Thursday, 25 July 2013

Death Row

Todd Lewis sat in his cell, hours away from death. A prison guard named McCauley delivered to him his last meal, a dish that consisted solely of an uncooked potato. He plonked it down in front of him and stared curiously at Todd.
“You’re sure this is what you want?”
“Yeah, used to eat them all the time. Love them so I do.”
This was of course a lie but earlier when McCauley was taking the order, Todd joked that he would like nothing more than a raw potato. He mistakenly thought that McCauley would erupt into a fit of laughter and be telling that anecdote for years to come but instead McCauley just glared at him and asked, in a rather petulant tone, if he was being serious. Too embarrassed to admit that this was a weak attempt at humour, Todd then had to pretend that raw potatoes were his favourite food.
A different guard took the plate away, a much older man and one whom Todd had not seen before. He couldn’t help but notice how much this guard resembled the actor Danny Glover.
Perhaps he’s related to him or maybe it’s Danny himself researching a role, Todd thought to himself.
When the time came for Todd to meet his maker, he was led into a room surrounded by panes of glass where a small crowd of onlookers, including his family and the family of his victim were sat waiting to watch him die from a lethal injection. McCauley and the prison warden strapped him to a gurney.
“Is there anything you’d like to say Todd?” the warden asked.
Todd had always envisioned that when it came to this moment he would make some sort of quip along the lines of “well if I wasn’t scared of needles before I certainly am now!!!!!” but then he remembered how poorly his potato gag had been received so he opted not to make any jokes.
“I actually do have a question,” said Todd. “The guard who took my last meal away looked a lot like Danny Glover and I was just wondering if it’s him or if he’s related to Danny Glover or what?”
“Who’s he talking about,” the warden asked turning to McCauley.
“Probably old Clifford.”
“Is Clifford related to Danny Glover?” Todd asked.
“What am I, his boyfriend?” McCauley snapped.
“Go find out Bill will ya?” said the warden. McCauley sighed and left the room. He returned a few minutes later, breaking what had been a very awkward atmosphere in the execution room, with the warden and Todd making small talk about the warden's plans for the weekend. 
“No relation,” McCauley muttered.
“Anything else Todd?” asked the warden. 
Todd had wanted to apologise to his victim’s family and then tell his own family that he loved them dearly and that he was sorry for putting them through such heartbreak. He also would have liked to find out what his mailman was doing there and why he was so visibly upset considering the fact that him and Todd had only ever been on nodding terms. However Todd was reluctant to delay things any further as he could tell that McCauley was getting impatient with how long this was taking and he hated the idea of anyone being in a mood with him so he declared that he had nothing left to say and a mere 15 minutes later, a medical technician pronounced Todd Lewis dead.
And let me tell you, while all this was going on, guess where Mr. Danny Glover was? Fast asleep in his plush, Hollywood home. And you’ll never guess who was lying there beside him? A whore! . . . . Or maybe it was his wife. Either way, it’s well for some isn’t it?

Tuesday, 18 June 2013

More Nonsense Stories


Clad in baggy clothes with gaudy jewellery draped around her neck, 8 year old Tanya, otherwise known as Little T, walked onto the stage and was met with a muted applause from the crowd. After the usual questions from the judges she started rapping, a song she had written all about homework and how much it sucks. Rhymes emanated from her mouth at an incredible rate as the atmosphere in the auditorium became one of frenzied appreciation. Mel B looked on in positive disbelief while Howie Mandel remained composed, a wry smile the only give away that he was enjoying it. Heidi Klum scrunched her face to signify that she found this act adorable but it was Noam Chomsky, Howard Stern’s replacement for this season, who was the most excited. He stood up in his chair, danced along to the music and when it was time for the comments he didn’t hold back in his enthusiasm.
“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmmmnnnnn gurl,” he began, you certainly brought your Mojo tonight. That was PHAT with a capital P capital H sista!!!!” Everyone cheered like crazy.
Chomsky’s family however, who were backstage in the green room, remained silent as they watched with concern, desperately hoping this was just a phase he was going through.

