If my name had been Philip, I would have been a pharmacist

Le Cunt: People called Damien.

L’evidence: Legion, so it is. Damiens Rice and Dempsey. Singer songwriters so insipid as to make unseasoned, boiled to fuck cabbage soup made by grandmothers through the ages seem like a tasty night out in a high end curry house.

Damien Thorn, as featured in award winning seventies documentary “The Omen”. While Master Thorne’s aversion to all manner of Catholic priests and churches is something to which your correspondent happily relates, the whole  bringing about end times, employing snarky housekeepers and owning scary dogs pushes Le Beast firmly into Le Cunt territory.

Damien Macken. Called Damo by his  entourage . Anything and everything that does not meet with Damo’s exacting rugby-playing, knuckle-dragging standards is summarily dismissed as “gay”.  The intelligent, the slightly less well off, the nose breathers, all homosexual in the eyes of my erstwhile school chum. One confidently assumes that little has changed in twenty years.

Le verdict: Anyone I can think of whose name is Damien, and if there are others they are surely hewn from the same fossilised shit, is either a sinning against music, sinning against humanity or sinning against my teenage self Le Cunt.

L’evidence: It’s worth listening to this exchange between Lance, Saviour of the Universe (LANCE! HE’LL SAVE EVERYONE OF US!) and filthy lying Mick-faced Paddy drug cheat Paul Kimmage:

You’ll notice the scum bucket asking a reasonable question. You’ll notice our hero le cunt hiding first behind cancer, then every cancer sufferer in the world, and finally his as yet uncancered children, before prevaricating with his answer on the question of previous dopers. Armstrong used and one assumes still uses performance enhancing drugs. Six of his blood samples from the 1999 Tour tested positive for EPO. He has been part of an unquestionable Omerta in relation to drug use and is famous for his bullying tactics against those who speak out, going so far as to purposely hamper whistle-blower Filippo Simeoni’s  attempt at a Stage win during the 2004 Tour, despite there being no threat to his position in the race.

But this is all okay, because Lance is ‘raising awareness’ of cancer. He’s fighting this terrible disease. He’s linking to livestrong.com from his Twitter account. Not, surprisingly, livestrong.org, his charity website. But to livestrong.com  where every hit brings more shiny advertising sheckles to, one assumes, the ultimate Armstrong  presidential bid.  I’m already aware of cancer, Lance, I was aware of it as soon as it started picking off my loved ones when I was a kid, and when I karmically and comically contract it myself, most likely before you leave the country, I will fight no harder for life because some Skeletor faced, drug fueled hypocrite has been flogging yellow bracelets.

Le Verdict: While without doubt one of the most talented athletes of our time, Armstrong is also a clear favourite for title of Greatest American Sporting Le Cunt.

Who's your money on?

L’evidence: There it is, tucked away in a little BBC News corner of the internet, a mere snippet with all the potential to have been a worldwide story. A suddenly snapping psycho goes on an indiscriminate random rampage armed with what? A fucking penknife. Eight wounded? Pathetic. If  Britain, and indeed the Irish mainland, had reasonable ‘buy a gun in your local Spar’ rules, then incidents of this kind who would have much more drama, excitement and distraction from the drudgery of our daily lives potential. And penknife wielding  is such very, very hard work. The guy was 54, for fuck’s sake. He’s lucky he didn’t give himself a heart attack, what with all the running and the stabbing and the getting wrestled to the ground  And as for all that rich kid Bray stuff, if it was going to happen anyway, and it was, then it was have been quicker and a whole lot less painful to have murder suicided with a semi-automatic weapon. Self-stabbing in the heart, what a fucking chore.

Le Verdict: We will never be able to describe our society as truly convenient until we repeal these antiquated, anti-freedom, Aunty Mary pleasing liberal douche bag guns laws Le Cunt.

L’evidence: The following footage, recently discovered in a cave somewhere in Navan, and authenticated by a team of experts (from Navan), proves conclusively that JC was a whiny bollox whose enduring legacy of misogyny, persecution and endless war is but the tip of of his cuntish iceberg:

Firstly Jesus, if that is your name, nobody asked you about the future, you were the one who brought up your amazing and as yet unproven powers of precognition. The good gyrating folks were merely asking “What’s the buzz?”. That’s “what’s”, present fucking tense. They then politely, if somewhat repetitively, enquire about the Jerusalem departure date. Your answer? A question: “Why are you obsessed with fighting?” Oh yeah, very fucking gnomic. You don’t know, do you? Not only can you not predict the future, you can’t even be arsed checking the timetable in the local donkey station. You dick. And speaking of obsessed, perhaps your holier than thou image might be better maintained if you didn’t have the local bike ‘cooling down your face a bit’, while you orgasmically groan “Mary, mmmmm, that it is good!”. We know you dig the dames, but perhaps a revolutionary strategy meeting is not the ideal place for happy endings.

