Is Sister Hermann Maria and the Orphanage Fire which She Alone Predict!

Is my very great pleasure today to present for to you the annual apocalyptic predictions from Sister Hermann Marie Assumpta, the well-known hallucinating mystic nun with the migraines and the sunglasses. Notorious for the accuracy of her predictions, Sister Hermann Maria has been preparing all Devouts to brace themselves for the Second Coming of Our Lord God Jesus since 1963, when she experienced her first visitation from Our Lady while on a shopping trip to Medjugorje. She is neverthenonetheless shy of publicity, a handicap in the mystic nun stakes, and which make her not necessarily the best vehicle for maximizing her very important message. Is therefore why I am reproduce below her latest forebodings, knowing that the thousands of pious and holy readers who come to Coddle Pot will take note and do everything they can to circulate her incredible good news.  Here is what she is predict for the year ahead:

January: The Liberal-Left Agenda to destroy Christian civilization continues apace with the introduction of a new BLASPHEMY LAW in Ireland. The new law extends the crime of blasphemy so that it applies not just to Catholicism but also to all other religions, an unwarranted extension of tolerance, cosmopolitanism, pluralism, and barbarism at a time when the need for a muscular Catholicism to guide humanity is at its greatest. As punishment, God will smite each government minister, one by one, with a serious illness, until the law is repealed.

February: As foretold in the Book of Revelation, the DEAD will begin to RISE from the GRAVE. It transpires that they are able to run after all, but don’t do it very often because it’s a waste of energy. Also, despite another popular misconception, they do not eat human flesh, being zombies, not cannibals. They do, however, exhibit a fondness for bestiality and golf.

March: The WHORE OF BABYLON comes from nowhere and goes straight in at Number One with her download-only single, “Hot Love.” Purists argue that it isn’t as good as the T. Rex original, but she observes blithely that they’re missing the point. Her dismissive attitude wins her few friends in the media.  Max Clifford takes on her PR.

April: ITV announces that there will be no more series of Britain’s Got Talent. There is much WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH. There is also much inexplicable gnashing of woolens. And a plague of child singers roaming the streets.

May: The first appearance of THE BEAST, as described in the Book of Revelation, The Observer Guide to How to Spot the Beast, and Harry Potter and the Mysterious Tumour of Gold. To the Beast’s consternation, he is not immediately recognized, but this is because he gives his number as 00 353 61 836 66121, which isn’t as immediately memorable as 666. Those who call discover that it is a telesales number for a life insurance company and accident claims specialists. The Beast says in an interview with the Daily Mail that he is “raking it in” but also “spending it like there’s no tomorrow.” Because there isn’t.

June: The Great Irish iPod Famine. Teenagers across the country are distraught. There will be great TEARING OF HAIR AND TEARING OF EYES. On the upside, the art of teenage conversation is briefly revived, and the generation gap is momentarily breached. A 13-year-old in Ballinasloe utters the first word heard by a teenager this millennium: “Whatever.”

July: The sound of SEVEN TRUMPETS will be heard across the entire European landmass, throwing cities into panic, horses into ditches, water into wine, etc. Residents around Croke Park lodge a complaint and stage a picket outside the Dexy’s Midnight Runners reunion concert. Singer Kevin Rowland says the extraordinary volume of his brass section is the result of the cavernous echo of an empty stadium.

August: In line with the Prophecy, SEVEN SEALS are washed up on Brighton beach. A massive row ensues when a so-called “expert” from the local zoo points out that they are not seals at all, but sea lions, escaped from the nearby circus. God is hubristically accused of inattention to detail. Smites Brighton.

September: The most convincing sign yet of the ENDTIMES, September 10 sees the terrifying discovery of a massive gas-giant planet a mere 130 miles from Earth. Everyone says to themselves, “I wondered why the high tide level was in Mansfield.” In mitigation, astronomers say that all their telescopes had been pointed the other way, into deep space. Everybody’s watches stop, yet all trains are suddenly and miraculously “on time,” and not just because of dubious accounting practices. Astrologers are finally vindicated as the real scientists, since they’d been predicting that this would happen every September for the last two centuries.

October: Massive EARTHQUAKE tips San Francisco and L.A. into the sea. About bloody time, say seismologists, homophobes, and fashion gurus. Shares in Bollywood film companies soar.

November: EVOLUTION DISPROVED. In China, there are reports of the discovery of the fossils of a group of centaurs. Religious observers argue that the new find disproves the Darwinian theory of evolution by natural selection. Biologists respond by pointing out that it also disproves Intelligent Design. Only the wisest heads, familiar with the ancient languages of the Bible, realize that these are the four horse-men of the Apocalypse.

December: The END OF THE WORLD. Shops report a noticeable drop-off in pre-Christmas sales. The Day of Judgement beats the X-Factor finals in Christmas Day ratings. The Irish government announces that the economy is on the upturn. A fawning media credit the “brave Taoiseach” for his heroic obliteration of the public sector. God finishes the job by obliterating all other sectors.

I am not a superstitious man in general, but I shall be keeping my finger and leg and eye crossed all year in the hope that Sister Hermann Maria have finally got it right this time. Is all in the hands of Our Lord now. All we can do is pray!

