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Barrel Of Laughs And The Odd Rant



Of Laughs

And The Odd Rant


Ed Larkin


Dedicated To

My Hero,

My Idol,

My Inspiration;

Shakin’ Stevens



Ed Larkin is a father of one, loved by all and hated by none. He also wishes he could rhyme all the time! Ed isn’t your stereotypical author; he doesn’t have a pet dog that he yells at night after night in frustration. He also doesn’t go to Starbucks and look stressed as he battles with writers block. In fact he doesn’t even drink coffee or tea for that matter. What an odd ball. Ed was born in December 1989 in a Dublin hospital, which was the norm at the time. He would like to tell you that from an early age he was destined for great things, but ultimately banging pans together several hours a day doesn’t pass as a talent. Therefore he pursued a career in the fine art of packing, cleaning and the overall management of shelves in retail. He’s still there to this day. Rumour has it if you bang two pots together in the hardware section three times Ed will appear. He doesn’t know what the future holds for him but he prays it doesn’t involve the letters R-E-T-A-I or L. It is also his wish that if success comes with this book then he can record a duet with Shakin Stevens, item twelve on his bucket list. Ed also likes to talk about himself in the third person.



About The Author


h3<>. And So It began

h3<>. Females

h3<>. Now And Then

h3<>. Social Media

h3<>. 10 Things That Grind My Gears

h3<>. Fatherhood

h3<>. Trends

h3<>. Working In Retail

h3<>. Relationships

h3<>. What Does The Future Hold Conclusion Index


I’ve no idea what so ever as to why I’ve decided to write this; it could be out of boredom, it could be I’ve lost my way in life. Then again it could be that I’ve decided to put my hand to better use because those endless hours of masturbation just doesn’t fulfil me anymore. There is only so much fantasying of Georgia Salpia in a tight red bra and matching knickers, sprawled across my bed, begging me to pleasure her that I can do… maybe not, as I wrote that sentence I felt a little tingle sensation in my pants, don’t say you didn’t too. Well, unless for some reason you’re reading this with your missus because you know if you do admit it to her it’s going to be constant nagging for the next three hours until Eastenders or Fair City comes on. So be a good little spouse and say “no dear, you’re the only women that I get my kicks out of”….she knows the truth though, it’s Georgia Salpia for Christ Sake.

I wouldn’t exactly call myself a bookworm. The best use I ever got from a book was when I was in school; one of my class mates was taunting me because I was unable to answer a question the teacher had asked. I just sat there with my mouth wide open with nothing to say when my friend handed me a dictionary and whispered to me; “there you go there’s plenty of words in that you tick fuck?” so I took it from him and then instantly wacked him over the head with it and shouted “sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me!” I got suspended for that I think. So how did that experience lead me to the point in my life where I decided to write a book? God only knows. It started as a challenge and exploded into an obsession. I was determined to get it completed. I didn’t want to write any ordinary book; I wanted something that was unique, that people could relate to and was easy to read. You’ll see as you read on its pretty much just a conversation between me and the reader. I don’t like to complicate things so I made it as simple as possible. Kind of like me.

Anyway the next umpteen pages should give you a slight insight into the crazy land that I like to call “Crazy Land” or doctors may refer to as my head. I’ve never been one to argue with a doctor but someone who wants to get into a profession that includes cupping my balls and asking me to ‘cough’ has got some unresolved issues if you ask me. Funnily enough I had to go for one of those check-ups recently and I’ve never felt less masculine in my entire life. I’m one of those guys that get changed in the locker room with my towel securely wrapped around me to prevent and slippages. It’s not that I’m ashamed of Ed junior but I never really had the urge to play “Willy Wars” with other lads so having to slap my balls out on the doctors table was going to be quite the task. Before he began the examination he turned around to grab some gloves and while I was in mid strip I noticed the little soldier wasn’t up to his normal standards. Of course we can put it down to a mix of nerves and the coldness of the room, but I felt an urgent need to get him looking more like himself but I suddenly had the overwhelming thought of “why the fuck do I want to look bigger for him? I’m hardly here to try and impress him; I don’t plan on becoming his lover.” But by the time I’d finished my thought he already had a firm grip of my shaft. From that point forward it was just an awkward silence. It also didn’t help that every so often the doctor kept making eye contact with me as he proceeded with the exam. I should have known something was up (not my penis) when prior to beginning the test he asked me to drop my trousers, he went and took his off too.

As I’m sure you will soon become aware of; I tend to drift off into little rants; hence the title. When this happens I would like you to imagine we’re sitting across from one another conversing; possibly naked, having a pint; doing this will help make these outbursts a more enjoyable experience. So as you continue on, I encourage you to let go of your expectations and inhibitions and to laugh, cry or even get angry and assault a midget or just not read any further. But please be warned, if I’m out in a pub or the local ‘discothèque’ and hear you use one of my stories as you chat up tonnes of fun at the bar, there will be a bar stool aimed at your massive forehead…so have fun!

Finally before I let you start reading this soon to be Nobel Prize for literature winner, I should probably tell you a bit about myself. Because as they say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but technically you already have if you’re reading this since you obviously just saw the name of the book and thought to yourself: “I’m in the mood for a giggle and this looks like an amusing title but I don’t know the author.” Well shame on you mister! Now as much as I’d like to say I’m six foot tall and built like a brick shit house, I’m afraid I’m quite the opposite. I’m a frustrated dwarf that’s built like a shit brick house. I don’t play by anyone’s rules, not even my own. I don’t like having serious deep meaningful conversations about religion or politics because I get bored easily and have a habit of getting distracted by the smallest shiniest of objects. I know this sounds like I’m signing up for a dating website, but if I hadn’t of given you a slight insight into what I am, you would of thought I was some pyscho who had just gate crashed Stephen Kings new novel. Anyhow, that’s all I’m willing to share with you, the reader, so do enjoy reading on. Oh, and I forgot to mention I also like long walks on the beach.


So why are we all really here? I don’t mean here now reading this, I mean actually on this planet. Ever thought what’s your purpose in life? Where’s faiths path going to lead you? Will you fulfil all your dreams and ambitions? If so, stop reading now because I haven’t got any answers to those questions. I’m 26 and look at life through a child’s eyes (not literally) but I like to think I have a unique way of looking at life, for example I could not give the slightest fuck about anything to do with the IMF or the banks or the recession. Quite simply put; I don’t care because it’s not happening directly to me. Sure my taxes went up like everyone else’s did, but I don’t dwell on it, I get the fuck on with it. If, for instance, I owned the bank and I lost all that money sure I’d be worried but I don’t and I didn’t, so fuck it. The way I view life is this; if there’s a murder down the road sure I’d hear about it but unless it happened right in front of me then I just plan don’t care. Folks nowadays seem to care far too much about everything; they get so emotionally caught up in fact and fiction. “Oh, we’re in a recession, we can’t go on our four holidays this year to Spain” or “oh no, Betty from Coronation Street has died” Sob, my life’s coming to an end. So what? You can still go down to the country and spend your money here. You haven’t lost actual holidays you’ve just lost the privilege of going to Spain, where the only difference is they’re tanned and speak differently, so go to Connemara. And Betty is a fictional character, who in real life is still alive. It’s a made up programme, stop getting so upset. If she was sat in your living room every week acting out her scenes and then had a stroke I could understand you mourning her but she isn’t so build a bridge. While we are speaking of Coronation Street, I’ve a humorous story I’d like to share with you. And sadly for the poor girl it happened to, it’s very, very true. This is the kind of thing you purely can’t make up. So to hide her shame I shall not unmask her identity I’ll simple call her by her first name, Carla. Anyway, one day Carla came home from work only to find her mother in tears in the sitting room, “why are you crying?” she asked, “because Vera’s after dying Carla” she replied. Shocked by hearing this Carla ran up to her room and started to weep her little heart out. When her father heard all the commotion he went into her and asked why she was crying, she said “because Aunty Vera’s after dying”. Unfortunately for Carla her mother didn’t explain she was talking about Vera from Coronation Street. But thankfully for us she didn’t or I wouldn’t have this witty tale to tell.

Now where was I? Oh yes, people. Humans. You lot. Don’t you just love being Irish? I know I do. I have no clue as to why but all I know is that its great craic all the same. Being Irish means going to any country in the world and being instantly loved. Why? Who knows? But we can’t argue with the complements. But it can also have its shortcomings. Outside of Ireland the general perception is that we’re downing pints and punching leprechauns every night. When in reality all we want to do is put the feet up and watch the Late, Late show. I know we’re famous for having a laugh but even Superman needs a night off now and again. If you live here though; you see the real Irish people. There are two things that separate us from every other nationality; the need to complain and our love for exaggerating stories. Irish people love to moan about anything and everything, mainly about the weather though. In the depths of winter we’ll sit there and declare: “oh this country is far too cold. All it does is rain.” Then we will have the hottest summer on record and we’ll say “oh it’s far too warm out. I’m sick of this heat.” It seems to be an urge that’s built inside us from childhood to just feel the need to complain. No matter the topic we will always find a way to give out about it. If you need proof of this just get a taxi anywhere in Dublin and strike up a conversation with the driver, you’ll soon regret opening your mouth. He’ll just go on and on about everything that’s wrong with the world. Obviously we just like the sound of our own voices; which isn’t a bad thing because we have been voted the sexiest accent in the world (whoever conducts that survey apparently hasn’t visited Mayo) so why wouldn’t you want to hear yourself speak considering we have such a stimulating voice? Well it’s not so appealing when there’s nothing but utter bullshit coming from your lips because being Irish also means loving nothing more than extending the truth when story telling. And we don’t just flavour them a little, we like to extend them and ad-lib different happenings in between the main point of the story. Let me give you an example. My brother and I were discussing his night out in town the previous night and the cut on his cheek he had received. “So how did you end up getting that cut?” I enquired. “Well Ed, it all happened like this. I was on my way home minding my own business, walking down Grafton Street, when out of one of the side alleys seven lad’s jumped out and told me to ‘hand over my money’ so I thought to myself ‘you picked on the wrong guy tonight!’, then one of them ran at me. I hit him with a right hook and then the next guy came at me, karate chop. Then two others grabbed me while another ran at me with a bat so I kicked him and smacked the other two guys heads together, then I done a spinning back kick and knocked out another. All of a sudden the last fella ran at me with a broken bottle and cut me, but one last uppercut sent him flying back to hell. So I composed myself and went on my way and left them all lying there regretting what they’d done”. But what really happened was simply as follows “I was locked and slipped off the curb.” Maybe we’re all secretly self-conscience and don’t want to sound boring, sure we’re all guilty of trying to spice up our stories from time to time. But Irish people just take the piss. Thank Christ it wasn’t an Irishman who landed on the moon, it would have been a totally different story then. Star Wars wouldn’t have a patch on it.

