Doritoner of Leek

His first lady mother had a lot of “go”


It’s Justin “Luke Wilson’s doublehead” Trudeau

His Ma shtupped Jagger and had some babies off the head big-nob of Canada. That sounds like the set-up to a pun-based joke, but it’s not. Just wanted to point out her high shtuppin’ skills.

As for the son? Mother may I…

So I am on location in Canada, currently writing this heading South towards the US border to head to Seattle, the originator of coffee and coffee-heavy sitcoms involving fraternal psychiatrists walking in and out of rooms while saying the word “Dostoevsky.”

This car trip is being punctuated by semi-regular stops to refresh the car box of TimBits, something I believe I may have discussed in the past in my previous newsletter version of this very blog. And I hope you can agree that this blog is indeed, very. TimBits are what Canadians use to end their lives once they have seen the world for the distressing fiasco it is. Donut chunks, deep fried in sugar, straight out of the fryer and into your arteries. The threat of weaponising these things is all that’s keeping Canada’s sovereign territory safe from invasion. Three or four of those and and your tongue quickly sprouts a protective coat of hair. Five and your heart shoots out your arse, sweating and mewling.

As one mght expect, they taste very good indeed but much like the pulled pork cinnamon French toast with caramelised apples I ate for breakfast yesterday, has no right to exist in a civilised society. It’s all a half step away from turning me into one of those fat lads from the space ship in Wall-e.


Pictured: the author, tomorrow.

When I left you I had just done Vancouver and was setting out towards the Alpine ski resort of Whistler. I’ve never been skiing (still haven’t) but it does look like tremendous fun. Unfortunately I would’ve been on what are known as the “bunny slopes” and my already wilty manhood just couldn’t take the hit. That and it would’ve been $200 dollars plus to listen to a Kiwi film studies drop-out to tell you you need your skis to do “french fries” to speed up and “pizza” to slow on an incline of 1°. Then I stab him in the neck with my ski and ride his corpse down the hill like a tobogan i.e like people from Tobago do.


Top of the list of famous Tobagonians. Hair mah now!

See how worked up I`m getting just thinking about it. That was dark!

In lieu of skiing, I did manage to do some tubing yesterday, sitting in a huge inner tube and sliding downhill spinning into an icy mist while my laminated and very pointy ticket fluttered in my face like an angry Dorito. It is pretty fun actually, though the whole thing was weirdly corporate, the place was sponsored by Coke and they had Summer-themed 80’s music blaring through the sound system. You haven’t experienced snow until you’ve experienced it with Simon Le Bon clucking about how “her name was Rio and she has a swollen gland” or whatever.

To get back up the hill there is an airport style moving walkway which as it turns out is the only known predator of the McLean family. Meaghan’s dad collapsed twice, once ploughing face first into the ground, the other time running in the wrong direction to attempt to pick up her Mom, who herself had fallen into her rubber ring on her first go. On both occasions one of the attendants had to slap the emergency stop grinding the whole apparatus to a shuddering stop. Meaghan’s sister also started to lurch dangerously to the side on one trip up the hill until I caught her and on a separate occasion while walking backwards vanished suddenly and spectacularly from view as she wiped out into a snow drift. It was carnage.

Even one of the Aussies almost lost their leg cracking their long meaty pin off the side of the snow wall.

Meaghan was the only McLean not to wipe out at some point, something she’s not at all boasting about. In comparison, her Dad managed to wipe out at the dinner table, chair collapsing under him after one too many duck fat roasted potatoes (which I was in charge of, somewhat racistly.)

This brings me to a larger point which is that Meaghan’s Dad, in a fashion perhaps similar to myself, is not what one would call a serious man. Some choice quotes from the past week included:

Mark, get your arse branded.
Is that a suck dog or a guffer?
That guy’s a real bear.

Surprisingly not even one of those was intended as gay slang.

In his speech at his eldest daughter’s wedding he gave a long rambling reference to a time the groom was on the news for his reaction to a stabbing that had happened in the area he was hiking. First he jokingly affirmed his confidence that the groom was not in fact the culprit(“everyone deserves their day in court”), then twenty minutes later on in the speech he declared “He sure does like those wooden ducks!” We think it was a joke about whittling with the stabbing knife. But no one has ever been able to be sure, least of all him.

