Brendan and Jack were having a quiet drink when Brendan asks him.
“If you heard Jack that the world was going to end in fifteen minutes, what would you do?”
“Well in the time left I’d shag everything that moved I suppose. How about you Brendan. What would you do?”
“I’d try to stand perfectly still,” Brendan replies.

One more? Why not. What do a Rubik’s Cube and a prick have in common? The more you play with it the harder it gets.

 Now a bird never flew on one wing. Define egghead: What Mrs Dumpty givers Humpty.

What has four legs and flies?

A dead horse.

….. Sick or what?

Many people in Ireland have longed for an opportunity to express their long-suppressed loyalty to the British Crown. They have watched, almost with baited breaths, at such moments of joy as the silver and golden jubilee and various royal weddings, not to mention those episodes of incredible pathos and heartbreak as the funeral of Princess Diana. However, now with the advent of the visit by Her Majesty to Ireland, Irish people of all creeds will be able to cheer with gusto as they exclaim “God Bless you Queen Elizabeth!”

 For too long our two countries have been divided by antagonisms which have often been mischievously amplified by people in Ireland. The forthcoming royal visit is an opportunity to turn the swords of the past into the ploughshares of the present and the scythes of the future, with which future generations can reap a bountiful harvest of goodwill and renewed dependency on our bigger neighbour.

 Those in Cavan will be especially pleased to hear that their local authority, Cavan County Council, had been working flat out behind the4 scenes to see to it that The Queen visited “The Lakeland County” and that she is given, along with the Duke of Edinburgh, an opportunity to fulfil a long-held ambition.

 It is not generally known but Queen Elizabeth had planned to make a visit to Cavan County Museum during her visit. Both she and Prince Philip were anxious to look at the museum’s unique collection of Gaelic football boots and assorted Cavan GAA memorabilia. A source close to the royal family has stated that each time anyone mentions the memorable victory of Cavan over Kerry in New York’s Polo Grounds her mind goes back to the year 1947 and the royal wedding of that year.

 It has now emerged that her visit to the museum has had to be cancelled because of an old problem in the museum: the lavatories. In spite of having a plumber’s son on staff for a number of years the museum’s toilets have a nasty habit of exploding for no reason and shooting their contents over a wide area.  It was thought this was caused by attempts to flush down diapers, tampons used condoms and certainly the problem seemed to have been resolved by a number of low-key redundancies disguised as budget cuts. Unfortunately the overflowing lavatories have returned with a vengeance, with fateful results.  

 A County Council engineer explained.

 “It would be the very day her Majesty would be comin’ that the hoors would blow up again like yan Icelandic volcano, an’ ya can get the whiff of the shite for miles an’ miles. I wouldn’t be surprised if ya got it up in a ‘plane. An’ when that happens the last thing ya want is t’ have the quain of England cuntin’ around lookin’ to go to the jacks.”

 Some in Cavan had hoped that The Queen, given her interest in Gaelic Games, would have an opportunity to present the Anglo-Celt cup to a successful Cavan team, but this can’t happen now after the Cavan team threw up their arses down in Cork last weekend – four shagging points; Jesus the North Koreans would have done better.

 Anglo Celt and The Beano please copy

The fleadh taking place in Cavan town will be a great showcase for traditional musicians to display their skills and also to learn from each other. It will also be a spectacular opportunity for the general public to enjoy one of the most important and irreplaceable aspects f our national character. It is such a pity that the disabled are being locked out of taking part.

 Some historical talks have been organised to accompany the fleadh. They are to be given by Dr Jonathan Cherry (a good friend) and the multi-talented Dr Brendan Scott. Both these speakers are, thank God, able bodied. There has been no invitation to the wheelchair-bound and partially sighted Dr Ciaran Parker, who has written about all aspects of the history of Cavan town. But honestly, the sight of him in his wheelchair speaking without notes would not set the right tone at an even which obviously sets so much store by physical perfection.

 The reason why I haven’t been asked to speak is puzzling. Last February I was asked to lead a walking tour of Cavan town by Catriona O’Reilly, the County f Arts Officer, and a member of the fleadh’s organising committee. This was in conjunction with a festival taking place in Cavan town at the time. I naturally agreed, but I was unable to lead the tour because of a freak snowstorm that led to the cancellation of most other events. I was assured that the event would be rescheduled for a later date. A fee had been mentioned, but I wasn’t doing it for the money. Had that been now I know full well Dr Scott would have been invited instead. A snowfall wouldn’t affect him as he can walk on water – he certainly shows no problem walking through the shit he causes. And as for payment, it is only natural that in a time of budgetary constraints the council should ensure that all monies stay within the broader County Council family of employees, members and theitr families.

 Another puzzling aspect is why I was approached by a local writer associated with the fleadh. He sought historical advice and information for a number of short plays he had been commissioned to write for the aforementioned fleadh.   It seems a bit unfair to pump someone for information whom they were going to snub And whose very name was not to be mentioned.. Why didn’t he go to Dr Scott for his intelligence? No doubt because he or his friends knew he’d be disappointed.  I write this so that people attending the fleadh will no what a miserable crowd of back-stabbing, lying cheats have organised it.

Being able to eat fresh produce is very important. Fruit and vegetables may look fresh, but how long is it since they were taken from the ground? How do we know what harmful chemicals have been used in their cultivation, or to aid their longevity? During the months of summer there is no excuse for us not buying the freshest available3, as these are available at farmers’ markets. This phenomenon has really taken off in Ireland, helped by the endorsement of food writers and celebrity chefs.

