Love Me Tinder, Love Me True…

An Open Letter to all the Tinder Liars out there

Ah, Tinder. The app that’s helped more women see more unsolicited cocks than a free STI clinic after Fresher’s Week. The app that launched a thousand fake profiles, and a shedload of lying cheating gobshites who don’t know how the app actually works. They don’t seem to realise that when you sign up using your FB profile, it uses that FB profile pic as default. So, if I’m scrolling through this Gallery of Goons and some dude has a selfie where he’s leaning into some young wan’s earhole and sniffing lovingly, no amount of ‘Dat’s my sis in the pic I swear lol” in the tagline underneath is going to stop me giving your profile the Beyoncé treatment:


Look lads, if you’re going to lie, at least TRY and do it well. Put a bit of effort into it. Find the settings button, and get rid of the pics of you carrying your bride in your arms while still in your wedding rigout. I’m also not a fan of you gazing up bleary-eyed into a camera lens holding a freshly-squeezed newborn while you claim it’s your nephew. I’m not Jeremy Kyle love. I don’t have access to ready-made paternity tests, and I’m probably not going to take you at your word.

To all the Headless Torsos:

Unless you’ve just run screaming from the town of Sleepy Hollow, I’m going to have to assume that you actually HAVE a head, and that it’s so hideous even Peter Jackson’s Orcs want to vomit at the sight of it. Either that or you made a pact with Satan, that you could have your ‘rock-hard abs’ and TRX-addicted core conditioning blah-blah-blah but it would cost you everything above your neck. Don’t worry about it, it happens sometimes. OR, and this is more likely, you have a significant other and you’re staying faceless until you’re so close to getting your hole that both you and the lucky gal you landed will both be in equal amounts of trouble. So, there’s that.

To the ‘Straight In, No Messin’ Chancers:

Are you a hunted man? Have you 24 hours to live? Are you shipping out to fight the good fight in the morning and don’t want to die in the field of battle without having seen a naked woman one last time? Is your dick going to turn into a pumpkin after midnight?

If the answer to any of the above is ‘Yes’, then I can just about understand the urgency with which you want to do the No-Pants Dance. (Apart from Pumpkin Dick – get that shit checked out). More than likely, none of these situations are what you are currently dealing with, so surely you can spare a few precious extra sentences in between “Hey cutie lol” and “Pic of ur tits?” You know, just enough to stop making me feel like I’ve accidentally joined a Babestation XX chatroom. Simmer down, Smartphone Casanova.

Think I’m joking? That I’m making this shit up? I wish I was. THIS actually happened:

Well, at least he said 'Hi' first...

Well, at least he said ‘Hi’ first…

God. Help. Us. It took him a good twenty minutes of me ripping the ever-living piss out of him (as above) to realise that while I probably DID actually know what he was getting at, I wasn’t in any way into it. You could say he bottomed out. (Sorry). What an asshole. (I’ll stop now).

To The Guys Who Think I’m Psychic Fucking Sally:

Five pictures. All of them group photos. Most of them badly taken holiday snaps from your last fortnight-long piss-up in the Costa Del Ballsack or wherever the fuck. A minimum of eleven sunburnt glassy-eyed twatbadgers staring back at me, yet I’m expected to just KNOW which one you are. Or, I could employ a mind-bending mathematical process of elimination that would give Sherlock Holmes a brain-boner.

Fuck off.

Any ladies reading this and are faced with the same dilemma over and over again on Tinder, I have a simple rule, and it’s never let me down yet. It saves you the hassle of trying to work out which of the boyos you’re dealing with. Here it is:


Stick with that, and you’ll never be disappointed.

Side note: (I know women of Tinder are just as insane, but I’m straight, so I can only speak about the men. Let someone else talk about the crazy lying ladies, and I’ll read that. Anyway, I’ll carry on.)

And finally…

To The Shady Men of Tinder:

If you can’t be honest and happy enough to put up at least one pic of YOUR OWN FACE on a dating site – why in all of the Land of Fuck are you on it in the first place? If you can’t portray yourself as unattached, not surrounded by fourteen drunken eejits in football shirts and sombreros, with all of your features showing – you know, like a confident, single, grown-ass man – then all you’re destined for on Tinder is the dark, lonely, bottom left-hand corner of any smart girl’s Smartphone.


How To Make A Hit Pop Song, The Jason Derulo Way

After many minutes of deep intensive research (I listened to the song online) I’ve worked out the way to make my fortune. Jason Derulo knows a thing or two about making wads and wads of dirty sweaty cash-money. So, for anyone who’s looking for that get rich quick solution to solve your financial problems, worry no more. I’ve got it sorted for you. Courtesy of that class act, Jason Derulo, here are the fool-proof steps to get the money AND the girls. So many girls, apparently. Here we go:

Watch the master at work by clicking here.