As I’ve stated before; it’s great being Irish. No matter where you go you will always be greeted with a smile, unless you’re in Finglas. We’re a nation that’s welcoming to anyone and everyone but when they actually arrive here we instantly start hating them and giving them grief, not racially, but we begin to constantly complain that “they took our jobs and our women”. Just hear me out on this but if you don’t want to, then skip ahead to the last page I’ve added in some neat pictures of naked ladies with their boobies out….Bet you feel stupid for checking don’t you? Now, as we were. I understand in a recession the easy option is to blame the influx of foreigners and that’s the reason why the dole queues huge but let’s be honest here; the dole queue has always big, just no one bothered to check before the papers started reporting it. I don’t think we should have a major problem with people coming to this country because most of them claim they’re coming here for a better life. A better life in Ireland? Really? Most people leave Ireland for a better life. More fool you then. Before the recession nobody moaned that the foreigners were here working away. Sure if you wanted your back garden re-done who did you go and call? Pavel and his seventy Polish mates and they did it all for a fiver and a packet of Jaffa Cakes. So we need to take the good with the bad. I do believe before we allow them entry to our country, there should be some sort of cunt test done because some of them are ignorant little shits. They walk around like they’re untouchable because they finally got promoted to manager of Aldi’s and earn 7.42 an hour and have finally inherited that twang of a Dublin accent every time they finish a sentence. But put the wanker ones aside, I think it’s great to have foreigners here; it mixes up the variety a bit. I use to have to go to Cork to hear people talk funny, now I just need to step outside my door and I’ve a giant ‘Pick n Mix’ stand of hilarious accents. It’s hard keeping a straight face when you’re in a discussion with a foreigner or a Cork native because the way they pronounce some words are comical. However that amusement doesn’t last long when you need to contact a help desk, that’s when the accent thing can get really annoying. When you’re stuck on the phone to NTL/UPC/Virgin, whatever they’re called, they change their names more than Papa Puff Daddy and you’re trying to get the sports channels and there’s a Middle Eastern person on the other end saying “I’m very sorry sir, I cannot understand you”. You can’t understand me? How in the fuck do you think I feel then? I’m asking for Sky Sports News and you keep repeating ‘size my shoes?’ that doesn’t even make any sense! That really happened to me too. In the end he said he’d get me his supervisor, who I immaturely thought would be easier to understand, WRONG, he was a low toned South African. So I gave up and still haven’t watched Transfer Deadline Day in about six years.

Before I end our discussion about Ireland and Irish people I suppose I should mention the people who made Ireland so appealing in the first place; the tourists. Tourists seem to love coming here. The green grass of Donegal, the hills in Kerry, the lakes in Kildare. And the big phallus shaped silver cone that we have on O’Connell Street. Most of the tourism that occurs here is from those Americans. It’s mainly them because they all seem to claim their one ninetieth Irish or something like that. And when they arrive you can spot those fuckers a mile away, with their big, loud, eardrum-piercing voices and their binoculars strewn around their necks lying on top of their massive bellies. Their fanny packs and their need to wear sandals while also wearing socks. They just stand out like…an Irishman complaining (My, how we’ve come full circle now!) There is nothing overly exciting here in Ireland, we don’t have big rollercoaster’s in shopping centres so why would you leave that to come see a farmer shovel shite in the rain? Sure we won’t say no to the few extra quid they bring in, especially while the economy is down the shit pipe, but I feel a bit guilty that you are paying so much to come here and there’s nothing to see. At least if I went to one of your shit states I’d see something like the World’s largest ball of twine, here you might see the World’s largest haystack but that can’t be a fair trade. I suppose I’m lucky, I don’t really like the Americans or have any desire to go to America for that matter so I don’t exactly have sleepless nights on the topic. But either way, each to their own as they say, if you really want to spend a seven hour flight to Dublin to catch a glimpse of the famous ‘junkie begging for change at the luas stop’ then by all means be my guest, I’ll be seen you at the Drimnagh stop so.


Ah women you’re a strange breed aren’t you? You can do two things at once, cry on cue, twist our words, and fuck our poor heads up. Fascinating creatures so you are. I have to be honest, women do amaze me, not because they have breasts, but they’re just so exceptionally ahead of their male counter parts and lads; we can’t dispute it. Sure they’ve the odd flaw but fellas I think we out count them there, don’t you? I urge you the next time you have some spare time, maybe on your lunch break, just go to the park and watch them do their thing. But be warned don’t get to close or stare or even sniff them; I learned that the hard way. Apparently they don’t like that. Whether they know you or not is beside the point. Things have changed in the last number of years for women. They can now vote, they have their own careers, they’re independent according to Beyoncé, and their fashion sense has been thrown out the window; the last one isn’t that bad. Back in your parents time though, women wore dresses down to their feet and if you could see her ankles that’s how you knew she was a slut. But nowadays women go out in the tiniest of skirts which can only be best described as a hair band with the edges cut off. Now I’m not complaining if a women is able to hack standing in the cold in nothing but a boob tube and some frilly knickers then she’s clearly got a good pain threshold, therefore she’s worthy of mothering your child (did that come across sexist? because if it did, I only partly meant it to!)

Seen as I’ve mentioned it we may as well dive right in and talk about the subject of pregnancy. Child birth, they say is one of the most amazing experiences. Clearly whoever said that never had kids or witnessed child birth. I can’t particularly imagine pushing some fat headed infant out of your special area is too appealing; I can assure you it’s not exactly a spectator sport. No man wants to watch his missus’s forcible squeeze out a little gremlin. That would be in comparison with shoving Bambi through a very small hula hoop, sure Bambi will eventually get out the other side but you’ll never look at the hula hoop the same again! Now having said all that, after the whole birth processes everything does become magical. I mean your girlfriend has just given life; she’s certainly earned a pat on the back for that. And I for one would like to take a stand for all men, all humans and thank you ladies for been able to spend nine months with something growing inside you because us blokes can’t stand nine minutes with the sniffles without thinking the worlds against us. But women, you must know that you do take advantage of the whole ‘being pregnant’ thing. I understand your hormones are going crazy but do you not hear the things you come out with? There are some real crackers. “I want cake….NOW!” – It’s half bleeding three in the morning and you’ve just turned over and woke me up to tell me you want cake? Where in the fuck am I going to pick up a cake now? But that doesn’t matter to you, you’ve got cake in your head so that’s what you want, there’s no choice now but to drive around Dublin praying for a 24 hour bakery. After then inhaling the cake the previous demand is soon followed by; “I’m so fat, none of my clothes fit me anymore, they don’t make clothes for fat people anymore” – First of; you’re not fat, you’re pregnant. You have a little person growing inside you, so of course your favourite pair of jeans isn’t going to fit you. If I had a midget strapped to my mid-section, do you think I could button up my shirt? But the crème de la crème of pregnant statements is; “why don’t you want to make love to me anymore, do you not find me attractive?” – Let me clear this up now, yes we do still find you attractive, believe me, we just don’t want to get all hyped up for sex to be then left waiting half an hour for you to find the right angle to climb into bed. And having said that, most fella’s get freaked out by the thought of their penis navigating inside you and their future kids head is really only centimetres away from each trust. Imagine, if you will, standing in the room while your parents had sex. If you really did go ahead and imagine that you are one very sick individual, but now you see why the idea of sex with our extremely pregnant partner isn’t as appealing as it was nine months ago.

Before I continue praising you lovely ladies, I can’t have a chapter on Females without discussing your “time of the month”. You know what I mean, your period, your monthly visitor, your Aunt Flow, ___(insert own variation here)___ The only reason I mention this, is because I’d like to clarify if all women accept what happens for these few days or do you just completely erase it from your memories? I know you don’t exactly control how you feel whilst this happens but you must notice yourself going through all these phases. One minute you’re going to burn the house down with me and the kids in it, the next you want to make sweet love on top of the draining board with the neighbours watching. All of a sudden you then get these hot flushes and start to perspire like your locked inside a sauna while being forced to run a 50 mile marathon. Big sweaty palm stains cover the hallway stairs as I discover women struggling to find the will to keep climbing to reach their apartment. Now I’m not going to sit here and say periods aren’t sore, firstly because I value my life and secondly because as a fella I’ve never experienced one and I wouldn’t want to. Sure if fellas did get periods anyway we’d just milk them. I’d pretend I had a period every time the missus wanted me to go visit her family. “Sorry love, the pains too bad I can barely stand up and I don’t want to shake their hands with my sweaty hands and then what if I bleed all over your ma’s new carpet, best of I stay here and relax. Maybe next time?” Jaysus I’m starting to wish I did get periods now, I’d never have to do anything I didn’t want plus I could get the sympathy vote too.

One of the greatest wonders of the world is women’s minds. Especially for us poor fella’s, we just don’t understand how the female mind works, and honestly I don’t think women do either. Women are built with this understanding that they must say one thing but mean another. It’s like your very own life size game of mouse trap. You send us on little errands and we do exactly what we thought you said but you give out because it’s not the way you wanted it done. We empty the dishwasher like you asked, but “it’s not to your standard!” You ask for our choice on which outfit to wear but no matter which one we pick it’s wrong. This is why you shouldn’t bring us shopping with you. It should be alone expedition or at least with your gal pals because a man’s mind can’t work as hard as a women’s when it comes to shopping. When females look at a dress it’s like they’re working out the Theory of Evolution. Strain, concentration and frustration etch their face as they mull over the colour, texture and design of the dress. Visualising the dress on them, at what event would they wear it and what jewellery would go well with it. It’s a long drawn out experience that becomes a new level of painful when there is a special occasion to shop for. Let’s say it’s a friend’s wedding, that’s without a doubt a pain staking month or two of shopping. In and out of every clothing shop imaginable each weekend, trying on every available dress, gazing in the mirror in the hope of a face appearing and saying “you’re the prettiest of them all, my dear” until they’ve finally run out of shops in Dublin to check. At this point they decide to go and repeat all the shops they’ve previously visited in case they’ve missed something or something new has arrived in. This cycle continues until they eventually settle on something that’s “only massive”. But it doesn’t end there because when the big day comes and they start to get ready, there’s about four hours of: “h-mm does it actually sit right? Do my hips look big? Is my arse perky enough?” And what feels like an eternity later they finally agree they look lovely and go enjoy their day and judge every other woman in the building, including the bride. This is what makes women so fascinating. And a word of warning fellas; don’t ever disagree with their judgments or there will be hell to play. You’ll soon be wishing it was possible for you to get periods.

Ladies I’m now going to do you all a favour and let you in on a secret; as men we think there is nothing worse than meeting your mates. Because you think they’re the greatest collection of friends since that “Sex in the City” group but to us they are just another bunch of twats. Here is some solid advice for all men for whenever they have to meet their girlfriend’s friends; girls you should take note of this too. There is always three main friends too watch out for. In no particular order (they’re all as bad as one another anyway)

Number One, “The Over Friendly Friend”; you’ll know her because she asks twenty questions and only blinks twice in the three minutes it took her to fire those questions out. “Where are you from?” “Where do you work?” “What age are you?” “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” – Fuck off fuck nut, this isn’t a game show. Even if I answer one of your questions wrong I still get the top prize of ploughing my missus, your mate, when I go home.

Number Two, “The Over Protective Friend”; you can easily spot her because she’ll be the one eying you up all night and all of a sudden she’ll walk over and grab you and say “if you break her heart or even hurt her a little I swear I’ll hunt you down and kill you!” – Shit she’s on to my wicked plan of dating my girlfriend for the past three weeks, lavishing her in gifts and dinner dates, meeting all her wanker mates, only to then hop on the next flight to Israel never to see her again. Clearly if I put in all this effort to chase after her and get with her and then took time out of my busy FIFA playing schedule to meet you dopes I’ve got better things on my mind then hurting her. We’ve been over this seven lines ago, all I’m thinking about is ploughing her right now! And that brings us too:

Number Three, simply known as; “the Male Friend”, he says he’s really just her mate but in actual fact he is obsessed with her. He will be the easiest to spot because he’ll go through periods of been over the top nice to you then changing into a freak that just stares at you through hate filled eyes because you stole his dream girl. – It’s not my fault you’ve known her for 13 years and still haven’t got the bollox to tell her you like her “more than a friend”, it took me 13 minutes to drop the hand when I first meet her; so let me escort you back to that friend zone you keep trying to escape from!


