Tag Archives: Brian Cowen

A Portrait of The Artist as a Post-Dystopian 24th Century Vampyre

Don't need no toothbrush!

How’s it going’, horse? I’m not too bad, thanks for bleedin’ askin’. This vampyre shit is the business, init? Not that I thought so at the start, mind you.

There I was, knocking back pints of Bud at Molly’s in Ballybough, minding my own beeswax, when all of a fuckin’ sudden, I’m a vampyre! It turns out that the blood transfusion I got at the Mater (you should have seen the other fella – I hit his face so hard he was eating from a tube for months) wasn’t the “good stuff,” if you know what I mean. No, it was contaminated with some stem-cell virus shite. Now I suck blood and live like a parasite.

Not much change there, so. I did that when I was human, living off my dole and my ma. But now I don’t age; I get to keep my ladykiller looks, as well as my Burberry.

Fuck sake, boys, Dublin hasn’t changed much in 300 years. Fianna Fail are still in power. Just our luck that Brian Cowen got infected at the same time as me. Now no one can turf him off his throne. Still, at least the Boys In Blue finally won the 2312 All-Ireland GAA Football Championship, their first since 19-fucking-95.

Wankers!

I joined Facebook For Vampyres yesterday. I’ve 450,ooo,ooo,ooo friends now; but if I start getting invites for bleedin’ Farmville there’ll be hell to pay.

"Dying Light," by D. Scott Meek. Order it now or face my fist!

The vampyre chicks are a bit of a let-down, though. I’m all for showing off some flesh, but bloody hell, lads, wearing nothing but the smile on your pug-ugly rotten faces is enough to turn me off my shrimp curry. I’ve seen better looking birds at a shooting range.

I still can’t get the hang of Twitter yet. I’ve only two followers: my ma and my best friend, Georgie Sparrow. Georgie is the oldest vampyre in Ireland. We celebrated his 301st birthday last week by getting right and royally hammered in Fairview Park. A right laugh we had.

I better be off; the sun’s coming up and it doesn’t play well with my complexion.

See ya next time, suckers!

(C) James McShane 2010

Scott Meek’s Blog: reading. writing. revolution.

The Book: Dying Light.

The Wednesday Whackjob: Taoiseach Brian Cowen

He likes a few pints, does our Taoiseach!

It says a lot about our country that a man can’t go about his business in peace. Such a man is Taoiseach Brian Cowen.

How dare we suggest that our Fearless and Feckless Leader can’t bugger off to Galway with a few of his mates and wile away the early hours of the morning with a bevy of pints and a good old-fashioned sing-song? Sure we’ve all done it ourselves, haven’t we? Let he who is without sin cast the first vote!

So what if he wants to stay up until 3am, drinking and partying with his government cronies, know full well he’s addressing the nation on Morning Ireland? We’ve all done it ourselves, haven’t we?

And so what if he sounded drunk or hungover in that broadcast? We’ve all been “under the weather” on a Monday morning; why should our Taoiseach be any different. If he and his goons want to have themselves a little “think-in” over a weekend and discuss ways to get themselves (and our country) out of the mess they’re (and we’re) now in, indulging in four course dinners and later bars while they’re at it, why the hell not? We’d all do it, if given the chance.

And so what if the common thinking is to round them all up, put them in a field and bomb the bastards? What do we know? We’re only the electorate. Let the Taoiseach and his government dig their holes so deep that not even a million beer kegs will get them out.

Mr. Cowen, you and your government are a disgrace to the national and international community. I’d say good riddance to you if I could; but I don’t trust whatever else is on offer.

The Wednesday Whack-Job

Our country goes up in smoke. (Picture courtesy of the Evening Herald.)

It is said that Emperor Nero was too busy practicing on his violin to notice that Rome was burning around him. It could be myth and legend, it doesn’t matter either way.

Last weekend the Dublin GAA Football team played host to Cork in the All-Ireland Senior Football semi-final. Despite playing a good game, the Dubs were beaten by a point and missed their chance to play in their first final since 1995. Shit happens. They’ll get another chance next year.

As befitting to such a major sporting occasion, our Taoiseach, Mr. Brian Cowen T.D., attended as a guest of honour. Croke Park is a magnificent stadium, and it’s only right that it should be designated a smoke-free zone. (It doesn’t stop the fans on Hill 16 from puffing away on their John Player Blue, though.)

A box of cancer sticks. Filthy habit, really.

I have to be honest and say that though I knew that BIFFO (Big Ignorant Fecker From Offaly) enjoys a pint or ten, I didn’t know he was a smoker until a member of the public spotted our beloved leader puffing away in a prohibited zone, and promptly notified the relevant authorities. No, not the gardai, but Joe Duffy’s Liveline radio show on RTE.

I’ll write more about Mr. Duffy and his show at a later stage. But for now, I wish to add my sympathies to our much-maligned head of government. Let me put it this way, Cowen is about as popular as a fart in a spacesuit. So much so, in fact, that his fellow countrymen are willing to shop his little indiscretions to the media. Almost all of us who smoke have at some point sneaked a quick drag in places where we shouldn’t. It’s part and parcel of “owning” an unsociable habit. To some, it’s part of the fun.

Oh Brian, how low have you fallen in the esteem of your voters that we’re not willing to let trivial events like that slide? Not low enough, it seems. It seems ironic that in a week where Cowen was celebrated by the international community as being a leader with courage, his own community would prefer he was hung, drawn and quartered.

We’d have an election tomorrow – but the Opposition are no great shakes, either. Don’t get me started on Enda Kenny…