Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.15: Ministry – Every day is Halloween


“Irlanda’s least aborted Senator” ready to stomp a women’s rights meeting.

“Oh, why can’t i live a life for me?
Why should i take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me?
I’m not the one that’s so absurd”
– Al Jourgensen

The demons that major religions espouse as the dealers of justice in the mythical afterworlds have their work cut out for them. The hourly event horizon that humans are going through right now will mean having a pitchfork shoved up your urethra for eternity would seem pleasant compared to an existence where lies have become a staple of public life. The lie is now reported rather than refuted. The liar is accepted. Yessssss.

The “everything I say is bullshit” paradigm that is currently being used as national policy in that social thought experiment, America, has been imported to this littul land over the past decade or two, thanks in part to Mike Murphy’s early Sunday evening travelogues in the 80s. Americans, they’re mad like! It used to be that a politician or public servant caught in a lie or corruption would resign in disgrace, but now they follow a path of being caught, pilloried, quietly moved aside, then interviewed and then they write the book. They ride out any shit-storm with the gravitas of a life-long heroin user.

Trump’s genius is the flooding of the news cycle with such insanity that media can’t even cope with a retort to the first idiotic tweet. Enter to the Irish cause, Senator Rónán Mullen, Irlanda’s least aborted Senator. Y’see, the Catholic Church collapsed into a black hole cluster fuck similar to that of the Soviet Union and lost control.  Irlandese people realised that apart from the church’s sexual abuse and authoritarian control issues, there was this new issue that basically Mass is really boring. Whatever you can say about Irlandese people, they don’t like to be bored. Look at Storm Ophelia (not Ronan Keating’s sexual preference) where despite three people being tragically killed, the Irlandese tweeted at the hurricane in the same manner some Americans shot at theirs.

Anyways, Mullen paints himself as this country’s moral authority and as a Catholic man, he of course is primarily interested in women’s healthcare. The problem of course is that his methods are seen as extremely calculated or calculatedly extreme. If you are pro-life and a moderate, you have no voice in the upcoming repeal referendum. Watch your feelings be redirected through the Old Testament via post-independence Irlanda, around the skirts of a few bishops, into the tweet machine, the boring Facebook essay, the newspapers and finally on to the televisual organ of the state. You’ll feel like the kid who was chosen last for the Lacrosse team. Ha, Lacrosse. Stupid, stupid Lacrosse.

Mná na hÉireann are in for a battle over the next year. Looking at the the way old white men in America are trampling on the most basic of female health rights, it will not go unnoticed by the tiny penised old white men hiding behind the cloak of God and civil war politics. These men are always keen to tell women what they should think and do. Be more like the Virgin Mary, they say. She didn’t abort her magic baby.

There is obviously nothing wrong with being pro-life. Although to quote Bill Hicks (coz that’s what everyone endlessly does), “Why don’t you lock arms and block cemeteries?” That’s fun, right? Anyways this munki remembers the last abortion referendum and how the choices offered on the ballot paper were eternal damnation or well, eternal damnation with priests. There were more images of aborted foetuses than actual instances of Irlandese women who had abortions, leading this munki to believe that Catholic photographers were aborting babies for their “posed by model” placards. Just my theory.

The problem occurs that the idea of having a reasoned debate about this highly important issue for women has already been fucked out the window, with the baby and the bath water, if you’ll excuse the analogy. What we can look forward is a lot of shouting, and depending on the calibre of the shouter on either side, folksy folks who are on the fence will jump to the side of shouter that least annoys them. It’s a cruel way to decide this, but un-aborted people are generally fucking stupid. Look at Brexit, Trump, our Eurovision picks for the last 20 years, our last Presidential election. That election was about who was going to hardly bother the public eye for seven years. To get there you had to invade the public eye like conjunctivitis.

So, Rónán Mullen is the unchosen voice of some people I know who are pro-life. He will be dragged into studio after studio and he’ll use the Trump model to get his agenda across. Look at his comment about Savita Halappanavar where he said “If there was abortion on demand, she wouldn’t have been in the hospital because she wouldn’t have been pregnant and she wouldn’t have been having a miscarriage.” You see, he throws a stupid statement out there, leaves it hanging, gets attacked and then claims he is being attacked. He will elicit support from balls of negative energy angrily sitting in the armchairs already pissed off that we brought that Irish guy home from Egypt, when there are people dying in the streets. In the streets! Although, don’t give those homeless a euro. They’ll spend it on drugs. Wait, how much do drugs cost?


