on fucking diplomatic missions of which I have been unaware? Ambassadors? What are you fucking on about? Are we trying to attract people with no musical taste and a penchant for fucking stamp collecting to this country? What kind of impression would Westlife give to anyone, other than we are fucking wet, useless fucking morons with bleached teeth and no fucking talent. The land of saints and scholars? If Westlife are anything to go by, we’re the land of fucking apes and morons! Who would possibly want to come to this country because they met Westlife? No one we actually want in this country, I’ll tell you that!
Fuck off Ryan fucking Tubridy, you fucking festering arse biscuit! You don’t speak for me or for anyone else!

Ok, this is old territory but I’ve built up a head of steam on this issue and I need to briefly vent on this flagging vessel I started up years ago.
I normally avoid the Late Late Show in the manner in which Louis Walsh avoids talent. I cannot stand the fact that that my T.V License money helps to pay for it. Well, I had no real choice but to watch it last Friday night because a great Limerick band, The Brad Pitt Light Orchestra, were due to appear on it. Unfortunately I spent too much time trying to calm myself down enough to watch Ryan Tubridy’s pathetic David Letterman impersonation and missed the band’s performance on it. Instead, what I witnessed was the end of a piece about suicide. Now, don’t get me wrong, I believe there are forums on which this topic should be discussed but the Late Late Show is not one of them.
Firstly, you have a shite presenter who really doesn’t know how to handle these discussions and secondly it’s supposed to be a light entertainment show. The people that fucking compile that show are in major fucking dereliction of duty.
Right, you may be forgiven for thinking this rant is simply about the fact that they discussed suicide on the Late Late Show but it’s not. Let me first explain here that every time you switch on your television in this country, some overpaid fucking twonk is giving you some bad news or a reminder that the country is fucked and getting worse. A light entertainment show should not be giving us any reminders about this. Its job should be to entertain those who can tolerate Ryan Tubridy. Every fucking season they have a discussion on suicide or murder and follow it up with some fucking nonsense that’s supposed to be a reminder of what the show is actually about.
A few seasons ago, they had a piece on the murder of an innocent girl and, in the slightly more capable hands of Pat Kenny - and that has taken a lot for me to say - it was touching and heart wrenching to hear the story of parents who had lost a child to senseless violence. It still had no place on the show but Pat Kenny is better able to deal with these kinds of topics and gave it the respect it deserved up until the end of the interview when he announced that next up was a demonstration of Dyson Hoovers. I kid you fucking not! This is their idea of breaking the gloom.
That was pathetic enough and insulting, I felt, to the family who had come to talk about their loss. What followed the piece on suicide on Friday night’s show was even more insulting and ridiculous and served to remind me why I hate this show. I would prefer to have my knob sliced in 8 and served to rabid wildebeest with a marmalade and dandruff sauce than watch this horrible fucking nonsense show again.
Ok, what do you follow a harrowing topic like suicide with? If it was my choice, I’d follow it with some music of an uplifting but poignant variety and then do a proper interview with someone interesting so as not to just slam the door on the aforementioned topic. Actually, if I was in charge of a light entertainment show, I wouldn’t have a piece on suicide on it. What did Ryan Tubridy follow it up with? An interview with a nobody, whose only notable deed was to pay twenty fucking thousand pounds Stirling to get her dog married to another dog! That’s right! Why even interview this fucking idiot? Did the dogs want to get married? No they fucking didn’t! This must have been an absolutely horrible insult to the people who, again, spoke about the loss of someone they loved. Fuck me!
I don’t ever expect that RTE will up their standards. There’s too much of a big job to do to even make their programmes acceptable, but surely they can provide light entertainment on a light entertainment show. Not some fucking wealthy idiot who throws money away on dog matrimony. Tis a fleeting hope though. I doubt they even see the error of their ways.

