So, it’s been a bit of a mad year for me.

Lots of shit went down and most of it I’ll never blog about, but thanks for reading the shit I have written.  There’s plenty more where that came from.

I have tons of stuff lined up for the year including:

• More from Fuinnéog and the Knob Gobbler
• The continuation of the A – Z of the best insults and bad language
• More hot cartoons

But the one thing that I am looking forward to the most is this:

That’s right.  I will be giving out a monthly award in partnership with those funky folk over at www.sex-toys.ie.

There’ll be a lot of hype over the next month about the Irish Blog Awards, and of course there is the on going Blog Post of the Month Award sponsored by O2 who give a flashy new phone to the winner.

That’s all very grand, but my prizes will have better vibrating features.

All will be revealed soon.

I have enjoyed the last year.  I moved from Microsoft Frontpage to Blogger, and you will of course by now noticed that I have up graded once again.

That’s right, I’m a big boy now.

I took blogspot out of my address and custom built my own site.

It couldn’t have been done all by myself, I had help from people who would rather be kept anonymous if I was paying them, but I’m not so it was Grandad and Darren.

Cheers men.

I still have a bit to do, but this is the basic gist of it.

So that’s pretty much it.

Thanks to all for reading my stuff and for the invites to group blogs, it all keeps me busy and has helped cut down my heroin sandwich habit I had going on.

I have met some great people through blogging and the ones I haven’t met, I will and you’ll be sorry.

Happy new ma to everybody and here’s to a better new year in 2009.

Oh, and this day 29 years ago I tunneled out of me ma.

Happy Birthday to me.

Three years ago as we were shown around our soon to be new apartment, the landlord’s agent pointed out one of three de-humidifiers that the building shares.

“Use it every couple of days, just to stop the moisture building up, causing damp.”

“Ok“

“Failing that, open every window in the place for an hour each morning.”

“Right so”

“If you don’t do this, mould will form on the walls and if it gets really bad it could make you ill”

“Okeydokey“

Now as I move the bed in the spare room to remove the bedsheets that have never been slept in I discover a subculture of a furry civilisation that has engulfed the wall and skirting boards. It resembles a patch of moss or spore like mushroom sprouts that are about to plot world domination and evolve at a rate that would impress the science world.
Fungus.
Mould.
Furry.
Damp.
Sticky.
In a kaleidoscope of colours all in the grey area of the spectrum I swear I can see the throb of a heartbeat.

That must have been were that lodger disappeared to.

It’s a pity.

He was a real fun guy.

Ahem.

I was feeling a little mischievous this Christmas, so I put a plan together that would see me pass the usual Christmas lull of same crappy TV, too much food and way too much drinking. After all, there’d be plenty of time for that.

I figured that with Santa all over the world and being tracked by Rick O’Shea and the pending Reindeer strike over long hours and heavy work load, that the big man himself would have other things on his mind than his home life.

The life of Mrs Claus is surely a lonely one.

I booked my ticket a long time ago and I didn’t even have to resort to going Ryanair, Arctic Air goes right to the door after a quick stop off at Shannon.

I had put a bit of work into this one. There’s a website that has a list of all the forgotten partners of famous holiday figures:

• Little Mister Muffet
• The Big Bad She Wolf
• The Tooth Fairy’s “significant” other
• Mrs Claus

I browsed her profile and sent her a message with the attachment of my picture. It was the one of me tucking into a great big reindeer steak. It must have appealed to her because she mailed back straight away saying:

“It’s great to see a man who knows how those antlered fuckers should be treated, when can you come over?”.

That’s when I booked my ticket. It was the perfect time to go, that fat bastard was out giving presents to kids and avoiding the questions of the authorities regarding his motives for it and the elves were at the Christmas party in Nuits, the hippest place to chill.

So I told Mrs Claus to throw on her best wipe clean dress and leave her stockings on the fire place, I was coming over to empty my sack, etc.

She’s a filthy bitch.

Baubles and candy canes went into places I never knew I had. At one point we ran out of lube, but there was plenty of egg nog so that worked for a while until the place began to stink like a smoked cod omelet.
She became the filthy little fairy on top of my tree and if I’m honest I can understand why Santa only comes once a year, she wears the poor fucker out.

He’s probably put all the weight on and let himself go just to turn her off him for a while so that he can recuperate. Either that or it’s reserve fuel for year long fuckathons.

I originally went over to get some Christmas nookie and get one up on the man who never got me power of invisibility I wanted when I was 9 but I left with a great sense of pity for a man who is never left alone. His poor cock must be what’s left glowing, not Rudolf’s nose. That’s just a better story for kids.

Spare a thought for Santa next year, when I was leaving Mrs Claus was on the phone to the Fairy God Mother to bring over her strap on and more egg nog.

I would have left a note with the elves, but by then they were around with the dwarfs getting jiggy with Snow White.

