Thursday, May 08, 2008


Here we come...walkin' down the scales on our bodies...and claws on our feet...HEY HEY, WE'RE THE REPTILES...

So, anyway, the jobbernowl won. London is in the hands of a lunatic.

In the town of Killorglin - some dump in County Kerry in Ireland ((I don't know if this is true, but my dad once told me that, genetically, Kerry folk are 80% human and 20% pike - then again, he told me that Dubliners were "a shower of bastards" and that people from Donegal were "the Jews of Ireland", whatever that meant - and he once asked a female Glaswegian who visited our humble abode, "GLASGOW? WHERE ALL THE HOORS COME FROM?", so let's just say he was never happier than when in County Sligo - don't blame me, I've never figured out intra-Celt rivalries)), the people there enact a mysterious ritual every August, known by some as the 'Puck Fair'.

It's basically an excuse for a 3-day beano, but with one bizarre twist. The townsfolk form a posse, charged with the task of marching into the mountains and capturing a wild goat. This sounds like the kind of shite Australian backpackers do during their gap years, so they can then spend years bragging about how tough they are - but it's not really a big deal in Ireland. My Irish cousin John (RIP) was a retard with a 12" cock, and he used to love going out into the fields and kicking seven shades of dung out of any cow, bull or donkey that crossed his path. It's true! I know you think this blog's all bollocks, that I'm really a mild-mannered bank clerk who just happened to chance across a free Sham 69 CD in a packet of cornflakes and has spun a web of fallacy ever since, but this is no word of a lie. He could probably have battered a polar bear to death with that plonker. Anyway, back to the goat-snatchers. They come back with a goat, the townsfolk stick it in a cage, give it a crown and declare it 'King Puck'. Basically, the goat is king and rules for 3 days, during which time the locals dance, drink, take gards' eyes out and surf a Bacchanalian wave to Hellsville.

Not everyone's sure why this carny takes place. Some scholars profess that it all kicked off in honour of the Great God Pan, who used to run around the woods and hills, chasing nymphs ((probably 'Benny Hill' style, the filthy old bastard...)) and invoking sweet chaos with his pipes. Others say that it just indicates a healthy disrespect for politicians and monarchs of all shades and hues.

All I know is that London's just elected a cunt of the lowest order, purely because some morons thought it'd be a bit of a 'laugh'. Either that, or they're so deluded and naive they actually think Tory influence will shoe them up the property ladder, or stop hordes of Muslim bombers using the bus after 6pm, or whatever. I'm ashamed to live here, to be honest. I'd rather have had the goat for mayor.

Oh yeah, I'm out of Finsbury Park now, and living next door to a Hindu temple. I found a nearby boozer and met a bloke whose dad used to be in the RAF ((like the Air Force, not Baader Meinhof)). "DOUGLAS BADER?" he spat, as if recalling some kid-fiddler rather than the handicapped hero of the Battle of Britain. "TOTAL WANKER!!! NOBODY IN THE RAF HAD ANY RESPECT FOR HIM!!! CRASHED HIS PLANE SHOWING OFF IN FRONT OF A BIRD, THAT'S HOW HE LOST HIS LEGS, FUCKING IDIOT!!! AND THEN, AND THEN, JUST COS THE RAF WAS SHORT OF PILOTS, HE FLIES OUT WITH HIS FAKE LEGS...AND CRASHES AGAIN!!! FUCKING IDIOT, COULDN'T FLY A PLANE FOR SHIT!!!"

Well, at least the quality of the pub banter improves the further you go up the Northern Line.
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