Archive for March, 2008

Can We Get Some Real Guests Please?

Greetings all. I’m back from my Easter holidays. I got going to that Easter Island with all the giant head statues on it. It was a bit disappointing. I expected them to be filled with chocolate or something on the inside. Lousy natives must have eaten it already. I ended up buying a handful of Toblerones in the duty-free shop on my way home.

Anyhoozlebees, despite eating a ton of chocolate, I was in a bit of a cranky mood when i got back. Due to delays and paperwork, I only arrived at RTE an hour before Friday’s show was due to begin.

Who’d have thought the staff at Dublin Airport would get angry over me dressing up like Osama Bin Laden? They even made me shave the 2-week beard I had grown for the costume.

So,there I am anyway, running into the studio with no idea who the show-runners had booked.

And what guests did I have when I got there?

Fecking John Waters,Eamon Dunphy and some other guy. Talking about Bertie Ahern and whether he’s a crook or not.

Jesus wept.

I don’t really get on with those guys well. They put the “Dum” into Boredom.

Like John Waters. He doesn’t like me asking him how the songwriting career is going. Or how is Sinead O’Connor these days.

But Dunphy is the worst. Always wants to upstage me. He hosted a rival chat show a few years ago, and it failed miserably. Still, it’s always fun to let him know he’s my bitch.

Speaking of people that you just want to punch, Gerard Kean was on the show. Along with some other people who are actually famous, all promoting their new Celebrity GAA Manager show. I actually had no clue who this guy was, but from what the Sunday Independent “Showbiz” section says, he’s the coolest guy in Ireland.

I didn’t rate him too highly. For one thing, he doesn’t play football. Like Robbie or Roy Keane. What’s up with that?

Fecking useless shower of guests, the lot of them.

And don’t even get me started on those poncey millionaire computer science kids. I didn’t have loads of money when i was their age. I had to work really hard for all the money I get now.

Well, not really. But still!

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The Legend Of St. Pat.

Welcome one and all to a very special post.

Today is a national holiday in Ireland. St. Patrick’s Day. One of many days dedicated to yours truly.

My Outfit for Today.

Don’t I look spiffing in my celebratory garments?

Now, since it’s such a very special day, I’m going to regale you all with a story:

 


“The Legend of St. Pat”

(dum-dum-dummm)

Pat was born in Dublin 4 in 1948 AD. When he was 14 years old, a man named Niall of the Forty Coats captured him. He took him to Cavan, where Pat was sold as a slave to a farmer named Murphy. By day, Pat minded sheep and pigs on a hill in Ballyjamesduff. By night, he prayed to the gods of RTE, for some way out of his farming life.

Then one night he heard a voice in his head. It was the voice of Gay Byrne. He was telling Pat that he had to escape and that the people of Ireland needed him. Pat thought he was dreaming but Gay told him “No gobsheen, you’re not dreaming. There’s a bus waiting in Cavan town that’ll take you to where you need to be. Now get going, ya fecking sparrowfart!” The next day, Pat ran all the way to the bus depot. He hid inside the luggage compartment. 6 days later, he made it back to Dublin.

Pat wasn’t there long when again he heard the Voice of Gay. The Voice told him to go to Donnybrook to tell the RTE staff all about his vision of a new way of TV presenting. Pat realised then that his calling in life was to be a television presenter. It wasn’t going to be easy. Pat went to University College Dublin to start his training. Many years later, he was awarded his degree in Chemical Engineering.

Ah Feckit!” said Pat. “I signed up for the wrong course!”

Many more years later, after receiving proper training, Pat and some followers went to Slane. One of the main bands playing were The Chieftains. Pat and his followers decided to light a fire when it got dark. This greatly angered The Chieftains, who wanted to light a fire first. (Traditionally, concertgoers would huddle around a fire and pass round their smuggled bottles of poitin, and a great hooley would be held.) The Chieftains demanded that the leader of this insolent gang be brought before them for questioning.

Pat began to speak before the backstage VIPs. He explained about how he had a dream that he was supposed to be a TV presenter on RTE. “I was told that the people of Ireland needed me in their presenting lives. I need to be part of the Trinity – Television, Radio and, if I have time, you can let me write for the RTE Guide.

The Director General, Aonghus McAnally, overheard this speech and was impressed. Pat was given a job presenting current affairs on the TV show “Tonight Tonight, Today, The Day Today, Tonight”. Pat continued to present news to all those who listened in Ireland. But this wasn’t watched by many people. Pat needed to spread his messages to the entire nation.

Pat’s path towards presenting took a larger step when he presented the 1988 Eurovision Song Contest. When Celine Dion came on stage with her snake-like dancing, Pat grabbed a wooden stick and drove Celine out of Ireland, never to return.

This further impressed the people of Ireland. Pat was awarded a presenting job on the show “Kenny Live”. Here he was able to further hone his skills as a presenter.

Then in 1999, The Voice of Gay spoke to him again. “Right ya fecking eejit. I’m getting too old for this shite. You can take this job and do what ya like with it. I’m off to work in the Government.” As Gay left the show on his golden Harley Davidson motorcycle, Pat took over as the lead TV presenter in Ireland.

