Urinating on Nurses, and other Such Traumas.

"HnnnI wazznnlike illnnn killnnn priests!"

I'm ill.

Kind of. What I mean is my voice is ill. The rest of me is ok now. Well, fairly anyway. I look perfectly healthy so you wouldn't think that something inside is a bit peaky. This must be how people with Gonorrhea feel. Peaky and burny. My problem is however, that if I were to read this aloud I would sound like a cross between Selma Blair from the Exorcist when she was suffering from an acute bout of exzema and killing priests, and Sooty's best pal Sweep when he was suffering from an acute bout of depression and killing Sue. It sounds like my voice is breaking all over again, which is rather upsetting, because going through puberty was horrendous enough the first time. When I need to speak to members of the public I explain myself by saying that I have a fancy dress party to attend later, and that I'm going as Bjork having an orgasm. At least I now know what 80's movie start Bobcat Goldthwait feels like.

"Don't Hide Like a Little Bitch. Come at Me, Pussy"

My house has been ever so slightly plagued recently, as the Missus too has been consistently ill for the last few months. Well her eye has been. She has a chronic eye condition, which instead of healing keeps reinjuring itself, meaning many trips to the hospital in agony for her, and many undeserved bollockings for me. When the condition errupts her eye gets all swollen, bruised and weepy. So when the Missus and I are outside together I get vicious accusatory stares from strangers which say "You abusive bastard", so I offer them a stare back which says "Meh". We make quite the fetching couple; her with her eye looking like she's gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson, and me with my voice soundling like a knife fight to the death between a baby and a cat. So as you can imagine, with all this bollocks going on daily, my house hasn't exactly been the cheeriest place recently. Still, it could be worse - I could be Nick Clegg.

It has also got me to thinking about this country's NHS. Truly a remarkable institution which should be considered sacred. Of course it isn't perfect; the waiting lists for treatments are at times ridiculous and there's a fighting chance you'll leave hospital with some kind of super duper mega bug which with eat you arm, then your spleen, then kill you. Some nurses have the bedside manner of Hitler's SS and some doctors are dismissive egotistical twats, but they could be worse - they could be Nick Clegg. I think we should spare a thought for the aforementioned nurses etc. They work in extremely stressful conditions, are poorly paid, understaffed, keep ridiculously long hours, and yet they still do a fantastic job and are always there when we need them most, even when so many patients are rude and/or abusive to them. But enough of that, lest I begin to sound like a politician fishing for a round of applause on BBC's Question Time.

What My Mind Sees When It Walks into a Hospital

As I write this I am currently in hospital with the Missus as she waits for another appt for eye doctors to do more eye treatments with eye equipment and give her eye medicine for, surprisingly enough, her eye. If only they gave her a fucking punch bag to take home rather than eye drops it would save me almost as much pain as they try to save her. I hate hospitals. Being in one immediately makes me feel like I am surrounded by death and disease on all sides. I look around and I see a stream of empty, soulless, haunted faces, and those are just the hospital cleaners. Every time I visit a hospital I expect to see four diseased looking horses parked in the senior management car park next to the Jaguars. "Paging Death to the Cardiology department, that's Death to Cardiology. Thank you". I've received surgery on various sports injuries etc so often in the past that when I see a porter ferrying a patient on a hospital bed, my first instinct is to shove the deathly ill looking patient off and hop onto it myself. That's why I decided to give up sports and be a lazy bastard instead.

"Now Kieran, Urination Does Not Equal My Affection"

When I was young I was a very sickly child, which involved a lot of hospital trips with both my parents until I decided I was a big brave boy, then I only wanted my dad to come with me. When I was young I was told that when I was born, my first act as a new life into this world was to pee on the nurse who was trying to weigh me. I weighed 10lbs, however if she had weighed me before I had anointed her with my own personal seal of approval I might have weighed 11lbs. My dad always recounted this story with great fatherly pride, which as a child I mistakenly associated with approval and acceptance. That's why every time I attended a hospital I would immediately pee on the nearest nurse. For some unfathomable reason he didn't seem quite so proud of me anymore, especially when the shouting and swearing and threats of police involvement started. So now when I see a nurse in the corridor I run up to her, scream "ARE YOU HAPPY NOW DAD?!" and run away again, crying.

