"Going to the Chapel and I'm Gonna Get Castrated" -My Wedding Pt 1

The Hood Ornament on Our Car
Just Seemed to Mock Me.

Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today on this blog  to mourn the passing of a young man's singledome and to celebrate the union of two souls who have now joined the legion of the damned In the bonds of holy matrimony. Now let us bow our heads.....

Based on the feedback I have received on Facebook on my wall and via private message on the popularity of my recent 'Day in the Life' blog many of you want to know exactly how my wedding day went. Seeing as how I moaned about it enough in the lead up to the big day, I figured that it was only fair that let you lovely people know. This whole blog is cathartic therapy for me afterall, but this two-part special will be the last I discuss the wedding. So here is  the first part of my brutally honest, warts and all account of my wedding day. Enjoy.



Ninja Turtles and Jet Fuel.

Raphael Never Needed to Worry
About Weddings.

I had chosen to spend the day at Mum O'Neill's house away from the Missus. Perhaps it was because I'm old fashioned at heart, or because I'm a stickler for tradition. Or perhaps it was because I was desperate to keep my independence for as long as possible. Either way I stayed overnight with Mum O'Neill in my home town where the wedding would be. Mum O'Neill has always been really happy and supportive of the wedding. This could be because she's a nice lady, or perhaps because she wants to see me married and properly fucked off before she pops her dear old cloggs. It was strange waking up in my old bedroom where I had spent all of my childhood and adolescence, a surreal quality which just made me want to jump out of bed and onto my skateboard and play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with my friends rather than get married. I always chose to be Raphael because he had cool ninja Sai but also because he was a grumpy, moody, curmudgeonly bastard and it was a sign of things to come. Anyway I digress.

The Smile on My Face Belies
the Sadness in My Eyes.

Mum O'Neill woke me up early with an orange juice, singing an adorable rendition of "Chapel of Love". "Come on sing!" she exclaimed. "Oh he's going to the chapel and he's gonna get married!". I smiled and replied "Swap one of those words with 'castrated' and you'll be right on the money". After a bite to eat I told Mum O'Neill that I was off for a walk to clear my head. I went to visit Dad O'Neill's grave. He had died about 6 months ago and as it was my wedding day I wanted to include him (kinda). His favourite tipple was Drambuie so I bought a miniature bottle to pour on his grave. I thought it would be quite touching if I took a sip first, but that was a big mistake. "Holy fuck! That shit is jet fuel! How the fuck could you like that? Honestly, no wonder you're dead. Drinking that I'm amazed you lasted as long as you did. Here's the rest, and you're fucking welcome to it, you madman". Because we had that kind of relationship.


I'll Have a Packet of Monster Munch, a Can of Irn Bru and a Pre-nup Please.

"Ohh Ye'll Tak' the High Road
an' Ah'll Tak' the Low Road...."

I nipped into the shop for a packet of Monster Munch and a can of Irn Bru (because I'm such a classy and sophisticated individual) and by the time I had returned it was time to have a shower and get changed. By this point it had been relayed to me that the Missus had made it out to Sis O'Neill's house to get changed 'n' shit. Sis O'Neill was my best man because Chuck Norris hadn't turned up, or even replied to my request, the ignorant bastard. Still, Sis O'Neill was a fine man to stand in and she turned up to make sure I hadn't tried to drown myself by sticking my head down the toilet, or in the oven. Once showered, I got into my wedding clothes and all of a sudden it became excruciatingly real. I'm not one to wear a fancy bow tie waistcoat and shiny silver buttons with a kilt. In my mind that seems as about as far as you can get from traditional Scottish wear. If you're going to wear a bow tie with a kilt then you may as well just dress up as an Oompa Loompa.


Pregnant Womens' Shirts and Other National Apparel.

"I Do" Motherfuckers!

Everything fitted perfectly, apart from everything. My kilt was standard length, but it seemed to highlight how much of a shortarse I am, because it was in danger of resembling a pencil skirt. My Jacobite shirt was the worst though, as it was about 4000 sizes too big. I had bought it many a moon ago and had never had the chance to take it out of the packaging until now. Jacobite shirts are supposed to be baggy and very loose fitting, but it looked as though I had stolen a heavily pregnant woman's shirt. They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and that was certainly the case with me. I always wanted to wear a sgian dubh (which for the benefit of my overseas readers is pronounced "skee'an doo") a traditional Scottish dagger which is tucked into the sock, but thanks to the country's ultra strict rules on carrying blades, most of them have fake blades. Then I got a brainwave - Dad O'Neill's letter opener. I bought Dad O'Neill a letter opener with a celtic knot style which happened to exactly match the pattern on my sporran, so a Sgian Dubh I did!

