it’s not how you fall it’s how you land

Here’s some nice moosic from La Haine and then “La Haine” by ADF. The circle is now complete say Darth Vader, who only go an fackoff to Kebab shop and not buy nuffink for nobod on way bak. Prick.

Wot a weird day?………….dotdot I have so much to tell you, but my hand is over my mouth in an over dramatic gesture, so you’ll just have to wait…By you I mean the people who search for “Glenda Gilson” and “…pick a body part or action.”

It’s usually “Glenda Gilson DEAD” but today it was “Glenda Gilson leg.” I’m not sure which one. Probably her right, because that’s a good 5-inches longer, due to the smokes, y’know?


Think i posted this before but anyway. I’m on holidaze, so I need to tell the world or at least the sick fuckers obsessed with Glenda Gilson, Rosanna Davison, Bell’s Palsy and the Scarecrow and that bitch Mrs King who seem to find me everyday.

There is something wrong with you.

Not as much fun had this week. Will put it down as a week of absolute blahhhhhhh.

day of mutant insanity and enough homemade pizza to piss off a ploughing champion

Thank every last fuck there is that today is over… I am

A lot of people have been arriving at Stretch’s site over the past few days, because they searched for “Glenda Gilson DEAD.” Is there something going on out there I should know about? Is Ronnie Drew doppelganger, Gilson about to be bumped off?  If this is the case, don’t fucking implicate me in it. Fucking weirdos.

Although I really like Shane Meadows, and This is England 86 is top quality, it is nevertheless a kick to the head, when a small munki needs a light comedy like Terry and June or Ever Decreasing Circles. My older Golden Retriever has proved yet again to be the sanest entity in these parts. This is all very random and unnecessary. Here’s some more music. They actually use real mirrors to hammer home the point. Kudos dudos.

Actual mlogs to come soon. Random gibberish til then. At least my music taste is sound, I suppose. If it isn’t to your liking, then FAAAAAAAACK OFF

It’s sunday morning and I’m thoisty already

“No doubt about it, I can’t live without it.”

You never can quit it. You just can’t. I remember someone I know, let’s call him Doris, saying that there’s always some event that requires alkihol. Especially in Irlanda, where taking a shit or nodding at a passing postman requires at least one toast.

Stretch has been drinking most of his little life and has come to the realisation that quitting would not solve the problem. I quit smoking and now chew on the backs of chairs just to get some relief. 15 years smoking and rotten chairs is not right. If I quit drinking, god help the living room furniture. No, the answer has to be constructive. Instead of drinking less, I should go down the route of Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, Oliver Reed and Brenda Blethyn and drink till the pustules on my liver pop with

Making comedy seem like something you do to a old woman during a home invasion

glee. Stretch will become famous and appear on chat shows to the delight and pity of a baying public. Crash my car into neighbours and fornicate with the great and the dim and Amy Huberman, but not Glenda Gilson.

One day I will get my own comedy roast and people like Andy Dick, Jimmy Kimmell and Sarah Silverman will pat themselves on the back as they vomit on me and women in the front row will put their hands over their mouths and scream to each other,

“OMG, did he actually say ‘cunt’ in the US of A and me a libertarian Kappa Fi with an eating disorder.”

I will sit there like a beached whale as some member of the Golden Girls, no doubt the sexy Blanche Dubois, will orate about the amount of blow jobs she has given to me and how the skin on her face can be hiked up over her head to make her look like Droopy the fucking dog. I will forcibly remove Andy Dick from my crotch and pour myself another rum and wander up to the podium wondering if the anasthetic properties of my liver secretions will stop me from falling on my face. At the microphone, I will go silent and then glare at the large room of people. I will pour the remainder of the Máximo Extra Anejo into my bloated mouth, raise the glass and quietly say,

“You are all just awful people.”

Then, I will collapse and die.

Tuesday’s gone with the Morrie

There are a lot of people finding my site by entering the phrases “Glenda Gilson hot;” “Amanda Brunker hot” and “Rosanna Davidson sex.” Although I welcome you to my magic land, you might be disappointed and flaccid fairly quickly.

Apologies dudos. I will post a picture of Glenda Gilson’s eyebrows very soon, if we can catch them.

Watch this, es funny-kinda

Amy Huberman: Irlanda’s answer to SARS

Reclusive, media shy Amy Huberman has been forced to put herself out there, be a bit media savvy. Stretch Macgibbon has found a leaked document of her itinerary for 2010.

JANUARY: A new comedy sketch show appears on RTE2, starring an array of Irish comic talent, including Peter McDonald and Domhnall Gleeson. Also appearing in the show is cheeky-grinned woman of the people Amy Huberman.

FEBRUARY: A leettle vole forages for food. It sees a giant rat and flees. It goes back to its burrow frightened, but relieved to be back in a safe place. However, as the vole goes in to its bedroom, it is shocked to see cheeky-grinned woman of the people Amy Huberman asleep on his bed with a copy of the RTE Guide across her drooling mouth.

MARCH: O’Connell Street, Dublin, is the scene of the annual knackers and crackers festival of Saint Patrick, a man so fictitious that he appears in Tolkien as Gan something something. Amidst the vomit and belching, the wretching and rocking out to the nation’s favourites ASLAN, Grand Marshall Amy Huberman glides down the street grinning insanely as the burlap sack full of marbles that is her fiancee eats live chickens and frightens the Goonies.

Stay still Amy!

Stay still Amy!