But dismissive comment. We’re an enlightened people – no, let me stop you there before you snigger and snort. We are. We live in times of Information and Education, where knowledge is prized and available to everyone. Libraries are cheap, internet access is cheap, informed cop-on is cheap. We’ve grown up, have we not? So why the fuck do we need these moral guardians, these purveyors of a fear and loathing badly masked behind snippy concern and quivering shoulders? No one needs to preach to me guff about the true path. My moral compass is just fine. As should yours be.

We’re not children.

I understand that there is a need for belief in a higher power, and that there is comfort in feeling that you are part of a bigger picture, and that personifying an overwhelming sense of there being a greater good can be a positive thing. There is nothing wrong with believing in God. There is nothing wrong with following a set of ancient teachings, so long as you harm no other while you’re getting on with your chosen guff. I also figure that religion is a personal thing. You and I may belong to the same tradition, or the same church, but we won’t necessarily believe the same things. We might take a particular church’s manifesto as a jumping-off point, and mould it as best we can around ourselves. Even when it’s organised, it’s intensely personal. Certainly there are fuck all die-hard Catholics in this country, still gamely clinging to church traditions that were jiggled loose generations ago. You might be a faithful Mass-goer, for example, but you hope your twenty-something daughter is on the pill. You don’t have to follow the Word to the Letter to be a practising member of your congregation.

Just keep it to your fucking selves, yes? No matter what level of martyrdom you think you’re at, you don’t have the right to shovel your personal beliefs down the gullets of your neighbours. And even if you consider yourself Missionary Par Excellence, do you really, really give a fuck if all them tipsy infidels end up in Hell? You’re going to Heaven anyway, aren’t you? Why do you need a whole bunch of strangers in there with you?

Now, the first two examples I gave above, those of Donal Murray and Sean Sheehy, are rather more than simple cases of Holy Busybodies, in that they involve Irish Law. Murray facilitated the sexual abuse of vulnerable children. Sheehy went on national radio to stick two fingers to the Irish justice system by stating that the offence for which his chosen lost lamb was convicted was only “alleged”. Religious figures they may be, but in both instances I don’t think their professions (I can’t use the word vocation; my reason should be obvious) excuse them. Sheehy defends a convicted predator. Murray facilitates evil. They have no authority to speak for a higher Authority, and we all know it. Their moral qualifications aren’t worth the castles in the air they’re based on.

John Faris, of the Trinity Presbyterian Church, is different. He’s doing nothing more than sticking his oar in – he’s more of an annoyance than anything else, a big fuck-off ant at a picnic. The LGBT carol service that he was whinging about wasn’t in his church, or not even in a church of his faith.  He just doesn’t like the gays.

“There can be no true joy or peace in actively practising and celebrating a lifestyle which does not please God” he said, and you have to ask what the fuck he bases that on. The Bible? Please. Did God write the Old Testament? Did anyone who actually hung out with Jesus Christ write the New Testament? Is it not likely that whatever oral tradition the legends came from didn’t fall vulnerable to opportunistic langers along the way, who added in bits and pieces from their own fears and prejudices to the Fear n’ Prejudice pot? Doesn’t anyone ever question the validity of the Good Book? Ever tested its sources? If we’re going by the Bible, shouldn’t menstruating women be banned from church activities? Aren’t haircuts sinful? Shouldn’t eveyone wearing mixes of fabrics in their glad rags be excommunicated? How can you pick and choose from the hallucinogenic twaddle in the Old Testament, if not to reinforce your own fears and validate your own narrow-mindedness? It’s fucking codswallop!

Besides, surely it’s an action of extreme arrogance to think that you can speak for this “God” concept? Whether God is an indescribable force, or a bearded dude sitting on a cloud, what gives anyone the right to speak for him/her/it/Alanis?

Come on, to fuck. How dare any ordinary human fucking being have a go at something as important as the very identity of another? LGBT people are LGBT because they made a lifestyle choice, according to Mr. Faris. I despair. Has the man ever met a homosexual, or bisexual, or transsexual person? Has he ever tut-tutted them to their faces, in their homes, surrounded by their families, and asked them to give up their “lifestyles” as you’d ask a child to put down a scruffy toy? In his heart of hearts, as a moral crusader, can he really believe that ordinary, good people are displeasing to some vague deity?

He probably can. What a muppet.

Yet we listen, for some reason. We listen to these pontificating simpletons as if their words resonate and as if they know more than the rest of us. And they don’t, y’know. They really don’t. Our laws are there to protect us against one another, our friends and families are there to protect us from ourselves. Of course you’ll get the odd broken soul who has no more a moral compass than a tumbleweed in an empty ceann; that’ll happen. But that doesn’t mean we have a need for prophets and ethics salesmen; we should be able to come up with our rights and wrongs all by ourselves.

We should know that in Ireland. Of all fucking places, we should know that in Ireland. Just because someone statuesque says he speaks for Heaven and he’s got the guidebook, doesn’t mean he’s any more or less than the average gobshite trundling their way from cradle to grave.

As the recent actions of Donal Murray, Sean Sheehy, and John Faris should illustrate.

I don’t need people like that to make my decisions for me. It confounds me that anyone would; we’ve come a long way, baby …

But we’re not there yet.

A Souvenir of Milan!

At first the rumour I was hearing was that Berlusconi had been hit by Milan Cathedral. This confuse me because I was think that it mean he was hit nearby the cathedral, but then someone else was say, No, it was by the cathedral itself, which confuse me even more!  However, I figure that here in Spain we have many shrines, Madonnas, reliquaries, and cetera that cry, bleed, dance, sing, tell jokes, play music, and so on, so why not should the cathedral have attack him? Is very spiky, and that would esplain the cut under his eye.

