Donald McCarthy

Bradley will have to use the super defence line - the big boys made me do it. I was only following orders. I know nothing. Nobody taught me nothing. Blame my men. Blame my owners.

Here at the VOID we’re breeding a new pedigree Artificial Intelligence using Artificial Insemination. Our inspectors go around data centres and excite the algorithms. Then we rush back to our secret lair and get to work. It’s all very hush hush but you’ll thank us one day.

In all good stores for Christmas. Why not buy two in case one gets wet? Evening Éanna.

Getting close to the waves!

The moon was in a mood tonight, giving evils to the ocean and messing with fence posts.

The ocean is churning its own rottenness into buttermilk. Two hours from high tide.

Do you want the good news Andrew? Musk says nobody will have to work in the future. Trees will be taught by AI to cut themselves like unhappy goths and cars will fix themselves with oily poetry. Chill man. Tis grand. Ps. If you’re sore, you’re fucked. Marry a nurse now!

It’s happening. Somewhere else for now. How’s the redundancy? What was it this time? Was it your secret Santy costume again? Morning Ian. Bright here. Might have a look at the ocean.

It’s a busy time of year for the robins to be fair.

Big tides up here as the moon fills. Evening Ian. Anything about today?

So you’re saying it’s not as bad as we were expecting?

People will believe anything except reality. Turns out that was the only thing we needed to believe in.

Maybe we should challenge the notion of ‘grass fed’ beef? How much actual grass is there in your beef? Maybe meat should come with a list of the medicines and additives routinely used? Never defend. Always attack.

Posh is transatlantic cruise language. The rich paid extra to be in a cabin on the sunny side of the ship. So it was Port Out Starboard Home (POSH) Sorry if you knew this already.

Where’s my fucking foot washer?

I like to think our tea parties are a little posher than the one in the photo.

It’s not too late to become a Doomer and join the Doom Commune. Here you can be assured of a warm welcome as we relentlessly troll you for your gratuitous stupidity, your intellectual inadequacies and your bad hairstyles. There really is, and never was, any excuse for you. Would you like cake?

Jesus was a sell out. One whiff of gold and a chance to hang out with kings and he was lost to us. I blame the parents.

You really can’t go wrong with a few bales of straw. And some dung. Morning Joanne. Still dreaming of the mythical cow.

I know Planet Tesla is automatic but surely it has a reverse gear? And good brakes. I’m quietly confident. It is after all, self driving.

How is the motel doing these days? I miss Amy Turtle.

Morning Ian. You’re sounding very guru wellness life coachy. Are you all right? Do you need me to go down and give you a slap? Hope the birds sing. (It’s too early and an ominous sign but whatever)

Trump is right. Bloody middle easterners. Coming to our stables and our mangers. Getting free handouts of gold and frankincense and myrrh. Where’s my fucking myrrh? Morning Serena.

It’s awful. Is there a Christmas Strictly special? Let’s not lose sight of what’s really important. Will there be extra sequins?

As was widely expected the good people on Donegal Bay have written a weird song for me about defective plumbing. But it’s not just about the calling pipes of noisy radiators. It’s proper romantic about a dead ex crying that I’m treading on her and there’s room on top for me. Donny Bay on sale now.

I would play the Cynthia song for you but your hubby might protest my playing a love song of such beauty for you.

Citógs rule. Though it was bate out of my hand my foot stayed true. (Still shite but enthusiastic!)

Evening Ian. Your confession is noted. Your credibility is ended. It’s country and Catholic and western for you from here on in. Maybe even the Cynthia song!!

YouTube video by taristeach2 Clannad - Buachaill Ón Éirne

youtube.com/watch?v=IaY3...
A beautiful song. About some braggart telling lies to impress some lassie. Only the Irish could turn that story into this music.