Cavan town is the latest venue for a farmers’ market, held under the auspices of the town council. It appears that spaces and marquees and other defences against our inclement weather are to be provided by the council, but at a cost. The figure4 has not been finalised, but are those who attend the market aware that any personal details, even as insignificant as a name, address, or vehicle registration that they give to the council (or that they council might otherwise acquire) may be handed over to the Revenue Commissioners?

Here is a short message for Dr Brendan Scott and his adoring fans, his patron and protector Whacko Jacko Keys and the others who organised talks in association with the forthcoming fleadh in cCvan. It is taken from the lyrics of the inimitable Marshall Bruce Matheers III, aka Eminem:

YOUL’LL BURN IN HELL FOR THIS SHIT

A family of prostitutes were discussing life over breakfast. The daughter had just come in and was asked how she’d done the previous night.
“Not so good. I only got 25 euro for a blow job. It’s the credit crunch I suppose.”
“Twenty five euro for a blow job,” screamed her mother. “In my day I’d consider a fiver for a blow job to be a good night’s work.”
“It was different in my day,” said granny prostitute. “We”d have been glad just to get something warm inside us.”

I’m sure there are many local government employees who know only too well the type of people I’m talking about. After all, when they”re on one of those five-star junkets paid for by the tax payer, away from their wives, girlfriends and partners, it can get pretty lonely, can’t it … but don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.

This gay guy called Jack decided to go for a tattoo. On the way in he sees a poster of Evander Hollyfield, and he exclaims to the tattoo artis. “He’s my idol. Can you tattoo his face onto my left buttock?”
“No problem”, replies the artist.
On leaving he sees another poster, this time featuring Mike Tyson and he runs back into the shop and pleads with the tattoo artist. “I just love Mike Tyson. Could you possibly tattoo his face onto my other buttock? It will really drive my partner wild.”
“it’s your money”, answers the tattoo artist.
When Jack gets home he can’t wai to show off his new tattoos to his partner Brendan, so he drops his pants and bends over so that Brendan can get a look, but instead of being pleased he is nearly in tears.
“I hope Jack you realise that this means the end of our relationship”  he sobs.
“Why?” pleads a dumbfounded Jack.
“Well you’ve got Evander Hollyfield on your left cheek, Mike Tyson on your right cheek. You can’t expect me to go into the ring between those two.”

The persona names used in these and other jokes are entirely fortuitous.

When I received a list of the events organised to accompany the forthcoming fleadh and saw that the speakers included that no good beggar from Belturbet, I was reminded of the story about the two fleas pigging out on a piece of shit. One of them farts very resolutely and loudly, causing the other to say: “Ah now, can’t you see I’m eating?”

And then I lookied at the committee and I was reminde of yet another story. A bar in the Texas Panhandle organised a contest where they were offering $1,000 to the guy whose girlfriend or wife’s pussy smelled the worst. A local factory worker jumped on stage and told the MC.
“The money’s as good as mine. Wait till you smell my wife’s pussy.” He went away, returning five minutes’ later pulling a aft and bloated womn by her hair. The MC commented. “My., I can smell her pussy from here.”
“Just you wait”, said the man, as he pushed up her skirt, took down her panties and exposed her pussy. The room wass immediately filled with a truly stomach-wrenching tidal wave of stale urine, sweat, faeces and what could only be described as ten-year-old Thai fish sauce. This was so overpowering that it led to a stampede as members of the audience rushed towards the exists, clambering over those who had fainted and through large pools of vomit. The MC was barely able to remain standing, so powerful was the stench, and he turned to the man with a cheque for $1000 and said |”Okay, no contest. You win hands down. But how do you live with someone with such a smelly pussy?”
“It’s not that bad,” he replies. “ The first three weeks after she died were the worst.”

Mary told her parents she was going out with some of the girls from work for a drink, and that they shouldn’t wait up. In fact she was going on a ate with the office stud. He wanted her to come back to his place, but because she was a virgin and she sensed that his intentions were not honourable she invited him back to her home, cautioning him not to make a noise.
Once inside the door he announced that he needed to go to the toilet – badly. As this would have meant a trip upstairs past her parents’ room she stopped him.
“But it’s urgent. Can I go in the kitchen sink?” he pleads.
I don’t know”, she aide. “So long as you don’t make a sound and clean up after you.”
He agrees and goes into the kitchen. Mary stands nervously outside, expecting his imminent re-emergence. But the seonds become minutes, and she eventually says. “Are you ok in there?” whereupon he sicks his head round the door and asks:
 ”Is thereany toilet paper?”

And he could just as well have wiped his arse with the booklet about the Fleadh in Cavan that I receiverd today. I deon’t know whether it was addressed to me at all. It just read “Ciaran Parker 4 Earlsvale Road.” Now I live at 5 Earlsvale Road, and I couldn’t be addressed by my proper title as this would have made that blatherskite from Belturbet look bad. The idea that someone else has a PhD in Cavan, of longer standing, is something he just can’t hack, so I have to be airbrushed out. To be honest the whole thing makes me totally ashamed to be from Cavan.

Brendan had been going out with a girl for a year but he’d been reluctant to go onto Level 2 of the relationship because he was ashamed at the smallness of his willyu. He decided to ask the advice of his friend Eugene.
“Size isn’t everything”, counsels Eugene. “It’s what you do with it. Get her in the right place and the right mood, and the fact that you’re a bit on the small size won’t make any difference.”
Armed with this advice he goes out with his girlfriend. They drive to a dark spot where Brendan considers it’s a now-or-never moment. He unzips his fly, whips out his willy and gently guides his girlfriend’s hand to it.
“No thanks,” she says. “I’ve given up cigarettes.”