I’m going to make myself sound like I’m an 80 year old man, and if I do, so be it, at least I have two functional hips. It amazes me how well off kids now a days are compared to when I was growing up. Take, for example, something as simple as the PlayStation or the X-Box, in my day all we had was the Commodore 64. Remember that? Took six hours to load up and had just the one game but fuck me wasn’t it only mind blowing. It made you believe that “Back to the Future” could be true and we could have flying cars in the not too distant future, but alas here we are present day and still no flying cars. Oh how Doc and Marty McFly lied to us. Kids these days have all sorts, technology has just advanced so much more than we could have ever expected. Mobile phones now have a TV practically built in them but when I was growing up all I was given was a brick with an aerial strapped to it. It was basically an illegal weapon; if you walked through customs with it you were fucked. Each year a new I-phone is brought out and it’s got new amazing gadgets; touch-screens and new fancy apps. Back in my hay day all we got each year was a new updated version of “snake” on our Nokia 3210, basically if you weren’t playing that you were most likely a communist.

21st Century kids are currently living the high life; they have everything I could only possibly ever dream of. Just for fun let’s compare what I had growing up to what kids now have:

p<>{color:#000;}. I had a small, no bigger than 18” telly with a humongous back on it in my sitting room. They have a 42” flat-screen in their bedroom.

p<>{color:#000;}. I had a chunky CD player that stopped playing if you even tapped the top of it. They have tiny little I-pod that hold thousands of albums.

p<>{color:#000;}. I had four TV stations growing up. They have nearly 600 plus they can Stop, Pause and Rewind live TV.

p<>{color:#000;}. I had to set up a video recorder with tapes to record my shows. They click a button once and it records the entire series.

p<>{color:#000;}. I played board games to pass the time. They go online and talk to people all over the world on Skype.

p<>{color:#000;}. I also went to the library to loan books to read. They have I-Pads to download any book they could ever want.

If you’re under the age of twenty five and just read that it’s highly unlikely you will have any idea about anything I just said. You will never understand the struggles we went through, take Halloween for example. We didn’t get fancy realistic costumes. All we got was a black bag shoved over our heads. Bin bags were the be all and end all of every issue at Halloween. Our problems were real problems, not: “why won’t bae text back”. Let me put it to you another way, how can we not feel hard done by when we bring our kids to the cinema to see amazing spectacles such as Avatar, with its amazing ground breaking graphics but when our parents brought us to a movie all we got to see was some giant dinosaurs prancing around. It was great at the time but how is it a fair comparison that they get hot naked blue chicks and we got a fat old grey haired palaeontologist in Jurassic Park. Even their 3D films are better than ours. I remember going to see my first 3D film thinking; “this is going to be unreal; the things in the film come at you? How amazing is this going to be.” Compare that to the 3D graphics out now it was like sticking on a pair of sun glasses and staring at the sun too long then taking them off and trying to look around; blurry and annoying. If that doesn’t get your blood boiling then I’m slowly losing hope for you, the reader. Let’s take another angle on this I want you to take a moment now and think to yourself the shows on television you grew up watching, right go ahead take that moment….done? Good, what TV shows did you think off? Statistically 1 out of 10 people reading this will actually answer out loud. I’m sure most of you remember watching, to name but a few; Power Rangers and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and in your teenage years; Saved by the Bell and Keenan and Kel. And who could forget watching Gladiators every Saturday night. That was the pinnacle of any kid’s weekend in that era. Tell me I wasn’t to only one to shout “Gladiators are you ready?” at the same time as the announcer? Watching those shows was the most TV you’d watch in a week because your biggest concern was to get back outside playing with your friends. Simply put; we were street kids. These days though kids just want to be sat in front of their tellies watching “Teen Mom” or “Geordie Shore” while texting their friends. It’s a complete 360, and it can’t be physically or mentally healthy to watch a group of twats from Newcastle piss and moan about who can ride the most women. Great role models, see how they enjoy when fellas they helped shape are doing to their daughters what they done to other women. At least the programs we grew up watching sparked lively debate. Which colour Power Ranger was your favourite? Were you a Zack or a Slater? But the one thing we always agreed on was how we all badly wanted to be in Kelly.

Are you starting to get where I’m going with this? Yes I am a little pissed off that I spent my youth lining up jumpers to make goal posts when kids now don’t actually leave their home to play football they just do it on their games console. This does explain why we have so many pudding faced fat fucking kids roaming the streets. Sure they spend all day stuck in front of the telly forcing down pizza and crisps. Go for a walk you hippo and give you’re fucking jaws a rest. That same tubby fucker is the same prick to come running, sorry waddling, home from school crying he’s getting bullied. Of course you’re going to get bullied, your 12 years old and have so much acne from those sweets you horse down that I could play ‘connect the dots’ on your face. And that’s without taking into account the fact that you weight more than the Irish Rugby team put together. Here is some free guidance King Kong; PUT DOWN THE FORK AND GO OUTSIDE!!! Move does tree trunks you call legs around a bit and all those rings of blubber will come of in no time. I know all this may touch a nerve with some of you, but obesity in kids really fucking does my nut in. You can’t blame the kids fully; I mean a good chunk of it is down to the lazy parents who just couldn’t be arsed cooking so instead they shove chips covered in shite topped off with cheese into their food holes. So instead of desperately trying to reach the next level of Candy Crush why not encourage your kids to play outdoors. Or here’s a wild idea; stop being so disinterested in your child’s life and get up and do something with them. The cycles got to be broken somewhere, we really don’t want to turn out like the Americans and just be a nation of beached whales do we? I for one don’t, so that’s why it’s my mission to stand outside schools everywhere and insult kids until they cry and change or I get arrested and slapped with a restraining order…again(that’s a story for another day)

Children are meant to be our future. They’re the future guards, sports stars, doctors and dole queue members and here we are giving them the easy ride in life. Did you have everything so easy growing up? I thought not. Present day children will probably never know how handy they have it. They’ll never know what it was like to walk bare foot seven mile in the snow just to get to school. Either will I but that’s all my mam use to tell me when I had a complaint. Everything they could possible ever need is set up right in front of them on their lap top. There is literally nothing you can’t do on a computer. When I first used a computer all I could do was draw pictures and in due course it upgraded to let me play solitaire. Nowadays you don’t even have to leave your home for anything. You can get food delivered directly to your door, purchase clothes, and talk with friends and acquaintances; you can even practically have sex online. So what reason are we giving these spawns of ours to leave the house? If they get bored of being online they go and play computer games, we’re allowing them to be locked up 24/7 with no fresh air. And don’t give me this bollox that ‘Pokémon Go’ is great for them because it encourages them to go exploring, yes they’re outside but their heads are still buried into their phones so they’re not exactly going to grow up with amazing social skills. So how do we solve this problem? It’s quite simple actually; I’ve devised this plan myself. I sat down and wrote a list, not unlike the one I’ve done above, of things that kids have better than me when I was growing up. It consisted mainly of better phones, TV, games consoles, clothes and so forth. Now for the next part of the plan you need to have teenage kids, I didn’t so I went to a close friend of mine who has a 10 year old son. I asked would he show me around his room and gather the things on the list for an experiment (kids that age love experiments). He obliged and I asked him to put them in a box in his back garden where I’d be waiting for him. So out he came all smiling and excited for the next part of the experiment and laid the box in the middle of the garden and gleefully waited for me to arrive back. Before I continue on, I forgot to mention while he gathered his things I found a good spot to hide out in garden, the element of surprises always makes this more thrilling. So once he had placed the box down I ran from my hiding spot pulled out a baseball bat and went to town on his valuable possessions, while he screamed and cried in terror I yelled profanities, such as; “this is what happens when you have a better childhood than me you little shit, do you think I enjoy doing this? This is for your own good” Then when I was satisfied everything was broken and he’d understood what I meant, I dropped the bat, took of the balaclava and told him; “he could thank me after”. I then went on my way and had a very enjoyable day. Now the up side to this is you’ll feel great. The down side is you’ll lose your friend and have a day in court, so that’s why it’s better if they’re your own kids because, let’s face it; who are they going to tell?

All in all, I don’t think I would have liked to be born into this generation. They seem to be far too sensitive. I still remember the day ‘Take That’ broke up; it felt like my life was over. I think I actually grieved for a few days, but then that soon passed and I got on with my life. Whereas ‘One Direction’ announces they are splitting up and young girls everywhere start threating to slice their wrists if they don’t reform. As well as that, this generation rely far too much on technology to get them through everyday life. If they misplace their I-phone it’s a crisis and it must be replaced as soon as possible. If I ever lost anything when I was younger I was just told to go and pray to St. Anthony. So to answer the question of whose childhood was better, let me explain it to you like this; stick me and some freckly fucked teenager out in a forest somewhere in Cavan, I’ll make it back home three days before him because he’ll spent the first day crying about the fact he has no phone or GPS software. While I’ll have tweaked into my inner Rambo, pulled the sleeves of my shirt, murdered a goat and lathered the blood all over my face and just kept on running until I found the nearest pub. Us nineties kids don’t fuck about.


As I ranted about in the previous chapter, offspring these days have great lives. They are growing up in world where the World Wide Web isn’t just a quick way to look at porn, although it still is that and a vaster variety too! Now though, it’s all about Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube. All of a sudden everyone’s become an expert blogger on fucking YouTube. If you’re so fucking good why haven’t you got a real job then fuck-head? Before Mark Zuckerberg came along to take over the world, there was MySpace and Bebo. Oh those days being on Bebo sharing your “love” with people in the hope you’d get lucky….failed every single time! Since the birth of social media, real life has taking a back seat, if you don’t converse with your friends on it then you may as well not exist. If you hear some breaking news the first thing you do is go check Facebook just to confirm if it’s really happened. It’s an unspoken law; if it isn’t on Facebook well then it can’t be true. It’s become the beginning and ending of every bit of gossip and news story ever told. You can be 100 percent sure that if you go out with your mates and make an utter knob of yourself it’ll be plastered all over the place. It’s a shit stirrer’s paradise. Especially when you have that friend, everyone has at least one friend, whose relationship has broken up and their arguments has been aired out all over your timeline. In fact you could even be that friend. And then there’s always that one person who shares none stop pictures of competitions, convinced their going to win, captioning them with: “would really love one of these, but I never win anything “. I call them serial sharers. There the same ones who constantly click like because “one like=one prayer”. Ask me hole! If God really wanted a new, hip, cool way for us to pray more, he most certainly wouldn’t choose a picture of a half-eaten baby elephant with its tusks shoved up its arse. Surely he’d go all out and get Kanye West to rant about it. With all these negatives, I think were overdue a positive and here it is. If it wasn’t for Facebook, I honestly would have never known so many of my friends and work colleagues were such a boring, whinging bunch of twats. I mean do you seriously think, not just me, but the vast majority of your friends really care what you had for dinner or how cute your cat is? And please stop with the constant changing of your profile picture, come on how many times do I have to see your ugly mush trying to pull the “duck face” when in reality it isn’t remotely sexy, you look like you just bit into a lemon. That’s the most positivity on the topic I could muster up. Deal with it.

