Red Leeroy - The Struggle For Power

Good morning and Boilk.

Leopardstown race course is a madhouse, 97 bars, a flaming smoke producing burger stand with cremated chicken, some class of Abba tribute band jumping around in the wind swept sub-zero conditions, and a load of milfs hitting the tote for the botox money, I love it at the track.

Today however is not going to be about last nights hooch consumption, and not about the 16-1 shot that won by a nose for this is it ladies and germs. Today is my last day of blogging before I go to stick my life savings on the sure thing that is my wife to be.

She is a surefire winner, a mortal lock, a dead cert, a sure thing, no blinkers, sheepskin front wrap, good teeth and her hooves are………….wait a second, I got a bit carried away with the horse comparisons.

So I’ll be back in some formation or other, at some undetermined time or other when I have figured out how to be a loving, caring and giving husband.

I may be some time.

I have moments of clarity. They are few and far between but I do have them. Last night while sitting scrawling my wedding speech on the back of a Mi-Wadi label suddenly I had one of these moments, it was like my head opened up to reveal a revamped and suddenly massively talented Steve Guttenberg, who then sat down on my knee and delivered an idea so fresh, so wonderful, so full of originality and wonder that I had to share it with you. What was this idea, what had me so excited I threw the speech in the bin and headed straight for the kitchen, it was this, yup, you guessed it…………………………

How to make a mango chutney bomb.

What you will need.

1. One roll of toilet paper

2. One jar of mango chutney

3. One bowl of water

4. One tea spoon.

Step One : Remove 5 sheets of toilet paper from the roll. Fig 1.1

Step Two : Repeat step one

Step Three : Fold five sheets into tiny square and dip into the water. Fig 1.2 This wet paper should now be fashioned into a bowl shape ready to receive mango chutney.

Step Four : Repeat Step Three. You should now have this. Fig 1.3

Step Five : Insert mango chutney into folded half using the tea spoon. Fig 1.4

Step Six: Repeat step five with the remaining 5 sheets of toilet paper.

Step Seven : Now you should have two halves of folded damp toilet paper. Carefully take both halves, place them together and make a clam type shape. This can get messy so get an adult to help you. Fig 1.5

Step Eight : The two clams should now be in a perfectly round ball of toilet paper containing just the right amount of chutney. Don’t be afraid to experiment, it might not work out the first time, but persist as mango chutney bomb making rarely works out the first time. Your fully made mango bomb should look like this. Fig 1.6 Now leave the device to dry until it is hard.

Step Nine: You can now head into town in your bike, skateboard, or in your car (if you can get someone to drive while you act as propeller of said bomb). Be on the lookout for groups of people, bus stops, Wesley disco revellers, sporting events, people queueing for U2 tickets, folks lined up at cash machines, and hurl mango chutney bomb for maximum effect. Mango bombs tend to have a shrapnel element, so when the unlucky person is hit, the now dry bomb casing will crack apart and chutney will fly in all directions. This is what is know as collateral damage, or unfriendly fire. As I said before don’t be afraid to experiment, you can replace chutney with Onken yogurt, branston pickle, dog shit, or if you happen to be Maxi Cane you can replace it with whatever fluid you see fit.

Have fun kids and remember, don’t get caught.

I have been kinda busy.

Someone asked me yesterday why I hadn’t blogged for a few days. I could only offer one answer.

I paused, bowed my head, and with the most solemn of delivery I replied slowly…………

………………”if it hadn’t been for cotton-eye Joe I’d been married long time ago, where did you come from where did you go, where did you come from cotton-eye Joe.

That is all.

There are moments in one’s life that change the way you look at yourself and others. Seminal moments of wonder, horror and introspection, they are few and far between, but I recently had one.

This is a true story.

Venue : A dimly lit Dublin pub. 2:30pm on a Friday afternoon. Two gents sit at the bar staring at two pre-wedding Guinness untouched in front of them.

