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Mowl
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Actively choosing to drop out of society is one thing (video one), having absolutely no other option (video two) is entirely another: these videos illustrate that very clearly.
Functioning addicts are all around us. That frizzled middle-aged lady you see struggling with her shopping is likely addicted to Diazepam. Mother's little helpers, as they were known back in the days when doctors threw them out like confetti. That fat chick with the massive thighs and five paper bags full of Penney's disposable tops? Probably on diet pills, which contain large amounts of speed. The loud fucker over in the corner of the lounge/restaurant shouting out his business for everyone to hear? Probably a cocaine addict whose bank account is a work of total fiction. Your neighbour, that grumpy aul-fella who's always scowling at the kids and eyeballing you if you catch his eye? A common drunkard trying to keep his alcoholism under wraps. The school teacher who treats the kids like shit but stays just within the rules of child abuse? His desktop is likely stuffed full of images of naked kids, kids being abused, kids being taken advantage of.
It's all around you, everywhere you go, every passing day.
It can be to any substance you care to name, or none of the above/below at all.
Working for Louis Fitzgerald was a learning curve about addictions: he'd book me to work in two or three bars a day so I'd be all over Dublin and out into the counties. I used to meet the same faces in the various bars and some of them also hired me. So I'd come to their house and then they'd land the real reason they hired me: 'when you saw me in Murphy's Bar last week - even though Kehoe's Lounge is my local, I was just dropping in to say hello to my blah, blah, blah. No need for the lads in Kehoe's to know about that - right?'
In order to avoid the stigma of alcoholism, they were spreading their drinking habits out across a number of pubs, thereby thinking they had it all under wraps. But there was an obvious problem with that game: the staff know exactly who you are and where else you drink. They might care, but I certainly don't/didn't. These all-day-in-the-pub blokes were just pub furniture to me. Bar after bar, I haven't the patience or the interest to keep tabs on them all, but they most certainly do. This is a common way of trying to hide your addictions: never ever position yourself with just one option. Have as many as you think you might need.
But the only person they're actually fooling is themselves.
The bloke driving the taxi who stops in for a coffee and a tin of Red Bull to keep himself going for another few hours? Possibly a gambling addict who's lost a fortune on the horses and has to lie, beg, borrow, and steal to keep his habits hidden away. The fat slob who just came into the restaurant and ordered two pizzas with a liter of coca cola? He likely just finished a full Irish breakfast elsewhere. He has a compulsive nature he can't fight, so like Roundy Kelly, he eats everything he sees and then acts all innocent when the doctor tells him he's dicing with death.
That guy in the nice and clean new shirt and haircut up front on the bus with his face buried in his phone? Online poker: Texas Hold 'em, Five Card Draw, even the tiddlywinks with Jambo. That plain-Jane girl who keeps looking around her as she struts through the pub? Orgasm addict, can't stop thinking about sex. Sizes every man she sees up and then flirts with him to see how he reacts. Positive? Out to the jacks/laneway. Negative? Fuck 'im - he must be gay.
The thirty-something bloke in the car beside yours at the traffic lights biting his nails and picking his nose and eating his snots? A severe neurotic with crazy levels of OCD that are destroying his life and isolating him from his family and friends, but he still can't stop. Like Val with his videos: the buzz it gives him to see the counter of how many views he's getting is his heroin. Same with Cheeseburgers Kelly: his ego is so overblown his narcissism feeds off his every step and word. They don't do what they do to be of service to the community - they do it to let their community know that they consider themselves somewhat superior to your average Joe or Jane.
Kelly desperately wants to be slimmer, younger, wealthier, more vital, and admired; so he acts as though he already has these things in his life and that he's getting it from elsewhere than his shitty little forum. No, he gets his from the multi-millionaires he takes for walks through Southie while he points out the street signs, the multi-level car parks, the loading bays, and the many off-ramps from the interstate. He gets it also from the buy/sell gold/silver bullshit he desperately wants to be part of but isn't because he simply doesn't have that sort of money, so he's spoofs about it instead. Then he dresses as well as he can (from the waist up) while interviewing this scarecrow of a man about Irish nationalism:
Now that guy, Corky - is a perfect foil for Kelly's game. He's gaunt, wizened, burnt out, and clearly decrepit. But he's also passionate about his nationalism and probably doesn't have anything at all else going on his life, so driving up and down the country to attend protests is his big buzz now that he's no longer using smack every day. He makes Kelly look a bit healthier and maybe even more youthful by obvious comparison, and this gives Kelly the balls to act out his superiority/alpha male routine. But if you look at Declan Kelly from the point of view of the rats in his basement bins rather than Corky's point of view, then you begin to see that there's a huge gap in Kelly's obvious lies. The biggest lie isn't what he's telling you, either - it's the one he tells himself and everyone around him in the real world. That he's a mover and a shaker, finger on the pulse, in possession of vital information rather than hot fetid air.