Robert, Carl, Marcus and Nathan were four men who defined the word friendship. The bond between them had never diminished, having remained in tact from when they were pre-pubescent tykes through to spotty, awkward adolescents and all the way up to men in their early thirties who are somewhat depressed that middle age is looming. When Nathan broke the news that him and his long term girlfriend, Gwen, had gotten engaged, the scene was emotional as he was going to be the first of the group to get married. What made the moment even more poignant was that Nathan had decided that all three of them should be his best man.
A few months before the wedding they travelled to Las Vegas for the stag party with no expense spared. On the very first night, after a day of drinking, gambling and strip clubs, they retired to Marcus’ hotel room for a nightcap.
“I know I’m pissed, but fuck it I’m just gonna say it, I love you guys,” Robert slurred as he sat on the floor against the bed, a glass of JD and coke in his hand.
“I think someone’s had a bit too much to drink but we love you too man,” said Nathan.
“Ya know I was thinking today, how similar we are to the characters in The Hangover,” said Marcus. “There’s four of us, we’re in Vegas and let’s face it we’re just as mental.”
“That’s for sure” said Nathan.
“Which one do you think you are?” Marcus asked him.
“Well I am getting married so I suppose if we’re going by the first film that would make me Doug, but I think my personality is more like the Ed Helms character, Stu. He’s a dentist, I’m an optician and we’re both kinda geeky.”
“No arguments from us there,” Robert teased.
“Shut up you” Nathan said as he flicked some foam from his beer in Robert’s direction before turning towards Carl who had thus far remained quiet for the duration of this discussion.
“What about you? Which one do you think you are?”
Carl sighed, knocked back the rest of his drink and gazed up at his three friends.
“Which one am I?” Carl said, “I think I’m the character who’s fed up. Fed up of people going on and on and on about a film that was average at best, that then went on to be a piss poor, cynical, money making franchise. He’s fed up with people calling it one of the best comedies of all time. The character I am, wants nothing more than to kidnap anyone who holds that opinion, keep them prisoner for a whole month and show them countless films that are far funnier and believe me there are thousands of them and no that’s not just a matter of fucking opinion, that’s a fact. He’s also fed up of stag parties with t-shirts that have ‘wolf pack’ written on them .  .”
Marcus stared guiltily at his unopened luggage.
“He’s fed up with all the wedding related comedies that exist because of it, or the jock, frat boy ones that seem to be ubiquitous in the past few years since The Hangover was released. He’s fed up of people quoting lines from the film to him, having to smile and nod along and then out of politeness and social etiquette coupled with the fact that he doesn’t want to be seen as somebody who’s going against the grain just for the sake of it, he ultimately has to pretend that he loves it too. Oh yes it was genius wasn’t it? Mike Tyson singing In The Air Tonight, I know,  . . . .You’re right Mike Tyson’s not a singer, he’s a boxer so he is. . . . . . .Yes that’s a very sad song he sang and Mike Tyson, he’s a big tough guy. That’s why IT WAS SO FUCKING HILARIOUS . . .  . .  . . .He’s fed up, so unbelievably fed up of such mediocrity being celebrated, that he ends up taking his own life. I’m that character”
As if from nowhere, Carl produced a revolver, put it to his head and pulled the trigger. Blood and bits of his brain splattered on the walls, on the hotel furniture and on the faces of his dumbfound friends. They stared at his corpse for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually Marcus broke the deafening silence in the room. Smiling and shaking his head, he turned to the others.
“I think we’ve found the Phil of the group.” 

