The Rile Up

What’s gotten YOU angry this week?

I can’t stand all these so-called “Celebrities” on tv who are famous for fuck all. I can sit on my fat arse and spit at the telly with my ugly family just as good as any of them wankers on Gogglebox. But where’s my national adoration? Where’s that? I’ll tell you where it ain’t: At the bottom of me vodka bottle. But fuck me if I’m not going to keep looking.

Sorry Pixar. But I do not want my child thinking there’s little people living inside his head. What destructive nonsense. It’s just him, and him alone, in his head with God and the Devil.

To that pox faced swine in The Porter House. When I ask for a Jameson I clearly mean Jameson Black Barrel. You’re insinuation that I would mean the bottom shelf shite was insulting. As a result I kicked the shit out of your Dyson Air Dryer and I hope it was relayed back to you that you were culpable.

Harry Potter and that bitch J.K Rowling has a lot of explaining to do. All of a sudden my kid expect to be taught how to read. I’m sorry but didn’t Video kill the Radio Star? And an equivalent to books and netflix?

Have you any idea the lengths I’ve gone to get my hair the way I want it. And then some fucker, God who will remain nameless decided to bucket down a load of rain on me. I looked like a drowned rat and there was no chance I was going to take any selfies that day.

Every time I drive passed the Google building in my taxi I wish I could throw a brick through every one of it’s windows for putting that picture of me doing a naked somersault online. Everyone thinks I’m a loser no matter how many times I comment back. To set the record straight: The photo was taken by a girl that I wanted to impress sexually.

Scrag Supper – #01

Every week we send out a delicious meal of Scrag, Chips and a Drink. All you gotta do is tell us why you deserve it with #ScragSupper

I’ve always wanted to meet a couple called Kate and Sidney to convince them to make Steak and Kidney pies. Until then can I have a Scrag Supper?

Most planes I’ve been on have had a ridiculous queue for that little room you get to wank in. Is it like that in First Class too or do they get a Pleasure Booth each? If so I might start having to save up

I hear the jails are getting cramped. I blame these long winded “police interviews”. There was a time when a sock full of golf balls would do the trick. Is it not time we brought back the Truth Whip?

Speaking about remembrance, my father went blind in a mustard gas attack during the Great War. But he was one of the lucky ones. He doesn’t have to see the mess Ireland has become

I was told that when you get a dose of the sweats out of the blue then that means someone is pissing on your grave

If we can get seedless grapes then surely we can get pineapples without those holes in the middle

I’ve just read a poem that didn’t even rhyme. And I thought poets couldn’t get any lazier

I think that making the packets of smokes dark green isn’t going to stop smokers. They need to shape smokes like dicks to embarrass the lads and lesbians. And for girls and gays? They could shape their’s like mini flesh-lights

The circus is in town. Can you think of a bigger waste of time? Don’t they know we can stay at home and watch Cirque du Soleil online? And we don’t even do that cause it’s a load of shite

Rap RIP

As the moon completes another cycle we must mourn another spate of dead Soundcloud Rappers. They shone ever so bright before they were cruelly taken from us to the most I of VIP parties; the afterlife. But they will be mourned by their followers, their crews and, mostly, by their over eager investors. Their corpses aren’t feeding worms for they are collaborating and fronting now on the right side of Jesus. We will remember you all by the tracks you’ve left online. And until the servers are disconnected we will always remember you. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Rap in Peace.

Lun Cha Bull

Gunned down when a game of Uzi Hide ‘n Seek went wrong. Cha Bull will be remembered for his catchphrase “Gimme that on a burger” which sent the world alight briefly in 2017

4tune @son

Born the son of Florida Senator 4tune@son hit it big in his early teens when he started throwing wads of cash out his window as he’d do laps of the nighbourhoods. His breakthrough hit “Hoes E.A.” featured in an ad for AdamandEve. As well as attack ads against his father

Daisy Chain$

The Emo-Rap Suicide Queen, Daisy Chain$, famed for her albums “Whortless”, “Otto eRotica” and “R U GDPR Cumplyent?” was sadly killed when a lighting rig fell on her while shooting a Music Video where she was crying black tears. Her management are working on touring the footage to fulfil her commitment to art, music and ticket holders

CoNtxt $en$it!v€

Tennis mad CoNtxt $en$it!v€ (21), perhaps best known for his beefs with Pi$$pondant and Huge Bone Villa, died of dehydration after falling asleep in a Jacuzzi filled with champagne. He’ll be missed by his two kids: Racket and Ball. His management have said they’ll be taking his ashes to the place he always dreamed he’d go to one day, the Wimbeldon Centre Court.