1. Find a lovely girl you’ve never met before and focus on her looks and body, telling her you know what ‘De girl dem need’.

2. Imply that your lap is the best chair in the world and she should sit on it. If she’s not weak with longing by now, you’re doing it wrong.

3. Tell her that her arse is so awesome, she doesn’t need to use her words to explain anything.

4. Shout out various airport departure destinations intermittently, in case she gets notions to start ruining the mood by, you know, letting her personality get in the way.

5. Only allow her to talk if it’s pure durrty.

6. Be stupid enough to think that lipstick stamps all over your passport won’t raise any questions at Passport Control.

7. Record with Middle Eastern-type exotic music sample and thumping beat, release and fly up the charts.

8. Now forever sleep on a bed of money. It’s uncomfortable, but that’s the life you’ve chosen as an international ladies’ man.

9. Seriously, can’t stress enough how much you have to randomly shout out capital cities, otherwise the poor girl won’t know you’re well-travelled. Roaring “Athlone to Mullingar” just doesn’t have the same effect. Believe me, I’ve tried.


Jason Derulo: The Hodor of the song-writing world.

Women Trapped In Baths Surrounded By Burning Candles

There’s something very sinister going on within the internet, and I’m here to expose it. It’s time for us to fight back. First, it gives the impression that women who are on the brink of giving birth to a child should be strapped into dungarees and made paint an entire house by themselves (and flippin’ well smile while doing it). NOW it appears that no pretty young lady in any stock photo of a bathroom is safe.

I’m talking, of course, about the fact that women are apparently not allowed sit in baths without being flanked by as many open flames as possible. It’s hardly HER idea – I mean, think of the logistics. You don’t fool me, Internet. SO MANY QUESTIONS…..

1: Are they lit before she gets in?

Why would she do that to herself?? She’ll be trying not to burn her fanny off while getting a naked leg over these open flames and the rim of a bath, stepping barefoot into what is essentially a home-made hot skating rink.

2: How the fuck does she get out afterwards?

I have no answer to this. I find it hard enough, what with being on the petite side. It’s like trying to scale The Wall from Game of Thrones.

3: Does she sit in the bath and try with all her might to blow out a few hundred candles all around her?

Not at all. Sure, she’s only a woman. She’d be all dizzy and faint from all the relaxing pretty smelly things she douses herself in after a hard day trying to drink water without spilling it all over her face or while trying to eat a salad alone without laughing. Also, and this is the most important thing:


So many victims; unnamed, unsaved, their skin wrinkling like raisins while they sit stewing in their own filth waiting for those bastard candles to burn themselves out. Rumour has it they survive on a diet of suds, face flannels and the slimy skins from those old Musk bath beads lying around the edge of the bath behind the taps from gift baskets that their granny gave them when they got all those points in their Leaving Cert in 1997.

This is a gallery dedicated to all those poor souls, fates unknown, whose suffering is now emblazoned across the realm of the cyber-world for all eternity. Vaya Con Dios, pretty ladies.

She's not far away, she's up close, and she's shrinking.

She’s not far away, she’s up close, and she’s shrinking.

Havin' a mad laugh, so she is. IT'S BEHIND YOU...

Havin’ a mad laugh, so she is. IT’S BEHIND YOU…

That better be a rescue manual.

That better be a rescue manual.

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON'T GET IN YOU FOOL...

Somebody tell this eejit that she has a fighting chance. DON’T GET IN YOU FOOL…

Sticking your knee out won't save you love, you're basically potential lady-stew...

Sticking your knee out won’t save you love, you’re basically potential lady-stew…

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

First known pic of The Bath Arsonist. WHO ARE YOU AND WHO DO YOU WORK FOR??

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion...God rest her...

There was a woman in this bath, but she was boiled into oblivion…God rest her…

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She's not laughing, she's trying to get out...

This is not romance, this is a murder-suicide pact. She’s not laughing, she’s trying to get out…

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Her hair is just kindling at this point. Seriously.

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is...

Silly bitch. Alcohol and an open flame? Asking for it, so she is…

She's not sleeping. She's catatonic with fright.

She’s not sleeping. She’s catatonic with fright.

"Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created..."

“Oh my, what a romantic death trap you have created…”

She's fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER...

