English Smoking Ban …

While I was over in Britland they introduced the smoking ban, not for my benefit mind you, I think they had it planned, but introduced it was and to much furore, coughing and thumping of chests. Not that I noticed much difference in the hotel bar. There were ashtrays on the tables on Saturday and they were gone on Sunday but there were no fucking people either day so it hardly registered. I watched Central News on the idiot box on Sunday afternoon and they were showing pubs in the area who had hosted all night smoking parties. The images were voiced over by a health anal-ist and it was all hazy pictures of pasty skinned people puffing away like it cured cancer and all the while the anal-ist droned on. One half dying fellow who closely resembled something a crow shit during the famine puffed away on two cigarettes at the same time. Hardcore! Then the clock struck 6:00am and they were all extinguished, the cigarettes that is, not the smokers. The news clip then cut to some waxen faced bint landlady of the Cock and Tickle or the Hole n Bush or whatever the fuck it was called. There she was all tits and ass wiping the counter while a bodiless voice asked her opinion on the smoking ban. Oh it’s awful she intoned, just awful, I’m already noticing a loss in business. What the fuck! Loss in business my hole, it was just after midday the place had only been open a fucking hour.


In Other News:

Pete Doherty discovers Cork ....

Brain Fart ....

Another busy few days in the life and times of one OhBeJoe and no word of a lie. Was over in Manchester last Tuesday which in and of itself was rather uneventful. On Wednesday morning the yellow oil light started flashing on the dash of me motor so I had a brain fart and put too much oil in my car. I just kept on pouring and day dreaming and then the oil can was empty. The car didn’t like it, nope not one little bit. It went from sounding like a smooth petrol car to sounding like a clapped out diesel after about two miles. The yellow oil light went out all right, but it was the appearance of the violently flashing red oil light that caused me some concern. I had to organise a garage and get a car rescue type person to pick up the sick motor and bring it to the hospital. When I spoke to the mechanic I explained that I suspected there might be too much oil in the engine. How much is too much he asked. About five litres I replied. Sure that’s way too much he said. I knew right away that I had contacted the right man for the job. I was back in England again on Saturday so I had to leave said motor with him all weekend. I just picked it up and all is well with the world again.

So there I was over in Newcastle-Under-Lyme, again, and low and behold if the place wasn’t all abuzz with the news that one of the would-be terrorist suspects was arrested in the area and house raids followed. I think the guys name was Dr. Bashavan or something and his bestist pal was called Sinjin Jeep. Someone mentioned that they weren’t terrorists but rather they were just celebrating Ramavan in the traditional fashion. Whatever happened, the people in Newcastle have already tried and convicted them. Guilty as charged your honour I knew by the colour of his skin that he was up to no good.

Between floods on Monday and extra security I thought I’d never get the fuck out of Britland. I swiftly exited Dublin airport and due to my car being sick I had to get a taxi home. I hate taxis and their know-it-all-sure-the-worlds-gone-mad-no-money-in-taxi’s-anymore-cos-of-all-the-johnny-foreigners drivers but the driver I had was a rather pleasant fellow who was made out of the night time. He tried to feed me dry crackers as we breezed down the M50, I wasn’t all that hungry but boy did he enjoy his crackers. If eating crackers ever becomes an Olympic sport this fucker could represent Ireland. He took out three at a time, one for his mouth and two for the dash board, for later you understand. His English wasn’t great and my Nigerian is a little rusty but we shared pleasantries all they same. Then fuck me if he didn’t flip open the compartment between the two seats and produce a 2 litre carton of pineapple juice. Again I was offered, I wasn’t thirsty but it was the cracker remnants left around the cartons mouthpiece that sealed it for me. As he gunned the car round a roundabout there was shit and snot and crackers and pineapple juice all over the shop. He apologised profusely through a mouthful of dry crackers which only added to my mirth. I swear to jaysus he must have ate a half a packet of crackers between the airport and my home and when he wasn’t crunching he was singing wee ditties to himself and you know what, I’d travel with a mental dry cracker eating Nigerian taxi driver any day. He never complained once and when I gave him a five euro tip he blessed me, my family and anybody else who I might happen to bump into.

