I Want A Nice Dirty Fight.

Bertie V Enda. Enda V Bertie! Oh, what an exciting time it was for all of us and Miriam O’Callaghan; the titans of triviality, the pompous preachers of pointless, preposterous policies, the ginger whinger and the ruddy rascal, Moe and Curly Joe… together, in the studio, squinting at each other over the blonde mop of the Mother Of All Babies. Throwing shapes whilst looking over each other’s heads like the Bouncers Of The Nation, seeing whose spin spun puns in the cleanest pirouette. Ahern vs. Kenny, the Godfathers of Who Really Gives A Shit?

Seriously lads, who cares who won the battle of the scriptwriters? Apart from being a blinding show of insincerity and a contest far too close to Whose Line Is It Anyway? for comfort, what conclusions could we possibly draw from Bertie and Enda’s televised debate last week? Well, I hear you gurgle, whoever was more confident would probably be a better Taoiseach, blah de blah de oireachtas. This is utter bollocks. Whoever was more confident is probably more arrogant, and while that might be great for Cannes, it means little for benevolent leadership. Many people drew the conclusion that Enda came across as being just too nice to be Taoiseach, and y’know what? Maybe it’s nice we need, not a massive snarling broken blood vessel on top of a bulldog’s neck. Sorry Bertie. No, the reason you should reject Enda as well is because he’s a tit. It’s worrying that Pat Rabbitte and his finger wagging Uh Huh, Girlfrien’ attitooood could be the final weight on the scales, but yerragh, all’s fair in love and having too much money.

So I wasn’t too interested in the debate, or in its outcome, because it wouldn’t affect my voting decisions. And because it just wasn’t interesting. I switched off ten minutes in, pissed off that the Sopranos was put off for another week for that claptrap. And there are so many better battles to play out in your head, you know. I amused myself instead by wondering who would win in these possible showdowns.

Tommy Tiernan vs. Dylan Moran: The battle of the Navan funnyman and Tommy Tiernan. Sides would split while heads would roll, which would be a very good excuse for Dylan Moran’s hair.
The winner: Dylan, despite being too drunk to punch straight, because Tiernan would be too busy cramped over laughing at his own jokes.

Glenda Gilson vs. Rosanna Davison: As the men of Ireland drown in their own hormones, the great battle between the unstoppable force (Glenda’s megalomaniac eyebrows) and the immovable object (Rosanna’s face) would commence. In mud. On Stephen’s Green. Rarr.
The winner: The Glenda. Evil always triumphs, even if it would break its knuckles on all that foundation.

Supermacs vs. Abrakebabra: Battle burgers! Supermacs would lose points for all that “Oooh, we do salads now” kissarsery. Abrakebabra may do salads too, but they’d be all wilted by half past two in the morning, which is the only time any cunt goes into the place.
The winner: Supermacs. It’s from Galway. Also when I type in Supermacs my spellchecker suggests supremacy, and you can’t argue with that.

Twenty Major vs. Damien Mulley: The behemoths of blogging! The kings of communication! The dons of posting stuff on the internet and complaining about their broadband providers. The whole of the Irish blogosphere would turn out for this one. That’s all seven of us, so don’t bother making two rounds of sandwiches.
The winner: Mr. Mulley. He’d have an uppercut and four rounds of elbow jabbings in before Major fell out of bed. He’s just that damn organised.

Mary Harney vs. Godzilla: Now we’re talking epic. The huge scaly thing that destroys all in its wake vs.… Godzilla. Haw haw, bet you didn’t see that one coming.
The Winner: Harney. It takes a lot to eat Japan, but it takes even more gut (singular) to eat Japan and still have room left over for the well-being of an entire indigenous population somewhere in the East Atlantic.

Over to you, you vicious brutes. What epic battles would you like to see going dahn?