The List

I want to start the first blog I have done in weeks with a simple tirade. ‘Here I am.’ I thought to myself. ‘I'm gonna take it easy this weekend. While everyone else is out getting fucked up and messy, here I'm gonna be all sober as a judge. Feeling great. Looking great. Smelling Great and not a session in sight. I'm just gonna check out some Late Late Show and chill. Make myself some food, have a beer and chill the fucking beans.

And it has all been fucking ruined.

Does everyone want to know why it's ruined? Well let me tell you all exactly why. This cunt, Jason Byrne has just cursed my television by appearing on it. The very second Tubers said his name; I was planning my own suicide. As the little prick made his way out onto the stage with his stupid face, I decided to make a list, the list, the list I have been threatening to make for years and I'm only beginning it now. Make a list of all these so called comedians and hunt them. That’s right, hunt them. I have been wondering what to do with myself for years and now, I know. I know what I was born to do. I finally know now. At last, I have a substantial ambition in life. And those ambitions consist of me finding all of these reprobates and riding them. Ride them until the botties are blue. I am going to gut the fuck out of all these little shits. I am going to rape them until they realise how funny they are not. Who the fuck told these little cretins they were funny? Who told them? I am going to dawn war paint, get a big black cape, a cool ass fucking weapon and stalk them. The next time the Byrne Ultimatum is on, watch it. I know it is hard but watch it. You will see blood shed. His blood shed. This has gone on too long and they need to be stopped.

It all started when I saw this documentary about the 'Renaissance in Irish Comedy' about a year ago. . . . . . . . A Renaissance . . . . . no . . . . . no, you cannot be serious . . . . I will be the liberator of comedy in this country. I will take an oath right now that I will not rest until all these little saps are over, finished, turned off. I'm gonna be like Paddy Considine in 'Dead Man's Shoes'. I'm gonna hit them all.

Jason Byrne is the obvious first choice because he is such a rancid little cunt, I'll make my bones with Jason. He will probably just get away with a manic clubbing to the skull and, let me tell you, that will be luxury to what awaits the rest of them. When I get going and when I start to get creative with the slaughter, well, they are gonna write about it. Those chunfellas are not gonna like it at all, not at all.

Second on my hit list is David MacSavage . . . . . . Sonny Jim, you are dead . . . . . . . . . You are ridden. . . You are rode. . . . . . I am gonna open you up like a pack of crips. . . To be as frank as I possible, David & Jason, if you’re reading which you are probably not, it is not going to be pretty. You will know my name as the Lord.

And as for Andy Maxwell and all the rest of you unfunny cunts on the panel. I don't know what you’re smiling at because you're after them. I will have you all burning at the steak with me standing in front of all the bonfires, naked, laughing. I am on a witch hunt and when I say witch, I mean, toe curlingly embarrassing little shits like you lot.

You think I'm messing? . . . . . You think I’m jokin? . . . . Do you? . . . . Where do you think Kathrine Lynch is? . . . . . . . In her gaf? In the pub? No! She is in the boot of my car with a stiff one up her Jackie.