Max hand me the Jacobs ….

The Zorse The Bomb And The Gypsies

Sounds like an eastern European remake of ‘The Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe’ but it aint.

The Zorse:



A more bastardised looking breed of animal you’d be hard pressed to find. Half horse and half zebra and coloured a bit of both. Other animals in the equine family interbreed with success too. Such as the donkey and the mule giving rise to the jinnet one of the few animals in the known world that could go extinct in the morning and yet in a few years there could be thousands again. I know lots of jinnets but not all of the equine variety. But the Zorse now that’s something you don’t see every day. Wouldn’t it be great if the human pigmentation was like that too. Most Americans would look like wibbly wobbly wonders.

The Bomb:

A Mercedes car packed with propane gas cylinders, fuel and lots of nails was discovered last night in London. The driver apparently crashed into some bins and then fled. Not exactly a brains kind of operation if you ask me. It was either Al Qeada or a carpenter in a hurry to an industrial barbeque. You’d imagine he would have been careful with his driving considering his cargo. Jaysus the IRA managed to bomb the fuck out of London for years with no such slip ups. Me thinks this guys heart wasn’t really in it. It was nice of Sky News to add that it probably wasn’t the Irish. Bunch of jumped up hairy arsed swamp donkeys.

The Gypsies:

Did you know that there are a bunch of gypsies, proper gypsies, Romanian gypsies, living on a roundabout in Ballymun. Fifty of these poor Romanian unfortunates have set up camp in the very middle of a large roundabout. You can’t see them from the road but their in there. The government issued a statement saying they were monitoring them. Monitoring them? For what one wonders? The thing that surprised me was when the head of their clan was interviewed he said that the conditions were bad but at least they were better than back in Romania. So where the fuck did these people live in Romania? In a sewer, in a hole in the ground, or in the sweaty hairy armpit of a Romanian lesbetron shot put thrower. Or perhaps at the bottom of this guys mouth, half man, half hippo.

Stab Victim Keeps Wanking .....

No shit this came from an Aussie paper.

A Brisbane woman stabbed a male friend twice in the shower after he refused to stop masturbating in front of her children. Defense lawyers for Kylie Louise Wilson, 28, said the mother of two "lost it" when her friend of six years, Daniel Peter Blair, went on a masturbation marathon on April 6 last year. Brisbane's District Court this morning heard Mr. Blair had showed up at Wilson's unit at Birkdale unit, in Redland Shire, where he took amphetamines before having a shower. Whilst in the bathroom, Mr Blair, 32, began pleasuring himself, before moving to Wilson's bedroom, where he rolled around naked on her bed and continued his lewd conduct. He returned to the bathroom for more and was busted by Wilson, who was attempting to bath her three-and-a-half year-old daughter. The court heard Mr. Blair refused her repeated requests to stop, prompting her to fetch a knife from the kitchen which she used to stab him twice in the left shoulder. Crown prosecutors said Mr. Blair paused only to put on his shorts and flee outside to wait for police to arrive, but was again overcome by the urge. "Despite his injury, it seems (Mr. Blair) continued to masturbate while in the garage," the prosecutor said. Police took him to hospital where he received treatment for the minor stab wounds. Wilson pleaded guilty to one count each of unlawful wounding and willful damage. Her defense barrister, Mark Johnson, said Wilson regarded Mr Blair as a "tolerably decent person" when he was not using drugs, but had become "extremely protective" of her daughter under the circumstances. "He was in and out and round about, doing this sort of thing all over the house, " Mr. Johnson said. "She just lost it, to put it crudely." Senior Judge Gilbert Trafford Walker accepted the Crown's submission that Wilson had been subjected to "grossly offensive conduct ... which in a moral sense amounts to extreme provocation." He sentenced her to nine months' jail but ordered that she be immediately released on parole.