Protagonists : Ginger Haired Man dressed in a tuxedo, beside him a black haired man in a tuxedo.

The Admission

Act 1 Scene 1

Ginger Haired Man: So, another wedding.

Black Haired Man : Ahh yeah.

Ginger Haired Man: I would love to get married.

Black Haired Man: Ahh don’t worry, it’ll happen for yeh.

Ginger Haired Man: Sometimes I don’t think so. Maybe it is just not meant to be, maybe I met her already and I missed my chance and let her go.

Black Haired Man: Ahh you’re mad, she’ll come along, seriously. Sure you could meet her at your table in a couple of hours.

Ginger Haired Man: Mah, I won’t, I tell yeh, I am getting desperate these days.

Black Haired Man: Ahh bollocks, yer not desperate, how can you say that?

Ginger Haired Man: I had sex with my pillow last night.

Black Haired Man: ……………………

Ginger Haired Man: ………………….

I am taking a few days R&R.

Before I go I shall leave you with this : I was traveling to my own stag and my car that was filled with meats, beer, barbiturates, and 4 fine fellows and the automobile suddenly exploded. I found myself sitting at the side of the motorway with cars and trucks speeding by and the temperature increasing rapidly, all the while wondering where it all went wrong.

My next move was a combination of a Sly and the Family Stone tune, 20 smokes, that scene from Bowfinger where he Eddie Murphy tries to run across the motorway, the discussion of the details and pitfalls of sheep shagging, and the exploration into Porn stars that have the first name Jenna, well that and the AA.

Rock bottom folks. Rock Bottom.

There is an unwritten law when ringing a venue to book a stag party, this law is very simple, don’t mention the stag part. People renting properties to a group of juvenile man-boys, hellbent on the utter destruction of the both the bricks and mortar, and of course themselves tend to make landlords and owners of castles very very nervous. One way around this is to come up with a falsehood, a half truth, or even an inticate tissue of lies. For this, my best man Ovak came up with the most wonderful spur of the moment lines.

Castle Owner : So Mr Ovak, you said roughly twenty gentlemen will be attending yes, this wouldn’t be a stag party by any chance would it?

Ovak : Ehhhh………Stag party, god no,……………it’s my partners………ehh…..40th birthday and……………he, eh he really wants to celebrate with something special.

Castle Owner : Ahh of course, no problem at all.

Now Ovak’s persuasion is for the love of the ladies, but this ruse of a homosexual gathering had a few knock on effects in the tiny village, first of all the only gay in the environs arrived up to the door unannounced, wearing only leather chaps, a smile, and carrying a bottle of Cointreau and a huge glass jar marked “lube”. It seemed that the talk of the very small town had got out of control, and instead of a small gathering of gay men, it had morphed into some sort of horror filled evil fortress filled with raving benders with only thoughts of 48 hours of mass sodemy.  We politely corrected “Pascal” and assured him that he was more than welcome to join us but it was strictly platonic. Never have I seen such a dissappointed man as he trudged off down the long driveway muttering to himself, the poor fellows only solace would have been a trip to ‘The Sheaf of Wheat’ on his way home.

Second was the midnight welcoming party, this came with added extras such as a large bonfire on the lawn, crudely scrawled signs such as ‘No Gay-Gay‘ and ‘Heteros hate too‘, some pitchforks and some banjo music. We resorted to throwing boiling hot fat and bottles of Stella from the ramparts, but this didn’t deter the locals one bit as they continued to ram the door with the . Eventually we removed the stags head from the wall and jammed it on Waxy’s head, after setting it on fire, we had him stand in the doorway proclaiming a plague of left wing activists and the banning of potatoes, this spooked the would be lynch mob into believing their own fireside tales of satanic gaylords and they hurtled in every direction wailing and singing Amhrán na bhFiann. And so we continued with the festivities until we were sure that the last of the local enforcers had left us in peace, everyone was happy except for Waxy who was lying prone on the floor of the hall with a singed and smoldering set of antlers stuck on his head.