Thank you to my godson, Keelan Murphy, age 10, for coming up with the idea for this week’s post. The kid is a genius.
Tag Archives: jon hozier-byrne
This week, Jon Hozier-Byrne explains the merits of giving Jon Hozier-Byrne a job.
As of quite recently, I am on the job hunt. I am journalist by trade, and have edited whole newspapers, magazines, and contributed to the Irish Times and other such big-time newspapers, but unfortunately, finding a job in the ever-expanding field of journalism is a degree more difficult than one might think. In fact, if you’re reading this, there is a decent enough chance that you’ve googled my name after I sent you a CV, and are trying to size me up as a candidate for employment, and also to see if I am mental. Well, look no further, as I present to you; five reasons why the search ends here, and why I am the only employee you will ever need.
5. I have lots of fancy book learning
As you can see from the above photograph of me looking at some books while holding my glasses, I am clearly the intellectual type. I have a Masters in Film studies, and a Bachelors in Philosophy and Film, clinically proven to be the two most intellectual and fancy of the Arts disciplines. Whats more, my Junior Cert results were off the hook. Seriously, they called me Mister CSPE. Continue reading →
With so many people entering the Private Eye game thanks to his advice column, Dixon Coltrane has a heads-up for a shamus looking to enter the flea-bitten mean streets of Noir Town, edited by Jon Hozier-Byrne.
I’m trying to scrape a few thin dimes working as a PI. The money’s not great, but the work is hard. There’s plenty of business for any man with a nice hat and a .45 automatic. However, it seems that every time a new client steps into my sepia office to ask for my services, she turns out to be a sultry temptress with the eyes of an angel and the heart of a viper. The type who’d break your heart, or maybe your legs. Half the time, she’s the one who killed her husband and left him bleeding on the smoking-room floor like a gutted halibut. I’m getting tired of being constantly duped by skirts and floozies, caught flat-footed by dime-a-dozen flappers. How can I avoid these predatory prima donnas?
Chagrined in Casablanca.
This week, Dixon gets out the surgical equipment of the mind to drill down into what it is to be a man, edited by Jon Hozier-Byrne.
I’m a lady’s man. In fact, such is the level of appeal that my chiseled features and probably large penis command, that I’m often described as a chap who is regularly ‘knee-deep in boob’. I find post-coital moments to be most opportune for lighting up, so as to remind my own lungs and sexual partners who’s boss by forcing smoke inside each of them in turn. However, I’m finding that my usual unfiltered, imported Ukrainian cigarettes (or ‘man sticks’, as I refer to them) aren’t having the usual second-hand effects of inducing mass fits of coughing and premature baby labour that I enjoy. Have the bloody Soviets gone soft!? Please, divulge unto me your cigarette of choice so that I might helicopter spin my metaphorical wang of tobacco products in the face of society once more.
Shane Continue reading →
With the Capital just emerging from the worst flood in it’s history, Jon Hozier-Byrne looks at the logical ways to make money off of God hating us
If there is one thing pulling together the spirits of the damp denizens of north Dublin city this week, it’s the floods. If there’s two things, it’s the floods and their shared socio-economic class. Yes, the floods are upon us, and what were once the proud winners of the Sam Maguire are now the proud, moist winners of the Sam Maguire. It’s a national tragedy the likes of which we haven’t seen since Dana killed that boy, and citizens everywhere from the inner city to the northern inner city are having trouble commuting, shopping, and obtaining a sufficient amount of oxygen.
Even the finest Peugeots weren’t immune to a watery death Continue reading →
Each week acclaimed feminist, sexpert and slap-bass player Fedora McSexypants answers your queries on love, lust and life. Edited by Jon Hozier-Byrne.
I just don’t know what to do. My boyfriend has become addicted to sniffing Pritt-Stik. He used to be so attentive, but now all he does is sit at home all day long, up to his balls in PVA, re-watching VHS copies of Art Attack. What should I do?
Sticky in Cellbridge
Good evening Sticky. The first thing to remember is that your not alone. There are literally fives of men out there that are adhesive fetishists, or “Pasters” to use the parlance de jour.
The important thing to remember is that your boyfriend probably loves you more then he does his sweet sticky pastime. Try to share in his fun with him, allow him to introduce you to his equally-valid but undoubtedly sick, sick world.
Try introducing arts and crafts into your lovemaking. During foreplay, why not suggest some suggestive papier-mache to get things heated up. By the time you’re applying your second bobbly-eye or that third layer of glitter he’ll be about ready to burst, just like that piñata you just smothered in poster paint.
If this fails, why not crack open an old copy of Cartoon Fun with Don Conroy, and get ready to draw some sweet owls. I’ve tried this many-a-time late into a sweaty eve, and no matter how hard your man is to please, by the time you’re putting your finishing touches on that fourth Hootie, your man will be begging for a finishing touch as well.
It’s time to get adventurous Sticky. You know how your mother always told you not to be wasting your time with weirdos or good-time-fancy-men? Well I know your mother, and she’s a dick. If you love this man, it’s time to glue-up your glutes and show him a soggy good time.
Love and Tickles,
Fadora McSexypants, MD.
Next week – Fedora tackles the age old question – what is the sexiest headgear to wear to bed? I’ll give you a hint – it’s Prussian military helmets.
As we find ourselves wandering through the moral wilderness of life, Dixon Coltrane will set you straight, edited by Jon Hozier-Byrne.
I’ve never been much of a music enthusiast but I have a feeling the concerts my ladyfriend insists on bringing me to aren’t the hippest for a man in his mid twenties. These ‘gigs’ always seem to be devoid of instruments and usually consist of ladies singing with those wire-free microphones or a man playing with his computer. Is this what I, as a male man, should be doing? If not, how should I remedy my musical dillemm-idy? Little joke there.
Listen here Con-air,
Modern music is like a like a woman with narrow hips; entirely useless. Look at any of the contemporary jams, from Lady Jaja to that exhibitionist that got kicked out of a field; none of them know a trombone from a french horn, and a french horn from a regular horn.
If modern music is one thing, and it is, it’s Communist. If it’s two things, it’s Communist and sexy, and both of those things are deeply wrong. All it amounts to is an under-dressed teenager flapping gums over some ribbed-up racket. I’m telling you Conny-boy, it’s like my nephew with polio; it just won’t stand.
Tell your ladydoll that you’re taking her out for a night on the town, Dixon style. Every Monday night in the Grand Social there’s the Hep Cat Club, a hot spot and no mistake. Tell her to wear something loose with poka-dots and flat shoes, because you’ll be flippin’ her ’round the dancefloor like two bits in a back-alley box job.
Ladies love to be brought out on the town Con-stable, and nothing says ‘man’ like a stand-up zoot suit cutting a rug, but make sure you don’t make the trip for biscuits; make sure you choose your broad carefully. Some dames just don’t appreciate romance, so make sure you don’t toot the wrong ringer and end up solo, with an empty wallet and a dame who pulled the old heel-toe. Only ask the dizzy-looker out if they’re wise to your game; otherwise, you’ll end up back at your own crooked joint socking your own pocket pistol.
Sometimes a man just gotta take charge Con-ical flask, and you can’t do that when you’re stuck listening to some skirt moaning into a wireless or some hip cat scratching on a Turing-table. Puff out your chest, stand up-straight, and go swing that fun-time floozy around like a hotsy-totsy carousel with dynamite gams.
That’s the rub,