I love this day.

It’s the only day of the year that you can freely dress up in your mother’s clothes and pleasure yourself in full view of the other people at the bus stop.

It’s the only day of the year that you can saunter into a Garda station and confess to a string of wild drunk donkey sodomy.

It’s the only day of the year that you can get away with organising a creche sightseeing tour with the local sex offenders.

It’s the only day of the year that you can openly say that Fianna Fáil have an incredibly competent grasp of where the country is heading.

It’s the only day of the year that you can masturbate to a naked picture of Twink and not feel dirty about it.

It’s the only day of the year that you can ignore the laughs from women as you flash them your tiny love muscle.

It’s the only day of the year that you can fill your mouth with dry Andrew’s Liver Salts powder and collapse on the floor to make it look like your having a massive seizure, foaming at the mouth and declaring that you are the ghost of Madonna’s dead African purchase and you want revenge.

It’s the only day of the year that you can tell a woman that what she thinks matters.

It’s the only day of the year that you can chat up a fat chick in a bar and not get grief from your mates or looks of disgust from everyone else in the world.

Today is the only day that I can confess to my “business trip” to New York last October that consisted of me tracking and hunting marked homeless hookers and killing them for sport, digging out their kidneys smuggling them back through customs and buying a cookery book in the duty free shop before knocking up a half decent steak and kidney pie.  The pastry was a bit dry, but hey you didn’t go to New York to learn to bake.

Today is April Fool’s day.

Happy Holidays.

So Big Pat is on the way out.

Some people will miss him.

The race is already on to replace him.

Speculation is mounting and the bookies are setting odds on the various names.

But one name has yet to be mentioned.

Mine.

I would like to formally apply for the position of the new host of the Late Late Show on RTÉ.

I once auditioned for the presenting job on The Den when Ray D’Arcy left and there was one not stuck to my audition tape when it found it’s way back to me:

“Not suitable for children’s TV”

What more qualification do I need?

I can bring a lot to the company and have tons of ideas for topics and competitons.

I promise never to patronise my guests or make them feel uncomfortable.

I swear by almighty Gay that I will bring back the “one for everyone in the audience” feature.  Maybe I’ll start off with a copy of tickets to the Toy Show for everyone to rip up as we perform a Kenny Kleansing.

Once and for all I’ll put that smug looking Owl in it’s fucking place.

The Toy Show will be fun again.

A vote for me is a vote for quality Friday night television.  You know it’s true.

It was bound to happen I suppose.  All those sites on the Internet with the glory of porn, they’ve warped my fragile little mind.

I remember being 16 and in a shop in Dublin city that isn’t there any more.  It was a kind of swap shop that would take anything and sell to anyone.  I wanted porn.  I bought porn and they were only too happy to sell it to me.  There were no boxes or covers on the tapes.  Just a single label of “Jail Twinkies”, I was sold.

I brought it home and was more disappointed than shocked to find that it was a raging tape of gay porn.  I have never forgotten what I saw.

And so here I am.

The dreams.  The dreams, they keep cumming coming.

First I’m in prison.  Shower time.  The sense of uncertainty fills the room and mingles with the steam.  There are nine other men all showering in here with me.  I know this because there are ten separate stalls.  The banter of the inmates signals that even after all this time they are not fully comfortable with seeing each other naked.

Then the mood changes.  One by one the showers are turned off.  The guards no longer want to oversee and maintain the peace and they leave, closing the doors behind them.

A feeling of dread surrounds me in a semi circle that runs inside the smaller circle of wet inmates.

I have no where to go and they seem to be licking their lips, seductively.  All I can do is thank the sweet Lord above that a friend of mine smuggled in soap on a rope for me inside a Black Forest Gateaux.  Something told me that I was about to get properly smuggled.

Before I knew what was happening I was turned around and had my face mashed into the cold wall tiles and I could feel their eyes soaking up every inch of my chiseled ass.

Hands groped and prodded.  Fingers were everywhere and I swear someone nibbled my ear.  I heard the familiar and horrible sound of the soap hitting the floor.

“You dropped your soap”, said the big burly one called Veronica.

Even though I hadn’t, I knew I was destined to bend over and pick it up.  It was futile to resist.  I assumed the position.

The rest of the dream went by in a flurry of sore knees, friction burn and donkey punches.  They treated my like a piece of meat and I was thrown from person to person like a sobbing pass the parcel.

I woke up with a horrible taste in my mouth that for some reason reminded me of what Captain Birdseye’s beard would smell like after a night on yer ma.

The dream kind of left me a little freaked out though, but even if it were true I would just be another statistic.

Only 9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape.

I happened upon a copy of Cosmopolitan today and I was quite shocked at the content:

* What men are thinking

* How to look like a celebrity

* Have the perfect orgasm

I can answer the first two – Tits, redheads, lesbians and all combinations of the three.  And if you want to be a celebrity, call someone a paki, go bald and die on the cover of OK!.

As for the last one, I’m a little confused.  Why would the editors and writers of a magazine aimed at women lie to them in such a way?  Women don’t have orgasms.  Orgasms were invented by a man over 7 years ago in response to women having the monopoly on vaginas.

They go on to advise women to explore their bodies to find their “erogemous” zones or whatever.  Making words up to back up these false claims only makes their readers feel even more inadequate.  It’s bad enough the poor little things can’t cum, now they have to have them reaching for a thesaurus too?  Diabolical.

They use confusing words like “Clitoris” and “Foreplay” and “Proper arousal of the senses”.  Witchcraft.

I have tried to do more research into the matter, but Wikipedia has no idea of what I was looking for.  And if they don’t know, it’s an obvious fabrication.

I feel bad for women.  Some of them can’t read or even right well and here are some magazines that pray on the ones who are just past the stage of the Ann & Barry books and feed them this rubbish.  I for one would sue.

Don’t fall for it women, it doesn’t exist.

I’m pretty sure if it did though, you might just get closer to it with a life of obedience and threesomes with your hot sister/friend.  Then maybe the men of the world might hold a little interest in entertaining the claim in the first place.

You women don’t want orgasms anyway, they’re terrible things.  I knew a woman who claimed to have an orgasm once and she died of telling a lie.  She just died.  Stopped living.  Probably with the shame of trying to convince the world of her crazy tales.

Don’t worry about it.  Orgasms are like opinions, women can’t have either.

Peace out.

I had sent around a few emails asking people to take part in an April Fool’s gag.

I got a massive response in people wanting to take part.

I had planned for months about what was going to happen.

Over 70 individual “tasks” for bloggers to undertake as part of a huge interlinked gag.

With a mail of an initial 20 or so recipients, I ended up with over 140 people wanting to take part.

I lost everything when this happened.

Every single email and address about the thing.  Each task and art work, graphics that had taken hours and days to put together.

Now it’s all gone.

So just in case you’re wondering if I forgot you, or if I’ve forgotten about the whole thing, I haven’t.

Most of the people who wanted to take part, won’t read this blog on a regular basis, as they were invited through those of you I invited personally,so those of you who do read regularly, pass the news on.  If you can.

It’s not a big thing, but I’m disappointed.

It was going to be fucking amazing.

Thank you to everyone who said they’d take part, drop me a comment so that I have your mail address for next time.

You have no idea how much it pains me to admit defeat before it even happened.

Next year maybe.