General Election 2015 (Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Liar)

So now the election campaign has kicked off I hope you all have wellies and golf umbrellas, because it’s going to be raining bullshit constantly, with gale-force vomit being driven into your face by numerous politicians full of hot air. The race may still have 2 weeks remaining but already there has been enough bullshit to fill a swimming pool. So here is a round up so far of the electoral shenanigans of those leaders who would happily stab their granny in the neck with a rusty screwdriver for your vote.
 

Tory

Current Prime Minister and leader of the dark side Emperor Cameron got out of the starting blocks early. No sooner had he finished licking the Queen’s ring for the final  time this Parliament, he was back in Downing Street to make sure little Boy lost Ed Miliband hadn’t snuck in through the cat flap. The Emperor thought that the best way to tell serfs how great he was, was by telling them how shit little Ed was. He cooked up the lie that under Labour all serfs are going to be £3,000 worse off. And he would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for those pesky kids at the Institute for Fiscal Studies who told him not to talk shit. They described his claim as “very unhelpful and of little value”. For very unhelpful, see “lying bastard”. This was a change in tact for the Emperor after his attempts to show Little Boy Lost in Alex Salmond’s pocket. Ironically Nick Clegg has been in Cameron’s pocket for 5 years so suggesting anything about Ed is a tad hypocritical.

Now with 40% More Unicorn

During his TV interview, he was given a hefty seeing to by curly-haired crucifier Jeremy Paxman. Paxman asked him about his tolerance of zero-hours contracts, the rise in food banks, and how despite Darth Osborne’s assertions that Britain is “walking tall”, life is still pretty shit for anyone who isn’t a one-percenter. Meanwhile the Emperor has been having photoshoots of himself bottle-feeding lambs to show his fuzzy side. Unfortunately he then ordered the cameras to be turned off before he devoured the lamb’s soul. In order to appear like a normal family man, his has been snapped at a barbeque eating hot dogs with a knife and fork. I don’t know what kind of cunt eats hot dogs with cutlery, but eating with one’s hands is a step beneath Dave. Perhaps he just didn’t want Ed Miliband-esque pictures of him trying to eat looking like a slack-jawed simpleton. Still, just ask Cameron and he’ll tell you that nothing takes the horrid taste of hot dogs away like a nice glass of orphans’ tears.

Now With 30% More Orphan

The latest Tory news is Dave’s cunning plan to terrify the English into voting Tory. The Emperor has dusted off renowned Curriephile and ex-PM, the world’s greyest man John Major to espouse the dangers of the Northern hordes threatening to ravage England’s fair maidens. The scaremongering tactics (known as Operation Fear) which the Tories once employed in the Independence referendum with their No campaign bedfellows, have now been turned on the English voter. It remains to see whether the threat of an army of mad hairy arsed Scots hoisting a St Andrews Cross above Buckingham Palace will scare the English into voting for the Emperor. Time will tell.

Cameron does have some friends though, and not just in the mainstream media. UKIP’s Fuhrer, Herr Farage has already stated that he would jump into bed with Emperor Cameron given half the chance. I’m not sure who that will upset more, Samantha Cameron for having more competition, or Nick Clegg who will have to curl up at the foot of the bed like the good little lap dog he is.

Lib Dems

Clegg Remembers What It was Like to Have a Spine

The prospect of reduced bed space aside, Nick Clegg has had a fantastic time. On the first day he quite unnecessarily visited the Queen, most likely the last time he’ll ever get to meet the Queen again, unless he scores the winning goal for England in the World Cup final. He then started his Lib Dead Farewell Tour by saying that the Toryists were too right wing, the Labourists were too left wing and that the Lib Dems were juuuuuust riiiight. He said that a coalition government with a completely useless, spineless, hopeless bunch of Lib Dem pricks was the only way to go. After that all the journalists left, so he started talking to some dog poo on the pavement because it was the only way he would have a captive audience. Nick Clegg is determined to convince anyone who will listen that he and his party are still electable. And he’s right. That’s if people are voting on who should be the first person to try and find a safe way across a minefield. 