Example of a placard showing aborted foetuses. Gross

Mullen knows this, as does Trump, Farage, Le Pen etc. You can always appeal to idiots who have no capacity for researching or for most reading. Since the economic crash of 2008, fascists have learned they can re-emerge from the shit because people find it easier to blame Muslims and anyone else foreign than bankers, who are invisible in plain sight because their skin matches their shirts. If economists don’t understand how the world economy works, how will Brian from a hole in the ground in Laois or Jim from a privileged golden carriage on the head of a small poor boy in Dalkey understand the sub-prime mortgage disaster when they share a common belief that Ryan Tubridy is actually an intellectual. Anyone who likes Frank Sinatra is an intellectual, right?

They’re coming to take our jobs. They can’t even speak the language. They are terrorists. People who haven’t learned the lessons from World War 2 won’t realise that the white totems who control the little fascists want to get rid of the Africans, the Asians, the Muslims, the gays, the intellectuals (not Sinatra fans, real intellectuals), the Catholics, the Buddhists, the women etc. When they are rid of them all, well, they’re coming after you stupid white boy, aren’t they? It’s a pity there was no class in the education system that could teach kids about this kind of thing.

Anyways, back to the repeal referendum. This is a no-brainer. The health of women is of paramount importance. They should never be dictated to by ill-equipped men who believe in magic beings in the sky and have Handmaid’s Tale fantasies. Doctors should never be put in the position of not knowing whether to treat a patient who is about to die. Fuck that.

It feels like monsters surround us every day. Every knock on the door could provide trick or treat.  I think Uncle Al should have the last world,

“Oh, why can’t i live a life for me?
Why should i take the abuse that’s served?
Why can’t they see they’re just like me?
I’m not the one that’s so absurd”


Read more recent Halloween frights and delights, right?

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.14: SQURL – Funnel of Love

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.13: The Cramps – Human Fly


Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.14: SQURL – Funnel of Love


You want me to stare and remain impassive, right? (To self…be a vampire…be the best vampire ever…be pale)

Here’s the awesome opening segment from the wonderful “Only Lovers Left Alive.” A movie in which Tom Hiddleston’s inability to react to anything that’s going on actually helps his performance. A movie in which Tilda Swinton inability to be anything else but a vampire really helps. A movie in which John Hurt’s inability to be anything other than a sinister old man really helps.  Basically no one acts.

HiddleSwinton never really caught on though.

More junkie-chic vampires please. The soundtrack to this album creates an odd listening sensation, especially walking around your daily boring, ordinary human life (That’s right, I said it. Screw you humans). You actually become pale and blink less and get pissy at Taylor Swift posters. You walk, slowly trailing a bottle of Malbec behind you sneering at passersby. Eyeing up swans as a potential food source. Only the best for you. Crouching for no reason. Looking at beautiful people as possible eternity mates. A sort of non-goth goth. Add a flouncy shirt and you’re away. Basically, you become a pretentious dick.

Try it though. It’s fun. Better than what you were going to do.

Stretch’s Scary Halloween Songs No.13: The Cramps – Human Fly

“Well I’m a human fly
I-I said F-L-Y
I say “buzz buzz buzz”
A-and it’s just becuz
I-I’m a human fly
A-and I don’t know why
I got 96 tears and 96 eyes”

Halloween is coming. I lay sweaty in my bed with the dancing moist pumpkins and sweaty witches’ brooms invading my dreams, forcing me awake.

In the reeking darkness, I see a man silhouetted at the end of my bed wearing nothing but a pair of leather pants, a puff of smoke leaving the area where his head should be and escaping through the open window past fluttering ghostly drapes.

I rub my twitching eyes and notice I have the alcohol sweats. My head pounds and I see another shadowy figure behind the swaying man. A woman with red curly hair, her face lit by an angry moon, exhibiting a dark wet-lipped sneer. I pull the bed covers up to my face and wonder whether I should ask them a pertinent question. She begins to sway beautifully. They both move to an unheard ancient music.

My face is fully wet now and the sticky humidity has made me, I must say, breathless. Biting down hard on my knuckles,  I watch them. Opening my mouth to speak, no sound comes out. I feel strangely aroused. What is this feeling? She puts her ring-ed finger to her lipstick-ed mouth. He leans in. His devilish eyes focus on me. He pours red wine into my mouth until I gag. She sits sliently at the edge of the bed. My mind is full of multiple possible scenarios, some including my demise. He moves closer awkwardly but with grace, his glistening white shoulders moving like an insect. She smokes cigarettes and blows a ring at my head. I am backed up against the headboard, pushing down on the soaked sheets. My startled eyes like something from a silent movie. He opens his wine-drenched mouth, his cigarette-stained teeth smiling at me and through his hot breath comes the sound,

“Buzz…buzz…buzz.” Over and over again.