And to this day, Pat continues his work delivering news and interviews to all the people around Ireland. His feast day is celebrated every Friday night (from September to May) at 9.30pm.

People across the country now commemorate this special event by wearing a small piece of mahogany on their person, or by huddling around the television with the family, as they all chant the same hallowed mantra in unison:






Jaysus, that Pat’s an awful Bollix.



							

There’s An “Eat Me” Joke In This, But I’m Not Going To Say It…

To give you all the answer to the main unasked question from last night’s show – Mutton.

That’s what human flesh tastes like. Well, according to my guest last night. No, not Kris Kristofferson. It was a man who was involved in a plane crash in the mountains. They had to eat each other to stay alive. I always thought that humans would have tasted more beefy.

At my Grandad’s cremation, there was a big meaty smell from when they roasted him. Although he was a butcher for 40 years. And it was his wish to have sausages and bacon put in his coffin. It did put everyone in a mood for the barbecue afterwards though.

All this talk of food is making me hungry. I’m going to get a snack.

Don’t go away, We’ll be right back.










Welcome back to part 2 of my blog post.

Now, this weekend is going to be an immensely monumental occasion in the history of music. The finals for the “You’re a Star” show are on. And yours truly has a ticket to be in the audience. Watch for me in the crowd. I’ll be the one holding up the giant “Pat Fitz was Robbed” banner.

He should have still been in the final though. When I was interviewing the four ladies that were in the semi finals, all I could think was “Pat Fitz would have been a more interesting guest”

I mean, seriously – “When Pat met Pat” – The marketing writes itself! I haven’t been able to do an interview titled like that since we had Pat Shortt in to promote his new TV show. And that interview went down like a lead balloon when we ended up arm-wrestling to determine who was “The Greater Pat”

But, i digress. I think. I don’t know what “digress” means.

All I know is that come the moment that they announce who wins this year’s competition, I’m going to barge up on stage, drop my jocks, and show the country the new “Pat Fitz” tattoo on my arse.

I just hope people don’t misunderstand and think it’s some rude gay joke or something.






The last thing i want to be is in the same boat as Cathal Ó Searcaigh – Metaphorically or Literally.

“Marriage isn’t a word. It’s a sentence.”

Sorry i haven’t posted in a while. I was helping Gerry Ryan pack up his stuff for moving out into his swanky new bachelor pad. He recently split with his wife Morah after 26 years of marriage. I know what you’re thinking, and yes that is her real name, and yes Gerry actually did it with a woman.

You should see the new place now. It’s super cool. He has a water slide, and a Playstation, and a toaster, and everything. It’s so cool, I’d almost leave me own wife. Except she has my money buried somewhere. Oh and because I love her. (If you’re reading this, Hi sweetie!)

It’s sad that Gerry’s splitting with his wife. He tells me his missus wanted him out since he was only half a man now since the incident.

For those that don’t know, Gerry got a vasectomy a few years ago. I say vasectomy – close enough to one. Let it be a lesson to all: don’t steal the last donut from under Charlie Bird’s nose. He’ll rip you to pieces for his fix of jam.

Anyway Gerry told me how, after a night on the beer, he drunkenly hopped into the bed the other night and told Morah he couldn’t get it up unless he thought of someone he really fancied, like himself.

Not the smartest of moves. Ah well, life goes on. I think it was the great Irish rock n’roll band, B*Witched , who once said: “C’est La Vie”.

They also said “Don’t Blame it on the Weatherman”. That’s why he shouldn’t get angry when he finds out she’s shacked up with Martin King.

And No Mention Of The “Blue Tits” Double Entendre.

So, Friday’s show was good, huh?

Got to meet lots of wimmin.

Firstly I got to meet Elle McPherson – A genuine Playboy model. Wooooh. You should see her pictures. You can see her boobies. She was plugging some clothes range or something, but all I could think was “I can Google you and see you naked. Oh Yeah.”

I also had someone on named Tracey Cox (hehehe. Cox) talking about a Caramel Sutra book she’s published. It had more on show than boobies. There were people with their bits out. Very rude. I got meself a signed copy. I’ll need to exercise a bit before I can try out page 42, but it’ll be worth it.

Anyway, I can tell you, the show researchers were a bit hot under the collar this week, gawping at the nudey pictures and exclaiming “Look at the pear on that bird”.

(She didn’t have any fruit on her. She had nothing on her at all, to be honest.)

Anyhoo, the birds that were most interesting that night were the Owls that we had a competition to find a home for.

(See what I did there? Seamless link. Let’s see you do something that flawlessly, Tubridy.)

We managed to find a box for the poor auld owl to live in. The kids that made it also made a small little birdhouse for me as well, with the leftover wood.

Imbeciles. I’d never fit into that.

Besides, I’m Pat-Freakin-Kenny. I pick up enough money a year to genetically breed my own owls. With my DNA in them also.* They’d have my finesse at TV presenting, with the added bonus of being able to turn their head 360 degrees. That’d be so cool.

*There’s a cheap way of implanting my DNA into owls, but I could never do that. I’ve been banned from the zoo.