The land of the rising sun is not normally associated with shamrocks, shillelaghs, and Sineads so why the feck bother going there if you're looking for a more traditional Irish culinary cavalcade of cunnilingus? Are yiz all bleedin' t'ick eejits or sumtin' wha? Leave all that raw fish carry-on to those coarse, drunken, ginger-pubed, hurley-wielding Japs and take a horsedrawn Luas with me, Bibi Baskin, into the misty glens of Hibernia, on what promises to be a long-running series of covert lesbian affairs, leading ultimately to my unexplained disappearance from the nation's raidio agus teilifis circa 1994.
Siucra - 8/10
Summary: Mysterious salt-like substance
Add an 'R' to sugary and you almost get surgery. Add an 'E' to Elton John and you almost get buggery - however, his advancing years and a long spell of Siucra abuse improve your chances of a safe getaway. Historians believe Siucra to be extracted from a throbbing fissure buried deep within a fold of the underside of Derek Davis - and until proven otherwise, I will make no apologies for wholeheartedly endorsing this theory.
Drummully Boxty - 10/10
Summary: Goes with everything - even yer aul wan
Never mind that kip in Temple Bore - you'll have to look to the southwesterly borough of Cavanshire for the real boxty deal. Frogs legs? Monkey brains? Sheep scrota? No, this isn't the bloody Isle of Man or somewhere else posh, this is feckin' Oooireland, and boxty = SPUDS yo! Once picked from the trees they are hastily mashed into oblivion and compacted into bricks - the very same bricks St. Patrick used to build the round tower at Glendalough in 1983, the majestic Sphinx of Giza sometime there in June, and a number of the more intricate bas-reliefs in the secondary pulpit of the Ooh-La-La Cathedral in France during the punk era.
Had it occurred to him to perhaps fry it, he would have been instantly charmed by it's equal versatility as a foodstuff, possibly letting some of his more crucial tasks slide. Had this been the case, we may very well now be ruled by a savage dictatorship of hyper-evolved snakes, the only respite from the reptilian nightmare scenario being their unexpected sense of humour, as they frequently supply us with populist entertainment such as hit movie Humans On A Plane.
Tayto Cheese & Onion - 2/10
Summary: Ireland's favourite oral rape
Look it's not just because of the bewildering array of fried snacks on the market that T C&O get such a pathetic rating - they were always shit. Yellowy-green and brown scabs painted with a pungent acidic concentration of devil-onions and wyrd gnome-cheese that numbs the tastbuds for anything up to 48 hours. Despite all this they do get an extra point for continuing to defiantly feature an amusing caricature of the nation's number one paedophile, Mr. Tayto, on their decidedly un-Irish red white and blue packaging.
Coddle - 0/10
Summary: Abhorrent pustules afloat a pestilent swamp of foul sputum and rotting vomit
Yes, I am simultaneously referring to the doorway of Fitzsimons (at 3am Saturday night) and also to coddle (pretty much any night). Jesus, can't muck-savages get anything right? While we privileged, educated Dubliners fine dine on kittenmeat and fag ends, everyone just outside the utopian environs of the Pale eats coddle every single day of the week. In fact, practically all day every day - that is, when they're not picking their holes or trimming the eyebrows on their cheeks.
Club Orange - 6/10
Summary: Titian bubble-piss
You web-savvy pre-teen assholes might now know it as boring old Club Pomegranate and White Cranberry but your recently poncified parents knew it as a very different sparkling syrupy beverage in 'their day'. Indeed before that their four fathers (weird family situation played down due to rampant case of Catholicism, don't want to get into it) had to make do with Club Potato, so count yizzerselves lucky. And those much-feted 'orangey bits' are, somewhat inevitably, porn flakes from a ginge.
Siucra - 8/10
Summary: Mysterious salt-like substance
Add an 'R' to sugary and you almost get surgery. Add an 'E' to Elton John and you almost get buggery - however, his advancing years and a long spell of Siucra abuse improve your chances of a safe getaway. Historians believe Siucra to be extracted from a throbbing fissure buried deep within a fold of the underside of Derek Davis - and until proven otherwise, I will make no apologies for wholeheartedly endorsing this theory.
Drummully Boxty - 10/10
Summary: Goes with everything - even yer aul wan
Never mind that kip in Temple Bore - you'll have to look to the southwesterly borough of Cavanshire for the real boxty deal. Frogs legs? Monkey brains? Sheep scrota? No, this isn't the bloody Isle of Man or somewhere else posh, this is feckin' Oooireland, and boxty = SPUDS yo! Once picked from the trees they are hastily mashed into oblivion and compacted into bricks - the very same bricks St. Patrick used to build the round tower at Glendalough in 1983, the majestic Sphinx of Giza sometime there in June, and a number of the more intricate bas-reliefs in the secondary pulpit of the Ooh-La-La Cathedral in France during the punk era.
Had it occurred to him to perhaps fry it, he would have been instantly charmed by it's equal versatility as a foodstuff, possibly letting some of his more crucial tasks slide. Had this been the case, we may very well now be ruled by a savage dictatorship of hyper-evolved snakes, the only respite from the reptilian nightmare scenario being their unexpected sense of humour, as they frequently supply us with populist entertainment such as hit movie Humans On A Plane.
Tayto Cheese & Onion - 2/10
Summary: Ireland's favourite oral rape
Look it's not just because of the bewildering array of fried snacks on the market that T C&O get such a pathetic rating - they were always shit. Yellowy-green and brown scabs painted with a pungent acidic concentration of devil-onions and wyrd gnome-cheese that numbs the tastbuds for anything up to 48 hours. Despite all this they do get an extra point for continuing to defiantly feature an amusing caricature of the nation's number one paedophile, Mr. Tayto, on their decidedly un-Irish red white and blue packaging.
Coddle - 0/10
Summary: Abhorrent pustules afloat a pestilent swamp of foul sputum and rotting vomit
Yes, I am simultaneously referring to the doorway of Fitzsimons (at 3am Saturday night) and also to coddle (pretty much any night). Jesus, can't muck-savages get anything right? While we privileged, educated Dubliners fine dine on kittenmeat and fag ends, everyone just outside the utopian environs of the Pale eats coddle every single day of the week. In fact, practically all day every day - that is, when they're not picking their holes or trimming the eyebrows on their cheeks.
Club Orange - 6/10
Summary: Titian bubble-piss
You web-savvy pre-teen assholes might now know it as boring old Club Pomegranate and White Cranberry but your recently poncified parents knew it as a very different sparkling syrupy beverage in 'their day'. Indeed before that their four fathers (weird family situation played down due to rampant case of Catholicism, don't want to get into it) had to make do with Club Potato, so count yizzerselves lucky. And those much-feted 'orangey bits' are, somewhat inevitably, porn flakes from a ginge.