The air around us vibrates violently. The lamp crashes to the floor. She throws the bed covers to the wall. He smashes the wine bottle above my head. Bottles fall to the ground as they close in. She climbs on top of me. I know what’s about to happen. He climbs on her back to get a spectator’s view. A bottle of whiskey rolls across the floor. He has more wine now, spilling it on my bare chest, then casting it aside after guzzling half of it. She pops champagne and necks it, the foaming spillage forming around the area of our connection.

Her eroticism and reptilian rhythmic motion…the, the, the vibrating air send me into an ecstatic thrall. She screams….He buzzes. She throws her wine glass behind her and he rubs her wet hair as she performs her devilish insane exhibition on my prone body. The light fixtures explode and the walls begin to drip with what I hope is wine and my, my, my last thought before I succumb to these unnatural, unearthly pleasures is that if I wake from this surreal carnal experience, I really must bring all this glass to the recycling centre in the golden morn.

Because, THAT would be the right thing to do.

Harry Dean Stanton

Repo Man had a worrying effect on me. When you’re expecting normal, it’s comforting to know that someone is out there, always working against that. That makes life almost bearable

Tripped out new video from Mogwai

The always dependable Mogwai with a mental new video which I think is either about fucking or arts’n’crafts. Enjoy while you can, coz Trump may have waged war on the Faroe Islands by the time the four minutes are up.

Stretch MacGibbon’s guide to getting married in Irlanda


Marriage. A thing you want to, have to do or are forced to do by men wearing cloaks, carrying wheat, petrol and matches. These days in the modern world people do it for many reasons such as convenience, tax breaks, the betterment of the human race, religion and of course love or extreme like. However, the joining together of a man and woman, a woman and woman, a man and a man, or whatever the fuck Presbyterians do, is not just about the union, it tends to be about the fucking wedding. The day and organisation consume all. Living in Ireland for so long now, this munki has experienced first, second and third hand the weird norms of an Irish wedding. This piece is inspired by the traditional bride ‘pulling a pint of Guinness’ idea that I nicked off someone else. Anyways, let’s start with that.

The Bride

It’s princess’s special day. Everything is in place. Big day. Time to shine. She has been dreaming of this since she was little. However, fully aware that she is also a powerful woman, that she makes a valuable contribution to society and strives for equality in a country that thought all that equality bollocks was sorted during the marriage referendum, she is faced with the next challenge. Fucking wedding photographers.


They see her glowing, radiant and think about an angle. I know, picture her pulling a pint of Guinness. Like IN HER WEDDING DRESS! MAD! Talibanesque elderly male relatives look on, for this is no place for the OTHER women in the party. They nudge each other and chuckle at the lovely lass slumming it with the pint. She gamely pours the pint and gets instructed by the men on the intricacies of Guinness pouring as if its her first time in a bar. Look at her, they think, a woman! Doing work! The slobbering photographer slobbers, “gorgeous, gorgeous, look over here.” They look on, thinking, ha, she won’t be doing much more work when he gets her knocked up, will she? While gnashing their teeth and dreaming of a quick death.

When she leaves they turn around and demand Audrey or Sheila throw on a pint of the black, not Donal. No, Donal is not allowed. Donal, you are a shoddy barman. Go to Dublin and serve them feckers.

The Groom

Normally just left like a hoover in the corner of a restaurant. Noticed by everyone but ignored with the same fervour. After leaving the Church, Synagogue, Mosque or whatever Wicker Man vibe Presbyterians go to, grooms cease to have function. He has a few options, grin and bear it OR get paralytic drunk. The bride can look forward to bookends of a beautiful wedding ceremony and on the other side, probably the worst sex of her life. That’s if fuck-nuts is able to distinguish between this day and any other in his pointless fucking existence. At some point the groom and his groomsmen, who are friends, siblings or just people who are not female, will pose foolishly for a photograph by asshole wedding photographer (I am confident, I am wedding photographer) in which they will smile and laugh in a way they never have before and the resultant image will haunt the groom as he tries to remember if he even liked those people.

The Bridesmaids

Wear what I want you to wear bitches! HA!


The Church

I am saying these words. I am saying these vows. Does she really believe in God? Does he believe that these vows are actually in the eyes of God? Does she know that is impossible to prove that a metaphysical prophet is watching this and even if it is, that it will swallow whole the plethora of lies that we have just poeted at each other? Do we know a detailed history of this priest officiating? Has he/she done unspeakable things in the past and are we tainted? Does “I give you my ring” sound a little off? Why am I shaking so much? HE does look handsome though? SHE does look beautiful today? Is this the last time we’ll fancy each other? Should I tell him about the baby now or after the ceremony? I suppose she won’t be upset that I got a vasectomy yesterday? Kids? Fuck that. How do you tell the flower girl that she has no soul? Is this the right forum to even bring that up? Why is she crying?