DAYS LIKE THESE (With Father Tierney)

After a busy enough afternoon hearing confessions, the last of Father Tierney’s sinful customers was a young boy of about 12.
“Bless me father for I have sinned,”  said the boy nervously. “It’s been three years since my last confession.”
“That’s alright son, tell me your sins.”
“I didn’t show love when I fought with my sister and called her a bad name. I didn’t show love when I disobeyed my Mam and played my X box instead of cleaning me room.  . . .and eh . . . .”
“Yes, what else?”
“I didn’t show love when I talked in class.  . . . .They’re all me sins Father.”
“Okay good boy, I absolve you from your sins. For your penance I want you to say 2 Our Fathers, 3 Hail Marys and 1 Glory Be To The Father.”
While walking home Father Tierney was reflecting on his day, hearing confessions. He stopped suddenly in his tracks realising he was after making a big mistake. Fighting with your sister, disobeying your mother and talking in class he thought, the penance for that should be 3 Our Fathers 1 Hail Mary and 2 Glory Be’s, not 2 Our Fathers, 3 Hail Marys and 1 Glory Be To The Father which is what I gave him. All Father Tierney could do was laugh.
As soon as he got home, he rang his sister Dolores to tell her all about it and although this was technically breaking the seal of confession it was just too good an anecdote not to share, especially seeing as Dolores loved hearing stories of her younger brother making an eejit of himself.
For his dinner that night Father Tierney decided to make himself Spaghetti Bolognese. He had the sauce simmering away and the water boiling for his Spaghetti but when he opened his press he realised he was out of pasta. By the time he got back from the shop and he had sat down to his dinner, it was already 7:30 and he had missed that night’s episode of Emmerdale, probably his second favourite show after Nationwide.
After he had finished washing up Father Tierney sat down with a nice cup of tea and a digestive biscuit, ready to download some child porn but wouldn’t you know his computer was on the fritz.
“Whatever next?” he exclaimed, chuckling and looking up to the heavens. When he eventually retired to bed, he saw that he had left his bedroom window open and a noisy bluebottle had flown in.
“Buzz, buzz, buzz,” went the bluebottle as Father Tierney chased him around the room with a rolled up parish newsletter, trying to swat him dead. You see, everyone has days like these, even priests.

Wednesday, 29 May 2013

4 Very Short Stories


Two terrorists of the bearded variety, not the Irish type, were sitting around in their pokey, anthrax smelling flat.
“C’mon, let’s hijack something,” said the first terrorist as he recklessly waved a stick of dynamite in the air. 
“When I finish this,” the other one muttered without even looking up from his Sudoku. The terrorist wielding the dynamite peered over the shoulder of his friend. To his horror he discovered that he had put an 8 in a section where there already was one. He pondered whether he should say it to him or not but in the end he decided to leave it be. He’d have to learn the hard way .


“I sentence you to life in prison,” the Judge bellowed. The guilty woman’s children and husband wept uncontrollably while her elderly mother collapsed. The Judge stared at the ground, uncomfortable with the scene unfolding before him. While gazing down at the floor he noticed a ranchero which must have fallen out of the bag that he had eaten with his lunch two days ago. That’s long past the 5 second rule, the Judge thought as he smiled to himself.
He arrived home that night and was greeted by the aroma of his wife Trudy’s beef bourguignon.
“How was work,” Trudy asked as she set the table.
“Fine. I gave her life in prison. Oh and I found a ranchero on the floor beneath my seat.”
“Hope you didn’t eat it. That’s well past the 5 second rule.”
“Shutup Trudy.”


The fire truck roared by, weaving in and out of the way of startled motorists. An attractive blonde who was sat at a bus shelter, held her hands up to her ears in order to mask the deafening cries of the siren. The one called Ed turned to his colleagues and scoffed, “I’d like to show her my big red fire engine.” The truck erupted with laughter. Ladies and gentlemen I give you your so called heroes. 