Well I best go now, as I can see a nurse coming towards us and I really would rather be somewhere else instead. Like Syria.

Kieran x

Marley and Me.

"I'm Going to be a Tiger Assassin when I Grow Up!"

I'm about to welcome a new addition into my family. Fuck off, I mean I'm getting a pet. A kitten to be specific. I've named him Marley, after Bob the Rastafarian genius, not Jacob the fictitious regretful ghost. I continue the family tradition of naming pets after a famous musical genius. My sister called her cat "Hendrix" after Jimmy, and I named my cuddly toy tiger (shut up smartarse) "Joplin" after Janice, and now Marley is the latest addition.

Marley will be Doing This from the Kitchen Window.

Marley is only 1 week old, still blind, can't yet stand, but I already get a sense of his personality. Perhaps it's because he stops crying for his mum whilst in my arms, or that he bobs his head when he hears Bob Marley's "Is This Love" playing. Either way, he is already much cooler than me. The Missus has already fallen in love with him, although she's worried as she has a tendancy to be allergic to cats. And dogs. And hamsters. But unfortunately not me. She said "But what if I turn out to be allergic to Marley?". I saw the genuine worry and sadness in her eyes, and I soothlingly replied "Don't worry - I'm sure Marley and I can find alternative accommodation for you". For some unfathomable reason she was not amused. My friends who own Marley's mum said that he will be ready to leave in less than 12 weeks, which for a 10yr old boy like me is an excruciating amount of time.

Still, just wait until the kitten shits diarrhoea all over the bedroom carpet and I'll be ready for microwaving the little bastard. So I need to get the house kitten-proofed. Kitten-proofing a house is like child-proofing it, but impossible. When childproofing a house, you only need to worry about the dangerous things within reach of the child, but cats can reach places you can't. So unless you happen to be Stretch Armstrong, or have Inspector Gadget as a roommate you can only hope for the best. Advice from scholarly experts on the subject of cats include taking some of the dirty gravel from it's old litter tray and putting it in it's new tray in your house, so that it will be familiar with where it is supposed to shit. But that also includes brining pissy gravel into my house which, to be honest, I'm not in the habit of doing. I guess since I'll be inviting a cute little shitting machine into my house for the next 15-20 years I should start as I mean to continue.

"One Way or Another, You're Going In that Food Bowl."

I suppose a plethora of miscellaneous paraphernalia shall be required, which will quickly make Marley the highest maintainance resident of the house by far, I mean, I don't need a scratch post or a litter tray although the same can't be said for the Missus. Marley is going to be an indoors cat, which will be the first time I've had one, the other previous cats all being the outdoorsie kind. That's because I now live in the city centre with all the hustle and bustle of traffic etc. Back when I lived in the arse end of nowhere there were fields and trees and hills for them to roam, chasing the local wildlife. Now I live in the city, the local wildlife carry knives, drink buckfast and are likely to attack Marley with fireworks, so indoors he shall stay.

"I Have the Bowels!!!"

It may not be plain sailing though, especially if Marley turns out to be a bit of a moron. I once had a cat, who after having a major operation had to stay indoors for a few weeks. I knew the vet was poking around inside her, but I thought that it was in her general stomach area not her head because when I got her back, she was distinctly more stupid than when I left her. For a start she had begun standing in her own shit whilst trying to cover up her poo in the litter tray. She would then merrily bounce her way (also a worrying sign) through the whole house. Now we've all stood on dog shit and true sometimes, depending on footwear, we haven't immediately noticed it which is understandable. But she didn't have that excuse. It's not like she went to the loo in Nike Air Max trainers, no she had her bare paws. You'd think that if you're walking barefoot in a big box of rough gravelly stuff, then you stand in a warm soft squidgy bit then it would dawn on you what had just happened. I hardly ever stand on my own poo - it's very rare, but I at least I always notice it when I do.

