Earlier today on the P45 boards there was a discussion surrounding the gratuitous use of the word 'cunt' by many bloggers. That somehow it's use represented a failure on the part of said bloggers to be in any way creative about their irritations. And there's a point in that. Many do.

But sometimes, just sometimes, there simply is no other word to describe some people. Often there is no better word to describe certain organisations. And today, readers dear, I can think of no finer word to describe one particular organisation: the O'Neills pub franchise.

These spineless money-grabbing, fumble-in-the-greasy-till bastards must surely represent one of the most appalling buboles on our society's already wart-slathered arse. Marketing themselves as a genuine 'Irish pub' experience, O'Neills have spread across our globe with a viral rapacity equal to that of the most insidious of American franchises.

It's an entirely fake premise: twee wooden floors that stink of bleach. Sawn off barrels that originally contained nothing other than air. Mock Guinness signs from the early part of the last century. Shit, tacky James Joyce quotes written across walls. Crap, cheapo t-shirts. Overpriced, watered-down piss-poor beer. Books that look old and weighted with Irish wisdom but which were bought in a car boot-sale. Irons. Kettles. Road signs. Every stinking cliche that you can think of packaged like a burger and flogged to fuckwitted tourists the world over who somehow have bought into the myth that O'Neills represents an authentic Irish experience.

It doesn't. Frankly speaking, O'Neills pubs are about as Irish as Genghis Khan.

And today, I rang an O'Neills pub. Why? Because tonight is the first football game for the Republic of Ireland under the stewardship of Steve Staunton and the evergreen Bobby Robson. And I want to see it. Here in London, where I live.

So, gullible mong that I am I decided to ring an Irish pub and find out if the game was on. I rang the O'Neills in Muswell Hill, who confirmed at 1.45 today that they would be showing the game. Duly cheered, I've been looking forward to this all day.

But just now, I had an inkling. A grim premonition that perhaps I should just double-check that they were showing the game. So I rang them back. And they're showing the England game. On all of their TV's.

So, to the owners, managers and staff of O'Neills pub the world over: please, kindly stop pretending to be an Irish pub when you clearly are not. Please, kindly fuck off and die you shower of scuttering shite-hawks and bare-faced fucking liars.

Begorra, behokey musha-man divil alive you pack of plastic-paddy pricks. I hope you all die in a freak accident involving an industrial sized vat of stout, an out-of-control kanga-drill and a infinitely-looping mp3 of Michael Flatley wanking into a bucket of the slop you have the nerve to claim is Guinness: ensuring that your last moments on earth are as hellish as your ghastly pubs.

You pack of complete cunts.