Left: Beaker Wearing Glasses. Right: Alexander at the Podium

The Lib Dead’s own answer to Beaker, Danny Alexander, has recently disclosed during an interview that in a meeting with the Tories, one unnamed Tory said “You take care of the workers, let us take care of the bosses”, thereby highlighting the Tories’ callous attitude towards the working class, and priorities towards the top 1% of society. The timing of such a revelation is convenient to say the least, but hardly surprising. If this is to make us feel worse about Emperor Cameron’s bid to crush the populous into servitude, it only serves to ask why the Libtards were happy to become joined at the hip with them for 5 years, when they could have raised a vote of no confidence in the government, called for another general election and kicked Emperor Cameron in his unmentionables any time they wanted. They would probably have done even better in the re-election after showing that they had the balls to do what they said they would. And so Mr Alexander’s revelation only serves to make his party look feebler, and another political faecal faux pas has hit the Lib Deads’ fan.

Nick Sings Cher's "If I Could Turn Back Time"

In his role as Tory hired help, Nick has had the misfortune/stupidity to make his party the one thing worse than hated – irrelevant. The UKIPs and their bigot-in-chief, Sam the Eagle Farage are hated across much of the country, and yet they are currently polling much higher than the Lib Deads. If you are happy with how Emperor Cameron, Darth Osborne and Darth Duncan Smith are running the country then simply vote Tory. If you want things to change then vote for Little Boy Lost’s Party, Snips, Plaid Cymru, or Greens et al.

Nick Clegg has stated lately that everyone should Lob Dead because they will give a Tory Coalition government “a heart” and a Labour Coalition government “a brain”. Shame he can’t promise to offer either one a spine. Although Clegg deliberately likened himself as a fair minded Dorothy in this Westminster rendition of the Wizard of Oz, unfortunately for the last 5 years he has chosen to play the part of the Cowardly Lion. Now it’s too little too late. He’s typecast, there are no other roles for him and he will always be looked on as the Cowardly Lion. At the end of the Movie the Cowardly Lion gets presented with a courage medal. Clegg is more likely to be presented with a P45.

Labour

"Cracking Campaign Strategy Gromit!"

It’s been a bit of a mixed bag of shit for waxy-faced Wallace-a-like Edward Milliband too. Ed did surprisingly well against Jeremy Paxman’s verbal bashing on TV. Even though the big scary Pax man was bullying him, Ed argued back and stood up for himself and didn't cry or anything, even though the big angry Pax man had to ask him if he was OK at the end. Uncle Ed Balls must have promised him an ice cream if he managed to hold in the waterworks. After the peak of live TV interview was the trough that was his attempts to woo business leaders. Labour took out a full page ad in the Financial Times quoting various leaders on how Labour’s stance on staying in the EU was much better for the country and for business. While Ed was shmoosing them on the podium, their companies released various statements stating that they were “impartial” and “apolitical”. For impartial and apolitical, please see “Don’t draw us in on this Ed, you prick”. 

Ed Losing an Argument With a Bacon Sandwich

Lately however, Little Boy Lost has made a bit of a whoopsy. The Daily Torygraph printed a desperate article about a “leaked” memo stating that the SNiP leader Nicola Sturgeon told the French Ambassador that she preferred Emperor Cameron as prime minister to little Ed because the Emperor seemed like more of a leader. This was immediately strenuously denied by a pissed off Sturgeon and the French who confirmed that no such discussion took place. Just ask any serious angler, you don’t want a pissed off Sturgeon in your hands, no matter how small. That would have been the end of it, however Little Boy Lost, being so desperate to discredit the SNiPs, launched into how it showed that all SNiPs are lying disingenuous bastards, and that the Scotch must vote for Scotch Labour. The problem is that it has shown to be complete bollocks, and Labour look at best fools for falling for the Torygraph’s tall tale, and at worst opportunistic weasels for trying to smear someone who the British electorate currently view quite kindly. Either way, Scotch Labour now look less electable than ever.