He also managed to confuse all the names of the Aussies, Cheryl became Shirley, Alan became Adam and Bethan became Stefan. In short, he is enormously good value for the bystander.

In other news, Meg’s ring is very loose at the moment with me not having had an opportunity to get it sized (how the hell do people do that anyway? “Hey baby, can you fit this spaghetti hoop on your finger? No? …how about this one?”) Resultantly her Dad has suggested I slip it off in the night and make a break for freedom and Meg has threatened to pawn it for cash money so she can start her new life with her boyfriend Mykonos Stefanopolous.

All great stuff.

Sitting in the queue to get back over the border from Seattle. Will hopefully be onto you next week as long as the notoriously joyless US border guards don’t arrest me for sexually harassing that eagle.

I know what I like.

Doritoner of Leek

Yukoner of Leek

His topless ex is mess your pants scary


It’s depressing uncomedian, Jim “The Grinch” Carey

Merry Christmas cornholers! You may have heard via social media channels that myself and Meg are now engaged and not just to the political ideals of Teddy Roosevelt. That guy really knew how to break up monopolies and murder Cubans. No, we have decided to get hitched in the style of all of history’s greatest couples, Sonny and Cher (I’m Cher), Mark Antony and Cleopatra (Meaghan is Mark) and Jim Carrey and clothes-optional harpy Jenny McCarthy.

Jenny McHarpy. Not that they ever got married. Anyway, we got a lot to figure out in terms of details including canapes, venue and what mixed-gender strip club we will go to for our joint stag and hen night. For my money it’s got to be the Androgenous Figleaf, exotic bar and Vietnamese breakfast buffet.

Apologies for the lateness of the posting by the by, I am typing all this out with my stubby Twix fingers on a very small tablet a good 8 hours behind my normal timezone. In short, to me I’m on time.

I am currently sitting in my hotel room in Vancouver safe in the knowledge that I am the third least outdoorsy person in this whole city. Meaghan and her sister beat me to the championship belt and I’ll be pushed further down the league once her parents fly in. First impressions are pretty much in line with the prevalent stereotypes of the place i.e. think Alpine, hipstery LA.

The airport has a great deal of water features with a lot of pretty cool bits and pieces of sculpture from First Nations designers. For those not in the the know that is the way that Canadians refer to those communities that in the US would be described as Native Americans. Or if you’re an American football fan, a “Redskin” this still beinone of the teams in the league.

The owners of the NFL are a sensitive bunch (um palefaces to a one), one would imagine especially so when it’s pointed out that their business plan has basically been to monetise concussion via expensive ad spots about extra large pants with super-elasticated crotch zones, for optimal bulge exaggeration. But hey, they’re romantics.


I for one believe these fine gentleman have my best interests at heart. Especially those with 1920’s villain moustaches.

I’ve had a good saunter around the city and seen some of the residents who fall into the broad range of characters that are fairly interchangeable across the Western US. There are a mix of the hearty cheeked older dudes who took last weekend off to sprint up the Andes to punch a condor. There are hipsters of every description, including coffee artisan hipsters, rude clothing store employee hipsters and crappy but deeply confident busker hipsters (“Check me out girls, I’m gonna be fucking star!”) There are hipster prequels (aka hippies) men and women who were full on granola and Greenpeace back in the day but on the balance of things you can now say too much so as they are sprinting up the middle of the street holding up traffic in a high-vis orange coat screaming “he’s got it!!” That was a real thing. Smoking some real strong granola that guy was. And crystal.

As a result of these demographics, the city of Vancouver is entirely gluten free and has been ever since St Patrick drove the gluten out and into the sea in 1312. It was the weekend after he sorted out Ireland’s snakes. How did he cross the Atlantic and Canada in 7 days? Jesus, that’s how.

Meg was in the UK, taking a taxi from work to the airport for this very trip and her driver it turned out was a fellow Canadian, indeed from Vancouver. As well as being a bit of a douche generally, he was rather down on our current home town (whereas the normal reaction is more “ooh lah lah, check out Mr and Mrs triple-ply terlet paper”), the only reason for which being ” it doesn’t even have hot yoga.”

