Squaloner of Leek

His secret is eating a breakfast of kelps


It’s bumpkin-headed human jet-ski Michael “Swimmy Boy” Phelps

He really is a swimmy boy.

In my first Olymblog, I would like to tell you all how much I like the Olympics. The type of much is not bloody much. Smarming BBC personality vacuums wander around a car park on the outskirts of open-sewer favelas, as their joyless countrypeople perform obscure tasks (the bloody omnium is it!?) in lycra while the four Brazilians that turned up to watch threaten to inject the judges with Zika if they don’t win the cockless doubles. I know how it’s meant to be spelled.

This is compounded by the fact that my normal stream of youtube thug videos has been interrupted by stroppy internet that won’t co-operate and won’t get any ice cream if it keeps behaving this way.

What’s a thug video I hear you crane your neck in and ask? Well I’m very glad you asked.

 Pasty children taking swearing to nuclear levels and general unexpected intenseness. 

The Olympics better watch out, because if I have to watch one more person rolling around on a bench with chalky feet I’m going to go over there and feed them all that seawater they have with the flesh-eating diseases. Yes that’s a real thing.

Oh apparently they just arrested the head of Olympics Ireland for hawking tickets. Marvellous. They’re making the World Cup look frigging moral and that’s just an excuse for a few grubby Swissmen to try and plant their seed in the local women while inhaling big wadgers of cash. I’m getting worked up.

Moving on.

Meg and I had an adventure last Sunday. A really depressing adventure.

We were walking home through a small laneway with all these cutsey English houses, named dumb things like Kettle House, Wysteria Cottage and Fig… Pudding. The laneway is about 100 metres and ends in a 90 degree angle leading to a harsher crueller world. In the corner is the biggest house of the lot, a little less sprucey goosey but basically white. Two rusting childcatcher vans sit right outside the front door with an unnervingly thin piece of twine draped across the 3 metre deep courtyard.


Why thank you Google. This is the gaff. You can almost hear the muffled voices of the Lindberg baby in the boot.

Despite having walked past the place about 100 times, on this particular day the idea of walking by without investigating couldn’t have been further from my mind. I bent up my little getaway pin and swung it over the twine followed by gam number two. Meaghan glared at my daring form as I shuffled up to the window and peered through the living room and into the backyard. It was filled with grass up to about two metres in height.

“Meg come over here and look at this”

Meg mumbled her reply but I was now very interested in the piles of old papers which were giving me a clue as to how long it had been since someone lived here. I did not recognise any of the brands and everything was coated in thick dust and grime. So a fair old while. I was wondering how long it had been since some over-privileged little inbreedling had inherited the house and immediately forgotten about it because he was auditioning for Made in Chelsea. Then I heard someone shout “BUP!”

Meg’s audio track faded in. “The window’s open. Someone’s in there!”


She turned and started marching like a POW in Manchuria up the path. With some amount of haste. Barely not running.


Meg would later tell me she could see something like this rushing towards the front door, through the filthy glass

Thinking I didn’t want to be right in front of whatever was making that noise when it burst forth into the August sun I got back on the other side of the twine passing the two rusting kidscoopers and started walking away after Meg. Slowly.

One of my many hard-learned life lessons is it rarely helps you to look guilty or fearful. Especially when you are indeed guilty and fear… let’s say fearish. I’m clearly too much of a toughie for actual fear.

I looked over my shoulder to see what had spooked us and it was an older man, about 60 or so, leaning out the front door topless and sporting a spidery beard. Perhaps he was the legendary 6th Spice Girl I thought, Spiderbeard Spice.

“Whaddya doing!!!!”

“Um I was just looking in the window there”

“Well why don’t you knock on the door if you’re gonna look in the window”

As this last sentence made no sense and I was speaking to a guy who lived on a throne of garbage I decided to raise my hand in a “my bad” fashion and started back off after Meg, occasionally glancing over my shoulder to check he wasn’t chasing me with a wicker basket filled with his turds.


