An odd week here in the London branch of Blather Towers. As well as changing locations (from the leafy suburbs of Muswell Hill to the altogether more interesting and noisy Turnpike Lane) we’re also going back to college. To play games. No, seriously.
Anyhoosa, inbetween unpacking boxes, bouts of fending off the largest dog in London (long story) and getting lost on the tube, we found time to indulge ourselves in one of our favourite hobbies: howling laughing at Irish politics.
Irish Taoiseach (Prime Minister) Bertie ‘Bundles’ Ahern [pictured] has been having a rough week. He’s had his arse dragged into the Mahon Tribunal to explain himself over a series of increasingly Haughey-like stories about financial transactions which the tribunal is rather interested in and which, it would seem, Bertie Ahern maintains are none of our feckin’ business.
As if that weren’t bad enough, earlier in the week his ex landed him in it, when she spoke to the tribunal about ‘bundles’ of cash, big envelopes, trips to the bank and the Taoiseach all in the same frame of reference. For a nice summary of events (and some pertinent questions) check out Gene Kerrigan’s article in today’s Sindo.
After wiping the tears from my eye, I had occasion to meet an old mate for some pints last night. Whilst watching the Irish rugby team fall pretty short of covering themselves in glory, I asked my mate if he now still felt that his political hero was fit to run the country. ‘Of course he is. And you know he’ll get away with it’. As indeed he probably will.
I suddenly thought of an old Bill Hicks question and put it to my pal. “So listen, just how far up your ass does his cock have to be before you realise he’s fucking you?” My mate wasn’t able to provide an adequate answer, so taking advantage of the fact that we were neck-deep in an Irish bar swimming in Guinness and screaming men, we conducted a quick poll to provide a more thorough examination of the issue.
Of a randomly selected pool of respondents, aged 19-47, steaming drunk and spitting, 45% indicated that the Taoiseach would probably have to be up to his knob before the country realises something is awry, with 55% saying he’d have to buried up to his balls before the country realised it was being speared like a Dutch hooker on pay-day.
Northern Rock, American Cock
Turning to more serious matters, London funeral directors are preparing themselves for a windfall from the anticipated mass-suicide of Northern Rock executives in the next few days. According to our sources, the suits at the top have rushed to explain that the sudden and seemingly inexplicable collapse of the bank’s stock was due to a 14-hour bender at hip-hop megastar Puff Daddy’s London apartment.
Puff Daddy (a.k.a P. Diddy, Sean ‘Puffy’ Combs, That Bloke That’s Never Written An Original Tune In His Life) is alleged to have thrown the ‘mutha’ of all parties, according to a pilled-up London city type who we found in a Whitechapel gutter this morning. Northern Rock executives are reported to have partied ‘like it was 1999’ and ‘let fucking rip’ for up to 14 hours at Diddy’s Canary Wharf Crib and emerged blinking into the mid-week sunlight a motley band of emotional, physical and financial wrecks. From the kerb that spat them into the mid-morning traffic the gang then staggered into a boardroom meeting in such a state of disarray that it panicked all stockholders into immediately dumping their portfolios; thus sparking a week-long high-street cash-extracting panic.
This isn’t the first time that a Puff Daddy booze-up appears to have led to unexpected disaster. A reading from the Book of Bob indicates that it was Didl-boy’s ‘Big-Bling Bacchanalian Bollocks Bonanza’ of April 1912 that led to the sinking of the Titanic. Other sources have suggested that Puff’s grog-fests were responsible for the creation of plastic, the fall of the Roman Empire and the conception of Louis Walsh.
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Bertie Ahern to rob bank, shoot old woman and rape children live on TV in attempt to boost popularity even further