Somebody sent me a link to watch an interview with Brendan O’Carroll on the Late Late Show. Knowing they probably did this to annoy me, I watched it anyway and, sweet mother of fuck, does that guy fancy himself or what!
For those of you who don’t know who this snivelling little troll is, he is advertised as a comedian and is one of the most unfunny people in the entire world. He’s one of these cheeky fucking Dublin chappies who actually thinks that he is on the cutting edge of comedy. I’m not going to post a video because it would be tantamount to reader abuse. RTE, being RTE, sanctioned a series of his fucking horribly unfunny and frankly embarrassing show, Mrs Brown’s Boys. In this show, which he goes to great lengths to explain is inspired by cultural considerations, he plays Mrs Brown, a Dublin housewife. It’s not insulting to women, it’s insulting to anyone with an IQ above that of an amoeba. In fact, Brendan claims to be a member of MENSA! He also maintains that his show is one of the most important shows at the moment because it is putting a smile back on the faces of the Irish public! Don’t mistake a grimace of pure unadulterated fucking fury for a smile, you bald, Dublin prick!
He was, of course, interviewed by another talentless hack who is inexplicably revered within the corridors of power at RTE, Ryan Tubridy. I’m not going to go on about that fucking idiot but imagine a monkey trying to do a bad David Letterman impersonation and you’ll get the picture.
The best Irish comedy, outside of the Dail, was Father Ted. This was actually funny comedy. Y’know, the stuff that makes you laugh. RTE turned it down because they were afraid of offending the clergy. Channel 4 signed it up and it became an international success. Nice one, RTE. Really fucking swift. What they give us instead is absolute rubbish. If you visit Ireland and stay in your hotel room watching TV, you would be absolutely forgiven for thinking we are an unfunny and wildly moronic nation. This is not true, however. Irish wit is hilarious. I love it but it has rarely been showcased by our national broadcaster because they wouldn’t know comedy if it walked into a room, looking like Diane Kruger in a bikini and felated them for 48 fucking hours. They are a fucking joke that just isn’t funny.
This is a station which turns out the likes of Brendan fucking O’Carroll, the perpetually annoying and pompous Twink and the fucking transvestite, Linda give me a fucking break Martin when they run short on ideas, which is more frequent than a Charlie Sheen binge story. Fuck me, this is getting infuriating. If BBC or ITV or Channel 4 has a good show, RTE make a cheap and embarrassing copy of it.
So, please, if you are visiting these shores and have the misfortune of watching our national broadcaster, don’t hold it against the rest of us.