Yes I can see the link is tenuous to this photo. No I do not care.

I continued to amble nervously along while Meg shouted encouraging words like “he’s at the f-ing door!” as she sprinted away from me and around the corner. As we continued to walk along the main road towards our own house, Meg kept twitching whenever a car approached as she assumed the guy had revved up one of his old paedo-mobiles and was going to chase us down to sacrifice us to his rubbish bride.

As much as it was fun to frighten Meg, it was a deeply grim experience realising that the fella was clearly living in miserable squalor. I mean, Meg might use the dry shampoo two days in a row the odd occasion and I could probably clear out some of the slacker pairs of underwear I have. Especially those ones that are shall we say, pre-Obama but lord save us (I was actually raised in Ireland, not that it often shows) this place was next-level awful.

Might look up whether there’s any council services I could send his way. Though they generally only concern themselves with stopping house building (would dilute local prices doncha know) and keeping an eye on local suspiciously foreign Remain voters.

Those handsome bastards.

In other news Meg cemented her claim as emotional assassin with the following exchange from last Monday.

“Um, I’m not sure that’s right Meg”

“Well I give plenty of wrong answers. Like when I said yes to marrying you.”

 Touché… <sobs>

Squaloner of Leek

Caledoner of Leek

If he had the money he should have taken the plane,


It’s the Titanic’s resident baddie Billy “cool guy” Zane

Jesus he’s hot, like a young lickable Brando. But the poor boy had the last drop of acting beat out of him like he was an almost finished bottle of ketchup in the cafeteria of a government-run shelter for the clinically untalented.

This past weekend I headed to Edinburgh to attend the stagging (you can tell by my deft use of the terminology I’ve done this a lot) of a college chum and former housemate. As someone who has lived with me and not been disappeared by my hoodlums during the brief nine days I was head of a Massachusettes gang of streetwise bakers (trust me it’s a thing) I kinda gotta keep him sweet. He knows all the freaky stuff I’m into. Though he still thinks his hamster threw itself into that wood chipper.

Maybe he needs to.

So I took the rustically-named Caledonian Sleeper up to Scotchland. This is the name given to the overnight train between London and Edinburgh and surprisingly it was really comfortable.


The other, better known Caledonian Sleeper. What’s under his kilt eh ladies? A pasty Celtic shmekle. Obvs.

Before I had got on, I’d purchased an intoxicating beverage with the hope that it’d help me get off to sleep, but as I sat into my seat I felt it perhaps a little vulgar and was reticent to whip it out. That was until I saw the lad beside me pull out his can of Special Brew.

Special Brew for those of you mercifully unacquainted is a super strength lager that can barely be contained by the thin layer of aluminum that manufacturers have recklessly put between it and humans. The noxious fumes released by the metallic click and hiss were all I needed to tell me… I was among friends.

After a 7.5 hour journey, we slid into Edinburgh which was looking its foreboding best under a clear sky with the last wisps of morning mist driven out on a sharp coastal breeze. I’m really painting a picture. I’m eloquent as f brah!

With The Irish Imposition as one of my many nicknames, I promptly darkened the door of true Tralee Boy (Ardfert division) Philip. Despite a late night, he put up with my tea-sucking nonsense for a few hours before we wandered out for further caffination and a crescent length of pastry.


Actually Mark, it’s called a croissant and it’s from France. There are many kind of bread from all over the world. This has been another info-blast, from Bread Man.

Hahaha. That’s just my friend Bread Man. He lives in the equipment shed of the electricity sub-station behind our house. Hey Bread Man, did they ever find those evil baker gang (told you it was a thing), the Bakers Dozen that put your wife in that oven?

Bread Man doesn’t want to talk about it apparently. Don’t chime in if you can’t bring the friendly patter Terry! Arsehole.