The latest election gaffe by Little Boy Lost is to have Gordon Brown and Tony Blair dusted off and going the rounds intervening on behalf of little Ed. That’s who you want defending you – a known war criminal and a chancellor who under their own watch failed utterly to protect Britain against the global recession, who landed us in this  pool of diarrhoea in the first place. Tony Blair intervening on behalf of Ed Miliband is like Adolf Hitler intervening on behalf of Angela Merkel. I bet poor Ed just wishes that he was in his bedroom playing PS4 right now.

SNP

Nicola Sturgeon Full of Smiles (Presumably)

The SNP has had a better time of it so far. They got out of the blocks with a rousing conference in front of 3,000 William Wallaces in Glasgow.  Labour’s argument has been that “a vote for SNP is a vote for the Tories” but the Tories’ argument is “a vote for SNP is a vote for Labour”. It can’t be both, so it’s most likely neither.  Meanwhile, in an attempt to give every Daily Mail reader in England a stroke, Shrek-alike Alex Salmond has been stirring the shit again by claiming that the SNP would control England's economy as part of a coalition. That makes a certain amount of sense, after all we are supposed better together apparently. One team sailing the big ship Britannia together. As far as the Daily Mail is concerned we ARE better together, so long as an English-dominated Westminster political party is controlling that ship. If an exclusively Scottish party dare put a hand on the ship's wheel then the English media lose their shit completely. 

Sturgeon Wowing Audiences With Her Tap Dancing

The highlight of the SNiPs campaign so far was Leader Nicola Sturgeon’s performance in the live Leader’s Debate. All the scaremongering of the Daily Heil and Daily Torygraph was successfully dispelled in one evening. The theory that a mad hairy-arsed army of SNiPs charging down to London, trampling roses, and planting Thistles as they go have been all over the English media, and understandably English voters were concerned. However what they saw in the leaders’ debate was a tiny woman in a red suit, talking about the SNiPs helping end austerity for the whole of Britain. As a result, the Westminster establishment and their lackeys in the media have been shitting their spleens out in panic, as to how to demonise the Scottish homunculus.

A Sight to Scare any Sith Lord, or Tory Peer.

I’ve met Nicola Sturgeon. I’ve asked her searching questions. Let me be the first to confirm what you’re all wondering. Yes she really is only 3 ft tall. I’m convinced that during the leaders’ through camera trickery made her like at least 2 ft taller than she actually is. Based on the latest polls it seems increasingly likely that the SNiPs will have some kind of hand in how the next government is formed. What is crucial for Sturgeon is that she does not make the mistake Nick Clegg did. He immediately lost his spine, became the Tory’s chief apologist, and has now for almost 5 years suffered the most protracted political suicide in living memory. Perhaps the main sentiment of all William Wallaces are best summed up in the immortal words of Mahatma Gandhi: “You’ve got a bloody awesome opportunity here you tiny tart, just try not to fuck it up for the rest of us, eh?”. Probably.

UKIP

Left: Sam the Eagle Scowls. Right: Farage at the Leaders Debate

Meanwhile, back in 1950, turkey necked blunderbuss Nigel “Sam the Eagle” Farage has launched UKIP’s election campaign in front of the white cliffs of Dover. It may be that he wanted to speak in front of something intrinsically British (for Intrinsically British, see “bloody English”). It was most likely that his supporters just wanted to soothe their red raw knuckles in the cooling waters of the English Channel. Nigel immediately kicked off his campaign by blaming all of Britain’s ills on immigrants and said that a cap on immigration was the only thing that would save our souls. This was a u-turn from a couple of weeks ago where he wanted a points-based system of entry. It seems that his knuckle-dragging support figured that was too tolerant of Nigel, and so official party policy was back to telling everyone who wasn’t white, Christian and British to fuck off again (Note: It appears that he has changed his mind again and has reverted to the points system, as stated on the recent live TV debate. Clearly policy comes second to whatever will get the racist the most votes). 

