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

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

My Big Fat Conceptual Consensual Wedding.

As you join me today I'm currently sitting at a table in a coffee shop pouting like a little girl who's been told that her birthday party has been cancelled. What's causing me to whimper like a little bitch, you might ask. Well, I'm just 3 days away from my life as I know and love it, ending. Yes, 3 days from now the Missus and I will be exchanging vows, she will be giving me a ring as a token of her love and fidelity, and I will be giving her a pair of testicle-shaped earrings as a token of my capitulation and submission. We have recently been to see our holy man who will be performing the unholy ritual, and he talked us through what the wedding vows we are about to take actually mean. I'm sure that there was some deep emotional meaning to them, but I heard some very different interpretations than what the preacher man was saying:

"I take you, woman" - I'm being taken by you, woman.
"To have and to hold" - I might occasionally get some, but I won't get my hopes up.
"In sickness and in health" - Me tolerating your periods, and you tolerating my man-flu.
"For richer, for poorer" - You richer, me poorer.
"'Til death do us part." - Or else you'll sue the shit out of me if I have an affair.

I think the overall impression the holy man was giving was that you must be willing to give yourself consensually, freely and with no impediments so there will be no 'shotgun wedding'. Hailing from a small, slightly backwards countrybumpkin town where I'd imagine shotgun weddings were quite common, (and having chosen to return there to get married) I can only guess that for some locals old habits die hard. What the preacher does not know is that the Missus will be holding a pump action shotgun to my genitalia. When it comes time to say my vows I can expect the sound of the Missus racking the shotgun's slide, just in case I have any bright ideas.

And so tonight I go through the practice ceremony with the Preacher, the Missus, my Best Woman and the Missus' Bridesman. Oh that reminds me, my sister just happens to be burdened with being my bestest friend, so when it came to picking a best man there was only one choice - Chuck Norris. But seeing as how it was unlikely that Mr Norris would be able to come, and he'd probably be busy saving the world again on the wedding day I asked my sister instead. The Missus on the other hand deliberately decided to go with the family angle as she (for some inexplicable reason) places great importance on family. So when it came to choosing a bridesmaid, she chose the next person she was close to - and that happens to be a dude. So I have a Best WOman and the Missus has a BridesMAN. How 21st century contemporary non-traditional bohemian hipster of us.

When we first got engaged I wasn't too bothered about the wedding, as it was more of a distant conceptual event which I didn't need to spend too much time thinking about, but now that it's almost upon me it has become depressingly real. Still, I have somehow found my own little safe haven. My life lately has become a hurricane of people buzzing around me, talking, discussing, organising for the wedding. Have you ever seen in the movies, one person sitting still, in real time, whilst everyone else has sped up to a blur around that person? That's me. Imagine me sitting on the sofa playing my Playstation with my cat Marley on my lap, and you have my life. Because luckily I seem to have found the eye of the storm. The one tiny patch of tranquility right at the centre, where all is calm. I'm hoping to sit here until the hurricane that is the wedding day is over, and we all come outside to assess the devastation that is my future hopes and dreams.

The next time we talk I will have a wedding ring, an official Missus, and no testes. But until then, I shall sit and whimper and stroke my genitals tenderly, because being all-but married has made me appreciate how precious some things in life are. Like freedom. Free speech. My own opinion. Being right. My pride, dignity and indeed testicles, because you really don't appreciate some things until they've gone. So wish me luck, and until next time, I bid you adieu.

Kieran x

The Week that Wasn't - UK Edition 15.6.2013

So what's been happening lately then?

Global Domination and Wii Bowling.

Exclusive: The Churchill Dog is a
Bilderberger. Oh Yes!

David Cameron was recently invited to meet with the ultra secretive Bilderbergers. The Bilderbergers are a selection of the world's most powerful and influential people in the spheres of politics, economics, business and society, but who's exact membership is unknown. Naturally, as a result they are the subject of much conspiracy theories, ie they are The Illuminati, they are planning the inevitable One World Order etc. This year they met at the Grove Hotel in Hertfordshire, but considering the sinister theories I'm surprised they don't meet in a hollowed out volcano on some undiscovered island. They meet for a few days every year to shoot the shit, play scrabble and perhaps have a Wii Bowling round robin tournament. They invite a few extremely important politicians as guests, which rumour has it, is a kind of global domination vetting process. Tony Blair, George Dubbya and Bill Clinton have been invitees and now Emperor Cameron is the latest to brush upon his Wii skills. Perhaps the Bilderbergers ARE mapping out how the world markets will be shaped for 2013-2014 but I like to think that they sit in a big room reading the Daily Mail and tutting at poor people. One thing IS true though: The last time Cameron had to kiss so much arse and have his arse fondled improperly, he was at Eton College. Why 'Bilderbergers' you ask? Well, they first met in the Bilderberg Hotel in The Netherlands in 1954 and in the absence of an official name, that name stuck. Just as well they didn't start in recent years in one of the more popular hotels, or we might be referring to them as 'The Travelodgers'. And any group with THAT name would struggle to organise an orgy in a whorehouse.


Big Brother is Watching Your Porn.