Just Before Kick Off.

When I arrived at the Chapel most of our family and friends were already there and I immediately felt like the guy who mistakenly went to a normal party in fancy dress as a reject from Braveheart. I awkwardly did the whole meet 'n' greet "Thanks for coming" thing to the guests and took my seat in front of the alter next to my best woman. Mum O'Neill was more preoccupied with the strategic positioning of my sporran, as every now and again it would cause the front of the kilt to ride up, giving the impression that I had a colossal erection. It's never fun having your mum think that you are sexually aroused in front of her, I mean it wouldn't have been so bad if I DID have one, but as I was completely flaccid I wanted everyone to know that I was such, so they in no way could be mistaken into thinking that I was enjoying the day any more than I actually was.


Getting Married With Holey Socks and No Underwear.

The New Government Approved
Safety Sgian Dubh.

It was past 3pm and the Missus was officially late. I wasn't too worried, as it is tradition for the bride to be late, and because I was enjoying some precious extra bittersweet moments as owner of my own testicles. That was when it hit me - I was still wearing my boxer shorts under my kilt. I had completely forgotten to take them off as I got dressed. I felt a strange mixture of shame and disappointment and could imagine Dad O'Neill saying "Kieran, I love you very much. We've always been best pals and I'm so proud to see you get married today. But you're wearing boxers under your kilt. You disgust me.". So praying the Missus didn't arrive whilst I was away, I snuck into the priest's changing room and worked my boxers down around my ankles and tried to take them off. I didn't notice however that one leg hole had caught itself in my sgian dubh, so when I straightened up, the dagger tore a decent sized hole in my sock. So there I stood, knickerless in a priest's changing room with holey socks and a pair of boxer shorts in my hand. Insert your own joke there. I tried to roll them up and put them in my sporran but it was full with my mobile, wallet and keys etc, so I calmly walked back to the alter, approached Mum O'Neill and asked her to put my boxers in her handbag, and sat down in my seat like nothing had happened.

Smile Bitches.

At this point the music started up and my heart jumped into my mouth and my balls jumped up to where my heart had been. As I turned around and saw the Missus walking up the isle with her flowergirl and bridesman (male bridesmaid - it was that kind of wedding) I swear, I have never seen anyone so beautiful. Unfortunately my mouth decided to agree in a way only it could; by engaging before my brain was given a chance to catch up. "Holy shit!" I exclaimed, only to see the priest staring at me accusingly. The ceremony itself went off hitchless although when it came time for the vows, when the priest asked me the 'Til death do you part?' bit, instead of saying 'I do', I absent-mindedly said "Ummmmm OK". From a nonchalant reply bordering on disrespectful to an eagerness bordering on psychopathic now, because when the priest said "Missus, do you take..." the Missus interrupted him with "I do". He could have asked her anything;

"I Just Did" Motherfuckers!

~ "Missus, do you take Kieran to Disney World?"
~ "Missus, do you promise to love, honour and go down on Kieran everyday, so long as you both shall live?"
~ "Missus, will you sign a cast iron pre-nup, agreeing that should he ever become rich and famous and were to divorce you, you would not demand 50% of all his shit, including the Playstation 3?".

To agree to all of that without hearing it, well that shows committment. The Missus, what a woman....



To be continued....

Kieran x

A Day in the Life.

Woke Up, Got Out of Bed, Dragged a Comb Across My Head...
Sometimes I wonder what it's like to be other people, to live a day in their life and find out what their life is like. I figured that in the spirit of openness and friendship, and in case you wanted to know a little more about me and my life, I would share with you a randomly chosen day in the life of well, me. If it's good enough for the Beatles when they were fucked on psychedelic narcotics, then it's good enough for your average common garden variety smartarse like me. Before you begin let me just say this: everything I talk about here really happened. They are neither made up nor exaggerated. These things happened just the way I describe. So enjoy living my life for a day.

Morning All.