Similiar with Val Martin. Val has a massive superiority complex. He really does think he's the second smartest man in Ireland. But what he really means by using the 'second man' routine is that he's also smart enough not to claim too much lest he burst his own bubble. Val's addictions are all very spiteful if you try to work your way through his yap. He's angry that life didn't single him out for his just rewards, so he's taking them now while he still can. He wasn't going after office during the last election, he was out doing the rounds like a greedy kid on Confirmation Day: pocketing the cash and greedily counting it out to his mates who didn't do quite so well in the 'penny for your new suit' stakes. He wants everyone to know about his every passing thought because he thinks he's unbreakable, worthy, informed, and a man of influence.
Some of the videos Val made over the Christmas period were particularly enlightening: the shit he started making up off the top of his head was so childish it was hilarious. For example, the one about the shop in town that was so busy they had a queue outside that stretched down the street and he said that 'you could get in to the shop if you queued long enough, but that you couldn't, get, back, out, again. So be careful there'. What does that even mean? Nothing. Nothing at all. He's mimicking Trump's style of delivery. He's as vacuous as Trump is too, so the act continues to work only for as long as it takes you to figure out who he's channeling today. It's all an act. None of it is real, and even less of it makes any difference at all. But that's what narcissism is all about: generating attention for yourself, and for all the wrong reasons. Insecurity complexes, low self esteem, self loathing, bitterness, simmering anger, resentment. These are all the things the narcissist works hard at trying to hide, but sadly the harder they try, the more obvious it becomes. Faking disinterest, pretending not to be aware of the laughter pointed at them, acting higher and mightier than they really are, they skate on thin ice hoping it won't crack under their feet.
Descriptions of oneself that defy the reality: Val Martin as an upper middle class gentleman who shoots game and fowl at dawn on Sundays, who ranges his lands in his britches and hunting cap, who keeps cattle who all have names, same with his horses, and his greyhounds for the racing: but who drives into town dressed like a hobo because he learned from watching the telly that people who actually have class, who have sophistication, who are educated and fully confident in themselves, don't care how they dress or what anybody thinks about it. But once you match the filthy attire with the nose-picking, the snot-eating, the excavations of the ear wax for study, and the complete lack of any self-awareness when the ego is running the show - belies a common man with lofty aspirations he knows he'll never attain. On an island as small as Ireland, you can't lie forever. It always comes out in the end: just look at all of your priests and where they are now? The devices those savages used are the same as fools like Kelly and Val use. And in the end they always break. Just look at how Kelly handled my reveal about him and his bullshit spoofs? He had to own it, he had no other choices, but he acts like he did.
Same with Val, except in Val's case he never wanted to be anonymous: he wanted to be feted, celebrated, adored, admired.
Kelly's needs are far more base: the need to be popular, to be the centre of attention, to be envied, to be jealous of.
Neither of them are any nearer today to getting what they crave than when they started out. If anything, they've lost more credibility the longer they stayed on the stage and the louder they shouted about it. These are text-book cases that even a child can see through. Young Saul Bucket's another classic example: he too needed to be 'of note' - a somebody rather than the nobody he actually was. If that meant he had to become a racist and bigot, then fuck yeah: he's in. Easily manipulated, easily fooled, Bucket was the perfect foil for Kelly's bullshit. Another silly little puppet with strings to pull all day and night. Bucket wasted his life, and he wasted it in the saddest possible way. As Kelly's bum-boy. The one sap who's guaranteed to swallow the whole fucking bullshit trip - hook, line, and sinker. His life added to up to nothing more than an errant son who fucked up his Da's world by getting caught. NOT by doing what he did to the pensioners, but the getting caught aspect. So if you've ever wondered why my heart didn't warm to him, it's because he tried to hide from me the one thing that brought him down the most: that he'd failed in the one thing he really shouldn't have failed at. His progeny. His brood of little criminals who knew their Da was a lazy fucker, but who also knew how to play him. The Bucket's whole world was virtual, none of it was real, he never left his house unless he absolutely had to. His death was as pointless and sad as his existence. He had nothing to lose but he held tightly onto it for the duration of his time in this world, when he'd probably have been far better off letting it all go and finding out who he really was without all that palaver and kicking up dust to hide himself in.