"Oh My God, I Just Stood Up For Myself.
Emperor Cameron Won't be Pleased".

NeEmperor  the Country's most illustrious tea boy now, and Nick Clegg appears to have confounded all expert opinion by showing that he may possibly have a backbone afterall. In the wake of Drummer Lee Rigby's brutal murder, knee jerk reactions from moronic politicians have called for the long-abandoned Data Communications Bill to be implemented. The bill would allow for law enforcement agencies to monitor and store records of all UK citizens' internet use, web browsing history etc all without a warrant. Little Nick said that it wasn't proportionate and was over the top. He then had to rush to the toilet to evacuate his bowels, and had a stress-induced asthma attack. With this bill the blunderbus ex-politicians aren't throwing the baby out with the bathwater. They are drowning the baby in it. Then setting the house on fire. Then firing a tactical nuclear missile at the town the baby's house is in. Passing the Data Communications Bill to defeat terrorists is like outlawing skinny jeans to defeat hipsters. I firmly believe that the Government won't be happy until all UK citizens have tracking devices implanted in their spinal chord, have their day's thoughts and memories downloaded onto the Goverment mainframe for inspection, and have a leash shoved up their arse.


The Forthcoming EDL Spleen Shortage.

Know Your Royals!

Bad news for Xenophobes now, as it has been revealed that Prince William will be the first King with Indian Ancestry. This is due to DNA research which has traced his mother Diana's bloodline back to India. The EDL will shit their own spleens with rage at the prospect of having a part foreign monarch. Obviously no one has told them that the royal family are, in fact, German. Their family name is Saxe-Coburg, from the House of Hanover, but that doesn't sound English so enough they changed it to 'Windsor'. I'm sure the more moronic from the band of fuckrags known as the EDL will demand that Harry becomes king instead (Even though he's still Diana's boy). Given how Prince Charles isn't his real dad, God only knows where his DNA comes from. Button Moon probably.


Bravo, The Sun. Bravo.

The Sun website meanwhile has decided to lead with the story of a horny couple being jailed after having sex at Barnsley train station and letting random strangers film it on mobile phones. Bravo, The Sun, top quality investigative journalism. As always, bringing you the stories that matter. As always. Speaking of The Sun's top quality investigative reporting, they successfully tracked down a girl who posted a picture of her boobs online using a stolen mobile phone. The reporter even took the time to inform everyone that the silly girl was 'jobless', thereby demonising her that little bit more. This might be the most significant investigation conducted by a newspaper since the Watergate scandal. As a result, I believe that a special session of Parliament be convened to discuss the case, and the implications of both stolen mobile phones and pictures of boobs on the net, on the general public. Bravo, The Sun. Bravo. I'm sure that you want to see the picture which has caused the storm, well I always endevour to please my readership - so here's a picture of a cat karate kicking a dog:


The More Things Change, the More They Stay the Same.

"Should I Buy 1 Ferrari or 2? Hell, I'm at
Man City Now - Let's Make it 10".

In the world of Football, Manchester City have appointed Manuel Pellegrini as manager. People say that thanks to the club owner's impossibly high expectations of new managers the Man City job is a poisoned chalice, but considering the wages involved, it's likely that Pellegrini can now afford to buy several million poisoned chalices. The other good thing about a job like that is that you can plan for the future, because you know you will only last 1-2 seasons before being fired, and with a wage of many gajillions of pounds per year, that's one delicious poison. Speaking of impossibly high expectations, Scottish manager David Moyes has taken the reigns at Manchester United, after Sir Alex Ferguson decided be couldn't be arsed anymore and has gone off to devote himself to his favourite pastimes of stealing Christmas and shouting at horses. It truly is all change in the city of Manchester, because United now have a grumpy angry Scot as manager, and City now have another highly rated European with unreasonable expectations placed upon him. Oh.


Scotland's Sporting Success, and Other Signs of the Apocalypse.

Scotland Won. Now The Fans Know
the End is Nigh.

Also in the world of sport, and Scotland won their World Cup qualifier against Croatia away from home. Yes, Scotland won a competative game of football, I'll just give you a moment to let that sink in......... Croatia, ranked number 4 in the world lost to Scotland who are ranked 74th, just ahead of Jordan and just behind Togo and the Cape Verde Islands (true). Whilst most of Scotland celebrated by getting even drunker than usual, it has unnerved many people, as such sporting successes are not supposed to happen until the end of days. I can only imagine that if Andy Murray wins Wimbledon this year then the Rapture will truly be upon us.

Kieran x.

The Week that Wasn't - UK Edition 4.6.2013

Germany's Next Topless Model.

If Only Suffragette Emily Davison Had
Thought of This Rather Than Going to the Races.