I woke up early in the morning with the brainwave of documenting all that happened to me that day, as I had no particular plans, and so nothing particularly special to write about. The Missus was just leaving to go to work, as she works in an office which is so remotely situated it may has well be on Craggy Island (Google it). I decided to snooze for a little while but that idea was interrupted by my kitten Marley, who with the Missus' blessing has assumed the role of man of the house. He jumped up onto the bed and onto my stomach, immediately winding me and terrifying me at the same time. The little smartarse then proceeded to milk tread just below my waistline. Besides the obviously uncomfortable felatio connotations he had also put all his weight on my bladder. I like to think that Marley doesn't have detailed knowledge of human anatomy, but it was a hell of a coincidence that he just happened to choose an area which would guarantee my speedy evacuation of the bed and a wobbly sprint to the toilet.


Half-Eaten Mars Bars and Babies' Bibs.

So Am I Getting Fed This Year or Not?

After having emptied my bladder he proceeded to start his constant crying which was reminiscent of a baby being repeatedly punched in the stomach, until I finally gave in and fed the sneaky little sod. After a breakfast of a half-eaten Mars Bar and bottle of coke from the night before I sleepily put a delicates washing on and did the dishes. We do the dishes every day, and as only two of us live in the house we never dirty much crockery/cutlery. However, for some reason every day there seems to be a mountain of dishes waiting for me. I'm now beginning to suspect that each of my neighbours has a spare key and is sneaking into the house in the middle of the night with their dirty dishes for me to do. I swear I had to wash a baby's plastic bib one time.

After what seemed like a couple of weeks the dishes were done and the bed was the next. A relatively easy job, with the exception that before the old bedsheets can be washed I need to play "Hunt the Socks". The Missus has three tendencies whilst sleeping; stealing bedsheets, kicking me in the legs and kicking her socks off. She does this every night, which makes me wonder why she wears socks to bed in the first place. Unfortunately she seems to forget that she was wearing them which means that come time to change the sheets, a collection of socks to match Amelda Marcos' shoe collection has built up. And so I need to hunt for every last one of these socks. It's like playing "Hunt the Easter Egg", only instead of finding a chocolate egg I find a smelly sock.


Cross Dressing Freaks and Fucking Cat Litter.

"I am Not an Animal, I am a Cuddly Toy!"

It was time to take out the freshly washed clothes only to receive a horrible shock. The Missus for some unfathomable reason had put a boil wash on the night before, and had forgot to change the dial back. I took out the remains of this delicates wash and surveyed the damage. I now owned jumpers which could easly accomodate Stretch Armstrong. The Missus clothes were thoroughly ruined, dress after dress came out of varying shapes and sizes, some which could fit a Barbie Doll and some which could fit Eddie Murphy's Nutty Professor. There was even one particularly lovely dress which would look rather fetching on the Elephant Man, if he was into crossdressing which I'm sure he was.

It was now time to approach the biohazard area which was Marley's litter box. It resembles a cat carrying case, only there lurks much evil inside. Marley, possibly the cutest cat in the world is capable of such evil with monotonous regularity. It's just as well terrorist cells down know about this or they would be offering to buy Marley from me. After a quick shower it was time to get dressed and decide what to do with the rest of my day. I decided shopping and cinema. Just to inform you, it was not good shopping, like computer games or DVDs, it is awful shopping like toilet roll, bleach and fucking cat litter. I went to a local well-known supermarket for similar items and immediately regretted it. It seemed to be populated entirely by old bastards and care in the community subjects. As a matter of fact, the only other thing which seemed to link them apart from grey pubes and vacant expressions is that they were intentionally being slower than me, and at every opportunity.


Old Fuckitude, Suspected Strokes and Chronic Cuntitis.

But Not Necessarily Longer.

I hate supermarkets. It is the closest one can get to experiencing Hades without being in the same room as Piers Morgan. I just want to get the stuff on my list as soon as possible and escape the insanity. I always seem to get the trolley with the squeaky wheel, or the one which repeatedly gives me static electricity shocks every 20 feet so I just stack a hand held basket high enough to resemble the Leaning Tower of Pizza. One thing I can't abide by is ignorance of other people. I turned the corner of one isle and there were 3 pensioner women talking. Trying to get past I said "Sorry, excuse me" but they kept talking. I repeated it in a louder tone and this time two of them turned around, looked at me growled at me, then turned back and continued talking. So as I deliberately shouldered my way past, I turned to one of the women and said "Did you know that one side of your face is sagging? You know that's one of the first signs of a stroke" and carried on. I try to be as considerate as possible, but I only ever seem to come across fucks. Unfortunately these fucks seem to take the form of groups of old women who wander aimlessly with a frown on their faces and a stoop in their posture. When I was young I thought it was because because they had medical conditions such as arthritis. Now I know it's caused by the colossal chip on their shoulders. Perhaps it IS classified as a medical condition. I can imagine in a doctor's office, the doctor saying "Ahh hello Agnes, sit down. Now, the results have come back and I'm afraid to tell you that you are suffering with a case of chronic cuntitis. The only effective treatment is for you to stop being such a total fuck all the time".