Like Jambo: with whom I won't bore you with the simple psychological details of as you know him as well as I do. But suffice it to say that anyone claiming an IQ over two hundred and who spends their life on an obscure and rather sleazy website pouring out the filth that occupies their brains in the ridiculous manner Jambo does is obviously lying. His 'Champ' routine. His 'bunny-boiler' schtick that he's recently let slide from his lexicon, (watch and see as he remembers it and starts using it again) and his bullish way of presenting anyone who catches him out and corners him with a chess table or an Oasis video. Or trying to attach names to things that never stick (he's still extremely angry that he's know to all and sundry as Jambo) like the frozen wastelands, or gowl at the moon. He'd like to think that he can influence people to follow his leads, but they never do. This angers him. It bursts his bubbles about how he tries to create a character for you to believe in but can't manage to keep it up for very long because it's a lie and he can tell when you're not being brought in by it. Then it's out with the tiddlywinks and the Beatles cover band.
These fools all have their own silly little worlds to live in. I enjoy studying them. It fills in the time here at the studio when I get held up by technical issues. I can flip though a few comments and read their current mood like a mature and patient doctor handling an x-ray. They'll never change either, their lexicon will, their bullshit will, but they themselves, the very person they're trying the hardest to hide, will be revealed bit by bit by bit until a complete picture is formed. In fact, right now this comment is probably being disseminated on the private Mowl thread on Arsefield's. They have to pretend not to care but seriously, Jimmy: you read every fucking word from start to finish, to right here where you're sitting in the palm of my hand.
But by all means: do your thing and tell me you haven't read anything of mine since last October, we all believe you.
It was your vanity and ego that took you from the top paragraph of this comment to exactly where you are now: the arse end of it.
I have a violin that's harder to play than you, Jimmy: but then it's a kiddy-sized model and my fingers are too big for the neck.
Not so in your sad case, mind you: they'd suit your skinny pencil-neck quite nicely.
And you're still reading.
Gas, isn't it?
Heh.
Functioning addicts are all around us. That frizzled middle-aged lady you see struggling with her shopping is likely addicted to Diazepam. Mother's little helpers, as they were known back in the days when doctors threw them out like confetti. That fat chick with the massive thighs and five paper bags full of Penney's disposable tops? Probably on diet pills, which contain large amounts of speed. The loud fucker over in the corner of the lounge/restaurant shouting out his business for everyone to hear? Probably a cocaine addict whose bank account is a work of total fiction. Your neighbour, that grumpy aul-fella who's always scowling at the kids and eyeballing you if you catch his eye? A common drunkard trying to keep his alcoholism under wraps. The school teacher who treats the kids like shit but stays just within the rules of child abuse? His desktop is likely stuffed full of images of naked kids, kids being abused, kids being taken advantage of.
It's all around you, everywhere you go, every passing day.
It can be to any substance you care to name, or none of the above/below at all.
Working for Louis Fitzgerald was a learning curve about addictions: he'd book me to work in two or three bars a day so I'd be all over Dublin and out into the counties. I used to meet the same faces in the various bars and some of them also hired me. So I'd come to their house and then they'd land the real reason they hired me: 'when you saw me in Murphy's Bar last week - even though Kehoe's Lounge is my local, I was just dropping in to say hello to my blah, blah, blah. No need for the lads in Kehoe's to know about that - right?'
In order to avoid the stigma of alcoholism, they were spreading their drinking habits out across a number of pubs, thereby thinking they had it all under wraps. But there was an obvious problem with that game: the staff know exactly who you are and where else you drink. They might care, but I certainly don't/didn't. These all-day-in-the-pub blokes were just pub furniture to me. Bar after bar, I haven't the patience or the interest to keep tabs on them all, but they most certainly do. This is a common way of trying to hide your addictions: never ever position yourself with just one option. Have as many as you think you might need.