Hot yoga is hot in the temperature sense as opposed to the sexy sexy sense, unless you find standing on one leg while sweating a pint a minute sexy. Which as a pervert, I do.


That and a saucy piece of fruit.

We also took a little bus journey out to an artisanal food and beadcraft market on a tiny island in the bay. 27 kinds of vegan terrine arranged by dominant theme of each of the years of Kurt Cobain’s life. On the way back The chap sitting beside me on the bus started up conversation. Turns out he was a wood carver from the Yukon who was originally from Finland and spent the late 60’s in North AND South Vietnam selling beer wholesale to all the armies who were otherwise fully ensconced in murdering the snot out of each other. It was not the bus ride I had expected.

So in short, people here are very cool. Much cooler than me. Just ask Meg.

In other news this trip has provided our intro to Stella and Charlie, Megs sister’s new dog and baby respectively. Charlie, like his namesake (I am assuming Professor X from the X-Men), is still bald as a coot but has a powerful pair of legs (benching 250, more weight less reps) and a set of bowels on him that could sink the Bismarck. Stella on the other hand is at an age where she is hitting adolescence and is a bit moody. Meg in particular has been looking forward to meeting Stella as she is fairly dog obsessed but her expectations (“Mark, I got good dog-liking skills”) have not entirely been met. Not because Stella keeps sucking on a cow hoof and bringing it over to show off her fanciness to you. Not because she’s a bit unpredicatable, freaking out over a girl in the street with a pram, but ignoring neighbourhod dogs. Not even her duelling banjos fart sessions with Charlie. But because she keeps trying to bite Meg’s face. Just Meg’s.

Poor dog-liking skills.

This time next week, Whistler! Also a valid nickname for a particularly farty baby.

Yukoner of Leek

Toner of Squeak

He’s the kind of talented perv who gives his junk nicknames

It’s narcotic honking, 4-at-a-time superfreak Rick James!

I’m very cold, which means I’m home.

Meg is solo-bolo right now, Bailey’s in her cereal and pyjamas till tomorrow. Risky business, but with less forcing Katie Holmes to give birth in silence. Look it up!

I, on the other hand when quizzed by her about my Sunday activities recounted the following:

  • woke up late, the house was empty and I was very cold
  • ate some canapés for breakfast then we went to the shop
  • then we went to a different shop
  • then it was 5 o’clock and no one had eaten lunch.

Meg described this as the most Boyle day ever.

This is leg one of my multi-national Christmas odyssey, with my exercise gear firmly wedged in a bottom drawer at home, I have given over the all of my spirit to hazardously rapid weight gain. I’m on the HRWG programme. Better than when I was on the Tralee Underage Runners Diet programme.

They called us the turd eaters.

Last week was largely uneventful, I had a day wandering the nation’s capital trying to find suitable accommodations for my employers. In their finery. It was a lot of legwork in rather inhospitable inner city council estate type environs. Empty playground. Broken child’s doll on a carousel, turning slowly in the gale. Squeak. Squeak. Mary in number two died, the cats ate her. Squeak. Barry in number 5 is drinking again, lost the kids. Squeak. I’m a mouse with leprosy and I dump in all your dried foods.

Squeak squeak squeak.

To review, English cities are all mostly awful, London included. About 70% of the place is an uninhabitable hellscape. That percentage just happens to be relatively low considering the competition. On the other end of the scale, you got your Bradfords.


And you can keep your Bradfords

Craphole radio, all craphole all the time. You could probably cite the same percentages about Ireland but in terms of how old all the buildings are. My 85 year old grandfather drove me around an estate he built in the 70’s and it’s noticeable how relatively modern the buildings look in comparison to many of those around my home town.

For the sake of context he is, as I type, in his naturally preferred environment, intimidating someone attempting to accomplish manual labour under his derisive glare.

“Maybe? There is no fucking maybe!? What are YOU going to DO!”

That was five minutes ago.

Meg and I have been masquerading as London dandies by wandering around the swishest central residential areas of London (Belgravia and Pimlico) and pretending like we belong. Incidentally a “real London dandy” was what I was accused of being when while in Namibia I turned up to give my speech in a full blue suit with brown leather shoes. This was among a coterie where there was a man with a stick who was top dude because he had a stick and then he hit people with his stick. Was pretty jealous to be honest. Whackeroo! That’s the way I’d run MY country.