Where do I fucking start with this fucking week? As you know, I’m normally a calm and reasonable pirate. I don’t fly off the handle without good reason but, fuck me sideways; this week really fucking took the fucking biscuit.
First of all, you have that interminably horrible and vacuous Lady Gaga. The fact that she wins awards for her fucking pitiful attempts at making music is bad enough but she arrives wearing a dress made out of meat. She calls it carnivore couture. What a fucking waste of oxygen that woman is. It’s easy to shock people. It requires no talent or intelligence whatsoever. Similarly, writing songs about having no signal on your phone in a nightclub or a song containing the lyrics ‘ra ra rom rom ra ra rom rom ra ga ga rome ga ga’ requires little to no talent. Putting a catchy melody behind these pieces of shit is also quite easy. I’m thoroughly fucking sick of this woman. In fact, I’m so sick of her that I briefly smiled when I saw the picture of that disgusting dress because for the briefest moment, I thought someone had just disembowelled the whinging fucking dipshit.
I don’t fucking care if she has a fucking penis. I don’t care that she hates animals. I don’t want to hear about her, see her or hear her useless fucking music. Lady Gaga is a fucking persistent floater in the toilet bowl of life and it boggles the mind that she is as popular as she is. There, fucking week is off to a flying fucking start.
We then come to Conor Lenihan, our minister for science who decided to help his friend launch an anti-theory of evolution book! WHAT???? Ok, the first thing that came to my mind was, this is fucking typical Ireland. You appoint a relative of our minister for finance as a junior minister and you ignore the fact that his IQ is struggling to claw its way out of the minus scale. Fucking hell! A minister for science assisting in a publication that suggests that some cosmic magician said “HEY PRESTO” and there we were - a readymade civilisation.
The second thing that occurred to me was, what kind of fucking publishing company even consider publishing such a book. Must be some church-funded shower of cunts.
The third thing that occurred to me was this: MINISTER FOR SCIENCE???? Why does a country that can’t pay its bills have a minister for science? This just goes to show that budget cuts absolutely need to start at the top. No Junior Ministers, NO Senate. In fact, we could run the country on about 12 ministries. Cut their ridiculous wages to around 40 grand a year with NO EXPENSES! Fuck me, this is hardly rocket science - just ask Conor Lenihan.
Ok, so Conor got his job through sheer and unadulterated nepotism and this is one of the many problems we have in this country. Jobs for the boys.
‘Any chance of a job, Bertie? I am your 2nd cousin twice removed, after all?’
‘A…a…a…a…a, well there’s a job going in de canteen, like.’
‘Ah jaysus no, I don’t want to work. I was tinkin more along the lines of being a minister.’
‘Jaysus, I don’t know about that, like’
‘Ah go on, will ya. Give me some ministry where I don’t really have to do antin.’
‘Dere isn’t one available though.’
‘Make one up, then. What about minister for pots and pans?’
‘A…a… a… well, we’d have to make you minister for one or the other. Like, Milly from down the road is lookin for a job too and you’re taking up two ministries there, like. Pick one or t’other.’
‘Ahhhmmmm. Pots so… No, pans.’
‘You sure now, like.’
‘Hmmm, yeah, yeah.’
‘Right, pans it is then. You’ll start of on 150 grand a year with 50 grand unvouched expenses. Say nattin, like, and let’s hope we don’t have some kind of pan crisis.’
‘Deadly!’
Not as far from the truth as you might think. That’s how our inept government works.

Of course, we couldn’t talk about this week without talking about our utter arse of a leader. Brian Cowen gave a shite interview on Morning Ireland this week and was accused of being drunk on air. Now, I’ve since heard the interview and I would definitely say that he wasn’t drunk but was really hungover. Now, this is not the part of the whole thing that annoyed me. What annoyed me is that he was out singing, drinking and telling jokes while he and his cronies were supposed to be working out a way to get us through the problems they helped create. They were supposed to be at a THINK-IN! Puh-lease! A fucking think in? The same shower of thick, corrupt cunts that royally fucked up this country decide that if they think really hard, they will be able to undo all the harm without offending the people who protect the closets that their many skeletons are in. It’s a fucking sick joke! You then have that creepy, horrible little fucking bint, Mary Hanafin, saying that he wasn’t drinking. For fuck’s sake, when to the lies stop and when are they going to realise that we don’t ever believe their fucking lies?

Last, but certainly not least, you cannot pick up a paper or switch on a TV without seeing ol’ Pope Ratzo’s visage. Blanket coverage is being given to this wanker’s visit to Britain. It was initially in jeopardy because they didn’t have a suitable Popemoblie. I mean, back in the forties, the guy was hoping to head to Britain in a fucking tank, for fuck’s sake.
Why give so much coverage to a man who protects people who rape children? Don’t give me this pc bullshit about child abuse; it’s rape! He has covered up for people who have raped children. Think about that. What the fuck is he doing visiting anywhere? He doesn’t care about children. He only cares about the sanctity of the corrupt institution that keeps him in the lap of fucking luxury, living in the most obscenely opulent environment you could imagine. Fuck off, Ratzo and fuck off, Sky. Stop giving this cunt all this coverage. Why not sit him down and ask him the tough questions?
What a fucking week!

I recently suggested on another forum that RTE’s Saturday Night Show has potential but is being spoiled by the inclusion of crusty ol bints like Twink and Linda Martin, combined with never-should’ve-beens like Jedward. I thought the format was open to a more robust style that would allow for a funnier and more challenging experience than anything RTE has put forth thus far - not that that would be very difficult. Easy as it might have seemed, RTE have got it sadly wrong AGAIN!!