APRIL: Somewhere in Jerusalem, Easter is being celebrated by the usual suspects, freaking out and stabbing themselves in the face. Derren Brown is there doing everybody’s favourite “THE CRUCIFIXION,” during which he manages to get a gentile to pick a word from the bible. The gentile gets the exact page, the exact paragraph, the exact word that is written in an envelope in Brown’s back pocket. That word is the word of GOD. Up the road, another crucifixion takes place, where a lunatic is tied to a cross and various celebrities are hammered into his hands and feet. Shirley McLaine, Lars von Trier and Irlanda’s own Amy Huberman do the honours, prompting t-shirts to be sold around Tel Aviv Airport with the words “I was nailed by Amy Huberman” on them.

MAY: The province of Leinshter win yet another European Rugby Cup in a packed Stade de France in the European capital of Meh, Paris. A controversial decision in the 78th minute to award a try scored by non-playing girlfriend of Captain Burlap Sack O’Marbles, Amy Huberman, leads to protests from angry Toulousain players. Club captain Thierry Dusatoir expresses outrage, “Ooooooo eeesss theeeesssee womin anyway?” A sheepish Leinshter player who preferred to remain unnamed replied, “You don’t even wanna know!”

JUNE: Confusion surrounds the opening ceremony of the World Cup finals in South Africa, when the actual cup is nowhere to be found. Opening act, the legendary Kiss, deny using the trophy as a pants-stuffing device to attract a rather abject groupie who demanded actual measurements before any arrangements could be made. A drunk Paul Stanley weed on the side of the pitch while a grinning Gene


Simmons took in some sun while he licked his own eyebrows and hair. The mystery is solved when the cup is found with cheeky-grinned woman of the people Amy Huberman, who seemed highly charged. Some officials took the cup away for a thorough wash.

JULY: This year’s 12th of July Orange parades go off peacefully, no doubt down to the decision to use Irish television personality Amy Huberman as the Grand Wizard. Apparently Reg Empey of the Ulster Unionist Party had been on a night out in popular Dubalin niteklub Tamangos and had seen a “Sheila with the bloody Orangest face Oi ever did see, fair dinkum.” She was bundled into the boot of a yellow-reg Fiat Punto and driven straight to an Orange lodge 5 miles outside of Hollywood. Her indoctrination included bible studies, orienteering and speed peeling of satsumas.  She says she still wants to marry Burlap Sack O’Marbles, but only if he will convert to UTV.

AUGUST: The wedding of the year is on. A secret castle is the venue. When I say castle, I mean one which isn’t in ruins or a golf club. Unable to find such a thing glowing bride of the people Amy Huberman marries her soon-to-be-riddled-with-arthritic-pain, Bulgeing mess of Doughnuts in a ceremony in the Red Cow Hotel. He utters the immortal words, “I do.” She replies, “I will this time, but only this time, I couldn’t walk for weeks the last time we did it.”

SEPTEMBER: Rain, southwesterly winds with a strong chance of Huberman.

OCTOBER: The world of fashion was in shock this month as Anna Wintour was killed by one of her favourite outfits. At a recent event, an Adam Lippes fur wrap, made from the fur of the elusive Red Setter Vole, turned on Wintour and ate her face off. An understandably red-faced Lippes explained that, “these beautiful animals tend to go into hibernation at odd times of the year and they have no respect for fashion week, haha.” No one noticed as the evil fur nuzzled into her cheek and started its ghastly dinner. Doctors said that Wintour would have not been in pain as she had high levels of botox in her head and would have felt only a slight nip as the animal burrowed into her brain. An Irlanda television programme EXPOSÉ asked grinnygog Amy Huberman what she thought.  “I’m shocked,” she said. Girl reporter and mouth to the stars Glenda Gilson said, “I’m always shocked.”

NOVEMBER: The country is in mourning this morning at the tragic ‘accidental’ death of cheeky-grinned woman of the people Amy Huberman. Garrrrrdeeeee say that “on de mornin of the incidint in question, de lady concerned was bending down scraping some baked beans off tights. Her husband, Burlap Sack O’Marbles, programmed to react to all rugby situations, thought she was shielding de ball for her forwards to come and protect her. No way, he thought, this is mine. He launched himself at her and butted her head, causing de laydee in question to fly out de window and fall to her death on the pavement, crushing the ridiculous stalker, Glenda Gilson, whose face was said to show huge surprise. Althought dat cud have been her eyebrows. They were a mess.”

DECEMBER: The ghost of Amy Huberman returned to the streets of Dubalin in the form of a 60 metre

Still in customs

tall Huberbot, made from marshmallow. Her eyes glowing red, she crashed into buildings, stomped on innocent fishwives (like there’s such a thing), uprooted the Spire and used it as a kebab skewer, scooping up the little peoples of Dubalin and sliding them into her gaping mouth, screaming “this year is mine.” Ghostbusters were called, but got caught up in customs. The Garrrrrrrrrrrrrdeeeeee are useless, so nobody bothered calling them. The FCA are, as you Arrrish say, ‘Geeeeeeeyyyoooiiid.” So, nothing could stop her, that’s it. It’s over. She went county to county laying waste to all in her path, until she reached the Shannon river, tripped and smashed her head on a articulated lorry parked in the middle of Rooskey, Co. Roscommon. Her last words were, allegedy,

“I had a fall.”

Anyway, this is from funny comedy show that’s hit and miss and hit. Ees funny