On our wanders, we met a Santa who was stunningly lifelike. Gruesomely so. His face was too big, like his head had sucked up a bunch of krill from the sea and was digesting it through it’s massive baleen. Sorry, still watching a lot of David Attenborough. Anyway, bighead Santas of the world, get help. Don’t be going around freaking out kids an me with your puffed up face and head like a pumpkin. A puffkin head. Medical attention. Get it.


As anyone who watches House knows it’s never lupus. Except this time.

We also noticed a huge agglomeration of Middle Eastern restaurants and and accents as we traipsed about Knightsbridge trying not to look so shabby that a hotel concierge might give us “the broom.”  One impeccably dressed auld fella let out a casual “A salaam alaikum”to a chum as they walked into a cafe with very sweet drinks in very blingy cups as we passed by. Yeh see? No matter creed, colour or gender, we’re all just people.

As long as all the people involved are wealthier than Satan. Wealthier than a Michael Jackson blackmailer. Wealthier than Warren Buffet and Elon Musk’s oblong mixed-seed love child. Surname: Musk Buffet. Which interestingly is a pretty accurate description of my University bedsheets.

Well. Thee.

Today in my home town I saw a guy with huge swollen ears. They looked like they were the duty-bound ear-engineers that refused to flee the nuclear reactor because they had taken a pledge dammit and their ear-wife was out there somewhere and Janey needs that chance. I love you ear-baby!

In short, they looked like a frigging massacre. Puffed up like big puffkin ears after being rubbed around in some Africanised terror-nettles.

It reminded me of something I noticed a great deal as a youngster, that in mid-week you would see the ugliest people around town. Just cave dwellers and the criminally unviewable. Then around Christmas and Easter, the basement dwelling buffsters and boobarellas strutted out for a couple of days of sunlight before climbing back into their youthfulness pods to prepare for another school break. My theory was originally that they were the college  folks and emigrés back for the holidays for visits and ice-cream. Increasingly though having wandered  around my home town at all times of the year… I suspect I was just out of school and my brain missed the many hours spent staring at girls.


I was pretty subtle though.

In other news, I am looking forward to a good few days in Whistler embarrassing myself by failing to slide gracefully in a thousand different slide-y Alpine pursuits. I have been fully equipped by my mother with “technical” underpants, many of which have lain unused since my foray up to the Inuit in Nunavut and will provide much needed padding as I slam my joints repetitiously into the icy floor underfoot.

I am trying to keep up start of the week publications but next Sunday and Monday I will be all jetlagged and goosey, so be forewarned. I’ll sound a bit concussed.

Merry farewell!

Toner of Squeak

Lone-r (Wolf) of Leek

He harasses the inbred in public mock trial,


It’s sneering pigeon-murderer, Jeremy “I’ll be sleeping in your garage then” Kyle.

Was meant to be doing a favor for a mate. He stayed there 6 months. Drank all my paint.

Okay, so I’ll level with you. My aim of two new blogposts a week has ended up being a bit ambitious. This is in part because of a travel schedule that has gone, for lack of a better phrase, “off the dilch” but also because as someone that treasurers a rich cornocopia of weight-gain methods, my day to day is fairly full anyway.

So going forward I’m going to keep it to the one blog a week, but there may be new ways to soak me into your pulpous brain balls via internet and I do not mean my upcoming series of erotic claymation Youtube videos (recommended watching conditions, curtain drawn, phone off the hook and a bowl of custard upturned into your lap). Said project will be attempted in the new year with two international cornholin’ chums of mine (Joe and Luke) and I’ll explain details as and when. I can tell you’re excited.


Hey Joe and Luke, my friends. You’re a pair of bollockses!

I am cyber-bullying them. Bit harsh I realise, but on balance they’re lucky I’m not revenge porning them. Internet buzzwords!

So to the reason I haven’t posted a blog in two weeks. That reason is jetlag. For budgetary reasons, I was asked to take a circuitous and as it turned out perilously missile-y route out to the far East.

Leg 1 was London to Turkey, where I landed at about midnight. The place was rammed like the churro tent at an English food festival.

