I met a gentleman this morning who goes by the name Ebenezer Bottomhole.
How much did you pay him for the magic beans?
My first thought was that his name would settle comfortably in a Roald Dahl book
This morning at about 0645 am whilst on the way to work, I passed a middle aged gentleman dressed in a suit, tie and overcoat who was commuting on a BMX.
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Was it John Bishop?
No, not that floppy haired cnut. He’s gone all Lord of the manor by all accounts.
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Was it the bespectacled weakling that lives with his mother?
No. Not him either.
Actually he is married with kids but has a strange living arrangement whereby his mother spends half the year in new Zealand with his sister, and half the year in your man’s attic, spending her time, as far as I can ascertain, mostly complaining about not being in new Zealand.
He is mild mannered, and wears specs, but is actually far from a weakling. He’s a very good climber, and hed have battered that cunt if it came down to it I suspect, but he’s not that type. He would do anything for you and I am deeply in his debt for favours he has done for friends of mine, one Irish lass in particular.
I suspect actually that he’d batter me if it came down to it.
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He’d have to be sure from going up and down to the mother in the attic
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There’s a lad (bollox) in Clontarf who commutes on a unicycle and I see an amount of people heading down the Machine road on scooters
He’s an awful cunt that chap.
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It’s a sniper on the Fairview pedestrian bridge that’s needed for that cunt
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Fuck your fancy sniper, a gurrier with a stick would do it just as handy.
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Craobh chiarain are based in donnycarney. Not Fairview
Fuck sake. I blame playstations for this.
I remember at school an odd time wed be sent out on a run, away out seamus quirke Road and past a halting site (unofficial)
The traveller kids the little bastards used somehow know it was a long out and back, and theyd bide their time til you were on the way back, and on your hands and knees before they’d run out after you trying to whack a bunch of nettles across the back of your legs.
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There’s a fat lad that rides a scooter along the quays on Dublin. As if that’s not bad enough, he has a wing mirror on his helmet.
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I was putting my bike in the cage at work today, when the wind blew the door shut with me inside. As I was pushing the door to wiggle it back open, an elderly gent walked past, turned back, and shouted “when’s feeding time?” before roaring with laughter, and proceeding on his way looking inordinately pleased with himself.
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Mugged off good and proper 
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