Lady Gaga awoke bright and early one summer morning, trembling with excitement. Today was the day that her Aunty, Mildred Gaga, was taking her to the funfair and Lady Gaga had been looking forward to it for weeks. She removed her nightie made from shake n vac and quickly threw on a brand new, sparkly dress made out of rejection letters that various adoption agencies had sent to childless couples. After she wolfed down her breakfast she sat daydreaming about all the fun rides she was going to go on. She looked at the clock and to her surprise, realised that her Aunt, who was always punctual, was 15 minutes late. “How very peculiar” Lady Gaga exclaimed. Suddenly her telephone rang and she rushed to answer it, believing that it would be Aunty Mildred apologising for her tardiness and explaining that she’s stuck in a troublesome traffic jam. 
“Hello, is this Lady Gaga?” a solemn, deep voice asked.
“Why yes it is,” Lady Gaga replied.
“Lady Gaga, this is Sergeant Wilson. I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your Aunt Mildred has been killed in a car accident. I’m so very sorry"
Lady Gaga dropped the phone in shock. She ran, sobbing, to her bedroom where in order to console herself she wrote and recorded some terrible music.  

Tuesday, 12 March 2013

How To Be The Most Irish Person Ever

Saint Patrick’s day is not just a time for us all to celebrate how fantastic it is to hail from the Emerald Isle. It’s also an opportunity for you to out-Irish your fellow countrymen and prove that no one loves Ireland as much as you do. Here are some tips on how to become the most patriotic Paddy ever. Follow these and you’ll literally be sweating potatoes. 



Grown men from Ireland stand to attention, genuflect and perhaps even cry when the triolour appears but why not go one better? All you have to do is visit a hypnotist and he or she can easily fix it so that you’ll ejaculate whenever you catch sight of the treasured, green, white and orange. That way when you’re standing with a group of men shedding tears over the Irish flag, you can turn to them and say, “I’m shedding tears too, tears from my penis.” But what about women, will this form of hypnotherapy work for them too? Don’t know, don’t care. The female orgasm is none of my business.


This is easily done and requires little effort. Simply shake your head disapprovingly and tut whenever you see somebody who doesn’t embody the physical characteristics of a typical Irish person. Many people deem the Shake Head Tut Approach to be a bit racist. But aren’t they the real racists, these do-gooders who are always speaking out against racism? I’m not actually sure but at the very least it should be open to debate. 

The Master Of The Disapproving Face

NOTE: The Shake Head Tut Approach should not be undertaken when holidaying abroad otherwise it’ll just be exhausting.



Irish people have been spoofing their way through the lyrics of the National Anthem for a hundred years or so. So why not learn all the words, in Irish, English and maybe even Latin? Then when it’s match day or when a drunk fuelled night has come to an end, you can demonstrate your overt Irishness by being able to perfectly enunciate each and every word. As well as this you can continue your emphatic singing long after everyone else has finished by showing off the different language versions at your disposal. Don’t worry,  you wont be interrupted as it’s high treason to stop to someone from singing the National Anthem, a crime punishable by death or an €80 fine, depending on who the judge is.



In order to ensure that only green blood courses through your veins, take any foreign books, films, music or paintings that you own and burn them with fire. If they haven’t been created by a 100 % authentic Irish person you should rid yourself of their disruptive influence, for after all, nothing says commitment to an idea or cause like the burning of beloved works of art.



Knowing the history of your nation is an essential facet to loving your country. Therefore if you take elements of Ireland’s past and make them relevant to your own life, you’ll be even more Irish than Celtic football club. For example, instead of spending money on chocolate eggs every Easter, put it towards funding an armed take over of the G.P.O. or at the very least your own local post office. Instead of buying nutritious, healthy potatoes, only purchase ones that have been infected with potato blight. And if you really want to go all out, dress up in a school uniform and pay a member of the Catholic clergy to have sex with you. 



Finally why not egg the houses of the following Irish celebrities who I don’t like? I haven’t quite figured out how this is going to make you more Irish but would you mind doing it anyway?

Daithi O’Se 
Des Bishop 
Jim Corr 
Jim Corr’s sexy sisters 
Jim Corr’s sexy sister’s brother (ie. Jim Corr again, - egg his house twice) 
Ray Foley 
Twink (Be very careful that she doesn’t catch you. She is dangerously insane) 
All 4 members of the band The Coronas.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

3 Films That Should Have Won The Best Picture Oscar But Didn't

                                    3. THE WRESTLER
What Won Instead: Slumdog Millionaire
Since 2008 I’ve divided people into two rudimentary categories - those who liked Slumdog Millionaire and those who didn’t. I fall into the latter camp. Any film which contains this exchange of dialogue is instantly going to get my hackles up and get my hackles up it did.