I’ve devised a new approach for my life and I plan on using it going forward. Next time I go to make a new acquaintance or meet someone new I’m going to do a checklist on them by browsing through their Facebook. The checklist will consist of simple things like; how many times they update their status? What do their statuses actually consist of? How many times do they change their picture? And finally, if they’re a mother, I’ll be checking does their job description say “full time yummy mummy”. Because 9 out of 10 women who put that as their job description have a face like a cat getting peeled of the M50. As I’m sure you can gather I’m not the biggest social media fan, sure I’m on it like 95% of the world, but I don’t use it to get 9000 “friends” I don’t really know in the first place, I don’t upload pictures and sit their anxiously waiting for someone to click “like” on it, the real reason I’m on it, if I’m being honest with myself, is it keeps me company. How you ask? Well when certain situations arise that I don’t care to be involved in I can just whip out my phone and ignore the world. That and I like creeping on fit women. But when times arise like the missus starts telling me about the cutest thing that her friends-Uncles-nephews, long lost brother in laws-first cousins-pet dog did, then I know I have that safety net that is Facebook on my phone so I can blank her out and tune in to see what sexy, sexy Sandra has just uploaded today. Whenever I have to go outside and smoke alone and I don’t want to make eye contact with any of the creepy auld lads, out comes the phone. In a sense it’s a lifesaver. It gets me out of uncomfortable situations, sure it may look like I’m being rude but I’d rather look at it more like I’m been quite considerate. By not acknowledging the shit talk I don’t want to hear I’m saving an unnecessary fight. I don’t want to be arrested for loafing Maura just because she wouldn’t let me smoke in peace. This face wouldn’t last in the Joy. Also Maura’s got a decent left hook. Having said all that, Facebook still always finds its way back to annoying the living shit out of me. From the obsession with non-stop selfie’s, the constant pissing and moaning (ironic I know, but at least I’m putting it in a book, not a new status every 25 minutes) and then there’s the horrific spelling from some people. I fully understand we grew up in a generation that invented “text talk” to shorten down our messages, but to still consistently use it and spell so many words incorrectly, frustrates the fuck out of me. Let me quickly and simply explain in these following two sentences’ the importance of capital letters. “Today I helped my uncle jack off a horse”. And then the proper way. ”Today I helped my Uncle Jack off a horse”. See what I’m getting at here? It is very important to know how to spell and punctuate properly, believe it or not but your future may depend on it. Remember after all those wasted years in school you do have a big exam at the end of it which determines if you can go to college to further your education and help you find a career. But hey, if you’d rather be 19 with three kids and have your job title on Facebook read “full time yummy mummy” then by all means go ahead and update your status everyday about that “no good da of theres nver see his kids bt can affrd 2spoil his new 1.karmas a bitch.roll on d wkend wit me girlos.lvs ya hunz.xoxo”

Twitter doesn’t bother me as much. I can choose who I want to follow and un-follow without hurting their feelings too much. Plus the fact that you can only put up a tweet using 147 characters makes it a lot less likely to see someone having a bitch fit. The only reason I joined it in the first place was to see what all the fuss was about, after does nine minutes had passed I left it be for nearly a year until I opted to try it out again and see if Professor Green would retweet me (I’m still waiting) Now its two years later and I’ve just broke the hundred mark of followers, I feel like a king. These one hundred odd people worship me, they chose to follow me. They want me. One of my followers is that Welsh skank of that show “The Valleys”; she clearly sees how witty and handsome I am. She wants the man love. Unfortunately I’m in a committed relationship and she probably only clicked follow by accident and still hasn’t coped on yet. But one can dream. I don’t use Twitter as much as you’re probably supposed too but it goes back to what I was saying earlier; I just keep it out of comfort. It’s a distraction from the world, not always a good distraction but still. Some people really go to town with their tweets, typing up crap every 15 minutes. Its people like that I always wonder what they actually do all day. Maybe this is the reason you can’t get a job or a relationship because your phone is constantly glued to your hand. Then there’s those pricks who never stop asking for a retweet, their the same twats on Facebook who change their profile picture twenty times a day just begging for you to click the like button. Listen love, if and only if, I ever decide to “like” one of your pictures it only means one thing; I’m letting you know I want to bend you over, pull your pigtails and fuck you like it was the last ride of my life. That also goes for on the extremely rare occasion I send you a poke. Its code for I really do want to poke you so let’s does the no pants dance.

Shall we discuss the finally two pieces of social media that have overtaken our lives? The two main ones where everyone on it is convinced they are a somebody. It used to be a little girls dream to be a princess now their dream is to be a MUA on YouTube or be able to filter there pictures perfectly on Instagram like Kendall Jenner. And of course have amazing eyebrows just like her! Every female wants eyebrows like her. Why? Yea they are decent but in the grand scheme of things they’re not high up on a man’s list of things he wants in his dream women. We can’t exactly have sex with your eyebrows. Remember eyebrows main function is to stop sweat from pissing into your eyes so think about that next type you shape them like a dead slug. Maybe I missed some special offer on Groupon a while back for a makeup artist course because suddenly there are experts everywhere telling women the best way to contour and the best brushes to use. I haven’t watched any of the videos I asked my little sister for advice writing that line. I swear. I honestly don’t know what contour means, is it lipstick? How many ways is there to put on a bit of make up? I always imagined it would be fairly simple. Don’t cake it on. Blend it in. Have a decent eye shadow to complement it. Smack on a bit of blusher. Bam you’re done. Can I be an MUA now? I don’t get how these videos are getting so many hits either. Maybe it’s a man thing, but I don’t really see the appeal in watching some yolk put her makeup on is very thrilling. Saying all that, women don’t understand the appeal of FIFA so we’ll just agree to disagree on that one. Now maybe someone could enlighten me into the fascination with Instagram. I get you take pictures and upload them but why? Does anyone really want to see a picture of you in the gym with the caption: another tough work out! Starting to see the benefits. #NopainNoGain #GymLife #GymBunny #Instalife #IveForgottenTheRealReasonICameToTheGymWasToLoseWeightNotToTakeSelfiesNoWonderImSoMorbidlyOverweight. Ironic how you pose for that picture yet there isn’t one ounce of sweat on your body. Gym membership is practically paying for itself isn’t it big guy? I was always under the illusion pictures were taking as memories. Moments we didn’t want to forget. I’m pretty sure Ed Sheeran wrote a song about it. In thirty years’ time you hardly want to be showing your kids pictures of your once bulging biceps taken from several different angles or what you had for lunch that crazy Sunday when you were hung over after bingeing on too many WKDs. Call me old fashioned but any pictures I’ve taken are from happy fun times with family and friends that I know I can look back at when I get older and reminisce about good times. I’d rather be looking at past photos of me and my mates then looking at pictures of my “Torso Thursday” in the gym. But hey, like I said call me old fashioned.

I truly believe that as social media begins to take over its having a serious negative impact on people’s everyday lives. I know there are the obvious reasons but I mean more personal matters. I’m starting to think women can’t go out unless they upload a picture of their outfit first because they have serious confidence issues. They desperately want their thousands of “friends” to hit like and give them the confidence boost that they crave. People are really losing sight of reality and at growing rate. It’s worrying to think that men and women think it’s more worthwhile to share a picture of starving kids rather than donate to charity. Which one is more beneficial? People think sharing their personal problems all over a social media site will somehow fix it. Or at very least get them some sympathy. In all seriousness, who in their right mind would post up “can’t believe my house was just broken in to” That’s clearly an attention thing, desperately trying to get some compassion. You should be contacting the guards not putting up a status. It says it all about the world when people would rather record someone being assaulted rather than to intervene. My one big hope for the world is that people would get off their laptops or put their phones down for one hour a day. Go outside; spend some time with your kids or friends. Embrace the real beauty around you. Just realize that not everything is worthy of a selfie or a status update. Think a little bit more before you feel the need to tell the world. Millions of people use social media so it’s very quick for things to go viral. Sometimes some things should be kept private. However if it’s anything to do with a Kermit the Frog meme well then share the shit out of that. They crack me right up.



Why ice cream men you ask? I know as a child the novelty of hearing the ice cream man come around the corner was heavenly, but fast forward to adulthood and it quickly loses its appeal when it’s the 27th of October and we’re knee deep in puddles and the ice cream man is a 19 year old spotty faced cunt with a put on “howya boys” accent which makes him sound like he has a fork lodged in his throat. Nobody wants a fucking Corneto at that time of year.


I literally have a phobia of getting my haircut, not because I’m afraid of scissors or the cut throat razors but because I hate having to sit awkwardly in a chair while another man runs his fingers through my hair and attempts to make small talk. Look, you’re here to provide a service; I’m here to pay for that service, so do just that and shut your mouth. I don’t want to hand over my hard earned cash for you to stop cutting every three minutes so you can stop and stare at me in the mirror as you tell me about how it’s always been your dream to cut hair. Relax Peter Mark I think I’ll just start shaving my head at home.


I just don’t get it! We are not living in Detroit. It’s a pointless use of the vocabulary. Spice it up and say “that’s great” or “oh isn’t that deadly” Not epic, it doesn’t make sense! What does it even mean?


Jack. Petey. Holly. Why would you call your pet parrot by a human name? There animals, they expect animal names. Call your parrot Flappy or Beaky. Stop making poor unfortunate kids think less of them-selves because they have to share their name with their Grandparents pet ferret.


Yes the absolute prick that made the series ‘Lost’. I never liked TV series; I just never had the patience to watch one start to finish, until one day my brother pleaded with me to watch ‘Lost’. He said it was amazing and because I trusted him, I watched it and was instantly hooked. Until that is the final fucking series. What in the fuck was going on? This JJ Abrams bloke has lost his marbles but I gave it the benefit of the doubt and presumed it would all be explained in the final episode. AND NO IT DIDN’T, THAT PRICK JUST WASTED SEVEN YEARS OF MY LIFE WATCHING SOME HEAP OF SHIT THAT, NOT ONLY DID IT NOT MAKE ANY SENSE, IT DIDN’T EVEN ANSWER HALF THE BLOODY QUESTIONS AS TO WHAT-THE-FUCK WAS GOING ON! And therefore that is the reason that cunt is on my list. Rant over.


I just don’t get why you would buy a half decent car and then shove some noisy cunting machine in with the engine just so when you hit 3rd gear it sounds like an over powered washing machine, then tint the windows so dark that no one can see in. Who in their right mind would want to look in your shitbox anyway, even a burglar would avoid it because he knows you’ve probably removed the handbrake to make way for some neon lights. And why is it necessary to have a giant boom box sticking out from where your boot is meant to be and insist on driving around with your windows rolled down, the bass at full blast and the radio repeating “DJ Scallywag in the mix bitch” All of a sudden Ireland has given birth to a bunch of mini Michael Schumacher’s who spend their weekends rallying their Fiat Puntos up and down the M50. If you really like to drive fast then do something useful and drive an ambulance!


Boggles my mind this show! I could never get into this whole fad of reality television anyway but this takes the biscuit when it comes to shite reality TV. It’s a bunch of twats singing to win a record deal and then twelve months down the line nobody will even remember them. Try and remember the first X Factor winner? Exactly you can’t! No-one can. There most likely buried out Simon Cowells back garden. The thing that annoys me the most about it is how attached people get to one of the singers. Every year there’s a big sob story and I walk into my sitting room and it’s an emotional playground of tears and snots as my family mourn over this poor girl who got bullied as a child. So do thousands of other people, go help Child Line if you’re that encouraged by her terrible story! Here’s the golden tip on how to win X Factor. Have a solid tearjerker of a story. Maybe talk about how your cat only has three legs and gets picked on by other cats so he has really low self-esteem.


Go read number 6 again. I just added him in twice because he really Grinds My Gears!


It is one day/night I can’t fucking stand. It makes no sense, I know the year changes but it’s still just another day. You didn’t go out and celebrate last Thursday so why celebrate this one? New Year’s is meant to mean new beginnings and new adventures. Bullshit. It just means it’s the year anniversary since you last promised you’d complete that diet and be a “skinny minny for the summer.” I know it’s just another excuse to go on the piss over the Christmas period but that doesn’t make it any less pointless. It’s really not a life changing event. The same thing happens each year. New Year’s Eve is just like the film Titanic; you know exactly how it ends.