What is this Warm Fuzzy Feeling Inside? I Don't Like It." 

So with any amount of luck Marley will have 2 brain cells to rub together, which I'm sure will be nice for both Marley and me. After that rusty old disused thing in my chest has started beating again, the Missus said that Marley would probably do me some good. Anyway, when Marley comes home you can expect an update, but for now just enjoy these nauseatingly cute pictures.

Kieran's Standup - Politicians.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly bring to you my debut standup performance, mostly improvised on the spot, on stage.

Here are some of the rave reviews I have received:
"The right side of edgy" - The Glaswegian ♥♥♥♥♡
"The best of an amateur lot" - The Paisley Daily Express ♥♥♥♥♡
"Who?"    The Guardian ♡♡♡♡♡
"Please do not call this office again" - The Scottish Sun ♡♡♡♡♡
"We are not concerned with this Colin McNeill person"- Glenrothes Gazette ♡♡♡♡♡
"It was great, the drinks were really cheap in there" - John Ross Mason ♥♥♥♥♥
"I brought him up better than that" - Keiran O'Neill's Mother ♥♡♡♡♡
"What the fuck was I wearing?" - Kieran O'Neill ♥♡♡♡♡

Enjoy. Kieran x

The Week that Wasn't - UK Edition 16.3.2013

Pope Francis' First Official Photograph.

The Right Hand of God.
The Universe now has a pope once again! As people congregated in St Peter's Square, all eyes were on a little chimney on a roof. All of a sudden white smoke rose from it, indicating that we had ourselves a white pope. There were cheers and singing and jubilation, and the Pope's own groupie nuns grew evermore moist in areas which have been arid since they went into the Convent. I've always thought that if deodorant and antiperspirant companies want a truly winning product capable of astonishingly long lasting dryness, no matter what the circumstances, then they should concentrate their reseach in the area of nuns' vaginas.

So it's Pope Francis then. Stupidly (though not unexpectedly) the conclave of cardinals ignored my previous recommendation of Chuck Norris, and went with yet another traditionally conservative old fart for a Pontiff. All may not be lost though. Rumour has it that the Pope is 'soft' on condoms which defeats the purpose of condoms in the first place really. It is whispered that the new Holy boy thinks that the use of condoms is permissible solely for the prevention of sexually transmitted diseases spreading. So a big hurray for Papa Frankie then. But not so fast, because Frankie-boy is violently anti-gay. So in summation, it's OK to fuck a hooker with a condom so you won't get AIDS, but if you dare kiss that handsome lad you really like, then it doesn't really matter what you wear, on your cock or otherwise, because you're going to Hell anyway. Ok cheers for the clarification on that Frankie.

Francis Enjoys the View of his Groupies.

The Pope may only be a few days into his new role, and he probably hasn't even finished unpacking all the crockery, but already politicians are trying to use him for political points scoring. It won't be a colossal shock to discover that our own Prime Minister Emperor Cameron was one of them. Being native Argentinian, Francis was once quoted as saying that the Falklands were 'Argentinian soil usurped by the British'. Having the spiritual leader of 1.2 billion people saying that your country is a bunch of thieving cunts is unacceptable for any leader, so it's no surprise that Cameron came out and in the nicest, politest way possible, told God's representative on Earth to fuck right off. Not surprisingly, the Argentinian President Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner has been gleefully piling on the pressure to such an extent that President probably cums when hearing the name 'Pope Francis'. Meanwhile, the people of the Falklands (having recently voted with a majority of 99.8% to stay with Britian) go to school, wash their cars, travel to and from work, have dinner and wishes everyone else would just fuck off and leave them to live their lives.

'You Look More Like Your Dad Every Day'.