What Many Shop Security Guards
See Themselves As.

I hate awful shopping, as it involves needing to suffer terrible things, like other people. I try to avoid talking to people as much as possible, because I'm such a people person, to be in others' lives would only be rubbing my fantastic personality in other's faces. For some reason supermarket security guards hate me. Regardless of what I wear or how I act I seem to constantly arouse the suspicion of supermarket guards who prowl the isles which properly pisses me off. I remember about a month or so ago one seemed to take a great interest in me for no reason, so I let him come near me, hover around for a while until he wandered off. I then decided to follow him around the store, for a good 15-20 minutes. Everywhere he went, I went. Everytime he caught my eye, I would look him up and down suspiciously, and look at the pockets in his trousers. After 5 minutes it became obvious what I was doing, but as I was doing nothing wrong there was nothing he could do, so I continued to follow him until he looked positively terrified of me, then I paid for my things and left. Serves him right. Another time I asked a security guard who was pestering me "Sir, could you please step aside and empty out your pockets". The look of confusion on his face was a joy to behold. Sometimes I have too much spare time on my hands.


"Why Yoo Hert Mee Like Thees?".

Shopping over, and as I waited for a train from Partick Station into the City Centre a man who was talking to himself shuffled up to me and started to complain to me about how I was Eastern European and how terrible it was that I was "over here". This was news to me, as I thought I was born in a hospital in Glasgow. I could have walked away, but since I had been suckered into talking to another person, I thought I may as well dazzle him with my sparkling personality. I therefore put on my best (yet very ropey) accent and said "Yez! Yez! I from Poland". The majority of the conversation was spent defending my newly appointed nationality and highlighting to him that he told me his dad was Irish and so was therefore no different, but he wasn't listening. The rest of the conversation was me repeating "But why? Why yoo hert me like thees?". It ended when my train came and told him that if he was ever in Poland to look up my family, and he would have a home with them. This fine specimen of xenophobia personified said that he would never step foot in my brand new appointed country, so to end the conversation as I walked towards the open train doors I turned round and said slowly and methodically, as if trying to remember the correct words: "You... were born.... of a stinking whore dog's cuntpiece", stepped onto the train and smiled. As the train doors slid closed and the train moved off, the dumbfounded face on that fucker was priceless.


Brad Pitt & Abandoned Garter Belts.

When I arrived at the cinema I bought my ticket and went to the bar to work on writing before the movie started. I happened to look down below my seat and I found a long-forgotten black and white lace garter belt. I stared at it for a moment. Why on Earth would you want to wear a garter belt to a cinema? What movie would require such an item of clothing? How could it possibly enhance your viewing of Despicable Me 2? Having decided to wear it, why then would you wait until you get to the cinema before changing your mind? Why would you remove it in middle of the cinema bar and not the toilet? Why would you then leave it there and not take it home? The mind boggles. I didn't know who it belonged to so I certainly wasn't going to touch it. It seemed perfectly happy where it was and I wasn't arguing, so I decided to eat my sandwich and continue writing. At this time a lovely couple who were sitting near to me had noticed the garter belt. The gentlemen asked if it was mine. He said he wasn't making any assumptions about my private life but he just didn't want me to lose it if it WAS mines. What a nice chap. I confirmed that it wasn't mines and that I was actually somewhat afraid of it. I did concede however that it would go well with my eyes.

Because  "Jeremy Kyle" was too Long
for the Label.