Porn just isn’t real anymore. It’s become too ridiculous now. Some big muscly, big balled bastard riding some huge tited blonde bitch. Why can’t they make a more believable porno where some bloke is locked leaning up against the bar and he goes and chats up some ‘seemingly’ fit girl and brings her home. Eventually after the struggle to get his pants off, he proceeds to give her a good seeing to for three and a half minutes. He then falls asleep only to wake up to find he’s rode some Free Willy look alike. Now that would be quality viewing. I mean think of any porn you’ve watched and think of the sex you and your partner have ever had. Has she ever grabbed you by the pipe and said “I want you to fuck me with your big cock and be smothered with your cum?” Of course she hasn’t but what she does say is; “no, go that way…shift a little…just to the left…go easy…EASIER…if you’re going to cum don’t get it on the bed sheets, I just washed them…slow…what do you want for lunch tomorrow?…oh are you done…is that it?” Case closed!


Let me begin here by saying anybody who is reading this and may be considering having a child or is in the process of waiting for their first child to be born, do your-self a favour…STOP OVERTHINKING! The more you think about how stressful and tough it will be the more petrified you become. But believe me, as I tell all my friends who are about to be new parents, if I can do it, anybody can. I know when you share the news to the world about your soon to be bundle of joy that everyone and their dog has advice for you but trust me when I tell you the majority of it is horse shit. Every parent was new to all this before as well and they had to learn, same as you will. It really isn’t complicated just as long as you feed and change the little poop machine, you’re on the right road. When the missus and I told everyone she was expecting, all of a sudden everyone had hints and tips for us, and like I said before it was all crap. I’m pretty sure I didn’t use anyone’s advice and not because I’m a stubborn cunt who thinks if my way doesn’t work then bollox to it, well it partly was but it was mostly because the way I see it is every child, every person is different therefor, to quote my own mammy: “just because it works for one, it doesn’t mean it will work for another”. That’s some solid Wicklow advice right there. Most of your parenting skills will come from pure instinct; it’s as if you never knew any different. All the knowledge is in your noggin you just have to unlock it, my friend. It won’t be long now before you and the lads will be down the local having scoops and discussing shitty nappies. CHEERS!

For this next paragraph, I’m going to do something I don’t often do…it’s hard for me to even type this, I’m going to unleash what you mortal people call “feelings”. So if you’re squeamish then turn to the next chapter right now. Now seriously, this is almost as rare as Sinead O’Connor not looking for attention. This is your last chance; don’t say I didn’t warn you…

I fucking love being a parent. Seriously, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me. From the day I first held my daughter I felt love like I never have before. I never even knew love like this existed. If you’re a parent you can understand what I’m trying to say. It’s just a unique feeling (there’s that word again) that really can’t be explained, it has to be experienced. I love being a parent so much now that if my missus’s womb could take it I’d have 100 kids and buy a big farm and we’d all just roam free in the wilderness. I joke; I can barely cope with the one! She’s an absolute nutcase. But she’s my nutcase. She’s like a mini ginger female me. She’s weird, but then again so am I. By no means get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s all been happy-go-lucky-fun times been a parent but no matter what bad things she may have done somehow she finds a way to melt my heart ten seconds later. It’s a daddy/daughter thing I think. She’s got me wrapped and she knows it. What I really enjoy about being a parent is passing on my knowledge, things that can help her in her short life thus far. Like how to make funny faces, how to do flips on to the couch, how to balance on really thin objects and how enjoyable it is to pretend to be a ninja. Yes I know what you’re thinking, she should have been a boy, I tried but my sperm failed so I’ve to make up for it somehow. Every parent out there is probably thinking the same about their child but I just can’t ever see a flaw in her. Even when she does do something bold and I have to give out to her, on the inside I’m saying “shut up you prick, stop giving her a hard time” I just don’t think words would ever do it justice as to how much I’m amazed by her. I merely existed until she came along, now I’m living. She’s the one thing that keeps me sane in this crazy world. One smile wipes away every single problem this bitch of a life can throw at me. One hug makes me feel indestructible and one kiss ends any pain I could ever have felt.

Wow, that was a hell a lot of feelings getting thrown around there. I just had thirteen smokes as soon as I finished typing. Actually I’m not even going to proof read that paragraph just so I don’t have to relive it! I’m joking. Seriously though, being a parent is an unbelievable experience. There’s not one day that’s the same. Every day they learn something new, something you may have thought them and when they repeat it back to you its magical. Don’t get me wrong there is plenty of moments when you’re on your knees banging the floor boards beneath you and screaming to the ceiling “why me Lord? Why me! Jesus Christ just let this baby sleep” but that only happens biweekly…sometimes less. Having a child does push your patience to the limits but like I’ve said on numerous occasions, it’s so worth it. The good always outweighs the bad. It won’t seem it when your wrist high in yellow gooey shit but when they start to talk or walk or laugh all that is soon forgotten.

So for any of you soon to be new parents I’m now going to debrief you on a couple of things that may help you out or set you up for the new arrival. No, I’m not passing on advice; I’m not one of those wankers. Just look at it as me debunking some new parenting myths. Let me start with one for the fathers, one that I certainly looked forward too, but is all a load of bollox. Let me nip this in the butt right now, you don’t automatically become a “DILF” just because you have a child. Women don’t start gazing at you like you’re stuck in a Diet Coke advert. I know you see it in nearly every film how that guy that’s walking down the street with his kid looking all adorable and sexy and every female he passes gives him the eyes. BULL-FUCKING-SHIT. The part they left out is how your walking down the road with your daughter and a bunch of super-hot females start making their way towards you, muttering amongst themselves about “how hot does he look with his parenting abilities” but then just as they get close enough to you to confirm their thoughts they look down and see your daughter, with two fingers buried up her nose as she blurts out “daddy I found a huge snot!!” Fantasy ruined. You see, kids have this thing built in their brain that triggers off whenever women are near. Especially with daughters. They have this non spoken agreement with their mother that they won’t ever let you look attractive in public again. Especially not when theirs women around. Take it for a test run. They somehow amazingly need to poop/pee/get sick as soon as a woman enters your eye line. So wives or partners don’t fear your child will do the cock blocking for you! Another thing you will both have to prepare yourselves for is the comparisons. Fellas, this doesn’t apply to you too much, because well, basically, we’re just too stupid to care. But mothers everywhere are at it. Fathers you just have to look out for it and enjoy the moment. I like to call it “the pyscho bitch phase moment of doom”. Let me paint the scene for you first. You, the missus and the baby are out on your weekly shopping trip. You turn into the biscuits aisle, ready to grab yourself some tasty fig rolls to go with your cup of tea when all of a sudden your other half notices a friend from years gone by also with her baby. And so the fun begins:

Mother One: “awww, he’s adorable, he’s gotten so big, what age is?”

Mother Two: “he’s just turned one actually, getting big and bold”

Mother One: “ah he’ll be walking and talking in no time now”

Mother Two: “ah sure he’s been walking now for the past month or so”

(Cue “pyscho bitch phase moment of doom”)

Mother One: “yea well my Josh has being walking since he was 11 months old”

Mother two: “My Billy said his first word at 4 months”

Mother one: “Josh spoke when he was 2 months”

Mother Two: “Billy started doing cartwheels at 3 weeks old”


And so on and so forth until one of them gets distracted by another new mother they can challenge. It can be amusing for the fella but it gets really weird after long periods when neither woman will give in and you and her husband keep making eye contact and doing that awkward head nod to each other and it seems like there’s no end in sight. But if it’s a short battle and your other half wins, you know some freaky shit going down that night. Then again if she manages to lose, steer clear of her because all you’ll hear all day is “she’s a bitch, I never liked that whore” and “how far apart were her kid’s eyes anyway?” You’ve been warned so be prepared.

My daughter is only gone four so I’ve no idea what’s in store for the future. Her first day of school, her first day on the hop, her debs, her first boyfriend; who if for some reason eventually reads this, be ready for our first meeting. It will be like a scene from the Godfather. There’s also a good chance I will put you through a series of stringent tests that may cause maiming or even death. Best of luck Casanova, trust me you’ll need it. That’s the real excitement of life and of having kids; you don’t know what will happen next. When they’re that young, there only concern is why Curious George has ended and when will he be back on. Speaking of that little cunt of a monkey, here’s a heads up for you; don’t let your child watch it. That little furry freak is nothing but a bad influence. His owner, the man with the yellow hat, does nothing to curb his clearly out of control behaviour. Although that may be because he doesn’t know how to stamp his authority because I’m pretty sure he’s camp. I mean I’ve never seen him date a women once, plus his apartment is far to clean to be that of a single straight man. But as I was saying, I get George is curious but he gets himself into unnecessary shenanigans that frankly I don’t think are acceptable for any monkey or human for that matter. No monkey should be allowed to roam the streets of New York alone. What kind of message is this sending to my child? Does she now think it’s OK to swing from window ledge to window ledge? Will she want to randomly rearrange the pipes in the bathroom because George’s curiosity got the better of him? These things better not happen otherwise you’ll have a serious lawsuit my friends. That goes for you too William H. Macy. Moving on from that little shit, your life will become fulfilled with your child. No day will ever be boring again and no Sunday will ever be a relaxing Sunday again. People say that once a child comes along you can have no more nights out, that’s only partially true. It’s not that you can’t, it’s that you choose not to. You very quickly realize kids and hangovers don’t mix as well as the vodka and coke did the night before. So my sincerest best wishes for you and your new-born. Take it all in your stride and enjoy every moment. They don’t do a lot at the start except sleep and get sick but it won’t be long before there walking in on you having a whizz and asking “what’s that ?!” I’m currently at the stage where she thinks it’s hysterical that I don’t sit down like her to pee. Kids are geniuses, or so they say.


Trends is usually associated with fashion, which of course women are obsessed by but for some odd reason a lot of men feel the need to be style icons and become walking, talking trends too. Maybe they felt it was sexist. After all this is an equal world we live in so why can’t men become fashion experts or gender benders as I like to refer to them as. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for changing it up a bit, but some of these “men” take it too a whole new level. What man actually goes to get a manicure? By no means am I saying he’s less of a man…well actually I am. I really can’t even lie about it. Getting pampered is there for women to let their hair down and relax, getting drunk and starting bar fights is how we are meant to relax. The worlds unbalanced. Somewhere since the turn of the century femininity found a way of bonding together with its male counterpart and creating this new half and half life form, it looks like a man but does womanly things. It’s a he/she in a sense. Caitlyn Jenner. First off, if you’re gay you’re gay; its 2016 it shouldn’t even be an issue, so by all means if you want to bang a dude go knock yourself out. I’ve always been an advocate for the idea that it would be great to be gay because you can watch the footie with your best mate, have a quickie at half time and then play some PlayStation after. What girl does that? But if you claim to be straight and just like doing womanly things; that is where my issue lies right there. This need breed of men is a bit too iffy for me. They care way, way too much about their appearance and having the dearest clothes. Let’s be honest here, there’s a lot more things they should be concerned about then: “does this t shirt compliment my skin tone”. It seems like every week there’s a new trend kicking in and everyone jumps on it. I first noticed how quickly trends caught on when I was a wee lad in secondary school. It started so simply with wearing your school bag on one shoulder; they were the true hard men of the classroom. Then it was that V haircut; they were the E-heads who went mental for DJ Scooter and Tiesto. And then it was the two ears pierced with diamond earrings; they were last seen celebrating the legalisation of gay marriage. By the time id left school it had imploded into “you have to look like this and dress like that”. Lucky for me I’ve never really given a shit about what’s “cool” and what’s a “must have” my biggest concern at that age was who’d go the shops to get me some Dutch Gold. This world has too many sheep and not enough Shepard’s. People should be able to make up their own minds on what they think is “in style” or “acceptable” to wear. Just because Tom Hardy does it doesn’t make it cool. If Tom Hardy fucked a panda and said it’s the new in thing to do would you? ¾ of you reading this will actually contemplate it.