“Deepfried sugar-chocolate!? ” <heart explodes> These limeys love it.

Seemingly Istanbul airport is now a low-rent version of Dubai airport, basically a West to East hub, but with very ornate pots of sugary tea and enough lentil soup to ruin a socialists’ appetite. Bet you Corbyn loves a lentil, old elbow-patches himself.

After a short time I continued on to Hong Kong, completely unaware that while I was in Turkish airspace, so was a Russian fighter aircraft that was promptly torn to snipplings, much to the anger of Vladimir Puttin’ the Boot In Putin.


Yay, it’s Daddy Smile Smile! Oh, did we trash your shit. Soz.  We good, right V?

Suffice it to say, the mother retroactively condemned my choice of airline. And my employers. And me.

Landing in Hong Kong several hours later I was immediately reminded of the ever-present sugary whiff that is on the air everywhere you go. I…I…

Okay I need to take a small break and  tell you how much I hate this advert.

This smirking, sneering, dog-turd sniffing ultra-nob is stalking my every waking hour. Every airport. Every TV ad break. Every 3 seconds pre a Youtube video rolling. This romancer of avian livestock clicks his feeble moron-digits in my direction which unless he is mutely dictating his autobiography, entitled may I suggest “why I am a toxic gimp” diving bell and the butterfly style, or navigating by sonar the fastest route to mog alley, then I urge him to stop. Everything. Eternally.

So. I met up with Luke from the photo above in Hong Kong and we celebrated his new internet-guy job by eating ribs and having a beer down by the water. Hetero-alert! My following day was business-guy times, but this meant me having to upgrade my room (alas) to save money on the charge for the meeting room. This was new info for me so once work was done I scooted around trying to milk every last luxury drop out of my new executive booking status. Laps of the pool? Check. Swallow 2 litres of that luxury chlorinated water like a baller? Check. Sweat it all out with toxic chlorine farts in the sauna? Checkity check check check. Parp.

The next day I flew out to mainland China for more business-guy times genuinely curious as to what I was in for.

In short terms: China = Japan + 20% craic + 50% airdirt.

Having lived in Asia before, none of it was particular crazy, though I did struggle with the food much more than I ever did in Japan. My toughest times in Japan were always at work do’s where you basically lose all control over your menu and the stuff they like the most is weirdo nightmare non-food. Urchin gonad and the like.

 I had the two standard reactions to overly foreign foods while there.

Hairy puppet-shins turned out to be… potato-y thing.

Sweaty chicken portion turned out to be… MUSHY WHITE ORGAN GOOP, liquifying in yo mouth. Best to read that to the tune of a jingle.

I was also airdropped into a meeting with the vice-chair of the local chapter of the Chinese Communist Party, as guest of honour. Honest to God, it was some heroic stuff. Like from a deoderant commercial or something.

With no local knowledge, foreign delegates from all over the world and TV cameras beaded on me, I improvised a 3 minute speech that could’ve reduced the stoutest heart to blubs of patriotic love. Not that I understood it, my translator was doing some seriously heavy lifting on that one.


Glad they got a movie. Least we could do for them after forcing them to listen to my weak shit: “China is uuhh, like, I guess, really nice and… Chinese.”

My return journey was a whopper, three flights over about 36 hours. I got another few hours in Hong Kong (saw a beef man and a beef woman, steroid fanatics, rubbing beefs with each other) and getting nice and caffinated at the SARS memorial statue. ‘Cause I’m sensitive.

In Turkey on the way back I was alone but for one other passenger in the business class section. She was clearly bananas. Apart from looking like a low rent Karadashian she was wearing a ball gown and as soon as she plonked in beside me, she started telling me how we were going to get bombed out of the sky by Isis because she had seen an odd looking guy in the terminal. Someone I guess who wasn’t wearing a ball gown. After attempting to reassure her, I just smiled, looked away and then put my earphones in. She later switched seats, but I think that was down to my lack of fragrance rather than my potential as an Isis lone wolf.

In other news, I ruined Meg’s cardigan. It’s like a prison gangwar. My clothes get hers in the shower, then kill ’em dead.

Forgive me Meaghan!

She ain’t having it.

Lone-r (Wolf) of Leek