I would aim, and the main flow would hit the spot, but now matter how careful I was, there would always be a little puddle on the floor after.

Herself was always complaining.  “What’s all that liquid on the kitchen floor?” she’d shriek.

I would explain that it was just my dribble and there was nothing I could do about it.

Visitors to Head Rambles Man0r would often remark about the number of little puddles around the place, and I would have to explain to them about my little problem.  They were always very understanding and sympathetic.

I used to clean them up, but that became a tad tedious, as there were so many of them.  In the end I just left the puddles to dry of their own accord.

Things came to a bit of a head the other day when Herself slipped in a rather large pool I had accidentally created by the cooker.  “Jayzus!” she roared.  “Will you ever do something about that fucking dribble.”

I happened to find myself in Skobieville a couple of days later and thought I had better do something.

It was a quick operation.  I was in and out in no time at all.

The floor has been bone dry ever since.

It is amazing the difference a new kettle with a properly designed spout makes.

I wanted a pipe that was comfortable and well balanced, and it must provide a cool dry smoke.

My first perfect pipe was the Ronson.  It was lovely, as it had a nice cooling system built in.  Unfortunately, it turned out to be not so perfect after all, as the bowl screwed into the stem, and after a while the threads in the wooden bowl wore, and the damn thing leaked.

I tried a Falcon.  Again, that had had exactly the same problem as the Ronson, and I gave up on that.  Tobacco juice is not pleasant stuff when it leaks everywhere.

I have a grand range of briars which I have smoked for years, but they all suffer from the same problem – the juice tends to make the tobacco at the bottom of the bowl soggy and towards the end, the smoke becomes somewhat acrid.  As a result, half my tobacco gets chucked away.

A couple of years ago, I found a great web site – Elie’s Freehand Pipes.  What attracted me was the sheer artistry of the pipes he produces.  They are all made by himself in his workshops.

Some time ago, I bought an Elie’s Comrade.  This was an excellent pipe.  It had a grand cooling and filter system, and had a series of interchangeable bowls.  It did suffer from a minor design flaw that meant that after a while, leakage started between the bowl and the stem.  Maybe it was just mine – I don’t know – but it meant I was having to cope with juice on my hands again.

A few weeks ago, I was browsing his site, and I noticed that he has developed a new range – his EKool range.  They looked great.  I wrote to Elie, who incidentally is the most helpful bloke you could meet and made enquiries.

To cut a long story short, I have found the Perfect Pipe.

So what is so special about it?

For a start, all joints are metal to metal, so there are no wooden threads to wear.  Then the mouthpiece extends down inside the stem with an ingenious cooling system to prevent goo or liquid reaching the mouth.  When liquid begins to condense and collect, it is a simple matter to quickly unscrew the plug at the end to drain it.  The tobacco remains dry and can be smoked to the last scrap.  The bowls are interchangeable too, and I got a lovely selection.  Last but not least, I think it looks great.  It’s different.  It also looks a little on the illegal side, which is a added bonus.

If there is anyone out there contemplating a pipe purchase, then I suggest you toddle over to Elie’s site.  There is something there for everyone.  Quite honestly, I would be tempted to buy some even if I didn’t smoke.

Incidentally, Elie doesn’t know I’m writing this.  He didn’t ask me to and I’m only doing it because I am so impressed.

Mind you, if he sees this, and feels he has to respond, I wouldn’t half mind a d’ElieSmoke.  Heh!

Ay the time, I gave my main reasons which I won’t rehash in detail, but basically I said that the whole process was anti-democratic and Europe was building a United States of Europe, where we would loose all rights to self determination.

The pro-Lisbon crowd came back at me and said this was a load of bollox and that it was merely a ‘tidying up exercise’ and that it wouldn’t affect our national status in any way.  The pros also said we had to sign up to help us out of the current financial mess.

So, let’s have a look at the state of play at the moment.

For a start, we have gained absolutely fuck all by signing up.  Our banks are still in a mess.  Unemployment continues to rise with no end in sight.  Businesses continue to close.  Where is Europe when you need them?  They are sitting on their fat, overfed, overpaid arses and laughing at us.

What have we lost?

There are those who said that Europe would have no powers to meddle in our affairs.  How come then there is a grave risk of our losing the right to trial by jury?  This is a fundamental right that has existed for centuries, yet it will be denied us without any recourse. 

How come Europe is applying bully-boy tactics to the Greeks?  They have been told [not asked – told] to get their affairs in order and to report on a regular basis like a naughty schoolboy.  If Europe doesn’t like what Greece are doing, then Europe will take over and the Greeks lose the right to their own financial affairs.

I see Europe has decided that the smoking fiasco isn’t going far enough and is threatening to impose restrictions on all member countries.

I also notice that Europe always refers to it’s members as ‘states’.  Slowly but surely we are being indoctrinated by the back door on the concept of a group of states under the umbrella of Europe.  When are we first going to hear the words ‘united states’ creep into the lexicon?  I guarantee it won’t be long.