Jamal (Slumdog Millionaire): Run away with me.
Latika (Slumdog Millionaire’s Mot): And live on what?
Jamal (Slumdog Millionaire): Love

This Slumdog Millionaire fella is supposed to have grown up on the harsh streets of India so how is it that he’s so naive to think that being in love will provide some sort of income? It wont.

There are many other reasons for my disdain towards Slumdog Millionaire not least because middle-class hippy types lauded it as one of the greatest films ever made and would practically accuse people of racism if they didn’t agree. But as far as I’m concerned, Slumdog Millionaire is a garish and ridiculously plotted film that dilutes the very real and tragic circumstances of poverty in India.

It went on to win eight academy awards including best picture. However the film that should have won that year wasn’t even nominated. That film is The Wrestler, one of the most subtly and beautifully written films ever made.

The Wrestler is not colourful and gregarious like Slumdog Millionaire. Nor does it have an uplifting ending or a song and dance routine which was made all the more obnoxious by the scores of imitations that flooded the TV and internet in 2008 and early 2009. (I instantly hated Slumdog Millionaire 5 percent more when I saw Ellen De Generais and the crew of her TV show doing the dance)  Everything about Slumdog Millionaire strikes me as gimmicky. To quote a ubiquitous adage ‘It’s style over substance.’

The Wrestler though is the complete opposite. It doesn’t look pretty and nor is it supposed to. It tells the truth about human suffering and doesn’t once patronise the audience. It also has Mickey Rourke delivering one of the best performances of his career (also snubbed at the Oscars), although at the very least he was nominated.

The best picture category wasn’t the only instance of Oscar injustice that year either. Jai Ho the piercingly irritating song from Slumdog Millionaire won best original song. Bruce Springsteen’s title song from The Wrestler didn’t get even get a nomination. I know music is extremely subjective but have a listen to both and if you prefer the former then you’re a loon. 

                      2. THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION
What won instead: Forrest Gump

‘Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.’

Unfortunately at the 67th Academy Awards ceremony in 1995, when Forrest Gump won best picture, what we got was Turkish Delight when we could have had a Roses’ Hazelnut Whirl. (This analogy works really well if, like me, you hate Turkish Delight and love Roses’ Hazelnut Whirls)

Forrest Gump is at the most an enjoyable film but suffers from being cloying and somewhat contrived. The Shawshank Redemption on the other hand is the kind of film that you own on DVD, blue ray and there’s probably a dusty VHS copy at the back of some drawer. Despite this, whenever it’s on TV you just have to sit down and look at it again. It’s one of the most re-watchable films ever made even though it’s nearly 2½ hours long. It frequently scores high on Top 100 best movie lists particularly ones that are voted for by the public. It’s the film equivalent of bubble wrap. Everybody loves it and those who don’t are weird.

So how then did Forrest Gump manage to get the Oscar over Shawshank. Well there are a number of reasons. First of all there’s the Tom Hanks factor. He had become an academy darling having proved he could take on dramatic roles the year before with his Oscar winning performance as a man dying of AIDS in Philadelphia.

Also there was the fact that The Shawshank Redemption had done poorly at the box office so it was still a relatively unknown film when it got the nomination. Forrest Gump on the other hand was a phenomenon and although it doesn’t seem like much now, those scenes where Tom Hanks was inserted into actual footage of old news clips was a huge deal at the time.

The main reason though that Forrest Gump was the winner that year is that the Academy loves triumph over adversity stories especially if they involve a character with some sort of physical or mental disability. Although breaking out of prison is certainly triumph over adversity, the problem is that Tim Robbin’s character, Andy Dufresne, undertook this as a handsome intelligent man whereas Forrest Gump managed to do remarkable things even though he was thick. Perhaps if the character of Andy Dufresne had a hair-lip things might have been different but alas we’ll never know.