Ermm… Edinburgh! Yes, so I met up with the stag and cohort of mentype beings who were decidedly the worse for wear after the pints consumed the previous night. The smell of accumulated sweaty man bottoms brought back to my various childhood experiences in summer camps, even back to first year in college when I was sharing a room. Sharing a room with men is a whiffy business. Especially when my smelly bottom is added into the broth.

We then hiked up Arthur’s Seat. A steep enough climb up a massive rock that is pretty much glower powering over everything in Edinburgh, like Mr Burns freaking out some hippies. I was happy to find that despite not having done any hiking to speak of over the past few years to speak of, I was still among the first to the top.


It’s important if you’re going to sneer at Gods creation, to do so from a good vantage point. And yes that is me in the photo. We should talk more often eh?

From then on we mainly boozed, napped and saw some grade-A comedy from the Fringe Festival. To recount my favourite joke from that day (David O’Doherty for the win), “When Steve Jobs died, they tried to bring him back to life by jamming him into a giant bag of rice for three days.” As a stag, probably the seediest thing about it was my rendition of Ignition Remix by avowed child fan R Kelly.

After we were chucked out of the karaoke bar there was talk of seeking out an establishment called “Fingers,” but a quick Google showed it to be well closed by the time my poorly advised haggis burrito (you have not LIVED!)  converted our small singing booth into the chlorine wafted fields of Flanders. No survivors.


They used to crack these babies out when I made my patented 8 bean and diesel salad.

In other news, Meg and I are watching the skintight shitshow that is the Rio Olympics. Don’t swallow the water or your kidneys will fall out your arse and on the offchance you get elected president, enjoy your last few moments pre-impeachment. And not bs Bill Clinton poling-the-electorate impeachment. “Madame President, did you steal that oil rig?” impeachment.

Some things we’ve noticed include that the music the gymnasts do their routine to, is being played out of a 2002 Nokia enhanced with speakers held together with tinfoil and and biscuit tin lids, the pool for the diving hasn’t been cleaned since Pele started doing those boner-pill adverts and UK commentators have dropped all pretence of unbiasedness.

An actual quote from a BBC commentator on the British sync divers: “Taaaaake your tiiiime…. do it right.” Fortunately the commentators for the gymnastics were far more forgiving of the bendy lasses of Team Brexlympics.

As they slipped, slid and fell on every damn bit of their body but their feet, the arseholes at the BBC were constantly trying to explain away their vertigo-addled stumblings. “Oho, she fought that well there.” You mean gravity!? That’s the gig Chuckles. “Great effort there.” The judges don’t seem to agree. “Unlucky there.” TO BE BORN WITHOUT JOINTS!?

I’m hepped up. Need something to soothe my nerves, what’s on? Dressage.

Mightn’t be here this time next week if I’m honest.

Caledoner of Leek

Anne Robinsoner of Leek

If it’s anti-gravity ice cream, he knows where to stuff it,


It’s elderly stockmarket tycoon, Warren “All you can eat ” Buffet-t

Between the Dairy Queen and the Burger King he owns it’s a dang miracle he’s got to 208 years old. I guess $60bn buys a lot of jaguar glands. That stuff’ll get you where you need to go.

So in case you didn’t notice, we launched our podcast. It pops, locks and busts the freshers! Rap talk. Anyway I want to take up the first few lines with a thank you or two for those that helped with the thing.  Thanks to Meg for holding in her various toilet needs during the recordings. Took some convincing but I told her that I would demand we didn’t edit out any… background noises. Thanks to Luke and Joe for inviting me to do the thing and putting up with me chuckling through endless sombre accounts of war-crimes. Finally thanks to Meg again for letting me disassemble our bedroom to form a sound-dampening studio environment every second Sunday for several months. The bed ends up looking like I’m trying to build one of those monsters from the end of a Power Rangers episode


Probably this creepo, he’s not allowed near schools anymore.

