So, a letter came in the post for me today.. I’ve recently been shopping an updated and alternative version of ‘Mailbag’ aka ‘Nailbag’ around the TV production houses. And let me tell you – these people are absolute gobshirts. Unbelievable. Like Oh My God.

My take on things was called ‘Nailbag’. Picture this. Every week, people would email me their bitchy complaints about the telly. I’d get some lackey to print them out for me. Then I’d hunt for the offending telly person, take my pink nailgun and pin the email to that dumb fuck’s head. It’s priceless. I’d get to read the email on camera, so you can get inspired seeing me there and then I’d inflict some pain on the idiots that are fucking with you. Imagine the fun I could have with Derek Mooney.

So, I’ve got some twelve year olds sending back ‘constructive criticism’. Nailbag wants to be made, by not by you, you gobshirts.  

Sometimes I really dispair. I really do. More often than not, radio studios are filled with goblins. Ugly people. Yawh, people with protruding jaws, oversized eyeballs and greasy hair like the Killer Kenny and Joe Duffy. And let’s not get near the trendy-casual dress they insist on wearing. Someone call in Trinny and Susannah to tarten them up.

That’s why I really love getting radio time on Newstalk when Shiny Sean has a hangover. I get to show the drab coops and terminally depressed researchers what showbiz is. The poor dears. Not a looker, hoofer or hooker amongst them. And Oh My God, if I get another Henry hug, it’ll be too soon.

You see, I don’t have a face for radio, but maybe I can help tarten up their mugs. Now, to spike Sean’s smoothie.

So, says some crackpot - so it must be true:

AUTHOR SAID: (God is stupid… Is there anybody more stupid than God?

MY ANSWER: YES! And not just “MORE STUPID” but “MOST STUPID” and that was YOU, the Author of this MOST STUPID BLOG-the prince of all fools and stupids who say that God is a stupid.

I didn’t know that Fanny Waters was a closet Royalist.

It’s quite obvious from his latest post. He’s caught sight of my turkey and wants a quick nibble. Any man who calls himself Fanny is really looking for some.

Attracting furry fucks happens me a lot, actually. I can’t understand what I do. Perhaps it’s my diction. A performer of my theatrical tilt has the blah blah balls. Maybe it’s because I’m a professional charader. Perhaps, because my eyeballs are extra small. Or because, my tight tush didn’t cry for Ireland’s daughter when she fucked up her party-soaked existence.

Meet you tomorrow night at 8 under Clery’s clock, Fanny. I’ll be wearing the yellow super-mini. You, the full orange rubber suit with matching goggles.

Seriously, kids. I find it disgraceful to read Fanny Waters bitching about bloggers. First off, bloggers don’t have much of a social life as is. And Oh My God, they don’t go to premieres at Gaiety and slug back Creme du Monts with Marty Whelan like I do. They sit at home typing shit for readers that eat shit. Thanks to goodness, I’m phoning this in for Mipsey to throw together on her ‘puter.

Giving out about bloggers is like giving out about Bibi Baskin’s weave. It’s not going to carry a bucket of piss. In the 90’s, she hosted a Saturday night television program that only the residents of Mullingar could love, year after year. Bloggers still going to write shite for free, that’s a gazmillion times better (and sicker) than your shtuff, Fanny.

And you obviously, don’t have a clue about The InterNet. I’ve been in with the kids for a long time now. Check out the website for my theatrical academy.

And Fanny, I can put you in touch with a dearie that can put together a proper head-shot for your blog. You’ll never be plucked (from obscurity). Seriously, you should hear what the people of Limerick are saying about you.

Do you have any problems that Fake Twink can help you with? Whether it’s my perfect impression of Maureen Potter’s napkin-folding skills or my time in the Seventies as a mail-away bride in Mogadishu, Fake Twink has seen it all. Unbelievable, you might say.

Oh, my God, what is she like? Well, Fake Twink has a big, big heart and wants to make sure you can fuck up your enemies just as well she can using voicemail, at the very least.

Email me at faketwink@gmail.com

Yawh, bitches. Fake Twink, the Feisty Oul One is here. Here in my all glory to bring a bit a musical ligh’ into yer lives. I’m a Dubliner by trade. A Rathfarnhamite, if ya would. There’s a touch of London in there too. You know my daddy used to work with Royal Doulton. Perriwinkles n’ all.

Holy Moly. I always loved the bit of dawnsing – a ballet brat, you could say. But good Lord. Didn’t it serve me well when I was in Vegas. I was an angel there you know. Of the flap-flap variety. I travelled the Strip length and breadth. You know, I knew Elvis quite well. Gawd, didn’t fancy him though. Yawh, I was about 6 or 7 years too young for his swinging mickey. Enough of this ghastly dictation, now Mipsey, you can stop yer typing. Time for you to give mes a walk.