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

Madame Buttoner of Leek

He’s finally givin’ Hill-dog clap-handers,

It’s Larry David’s alter ego Bernie “Feel the Bern when I pee” Sanders

Doesn’t it feel like he’s reaching out to pick your nose? Maybe your nose is cleaner than mine.

A merry halloo to you and yours, I write this in a haze of body stink. Meg and I are still shrinking visibly but our bodies now go into gassy spasm when we put real calories into our distended bellies every evening. The real hell comes the first time we drop the diet fully and deign to eat chorizo like some kind of mad spanish pork pirate. Turns you from a walking, talking, broccoli-stalking thought-thinker into basically a spongy meat-syringe filled with wet poop. And you don’t want to be in our neighbourhood when the plunger goes down.

Bit of a graphic start, but when you’re on a diet, all you can think of is your body’s opinion of food. And horsing winter logs of chorizo down into your tubes just to feel ALIVE!


“Get yo ass to Mars. And poosh.”

We, like pretty much everyone else were watching the UEFA European Final, complete with weird black and white movie moments like insects landing on the faces of weeping entertainers. Madame Butterfly meets Pagliacci. Oh yes, I just made an opera joke. I’m classy as f.

Meg was actually keen to watch the thing as she put a two-shpotter bit on Portugal to win the whole thing outright. Which they bloody well did. I on the other hand made a bet that several septegenarian Italians would drag themselves away from their paddling pools full of olive oil to play a little football. I was a dope. Meg has since promised to buy me a North American ice cream when we go in a few weeks. I would like to think I would have been as generous had the shoe been on the other foot. I like to think many fine things. But I am a pretty bad guy when it comes down to it. Just look at the posters on my wall.


“You were my chief, always!” 

I think that’s the first time I’ve ever re-used a photo in this blog. Or I mean the first time my alter ego the Toner of Leek re-used a photo. Did I ever pretend like that was the thing, that I was actually some other person who was obsessed with green edible symbols of Welshness as opposed to the unfragrant shambles I am in real life? I’m really asking.

Anyway, that’s how much Rom-bot means to me. Rom-bot love capitalism. Rom-bot loves robo-boogy. Rom-bot goes to Skegness.

The job has been real 9 to 5 normal-fest with me even lecturing a bunch of blow-ins (can you imagine!?) on the London tube that they need to stand on the right. I remember it happening to me years ago and not exactly being thrilled about the instruction. But they need to get in line cause this is Mah Tawn. Toughy alert.


I was always more Anthony Michael Hall than I was Judd Nelson. I mean have you SEEN that denim jacket? And he calls cigarettes, “smokes.” Outrageous.

I’ve even gone back to packing sandwiches to keep my hard-earned queenbacks out of the hands of the Moroccan cafe across the street. With their charred sweating wads of halloumi dribbling onto herby chicken and couscous base. They task me.

Apart from a quick trip to Brighton next week, my work travel regimen has quietened down a lot, due in part to the relative quite of the summer. Though Brighton is usually good value to see a burnt-out crusty or two and one would imagine their numbers should be replenished with Glastonbury just ended.

In Weybridge news, there was a robbery last week down by the train station where some “yoofs” attacked a guy with a knife. They did such a terrible job stabbing the guy, he merrily walked 15 minutes up hill to get some help.


Guys, the city of Limerick is embarassed for you.

In a few weeks time myself and Meg are bringing our parents together to swig cocktails (a little less tail and a little more… tail to result in unchanged aggregate levels of tail) in downtown Toronto. Then Ingrid and I are travelling to Newfoundland where I will spend 5 days trying to trick her into eating seal.

Don’t tell her, but I’ll be targeting breakfast and road snacks. I’ll get her. Don’t worry.

Meg and I are both sanguine about our parents meeting, after all we’re pretty agreeable and our parents can’t be THAT far from our natural levels of charm and grace. Incidentally forget all the terrible things I’ve said and done over the years and re-read the above lines. Oh and not the poop-syringe stuff earlier. Forget about that. Just the stuff at the top of this paragraph.

Ahh, there we go.

On the topic of families, Meg’s Dad has a legendary tendency to disinterest himself with the actual names of things. As far as Meg goes this has been enormously convenient for me as Meg believes a bunch of things in the world are named something other than what they are.

For your consideration, today Meg told me that she saw a car today with really big whalers. I thought she meant some of Bob Marley’s taller backing bandmates. Then I started to think maybe it was some maritime bumper-sticker that all Canadians know about. Like the Tragically Hip but in bumper sticker form. You don’t know it but that was a GREAT obscure Canadian reference. And their crap, so awful I want to put all their work in a box and melt it with battery acid. Now I’ve lost all of you. Symmetry.

As it turns out what she meant was spoilers.


Are you ready? Naw like really ready? Okay. SPOILER ALERT! Totally worth it. & The Hip still suck.

Aren’t you glad you read that? I’m glad I wrote it.

In other news Meg isn’t superjuiced by our new Primary Minister. “Theresa May? She sounds like she should be in the Dukes of Hazzard. With Boss Hogg. And Cooter.”

I really think Meg’s starting to understand this politics lark.

Madame Buttoner of Leek