I just looked up the original cast. Did you remember that the pink one was the girl, the black one was a black chap and the yellow one was Asian? Yeesh. Though I will say, Zordon’s looking well.

Anyway the podcast is good and I will also say gets generally better throughout the ten episodes as we learn to be a little less bashful and gradually come to the realise that human history basically amounts to people named “penis” laying waste to entire villages of men, women and children. I also make a rude joke or ten.

Subscribe here, as hard as yeh can!



So that’s written & audio media addressed. Now I’m cornering the visual medium with my youtube videos of me forcing soapbar husks together. Next medium? Maybe smell…

Suggestions for the name of my personal fragrance on the back of a stamped-addressed envelope please. The smart money is on “Dusk of the Musk.”

Meg had a tough old week of it. As well as me rabbiting on about a podcast that she views the ultimate endgame of is for us to get physically and amorously involved with each other to “get it over with,” she also had to deal with the high pressure scenario of  picking “the dress.”

One of her bridesmaids had travelled down to be in the hizz-ouse for the whole thing. She travelled around hells half-acre (her phrase that I am stealing like so much reduced-to-clear ham) to find the right dress over a 48 hour period and in the end made her decision so, happy ending. And not the Thai massage kind.

This was doubly so because we were able to avoid any interaction with the mutants on that show “Be Forced To Say Yes To The Dress.” Monty. Anne Robinson. The whole freak parade. I watch that show waiting for somebody to snag their sleeve on the wrong candelabra and all the furniture spins around to turn it back into Montys abattoir-themed sexclub that he operates there in the evenings.

Welcome to Monty’s F-Palace. Wednesday is wife-swappin’ and ribs night.


Don’t like the look of that fist he’s made. Especially with his drug-ring there to snag on… stuff.

After deciding where she needed to go, we headed out towards the edges of the city to an area I had staunchly defended as being perfectly fine for us to wander around. Most of the areas of London that people know as being a bit tasty or a bit stabby are being gentrified hard. Though that may slow down now as Boris has kicked all the Belgians out and they’ve taken their money with them. As we emerged from the dehumanisingly named Tube,  we realised that we weren’t going to be able to walk our intended route as there was a police cordon blocking the road.

Maybe it was something to do with the Ride London cycling (and procreation) event? Doesn’t go near there. Lemon meringue tasting class? It’s not the season for lemons you fool! Maybe, they cordoned it off because it’s too… nice?

Naw. After “socialising” at a boxing event some young fella got sliced up a treat by local  ne’er-do-wells. Cocknies. The cockney massive got him. Eastenders style!

This murder of a human made Meg understandably skittish and we flaked it out to the shop and back home in record time. Knifey cockneys woud stab up their own mother to get their hands on an pricey frock. As the horsey burds from Game of Thrones will tell you, “it is known.”


It is known. That are known. It’s all bloody known lass. Oh and the last shot of every season has to be a dragon cawing at the viewer like a bloody great big chicken. Because it is known.

As well as all the walking we had done, we also broken our diet hard with mounds of Brazilian beef and a little bit of afternoon booze. The end result of this was our evening being spent prone on the couch, drifting in and out of a garlicy slumber as an impacted bolus of cow, blood and salt clambered through our intestines driving everything else before it like it was chasing lemmings off a cliff.

If ever there was a time we wished the lock on the toilet actually worked, it was this past weekend.

In other news, I am shlepping up to Edinburgh this weekend for the stag-do of a former housemate and the person that makes the sentence “no I am not the first of my friend group to get hitched” not just a lie I say to take the pressure off our wedding planning.


To honour this important rite of passage, please enjoy this photo of me wearing his face stretched across my passage.

Congratulations on the engagement and upcoming marraige Simon and Shannon. But if you guys steal my idea for having a nude sauna backroom at your wedding, we are done as friends.

We’re still doing that right Meg?


Anne Robinsoner of Leek