Well.  I won’t say I told you so.

But………….

You know that kid Miley Cyrus?  She’s the one who was forced into a life of show business at the age of fourteen or fifteen or something by her father.  She is now probably facing a life of substance abuse and mental torment as a result.

She has a nine year old sister, Noah.  I suppose it gives a little insight into the family’s mentality that they should call a daughter Noah?

Anyway, this Noah, at the age of nine, is producing her own range of lingerie for kids!

Is it just me, or does anyone else find this deeply disturbing?

How come a man can prostitute his daughters in such a manner?

The paedophiles must love him.

Last night I made up for it.  I had a great sleep with beautiful dreams where sunny beaches, Sharon Ni Bheolain and bikinis featured prominently.  It was good, and I didn’t wake ‘til late in the morning.

I was just contemplating putting my clothes on, when the phone rang.

I managed to answer it, which was quite an accomplishment, as essentially I was still asleep.  It was TippFM wanting to know if I would do a live interview for their morning programme.  What was worse, they wanted to do it there and then.  Fuck!

I am a bit like a steam locomotive.  I need to have my fires lit and I need to build up a head of steam before I venture onto the track.  So here I was, bollock naked, without my morning pipe full and no mug of tea and worst of all, a head that was still on a tropical island.

They said they would phone back in a couple of minutes, so I frantically put on the kettle and hunted for my pipe.  Too late.  The phone rang, and I was on air.

It was a disaster!

The poor chap in the studio did his best to wake me up, but it was a lost cause.  There I was, stark naked in full view of the entire county of Tipperary and I couldn’t think.  There were lots of emms, and errs, and my mouth was dry from lack of tea, and a mind as blank as Mary Harney’s.

He asked me questions and I struggled for answers as my dangly bits swayed gently in the breeze.

He gave up in the end.  I can’t say I blame him.  That’s probably the end of his career.

I finally got dressed, made my tea and lit the pipe.  I’m now awake and wondering if it all really happened.

I don’t remember what I said as it’s all a bit of a blur.  Did I let rip with a few fucks and cunts?  Did I mention anyone by name?  Can I expect some angry litigation?

Did I really stand naked in front of an entire county?

It doesn’t bother me at all.  In fact I don’t think about it that much, except that I am beginning to collect pamphlets on claiming free television licences [I don’t know why – never pay the fucking thing anyway], free travel and special hotel offers for Golden Oldies.

I was down with Doc a couple of days ago, as it was time for my routine overhaul.  Everything is ticking`over reasonably well, and he took a few pints of alcohol blood for a battery of tests.

“The Big One coming up?” he says as he stuck yet another needle in my arm.  “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t feel about it” says I.  “It’s just a number.”

“But it’s a significant number” he said as he filled another milk bottle with blood.  “How do you feel about yourself now?  What do you think when you look in the mirror?”

“For fuck’s sake” says I. “Who do you think I am?  Pat Kenny?  I don’t go around preening myself in front of mirrors.  The only time I use them is when I’m squeezing blackheads.”

“But who do you see?  Do you not think you look older?”

I hadn’t a clue what he was on about, but I had to humour him otherwise he might drain my entire blood supply.

“Honestly?” I said.  “I don’t think I look any different from the way I looked last week.  The beard is a bit greyer.”

“It is that.  The rest of your hair is still dark and plentiful though. Do you dye it?”

The one thing I have never done in my life is to dye my hair.  The very idea gives me the creeps.  As Herself keeps pointing out, no one can accuse me of vanity.  The very mention of hair dye makes me see red, though this time the red I saw was Doc’s blood and not mine [I hope].  I left him moaning on the floor and went home in a huff.

There was a programme on last night on television.  ‘Horizon’ did a yoke on the causes of aging.  Mind you, I could tell them that – aging is caused by a little thing called time.

It was the usual Horizon style of programme.  They had long interviews with doctors and scientists and they examined groups of people who are living to a ripe old age.  I noticed that in one of the groups that they mentioned, they accidentally said that one third of the oldies smoked,  I don’t know how that little gem got past the censor?  They interviewed a doctor who was spending tens of thousands of dollars a year on tablets because he wants to live to be a couple of hundred years old.  Daft fucker!  Who the fuck wants to spend a hundred years sitting dribbling spit in a pool of their own piss and staring at a wall because no one has time for them?

I don’t mind being a Significant Age.

In my head I’m still thirty or so, and if the old body says differently, then that’s life.  There isn’t much I can do about it.

Actually, I’m looking forward to the big day.

Because it is a Significant One, maybe I’ll get some decent presents for a change?

For years now, be have been told that the major cause of deaths on the road is speeding.

That is a load of unadulterated crap.

