Broadsheet’s favourite fail-compiler presents the month of January 2011 in all its explosive, teeth-shattering, crotch-slamming glory.
Street-drinking in St Petersburg, a fight and a home-made Bender. There’s a story behind all this, but you’re probably better off not knowing what it is.
The acronym you’re looking for is: WTF.
What they say: “Fianna Fail will be wiped out.”
What they mean: “I hope Fianna Fail will be wiped out.”
What they say:“This is the game changer.”
What they mean: “Until the next ‘game changer’ arrives’ in about 20 minutes.”
What they say: “Fine Gael will let Fianna Fail in through the back door.”
What they mean: “Vote Labour”
What they say: “Fianna Fail have lowered their age profile with a lot of new faces”
What they mean: “Dad, can I have your seat now?”
What they say: “This is the election where young people will vote in great numbers.”
What they mean: “This is the election where more young people will talk about voting but won’t because they never, ever vote in great numbers or any significant numberage at all, ever.”
What they say: “It’s going to be the Twitter/Facebook election.”
What they mean: “I am literally talking out of my arsehole”.
Feel free to add your own. Or not.
‘…an improbable encounter between a bird and a fish. The aquarium is thermoformed so as to create a space where the bird can fly at the same visual level as the fish. A surprising encounter that evokes the impossible fusion between the air and the waterworld.’
Frustrated birds and paranoid fish. Together at last.
He’s literally standing in Dublin South East.
Where O’Toole and McDreamy fear to tread, Dylan piles in.
New from Aldi.
We’ve no idea what the hell they are either.
By Dominic Hyde
In the past two years many people – nice, sensible, middle class people – have come up to me and asked: “You are great. Why don’t you run for the Dail?”
So many people, in fact, that I contacted other serious thinkers in the media: Eamon Dunphy, Shane Ross, David McDreamy and Constance Gurglekiev, to see if they too had been approached by people on the streets. They had.
We all agreed that it was our moral obligation to stand as independents and increase our profiles. Our plan was to form a new political party, Indecisively Now, that would end cronyism forever and shift loads of books.
My two recent bestsellers ‘Guess What Rhymes With Wanker?’ and ‘Follow My Money’ provided the manifesto for this new grouping.
Our motto: “Yes, We Definitely Might’.
Sadly, when we met, as we were dividing up our roles, Dunphy observed: “We look like a bunch of cronies.” He was right. The meeting ended in disarray.
I know I will be accused of chickening out, of literally being unable to sacrifice my time or energies on ideals I hold dear.
But this isn’t a time for glorious gestures. It it a moment for lame excuses wrapped up in a ball of pretentious twaddle.
I’m not ashamed of having tried but I would be ashamed of having done it without job security if it all went wrong and I would have hated to have lost face.
I’m sure that the decision not to lead people on with false hopes is the cowardly one but seriously you can’t trust anyone these days. Which happens to be the title of my next bestseller.
To misquote Harpo Marx: “Non serviam, suckers.”
A thing of beauty.