But the only person they're actually fooling is themselves.
The bloke driving the taxi who stops in for a coffee and a tin of Red Bull to keep himself going for another few hours? Possibly a gambling addict who's lost a fortune on the horses and has to lie, beg, borrow, and steal to keep his habits hidden away. The fat slob who just came into the restaurant and ordered two pizzas with a liter of coca cola? He likely just finished a full Irish breakfast elsewhere. He has a compulsive nature he can't fight, so like Roundy Kelly, he eats everything he sees and then acts all innocent when the doctor tells him he's dicing with death.
That guy in the nice and clean new shirt and haircut up front on the bus with his face buried in his phone? Online poker: Texas Hold 'em, Five Card Draw, even the tiddlywinks with Jambo. That plain-Jane girl who keeps looking around her as she struts through the pub? Orgasm addict, can't stop thinking about sex. Sizes every man she sees up and then flirts with him to see how he reacts. Positive? Out to the jacks/laneway. Negative? Fuck 'im - he must be gay.
The thirty-something bloke in the car beside yours at the traffic lights biting his nails and picking his nose and eating his snots? A severe neurotic with crazy levels of OCD that are destroying his life and isolating him from his family and friends, but he still can't stop. Like Val with his videos: the buzz it gives him to see the counter of how many views he's getting is his heroin. Same with Cheeseburgers Kelly: his ego is so overblown his narcissism feeds off his every step and word. They don't do what they do to be of service to the community - they do it to let their community know that they consider themselves somewhat superior to your average Joe or Jane.
Kelly desperately wants to be slimmer, younger, wealthier, more vital, and admired; so he acts as though he already has these things in his life and that he's getting it from elsewhere than his shitty little forum. No, he gets his from the multi-millionaires he takes for walks through Southie while he points out the street signs, the multi-level car parks, the loading bays, and the many off-ramps from the interstate. He gets it also from the buy/sell gold/silver bullshit he desperately wants to be part of but isn't because he simply doesn't have that sort of money, so he's spoofs about it instead. Then he dresses as well as he can (from the waist up) while interviewing this scarecrow of a man about Irish nationalism:
Now that guy, Corky - is a perfect foil for Kelly's game. He's gaunt, wizened, burnt out, and clearly decrepit. But he's also passionate about his nationalism and probably doesn't have anything at all else going on his life, so driving up and down the country to attend protests is his big buzz now that he's no longer using smack every day. He makes Kelly look a bit healthier and maybe even more youthful by obvious comparison, and this gives Kelly the balls to act out his superiority/alpha male routine. But if you look at Declan Kelly from the point of view of the rats in his basement bins rather than Corky's point of view, then you begin to see that there's a huge gap in Kelly's obvious lies. The biggest lie isn't what he's telling you, either - it's the one he tells himself and everyone around him in the real world. That he's a mover and a shaker, finger on the pulse, in possession of vital information rather than hot fetid air.
Similiar with Val Martin. Val has a massive superiority complex. He really does think he's the second smartest man in Ireland. But what he really means by using the 'second man' routine is that he's also smart enough not to claim too much lest he burst his own bubble. Val's addictions are all very spiteful if you try to work your way through his yap. He's angry that life didn't single him out for his just rewards, so he's taking them now while he still can. He wasn't going after office during the last election, he was out doing the rounds like a greedy kid on Confirmation Day: pocketing the cash and greedily counting it out to his mates who didn't do quite so well in the 'penny for your new suit' stakes. He wants everyone to know about his every passing thought because he thinks he's unbreakable, worthy, informed, and a man of influence.
Some of the videos Val made over the Christmas period were particularly enlightening: the shit he started making up off the top of his head was so childish it was hilarious. For example, the one about the shop in town that was so busy they had a queue outside that stretched down the street and he said that 'you could get in to the shop if you queued long enough, but that you couldn't, get, back, out, again. So be careful there'. What does that even mean? Nothing. Nothing at all. He's mimicking Trump's style of delivery. He's as vacuous as Trump is too, so the act continues to work only for as long as it takes you to figure out who he's channeling today. It's all an act. None of it is real, and even less of it makes any difference at all. But that's what narcissism is all about: generating attention for yourself, and for all the wrong reasons. Insecurity complexes, low self esteem, self loathing, bitterness, simmering anger, resentment. These are all the things the narcissist works hard at trying to hide, but sadly the harder they try, the more obvious it becomes. Faking disinterest, pretending not to be aware of the laughter pointed at them, acting higher and mightier than they really are, they skate on thin ice hoping it won't crack under their feet.
