Fuck me it’s freezing.

The sooner this recession really bites, the better. I’d fucking love to be unemployed this morning…

click for full size

What a crazy 48 hours it has been. It would appear that Bertie’s resignation theme tune is proving to be very popular. I’m truly shocked that it has gained so much interest, thanks to all who have been emailing it to friends and family, hopefully they all got a good laugh out of it!

I’m also very surprised at the number of emails I’ve received praising (or condemning, mostly praising though) what I’ve written. Thanks very much but in future, please, please, please use the comment form, I can’t be arsed replying to your emails individually.

Right, that’s all, I’m off to get drunk. Have a good weekend.

A colleague of mine sent an email to my work account this morning, it went something like this:

To: none@ofyourfuckingbusiness.com

From: asshole@iemaileveryonewitheverybitofshitifindonline.com

Subject: A song for Bertie

This is fuckin hilarious - check it out!

http://www.shitetalker.com/2008/04/i-will-resign/

How I laughed.

First I was afraid
I was petrified
Kept thinking Mahon would find out
About my takings on the side
And I spent so many nights
Thinking how I got it wrong
But I grew strong
When I learned how to play along
But then the banks
Those fecking gays
They went and showed the jaysis court
That I got cash from the UK
I shouldn’t have lodged that bloody sterling
I could’ve spent it on me holidays
If I had known for just one second
All the questions it would raise

So off I go, I’ll walk out the door
I’ll go to ground now
‘Cause I’m not welcome anymore
Weren’t you the ones who said it’s time to say goodbye?
Health service crumbled
Property market died
Oh no! Now I
I will resign
Now the shit has hit the fan
And the country’s in decline
I’ve done my share of theft
And no credibility left
So I’ll resign
I will resign

It took all the guile I had
To look the injured part
Keep trying to pretend
The public broke my heart
And I spend oh so many nights
Just looking sorry for myself
But I’m good at lyin’
Inside I’m laughing all the time
And you’ll soon see me
Somebody new
I’ll get my government pension
Hey I’m not done with screwing you
I know how to milk the state
I learned all yer tricks, Haughey
Now I’m saving all my backhanders
For an island off Kerry

Ho ho! Now I
I will resign
And I’ll get three hundred grand
Instead of doing any time
I’ve got an easy life to live
Two fucks I couldn’t give
About your cryin’
When I resign…

AVAILABLE IN ALL GOOD RECORD STORES NOW!

Shitetalker of the Month is back and better than ever, 100% better!

In case you’ve forgotten, or weren’t reading this shit a month ago, here are the rules

I’ve decided to DOUBLE the prize for the winning nomination because, let’s face it, €10 is a pretty crappy prize, even by shitty blog-prize standards. €20 is not so shitty.

If, perhaps, you would like the chance to win €20 of call credit for the network of your choice, get your nominations in before midnight 31st March. Good luck!

CURRENT NOMINEES:

An elderly couple I know were looking to get a weekend away next month and since neither of them are computer literate or possess credit cards, they had asked me to find and book a two night stay (with breakfast) for them in a reasonable hotel in Wexford. I’ve been around this block a good few times and know that you can book the exact same hotel, for the exact same nights, yet get different prices on different online reservation websites. I don’t know why…

Anyway, I did a search and found that, at €128 per night, the Quality Hotel & Leisure Centre in Wexford was the cheapest by a long way. I was literally just about to click the ‘book now’ button when I happened to notice the room only rate: €71 per night.

I’m not much of a mathemetician, but it would appear that the privilige of eating their two breakfasts in this hotel will set this couple back a staggering €114, or €28.50 per breakfast. I can only imagine that this must be one of the finest breakfasts to be found in the country, a veritable early morning feast. Surely the sausages must be hand-made in their own kitchen by Nevin Maguire, the rashers carefully sliced from the rump of prize-winning pigs, the mushrooms and tomatoes picked from the Garden of Eden itself and the coffee beans brought directly from Colombia in a private jet flown by that smug bitch in the Kenco ads? The reality, I’d say, is that you’d get as good a breakfast, wrapped in a baguette, down at the local garage. Needless to say, that’s exactly what they’ll be doing.

We all know that Ireland is the land of the rip-offs, but this takes the fucking biscuit.

I’ve been fairly lazy this week, partly due to the Paddy’s Day hangover, partly due to the fact that my laptop is still fucked, but mostly because I’ve been fairly fucking depressed. The God of misfortune has been pissing all over me this week, with large bills (both expected and unexpected) coming thick and fast at a time when I’ve already got fuck all cash. On top of all these, we’ve got a wedding to go to next weekend (I’m one of the groomsmen) so that’ll be another €500-600 down the shitter. Then on Thursday, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, my car decided to commit suicide.

So I’ve spent much of this week drinking and gambling to take my mind off the question “how the fuck am I gonna pay for all this???”. I can’t say getting drunk helped much and the gambling certainly didn’t improve my financial situation! But thankfully, I emerged from my shell this morning, in the realisation that these things aren’t going to go away by themselves, and miraculously solved all my short-term financial worries in one go - god bless credit cards!

Expect a similar post in about a months’ time…

So here it is, St. Patrick’s Day. I will get 8 hours of sleep now then follow up with 12 hours of patriotic drunkeness, a chicken baguette, taco fries and perhaps a row. I will then need a good 12 hours of near-comatose sleep coupled with extreme snoring, farting, etc. before I’m ready to face the world again.

If I’ve got my calculations correct, that should leave me with 30 minutes to wash the smell of drunken cunts off me, produce some searing-hot scutter, get dressed, drink coffee and then drive (erratically) into work for 8.30am Tuesday morning.

It may not be a great plan, but at least it’s realistic…