Farage Mobbed by Fans at the Campaign Launch

UKIP have been at their hare-brained best however, by claiming that it is nonsense that a nationalist political party (SNP) be part of a union (Westminster coalition) they are dead set on leaving. Apparently the hypocrisy of a UKIP candidate in the European Parliament elections is lost on a fascist. Meanwhile Nigel Farage admitted in the live TV Leader’s debate to having a bug up his arse about foreign HIV victims getting treatment on the NHS. British HIV is fine apparently, but foreign HIV is awful. If only people contracted good old-fashioned British HIV then it wouldn’t be a problem, but all this foreign HIV, coming over here, taking all our jobs and our antivirals…

An Award for the Cameraman is Deserved

Since the leaders’ debate Herr Farage has admitted to UKIP falling in the opinion polls. I’m sure Farage will be quick to point out that the seeming fall in popularity is because of the EU, or immigrants coming into the country, or Muslims, or breast-feeding mothers. Bloody EU Muslim, breast-feeding immigrant mothers, coming over here, taking all our jobs and our opinions. I’m surprised that Herr Farage hasn’t stated that opinion poles will be banned if he gets a sniff of power after the election. He probably thinks that the Poles who have come over here have been given enough of an opinion already. Just like his fascist forefathers, Nigel really seems to dislike Polish people. 

In the last Leader’s debate Big Sam made himself look like even more of a tit by petulantly turning on the audience just because they weren’t a bunch of rabid knuckle dragging racists. As an occasional standup comedian myself I always advise that you are going to attack the crowd, do it purely in self-deprecatory jest, not because they don’t dig what you are saying. As much as big Sam seems like a comedy character, he is very serious indeed. They only joke in his performance is the man himself.

Plaid Cymru and the Green Party

Woods, Sturgeon and Bennett. Hope for Politics Yet.

A little unfair to lump two entirely separate parties in together don’t you think? Not if the mainstream media have anything to say about the matter. After initially impressing the UK public with modern, progressive ideas on politics much has gone quite on the Plaid and Green front. This is not because either party have been sitting still, but simply because the press would rather concentrate on the threat of the SNiPs, or giving Herr Farage’s UKIP twats the oxygen of publicity. As a result stories in the media have been very few and far between for Leanne Wood’s Plaid, or Natalie Bennett’s Green Party. I fear that one rabble-rousing woman politician is as much as the media can handle at any one time. One positive aspect of such little media attention is that neither party has been dragged into the mud like any of the others. Whilst the other politicians have been throwing shit at each other like a gang of lunatic diarrhoetic monkeys, both Plaid and the Greens have managed to stay above such nastiness. Like the SNP, the core of their strength is online and in social media. This is a good thing. It is where grass roots politics is formed with the future generations, where free thinking is encouraged, and the political bias of mainstream media is deservedly mocked. Whether this will be enough to garner any more seats for either party in THIS election remains to be seen.

So there you have it. The main stories so far in this election marathon, in which we have seen sleaze, lies, backstabbing, smear campaigns, ropey TV appearances, cringeworthy soundbites and enough faux sincerity to make you want to vomit. And we are still nearly 2 weeks away. If the electioneering keeps up at this pace people will be so sick of the bloody sight of politicians that no one will WANT to vote in the election. Perhaps this is why voter turnout always seems to be low; everyone just wishes the superficial people with the brightly coloured rosettes and fake smiles would just fuck off and give them peace. Perhaps the party who really wants to win the most should just carry the campaign slogan “We will shut the fuck up and leave you alone if you just vote for us”. I predict a landslide.

Politics Part 2 (or: This Time it's Personal).

Well Hello There.

In the tradition of cashing in on anything even modestly successful by bringing out a sequel, I proudly bring to you Part 2 of my politics special. If you missed Part 1 first time, then please find "Politics (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bastard)" here. Harold Wilson once said that a week is a long time in politics, but that was easy for him to say when there wasn't Twitter, 24hr rolling news stations and an almost endless line of comedians aiming potshots at politicians. If he had to endure all that then he might have revised his timescale down from 7 days to 4 minutes. With the all-important Scottish independence referendum creeping ever closer, the government giving it's latest figures, and the truly heartbreaking (ahem) death of Margaret Thatcher having occurred since the publishing of Part 1, I think Kieran's Political State of the Nation Address is overdue.