Descriptions of oneself that defy the reality: Val Martin as an upper middle class gentleman who shoots game and fowl at dawn on Sundays, who ranges his lands in his britches and hunting cap, who keeps cattle who all have names, same with his horses, and his greyhounds for the racing: but who drives into town dressed like a hobo because he learned from watching the telly that people who actually have class, who have sophistication, who are educated and fully confident in themselves, don't care how they dress or what anybody thinks about it. But once you match the filthy attire with the nose-picking, the snot-eating, the excavations of the ear wax for study, and the complete lack of any self-awareness when the ego is running the show - belies a common man with lofty aspirations he knows he'll never attain. On an island as small as Ireland, you can't lie forever. It always comes out in the end: just look at all of your priests and where they are now? The devices those savages used are the same as fools like Kelly and Val use. And in the end they always break. Just look at how Kelly handled my reveal about him and his bullshit spoofs? He had to own it, he had no other choices, but he acts like he did.
Same with Val, except in Val's case he never wanted to be anonymous: he wanted to be feted, celebrated, adored, admired.
Kelly's needs are far more base: the need to be popular, to be the centre of attention, to be envied, to be jealous of.
Neither of them are any nearer today to getting what they crave than when they started out. If anything, they've lost more credibility the longer they stayed on the stage and the louder they shouted about it. These are text-book cases that even a child can see through. Young Saul Bucket's another classic example: he too needed to be 'of note' - a somebody rather than the nobody he actually was. If that meant he had to become a racist and bigot, then fuck yeah: he's in. Easily manipulated, easily fooled, Bucket was the perfect foil for Kelly's bullshit. Another silly little puppet with strings to pull all day and night. Bucket wasted his life, and he wasted it in the saddest possible way. As Kelly's bum-boy. The one sap who's guaranteed to swallow the whole fucking bullshit trip - hook, line, and sinker. His life added to up to nothing more than an errant son who fucked up his Da's world by getting caught. NOT by doing what he did to the pensioners, but the getting caught aspect. So if you've ever wondered why my heart didn't warm to him, it's because he tried to hide from me the one thing that brought him down the most: that he'd failed in the one thing he really shouldn't have failed at. His progeny. His brood of little criminals who knew their Da was a lazy fucker, but who also knew how to play him. The Bucket's whole world was virtual, none of it was real, he never left his house unless he absolutely had to. His death was as pointless and sad as his existence. He had nothing to lose but he held tightly onto it for the duration of his time in this world, when he'd probably have been far better off letting it all go and finding out who he really was without all that palaver and kicking up dust to hide himself in.
Like Jambo: with whom I won't bore you with the simple psychological details of as you know him as well as I do. But suffice it to say that anyone claiming an IQ over two hundred and who spends their life on an obscure and rather sleazy website pouring out the filth that occupies their brains in the ridiculous manner Jambo does is obviously lying. His 'Champ' routine. His 'bunny-boiler' schtick that he's recently let slide from his lexicon, (watch and see as he remembers it and starts using it again) and his bullish way of presenting anyone who catches him out and corners him with a chess table or an Oasis video. Or trying to attach names to things that never stick (he's still extremely angry that he's know to all and sundry as Jambo) like the frozen wastelands, or gowl at the moon. He'd like to think that he can influence people to follow his leads, but they never do. This angers him. It bursts his bubbles about how he tries to create a character for you to believe in but can't manage to keep it up for very long because it's a lie and he can tell when you're not being brought in by it. Then it's out with the tiddlywinks and the Beatles cover band.
These fools all have their own silly little worlds to live in. I enjoy studying them. It fills in the time here at the studio when I get held up by technical issues. I can flip though a few comments and read their current mood like a mature and patient doctor handling an x-ray. They'll never change either, their lexicon will, their bullshit will, but they themselves, the very person they're trying the hardest to hide, will be revealed bit by bit by bit until a complete picture is formed. In fact, right now this comment is probably being disseminated on the private Mowl thread on Arsefield's. They have to pretend not to care but seriously, Jimmy: you read every fucking word from start to finish, to right here where you're sitting in the palm of my hand.