Recently I have been asked to contribute to someone else's blog by reviewing everything from male grooming products to the latest cinema releases. I figured I may as well watch one of the movies to be reviewed so World War Z it was. If you fancy reading my review I'll provide a link to the blog I contribute to. I enjoy going to the cinema. I don't know if it's the escapism in another world for a few hours. Or maybe it's just because I get to sit in a darkened room for a while. Next time you are at the cinema rather than talk bullshit to whoever you're with, sit and listen to the bullshit other people talk, because all human life is here. This time there were two young twatbags casually chatting about their sexual conquests the weekend before as though comparing scorecards. I studied I studied behavioural psychology for years. Trust me, it's a certainty that these two Lotharios were virgins. There was a nice young couple a few seats along from me, and half way through the movie I heard the girl accidentally spill her Coke. It must have been a supersized megafuckoff one, because it didn't sound like a drink spilling, it sounded like the scene in Inception when the water floods into the hall through the Windows and nearly drowns Leonardo Dicaprio (Youtube it). I could sense both the girl's disappointment and her wet feet and immediately felt sorry for her. I was considering giving her some of my bottle of Coke, but unfortunately the bottle said that I was to share it with Stephen. And since I wasn't with any Stephens and that was unlikely to be her name, I said screw it and kept it for myself.


"Fantastic" Curries and Half-Burried Cat Shit.

Is it a Bird? Is it a Plane? No, it's Supercat!

Cinema over and having bought a fantastic microwave curry (I say fantastic in the same way discovering that the dog shit you thought you stood on just turned out to be a brown leaf is "fantastic") on the way home on the train I was sitting writing notes on the movie I had just seen. What immediately sprung to mind was the awkward dialog between Brad Pitt's character and his family. It seemed more like a psychopath had just invaded a single mother's home and had told them to act like a happy family together, or else he would start cutting pieces off them. I got home to find the Missus sitting in bed watching Netflix, and Marley ushering me towards the massive half-buried shit in his box, in the same way a child proudly shows off a finger painting to his parents before putting it on the fridge. If Marley thought his masterpiece was going anywhere near the fridge then he was in for a disappointment.

And so I end my day in bed with a "fantastic" curry on my lap, the Missus kicking me in her sleep and me watching a dodgy horror movie on Netflix. So there you have it, welcome to MY life.

PS. Here is the link to the site I regularly contribute to, and the link to my reviews of various blockbusters, including World War Z:
Stye n Sound and Silver Screenwipe with Kieran O'Neill

Kieran x

The Week that Wasn't - Scotland Edition - 1.7.2013

Well now that the wedding day is over, Hurricane Matrimony has passed and I have assessed the desolation that was my dreams, it's now time to get back to the drudgery of talking complete and utter bullshit. There has been lots of Scottish news recently which has caught my eye so let me enlighten you all.

Pssst.... You Wanna Buy Some Death Sticks? Or Some Carrier Bags?

A Man Prepares for the 5p Levy
By Taking His Argos Shopping Home.

The latest plan to sexually molest our wallets comes not from the UK government as usual, but from Hollyrood instead. This schemes involves introducing a 5p levy on carrier bags you normally get for free. It is thanks to environment secretary Richard Lochhead, who states that we are all a bunch of wasteful bastards who take 10 shopping bags to carry a loaf of bread then discard 9 of the bags in the street. How observant of him. In the interests of fairness however the Scottish Government has been at pains to stress that this levy is not a tax and the government will not make any money from this scheme. The money raised (possibly up to £5million) will go directly to good causes. I'm sure they have a utopian vision of a Scotland where people have 1 carrier bag which lasts them all their lives and peoples' houses are powered by bottled methane from the flatulence produced by the inhabitants who live there, but I fear the reality may be somewhat different. I think people rather than giving 5ps to charity shall instead just cram more shopping into less bags. One should therefore expect to see an increased number of ripped carrier bags on the street with 6 broken eggshells and lightbulbs in them instead. And organised criminals ever the opportunists, sensing money to be made will ship carrier bags from the continent and sell them off at greatly reduced prices. The government had enough trouble on their hands with people selling loose tobacco on the black markets, now they will need to combat both Golden Virginia AND 2p carrier bags. Scotland will become a land strewn with torn carrier bags and broken dreams, with no eggs and no hope. And Scotland will descend into Dante's 7th circle of Hell. Probably.


Penguins Make Glasgow.

"People Make Glasgow Addicted".

News from Glasgow now, in the run up to the Commonwealth Games Glasgow has decided to rebrand itself. Moving on from the ridiculous and thoroughly misleading "Glasgow Smiles Better" travesty, they have moved on to "People Make Glasgow...". Whilst this is technically accurate in so much as it is unlikely that Polar Bears or Seagulls designed and constructed the houses and shipyards. So kudos for pedantic accuracy there. To be more specific, there will be a number of different slogans ie. "People Make Glasgow Home", "People Make Glasgow Creative" etc. I think there may be other options which although less appealing will be more realistic and frankly, honest. For example, "People Make Glasgow Alcoholic", "People Make Glasgow Ignorant", "People Make Glasgow Illiterate", "People Make Glasgow Gomorrah" etc.


