Paul Galvin: Entertainment’s Saviour

July 18, 2010

Potential, my friends. Potential. That hidden quality. That quality which to the wrong eyes is insignificant but to the right ones is unquantifiably vast — It’s finally been realised in Ireland’s most unquantifiable of sons. After years spent wasting his talents on fish hooking and student abuse, Paul Galvin may soon work on Ireland’s entertainment powerhouse, its quirkily spelt Xtraganaza: Xposé

If this is just a rumour, then it’s the strangest rumour I have ever heard on a reputable Irish news website. But if it’s true? I for one am delighted.

First up: I think that Paul Galvin is a thug who shouldn’t be let near a football pitch, never mind a classroom. Justifying anything he’s done as ‘passion’ belittles every other passionate player who happily go through a whole season without being suspended. And if what he does is ‘passion’ then maybe if he played slightly less passionately, we’d all talk a lot more about his obvious skill and talents rather than his rampant stupidity.

Paul Galvin Fishhook

But Xposé? Now that’s something he could sink his teeth into. Literally, maybe. I wouldn’t put it past him. Interview through blood-letting and pant-wetting. He might become one of the most feared and respected entertainment journalists of our time. A Dennis Pennis character, only very much real, very much abusive, very much a man who would rob your gates and sell them back to you.

He has the characterized dishevelment of journalists of old – rumpled suit, shaggy face growth. He’d slot right in — the perfect ointment for the arse piles that is E!, TMZ and the rest of the star-lit studio perfection that’s rammed down our throats everyday. This is a man that could get the real story from Mel Gibson, by sitting him down and going on a two week bender with him, hiding the bodies of hookers in bags of cocaine and chalk dust. An entertainment journalist in the vein of Hunter S. Thompson and the Gonzo Journalists of old. Fear and Loathing in the Dingle Peninsula: A Savage Journey into the Heart of Irish Gombeenism.

Paul Galvin_Dennis Pennis

Paul Galvin and his harem of Xposé totty — them travelling the globe to feed us with the banal, Galvin travelling the globe, sending in disconnected streams of prose and video reports, half remembered journal entries and envelopes full of celebrity blood and hair. And we will love every second of it. The realism, the truth, none of the airbrushed, breast-tweaked lies that are intravenously given to us through billboards and Sky News. Interviews and photos where black stars are still black.

Galvin could then becomes a celebrity himself — an Irish poet, a recluse who yet gets the story everytime. One who punches first and asks for a quote later, one who’s never afraid to fish hook his way out of situation. Paul Galvin: The Man Who Knocked Obama’s Dossier Out of His Hands.

paul galvin and his harem

I still won’t watch Xposé though. I’ll wait for the Paul Galvin spinoff.

Some reasoned, unabrasive debate on Tiger Woods:

December 17, 2009

Done for college, hence: No links, no images, no swearing. Insert words like ‘fuck’ where and when appropriate.


Uh-oh, it looks like famous people are having sex again. Who would’ve thought that the more glamorous side of human society also took part in this act? Yes, famous people who do sport are all having sex. Just like your granny did. Horrible, isn’t it? Just absolutely horrible. Dirty, pre-, post-, and mid-martial sex; glorified rabbits banging away like carpenters at wood and nails, and no amount of innuendo-filled sentences will hide that fact from us.

Well, so long as we keep reading about it. After all, we continue to read, so details continue to raise their heads up at us, blinking innocently from behind the Tellytubbie hill as if to say, “Should I come out now? I may also of had sex with Tiger Woods.” This ‘expanding’ sex scandal, as the online news site the Huffington Post so eloquently put it, is just the latest one to capture our lust-filled, craven imaginations.

So, what are we to do with this ever-expanding scandal? At this rate, it could reach a good 3-metre girth by this Thursday, and after that, who knows? We’ll need at least a weekly pullout supplement to contain all the sordid details. We could place it neatly between the Health pages on a Monday, complete with Victoria’s Secret leaflets and sexual health coupons.

So, allegedly, it appears Tiger Woods has been having sex with women other then his wife. If even half of the plethora of working class heroines is to be believed, then this has been going on for a while. Thankfully, one of the waitresses, Mindy Lawton, has assured us that he is “very well endowed” and “knows his way around the bedroom.” Promptly after that piece of expansion, the nation heaved a collective sigh of relief as the pun about his 9-wood was avoided.

In other news, ‘allegedly’ is fast becoming the most popular word of Collins A-section and this story might just help it pip ‘anecdotal’ at the post.

It all started to come out a week or so back, when Tiger crashed his 2009 Cadillac Escalade into various upright objects, ending with a hospital trip for some minor facial cuts.

If it had ended there, we all would have slept happier. Columnists wouldn’t have to keep their lights on for fear of a newly sexualised Tiger Woods coming in and invading their home, maybe humping your bedpost like a dog in heat. Roadside-Diner waitresses wouldn’t have to fret over whether to go public with the fact that Mr. Woods may of winked at them. The commentary that followed seemed to bring a whole new meaning to the idea of the tiger as a predator.

After some obligatory National Enquirer (an American tabloid that is notoriously liberal with the truth) allegations, a few apologies, broken up with some shrugging on all our parts, San Diego cocktail waitress Jaimee Grubbs revealed that she had a two and a half year affair with the golfing icon. Then each gate of hell successively opened, and at time of writing the affair count is up to seven (Or nine. Or seventy-four. Depends on how loose your definition of fact is). It’s getting to the stage were everyone who hasn’t had sex with Tiger Woods are starting to feel a little low on confidence.

