DiCaproner of Leek

He kept on keeping on because his organs were built to last yo,

Berlin, Fidel Castro an der Grenze

It’s pasty nasty Fidel “exploding conch shell” Castro

“And over there Commandante, you’ll see a to 20ft half-scale model of your massive balls.” Incidentally “exploding conch shell” in the above is a reference to one of the stupider ideas knocked about by RFK for killing Castro who really had more centimetres in his nut-circumference than you’ve had hot dinners.

Not to push my venerable blog to degenerate into total a plug-fest (partial is okay), my knowledge of Castro comes in large part down to the fact that we recently profiled Cuba for season 2 of our totally balling podcast for maximum pimp-people.

Check out Season 1 of stuff on iTunes or if you’re the kind of degenerate who is not on an Apple device you can search it out however you get your podcasts e.g. Stitcher.

Well hello there me ole chickensalts. As the year chunders towards it’s inevitable gee-eyed conclusion, Christmas is finally being thrust at us like the dry heaves at the end of the vomit-binge that was 2016.

Peaceful and solemn seasons greetings you all.


You’re welcome. We need this this year of all years. Aw dang. I just found out the dog in the hat voted Brexit for president. Hope he chokes on a bauble.

Although the illnesses of last week that kept me out of the channel tunnel have since passed, I am still stuck with the remainders of a cough. Like a secret Soviet weapon, my cough is an immediate 1/10th of a second of ear bursting cacophony that actually heats nearby metal surfaces.
For her part, Meg too retains a fair degree of illness to the point that when she falls asleep she begins making mewing noises that approximate to sub-threshold cough-impulses until she hits the 3rd or 4th and wakes up like Leonardo DiCaprio spluttering up seawater after the lass who got her kit off in Titanic chucked him off that bit of driftwood.
I know what you did Rose. Billy Zane is a-coming for you and he ain’t bringin you lunch!
Our sicknesses were particularly poorly timed for the week we had.

The focus of our week was the wedding of Simon Greene and his now bride Shannon Coco. Like myself and Meg theres is a trans-Atlantic romance. Unlike Meg and myself they have now been unburdened of the million tiny agonies that come with wedding planning.

How many canapés per person? Well Bernie can really put away the cocktail wienies but girls are devils for leaving a plate pass them by. And how about the cake? How many tiers? Round? Square? Marizipan model of my face on top commanding the tides to turn their shameful faces and dampen my shores nevermore?


Some choices make themselves. My marzipan modellers are skilled but this one turned out a little less commanding and a little more like someone interrupted my number 2.

We did ourselves no favours by trying to get to this wedding the day of. We got up at the crack of nonsense and shovelled in caffeine and calories so we could get through the first half of the day without turning into crab-apples. There have been so many early morning flights from Gatwick to Ireland for us of late, I’m starting to recognise the dead-eyed drones that make up the Ryanair check-in counter. They hate me.

To be fair they also hate their jobs, themselves and the smell of freshly cut grass. The bastards.

Despite me suiting up from the morning, Meg had a much fancier sequined garment which would have gotten banjacksed by wearing it through the flight so she decided to change once we landed. Living with Mariah Carey like. Once she had glammed up we got our rental car. That is to say Meg did. I am too new and too testicled a driver to pay for a car rental without selling all my bone marrow and clean pee for the next 22 years.


Taking all reasonable bids.

We then picked up some boxed sandwiches (the lunch of the desperate and joyless alike) and scurried out to our sub-standard Nissan Micra (which given the relative pantheon of Micras is a crushing insult). After swerving through the now familiar succession of roundabouts and off ramps that bring you from the Budget carpark to the succession of refurbed houses and boutique hotels that make up the spidersweb of wedding venues across County Meath we headed off to another  wedding (bringing my life total to 3).

Apparently that’s the only thing bringing money into the county. That might sound harsh until you go to the main town – Navan. Ireland’s only palindromic town that doubles as a Sliding-Doors style warning of how your life could have turned out if you had made every decision in your life incorrectly.

Say hello to that stranger on the train? Bad luck, they murder you with a hammer.

Soup or sandwich? Bad luck, they’re both filled with mercury.

Lead a life devoid of meaning or satisfaction? Bad luck, you’re in Navan.


<swallows hard> Navan… BABY!! <shoulders slump>

As we revved up the motorway in our wedding gear we apportioned out the dining to make it work. I savaged my Christmas Turkey and Cranberry Sausage sandwich in record time in order to free up my hands. A sandwich which I referred to hilariously as my Turkey Bryan Cranwidge.

Then I had the free hand required to pass Meg her first sandwich which she ate from her sequined lap. Then the following happened-

“Okay what needs to happen is ONE I’m going to need a sip of Diet Coke, then TWO feed me the meat out of that sandwich, no not the bacon just the sausage and THREE you’re gonna have to find me some music I like.”


All she wants for Christmas, is to be hand-fed slices of sausage on the motorway.

Isn’t that all any of us want if we’re honest?

In other news, a very genuine congratulations to Shannon and Simon on their new matrimonification. Theirs is a love that in the pantheon of great loves will be eternally defined as… the opposite of Navan.

Hurrah that all the world is not (entirely) fucked!

DiCaproner of Leek

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