I’m going to take a detour here first and start with women and their trend setting ways because frankly, fellas my fingers are sore from typing and I really don’t have the patience to be ranting about you and your stupid trends tonight. So enjoy reading me complain about women instead.

Women you really are a courageous bunch of bitches. Some stuck up designer in New York ties some shoe string to a corset and adds floral prints and sends some skinny tramp out on the catwalk and you instantly think it’s the next must have. I’m not too far wrong am I? Just because Cheryl Cole endorses it you have to buy it. Cheryl doesn’t actually get on her hands and knees and make the lip gloss; it’s some poor Indonesian women who receives a fiver a month. If that little bent over Indonesian women endorsed it would you buy it? You would in your fuck. Since Cheryl says it’s the best lip gloss out there doesn’t mean with one swipe you’re going to automatically turn into her. Trust me if that was the case my missus would be force fed the stuff. So why do you all feel the need to go spend eighty euro on this celebrity “made” lip gloss when there’s a good chance on a Saturday night you’ll trip over and the contents of your bag will spray everywhere and you’ll lose the fucking thing anyway. The answer? You think Cheryl, or any other female celebrity associated with products, is stunning. You see the way they’re portrayed in magazines. You see the way men lust after them so you think if you buy the product they promote and use them yourself, that fingers crossed, men will soon lust after you the way they do Cheryl and Co. Well newsflash my female friends, you won’t turn out like them and it’s easy to see why. Not because you’re wrote off or anything, it’s because Cheryl (sorry I’m picking on her, she’s just the first women to come to mind. Plus she’s a cracker; I mean seriously who doesn’t find her hot?) wakes up in the morning and has ten assistants to her every beckon call. Someone to do her hair, her make-up, pick her outfit for the day, even some lucky bastard to check and see if her arse is perky enough. What a job. Unless you win the lotto or marry some half dead billionaire, you won’t ever get all that to start your day of. So what do you do then? Easy. Be yourself. Don’t do something because some whore (sorry Cheryl it’s for the purpose of a point. I love you) on the telly does it. Invent your own style. Do your make-up whatever way makes you feel good. Shave your head, do a full on Britney Spears if it makes you feel comfortable. Why should you give a fuck what anyone else thinks? Because some magazine in America said so? Bollocks. This is one thing that boils my fucking blood. Just because some bitch in this month’s issue of Cosmo has her ribs hanging out every woman thinks she needs to lose seven stone. That’s all bullshit. If those size zero models are happy playing the xylophone where their chest then let them, that’s their choice let them deal with the consequences. You have your own head so use it. If you think you look good, then you are. Fuck other people’s opinions. I’m not saying go all crazy now and start munching down double cheeseburgers all the time; you still need to be healthy. But having a few extra pounds, a bit of meat to hold onto, is a good thing. Being curvy is way better than being stick thin. Just need to point out, before you all start shooting me the evils and hate filled letters, I know some women are natural skinny, but you can see that you are naturally that way, you don’t look like you spent the last hour jamming your finger down your throat so, of course, you all have lovely bottoms.

Men you shower of pansy bastards. Man the fuck up and stop being little princess’. I don’t know when the fuck it became normal to walk around like a River Island mannequin. Head to toe in River Islands newest releases. I agree its right to look and feel good but with boundaries. Some blokes make women look manly. Prancing around with their pink t-shirts and there ridiculously tight fitting trousers that really don’t do their manhood any justice whatsoever. And what’s with the obsession with beards? You all look like a bunch of homeless people. How the fuck did bum fluff all of a sudden become attractive? 2015 became the year of the beard rash. What’s even more of a mind fuck is woman openly finding beards hot on men. Homeless Joe had a beard long before these twats, didn’t see you queuing up to jump his bones. But on a more serious note, what’s gone wrong here lads? What happened to the days of throwing on a shirt to go out on the piss? Now most fellas need to start getting ready at six just to make it to the local for last orders. Women are really being put to shame. I know blokes who have more face creams and beauty products then their missus. I know one lad (you know who you are) who has three “man bags” i.e. handbags for men. Yea that’s a thing now, apparently. When did the roles reverse? I’m not against it, each to their own I always say. And by all means more power to women. But I just can’t wrap my head around how a fella could get excited about going shopping for a new outfit to wear for the weekend. It’s a mind boggler. The mere thought of going to a shopping centre to buy clothes frightens the shite out of me and what shocks me more than that is groups of men planning to meet up of a Saturday to actually go shopping together. Either I’m missing something here or the world has gone mad. One of the main influences of this upsurge in being a twat lies at the feet of Conor McGregor. Now of course I’d never say that to his face and even if I did he’d probably just let out one of his famous cackles and tell me how proud he is of that fact. And then roundhouse kick me unconscious. But scroll back two years ago and firstly, no one knew who he was or gave a shit for that matter and secondly no one openly liked UFC or MMA. Now we’ve landed in the era of top knots and three piece suits. Everyone’s now a fully trained killer too. You can’t walk two feet down O’Connell Street without seen his doppelganger. I get what he’s achieved is unbelievable. And to some he has become an idol but the boat is really getting pushed out now when fellas are desperate too morph into him. When I was younger I couldn’t leave my house without having my collar turned up, like I was Eric Cantona, but I’m 26 now so it would be a bit weird if I was still trying to impersonate him now. Go ask your dad who his idol was when he was growing up. One of them was bound to be Bill Crosby but that doesn’t mean its ok for him to go around spiking girls drinks just to ride them. But if he does think that it’s: “just a bit of craic” then he’s most likely that weird Uncle at a wedding. Sorry to be the one to tell you. So explain to me why lads desperately want to be McGregor? What’s so wrong with being you? Has it now become odd to just be yourself? Are we all now actors playing a part of someone we’d much rather be? Believe me when I tell you that you can grow the beard, don the suit, flick-open the shades and put on the strut but that’s where the fantasy ends. You don’t have his money. You definitely don’t have his lifestyle. You will never be him, no matter how hard you try. But the good news is; you can be yourself and wait it gets better guess what, no one else can be you. So do yourself a favour and be the best you that you can be.

Never the type to be hypocritical but there is one trend or fashion obsession I do have to take my hat off to. Although it does still cause me some confusion, is this new obsession of wearing yoga pants/gym gear everywhere. On women obviously. I get it’s what you need to wear for your daily work out but unless your work out consists of you putting that gear on, driving to your local store to walk around for thirty minutes just to buy natural yogurt because “it has zero carbs” and repeat this process at least four times a day well then your completely missing the point of gym gear being for the gym. I’m not knocking it though; those pants have some adult version of a Harry Potter spell in them. They have the ability to make an alright looking bottom seem like Nicki Minaj and J-Lo just had some sort of bum baby. They’re magical. I bought my missus about ten pairs of them but she missed the point, she just thinks I was trying to hint that she needs to lose weight. I’m currently on week four of being in the doghouse.

Are you starting to see where I’m going with this now? Don’t get caught up in these brain washing trends of so and so done this so you have too. In twenty years’ time if your kids come home to you to tell you that their idol; Billy Popsongs, just got a bunny rabbit tattooed on his face are you going to let them do the same? I won’t even give you the percentage of yes’s to that answer. Trends seem to be now what we live and die by. But some people let it rule their life. One of my pet hates in life is fake people. But worse than that are people who aren’t true to themselves, people who don’t love themselves. Not in any sort of vain way but just simply liking who you are. At the end of the day you are unique to this world. So be who you want to be, not what you’re told to be. If people can’t accept you for who you are then that’s their loss. Unless of course you’re into some weird cult shit then that’s most defiantly their gain.


Forget writing a chapter about this or even a book. I should get on the blower to Mr Spielberg and get him to direct a film about this. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff I’ve witnessed from working in retail. Primetime ought to do an undercover investigation into retail shops because the shit that goes on just has to be seen to be believed. I don’t even know if explaining it here will do it any justice. I could literally go on for days talking about some of the things I’ve come across in retail. But I’ve kept this chapter short and to the point because I’ve made it a rule in my life that I don’t talk about work at home. That’s why I brought my laptop into work to write this; it’s the only time I’ve ever got paid doing something I enjoy. Some of these stories I will soon share with you have been observed by these two beautiful eyes, others have been told through a very reliable source. And absolutely none of them are bullshit I can assure you of that. Before I spill some secrets though I need to start off with a chat about you, the reader and the customer.

Ask anyone that’s ever worked in retail what they hated the most about it. It’s not the dead end job they’re in. It’s not the shitty wage or pointless tasks their asked to do, it’s you. The cunt customer. Non-stop with your stupid fucking questions and your whinging about the product you need not being there. But what you need to realize is that we don’t give a flying fuck whether what you need is there or not because we’re not really paid enough to care. Experience has thought us how to keep a caring face but mentally drift off to a happier place, while you moan that there’s no turkeys on the shelf at six o clock on Christmas Eve. Yea, we are the real wankers here. You whinge to us like we can change the world and if we can scourge through our warehouse and find you that last tin of condensed milk you so desperately need we become a God to you. Here’s a tip unless you’re really good looking, don’t ask us to check the warehouse for you as all we do is refresh our Facebook feed. Basically we really don’t care. Most of the shite you tell us goes in one ear and out the other anyway. Customers have this bursting need to tell us all their problems. Pour their hearts out like we’re their therapist. I’ve seen way too many of my fellow work mates get pulled into an emotional relationship with customers. Certain customers only go to certain staff on the checkouts so they can talk about whatever drama has unravelled in their lives that week. I’ve never been one to let it get to that stage. By no means am I rude, I’m actually quite the opposite; I can be too nice. But the moment they bring up their grandkids award for star pupil of the week I start turning on my heels and give a “that’s a champ for ya” as I scoot away. We weren’t employed to make small talk and take an interest in your daily lives, that’s what Joe Duffy is for. As I’m sure by now you can tell we aren’t ompa lompas who go around packing and singing all day, we just want to get the job done and get out of there as quick as possible and get on with our real lives. We don’t live and breathe our job. Like I said before, if there’s no condensed milk on the shelf, that’s not our problem, we just pack the shite up, we don’t make it. At the end of the week, we still get paid and that’s all that semi motivates us to come into work. Not to hear how Barry finally conquered the struggle of colouring inside the lines.

Right, now onto the fun part. The stories. The secrets. The true, crazy world of retail. I’ll start you off with an easy one; it’s a beneficial one too. Have you ever picked up a tin of beans or peas and it’s been dinted? Or find some apples or oranges that are bruised? You’d think it obviously just slipped out of our hands while we were packing it. Not a million miles off, it did slip out of our hands but only because we chucked it across the storeroom at one of our mates. It’s just one of those things we do to pass the time. Like shoving cucumbers up someone’s arse, when they walk by. That never happen to anyone else? Jim told me I’d lose the game if I screamed. Come to think of it I haven’t seen Jim in a long time; I wonder how he’s doing. Have you ever walked into your local store to do your weekly shop and you wander around looking for help from a member of staff but there seems to be no one around. The shop floor is like a scene from a western, completely empty of all its employees, you start to think; “Jaysus, this shop must be severely under staffed!” Wrong. We’re all out the back having a race on the pallet trucks and when they need to be recharged we all huddle in a corner talking bollox because we just haven’t got the head for work. Sometimes there’s at least one of us, most likely me, lying on a pallet of toilet paper trying to get some well-deserved sleep. Think about that next time you buy your shit roll. In the grand scheme of things retail isn’t an overly tiring job. It’s actually fairly handy but the abuse you take from customers is what makes it almost insufferable. I’m surprised there haven’t been more incidents of employees taking out a shotgun and going to town on the customers. It’s a proven fact that the hardest thing next to child birth is to be in work early on a Sunday morning severely hung-over. You can’t function, you don’t want to live but you know you need the money to do it all over again next weekend. That was my life for a good solid two years. Every Sunday, without fail, I’d show up at very least an hour late stinking of booze and go lock myself in the freezer for five minutes to give myself a little kick-start. Sure enough it always worked. But if things ever got too much for me during the day I’d just venture into one of the toilet cubicles and catch me some forty winks. I know it comes across like I’m not the most ideal employee but I’m actually quite a hard worker or just a really good bullshiter. Either way they promoted me to manager.