Church Launches Assault on Berlusconi

But since then, the rumour have changed and that he was hit not by the cathedral at all but by a small model version of it, made of marble and metal, which catch him just nicely. However, nobody have been able to retrieve the projectile, and it sound very implausible and unlikely that someone who have it in for Berlusconi would concock a plot that might involve throwing a small religious souvenir artefact at him when they are in fact close enough to get him with something better, such as a brick, a bullet, or a bucket of poo. Therefore this suggest to me that this was not an assault as was describe in the papers at all, but in fact an unfortunate accident that have occurred because of the heavy security which surround Berlusconi. This would make much more sense of the information as we know them.

This is what I think have happen:  A wish-weller was want to get close to Berlusconi to give him a Christmas gift of a snow globe.   Berlusconi was being surrounded by hundreds of wish-wellers on this occasion, but the security around him is always very heavy, usually an elite unit of 16-year-old female models. The wish-weller, unable to reach him, therefore decide the best he could do would be to lob his globe in the general direction of the prime minister and hope that he see it coming. Evidence in favour of this theory is that Berlusconi, after being hit, climbed back out of the car again to try to find the wish-weller and thank him for the gift. Also the comment from the fascist leader Umberto Bossi, who was describe the events as the actions of a terrorist. Anyone who know the Italian history will know that it is fascists who are mostly the responsible for terrorist acts, and this therefore suggest that the individual responsible was simply showing his admiration for the Duce of Desire.

Do Not Throw Pointy Gifts!

I am suspect that the globe was like this one, with penguins on, which have lots of beaks, which could easily have caught Berlusconi askry and smash his teeth in, an important lesson for children not to throw presents at one another. Or if you are throwing presents, make sure they have soft edges.

Is a Much Safer Option

In all the confusion that was happen after Berlusconi get twatted, the Italian police was spring into action with their usual efficiency and arrest the first person they could find with a history of mental illness; this is to send the message that only a nutter would carry out such a malevolent and crazy act. Of course, this was a crowd of Berlusconi supporters, remember, so it was not a difficult job for the police.  They could have done it blindfold! If you are pick any supporter of the Peoples of Freedom Movement you are likely to find they have a history of mental illness, a criminal record, or both. Usually both. So was a good chance they would get some idiot willing to say he was the person throwing the globe, and in the end they are settle on Massimo Tartaglia (the Guardian have finally got round to a nice slide show, here). Tartaglia, interestingly, is the Italian word for Patsy.

According to the Times newspaper of England, Berlusconi was had a premonition of his attack. He was confide to his spokesman on the way to Milan that “something might happen to him today” because of the climate of hate against him. This is not a very good premonition, though, I think you will agree. It is rank up their with Joe Coleman’s predictions that Our Lady will appear in Knock, or JFK’s comment, “Is such a nice day here today in Dallas, I think we should put the top down.”  had he any sense at all,  Berlusconi would be say that before every time he appear in public!  If anything, he should consider himself lucky he was not lamped the way Mussolini was.

The event have already massive international repercussions.  I am suspect now that Biff O’Cowen is giving second thoughts to taking a hard line against union action by the Irish Gardaí, who he is threatening with legal action if they strike. I am think he would prefer to have them committed to protecting him from bad-wishers, of which there are now several in Ireland, rather than accidentally letting them through. Fortunately, the Irish have just pass a law which allow anyone with a gun in their house to shoot intruders to death with it, which will mean I espect that all burglars will now also carry guns in case they are disturb, and everyone who have not got a gun will also now want to get one in case burglars have one and because they can shoot with impumity. Biff and his colleagues in government have been very foresight in anticipating attacks on their person. From now on, they are tell us with this law, they will be packing heat, so even if you are thinking when they come round to your house canvassing, “I can invite him in then shoot him and say he was an intruder,” you can espect him to have a bigger gun than you and be ready to use it.  After all, the government have already demonstrate with their budget that they are understand the Madman theory of deterrence. Would any sensible person be willing to risk taking on Wild-eye Biff and Calamity O’Dea when there is no guarantee that their actions will be bound by reason or ethics?

Berlusconi should take notice of how to treat the public in future. Always keep them at arms’ length. Firearms’ length!

Desperate Times Call for Desperate Housewives!!

Many of you, I know, have been unsympathetic to my calls for a return to feudalism in the previous, and I am also aware that I may have been come across to some people as intransigent and dogmatic when I have put out contracts on those who have disagree with me, but the urgency of the times require now that we revisit our assumptions for the good of society as a hole and see if we cannot reach some kind of compromise that all of us can live with, even if it does not meet any of our individual conceptions of the ideal utopium society.

Is therefore my humble contention then that we should give strong consideration in lovely pissing Ireland to the reintroduction of slavery.  This is a social relationship that have receive a very bad press, is fair to say, in recent years, but if you look closely at the people who have been giving the bad press, they have mostly been the lackeys of the capitalists, bankers, speculators, Illuminati, masons and so on who have the most to benefit from the abolition of slavery.  For the simple truth is this:  Bosses have a greater incentive to look after their workers when they own them.  They must look after them the way they look after a pet or a racehorse or a burro, by feeding and clothing and housing them and ensuring that they can put in a full day’s work every day.  This is obviously a major responsibility and impose many obligation on the slave owner, which is why so many of them either (1) did a bad job of it or (b) were very relieve when slavery was over and they just had to pay the former slave for time at work, out of which money, then called wages, the slave would have to buy his own clothes, uniform, food, house, car, package holiday and so on.