Ok, here’s the formula for an RTE chat show, and please point out if they have come up with anything different in the last twenty years.
Theme Tune: Must contain brass and must be akin to fifties American chat show theme tunes.
Host: The host must be known to the public. We absolutely cannot blood a different type of chat show host. Experience in chat shows is absolutely not essential.
Content: Twink and Linda Martin must feature on the maiden series but live audience must also be engaged by giving away free gifts and having meaningless “fun” competitions that don’t interest the television audience at all.
Guests: Anyone we can get our hands on. Twink is always available and we have a host of other RTE presenters who will be interviewed and/or used as filler when we can’t get anyone decent.
Music: Doesn’t matter at all. Put any shit you like up there, if you can’t get anyone decent.

Am I fucking wrong? This has been the staple of RTE thinking for years. While that fucking stick-insect Ryan - I now believe I am David Letterman - Tubridy somehow fools Samuel L Jackson into being a guest and then quite simply doesn’t ask him any decent questions, Brendan O’Connor interviews the terminally and criminally unfunny Katherine Lynch and fawns over what he calls “a true star and national treasure” who turns out to be non other than that fucking gimp, Johnny Logan. Johnny fucking Logan??????????????????????????
Johnny tries to convince us that he has been working really hard and has really found himself. He’s big in Germany, a country not noted for having great musical taste generally - although Ireland doesn’t anymore either. David Hasslehoff still sells bags of cds in Germany for fuck’s sake!
Brendan finishes the show by announcing that we’re about to witness a first. That this was truly something special. Ok, maybe the head of RTE programming is about to be roasted on a spit, live! No, it’s Johnny fucking Logan singing his Eurovision winning hit, Hold Me Now, but in a kind of cabaret remix that both Johnny and Brendan feel is cool but actually makes an utterly turgid song even more fucking shite. Johnny speaks about how he felt he was unloved and under appreciated in his own country. Well, Johnny, if you weren’t utterly, unequivocally and embarrassingly fucking shit, you may never have felt that way.

The Saturday Night Show had the potential to be a more edgy and challenging show but, instead, it’s turned out to be yet another fucking pile of shit from the overpaid execs in RTE. We really need to turf out the powers that be in that fucking organisation. Turf them out, sell their assets and stick em in HSE housing. Hopefully this will come as part of the revolution that fuck’s our useless government out.

Just when you thought it was safe to switch on your TV, RTE come up with another lie. I was quietly sitting watching TV the other night when an ad came on that I assumed was for something like Centra or one of those franchise things. Imagine my surprise when, at the end of this annoying little film, the punchline was, “RTE; fuel your imagination.” Well you fucking first!
With less imagination than the contents of a can of beans, why do RTE’s marketing people think that we should fuel our imagination? Oh wait, maybe they’re asking us to imagine we live in a country with a decent TV station. Well, in that case I apologise. This must be the most imaginative piece of business ever. ‘Look, we have no intention of improving our service by, oh let’s say, providing decent programming that breaks from the formula we’ve been using for eons, but why don’t you imagine that we provide a decent service?
Yes, why not imagine that the Late Late Show is not hosted by a log with a conservative wig on it? Why not imagine that we don’t hire predominantly Dublin 4 fucking knobheads to host our fucking pathetic reality TV shows that rarely last past one episode.
Thanks RTE. I’m imagining it now. Maybe, when the ecconomy is all better, we could actually hire someone who has imagined that RTE television is good.