The EDL March to the Wardrobe to Protest Against
The Twin Evils of the Lion and the Witch.

And what a state the nation is in. As with all times of hardship, the ruling powers try their best to deflect blame from themselves, and with the general public looking to take their frustrations out on someone, and with the backing of mainstream media, some minority is always ready to be thrust atop the burning pyre. Russian President Vladimir Putin has decided that it is gay people who are responsible for all the world's ills, and unbelievably has actively demonised gays in the same way Hitler did with the Jews. Whilst moral tosspots beat and murder gays over there, in Britian we (in a much more genteel manner) have turned to an all too familiar social pariah - Johnny Foreigner. Once it was starving Irish immigrants, then the influx of Indian/Pakistanis etc. More recently it was the Polish, now asylum seekers fleeing persecution. With all these awful groups shamelessly trying to live their lives in peace, and disgustingly trying to provide for their families whilst working hard and making a contribution to society, thank goodness then we have a group of brave souls willing to act like complete scum. Cue St George's own personal malitia, the EDL (English Dickhead League) who are ready and willing to step up to the plate and bravely terrorise innocent families in true knuckledraggingly xenophobic fashion. So which politicians are going to stop the rot? Who will slap those who promote sectarian unrest in the face with a huge fish Monty Python Style? Let's revisit our political leaders to see how much they have learned recently.


Conservatives.

Cameron and Clegg Out and About
To Meet Local Voters.

When I penned Politics Part 1 I compared Prime Minister David Cameron to the evil Emperor in the Star Wars movies, with Chancellor George Osborne as his Darth Vader. On reflection, perhaps this was slightly unfair. For a start, in Star Wars the Empire was ruthlessly efficient, and devastatingly successful in their machinations. The same cannot be said for this Conservative government. Far from being an evil genius emperor, Big Dave Cameron is more like Dick Dastardly from the cartoon series The Wacky Races, with Osborne his faithful sidekick Muttley, only instead of giggling like an asthmatic on laughing gas, Osborne occasionally weeps for his ex-wet nurse and current full time corpse Margaret Thatcher. Dave Dastardly must surely be seething that just like his namesake's hapless attempts to vilify a poor pidgeon, Dave's attempts to vilify the poor and benefits claimants is starting to fail too.

"Drat and double drat!!! People are starting to realise that our policies benefit the rich at the expense of everyone else! Osboooooorne! Dooooo somethiiiing!".

Dave has recently been trying to get people currently receiving Jobseekers benefit back to work. As an incentive, the Government allows people to work up to 16hrs per week and still claim Jobseekers. Great. Unfortunately however, the government only disregard the first £5 before deducting the rest of your wage from your benefits. As a result you will be working 16 hours per week for a grand total of £5 per week. If that isn't an incentive to work I don't know what is. Nevermind, whatever gets the unemployment figures down is what really counts.


Labour.

The Two Eds in the Appointed Transport
Whilst Harriet Harman Navigates in the Back.

If each politician was a Wacky Races character, then Labour leader Ed Miliband would fancy himself as Peter Perfect. Unfortunately, along with his dad shadow chancellor Ed Balls they are more like the Gruesome Twosome. I'm not saying Harriet Harman is a dragon hiding in the back of the Creepy Coupe who only comes out to breath fire at the competition, but Occam's Razor would state differently. Ed's big brother David has decided to move over New York so he can sulk in peace at not being given the leadership of the Labour party. He is currently working as CEO for the International Rescue Committee, a non profit organisation giving international relief. Rumour has it he joined because he thought he was going to become a member of the Thunderbirds, but this cannot be verified. What are the chances that he comes back to politics in a few years to make a play for the Labour leadership again. A politician working with a charitable organisation in order to make himself look good? Surely not. Meanwhile, not much has happened with Ed politically. He still sits on the substitutes bench, moaning about how shit the government are and how he would do things differently. He hasn't been too forthcoming with ideas, but he has stated that the country requires "New Politics". This is a phrase as ambiguous and meaningless as Dave Dastardly's "Big Society" nonsense. Perhaps this "new politics" will reach further than ever before. Debates can be decided by who can hurl the best insults at the opposition;

"Mr Speaker. Finding an Ethnic Minority Conservative 
on the Front Benches is Like Playing Where's Fucking Wally".