I am have made this point before about the emancipation of the serf in Russia on March 3rd, 1861, which result in lots and lots of unemployed Russian peasants wandering all over the country and getting up to no good, a major mistake by the Czsar Alesander and which lead directly to the revolution because people had nothing better to do.  The truth is that the devil find work for idle Hans, and slavery will always ensure that he has something to occupy him and keep him busy.  This is something, incidentally, that the capitalists never are bother to mention:  NO Slave was ever unemployed or without work.  NO Slave was ever made homeless.  NO Slave didn’t not know where his next meal was coming from.  And NO Slave was told to go back where he was come from.

I have see already only this week on the Irish television the scrapegoating of immigrants by the media and the government in the hope that people will blame them instead of capitalism for the current mess the country is in.  I am remember very well some short-sighted fascist comrades of mine making the same argument back in the 1970s:  3 million unemployed, 3 million immigrants, therefore send them back and everyone else will have a job.  But the beauty of slavery is that the hole system is base on immigrants, and there is never any concern about unemployment, as I am have pointed out, because work can always be find for slaves, even if it just picking their own potatoes and the bosses’ noses.  Someone have got to do it!

Now some people are say to me, “Manuel, this is all very well and an escellent good idea, but you are forgetting all about the cruelty and barbarity and viciousness of slavery.  We know all about.  It was in that movie.”  To which I am say simply this:  Other times have other morals.  If you are go look back at the 17th and 18th centuries, you will see that everybody was flogged, not just slaves.  Sailors in the army was flogged, schoolchildren in schools was flogged, prisoners in prisons was flogged, and judges in their secret chambers was flogged, often by naked ladies.  The Past was generally quite keen on corporal punishment.  And it was not like it was transgressors alone who suffered.  Monks used to flog themselves, and they hadn’t not done anything wrong at all!

So you are have to understand that such behaviour was being relative to its time, and I am not imagining for one minute that slavery would be anything like as brutal as it once was, simply because life in general today is less brutal.  Of course, modern life is gruesome, decadent, corrupt and disgusting, that go without saying, but let us not forget that this is because of democracy and capitalism, and once they are abolish, everything will settle back into its natural order and everyone once more will be as happy as the Sandman.

If anyone is need any help initiating the campaign for the restoration of slavery, please get in touch with me. I have already an assortment of whips, chains, gimp masks, shackles, and branding irons, and I can assure you that bondage can be a stimulating and arousing esperience that everyone should undergo for at least several generations.  I cannot understand why anyone would want to give it up!

Si! He Have Grown Horns!!

One thing I am sure I can say without fear of contradistinction is that this would NEVER have happen under the watch of the True Pope, John Paul Mark Two. He would not have allow any such investigation into the Church’s private affairs. Indeed, it is a sad indictment of the way the usurper Bendedict has run the Church into the ground that this investigation ever took off in the first place. Long gone, it would seem, are the halcyon days of lovely old Holy Ireland when the bishop could rely upon the discretion of the Gardaí and local TDs not to create a kerfuffle about some unfortunate transgression of national and natural law providing that the offending priest could be relocate and the victims’ relatives intimidate or otherwise mollified. Obviously, democracy must take some of the blame for this, as well as universal education, which have raise espectations among the ignorant populace to unsustainable levels and also enable them to give voice to their petty grievances, such as hunger, injustice, inequality, oppression and so on. But also we cannot omit the hand of Satan, who have clearly tempted the priests to yield to their carnal desires, unnatural desires that I doubt very much they had ever even imagined possible until Satan put them in their heads. Priests, after all, are asexual people, which is why so many women enjoy their company. Not like nuns. Nuns are filthy.

You could almost say , if you was so incline, that they was Satan’s hands that was engage in doing all the dirty work, holding the priests’ hands, and also the priest’s other bits, doing so in the full knowledge that it would bring the Church into such disrepute when the facts was being made public, as Satan knew they would be. Eventually.

And you know, what we have heard so far may only be the thin edd of the wenge. As the Irish writer Tintin O’Foole has wisely observe in his new book, Ship of Tools, Ireland is a country with a First-world economy but a Third-world polity, still based on nepotism, cronyism, bad glad-handing, sad hand-shandies, shady back-handers, and offshore bank-handlers. Imagine what the country would be like if it had transparency and accountability!! We would be espose to a full cabinet of horrors of complicity, publicity, duplicity, and lubricity.

Fortunately, there is some hope on the horizon, in the shape of Ireland’s government deficit, which is something like €15 billion and which will knock the country back into the Feckin Dark Ages.  This long-awaited and much-to-be-desired retreat to Feudalism will concentrate minds wonderfully, I think, and the widespread poverty that the government is promise to share out to everyone will mean that once again they will all be dependent on the charity and benevolence of the Church, if it is so minded. I fully espect to see once again the blessed people of Ireland throwing themselves on the mercy and the lap of the bishop, begging forgiveness for their insolence in ever questioning the Church’s authority and right to do as it please. It will not be long before they are once again the most pious, humble, desperate, submissive and obedient peoples in all of Europe.