Seriously though you couldn't make that shit up. What the fuck was he on anyway? We've all had occasions when we've succumbed to carnal pressures and just raped the fuck out of ourselves have we not? But to just plough on regardless of being stabbed and shit is just plain mental.

On a much lighter note ....

Best 5 Second Video On The InterWeb

Poor The Kevin Myers

Kevin Myers wrote an article in today’s Indo rebuking certain people for not giving him sufficient praise and credit for his work in highlighting Irelands involvement in the Great War. Some of which is posted below ...

On Wednesday last, the Second Glucksman Memorial Symposium opened at Trinity College Dublin. Its subject was 'Commemorating the Unthinkable: Europe, Ireland and the Great War.' Chaired by Terence Brown, participants included Gerald Dawe, John Horne, Jane Leonard, with readings from Sebastian Barry and Michael Longley. To be sure, I was invited to be present, but merely as a mute journalist, not as a contributor.

Last week, before a large gathering of official guests, the President laid a wreath at Messines Ridge, to commemorate the joint attack by the 16th Irish and the 36th Ulster Divisions 90 years ago. I learnt about this only from the news, which is also how, two days earlier, I had heard of a similar official wreath-laying by the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Dermot Ahern.

How delightful, how utterly delightful, that others who came to the field so long after I had begun to plough my lonely furrow are included in such events, and I am not.....

As an 'Irish Times' columnist, I made it my business, ceaselessly, year upon year, to write on this topic, causing many threats and much abuse, with the vile 'Phoenix' magazine christening me "Colonel Myers". But I persisted, because I felt Ireland owed a duty to those tens of thousands of its sons who fell on the Western front and Gallipoli, and were then written out of history......

He continues ...


But once official Ireland woke up to the subject, I began to be marginalised. When the memorial tower at Messines Ridge was opened by the President and Queen Elizabeth in 1998, I was not invited to the ceremony. However, an Army friend arranged a pass for me into the viewing stand, and to the reception afterwards.

It was here that Paddy Harte TD, who had been a driving force in the creation of the tower, rose and said there was one man in the room to whom they were all indebted for their knowledge of the Great War: he then named someone I had never heard of. And for 1998, now read 2007.


Poor the Kevin Myers, poor the misunderstood, overlooked, marginalised, ceaseless Kevin Myers. If I had time to rush into town and give him a medal and a hug I would.

Sausages n Domestic Violence

Well it’s all happening today. I just saw a man pull a knife on two blokes who were trying to stop him from robbing their jeep. They had him wrestled to the ground and when he pulled the knife they let him go. He pulled his hood over his head and strolled off but kept facing them the entire time. He didn’t run, he didn’t panic, he never looked like using the knife but his point was made, so to speak. Then about ten minutes later the hair salon across the street went on fire. Apparently one of the orange people who work there dropped some nail polish remover on a candle, then knocked the candle over and tried to put the subsequent blaze out with some nice dry towels. Judging by the thick black smoke that was billowing out the doors and windows I’d say she failed quite spectacularly. The salon staff watched the scene unfold amid sobbing and whaling and there was much running of mascara and flashes of French nails.

I was in Stoke on Trent for the past couple of days. It was recently voted the most depressing place in the UK. I quiet like the place though. I was over there with my boss. When we went to collect the car from Avis he was trying to examine the car and put his case in the boot at the same time. This resulted in him falling over backwards into a hedge. I laughed so hard a little bit of wee came out. He didn’t fall straight away. No he teetered and swayed and I stood there thinking he’s going, he’s going and there he goes. Middle aged man decked out in a suit, legs akimbo in the middle of a hedge. I could have tried to catch him but where’s the craic in that.

Stoke is a small place, with a rural feel and has a fair selection of pubs and restaurants. I was staying in a place called the Clayhanger, the Dangleberry I like to call it, a place I’ve stayed many times before. It’s run by two nice blokes who I think are in the gays. My only quibble about the place is that they don’t serve sausages with the cooked breakfast. I reckon there’s something in that but I’m a bit reluctant to ask them for some sausage action.