Speeding rarely causes an accident.  Speeding rarely causes a death.  What causes accidents and death is bad or careless driving.  If speed caused accidents, then surely the Formula One circuits would be a bloodbath?  The reason they are not is that the drivers know what they are doing.  They know their own and their machine’s limits, and accidents happen on the race track because those limits are pushed to the extreme.

There was a sad case in the North where a scumbag smashed into a car driven by a 64 year old, who was killed, along with the scumbags passenger.  The victim’s widow is appealing for people to slow down, which shows how she has fallen for the propaganda.

Let’s look at the facts.  Scumbag bought the car [an Audi A4] for only £500 because he knew it was stolen.  He had 23 previous convictions including stealing cars, assault, possession of knives and robbery.  He is a bottom feeder.  He caused that accident because he was reckless, and was showing off his stolen car to his pal, who I hope was suitable impressed, seeing as he is now in the afterlife.

Scumbag, incidentally only got five years.  He will be out in half that time and back stealing cars and creating mayhem again.

I have the best part of forty years driving experience.  I have had accidents but considering I must have driven close on half a million miles by now, that’s not surprising.  I can guarantee you that I could drive around Dublin without having an accident, while completely ignoring all speed limits.  I could do over 100 on some roads and would probably fail to even reach the limit on others, simply because I adapt my speed to the conditions and potential hazards.

Yesterday, just as an experiment I tried driving at 30Kmph.  I found it extremely difficult.  I was forced into driving in second gear which is not only a strain on the car but also probably uses more petrol – therefore more fumes and pollution.  As a limit, it is sensible in a housing area where there are narrow streets and children playing, but on a main road it is abysmally absurd. To have to drive for two miles without exceeding that limit would be painful, and difficult.

Speed limits serve one function only, and that is to provide a very handy cash flow for the government.  Fining someone for doing 70 in a 60 limit where there is no danger whatsoever of an accident is morally wrong.  I can see the new Dublin limit being a very nice little cash-cow for the government.  I can see why they want to introduce it in Cork and Galway.

Arseholes.

Hurt for Haiti

We all know it’s more than a good cause so if you are unfortunate enough to be in Limerick, then this is the fundraiser for you.

Bock has all the details on his site, so I suggest you take a look -  Limerick Haiti Fundraiser

As a little aside, I see Bloggers for Haiti has now raised in excess of €4,000.  Let’s all have a pint to celebrate.

On an apparently daily basis we hear of rape trials in this country.  Day after day, we hear of child abuse cases or random rape attacks.  There seems to be little pattern.

Two cases in the last couple of weeks caught my eye.

The first was an horrendous case of a father systematically raping one of his daughters and abusing another, over a period spanning three years.  Twice a week, he would wait for his wife to go out, and would then rape his daughters, aged six and eight. 

The second was a case of a man who broke into a house and raped a woman.

I know there is no such thing as a ‘good’ rape, but surely there are cases of rape that are worse than others?  For the woman in the second case, it was undoubtedly a terrifying ordeal, and the rapist should expect the full weight of justice, but in the first case we have a man systematically raping his own daughters, twice a week over a three year period, when the girls were mere children.

Now let’s look at the sentences.

The man who raped his daughters got ten years.

The man who raped the woman got five life sentences?

What the fuck?

There is absolutely no rhyme nor reason for such a vast disparity?  Unless there are factors ‘that were taken into consideration’?

Are we to discover that the man who raped his daughters was from a broken home?  Was he an alcoholic?  Was he abused as a child?  Did he have one of the many ‘mitigating’ pathetic excuses that for no reason whatsoever seem to be a free pass for appalling behaviour?

Or does the Irish ‘justice’ system just dislike people from Poland?

I am confused.

Man gets five life sentences for raping woman

Man jailed for ten years for rape of daughters

I have two guinea pigs – Minnie and Fizz.  I have decided to use them As God Intended.

To carry out an experiment, one needs a goal to test, and I chose a problem that is very close to my head stomach heart – the cure for the hangover.

I started by feeding them copious quantities of whiskey mixed with wine.  After a couple of pints of this mixture [each] they were soon enjoying themselves.  Minnie was trying to play Richard Clayderman [very badly] on the piano, while Fizz tried to chat up a pot plant and sing “The Old Bog Road” at the same time.

The following morning, the experiment began.

Using Fizz as a control sample [yes – I fucking know how to conduct tests] I left her moaning in the corner of her cage, threatening to kill herself and swearing off drink for life.

I started by feeding Minnie a large quantity of paracetemol.  She just puked the lot up.

I then fed her a large fry-up of rashers, sausages, baked beans and fried eggs.  She ate the beans all right [and farted copiously] and then pointed out that she was vegetarian.  Scratch that test.

I then left various ‘mothers remedies’ lying around for Minnie to take her pick.

She ignored the Bloody Mary, the cold shower and a brisk walk.

I filmed the result and I think you will be quite surprised.

It worked.

I am going to call it “The Hair of The Dog” cure.