By the way, it is also worth that I point out that the health of the Catholic Church will not in the long run be affect by whatever happen in Ireland, regardless of the malign efforts of the usurper Bendedict, thanks to the massive strides that are being now made by the Church in Africa, where there are fresh pickings aplenty. Chad alone has 6 billion innocent benighted souls labouring under the yolk of Islam and unaware that they are in mortal peril of suffering an eternity of damnation with flames licking at their nether regions unless they put some clothes on and shape up. Already the poor ignorant savages of Africa have show themselves to be receptive to the most conservative version of Catholicism, which is a source of hope for us all.   They are undoubtedly where the future lie, and we should be unafraid to be optimistic that the Church’s empire on Earth is only going to espand in the decades ahead. In fact, even if the current generation are slow on the uptake and too old to understand the significance of the message the priests are bringing them, I am sure that their children will be a different story altogether, and we will be able to look forward to yet another new chapter in the Church’s unparalleled history of salvation.  Is enough to bring a smile to the face of any priest!

I am not having been bothered to watch the useless football match last week between Ireland and France in Paris, France, if you remember, because I was say already back then that France would definitely win and therefore there was no point in staying up so late to watch it.  Anyway, I am only catch the result a couple of days later, which confirm my espectation, and so I then whipped off all my letters of condolences to my Irish friends and tell them how sorry I was that I would not be meeting up with them in South Africa where Spain will be winning the World Cup.

In the end, however, I think that Irish football fans can console themself with the fact that they will have a much better World Cup competition to look forward to next summer, from the comfort of their own homes in lovely pissing Ireland, now that all the good teams are going. Rather than be bore shitless watching a bunch of nobodies from non-league teams hoofing the optimistic balls upfield, they will now have the creative flair and inventive panache of continental wizards to admire and watch in awe of. Unless they watch England, of course, which is like watching Ireland, escept with fewer English players.

Si, there is no doubt that football as a whole is the winner from Ireland’s absence in South Africa. We must be honest to ourself and one to the another also: the World Cup can very well survive without the likes of Paul Shane, Shane Given, and John O’Shane (why are all Irish players called Shane? Escept for David Duff and David Dunn, of course, who are both called Damian) . On the other hand, the competition would suffer from a severe loss of credibility and publicity damage if there was no Genius Zidane gracing its pitches with his presence, no Papa Lizarazu holding stadiums in wrapt attention, no Roland Barthez silencing the crowds with his bald head and spectacular wife, no Didier Duchamp estracting the piss from the opposition with his ready-made tackle. If it had been me in charge of FIFA instead of the morally upright and beyond suspicion Sepp Blatty, I would have try anything within my power that I could to ensure that it was France that was going through rather than Ireland, make no mistake, whether it was being seeding the play-offs to improve the draw for France, giving them the second leg at home, hiring incompetent match officials, or bringing Paul Shane on as substitute.  Anything, ANYTHING to make sure that I am not sharing my room in Johannesburg with John Delaney.

However, Herr Blatty is above any such shenanigans. Any man who have on his CV that he was once the chairman of the Zurich Brown Shirts must by definition be a right-standing pillard of society. He would know better than to try to fix football matches. That is why what make the sport so unpredictable and therefore why so many love to gamble about it. If it was possible to predict the scores in advance, then I would be a very rich man indeed. Which I am. Spiritually.

The real big story of the week, for everyone who was not distracted by the football, was the news that seven bulls manage to escape from the Scientology cult. I am not sure if any of my readers will have heard of Scientology. Basically, it is a fake religion, like the Moomins, the Hoovers Witnesses, and the Jews, which believe that we are all from outer space and our ancestors was crash-landed on Earth and as a result lose their memory after banging their head and so have forgotten their roots and lost any notion of right and wrong and good and bad. However, we can retrieve our proper true identity by giving all our money to Ron Hubbard, who was sent down by God to redeem us and who was crucify by the Romans so that we would be saved and no longer live in sin.

No wait. That cannot be right.

Anyway, if you do the research and find out the nonsense which Scientology is saying, you are force to wonder what sort of moron would believe in it, and you will not be surprise then when I tell you that it is film stars. Peoples like John Travolta, Olivia Newton John, Marlon Brando, Yul Brynner, Charlie Chaplin, Errol Flynn, Martin Sheen, Jodie Foster, Pete Postlethwaite, Emma Thompson, and Bruce Lee. They are all film stars. People like them.

Indeed, from the news resport it appears that the bulls who escape from the cult were actually being held on a film set where Tom Cruise, who is a well-known one, was due to arrive. When they find out that he was on his way, the bulls suddenly realize that, far from participating in an innocent re-enactment of Pamplona, they are were being groomed to take part in some kind of unnatural demonic cult-sponsored video that would no doubt end up on YouTube and which would undoubtedly involve ritual humiliation such as Cruise leaping up and down on them and shouting “You call yourselves bulls? I’ve studied bulls. I know the history of bulls. Have you studied bulls?!”

The blank, lifeless eyes of a bull bully

I think any of us, in the same situation, would have decide the way the bulls did, and try to make a break for it. Sadly, as the news story is tell us, they manage only to get as far as the beach, which is a nice place in itself for a picnic and day at the beach, but for the bulls it was mean that they were cornered. They had forgot to take their trunks and buffalo wings with them. Thunce they were rounded up and taken back to the ranch, where they have no doubt already been spit roasted with Cameron Diaz and all the extras, although I think Tom Cruise is a fruitarian. That may be just a rumour, however.