Topless members of Ukraine-based feminist group 'Femen' recently stormed the stage of the final of 'Germany's Next Top Model'. As these unexpected guest judges were taken away by security, celebrity judge Heidi Klum was quoted to having said "I've just seen boobies in front of me!". It's understandable that Klum was shocked, considering how skinny most of the models on the show are, it's highly likely that the protestors' boobies were the only boobies to be shown on the whole series. Femen are well known for demonstrating at events they see as sexist, which includes sporting events and religious locations. Personally I'm an avid supporter of equality of the sexes and of feminism in general, however any Google image search of Femen leaves you with the impression that despite all their good intentions, they just seems like a bunch of girls looking to get their tits out in public at any opportunity. I'm sure plenty of people will disagree with their assessment of the 'Next Top Model' format, namely the show's producers, sponsers and the army of men tearfully wanking into a sock at home. They will say that the show promotes the power and individuality of women. Sure, in the same way desperate, abused, drug-addled prostitutes are simply exercising their own sexual empowerment.


Poor Little Black Sheep.

"Why Mr Evra, that is a fine crop of African hair
my handsome fellow ethnic friend".

Poor wee lamb Luis Suarez has this week threatened to quit Liverpool because he believes that he has been persecuted. Suarez has become the black sheep of English football, which has offended him on two levels. The Uruguayan playmaker, practicing racist and keen human flesh enthusiast obviously feels hard done by. He has a point. Afterall, everyone was queuing up to condemn him after biting another player, however they didn't sympathise when he had to ask for his teeth back after the match, because they were still embedded in the footballer's arm. And everyone was lambasting him for being a racist, however he was merely questioning Patrice Evra's parentage, whilst factually confirming Evra's skin colour. *This load of bullshit was brought to you in association with the British National Party. The BNP - bringing you society's shameful past, direct from the 19th century.

Throat Cancer and Other Sexually Transmitted Diseases.

"Kiss goodbye to me ever kissing that saggy
cobwebbed scrotum ever again, you old fart". 

Cinematic leg-end and shrivelled testicle lookalike Michael Douglas has blamed the throat cancer he was diagnosed with 3 years ago not on years of smoking and drinking, but on oral sex. That's right, according to Big Mick if you're a generous lover you may just get throat cancer, like he did. Mick is infamous for coming out as a sex addict in the past, and going into rehab for it. Obviously someone forgot to tell him that most men could be described as a sex addict and if they had to spend a month in rehab the world would grind to a halt. It seems that you can be addicted to anything these days, and the definition of "addicted" has been watered down so much that it is used to describe as little as a moderate interest in something. So I'd like to take this opportunity to admit that I am an addict *waits for a sympathetic applause*. I'm addicted to sex, cynicism, comedy, and generally being a miserable bastard. Oh and Bakewell tarts. What, no applause? Oh go fuck yourselves then. What Catherine Zeta-Jones thinks of Michael's latest well thought out admission is anyone's guess, but I suspect that Big Mick won't be given another chance to develop throat cancer again any time soon, and Catherine won't ever develop throat cancer now.


Scoop: Drugs Mule is Oxygen Thief Shocker!

X-Factor judge and chavtastic oxygen thief Tulisa has been a bit of a tit lately. She was recently caught in a sting by those exemplars of yellow journalism The Sun, bragging about her days as a drug dealer. She then arranged for one of her drug dealer pals London rapper MC Fuckstick to sell the undercover journo some cocaine. The Sun are now having a massive celebratory wank by reporting that Tulisa could be arrested by the cops. She was talking about how she used to transport drugs and then take her cut of the profits. So in other words, she was a low rent drugs mule. Hardly something to brag about. It's like boasting that you once worked in the porn industry, then admit that you were just the male porn star's fluffer. It's now very possible that Tulisa's prime time TV career is over. Still, there's always a place for her as an MP's coke mule. As with most subjects in this blog I like to include a picture, but I'd rather not give the oxygen thief any more publicity. So here is a picture of a plate:


Yet Another Tory Sex Scandal.

Shame. IDS and Pickles Would Have Made Such
Beautiful Sexy Time.

The Conservative party have been rocked by yet another sex scandal. With the Tories it's now got to the point that sexual deviance has become the most popular hobby for their MPs, just behind fucking rent boys and fucking the poor and disabled. One can only surmise that the ultimate turn-on for a Tory MP is fucking a poor, disabled rent boy. The latest rumoured scandal is said to be between 2 middle aged persons who are no longer in the cabinet. This automatically negates my initial guess of Eric Pickles and Iain Duncan Smith. My long-shot guess of Boris Johnson and Ann Widdecombe is still a distinct possibility though. Not long ago it came out that former Tory Prime Minister John Major had a prolonged affair with Edwina Curry. The very thought of this is possibly the most nauseating political union since David Mellor went around  shagging anything with a pulse in the 1990's. If Cameron is worried about his and Nick Clegg's torrid sex affair becoming public knowledge, it might be a little late. It's been an absolute shocker of a week for Emperor Cameron, after a fourth alleged victim of Nigel Evans went to the Police. The Tory MP and deputy speaker was arrested by the police for alleged rape and sexual assault of 3 other victims, from 2009 to 2013. Add to that Tory whip Patrick Mercer's resignation for lobbying questions in return for thousands of pounds without declaring it. All Cameron needs now is for Harry the Downing Street cat to be arrested for possession and distribution of catnip with the street value of £10k to Tulisa, for her to brag about to The Sun.