"Mr Speaker, members of the house. I put it to all of you that the Right Honourable Member for Coventry South is a colossal dunderfuck!".

Perhaps pets can be given the right to vote. The bedroom tax can be replaced by a new "Moustache Tax". Who knows, maybe even politicians would be legally required to actually do their jobs for a change. OK, perhaps that last one was unrealistic.




Liberal Democrats.

"Did You Like the Present I Left
 in Your Shoe, You Insufferable Oaf?"

As part of the Conservative Lib Dem coalition, Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg continues in his job as Dave Dastardly's tea boy and manservant. He was perfectly happy cosying into Dave like a kitten suckles on it's mother, until the latest English local elections, when his party received an absolute hammering and the country collectively reminded Nick that if he wants a job as a tea boy, there are plenty of cafes which require such a person, and to leave politics to someone with a backbone. Nick has therefore started to bite the hand which employs him, by moaning about how Dave Dastardly and Muttley aren't being too fair on poor people and how he thinks they should be due a bit of a break. I'm sure he has anonymously put his opinion in the Downing Street suggestion box, and intentionally looked the other way as it is used as lining for Larry the Downing Street cat's litter tray. Afterall, Dave Dastardly is used to shitting on the poor, so why shouldn't Larry get used to shitting on suggestions to help them?



BNP/UKIP.

Nick and Nigel are Happy to Carpool to Westminster,
But Only if They Can Do it in a WHITE Car.

Bringing up the rear in the Westminster Wacky Races are the Slag Brothers, Rock and Gravel, or to give them their Sunday names Nick Griffin of the BNP and Nigel Farage of UKIP. Two cavemen in suits. The former is a racist, fascist fuck, and the latter is a slightly less fascist but still equally racist fuck. Both men have been revelling in the nation's newly invigorated right wing demonisation of foreigners, and they have been out to make the most of it by spouting the same old xenophobic drivel, only this time a little more brazenly. Both cavemen serve an important purpose in this political climate however. Their respective successes in the polls and in polling stations are a good lipmus test of just how fucked this nation is. If either Slag wins a General Election then all the nation's fair minded people can claim asylum in other countries. I'll see you all on the boat.



SNP.

Alex Salmond is Clearly Delighted to be
Meeting Hollywood A-lister Mike Myers.

The SNP are busy getting excited for the 2014 Independence referendum like a child gets excited about Santa coming on Christmas Eve. They need to be very careful however, as recent polls have indicated that on the day after the referendum flag waving haggis-botherer Alex Salmond might wake up to find that Santa didn't come, and that Scotland must stay in a loveless marriage with England. You might find my comparison of Scotland and England's union as a loveless marriage slightly unfair, but I ask you - when was the last time Scotland and England had sex? Exactly. While both the YES and NO camps continue to slug it out in the most depressing manner possible, Scottish voters have been left to ponder a number of questions such as;

1. Will Scotland be better off as an independent nation?
2. Will there be legal wrangling over ownership of the oil reserves in the North Sea?
3. Will Alex Salmond EVER knock the Braveheart shit off?
4. Why is the NO camp populated by such a bunch of miserable fearmongering arseholes?

Have a Nice Day Bitches.

So there you have it. We're poorer, sadder and ultimately more suicidal since my last Politics blog. Food banks for the poor have significantly increased, but at least Prince William and Kate have had sex and produced a child, so everything is great in Great Britian once more. Who knows, perhaps Wills and Kate can sell off the silver spoon little George was born with in his mouth, and donate that money to a child povery charity. But then again, why would they want to sell the family silver? We live in hard times afterall.

Kieran x

"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