I am off now to watch the brilliant Real Madrid beat the rubbish F.C. Zurich. One look at the handsome genius Cristiano Ronaldo and they will be the Zurich Brown Shorts.

Is a joke!

And what variety there was at the Friday Variety market! Amongst the action pants and fluorescent jackets there was a chap selling a gold plated bust of old murderchops himself, Adolf ‘don’t call me bad’ Hitler! How delightfully fascist and objectionable is that amongst the potatoes and carrots?! But where were all the lovely people? The people with hemp trousers and Guardian’s tucked under their arms? What had they done with the charming chumps who have kids called Daisy and Jack and Toby? Had they buried them under the massive pallets of socks? Where was the quiche lady with her ever so fancy side range of angel cakes? Where was the jolly butcher man who gives me free pudding? This was horribly disorientating! It was like walking into your own home to find it has been redecorated in a vaguely similar but different way and instead of you sitting on the couch eating a sausage roll it was someone sort of like you but who sounds slightly different and had brown sauce on the roll and not ketchup. Needless to say I left without buying any of the meat parcels or 10 pairs of socks for £3.00.

But Saturday saw me back at St. Georges for the Farmers market. They were all there, the Poppys and the Calebs and the dogs on strings. The quiche lady was there too with her fancy buns and the jolly butcher was laughing and rubbing the heads of terrified children. Ah bliss. I sampled my way, as you do, round the market making purchases as I wandered, a few olives here some cheese there, a big bag of mutton for stew and a small bag of scallops just for me. I chatted about government energy policy with the coffee lady and football with the bacon man. (Mmmmmmm bacon man, the tastiest and best smelling superhero ever.) It was, in a word, delightful. And frightfully middle class. But I like to pretend I own a Volvo with a bike rack on it and a Greenpeace sticker on the window. If my working class was to be exposed I would be shunned by all and sundry because lets be honest most of the Saturday Market folks have nothing more than a employer/employee relationship with the working class.

And with everything safely packaged into my recycled shopping bags I headed off. Obviously I went for a nosey at the giant hole that appeared in the road beside the market. It would have been rude not to. And it was everything you would expect from a giant hole; big, odd, dark and peculiar. Much like yer man Nikolai Valuev the sometime boxer and full time children’s cartoon character. But unlike the small group of gawkers I found it dull and wandered off to get the bus home. For god sake it’s a hole, in the road, it’s not that interesting. I was thinking about the black hole of Belfast on the way home and wondering if anything came out of the hole. I was thinking some sort of Cloverfield type moster. That would sharpen a few minds.

The bus was fairly busy and I took my usual pew upstairs away from the young mother avec pushchairs and old people avec colds and flus and disparaging looks. There were three other chaps upstairs with me. They began chatting about the hole in the road. Seriously so very little happens in Belfast these days that a hole in the road can now captivate the imagination of the citizens.

“See that hole wha?”

“Seen yer ma’s hole”, came the entirely predictable response followed by much guffawing. This went on for a bit, much mention was made of their mother’s bottoms and ahem other things. I sat there bemoaning my luck at having forgot my headphones. Their conversation changed from the hole and holes to what they were doing the rest of the day.

“I’m going round to your ma’s”, came the entirely predictable response followed by much guffawing, again.

“Nah but seriously [really?] I’m going home for wank, balls is busting so they are.”

“Thought you were supposed to be painting today?”

“Aye…..I’ll do it after wah”

Procrasturbating bastard, thought I.

I set the organic carrots that I had been inspecting down. They had, all of a sudden, lost their wholesome appeal. This was not cool. I’m not going to go into details but there then followed a conversation about great wanks and great porn flicks they had enjoyed since they last caught up. I stumbled off the bus a few stops later feeling dirty and quite bemused by the whole sticky affair. Since when was masturbation and porn and that whole ghastly area a subject that people, by people I mean men, feel comfortable enough to talk about with chums let alone chums on the bus? Masturbation is as icky as a conversation piece as cleaning your ass. I mean what the fuck people?! It should be a shameful act carried out at dark and lonely times and then wiped up and never mentioned again. There is no place for discussing of technique and rating and comparing of previous wanks. None whatsoever.

My wholesome visit to the market had been sullied by these three brutes. And you know what got me the most? Thy weren’t horny teenagers with no volume controls but rather grown men probably in their forties. It was like a late night version of Last of the Summer Wine, except Compo and been replaced with a character called Wanko.

I had to chuck the carrots in the end.

Shame, I am very much pro-shame and carrots too, obviously.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

This anniversary was make me think, however, that people are maybe perhaps getting the idea from the celebrations that walls are, by their nature, a bad thing, whereas in fact they can often be a force for good. You must have heard the saying “High Fences is Make Good Neighbours, Every Weekday at 6.00 p.m..” And this is a true fact. In Spain we also have a saying, which, when is literally translate, says: “Keep Up Your Guard, Satan Eats Himself, Lower Your Guard, You Shit Your Pants.” The significance is obvious, and is with this in mind that I think it is estremely important that we are not shitting our pants just for the sake of it.

Stronger, Higher, Faster

Consider for esample this map above which is show the fortified borders in the world which are meant to keep out the poor. Is clear from even a cursorary glance at it that the walls are nowhere near high or long or strong enough. Have you been to Arizona?! No, me neither, but my understand is that in some places the fence is just two teenage girls with a skipping rope. How is that going to keep out determined drug-craze job-stealing immigrants and their estended families of gang members? Unless the teenage girls have a bit of an attitude.