She’s fainted with the fear. SOMEBODY, PLEASE SAVE HER…

She's awake but hasn't seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

She’s awake but hasn’t seen the ring of fire around her. Poor pet.

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is...

Looks like somebody remembered where the fire exit is…

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

That poor one guy met a grisly end, lavender-style.

See? It's only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

See? It’s only the good looking young wans that get into these scrapes. Not a candle in sight. Gowl.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It's like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

No candles, but I find this image disturbing as fuck. It’s like somebody gave the girl from The Grudge a voucher for a Spa break.

New Year? New Sneer…

"What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? "

“What you mean, many HAPPY returns?? “

Here we go again. Another twelve months down the drain, another twelve months waiting to take their place. Like the old retired cop, jaded from realising you can’t beat The System, 2012 has slunk away into the corner with its gold-plated clock and now defunct police badge stained with cheap whiskey and tears of regret for a thankless job now finally over.

The next morning he is already forgotten; for in his place, fresh from the academy, bounds a young fresh-faced young cop, ready to take on the world and save it from The Bad Guys. His haircut is all business, his uniform pristine, his badge gleaming, his voice just that little too high pitched and excited for the rest of the die-hard desk jockeys. He is 2013, and he is here to kick ass and take names. And God, I hate him already.

I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s hype. I’ve tried. Heaven knows, I’ve tried. I rang in the Millennium up in Belfast with a bunch of amazing people and had mad laughs while the fireworks went off – I even allowed myself a little frisson of dread during the countdown to midnight, and said a quick prayer for forgiveness just in case our world ended in a searing ball of white heat and crunching tectonic plates. I’ve made all the resolutions in the world, and kept none. Apart from writing more. As you can see, it’s done much for me so far. Here I sit, typing away, on an armchair made entirely of foldy money, drinking hot chocolate topped with gold-flake shavings while Frank Sinatra’s hologram croons ‘Seventeen’ and Wes Anderson films my every move for a documentary because my life is so awesome. SWEAR T’GOD.

Being the cynical soul that I am, I watched in amusement last night as my Facebook news feed filled up with New Year greetings fused with all sorts of corny generic ‘go-get-’em tiger!’ type ravings. It was as if my entire friends list turned into Tony Robbins, Dr Phil, Oprah or – in some unfortunate cases – Shane MacGowan. If I had cringed any more, I would have become the first living Inside-Out Human. Imagine the fun I’d have had with that on Instagram.

So why am I spewing venom and hatred at something as light-hearted and whimsical as New Year’s Eve, you ask? The answer is simple: I see it for what it is. It doesn’t fool me for a second. It’s like Ben Stiller’s guest character in the episode of Friends when Ross is the only one who notices he’s a completely psychotic asshole while everyone else loves him because he’s so nice to them.  I AM ROSS GELLER. (In many more ways than this, but that’s a whole other blog post.)

New Year’s Eve has never been nice to me. It’s only ever been a disappointing non-event full of massive expectations, holding a magnifying glass up to all the previous unrealised hopes and dreams you had for the year before. Mind you, back when I was a teenager, I only had myself to blame for that. It’s hard to get the facilities together to resurrect Brandon Lee, keep him in his Crow character AND convince him to live with you in Limerick while living happily ever after, dancing to The Cure in Termights night club of a Saturday. So to be fair, most of the time my disappointment with my New Year’s failures have been my own fault.

However, nowadays my resolutions have become so mundane and depressing that frankly, I’m ashamed. When did it come to this? Once, I dreamed of worldwide fame & fortune; visualising best-selling modern classic literature and marrying the love of my life while at the same time being linked in the press to affairs with assorted Hollywood hunks, all while touring a Grammy-winning indie album and adopting a child from each country I visit.

This year, my wish is simple: To get glasses that stay on my head.

You may well laugh. The consequences for breaking this resolution will be tragic. For as sure as I will never see five foot in height, the following will happen:

Scene: A crowded pub. Me standing next to the potential love of my life. I turn to say the perfect thing to make him fall in love with me. Camera pans out to witness the crowd’s reaction when my glasses fall right into his pint as I trip up when running away, trying to suppress a snart. 

And wouldn’t you know, there’s Wes Anderson filming it.

Happy New Year, folks.






J-Ro Vs Brain, Pt 13

Brain: “Oh. My. God.”

Me: “What?? What is it??”

Brain: “For a split second there I had this glimpse of a thought that was so revolutionary and life-changing, it would have brought us a lifetime supply of unforgettable moments of pure ecstasy.

It is summed up thus: the true meaning of life is d-”


Brain: *thought evaporates*

“Shit just got real.”