Ugly People’s Opinions on: Chemical Warfare

I aspire to write headlines and I think there could be something there with “in our mist/ midst”. It’ll come to me fully once I see the photos.

I’d be all for it. I was the best in my swimming class at holding my breath so the gas will have no affect on me.

Poison gas has the potential to kill thousands of people although it’s very imprecise and requires a lot more testing. I think they should release clouds at Ed Sheeran concerts to get a better gauge of what it can do. With snipers on stand by should some be immune.

My major worry would be all those hard working workers in the Bullet Factories being put out of a job.

We could use it for good too. Fly a crop-duster over the disadvantaged area and spray them with Omega 2 andt Cod Liver Oil and watch them become hard working entrepreneurs.

Nihil by Mouth

What would our Nietzsche would say if he could see our Modern Mess?

Meghan Markle? Considering that the “Royals” corpses will be eaten by the same worms it makes no difference

Hilary Clinton’s Book? It was a book on failings. Just like every other book.

The Popes Visit? I saw it as an opportunity for him to die in a plane crash. Maybe next time.

Black Panther? It wasn’t great but set up enough for Avenger 3 which was much better.

Flossing? Of all the things with do of no merit, this is one of them.

Friends Reunion? I like the Gunter character

Krispy Kremes? Tax on idiots.

Car Pool Karaoke? I only hope to live to see this die.

Yeezy Runners? Don’t let overpriced shoes distract you as you shuffle off this mortal coil.

Dirty Dublin – Doggers Dish Der Dirt

Latest figures indicate that Dubliners have ditched the bed for a bedding in the ditches. But what makes rutting in the woods, alley ways and behind skips so much more appealing than a bedroom with the Love Zone on the Radio up and the blinds down? We hit the streets to find doggers with their lights on and stuck our dictaphone in their sweaty faces to ask What’s it all about?

“If I was to do it in me bedroom, at the volume that comes naturally to me, I’d not just wake up my kids, it’d be the neighbours’ kids too and me Ma in the granny flat”

“I want to feel pretty and having a circle of wanking men slowly encroaching on your personal space can make a girl feel very special indeed”

“For me, personally, it’s about getting in touch with my ancestors who didn’t have fancy caves or feather beds. If they needed to have at it they’d to get their knees mucky. I’m just honouring their legacy”

“It’s become ritual for me now to have a snack box then spaff with a stranger by the bins in my flats. I then get double use from the wet-wipe and head home to bet on the Horses in China”

“You get to meet new people. Just last week there was this guy with an English accent and the most unusual welts on his lob-on. I’d never seen such a sight before”

“Everyone else is paying for pints to get their end away with a stranger. Me? I just need some petrol and a few johnnies that I swiped from the student unions”

“I’m a very smelly and lazy man. And I find you never stink that bad in comparison to the reek of cow shite and rotten hay of a lay by”

“It’s every girls’ dream to be taken in the woods by the light of a phone, with pine cones in her hair and the sound of an engine running”

” If you want to be boring then be boring, eat your bland rice, wear your beige shirt and tick your boxes. I’d rather live life and nothing beats the thrill of having a wank on the train tracks at night”

The Bad Penny’s Revenge

Readers share their stories of the Bad Pennies that have plagued their life

My bad penny is actually a 5c piece. I carved an X on it when I was young. I put in in the poor box and then the next week the shopman gave it to me in change. I was livid.

The worst penny I’ve ever had is sitting in my large intestines. I was a very curious child before the care home.

I lost sight in my right eye from a bad penny. Those Shamrock Rovers Scum had sharpened it and flung it at me while I tried to officiate a match.

I had a shilling sneaked into me tankard and ended up serving in the Royal Navy until my death in 1814 when a cannon ball fell on my foot and I fell in to the sea and drowned.

I’m a waiter of an Italian restaurant that relies on tips. I counter this by running a “Take a Penny, Leave a Penne” scheme that keeps the larder full and the coppers scarce

I’m a plastic warrior and live virtually cashless. But I still have a couple of Bad Pennies on my statement every month. 50,000 of them. Anyone know why “Car Parts” comes up at 3am every friday night? I was nowhere near a garage, I was in a Stripper Club.