All the King's Horses and All the King's Trustafarians.
The Daily Mail lives up to it's usual exemplary standards of journalism by making a major song and dance about a picture of some posh fellow pinching the ear of the future King as he watches a horse race. Said future King's wife chuckles heartily at the high jinx displayed by said posh fellow. The last time the future king and his posh fellow friend had their ears so seductively fondled they were at Eton. Prince William and his recently inseminated animated clothes horse of a spouse were pictured at the Cheltenham Festival of racing. They decided to put bets on which of the horses would be the bestest, and which horses would be shot and turned into someone's lasagne later that day. The young royals had a simply wonderful day of betting with their trustafarian chums. Bravo! Good going Daily Mail! Bringing us all the latest crucial news on the lifestyles of the other half that we can neither aspire to be, or emulate. Meanwhile, the 6yr old daughter of a single parent who works as hard as she can because her benefits were drastically reduced, merrily tucks into a microwave lasagne made from the remains of one of the future king's horses, whilst drawing a crayon picture of a pretty horsey to proudly display on the fridge. And so the world turns....

'Unexpected Item in Stomach Area'.

Expertly Hidden.

A husband got the shock of his wife's life recently when his wife discovered a 4" serrated knive sticking out of Morrison's bakery loaf of bread. The wife apparently spotted it straight away and removed it before any harm was done. I'm absolutely certain that the husband was greatly relieved that his wife wasn't hurt in the incident, and that he in no way secretly inserted the blade on the way home...... Not only does it reflect poorly on Morrison's bakers, but it doesn't show much faith in their self service checkouts. The machine is so sensitive that it can detect 1 stray empty shopping bag on the scale, but it completely misses the 'unexpected item' in the bread. Lesson for the day? Be grateful that some of your purchases only contain horsemeat, because if you're not careful, one day you might find a razor blade in your waffles, a chainsaw in your sponge cake and 100% beef in your lasagne.

Hamza Poses for the Paparazzi.

The World's Shittest Bond Villian.
Radical comedy cleric and potential Bond Villian Abu Hamza has been moaning about getting replacement prosthetic whilst in prison. Islam's worst self-appointed spokesman since Osama bin Laden has been whining about how he has not been allowed his famous hook, and instead has been given, hilariously, a spork. Muslim shitbag Hamza's lawyer has been on record stating that the sporks were "not accomplishing what he needs accomplished". I can only presume that he has 2 accomplishments: 1. Without his scary hook he will seriously have trouble misrepresenting Islam. Perhaps without his silly Bond villian image people will the Papealise that Islam is a noble and peace-loving religion who's teachings have been twisted, abused and bastardised by Abu and his fuckwit pals. 2. He can't properly scratch his arse anymore. Hamza should be pleased though, because at least masturbation will be a less nerve shredding experience. Using sporks will cut down on washing up, and he'll be able to toss a mean salad.

Would the Real Pope Please Stand Up.

The Pope is dead (Metaphorically speaking) long live the next one! Although considering that the Vatican Conclave seem to vote for popes on the basis of which candidates' birth certificate is the most fragile, that's unlikely to happen. Yes, the Catholic World is waiting on tenterhooks to find out who their next Papa will be. It's like the elimination rounds of some shitty talent show called "The Pope Factor", without having had the enjoyment of watching a number of cardinals making complete tits of themselves in the audition stage, singing Whitney Houston's 'It's Not Right, but It's OK'. Quite an appropriate song choice for the clergy these days.

'I Don't Initiate Violence, I Retaliate'

A number of bookies' favourites have been touted, but other than the fact that some of them happen to be black, they all seem unremarkable. You know your church needs a proper kick up the arse in terms of modern pro-active publicity when possibly the most remarkable thing about your new leader is how active his melanocytes are. The Catholic Church therefore needs a new kind of pope. Someone who will sort shit out, introduce coolness to the religion, make it relevant in the 21st century, and also sort out world peace once and for all. In short, we need Chuck Norris. But as Chuck will no doubt be working on his hectic career of not doing much anymore, we will need to look further afield.



That's why I've taken it upon myself to compile a shortlist of alternative candidates for the position of Pope.