As I was waiting for breakfast yesterday morning I was accosted by a middle aged woman who wanted to know where I came from. When I said Ireland she was delighted. Her people came over from Ireland in the 1850’s she said, after the potato blight. She went on to tell me that she was a local woman who had just recently been divorced and was staying in the Dangleberry until she got sorted with a flat. Her husband had been abusive she said. It was her third husband in fact. She had been single for 25 years and then married three abusive and violent men. A bit greedy I thought, surely one is enough for any woman. She surmised that she should have stayed single and what could I do but agree. I learned all about Stoke and the Potteries, much more than I ever wanted to. She met her latest husband when he was in recovery, this peeked my interest. In recovery for what I enquired. A head injury she offered. He had fractured his skull quiet badly and had suffered some brain damage. They met during his recovery and were married a few days later. He wasn’t the only one with brain damage I thought. He swept me off my feet she said. How romantic a man with brain damage can be is not for me to say. He was prone to fits of violence. She suffered 22 instances of domestic abuse in 10 months.

It was half seven in the morning, the door to the breakfast room opened, I held it open for her and we entered together. This woman had given me more personal information in those ten minutes than anyone I’ve ever met. I’m not very good with sensitivity and feelings and stuff. She was obviously lonely or maybe I have a big hey talk to me head on me. We stood side by side at the cereal counter. I was almost afraid to pick a table first in case she sat next to me. All I wanted was breakfast, coffee and nothing more. She sat first and I chose a different table. One where she wasn’t facing me, and thus couldn’t make eye contact. I stared at her big round back and pondered her lot for a few seconds. I felt sorry for this woman. Life had obviously dealt her a series of shit hands. She was pleasant though, and seemed happy enough. Either that or she was crazier than a shithouse rat. Either way there was little I could do. All I wanted was some breakfast and why oh why is there never any sausages.

Trousers.

Was in england again yesterday, God I hate english people, not all of them mind, just some of them, well lots of them. Especially those types you see in plane stations, waiting to go to Benidorm or some other brit infested shite hole. Those english cunts with their english jerseys and their opened toed sandals and their british bulldog tattoos. With their bald shiny heads, their ham fisted wives and their gut busting, raised on fish n’ chips, beans is a vegetable init’ spawn. Singing shite english holiday songs as they swill cheap flat beer in a brightly lit airport bar. I shan’t even grace thee with capital letters. As the fella said do you know why the sun never set on the english empire? Because even God didn’t trust the cunts in the dark.

So there I was happily sleeping on my flight yesterday when the Excuse-Me-Sir-Yes-I-Am-A-Bastard stewardess woke me up to get me to open the window blind. It’s for safety reasons she assured me as I scowled at her big round puffy caked in six inches of cheap stinky make up head that I wished I could punch her in. The same bastard thing happened on the return flight. I pondered this as the plane battered its way to a halt. Why does it matter if the blind is up or down? It can’t be air pressure can it? Or perhaps it’s for psychological reasons. Perhaps we die better when we can see the ground coming hurtling at us through our little window pane. “Hey Nora what’s that greyish green stuff that seems to be coming towards our window? Oh wait it’s the groun’….”. If the blind were shut perhaps it would be more like "Hey Nora what was that thud, Nora, hey Nora why has your head exploded ...".

So I decided I’d try and find out and here is the closest thing I found to a plausible excuse.

It’s for safety reasons in case of a mishap. The vast majority of all aircraft accidents happen during takeoff and landing. If something were to happen, you would not want to exit the aircraft into a burning pool of jet fuel following a crash landing. Additionally it gives rescuers a view of the inside of the aircraft. They wouldn't want to cut through the side of the aircraft into a fire inside the aircraft or use a Sawzall through the side of the fuselage and cut into an injured passenger.

The cabin lights are usually dimmed or shut off entirely to minimize the sources of ignition in case of a mishap. The fewer circuits that are electrically live, the less chance of a short-circuit induced fire.

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