But by all means: do your thing and tell me you haven't read anything of mine since last October, we all believe you.
It was your vanity and ego that took you from the top paragraph of this comment to exactly where you are now: the arse end of it.
I have a violin that's harder to play than you, Jimmy: but then it's a kiddy-sized model and my fingers are too big for the neck.
Not so in your sad case, mind you: they'd suit your skinny pencil-neck quite nicely.
And you're still reading.
Gas, isn't it?
Heh.
Last edited:
roc_abilly
Member
Interesting in the first video how they were keen to emphasise the distinction of not having a "habit".
Mowl
Member
Aye, it's like Declan talking about him starving himself for seven days and then walking twenty-five kilometers every evening and having only a single glass of tap water to sustain him.
Aside from the obvious medical impossibility of any of that being true, he wants you to think of him as slim and vital, a man with years to go and who's in the prime of his life today. Except he probably hasn't gotten it up since jaze knows when and his wife Marianne likely doesn't particularly mind: all that humping and sweating, the muscle cramps and the coughing, the stopping for a minute to catch a breath because the heart and the auld blood pressure have gone postal is something she's probably glad is finally over and done with. No need to lie any more. No need to pretend. No need for anything really, there aren't any issues about any of it any more. That's for the younger folk, not the grannies and grandads they are, which is what's killing Roundy the most.
Or like Val's addiction to making videos. He's not trying to educate anyone, regardless of what his moniker suggests. He's trying to show you how uniquely brilliant he is, for an auld culchie. In his mind he's a genius. He's a man who has it all figured out and is now free, he's out of the rat race, he's 'a farmer with cows' as he likes to remind everyone several times a day. Untouchable. In an ivory tower built with little more than slurry and his rusty auld Russian lathe from 1932. He carved the ladder from the bough of a single tree with his own filthy hands and it only took him three months and cost him nothing. His notions of grandeur while wearing a jumper that looks like it was taken off a dug-up seventy year-buried Jewish corpse in the muck of a Polish forest. The barely believable degrees of filth he finds comforting. The way he wants you to know every exquisite detail about his processes and assessments. Yet still stumbling around like a dizzy kid on a sugar buzz when he gets excited and his voice goes all interstellar in that culchie shriek of his. He wants you to think he's in control and knows what needs to be done. The culchies who follow him actually think that's true, and that's more than enough to light a fire in his belly to make sure he gets his daily dose while he's giving you yours. That you're better off consulting him first before making any decisions, and his culchie following lap that shit up.
Those guys in the older video are educated drop-outs who made a conscious decision to opt out and go off grid. Modern hippies, the long hair and beards, and the style of dress only being different because in the Dublin of those days, there were no shops selling 'hippy attire' - you had to go to Carnaby Street in London for that shit. Hairy Irish hippies in worn-out tweed jackets with patches on the elbows, like your school teachers wore. No wicker sandals either, so it was a pair of regular shoes with unmatched socks under pants too short and wide. The beards more a symptom of laziness than a statement of personal stance. A few quid saved on razors and shaving cream. But you can be sure their underwear told a different story.
The two scrote knackers in the next video are the modern day equivalent of lepers - in the biblical sense. Cast-outs of such deplorable bad habits they're treated like a caste apart. Not quite human, not at all Irish. Some sub-human breed that somehow dodged the radar, born only to cause disgust and remind you how much better off your are with your nine-to-five hair-shirt and cheap shoes: the rent killing you, maiming you. But you'll pay it so you don't have to lay down in the same gutter they sleep in. You know in your heart that even though you're by no means free, that you still have choices. And never ending up like them is definitely one of them. Their habit may enslave them and rule their existence, but they're free of the worries you're plagued with. Personal responsibility? Meh. Moral obligation? Pffft. They don't have to give a fuck. And nobody expects them to. So they don't. They do what they like when they like and fuck everything else because the worse that could possibly happen is that they get reefed and end up doing cold turkey in an overcrowded cell in Mountjoy.
It's hilarious, really: a mental filthy Cavan farmer with delusions of grandeur and a Ballinasloe culchie bar-hop who thinks he's in the gold and silver trade.
And the gang-loads of minions that actually take all of this seriously.
They may not number too many at any single given time, but over time across the years?
It's amazing how many fucking fruitcakes there actually are out there.
They may have choices, but many never bother to even consider them.