And of course then come the cries of anguish; the people who tell us “He should of known better”, the women who see this as just another man chasing skirts, the men who see this as another stick we can be beaten with. The parents, oh! The poor parents! Those frontline soldiers who are gathering up their sons’ and daughters’ golf clubs for a public burning, the fathers of teenage boys pushing them towards Wilkinson’s latest 27-blade razor for their first shave. The laminate clean role model has been stained and how dare he do such a thing to us!

But, bluntly, Tiger Woods is just a guy who plays golf. White ball goes on plastic thing. White ball hit with metal thing. White ball goes in hole. Repeat. Admittedly, it’s a bit more complicated, but if you asked a software engineer what they did for a living, most people would require a similarly layman-like description. This is his job, this is what he does, and because he does this on TV shouldn’t make him any more or less of a human to look up to. If he’s to be a role model for our kids, let’s confine it to his golfing abilities. Yes, we can ask (and ideally expect) everyone to act in a moral and respectable manner, but if your next door neighbour starts to sleep with his orthodontist, do we splash it all over the papers, hang it over their heads publicly like underwear off a doorknob? Disgraceful behaviour indeed, but on the whole: none of our bloody business.

Why should sport stars be expected to be any better of an example then rock stars? Most parents wouldn’t like to have a son basing his moral and ethical codes on someone like an Axl Rose or Rapping-rappy McRappington, or whoever, so why do we think differently of sport stars? Both lifestyles are radically different from our own; both often incorporate a seedy side (as we look in from our puritanically-phallic ivory towers), and both usually consist of young people being thrown into the limelight, with little more then talent in their hands and the giddy expectation of a lifestyle that most youngsters dream of: Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ golf clubs. To argue that because they train daily and diet makes them better belittles the extensive work done by musicians behind the scenes, in the recording studio or song writing with the band.

Tiger Woods is not the Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi: Even if it turns out that he is a lothario of equal measure, he was not elected to represent the public and he does not receive a wage out of our taxes. Sport stars are just people who entertain us. We pay them for this through television deals and sponsorships. To expect any more of them is naive. To deny them the privacy we would expect ourselves is just an example of the sadder side of human nature.

BBC starts blowing out its own ass.

July 20, 2009

Addicted to heroin, then VIOLENCE.

Or something like that, I was too busy laughing to jot the quote down. It’s from BBC News today, in relation to that guy who was found making home made explosives and dangerously (terror!!!) wandering around a shopping centre with a phone (evil!!!!!). We are then subjected to constant replaying of some shitty You-Tube (sodomy!!!!) footage of how he was testing out some of his home-made concoctions.

Master of terrorist secrecy (rape!!!!) aside, and I am pretty sure that if this guy hadn’t been caught, he could of at least blown his own foot (medical bills!!!!) off, do we really need this constant barrage of overblown words and adjectives out of Edgar Allen Poe’s thesaurus? You’re the God damn BBC; there’s hacks like me out there for over the shit, blown out your nostrils, entrails spewn nonsensical list of fantastical language (twin towers!!!!!) that loses all focus mid sentence so you to reread what you just read to make sure Paul still has some shred of sanity left knocking about in that head.
And I don’t. You, Mr/Mrs BBC, on the other hand, do. 24 hours of recycling the same 3 stories. Every damn day. And it all has to be book-ended by bullshit overblown language and grainy ‘let’s hear your point of (child interference!!!!) view’–footage of people recycling the shite they heard from you yesterday. We have the pub for that kind of crap and we have Sky News to blow it out of proportion. We don’t need more of it.

How long before RTE follows suit and we have Anne Doyle using phrases ‘apocalyptic (bestiality!!!!) terror mongering’?


What the hell was this about originally?

The undead dieth

July 3, 2009

Mikey Jackson. What a man. What a creepily dead, terrifying man. Ghoulish is a word that was used often to describe him. Course, it wouldn’t make any sense to call him that now, seeing as two of the characteristics of ghouls, i.e., eternal movement and restlessness, are now sadly absent from this man.

There was talk of the fact that felt up children, which of course, we won’t talk about about cos it would sully the reputation of this fine, plasticized man. This man who had his own zoo. This man who drank wine with children and danced very unlike a child-loving wine-drinker.
In an article in the paper today (Kevin Myers if anyone’s interested), I was reminded of the young girl who, unlike her fellow passengers, (including her mother) shrugged off a plane crash and just got on with it. I imagine afterwards she said something along the lines of: “Meh”.
Maybe Sky could dedicate some of its army to covering this a little bit more in-depth; perhaps use some its 7th battalion and 342nd Airborne that are currently patrolling Jackson’s Neverland Ranch. Will he arise once more to feed and drink wine again?  Thank God that Sky is on the case bringing us rolling updates on Jackson in between its mouthfuls of Andy Murray Wimbledon-slippery knob.

I dunno, personally I find the Unbreakable story more worthwhile. I suppose the problem is that that movies already been made, while the Jackson Biopic is only around the corner. My bets on Johnny Depp doing an Edward Scissorhands and Willy Wonka amalgamation.

One final thing that about 1% of people will get. Remember the first two Fallout games? Remember the Ghouls? Think Thriller.

Now, remember the Ghouls that glowed in the dark?
Uncanny ain’t it?