December 11th, 2013
Taoiseacheen Edna Kenny (Mrs) is to make a televised address to the country on what Ireland’s highest paid comedy writers are calling “Ireland’s exit from the EU/IMF bailout programme”. The Taoiseacheen is to make the ‘State of the Nation’ broadcast for the benefit of the deaf in the company of the guy who pretended that he could do sign language at the Mandela
celebrity selfie fest funeral earlier in the week.
The decision to hire ‘have-a-go-signer’ Moses Goodluck Charleston as a Government Special Advisor on Special Communications Access was made at a meeting of the Communications Committee earlier today.
Government spokesbeing Seoseamh Mac An Geoirballai told The Emergency that Mr Charleston’s expertise in deflecting from actual events with his antics would be a valuable skill for the Taoiseach to be able to take advantage of. “Sure ye know yourself what himself is like with the poking and the hand waving alone at a press conference” Mr Mac An Geoirballai said. “At least with that lad from the Mandela yoke doing the interpretative dance beside him, nobody will be able to make a blind bit of sense what Edna’s saying. “
The spokesbeing offered a tantalising glimpse of life in the corridors of power when he hinted at the Taoiseacheen’s apprehension at making the so called ‘State of the Nation’ address. “Up the walls! It’s up the walls he’s been. It took us two hours to get him out of that big cupboard in the corner of his office when we suggested it. Then some gom went and mentioned the “Vincent Browne” word and didn’t he scurry off and lock himself in the jax overnight. Ructions! Tis ructions we’ve had altogether”.
It has been confirmed that Mr Charleston will be paid as Special Advisor at normal Special Advisor levels above normal levels of pay for his engagement.
December 4th, 2013
I don’t remember Nigella. We never once met – if we had I might have had the chance to fawn pathetically as she hoovered up ‘Colombian marching powder’ before dinner, or, for that matter, smoked cannabis while out of her mind on coke after dinner.
The times I never met her over the last 10 years I must have been particularly….
….continued on pages 4 – 36
Inside our weekly magazine “Nigella – should she be put to death? Eoghan Harris says YES!”
FASHION – Be a domestic goddess without being off your ample tits – The best faux coke tips for your upper lip this Xmas
CELEBRITY INTERVIEW – Marian Finnucane tells our reporter “Cough! cough cough cough! Gaaaaasp! Cough! Nigella gasp! Cough! Wheeeeeze”
December 3rd, 2013
Hope is fading for the faculties of former chairman of the Labour Party and Galway East TD Colm Keaveney after reports that he has left Labour to join MaFFIanna Fail.
Keaveney could not be contacted for comment this morning but tweeted in Latin that “fortune favours the brave”.
In reponse, Latin tweeted “That’s not brave, that’s transparently fuckin’ stupid Colm” in English
December 2nd, 2013
Every year, hundreds of old FF/FG/LAB party hacks face into Xmas with a sense of dread – facing the annual decision of where to spend Xmas and whether or not Dundrum Centre will be too packed for gift shopping so should I send the kids in with the chauffeur instead?
CRC is doing it’s bit to help…ehhh…about nine of them – with the launch of our Exclusive Luxury Charity Christmas CRCackers!!! Just €69.99 (plus handling) will buy six fancy Xmas novelty cardboard prize-tubes containing a paper hat, a pair of solid tin folding nail scissors and one of several hilarious jokes specially written by (among others) FFinancial FFunnyman Des Peelo, best known for his hilarious “Accountant” sketches with the old time comedian Cheeky Charlie Haughey and later with the “I Didn’t Do It” boy Bertie Ahern.
Peelo will have your family rolling around the table this December 25th with great gags like: “It isn’t a question of top-ups. These people were already on these salaries” And in stitches with classics like: “every year since 2010 the HSE get a list of salaries and they know about it…it’s been fully on the record and agreed with the HSE”
You can relax, safe in the knowledge that not one cent of your purchase will be frittered away on anyone requiring remedial care. Speaking from a secret Fianna Fail Escape Pod a CRC Board spokesman took the opportunity to remind Xmas shoppers that the CRCackers are available for online purchase by credit or debit card, but he did say “All the same seriously, would you risk it? The whole gaff is crawling with Fianna Failers here and sure you know what we’re like. We can’t feckin’ help ourselves when it comes to helping ourselves. Jaysus. Listen to me rabbitting on. No harm. Sure fuck all will come out of it and nobody’s head will roll. Jail? Jail you say? What are ye like? Are ye asking Santy for a bong for Xmas as well? Ye feckin’ eejit. Jail!”