Frankie Boyle.

Frankie Excited by the Idea of Having a Home.

The expletive-ridden, controversy-fondling Beardy-Weirdy comedian hasn't been looking his best Lately. Having a beard you could hide a freshly crucified Jewish Messiah in, and having worn the same suit for the last 5yrs, one could be forgiven for thinking that Frankie is actually homeless. At least he'd have somewhere nice to lay his lice-ridden head at night. Thanks to him being booed off stage during BBC's Comic Relief set, he will be used to the same level of unpopularity most Pontiffs endure. Plus it would be worth making him Pope just to hear his Easter message in front of a packed St Peter's Square.


Justin Bieber.

Justin Models a New Line of Papal Underwear.

What he lacks in experience, he makes up for in hair styling products. Yes, super-swagged pop Ken doll Justin Bieber would be the ideal poster boy for the Catholic Church. Having over 35 million Twitter users who hang on his every word and cling to his every developing pubic hair, he's certainly used to unquestioning adoration. The Vatican is desperately trying to fend off the public image that the Catholic church is just a gentlemen's club full of Jimmy Saviles in dresses. So to have a teen running the place would certainly send out positive, albeit initially mixed, signals. Justin would still need to treble his security whilst in the Vatican, you know, just in case. At least there would then be "one less lonely Catholic" in the world.


Apple.

PeeWee Tests the New iPope Beta Version

Rumours on the internet are that technology giant Apple are about to throw their hat onto the Papal ring with their new product - The iPope. Details being leaked onto the web are that it will be fully compatible with all main Christianity formats, it can be recharged using the cigarette lighter in the Popemobile, it can say Mass in HD with a catalogue of catholicisms' most famous masses available to download from iTunes, and Siri will be voiced by Steve Jobs direct from the afterlife. It will have a 4G connection with Heaven and an app delivering the very latest notifications from God herself. They might even get that fucking autocorrect thing right. Rumours breaking last night are that Apple already have the iPope 2 in development.


Queen Elizabeth II.

'Screw You Guys, I'm Going Rome.'

Pastel-clad royal battle axe QE2 has enjoyed a lifetime of adoration, so it's only natural that in her final pampered years she is adored by over 1.2 billion people. She will soon be a great grandmother and will leave behind a fully functional family, with 1 prematurely bald grandson, 1 ginger half grandson, a closet gay son, an FA cup-faced widower son, a horse for a daughter-in-law, a grand daughter-in-law and her sister, both of whom are more admired for their outfits and arses than anything they actually say. It's nice to know that the UK's media has it's priorities right when they are more interested in what's in their skirts than what's in their heads. So now that her family are all growed up, she can change a life of sightseeing and shaking hands with a life of sightseeing and having her ring kissed. Her Papal ring that is. And her arse too. In that way she would be perfect, because in the grand scheme of things and in terms of making an impact on the working of the world, she's been as much use as a fucking chocolate teapot. Just like the last Pontiff.


The Reverend Ian Paisley.

'Me? Pope? Nooooo!'

If you fancy an outside bet, then crusty octogenarian and perennial big mouthed rabid sectarianite the Reverend Ian Paisley is theoretically perfect for the role, being a pre-made 'holy' man and an old bastard to boot. The only tiny little thing which might put an unholy spanner in the holy works is his overt protestantism. Perhaps living in that big fancy house in sun-kissed Rome, and having a selection of pimp-tastic hats might be enough of an incentive for him to convert to Catholicism. It may seem a little far-fetched, but remember, the last pope was once a Nazi.



So there you have it - my shortlist for Papal candidates who in their own way would be weirdly suitable for the job. And let's face it, they couldn't fuck the church up more than it already is. So onwards and upwards into the 18th century the Vatican must go, and a drastic change in candidate selection might just be the colossal kick in the balls it needs. And if any of these creatures become our next Papa, then you know I called it right, and we'll all go for beers to celebrate.

The Week that Wasn't -UK Edition. 6th March 2013

One Less Lonely Gamer.

