If you are about in Irlanda for your sins and happen upon what they call a siopa (pronounced shoooooo-pa or if you end up in the German enclave of Munshter where it is pronounced Daplacewegetsalldaskittles by local goat-molestahs), you may encounter the mythical CULT magazine. In its wet, sticky pages you will find many obscene things, including my alter-ego’s piece on what it is like to be oh-so old with the mind of a four-year old child or sumthing. Jesus fuck! At least one person likes it. Anywaysbut, there was one section that the editor thuggily insisted be taken out largely because it was irrelevant to the piece on levels so very, very, very, very basic as to make the sub angry. Naturally, my AE became all pissy, self-aggrandising and talking like a spurned 1920s film noir gangster shitting on the mag and its evil legion of followers when all he really wanted to say was this…
Who ever met anyone like Sean Sherlock, the Minister of State for Research and Innovation (Ministry of made up ministries methinks)? Where did he come from? Why does he represent my interests in this internet age? He is three years older than me, looks twenty years younger and smiles like he’s telling you to fuck right off. I have never met anyone like him. Maybe I could befriend Sherlock, force-feed him brandy and digestive biscuits and while holding his hair over the toilet bowl as he vomits, demand to know why he is representing me. I might just get an answer. More likely, through the tears and snot he will tell me that he has no idea why at our age I am wearing a Cramps t-shirt, smelling of rum and covered in his sick.
He fucking defies anyone, ANYONE who says that this paragraph does not fit in with the rest of the article. A key ingredient missing from a potentially mystical cake, which in the end reads like a steaming pile of brack, and who wants that? Well, who? You Sean, that’s right you you sanctimonious little lizard.
You can find them on Twitter too. Just click here, just….just.