The following story was told to me by a good friend of mine who worked down the country. This kind of thing could only happen down there. Before I delve right in let me give you the background of the story; it’s about Gerry the deputy manager, he was a really laid back fella but he had a tendency to turn strange whenever the going got tough. Without fail he would be late every single day even though his house was connected to the stores back yard. Now let this story commence; “This one day in particular didn’t start off too well for Gerry, there was a big visit expected from the head honchos and as usual he slept it out. Tom, the store manager was roaring the place down looking for him so I had to go and hop his back wall and wake him up. As soon as we got back in the store Tom went straight up to him and asked Gerry where he had been. “Just doing the walk around, sir” he answered “good, I want to show you a few things, let’s go” replied Tom. So sure enough they headed round the store Tom shouting out orders that he wanted this and that fixed, move this here and there, Gerry not too far behind jotting down everything on a piece of paper. Or so it looked because suddenly Tom stopped and grabbed the notes to review what he had asked to be done. Unfortunately though, Gerry hadn’t been paying any attention at all and didn’t write down a single job instead he had been scribbling down his shopping list! Of course Tom, who had an extremely short fuse, went ballistic and started screaming at Gerry calling him every name under the sun. With the pressure beginning to take its toll Gerry started to become strange, as he did when he was feeling stressed. So a few hours later while wandering around the store he came across a little lost boy no older than six. Now bear in mind our store was huge, one of the biggest in Ireland at the time. Gerry being the nice calm normal man we knew he could be took the boy by the hand and told him he’d help him find his mother. He then lead the young lad down to the furthest corner of the shop, let go of his hand and told him to stay right there and he’d go get the boy’s mother. He then sprinted to the top of the aisle, hid at the end of it and proceeded to jump out and scare the living shit out of the boy. Eventually, as Gerry put it; “I got bored and went for a fag”.

Gerry, I’m told is still a manger and just recently while doing a stocktake had a heartache and was rushed to hospital. When he woke up he peeled all the wires and needles of himself and insisted on leaving but when the doctors confronted him and urged him to lie back down he replied “I’ve got to get back the stock won’t count itself.” So you see that’s the kind of people who work in retail. Most are either addicted to the job or just a wee bit crazy. I’m most definitely the latter. It takes a special breed of person to constantly work in retail. You have to take the abuse but also be able to dish it out in an intelligent way. For example, when I get asked a stupid question, like “where’s the bread?”, even though there standing ten feet away from it, I simply tell them; “if you go back down to the front door, walk about fifty feet across to that other store you’ll find it in there.” Some might say it’s been cheeky, we don’t look at it like that, we see as a way of entertaining ourselves amongst the vast array of dumb questions we are asked on a daily basis. I don’t go into Footlocker and ask do they stock runners so don’t come in and ask us “do you sell milk here?” and not expect me to reply “no we don’t, but we sell cows!” Bare all this in mind before you think about opening your mouth to a retail employee. I can almost guarantee next time you’re in buying your groceries you will most definitely look very differently at the person serving you on the till.


That’s the taboo word amongst men. The only word that can send a shiver down a single man’s spine. Well that and “it’s yours”. Either way you know the party’s over. I don’t essentially believe people are afraid of commitment I think it’s just the title that makes people get all uptight and sweaty. No one likes the idea of having to answer to someone, especially when you have to take their feelings into consideration too. You’re brought into this world alone, unless you’re a twin of course, so you become accustomed to only having to answer to yourself; going it alone. When you’re in your late teens/early twenties all you want to do is get drunk and fuck. (Neither of them are a guarantee by the way.) Relationships are the furthest thing from your mind. You don’t want to be committed, you’re too young and you’re having way too much fun. But there will come a day when you meet that girl that will change you or rearrange you. Then what? You can’t string her along for ever, girls are very intelligent and we’ve been over this. Keep up.

But when that day comes and your balls drop, your face gets some bum fluff and you don’t sound like Freddie Mercury anymore, you start to notice the opposite sex. Or hey, maybe it’s the same sex. This is the time when you realize you want more, you want that physical relationship, you want someone to be all lovey-dovey with, someone to be your snuggle buddy. Someone that you can ‘Netflix and Chill’ with, because in reality isn’t that what we’re all looking for? So where do you go from here? You’ve been on dates together, you’ve had several million selfie’s taken with one another, now all that’s left is to make it Facebook official. But you know when you do that the game is up. The whole world knows you’re an item now, no more liking other girl’s profile pictures, no more secret pokes and your Snapchat may as well be deleted. Slice your balls off and give them to the other half for safe keeping in her purse because you don’t need them anymore. You’re grown up. You’re in a relationship. Your two dice rolls away from getting married. Shit buzz. I’m joking. I was purposely trying to terrify you. It’s not ALL that bad. See, here’s the big secret, ladies, I’m sorry but it’s true, all women are fucking nuts. Any woman that’s normal or seems normal is most likely a dyke or a trained assassin from the future. As crazy as they are you just need to find the one that is the right amount of crazy for you to cope with. There’s one out there for everyone. So now that you’ve made your choice and you are now an “item”, then what? Well once you get over that smooth sailing stage at the start, you know the bit; it’s when she asks you for sex and it is fine to go with the lads. That’s when the crazy slowly starts to seep out. Now, it’s not alright to watch football on a Wednesday night because it clashes with the soaps and of course you can’t go the pub to watch it because you are saving for the future. And forget about surprise shower sex, that’s never happening again. In fact good luck ever getting between those legs again, it’s like a jungle down there. It puts the beard of Zeus to shame. Remember those sexy knickers she uses to wear? Yea, they’re gone. It’s strictly Bridget Jones parachute pants now. So now that I’ve told you all this, what would make you want to get in a relationship? Well lucky for you as this is a book, I have to explain so follow along as I jump to the next paragraph.

Hi there, friend. Shall I shed some light on the cliff hanger I left you on up there? No problem. Let me break this down into its simplest form. Women are from Venus, men are from Mars. To put that into 21st century language; men think with their pee-pees, women, God bless them, use their brains. It’s an age old fact that when men think of women they think of one thing; sex. Men never think of all the emotional nonsense that comes with being in a relationship. They simple see a mating partner. Women on the other hand, do think emotionally. So they want the love and the care and the reassurance and every other feeling that their body can muster up. They want to plan for the future. They want to get a pet dog with you. They want to send joint Christmas cards. Fellas just want blowies. And this is how we take our first steps into having a fully committed adult relationship. Yippee. Basically once you realise that being in a relationship involves two people; you’re pretty much half way there. Now every decision you make is based on two people instead of one. Now you have to talk things over. Converse while you eat. Look how sophisticated you have become! I’m sure you’re thinking at this stage that being with someone seems like a lot of work, fuck it then go and live like Charlie Sheen, bang hookers and get AIDs. But then you miss out on sharing life with someone who cares about you as much as you care about them. There’s nothing better than sharing a new experience with someone your madly in love with. She’s no more just a conquest but she’s your best friend. Having said that though it might just be easier to put a wig on your actual best friend and lash him out of it, then there’s no need to deal with the emotional side of things. Whatever you decide to do remember life is too long to be alone. Find someone to share it with. Otherwise start stocking up on cat food because you’ll soon become a crazy cat person who talks to them like there people and gives them human names. And I’m just not ready to discuss my issue with pets with human names again.

As much as I’m making it seem like been together with someone is a lot of compromising and a lot more giving than taking, it’s really not. I just like to stir the pot. But honestly it is great craic. Like I said before if you find the right person it’s so worth it, but never the less they are still some part bat shit crazy and they always have the potential to implode at any stage. I suppose I should give you an example at this stage. The only side effect to me telling you this story is when the missus finds out I shared it with you I won’t be in a relationship anymore. Women form an orderly cue.

About two years ago the missus and I decided to buy our first home. We moved into her mam’s and saved our arses off for the best part of a year. We went to the bank got approved for a mortgage and within a few days we found the right home for us, our bid was quickly accepted, deposit put down and all we had to do was play the waiting game for the paper work to be done. After messing us around a bit, as they do, we were told we’d have the keys after Christmas. Understandably the missus was upset not to be celebrating Christmas in our new home, so to soften the blow I’d told her I had been saving some extra money and that on Stephens Day we could go buy all the kitchen appliances she had wanted. So off we went at 8 o clock on an icy Stephens’s morning, chatting on our way about what we were looking to get when the missus started to make a serious point about how she wanted things in certain colours. When she gets all passionate about things her face gets all scrunched up and she focuses solely on the words coming out of her mouth. Districted by what she was trying to say she wasn’t paying attention to where she was walking and failed to notice the ice on the path. Mid-sentence she let out this child like screech and hit the deck. Being the man that I am I just erupted into laughter. I eventually offered her my hand but by that stage she was back to her feet and her face had become extra scrunchy as she took her anger out on me. Eventually we arrived at Power City and went into begin our expensive shopping trip. Of course, as any man would do in an electrical shop, I got distracted by the huge tellies and I left het to do her calculations on what we could afford. After much debate she settled on getting a new fridge, dishwasher, washing machine and dryer, I handed over the money, took the receipt and began ushering her towards the door because all I really want to do on any Stephens day is put my feet up, watch the racing and get blind, stinking drunk. As we began to speed walk on the way home we again started chatting. The missus, proud as punch about her new purchases, started declaring “I’m delighted I picked them now. I’m so proud of what I got. I’m actually glad we were delayed moving in because it meant I had time to save up for all of this.” Of course all I heard was “I, I, I, I, I” so not wanting to be under appreciated I reminded her where the money came from and who had actually saved it. “So! It’s still OUR stuff for OUR home” she scowled. Half-jokingly I told her “well put it this way if we ever happen to break up I’m keeping all that stuff because I paid for it all, oh and I paid for the couch, so that’s mine too”. Never the women to back down she went off on one about how what we get for the house is ours, regardless of who pays more. Knowing that I’d annoyed her, I kept throwing jabs in like “well, it’s still my stuff because I paid for it” and “logically it is mine if I paid for it”. She spent the rest of the walk home sulking and shooting me evils. So we arrived back to the house and the missus made a beeline straight for the bedroom. I strolled into the kitchen, swung open the fridge, grabbed a beer and started to envision lying on the bed, watching some horse racing. Off I strutted up the stairs, opened the bedroom door and was greeted by my missus sitting on the bed trying to catch her breath. Sensing something was up I spun around to notice my 42” telly and brand new PS4 were missing, just the cables lay alone on the shelf. “Where the fuck is my telly gone?!” I screamed like a 14 year old girl. Still trying to catch her breath; “I took them. I paid for them so that makes them mine. So fuck you and your fucking logic”. In my state of horror I’d fail to notice that two feet away from me was the telly and PS4 very badly hidden at the end of the bed. Eventually after we’d all calmed down and agreed to just disagree, which usually means she’s right, she’d confessed that the reason she was so out of breath was because in the midst of her anger she was trying her hardest to lift the telly into the wardrobe and hide it but to no avail so she just decided to hid it under some washing.