What Won Instead: The English Patient (The Mind Boggles)

Where do you begin with this? Let’s talk about Fargo first. A violent, disturbing, hilarious, wonderfully written, wonderfully directed and wonderfully acted film. This is a film that breaks conventions such as not having the hero, Frances McDormand, appear until about 30 minutes in. I was 14 years old when I first saw it and I couldn’t believe what I was watching. I had never seen anything like it and to this day it’s a film that blows me away.

It was nominated for 7 academy awards and won 2, Frances McDormand (best actress) and The Coen Brothers themselves for best original screenplay. The most interesting nomination though was the fact that their editor Roderick Jaynes was nominated for best editing which is funny considering he doesn’t exist and is merely an alias the Coen brothers use as they themselves edit their films. Rumour has it the Coens had convinced Albert Finney to dress up as the fictitious Jaynes and accept the award if they won but the academy got wind of their shenanigans and wouldn’t allow it. You might deem this as proof of a lack of sense of humour on the Academy’s part but then how do you explain The English Patient winning 9 Oscars including best picture.

The only positive aspect about watching The English Patient is the sense of nostalgia it evokes. Sitting through it from start to finish conjures up similar feelings that you had when you were a child and that one day of the year when you had to sit with your parents and look at the budget instead of cartoons. It’s unbelievably dull. I know I’ve seen it, somehow, somewhere. I know there’s a guy in it whose face has been burnt and someone rides a motorbike but apart from that nothing. It’s instantly forgettable. The only thing I really remember about it is that it robbed Fargo of a well deserved Oscar.

Monday, 28 November 2011

An Encounter With Bono

This story I’m about to relay to you is completely true. It happened over 15 years ago in 1994 when I was just twelve years old and it involves my one and only ever encounter with Ireland’s smuggest rock star. Don’t worry, this isn’t one of those famous person anecdotes where I’m in a café eating soup and I hear a voice say “how’s the soup?” so I look up and lo and behold it’s Bono. After informing him that it’s nice, he orders it and on his way out turns to me and says “You were right, the soup was lovely, now catch,” and he throws two tickets to a U2 concert in my direction.
It’s nothing like that. Instead, it’s a rather chilling tale that reveals a dark, sinister side to Paul Hewson otherwise known as Bono; a nickname he acquired as a teenager because of his close resemblance to Napoleon Bonaparte. I assume this is the reason, I wasn’t bothered looking it up. Sure, see for yourself.  

Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo
Bono acting the eejit


My non-soup related tale regarding Bono happened in the city centre of Dublin. My mother and I were driving on the Southside of the Quays when all of a sudden traffic came to a standstill. For those not familiar with Dublin, the Southside Quays operates on a one way, two lane system; the right lane adjacent to the river Liffey and then the left lane next to the various pubs, shops and other business’ including Bono’s own hotel ‘The Clarence.’ The traffic problem was stemming from an obstruction in the left lane so myself and my Mam assumed this was due to an accident or perhaps road works. However, as we approached Wellington Quay, where Bono’s hotel is situated, it became all too clear what was causing the traffic jam. It was Bono.
He had decided to park his car in the middle of the road, exit his vehicle and have a chat with some guy. He had to be aware that what he was doing was creating major traffic congestion but he couldn’t have cared less. He just continued on talking, devoid of any consideration for his fellowman.

All because of Bono. (Picture does not represent actual event)

Now, I can hear you saying “So what? With all the wonderful music he’s given to the world, does it really matter that he held up traffic for just a few minutes?” First of all it was longer than just a few minutes and yes it does matter.

You counter argue that “Maybe Bono just made a mistake and thought he could park there, after all it was outside his own hotel.” Don’t be so naïve! Bono is many things but he’s no fool. I’m sure he’s aware of the fact that just because he owns a property, it doesn’t mean he has carte blanche over the public road directly outside it.