Well it’s fucking shit. I got another bit of a grilling for not researching my posts so I put myself through an excruciating 15 minutes - which is curiously more than anyone connected with the show deserves - of it and I can honestly say I would prefer to sew my fucking scrotum to a horse’s fucking arse and yell GIDDY FUCKING UP!! The sad part is that these fuckers actually believe they’re celebrities. I’d prefer to spend 15 minutes listening to Ronan Keating and Nana Mous-fucking-skouri dueting on Sealion Dying’s, My Heart Will Go on than spend one more fucking nano-second watching this embarrassing piece of fucking shit.
We’re used to RTE failing us but this is fucking ridiculous. They will say, ‘Ah but it’s for charity’, well fuck that! RTE should just donate the money that would have been generated and allow some of this country’s actual talent to provide decent entertainment. Fuck it. I feel sullied. I feel worse than Sully O’Sullivan did when he was Sullied. For the love of fuck!!!!!!!!

Ok, that is fucking it. The gloves are, like, so fucking totally off. It’s like I never had a fucking glove. My hands are as naked as Heather Mills’ whorish greed.
It’s my own fault. I should have known better. I have recently been accused of slagging Ronan Keating too often. Apparently he’s a nice guy and I should leave the talentless piece of fucking annoying shit alone. Well fine. I promise to leave the fucking mincing, clichéd and contrived, smiley fucker alone from now on. The point that was well made to me involved my lack of research into all things Ronan. As I am certainly not a masochist, I have decided not to research him and, instead, simply stop talking about the fucking annoying prick.
Ok. The piece of miserable fucking puss to whom the title of this rant alludes makes Ronan Keating seem like the most talented troubadour ever to trawl Garth Brooks’ back catalogue for a hit - I know; I promised. The fucking nut tumour of whom I speak is Ryan Tubridy. Yes, I am revisiting old ground but I am now revisiting it from the point of view of having put myself through the agony of thirty excruciating minutes of research.
For those of you who have never heard of this fucking clinker on the crack of mediocrity, I will explain. If you like David Letterman, you’ll hate Ryan Tubridy - despite his best efforts to be the Irish version of Letterman. I don’t mind Letterman too much but the one thing that fucking annoys me about him is his constant parumping on his desk. “What’s parumping?” I hear you cry. Well it’s when a chatshow host performs percussion on the edge of his desk as a kind of lead in to the next item. Well guess who the Irish parumping king is? Ryan Fucking Tubridy.
“So - parumpapumpity pap - my next guest is another obscure Fair City actor that nobody outside Dublin has ever heard of.”
He has a regular Saturday night slot on, what passes for a national channel in Ireland and he is more nauseating than a marmalade and chlamydia pizza with extra marmite.
To understand the annoygma that is Ryan Tubridy, you must first of all understand what passes for entertainment in the pasty jowled vacuums of the heads of RTE.
You can’t just have a chat show in Ireland. I mean, you can’t have a show where you bring guests on and talk to them. No, you have to have competitions for the audience. Now, I don’t know about you but, if you’re thick enough to spend money on going to the Tubridy Tonight show, you deserve a kick in the bollox, not a fucking weekend for two in Ballypointless in Killarney or fucking Wicklow or something. Jonathon Ross does a show in front of a studio audience but you hardly ever see them because - well - who wants to?
Ok, Ryan - the fucking stick insect - Tubridy did an interview with a guy called Bryan Murray.
Who?
Let me explain. Bryan Murray used to be in a show called the Irish R.M, which was crap - ok, I was too young to have really researched it but the clip that Ryan Fucking Toe Jam Tubridy showed was crap. Bryan played a cheeky Irish chappy and was probably the worst thing in it. He then had a minor role in Strumpet City, which is still held as one of the best things RTE has done and that was around twenty five years ago. He went from that to being a cheeky Irish chappy in a fucking useless comedy called Bread. You might be thinking that this guy was type-cast but he then went on to play an abusive husband in the worst Soap Opera outside of Fair City; Brookside. He was eventually killed off and buried under a patio until, while we all prayed that his career was similarly buried, some idiot decided to give him a job in the worst Soap Opera ever; Fair City.
Now you’d think this is a guy would count himself lucky to be interviewed as part of an ongoing investigation but, such is the quality of guests queuing up to talk to Ryan Tubridy, Bryan found himself being interviewed by the shameless parumpper at the time I was chewing through my own peg leg during my research. Tubridy heralded Bryan as some sort of acting powerhouse, a legend and Bryan didn’t balk at the opportunity to jizz on his own ego. He played the seasoned actor role as badly as he has played every role I have had the misfortune to see him play.
I fucking hate actors who think that, just because they are getting on in years, they should be held up as legends no matter how fucking hopeless they’ve always been. Barbara Windsor is another one who does this. This woman couldn’t act her way out of a fucking wet paper tantrum. Legend? Fuck off.
Tubridy regularly interviews the cast of Fair City because no one else wants to and he still does these fucking annoying audience participation games. FUCK OFF!!! In fact, I’m willing to bet that half of the audience, at least, have more to say than most of his fucking moronic guests and would without a doubt be a fucking hell of a lot more interesting to listen to.

