Speaking of dublinbikes, I find it disgraceful that they discriminate on the basis of age. They don’t want the fuddy-duddies using their precious bikes. No, if you happen to have been born before 1911 then I’m afraid it’s a very aggressive fuck you from the powers that be.
It’s 2010 in Ireland’s capital city and I, like a lot of other people, don’t have running water.
Most of us barely escaped with our lives, after that devastating snow-storm last week. Now that the few centimetres of sludge have cleared, I wonder, as a nation, if we will ever be the same again. I think I’m going to cry now. I might ring John Waters to join me.
Then I turn on Prime Time and this Ali Selim cunt is rubbing his hands with glee over the blasphemy legislation, saying how he hopes that it is a first step and that blasphemy law needs to be taken further. I’ll take it further alright. I’ll shove it up your arse.
Little wonder that Muslim groups are among the main supporters of the law, they don’t even pretend to value free speech or intellectual thought.
The Muslim countries are working away in the UN, attempting to get support for a treaty that would protect religious belief from mockery.
You would think they would be content with Islam’s privileged place as the religion most people steer clear of mocking. I hate the cowardly comedians that are convinced they are edgy because they repeat the same old jokes about Christianity and the other religions while staying well away from even mentioning Islam.
I don’t know why they have any interest in a blasphemy law. I spoke to Allah the other day and he didn’t have a problem with mockery of religion. Neither did Mohammed. In fact he told me he liked the odd bit of mockery, to keep him on his toes. If anyone wants to ask a Mohammed a question, he’ll be staying in my toilet bowl for the next few days, until the water is turned back on and I can flush him away.
Escaping from a small, dark flat with mouldy walls and manky carpet. It’s great. It’s also great to know that you are no longer paying a ridiculously unfair amount of rent for the privilege of being driven to slit your wrists by the unbearable cold and damp. But the best thing of all is never having to hear that psychotic weirdo with the plastic bag shouting “HOLD IT, HOLD IT HOLD IT!” over and over again as he shuffles along Camden Street, bepissing himself.
I came across an interesting little book published in 1978 by the ALONE organisation, who are still up and running today. It documents a few of the many cases of isolated elderly people they came across in the city of Dublin.
Here is one example of a man:
This picture from today’s Metro sums up the modelling industry in Ireland. A number of unremarkable looking young women fighting over the next Tesco value modelling gig. The gig usually involves a model standing somewhere around Dublin with a prop, such as an inflatable hand to advertise hand cream or a huge plastic cock and balls to promote some sexual awareness week. Occasionally the model will be posing with some cunt from RTÉ, or some balding businessman, who will subtly try not to get caught while looking up the model’s skirt. They might both be clasping a mobile phone and smiling like idiots at the camera, the caption saying something like ‘Model Orla Quimcatcher and Ryan Bradley, Managing Director of Arsefluff Diagnostics, pose yesterday at the launch of the new Arsefluff GX-24 mobile phone.’
In this photo, some gormless bint poses playfully with a golf club in front of one of Irish Rail’s piece of shit hand-me-down trains. She’s publicising their special service to the Irish Open. It’s unbelievable that some tosser in a PR company gets paid to come up with this shit.
If they’re advertising Irish Rail, how about being honest? They should have blondie above dressed as a humongous foam turd, shrugging her sholders while twenty euro notes flutter down around her. ‘Irish Rail, We’re shit but we don’t care. It pays.’
Went into the card shop to look for a birthday card, felt a bit lazy about making one myself which is what I usually do. I pick up the plainest looking card I can find (since any additional frills are usually expensive). It is a picture of a bear with a tiny fabric flower attached, saying “Happy Birthday”. Price is €6.20. Yes, €6.20. For a piece of folded, flimsy cardboard. That could buy you three magnum ice creams. A flash of anger went over my face, and then I neatly put the card back and walked out. The ice cream cones that you can buy at the little stall on the bottom floor are sort of sickening, I think I want one but then usually feel ill afterwards. The best place to get ice cream cones is in little country shops where they pile so much on that it slopes to one side. Does anyone actually go in to that little weight loss kiosk that is nestled in the middle of the ground floor? In Dunne’s Stores you can buy mussels packaged in a vacuum seal. They look disgusting, congealed and exuding briny water. I have tasted them before and nearly retched. I don’t see the appeal, I think they look like preserved tongues.
Why does nothing in Benetton have price stickers attached? Not that I can afford it anyway. I just go in and look at the colourful clothes. I did see a very nice bag that would come in handy for someone like me who usually carries about a kilogram of rubbish around, including but not limited to food, water, laptop, mp3 player, phone, notepad, and associated miscellany. This is probably the cause of the red mark on my right shoulder. The bag was nice, soft and big. When I look at a bag I think about capacity rather than get excited about the design or label. I saw one girl wearing rubber wellies, the ones that became fashionable for music festivals, with flowers and motifs. They don’t work outside of that environment. Ugg count was quite high today, they seem to be mutating at a fast rate, some have big poofy bits attached, and others a variety of textures and colours.
Interesting use of advertising spotted here, on the window of a Chinese herbal medicine centre in Dublin. Amongst a gallery of young children afflicted with what looks like some sort of rash or other skin disorder is the terminator himself, Ross Kemp, or, Grant from Eastenders. His big shiny head is poised ready to spring upon all skin complaints and strangle them, no, kill them to death with his magnificently muscled bare hands. The caption playfully asks ‘do you know him?’ Ross is the modern day Jesus Christ, of course. In his gentle eyes, he seems to say, “come unto me, my children, and know me.” Every one of us want Ross to pluck us from the ground and take us to his giant, heaving bosom while we weep uncontrollably, burying our sobs in his clothes-peg sized nipples.