And I wasn’t going over there in a hurry, the last time I did, well that’s a whole different story.

Night night Diary, until next time.

Sometimes I wish I was one of them.

At least they never get forgotten about.

I remember that Christmas morning, I could hear the excited screams from inside my neatly wrapped box. Even through the excess Styrofoam packaging I could still sense the giddiness of it all. It made me feel special, here I was this lump of molded plastic and I was about to be the subject of so much undeserved attention.

If I had known then what I know now I would have gladly taken it, and not for granted.

Suddenly it’s like an earth quake for me as my box is shaken and just when I feel like I’m about to hurl, a beam of light shines through the glittery paper and I see his face. It’s a pity I didn’t see the change in expression because by the time I saw his face, he was lit up with glee.

I got pulled from the solitary confinement of my little carton and I felt sticky fingers from last nights sneaky selection box all over me. I was thrown and crashed into things, but that’s what I was built for and if it wasn’t it didn’t matter to him.

I was quite proud of my appearance, but it wasn’t to last, it never does I suppose.

Red.

Yellow.

Yellow.

Red.

No Blue.

No green.

Just yellow.

And red.

I came with my own little fortress too, but I never saw much of that as I was out fighting crime and evil scientists.

The life of Iron Man is a tough one, especially when your in the hands of an evil genius much more cunning than any scientist the Stan Lee could conjour up. An 8 year old boy is more diabolical than Simon Cowell and Mary Harney combined.

I’ve been dropped out of the bathroom window with a Spar bag as a parachute.

I’ve been strapped to the family Jack Russel as my trusty steed.

I’ve had tea parties with next door neighbours cabbage patch dolls.

All very undignified and not becoming of a superhero, but one day I will have my glory. Sometimes I wish he was a nerd and never removed me from my packaging. I’d be worth a pretty penny by now and surely make another geek happy, or horny depending on the geek.

It’s not all bad.

I’m in the attic now and if I’m not mistaken the family moved away a long time ago and just forgot all about me, which would explain the box of Barbies that arrived in here about a month ago. I very nearly came arrived myself when I saw them.

I’ve been freaky with Disco Barbie and Nymphomaniac Barbie and I’m working my way through them all. There was a Bratz doll in there somewhere, but something told me that even as a doll I’d be sent to jail for doing one of them.

I had a bit of resistance from Ken saying I was messing with his birds, but he suffered an unfortunate accident with the wasps nest in the corner and hasn’t been heard of since. That also served as a handy warning to Action Man who was beginning to throw his weight around a bit, but he’s got the message.

I’m getting a little tired of this playboy lifestyle I have going on at the moment. The girls are nice, but they all start to look the same and a little, plastic y’know?
I don’t want to do the whole collection but I may have to if I’m not rescued soon. I can tell you that I’m not looking forward to Northside Barbie, she’s been wearing those pyjamas everywhere for the last week.

Betty Boop, that’s who I want.

Sitting over in the corner, under the support beam thinking no one can see her.

I will have her, she’s playing hard to get, but I will have her.

Maybe I won’t have to try to hard, after all according to the others, she’s the regular toy town bike.

At least I’m not one of them.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

If Jesus was born today, would God have to pay child support?

Don’t even get me started on the whole getting Mary pregnant out of wedlock thing because I could rattle on for hours. Or at least a paragraph.

If I ever get to the pearly gates and am face to face with the big man himself I’d love to ask him how many kids he has. It would be great if he said:

“None that I know of” and then gave a point and a wink.

But then he has one at least – Jesus.

But if we’re all God’s children, what makes Jesus so special? Just goes to prove that all parents have favourites.

What about Joseph? Did he ever have to go through legal proceedings to legally adopt Jesus? Because let’s face it, fostering and adoption have their rewards, but Joseph hit the freaking jackpot here. Or was he just a babysitter? A tenner an hour, whatever he wanted out of the fridge and a place in eternal paradise?

I would love to turn up fresh from my time machine with a t shirt on Jesus’ 12th Birthday that read “My Daddies love me” and let him miracle himself out of a school beating, or at the very least try to explain it.

I’m not bating religion or beliefs here, but I sometimes wonder what would happen if someone in this day and age tried to tell the world that they were the son of God and the result of an immaculate conception.
God and Mary have to take lie detector tests on Jerry Springer.

“You couldn’t be my baby’s Daddy, we ain’t never had sex”

“We didn’t need to, it was immaculate”

“You tell yourself whatever you need to. It wasn’t all that great”

“Baby, how can you say that?”

“The whole time we were in Bethlehem you did nothing accept flirt with that goat herder”

“Aw, now don’t be like that. You know you’re the only one I’ve given my divine load to.”

And so forth.

After the dust had settled they’d probably release a book with the help of Oprah.

Which would then be translated into movie form and then eventually a stage musical. And then back again.