Happy Shiny People Holding Handbags.

David Longmuir (L) & Neil Doncaster (R) Discuss
Who Should Receive the First Blow Job.

Football now, and after months of bitter fighting, name calling, bitching, and handbag skirmishes, the 2 great (?) organisations the SPL and SFL have agreed to merge into one great supergroup of football. There has been a great deal of resentment when the top teams in the country broke away to become the SPL in the pursuit of money, leaving The SFL with the cheque and a sense of bitterness. After 15 years the land of plenty which was the SPL turned out to be just the same as the SFL, but with a sillier badge on the football tops. Now after the debacle that was the death of Rangers Football Club (you probably hate me now, but just face it and move on) and the subsequent rise of another Rangers, the feelings of bitterness returned when Scottish football collectively shat itself at the thought of a global giant going the way of the dodo. So now all is well in Scottish football, everyone has agreed to put their handbags down and kiss and make up in the interest of money. And all the bitterness and resentment of the past is a distant memory, with everyone seeing each other as brothers and friends. Erm, yeah...... sure......


One Small Step for Shrek, One Giant Leap for Womankind.

Shrek Only Golfs at Places Which Allow
Princess Fiona to be a Member.

Linking the unholy marriage of sport and politics, professional Shrekalike First Minister Alex Salmond struck a blow for women and fairytale characters everywhere this week, when he deliberately refused an invitation to the Open Championship to be held at Muirfield Golf Course. Why you might ask. It seems that the golf bosses at Muirfield still live in the 15th century, as they continue their long standing tradition of refusing to allow females to become members. Yes, it's a regular sausage factory up in Muirfield. Although if you would allow me to play devil's advocate for a moment, it could be argued that they are only staying true to the traditional ideals of golf. Remember, according to urban legend golf isn't a name, it's an acronym which golf was named after: Gentlemen Only Ladies Forbidden. This is certainly not true, and as a result is instead, a backronym, however the fact that there is such a long running legend only goes to highlight the misogynistic history of the sport. It is scandalous of course that Muirfield continues to ban females from being members, when they are more than happy to allow Pixar cartoon characters to be guest of honour.


Even Pontius Pilate Probably Wasn't This Miserable.

Murray After Being Asked to Consider Which is More
Important - Wimbledon Success or the End of Days.

At time of writing, Andy Murray marches onwards with the persistence of a hard boiled egg with a miserable face drawn on it being rolled down a hill. 2 of the favourites Federer and Nadal have both gone out, leaving the door wide open for uber-talented misery guts Murray to casually stroll through. Murray the world number 2 is truly one of the favourites to go on and be the first Briton to win Wimbledon since Pontius Pilate in 20AD. I like the rest of the nation shall be cheering Andy on, but I can't help feeling increasingly uneasy as he gets closer to the final. It's a well known fact that a Scot winning Wimbledon will herald the arrival of the Rapture, so if I were you I wouldn't start any long books right now. And if at any time you see the 4 horsemen of the apocalypse sitting eating strawberries on Murray Mound then you'll know why. So thanks Andy for threatening to bring all existence to an end with your world class tennis, you selfish bastard. Funny, I always thought it would be the Americans who in some way would bring about the end of the world.


I Find Your Lack of Ruthlessness Disturbing.

"So Let Me Get This Right. Your Disabled Grandmother
DOESN'T Need to Pay Bedroom Tax? Iain, Fix This".

And finally, 3 cheers for Renfrewshire Council for using a legal loophole to protect some of it's most vulnerable residents from the Bedroom Tax. It will reclassify some homes so that any spare bedrooms which need to be used for the care of a disabled tenant will be exempt from the tax. These bedrooms will no longer be considered 'spare', but necessary and so the tenents will not have their benefits reduced. It's nice to see a local council having a heart and actually looking out for their most needy tenants. And somewhere deep in bowels of Westminster Emperor Cameron and Darth Osborne are buggering Work and Pensions Secretary Iain Duncan Smith with a fireplace poker for allowing such irresponsible compassion to be shown to such lowly serfs. And IDS will be sent packing with the Emperor's orders ringing in his ears: "Wipe the loopholes out. All of them".

Kieran x