Don’t invite them. Just don’t invite them. Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, DON’T! They are like a pack of fucking toddlers waiting, waiting for something to happen, then nothing happens, so drink and then nothing happens, then food and nothing happens, then more drink, then drown the fuckers out with obnoxiously loud music, then the tantrums begin. Also, known for having a genetic predisposition to traditional fare. So when they think the sandwiches are coming out and suddenly their faces turn to “what the fuck is this Indian shit?” but eat it because Irlandians may not be geniuses but they lead the planet in understanding the term ‘soakage.’ The fuckers then laugh at the speeches and you can see it in their faces, they’re  wondering whether they actually like you and you wonder how many of these people you’ve ever had a conversation with. Parasites! As you say goodbye to them, you honestly can’t imagine a time in the future when you won’t look at them and think, “How much per head did I spend at that wedding? Auntie Betsy, you owes me some wine girl.”

Close relatives

Not sure what to do. Not sure where to stand. Not sure who any of these people are. Grown-up humans will suddenly experience goldfish syndrome, wondering what the right thing to do is under the glare of an expectant family. The pressure on siblings especially will be so strong that they will slowly regress to an emotional state between the ages of six or seven. Like a child of that age they will think that they could cause some serious damage to the morale of this wedding and this ‘next drink too many’ might just be the catalyst. Also, like six or seven-year-olds the chances of them having any memory of the devastation caused are slim. Best to tell them you are getting married in Rome and that your whatsapp isn’t working. A mixture of pride and disappointment mixed with empathy and jealousy. Nice.

The Music

Make do. Whatever. Wedding people would dance to a small ugly child crying. There are no amazing wedding bands or DJs. They all play the same shit, and are historically supposed to finish off the set with some Abba, Agafuckingdoo and the National Anthem. This munki gave our DJ some discs with the music we wanted played at the wedding. Slightly blind he got our wedding song right (see below), but kept picking the one after the one we asked for on the disc. At a friend’s wedding the band didn’t show up at all, leading the grooms father to form an instant vigilante group, complete with baseball bats and hurls to go looking for said band. Calls for CDs were put out. Does anyone have some music? In stepped Dr Ballantine Baines of this parish announcing that he just might have some music in the car. That music was the “Pulp Fiction” soundtrack. To this day, I can still see those faces of the elderly relatives as Amanda Plummer screams,

“Any of you fucking pricks move and I’ll electrocute every mother-fucking last one of you!”

The Drink

Be careful not too drink too much, Manys the child has been conceived on a drunken wedding night where a drunk penis and an inebriated vagina have conjured up a wedding baby. This baby will inevitably be a lifelong disappointment.

The Wedding cake

Get one you fucking like, an ice cream cake, a Battenberg. maybe one filled with profiteroles with a few shots of rum and a line of cocaine. That should get you through this awkward social experiment. Actually, don’t get a fucking cake. Why are people so obsessed with cake. It’s just cake, get over it. It’s big, it’s brash and designed to sit to the left of your pelvis for the rest of your miserable cake-eating life. Cake! Fuck cake.

The Fucking Sing-song

Deeply disturbing shit when a bunch of people with a reservoir of crappy musical knowledge try to put on their own version of Live Aid even though not one fucker among them has the requisite talent to enter even a local pub competition, nevermind mingling with the professional set. Then again….Ed fucking Sheeran. There was a sing-off at my wedding where both families decided to sing different songs at the same time. It was like some horrific psychadelic 70s movie. I felt like Starsky and Hutch in the satanic/voodoo episode where they lost their minds on the dancefloor, except my suit was shitty and safe. Whenever a sing-song starts, I get this creepy feeling down the back of my neck that at a point when things are getting quieter and more reflective, when eyes become misty and whiskey is sipped, when the candles are low and the shadows make everyone look beautiful, strong and soulful, human cat strangler Glen Hansard will appear and fucking empty his nail-bitten emotional tanks into our faces like a traditional Irlandese money shot. Prompting bedtime. As I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come, I feel the clammy Hansard-hands around my throat, whispering “Make art Stretch, make art.”


How’ya young one. Me other guitar’s in the wash. What time you off school?

So what happens next

Well, basically, assuming you haven’t been burnt alive by Presbyterians, if you’re lucky you will both remain in love for ever and ever, have rich conversation, exciting adventures and create new versions of yourselves that will make the world better. But, essentially one of you will bury the other.

Now, here’s your Wedding Present!