For those of you living outside of Ireland, I will take a moment to explain that Chorus is the name of the company who supply digital TV to the Thirsty Kipper. They started out as a crap company called Westward Cables, then changed to something else and continued their crap service before the last name change that gave us Chorus and something much more than crap. We’ve all had shit service from one company or another and that is basically what every pre-cursor to Chorus brought us. With the advent of Chorus, the service remained just a shitty as it always had been but with the added bonus of some imbecilic nonsense thrown in for good measure.
Right, got all that? Good. So why have I persevered with such a shoddy and thoroughly shitty service all this time? Y’see I’m one of those idiotic people who think that, by resisting the urge to subscribe to anything to which Rupert Murdoch is remotely connected, I am making a stand against him and all he stands for. Well, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see now that there is little choice because there is such little choice. I am cancelling my subscription to Chorus because I can no longer stand the pungent odour of their service. That leaves me with one realistic choice; I must join Sky. I don’t know if their service is as dire as that of Chorus - all I know is that it can’t be much worse.
So what was the straw that broke the camel’s back? Well there have been several straws. In fact, the poor camel has been bombarded with straws for quite a while now. I should have pulled the plug before his back was broken but… ah fuck him, he’s a camel. The first of the salvo of final straws was the fact that the price of Chorus’ service rose with no apparent rise in quality - and, let’s face it, that wouldn’t have been difficult. I have lost count of the times when I was watching a particularly good football match, biting my nails as the clock counted down towards the last ten minutes. We’ve all been there. All of a sudden the television screen goes blank and the picture doesn’t return until the opening credits of something inane like You’re a Star or something fucking pointless like that. It never happens when you’re watching a match you couldn’t really give a fuck about - like an Irish International soccer match.
Then there’s the curious choice of channels. Yes you get the free-to-air terrestrial channels but you also get things like Bloomberg and the EWTN. Bloomberg is the financial channel and, whilst I’m sure there are some of you who care about such things, it is merely an annoyance to me. EWTN is the bible-bashing channel and it is an affront that it is even included. It’s pathetic, pointless and rather insulting to anyone who isn’t a practicing Catholic. When they included this channel, I thought I’d reached the limit of my ire towards Chorus but there was one more lethal, camel-crippling blow to come.
Buzz TV.
Buzz TV is apparently dedicated to psychics. Now, I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with psychics; all I’m saying is that they are a bunch of lying fucking conmen and women who have no fucking shame. They are warts on the greasy underbelly of society. They… oh, I s’pose I am saying there’s something wrong with them.
I watched ten minutes of “Psychic Interactive”. The presenter was your typical London dollybird with little more than mascara between her ears and the psychic informed me that all he needed was a text with a nickname on it to do a reading. I was tempted to text the name “Self-serving fucking maggot” and see if he talked about himself. The problem is that, if I did send off the text, I would be subscribed to a service that would happily take €2 a text for sending me around five texts a day to advise me in matters of love, career and finance. The finance thing is easy, I just won’t waste my money on fucking nutcases and conmen or shoddy fucking digital T.V providers.