“Well what about all the amazing charity work he does, that should count for something?” you blurt with more than a hint of desperation in your voice at this stage. Okay I hold my hands up, Bono is a charitable man but let’s delve into what motivates his blatant altruistic behaviour. Could it be that Bono’s good deeds are carried out in order to distract us from a terrible, disturbing secret that he has managed to keep hidden throughout his illustrious career? Let’s go back again to 1994 and that incident on the Quays when Bono delayed my Mam and I as well as countless others. Perhaps there is more to it than meets the eye.

If you look at the above map you will note the close proximity off Wellington Quay and St. James’ hospital. I took the liberty of contacting the Central Statistics Office and found out the number of deaths that took place in Dublin in 1994. I then divided that number by 365 before camping out on the Southside Quays for 24 hours and counting the amount of ambulances that drive through with their sirens blaring en route to St James’ hospital. After that it was a simple matter of some long division and pure guess work which lead me to the conclusion that on that fateful day in 1994, 3 people died in the Bono traffic jam because they didn’t make it to the hospital on time.

Mad with power.
“Fair enough, you’ve provided us with enough proof that this definitely happened but it’s not like Bono meant for those people to die,” I hear you reply in defence of this damning evidence. You’re really beginning to get on my tits do you know that? I put it to you that Bono knew exactly what he was doing, that he took pleasure in it, that when he gazed upon the rows of cars, trucks, vans and sadly, ambulances, he thought to himself, ‘this may be my finest achievement.’ For you see, I believe Bono has an irrational hatred for anyone who is in need of immediate medical attention. Ambulances are his mortal enemy for they constantly thwart his plans and deliver these gravely ill people to hospital just in time for them to receive the urgent treatment they require.

I’m not just basing this theory on what happened in 1994. A woman I used to work with was in bed one night and was woken up by a siren. She peered out through the curtains of her bedroom window and saw an ambulance driving by. Suddenly a dark figure emerged from behind a bush and threw a stone at its windshield before scarpering. She said it was the way he ran that gave him away for every step he took was filled with an extreme sense of self satisfaction that only Bono could pull off. Also if we take various random letters from every song U2 have ever recorded, we can construct the sentence ‘I hate the sick.’ And what’s more, if we play the album ‘Joshua Tree’ backwards, it produces a most peculiar sound. We cannot say for certain that this isn’t the noise of Bono vandalising an ambulance so we’ll just have to assume that it is. 

Bono getting up to all sorts.
But what are the reasons for Bono’s virulent hatred? Did something occur in his past that could explain all of this? I went to the trouble of tracking down one of Bono’s cousins and sent him a letter explaining my story and put all these questions to him. It’s been over four months and he still hasn’t replied so that in itself speaks volumes. My theory, and this is simply based on the fact that I’m getting fed up of looking into this and can’t be arsed exploring other possibilities, is that Bono has a rare mental disorder that I myself have discovered whereby one develops an uncontrollable anger towards anybody in desperate need of medical attention. I’m hoping that this condition will make it into The Diagnostic And Statistical Manual Of Mental Disorders which provides the criteria for mental illnesses. If it does, I’ll name the disorder after Bono. It’s the least I can do. The fifth edition, the DSM-5, is due to be published in 2013 so fingers crossed. 

Please, don’t blame Bono for his actions. He can’t help it. He’s ill. If you want to blame him for something blame him for this rubbish poem that he wrote and read out on a documentary about Elvis. Or maybe you still don’t believe me. Maybe you’re clutching a copy of ‘Achtung Baby’ tears in your eyes, refusing to see the man for who he really is. In which case, I give up. You’re a lost cause. But what if you’re ever in the back of an ambulance, having had a heart attack or a stroke? The incessant bellowing of the siren a strange comfort as it unapologetically warns those who may be in the way that you need to get to hospital as soon as possible so your life can be spared and then all of a sudden the driver yells out “THERE’S SOMEONE BLOCKING US, HE HAS A STINK BOMB!” I don’t have to tell you who that someone with the stink bomb is . . . . . .It’s Bono.