I don’t know why everyone is so vexed by bad pennies. They’re still legal tender. You get 52 of them and you can buy cream in Tescos. It’s even less if you steal the cream. Significantly so.

I ghosted a girl call Penny sometime ago and she wouldn’t stop hounding me. I’m glad I did because time hadn’t been kind to her as the months after we’d been together she put on a lot of weight localised in her stomach.

Do Fear the Reaper – Danny Cannon (Exclusive Extract)

Exclusive Explosive Extract
We are pleased to share with you the opening chapter of Danny Cannon’s (the author) latest page-ripping thriller Do Fear The Reaper. Danny Cannon (the Character) is tasked with infiltrating the most dangerous, home grown, radicalized terrorists group: Hippies. Who if left unabated would destroy all the great progress our corporations have made.

It’s hard not to feel too clean in a place like this. I’m far from the fanciest stud in the ranch but next to these “artists” I’m immaculate. I could literally taste their sweat, stank and musk yards before I even got in to this “Art Space”. A canny name for any building whose ownership has gone into disrepute and taken over. Tonight the freaks and work-shys were convening for a “Poetry” Night. Every ragtag straggler that could string a few words together was here. I panned over them and their glossy eyes as they prepared their “takedowns” of big business and globalisation. I could hardly hear CEOs quaking in their boots. It was far from the night out I’d have planned for myself. But it was an assignment and I was finding it very hard to relax having returned from security detail in Dubai. I was better working, even if it was in the bowels of society.

I pushed my way through to the throngs, dodging the fleas and lice to a spot at the back. The crowd were facing the empty “stage”, an apple box and a microphone hanging off its stand, waiting for the first “rhymer” to disseminate the pillars of civilisation. I had to laugh. A pair of scruffs edged in front of me. They looked like a couple but I was at a loss which was the Man and which was his Woman. They both looked liked they’d climbed through a few ditches to get here. They were sharing a plastic bottle of cider in recyclable cups. The shorter one’s fuzzy dreads dipping in to the cup as “she” knocked the scrumpy back. I turned away. I had a bottle of American Whiskey inside my Motorbike jacket and a few quick pulls of that had the sting taken out of my eyes.

A dippy young one, with green hair and a pair of over-sized boots that made her look like a clown, took to the “stage”. She mumbled her way through her introductions. Thanking people before the night had even started. I had to laugh. She initiated a round of applause for the first “act” with the proficiency of a two legged greyhound. I took the aural blanket as a “poet” walked out with his toothy grin to get back to the case at hand.

I had still had sand in my boots when I was approached by the party representing Senator Wilson. I knew very little about him save for his achievements in property development and thus knew I could trust him. He was due to retire and his organisation were planning a farewell, testimonial-style dinner for him. One last, deserved, passing around of the cap. But his people wanted to be certain there would be no maggots in the margaritas so they called me. Sen. Wilson had a, very ungrateful, granddaughter. She turned her septum pierced nose up at everything he gave her and fell in with these dirt worshipping hippies. And for all their shit talking about peace and love they have an unnecessary penchant for big “political” protests. I had to neutralise this selfish freak before she released a load of “fat cats” at Sen. Wilson’s retirement dinner. Or whatever tenuous, big statement they were planning with all the time they weren’t spending at work. Only thing was I didn’t have anything but a description of her, and that fit with every one of these “radicals” here.

The pube-bearded man-child finished his drool poem about Starbucks and left to the opposite of deafening applause. The clown girl stumbled back out to thank everyone again. I was starting to worry that due to the needless reverence of the proceedings I’d have to wait until after the “poetry” for the obligatory mingling and feigned congratulations to question and prod these soap dodgers for intel. I reached for my American Whiskey at the thought of that. When the clown girl invited Misty Terra Wilson Marley to the “stage”. I spun my head around as the short stinker with the soggy dags from earlier adjusted the microphone.
“Hi.” She muttered into the side of the microphone. “I’m very nervous so if you can help me with the good energies we can all get through this as one. This first poem is called “Sins of the Grandfather”.”
Bingo. Target acquired. I felt relief that she’s was finally in my cross-hairs. And then dread as she took out about an inch thick stack of crumpled paper from her patchy saddle bag.
This is going to be a long fucking night.

Do Fear the Reaper may return but I wouldn’t bet on it being any time soon.

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