"Seriously?! Another Halo Game?!"

Justin Bieber has been at it again. Apparently he tried his best to be a stroppy little diva before his London O2 Arena gig (For definition of diva, see 'cunt'). Rumour has it he allegedly kept fans waiting for hours whilst he played video games because he couldn't be arsed going on stage for his fans. And why not? I mean those fans only bought him that video game as well as every one luxury he enjoys, so surely they should expect him to get some enjoyment out of it. Rumour has it that nothing gets him more excited than completing another level on Little Big Planet, and Sackboy, who he had dressed as a pimp, was on a huge roll. One lucky fan who won a competition to meet Justin said that she spent just 10 seconds in his presence. Just as well really, or given the hysterical state of some fans, if she had met him for 15 seconds the poor girl's head might have fucking exploded. If this is how Justin acts now, just wait until he starts going through puberty....







Because She's Worth It.

"Can Anyone Smell Something a Bit Funky?"

Speaking of confused girls, a girl recently received a bottle of sperm as a gift, thinking it was moisturiser. Just pause for a moment to let that sink in, pardon the pun. A girl received a bottle of sperm as a gift. Now, either her admirer is attempting to start a new trend on romantic gifts, or he is not an admirer, and is clearly questioning her chastity. Perhaps the loved-up sender (or should that be 'Fucked up sender'?) thought Vincent van Gogh cutting off part of his ear and presenting it as a gift to his lover was passe. "I wanted to give her a part of me, but I can't stand blood or pain. So I wanked into a cup and tied a bow around it". And they say romance is dead. Secondly - Apparently the girl was half way through the bottle before she realised that there was something a bit "iffy" about this gift. How many applications did it need for her to realise that it might not have been approved by the Dermatological Association? Perhaps she thought that Clinique had rolled out a new cum-scented line in beauty products. A facial mousturiser simply called "Facial". An anti-aging skin preparation called "Pearl Necklace", and an overnight product called "Happy Ending". A product line rich in protein, mitochontria, DNA etc. At least it gives men gift options. Gentlemen! Have you forgotten to give your wife an anniversary present? Never fear, just grab her favourite coffee mug and nip into the toilet for 5 minutes.



Bessie's Gone to Iceland.

A Worker in Shock, Having Just Lost His Right Hand

A mum has recently been moaning about how her little girl found a clump of cow hide in her pack of Iceland mince. Perhaps the portion of cowhide belongs to Kerry Katona, afterall it would explain Kerry's recent weight loss. Still, the mum shouldn't be moaning, at least her child is being fed cow for a change. Icelend seem to be fucking up to almost Hugh Grant standards, with the various types of animal in their different products. Now I expect their ice cream to contain kittens and their garlic baguettes to contain 100% poisoned rats. The product I would be most concerned about though is their Pepperoni Pizzas. Who knew horse penis could be so spicy?



Sir Alan, Death and Taxes.

Big Al About to Tear Someone a New Arsehole

The 2010 winner of The Apprentice Stella English has been in court suing former boss, the corporate world's Mr Limbkins, Sir Alan Sugar, for 'Constructive Dismissal'. She is claiming that she was an overpaid, glorified errand girl. This isn't overly shocking, as the idea of Sir Al finding the next Sir Al on a reality show is pretty far-fetched anyway. The Apprentice was on a £100,000 per year wage and did very little of any great degree of importance, so in many respects she could have easily been a cabinet minister for a year. Her sorry tale immediately provokes visions of her dressed as a street waif approaching Big Al's right hand man Nick Holzherr, empty business diary in hand and saying "Please Sir, I want some more". At which point Nick, with astonishment whacks her with a ladle and exclaimes "What!?". I guess Benjamin Franklin was right when he said that "In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death, taxes and being fired by Sir Alan Sugar". Or something like that. In any case, her contract wasn't renewed, Sir Al allegedly said "I only do it for the PR and don't give shit" and she was subsequently found surplus to requirements. Sounds just like Manchester City and Robinho........