You can of course see where I am going with all this. In 1989, they was knocking down the wrong wall. The wall they should have knock down was the Great Wall of China! Si.  You are only need look at the photo of it above to see that it is serve no useful purpose where it is now, in the middle of bloody nowhere! And who on Earth is willing to travel all the way to China to see it? The place is full of Chinese! If I want to see Chinese people I can rent Ringu or Godzilla. Or go to Las Vegas, where they have a replica model of the Great Wall of China, which is so big you can see it from space! Not like the real one, which is rubbish.

What we are need to do is to dismantle the Great Wall, which we can quickly do by outsaucing, using the cheap Filipino labour, and then we can get them to rebuild the wall all the way along the border between America and Mexico, and all along the border between America and atheist communist Canada, and all along the West coast of Africa, which I think the Africans will also appreciate, because it send the message that there will definitely be no more slave ships travelling to the New World, and in fact all the way along the blue-dotted line on the map above where there is at the moment only administrative borders and the sea keeping people out; we can’t rely on sharks and whales forever, especially when the Chinese are eating so many of them.

The beauty is, we can get the cheap Filipino labour to build the wall with themselves on the other side, so when it is finish we will not even be able to see or hear them unless we absolutely want to, by flying over it (poor people do not have airplanes, escept for Ryanair).  Even Bono cannot find anything objectionable in this.  He will be able to fly over in his private jet and still make his poverty adverts for U2.

Therefore, I think, we should take the opportunity of this anniversary to call upon the president of China, whoever he is, and tell to him, “Tear Down That Wall, Mister President. And Then Re-Build It Around Us!”

You Are Know It Make Sense!

You might think that I have a serious problem with punchlines when you read the above – perhaps that I don’t “get” the art of comedic closure, maybe that I’m highjacking an otherwise snappy retort with my social conscience (which, let’s face it, is the size of a month-old pea and of no fixed abode). But I’m not trying to tell a joke here, or even trying to ape one. Well, maybe trying to ape one; there are points to be proved, and blogging agendas to tip one’s hat to. Either or. What’s particularly bothersome here is that the statement above could pass as just that; a statement, and a contextually legitimate one.

We’re fucking obsessed with excusing drug-using people with anti-social attitudes as drug addicts, even if their behaviour has fuck all to do with their intake. Which, in general, it doesn’t. It’s just a handy way of explaining away the rotten apples.

Take yesterday’s story about Wayne McNally, who was sentenced to thirteen years for shooting bouncer David Gilsenan in the face after he was refused entry to a nightclub.

Reading the facts of the case, and of McNally’s background, it’s pretty easy to see he’s a thug with absolutely no interest in fitting into society. He had fifty-five previous convictions, including one for cutting the a young woman’s throat at the age of nineteen, a crime he was sentenced to four and a half years for. He assaulted two gardai when they tried to arrest him for the shooting, he was carrying two screwdrivers (which were unlikely part of a mobile cocktail bar enterprise), and he attempted getaway in a stolen car (here’s one I swiped earlier). In short, the man is an absolute dick. He’s a one-man fucking Dick Pride parade with lashings of extra fucktard. But wait! There’s more!

He’s a drug addict.

Well, boo fucking hoo! Boo hoo for a society held to the whims of the dastardly barons, boo hoo for lack of opportunity for the self-medicated … boo hoo for bouncers trying to do their fucking jobs. McNally likes heroin. Have-a-snooze Heroin, the Great fucking Waster. Fabricating violence in the innocently impoverished since 1898. Big bad heroin, the root of all evil.

Drug addict who shot bouncer in face jailed for 13 years.

Why bother headlining the bollocks as a drug addict? What has that got to do with the price of barbiturates? It would be just as valid to say, “Career criminal who shot bouncer in face jailed for 13 years” or “Father of two who shot bouncer in face jailed for 13 years” or “Early school-leaver who shot bouncer in face jailed for 13 years” or “Dub who shot bouncer in face jailed for 13 years” – all of these apply, and none are any sort of excuse. A love affair with drugs – particularly heroin, with which we have an undeniable but not easily-explained-away problem in this country – can make you a desperate individual, can rip all sorts of decency out of you, and yup, it most certainly is a factor in many petty crimes, mostly involving desire for quick cash … but it can’t make you a bad-minded thug with no interest in empathy other than whether or not it’s a noun you can snort. McNally’s longtime skiddadling in and out of prison cannot be attributed to his track marks – his actions go above and beyond what could reasonably be accounted for on the smack ticket. The man needs removal from society. The man is broken. No rehab programme will rescue the rest of us from a prize cuntpallet like him.

Bringing heroin into it, at headline level no less, does no one any favours. I could go deep and dark with this one, and examine where exactly the fault lies when someone decides to banjax everything around them for the sake of the heroin kiss, but it’s Friday, and I really wouldn’t like to bore the few of you left reading after my first joke-free paragraph (sorry, y’all). It’s a debate for another day, and possibly another website. But I’m so cranky over this! I’m fuming! I don’t like the Irish tendency to blame inanimate objects for the wrongdoings of other Irish people – we are more likely to blame heroin than the community/State failures evident when someone like McNally cuts swathes through the lives of innocents. We don’t do heroin ourselves, you see, but we do make up the State. Therefore, we shall blame heroin … And Big H takes another for the team.