And when the only sense-talking guy wanders in and tells it how it is, he finds himself shouted down like a Democrat at a townhall meeting. Is it because you is black, Judas? I very much suspect that it is. Jesus Christ? Fucking Racist Bastard Christ more like it.

Le  Verdict: This new evidence strongly points to the conclusion that Jesus Christ was a prejudiced,  peevish, petulant, unable to keep his dick in his pants, Saviour le cunt.

L’evidence: We may as well begin here, at the pretty, pretty website of the company in question, with its joyfully rotating pictures of people sky diving, rock climbing, and in a brilliant fuck you to their adherents, building a human pyramid. Little do they suspect that the parachutes are rigged not to open but to detonate, that the rocks are made of dick cheese while their crampons are in fact tampons, and that the human pyramid is supported by a guy who will rifle through their pockets as he tosses off to the view of their privates before fucking off entirely to let every other gullible wanker fall to an embarrassing and wasteful fate.

Someone called Sinead Duffy

To briefly address some of the front pages queries: Could we be more productive and effective? Of course we fucking could. Could we be arsed being more productive and effective? Of course we fucking couldn’t. Are we passionate about achieving our goals? We might well be, if we had any. Do we need more focus and certainty? Jesus Christ, no. People who are certain about shit are either morons or cunts. There are no certainties, and the denial of this universal truth is for the religously insane  or the mindlessly robotic. Or you know, wing nut Americans.

It all gets much, much worse as one navigates through the site, inspiring quotes penned by luminaries such as J.K. Rowling, blogs entries detailing the almost running out of petrol plus the life lessons to be learned there from and depressing testimonials from either obscure or entirely made up businesses. There’s life coaching to be had or even a kind of celebrityless Monaghan inspired Scientology.  Also on offer are many levels of courses which enable one to inflict this turgid pyschobabble on one’s help for the measly fee of hundreds and hundreds of euro.

The prosecution rests with this quote from the company’s Twitter feed: ‘I take PRIDE in my work – Personal Responsibility in Delivering Excellence.’ “Le cunt!” I cry, “Le cunt!”

Le verdict: Feeding on the weak-willed, moronic and already festeringly corrupt Irish business world during what will soon become a recession of Icelandic proportions, Great Minds, though thankfully doomed, remains the worst kind of pointless, exploitative, Amercanised bullshit Le Cunt.

L’evidence: Most of us may have assumed that the nadir of Ireland’s footballing history had been conclusively reached when we were being managed by a semi-literate mong spawned in Drogheda. It might be argued that this remains the case. However, last night’s 3-0 defeat to a bunch of cricket playing convicts most of whom should have been deeply confused by the mesmerising roundness of the object ball must re-open the lively ‘most humiliating moment in Irish footballing history’ debate. But the question remains, why? Why did our valiant British battlers fail to subdue the gormless Aussie assault?

And the answer is clear: Thomond fucking Park. Never has a footballing fixture been more away for an allegedly home team. Never has an away team been more at home. Thomond Park, which, considering its location, should really have been constructed as a Colloseum-esque amphitheatre in which the principle Limerick sport of stabbing the fuck out of people could have been rightly glorified, is instead the home of that most hideous of hybrids, rugby loving muck savages. 

More wrong than little people porn, the rugger bugger bogger combo has been soiling  our national consciousness for many a year now, and although the dedicated may have been able to bury their heads in the Lansdowne Road or somewhat sickeningly Croke Park sand, last night ended any hope of denial. Australia, the High Priests of the marriage between  bovine bumming and scrumming, bathed in the aura of this unholy alliance and easily subdued our doubtlessly nauseated heroes.

And at the risk of over-egging the le cunt evidence pudding I present this monstrosity, entitled ‘Welcome to the New Thomond Park’:

Le Verdict: Dubbed Thalidomide Park by the glitterati, a bastion of perversion, peopled by adherents of Dr Moreau and the sole reason for Ireland’s defeat to Australia, Thomond Park is truly stadium Le Cunt.