Thank fucking fuck I got out of there while I was still sane.
Mowl
Member
Irish patriots? You mean Ireland's fake nationalists? They watch English football on Chinese built flat-screen televisions. They shop at Lidl and Aldi, German brands who stock the cheaper eastern European produced versions of popular processed food brands. They drink German and Dutch and Belgian beers out of glasses made in China. Their all-American branded clothes are made by children in sweat shops all over Asia and the Orient. Their shoes are popular American sneaker brands who give nothing whatsoever back to their main customer fetish base: black Americans.
They speak English, never Irish - not unless they want to go for a piss down in the pub. They read English red-top newspapers for news about English television stars and Scottish football results. They back horses at all the big English equestrian days out. They holiday in Spain and Greece, drinking imported lagers from across Europe and America. They fly there on English commercial airlines. They think cricket is for pussies and Welsh rugby's a man's game. They visit England all the time to watch live football on the terraces of English league teams while waving the flags and colours of their favourite English teams which were made in Korea. Their phones are high-end American brands using tech from China. Their internet providers are mostly Vodaphone.
Their girlfriends dress in cheap tatty items from H&M, Zara, and the rest of the time, Adidas and Nike. They drive cars made in Japan and China, and fill them with Russian gas at Shell and Texaco. Fat slags in fake Ugg boots bounding from suburban four-wheel drives from Germany into off licences stocked full of German and Polish slabs of lager. English cigarettes. English shaving kits by Gilette and for the lads finished off with Old Spice aftershave. They wear condoms made in France and Italy. Lubrication from Sweden and Denmark. They watch American porn on channels owned and run by Jews.
They give their kids ridiculous names like Caitlin and Sophie. Keanu and Fionn. The kids use laptops by LG. They wear mini-versions of popular English league teams with their favourite English soccer star's name on the back, next to the Scottish/English/American/Middle Eastern sponsor's logo. They prefer Coke to Pepsi and vice versa. They frequent Tesco and always use the self-service payment option. Their boxers have American and French brand names in large letters around the elastic waistband. Their jeans are down to their knees, like American convicts. They takes the laces out of their new Adidas sneakers and bin them. They wear wrap-around shades by Gucci and Ray Ban. They listen to American music from their Japanese designed phones while smoking cigarettes made in Poland and Latvia. They think the girls from eastern Europe are far prettier and even further out of reach than the fat slags with the massive gobs and even bigger thighs they grew up around.
But they love Ireland.
Really.
After the eleven o'clock mass at the Assumption in Dublin 10, it was five bus stops down to Inchicore on the CIE bus and into Richmond Park for 7p (standing only) to watch St Pat's hammer Bohs in the pissing rain before legging it back home to change into something dry and watch The World At War before the Sunday roast of Irish spuds, Irish chicken, Irish sprouts, carrots, and peas. Then a slice of home-made gur cake with a dollop of Irish cream. Then settle in to a cup of Lyon's tea with Irish milk and the Irish newspapers for the evening while listening to the news about Ireland on RTE and burning some logs from the Wicklow mountains and some peat from Roscommon to keep warm.
But I love Finland.
Really.
roc_abilly
Member
Pat Ingoldsby, 1942-2025:
roc_abilly
Member
One from 1999:
Mowl
Member
I met the guy lots of times through a close friend who ran a puppet show (The Magic City Trash Company) that traveled up and down Ireland putting on puppet plays in libraries, public parks, shopping malls, and local schools. Very down to earth but still with a magnanimous tone of voice that commanded your attention. To the kids he was out of this world, they hung on his every word and his delivery was always 100%.
But I did note a vaguely condescending tone his handling of kids from 'disadvantaged backgrounds' aka working class housing estates.
Their common accent was a world away from his well-rehearsed delivery and expandable lexicon of rare words and bits of Gaelic.
But that said, he wasn't sucking at the teat for his wage in RTE, he worked his butt into the ground to deserve it.
He'll be remembered well, even if by the smaller few.
But I did note a vaguely condescending tone his handling of kids from 'disadvantaged backgrounds' aka working class housing estates.
Their common accent was a world away from his well-rehearsed delivery and expandable lexicon of rare words and bits of Gaelic.
But that said, he wasn't sucking at the teat for his wage in RTE, he worked his butt into the ground to deserve it.
He'll be remembered well, even if by the smaller few.