So as you can see every woman has craziness built inside them. Even the mother of my child. In fact my daughter will probably be passed on these crazy genes. They’ll gang up on me when she’s older. I better get to it and create me a boy, I need the back up. But as crazy as they can act; a lot of the time it’s us that drive them to that stage. Whether we like to admit it or not we do things just to get arise out of them. They ask you to put the clothes in the wash basket you just throw them beside it; not in it, beside it. The exact same way they request you put the dishes in the dishwasher but you leave it in the sink but you swear “you were going to put it in the dishwasher later.” I suppose for women it’s like living with another child except it would be easier to get a child to lift the sit when he has to take a whizz. But sure just do what I do whenever the missus calls me a child; just refer to her as Gary Glitter. You’ll be guaranteed silence for a few hours.


Ever wondered what lays ahead for you? Where do you go from here? What’s the future got in store for you? If I’m been brutally honest, not a lot. How do I know, you ask? It’s all quite simple, actually. In the very first chapter of this book I asked you similar questions and told you I didn’t know the answers, so another nine chapters later I’m hardly going to know what the future holds now, am I? 14 out of every 100 people reading this will have actually believed I could predict the future. Sorry to burst your bubble I’m not some young, better looking Derren Brown. I don’t have magic powers. The only power I possess is the power to smoke and type at the same time. I’m actually thinking of going pro. But how wonderful would it be if we could actually see what our future holds? If there was a way to find out if all our hopes and dreams come true would you take a sneak peek into your future, if it was possible? Do you want to find out if you would? Here’s what to do. This is a certified method by the legend Derren Brown himself. Follow these next few steps very carefully:

Sit up straight, so your back is fully supported. Take a deep breath in, hold for 20 seconds and then exhale through your nose. Close your eyes and start counting back from 10, when you reach zero slowly open your eyes. You dope did you really just try that out? That doesn’t do anything. Just because I said it was a method used by Derren Brown you thought it would work. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that you shouldn’t believe everything you read?

I’m not Nostradamus or Mystic Meg for that matter, but what I would like to do is make a few observations about the future I can see coming to fruition. I don’t really like looking too far ahead, even thinking about planning something tomorrow makes my head hurt, but I’ve noticed some things that I’d like to point out that await our future selves and the next generation. It’s nothing to be too worried about but none the less I’ve a chapter to fill so let’s crack on.

I’m going to dive right in with an outrageous predication but at our current rate of going, it’s got some potential. In the next twenty years we will be on the brink of World War Three. Ireland will be in the middle of a very tight election for our new president. It’s a tight race between Bono and Conor McGregor. Bono, who has just had his 13th facelift and looks younger than ever, has promised to donate millions to third world Australia (Africa’s economy is booming from saving up millions from donations and sticking it all on red in roulette. Australia’s has been fucked because the Irish got sick of the heat and came home.) Conor on the other hand has vowed to smash ISIS single handily. He swore if elected, he’d come out of retirement and challenge the ISIS leader to one last fight for freedom inside the octagon. (Don’t worry in the future they make a film about all of this; it’s called “Cocky”.) All of Ireland’s middle aged men, equipped with their sleeve tattoos and man buns, vote in force for the Notorious. He wins by unanimous decision. The first decision win of his life. McGregor has lost none of his famous thrash talk and in his first speech as President he immediately starts insulting the ISIS leader “Terry the Terrorist”. He claims that when he beats him he will ride through the streets of Syria on his hover-board with Terry’s head on a spike chanting “Conor is Allah”. He’s boldly predicted it will be a first round stoppage. The bookmakers don’t agree and have him as a slight underdog. The match up has been scheduled for Paddy’s Day 2036. As well as the fight been streamed world-wide that day Ireland also defend their ‘Universe Cup’ in soccer ball, as it’s now known. Ireland, the number one ranked team in the world, is undefeated in ten years since Robbie Keane took charge. The Irish team are led by their captain Paddy Buczkowski, born to Polish parents but raised in Dunshauglin. There’s not one fully blooded Irishman in the squad. It’s like a U.N football team. But no one actually gives a shit because we’re finally good at a sport. In other news that year, Niall Horan finally got hitched to his long term partner Justin Bieber at a glitzy Traveller styled wedding in Westmeath. Kim Kardashian, who hadn’t been seen or heard of in nearly fifteen years since her husband Kanye West passed away suddenly from smiling, makes a surprise appearance at the wedding and ends up splashed all over the newspapers for getting off with one half of Jedward and crushing the other one with her arse. And finally that year, the first ever successful surgery to remove someone’s head from their hole is completed, on Donald Trump, who is still as much of an asshole as you’d expect.

Far-fetched? Maybe. Impossible? Not at all. Crazier things have happened. Twenty years ago no one would have dreamt the world we live in now. Imagine going back to 1996 and telling yourself that in 2016 you’ll be able to watch movies on your phone or that Madonna would still be alive. You’d laugh. And then probably cry from the thought of having to still see Madonna’s manly physique. So no one truly knows what the future holds. It’s all merely assumptions. Shots in the dark. But one thing is for certain, we hold the key to our own destiny. We can control what happens next. We have the power to change whatever and whenever we choose too. But with so much power comes great responsibility. And that responsibility must start with making sure that our future kids have the best start in life. So first things first, stop giving them stupid fucking names. Other countries don’t take Ireland very seriously as it is and they’re hardly going to take it anymore seriously if our future Taoiseach is called Star-Nightingale O’ Brien. Let’s just keep it simple. If you want to push the boat out, call him Eric. No one bad has ever been called Eric. You’re more than likely going to Google that now. Let me know the result. I know the most important thing to do is to live for now. Focus on the present. But our choices shape the landscape of the future. And with some of the shit that’s being laid on us, it looks bleak. Who seriously believes its right to have to pay for water in the 21st century? In Ireland of all places too, where all it does for eleven months of the year is rain! It should be a God given right that we are allowed free water. We need water to live. And in the midst of all this we have cowardly terrorist scumbags blowing up kids and families left, right and centre. They claim it’s all for religion but in what world would any God want a child to die like that? So fuck off with your make believe stories you cunts and insert one of your bombs up your hole and hit the explode button. Enjoy the afterlife where you get “ravaged by 72 virgins”. Unless you’re Russell Brand, it isn’t fucking happening, cunt. Sorry, I derailed there into some very serious topics. My bad, this is meant to be a very light hearted book. But sometimes some things just have to be said. So, to answer that three page old question, I haven’t the slightest clue what the fuck will happen in the future. Perhaps I should ask myself an easier question but direct the question as if you asked it. Ok then. So what’s the future got in store for you, Ed? Well, I’m glad you asked that. Not anything to physically draining hopefully; my child like stature can’t bear too much pressure and my mental well-being is questionable but perhaps I’ll push myself towards writing a novel or a screenplay. Then again I might just re-watch Breaking Bad.

I think it’s important to set yourself goals in life, little things you’d like to achieve. A couple of years ago I wrote up a kind of bucket list of things I wanted to get done before I turned thirty, it was a list of about 30 or so things. To finish it on time all I had to do was complete five of those things each year and I would have it completed by my 30th birthday, finishing this book was one of them. I’ve four years left and still have to complete another twenty eight things on my list. Like I said, setting goals is important but sometimes we don’t take into account that life can get in the way too, but just never lose sight of what you want to accomplish, it’s never too late. Anyway to end on a less serious note, I’ve no idea what tomorrow will bring. I’ve no idea what an hour from now will bring, fingers crossed it involves some sort of sexual encounter and a night cap, but one thing I do know for sure is that you Sir or Madam are a lot more well educated and happier human being from completing this book. I feel like you know so much about me now but I don’t know a lot about you. Fancy a drink some time?



So in conclusion…I’ve always wanted to say that and I finally can after making a few valid points, well I at least think I have anyway. So what exactly have we learnt after this one way trip through my thoughts and revelations? Most likely nothing! And I’m perfectly OK with that because I didn’t really write this in the hope of teaching you anything in particular. I just like to rant and get things of my chest, and I succeeded. Essentially you were my councillor so thanks for listening. I only set myself two objectives when I actually began this adventure and they were; to eventually finish it and make people smile. I think smiling is severely underrated. It’s one of the simplest things to do, and even better; it’s free. Try it more often. I constantly tell people I meet; “smile, it’s easier”. It should be my catchphrase at this point. My great hope is that more people will start slowing their lives down and enjoy the beauty that is around us, it’s everywhere to be found; you just have to be willing to look. Stop taking life so seriously and being so easily offended and have some more fun. Of course everyone has good and bad times. But some things just really aren’t worth your time worrying about. That’s why I hope with some of the topics I outlined in this future award winning book your reading that I have made you a little happier. If one person who read this book taps me on the shoulder, or calls me aside and says “Ed that book gave me a good laugh, it really took my mind of things or gave me a different perspective on things” then I’ve officially won at life.

With this book I hoped it would be a reminder of how knowledgeable books can be. Of course they teach us stuff we may not have known but they are a great curer for the mind. How many times have you heard people say they’ve got lost in a book? It takes their minds of things and lets them float into an imaginary world. That’s what I tried to achieve with this. I wasn’t trying to knock “50 Shades of Grey” of its perch, but there is always next time! Among my outbursts and antidotes I’d like to think I rained a bit of goodness onto our sometimes dreary lives. Hopefully you were reading this after a really shit long day in work or on a lunch break and it was able to bring a smile to your face and it helped to lift some of the gloom.

Unfortunately this story must end at some stage. I’ve enjoyed (almost) every moment of writing this as much as I hoped you enjoyed reading it. So there’s nothing left for me to say accept if you got this far, good on you, give yourself a big pat on the back. 5/8ths of you reading this will attempt to, only 1/8th will actually succeed in doing so. But if you didn’t get this far and didn’t enjoy reading this then please send your proof of purchase to Ed Larkin, Ed Larkin Towers, Leeson Street, Dublin 2 and I will gladly give you a refund and a signed picture of my face. You’re welcome. Finally, there’s nothing left to do but bid you a good day, my comrades, so until the next book take care and SMILE!


p<>{color:#000;}. Any statistics in this book are clearly a load of complete and utter bollox. More fool you, if you believed any of them.



It’s being brought to my attention by numerous people who proof read this that I curse a lot. Don’t get me wrong, some of it was for effect but that is generally how I speak. I have this awful habit of when I’m making a point that I get a bit too passionate and swear a lot. I’m a young Samuel L. Jackson. So for your amusement and for me to realize how much I use profanities I’ve added in this index of the main curse words I use.

p<>{color:#000;}. Asshole – 1

p<>{color:#000;}. Bastard – 3

p<>{color:#000;}. Bitch – 10

p<>{color:#000;}. Bollox – 6

p<>{color:#000;}. Bullshit – 5

p<>{color:#000;}. Cunt – 9

p<>{color:#000;}. Fuck (and its many, many variations) – 56

p<>{color:#000;}. Prick – 5

p<>{color:#000;}. Shit/Shite – 37

p<>{color:#000;}. Wanker – 5

If I’m being quite honest, it really wasn’t as bad as I’d expect. I mean, I’ve typed well over 20 thousand words and that’s all the cursing I could manage. Although I was acutely aware throughout that I needed to tone down the offensive language. So after the final edit this is what I felt was an acceptable number of curse words to use.

Barrel Of Laughs And The Odd Rant

Sex. Drugs. Rock 'n' Roll. Women. The author doesn't know much about any of these subjects but what he does have is insight into the unique world of the male psyche. From retail based stories (too unusual to be untrue) to the everyday experiences of the post modern man, "Barrel Of Laughs And The Odd Rant" is a once off glimpse into the mind of a chain smoking, politically incorrect, modern Dub. And is NOT endorsed by Georgia Salpa.

  • Author: Ed Larkin
  • Published: 2016-11-27 15:20:13
  • Words: 22246
Barrel Of Laughs And The Odd Rant Barrel Of Laughs And The Odd Rant