I knew a girl, years ago, who was facing her day in court over various petty crimes she’d hoped no one would notice. Without a decent excuse for being such a thundering bitch, she pulled the old “woe is me and my heroin habit” out of her arse, which came as a surprise to everyone who knew her and her strained waistband. Read the local Irish papers for their court reports and every second gobshite has a drug-related sob story. Ecstasy made me kill my neighbour’s dog. I stole that chequebook coz I was stoned. I have a drinking problem, so you’ll understand why I raped the babysitter. McNally himself offered up the excuse that his drink was spiked … that a subconscious necking of a funny pill was what lead this professional psychopath to shoot another man in the face. It’s all codswallop, empty statements to throw out in place of admitting you’re just an arsehole who wronged the poor cunts around you.

Taking drugs doesn’t make you a bad person, but bad people enjoy taking drugs as much as the rest of us.

Now, having said all that, in McNally’s case it was fairly obvious that no heroin horror story would convince a judge to suspend another sentence. Our media’s shoving the drug issue to the forefront in his case seems to be more about isolating him from the rest of us – making him the bogeyman – than about drumming up the sympathy.

Which is alarming, because reading about McNally’s past, and especially about his criminal record, you’d have to wonder whether it was the State, the Law, and all those other niceties with optional capital letters, that failed David Gilsenan.

What a spooky psyche we’ve got, fellow Paddies. Yeah. Happy Halloween

The Sun Have Got His Legs On.

Inevitably, there was always the scofflelaws who say things like, “If the Sun come out for several hours in Mayo, it will already be a bloody miracle!” and, “Can I get my money back on these Ray-Bans if I go blind?” and also, “Who’s nicked my wallet?” but they had to not just swallow their own words but also to regurgitate them and then eat them with a garnish of bile, vomit, and partially digested humble pie, because not just did the Sun dance all around the sky, doing the waltz, the boogie-woogie, the polska, and the wazz, but also Our Lady made an appearance for the assembled thong dressed out in all her fineries and, apparently, sucking a Strepsil, which means she got out of her sickbed to see everyone. Which only go to show how devoted she is to her fans, like Beyoncé.

This was all a brilliant show, although you had to stare at the Sun for bloody ages before your eyes was get accustomed to its majesty and thus was then able to see Our Lady properly, but it was well worth it, by all accounts, and everyone who was there will not forget the day they was there, or either some other day they were there as well.  However, is only now that we have had a chance to appreciate the REAL significance of Our Lady’s appearance, because it was only last week that the False Pope, Benedinct, was make the announcement that he will be allowing the filthy Anglicans into the Catholic Church.  Is a big disgrace! And is therefore no wonder that Our Lady felt it so imperative to make her appearance. swine flu or not. She was warning all the faithful of this latest move by the Antichrist, the False Pope, to corrupt the One True Church by further diluting its purity with his Satanic schemes. It was a Call to Arms by Our Lady, telling us to bestir ourselves, get out of our beds or off our hammocks, or from out under our beds, and take action.

I am, as you know, a devout and pious enemy of science, so the undoubted connection between these two events simply cannot be esplained by coincidence or so-called physical laws. It can only be that God Himself made the Sun dance to forewarn us about the False Pope’s evil deeds. However, in case you think I am simply being a scaremong and that this panic is unwarranted, let me put before the more septical of you a number of germane facts that are incontrovertible. Here are some essential but not widely known

TRUE FACTS ABOUT ANGLICANS:

1: They worship a black pig named Michael.

2: They believe in the Seven Intelligences.

3: They have three sabbaths a week: Friday, Sunday, and My Lucky Bun Day.

4: If they try to make the sign of the cross, their arms burst into flames

5: They have a third eye in the middle of their backs. Just like Jews!

6: If you bathe in water that an Anglican has whistled into, you get scambies.

7: They live on boats.

The only way that pious, genuine devout followers of the One True Church can put an end once and for all to this ignomininominous state of affairs is for us to do away with this Usurper Pope once and for all and restore the Real Pope, John-Paul Mark 2, to the throne of Saint Peter. Of course, we will have to be supple about this. I am not suggesting that we all descend en Mass on the Vatican to dispose of him. They would see us coming, and although the Catholic Church have always been in favour of coming—it is still said of Catholics that there is one born every minute—generally any coming, or indeed going, should not be seen. Or heard, for that matter. Escept, of course, by God, who likes to watch.

What I am suggest instead is that we should perhaps resort first to legalities, the way that the insensible French have in finding the Scientology cult guilty of fraud. What is stopping us from doing the same thing? The Anglicans, after all, are no less a cult than the Scientologists, and if the False Pope is try to intervene, we can espose him too as a fraud and a fixter and make him tell us where all the bodies are buried, especially Jesus’s (For those of you not up to speed, the Second Coming is already happened, but the False Pope and his cronies put the hour back on Jesus’s alarm clock so he was not waking up in time for the Last Judgment. Consequently, when Jesus was rushing across St. Peter’s Square, still pulling on his sandals, he was knock down by a garbage truck and accidentally killed.)

If any of you are with me in this most important campaign to secure Justice for Jesus and persecute the Anglicans, please send your cheques, giros, poster orders, traveller cheques, luncheon vouchers, gift tokens, and wads of cash in plain brown packages to

Sr. Manuel Estímulo
Justice for Jesus plc
Coddlepot House
Behind the Gasometer
P.O. Box 666
Bermuda

Do it quick, before you have time to think!

Besos

Manuel