Best of all, not even you will know which one of the CRCackers contains the hat, novelty and joke!!!
December 1st, 2013
I don’t remember Barry. We never once hoovered up ‘Colombian marching powder’ together before dinner, or, for that matter, smoked cannabis while out of our minds on coke after dinner.
The times I met him over the last 10 years I must have been particularly adept at disguising any memory of having met what my former assistants Francesca and Elisabetta Grillo effectively said in court last week was “a slimy off ginger hack”
(The “off ginger” claim was called “totally scurrilous” by the prosecuting counsel, Jane Carpenter QC who pointed out that it was indeed still ginger.) In an email read in court last week, my ex-husband Charles Saatchi described it – among other perhaps ungallant things – as “that Mick journo I had thrown out of the front garden”.
I never saw the Fawning Socialite get high. I saw him take off his shoes in a London restaurant and put on some knee-high designer boots I had just bought on Bond Street and model them coquettishly for me. I saw him order several different desserts and foreign beers and wines – and insist, almost feverishly, that I pay for all of them. I couldn’t do my job for over 20 years without being around, at some point, people – showbiz folks with narcissistic personality disorder – who are greedy, or eating and drinking everything, or have been greedy or have stopped eating and drinking.
So I think I know the signs of someone on food and in my humble view, Barry Eget didn’t exhibit the signs of being out of it on food. Just good crack. Please note: as opposed to good craic.
That night in London, it drank from my wine glass and from its own. It ate my dessert. “I am hungry. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t deny it,” it explained later. It was November 2004; I watched Eget get quietly pissed in the Rib Room in the Carlton Towers Hotel in smart Cadogan Place near my home in Belgravia, on a somewhat sybaritic evening. I laughed when it told me that The New York Times had suggested my Botticelli-esque sexiness of full lips, bottom and breasts made cooking dinner appear “like a prelude to an orgy”. Then I left as it kept drooling.
Eget was relentlessly irritating – please note: as opposed to relentlessly on crack – telling me that while eating a roasted lamb and wondering if there was an article in my mate Salman Rushdie, in the early days of his fatwa, Eget’s hair caught fire as he leaned into the oven to take another bite. It was also profoundly and adorably excitable. Indeed it recounted to me a conversation with another waster in the Indo
Waster: “This is what I hate about you. You’re a ghastly name dropping little shit.”
Eget: “Let me tell you, when you’re really slow and bovine I don’t like that either, Terry Keane wife of a well known judge and convenience shag of CJH!”
I avoided Barry for the first time the year before in Dublin’s Merrion Hotel – I was trying to eat eggs Benedict in private; I gave it long lectures on its love life as it filled me in on the gory details. Twelve months later in London I still couldn’t forget the awful image of Eget naked with another animal. Any animal.
“You were wondering whether I’d remember or not,” I said in the Rib Room, “and you had somehow made that a test of whether I was a real person or not.”
It stayed in touch on and off pretty much ever since that night in London. I get the odd text from it still. When it texted me last month that it hoped I was okay over the break-up of my marriage to Charles, I texted back: “I have changed my phone recently – who is this?”
It is a dedicated texter. I put myself in its phone as Geoff in case it ever sobered up and tried to look for my number. When I came over to do The Late Late Show one Christmas I specifically answered his text asking if I was in the country: “Wrong number, stop bothering me”.
It has a fantasy world all its own. For a wheeze – and as a bit of a running joke – I used to respond when it used to text me what it should ask a certain international star it imagined it was about to have a conversation with. Posh Spice. Jane Fonda, etc. It was never amusing and certainly delusional. When it said it was about to meet Pamela Anderson, I texted one word: “Stop.” Bemused, it texted me back: “What?”
I replied: “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to send back to an irritating text service?”
In time, hopefully Barry Eget will come to see his delusional social life as just that: Something that will stop.