roc_abilly
Member
Some semi-interesting stuff in his latest Fagan "Shadow Government" interview. Hey, I'll try to post up tomorrow or Monday.
If you don't hear from me, have a nice weekend.
If you don't hear from me, have a nice weekend.
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Mowl
Member
Excellent opening post,
roc_abilly - one well worth cultivating over time for all to see what's behind Declan 'Youngdan' Kelly's business model.
One wonders how Declan Kelly's business would fare if his clients knew what his online hobbies were? He presents his business model at Boston Custom Tours as a van-driving 'tour guide' of some sort via this type of appearance, which is hardly what one might consider professional or even amateur for that matter:
The innocuous design theme almost suggests that he's reaching out to shallow intellect types over whom he would like to lord his apparent knowledge about historic American sociological/political events in return for cash money. You can see in the image above a few of his video clips. All are amateur standard at best and many cannot even be heard by the phone recording the lecture as the passing traffic is so loud. A proper camera and microphone with a wind-shield or pop mask costs very little and are simple to use. Just switch the fucker on and point. Job done. But no: he goes for the cheap option and then wraps it all up in candy coloured colours in pastel and day-glo as if it was designed by a special needs child.
It may look harmless, but it's a considered plan of action designed to make it all look like harmless fun rather than a man lying to all about all sorts of bullshit just so he can keep the lights on at home and afford cheeseburgers on the sly when he slithers out for one of his infamous late-night 'walks'. Also available on his dedicated youtube page here are a number of personal and family moments recorded in the Kelly family home in Dedham, Boston. These also portray an old man trying his absolute best to appear young and vital by using a hoverboard to address one of his friends about his hopes for her 'success in her future life' while gliding across his linoleum-covered living room floor. Here:
Kelly has been keen to assure all that he pays his taxes. He fills out his returns himself. He hires no accountant, just fills in the boxes with the bare minimum of information, thereby keeping his business model as cheap to maintain as possible. Any man who makes a point of loudly discussing to all his tax situation and annual timetable is a little man with something to hide and highly likely to be spoofing. Nobody talks about their taxes as a self-employed person unless they're trying to distract or blur, and as I iterated just a few days ago, John Q Taxman and his happy-clappy IRS buddies DO NOT like being lampooned by the very people trying to dodge their due taxes. Kelly would do well to keep that in mind regarding his online footprint.
roc_abilly - one well worth cultivating over time for all to see what's behind Declan 'Youngdan' Kelly's business model.One wonders how Declan Kelly's business would fare if his clients knew what his online hobbies were? He presents his business model at Boston Custom Tours as a van-driving 'tour guide' of some sort via this type of appearance, which is hardly what one might consider professional or even amateur for that matter:
The innocuous design theme almost suggests that he's reaching out to shallow intellect types over whom he would like to lord his apparent knowledge about historic American sociological/political events in return for cash money. You can see in the image above a few of his video clips. All are amateur standard at best and many cannot even be heard by the phone recording the lecture as the passing traffic is so loud. A proper camera and microphone with a wind-shield or pop mask costs very little and are simple to use. Just switch the fucker on and point. Job done. But no: he goes for the cheap option and then wraps it all up in candy coloured colours in pastel and day-glo as if it was designed by a special needs child.
It may look harmless, but it's a considered plan of action designed to make it all look like harmless fun rather than a man lying to all about all sorts of bullshit just so he can keep the lights on at home and afford cheeseburgers on the sly when he slithers out for one of his infamous late-night 'walks'. Also available on his dedicated youtube page here are a number of personal and family moments recorded in the Kelly family home in Dedham, Boston. These also portray an old man trying his absolute best to appear young and vital by using a hoverboard to address one of his friends about his hopes for her 'success in her future life' while gliding across his linoleum-covered living room floor. Here:
Kelly has been keen to assure all that he pays his taxes. He fills out his returns himself. He hires no accountant, just fills in the boxes with the bare minimum of information, thereby keeping his business model as cheap to maintain as possible. Any man who makes a point of loudly discussing to all his tax situation and annual timetable is a little man with something to hide and highly likely to be spoofing. Nobody talks about their taxes as a self-employed person unless they're trying to distract or blur, and as I iterated just a few days ago, John Q Taxman and his happy-clappy IRS buddies DO NOT like being lampooned by the very people trying to dodge their due taxes. Kelly would do well to keep that in mind regarding his online footprint.
Mowl
Member
I don't know about you, but there's something extremely creepy and sleazy about the tone of this video, which was made by Declan Kelly's best bud Brian Nugent, the haggard looking old crow who lives in his car and hangs around at protest meetings looking to meet people and make new friends. In this short presentation, you can hear Nugent (AKA schoilairebocht) ask Courtney and Jodie a few questions about why they're attending the Coolock protest.
It's patently obvious that neither of them are even remotely capable of holding an interview with an old man of Nugent's caliber, and that any decent man would have simply either discontinued the interview and erased the clip, or simply not upload it all for anyone to see. But he chose to go on with the questions, then he took it home to his car and edited it using the basic youtube tools, then published it.
Look for yourself and tell me what's the first thing that occurs to you?
It's patently obvious that neither of them are even remotely capable of holding an interview with an old man of Nugent's caliber, and that any decent man would have simply either discontinued the interview and erased the clip, or simply not upload it all for anyone to see. But he chose to go on with the questions, then he took it home to his car and edited it using the basic youtube tools, then published it.
Look for yourself and tell me what's the first thing that occurs to you?
roc_abilly
Member
Well first he sounds very excited. His voice has gone up two octaves hasn't it.
It sounds to me like he's trying to impress them, talking about the "Garda helicopter" and "the Guards". Danger, danger, our roving "reporter" is not scared, though, etc.
Then he's putting the camera right up into the face of the redhaired girl.
I can't really hear what the girls are saying though. He must have the microphone strapped to his own mouth or something.
It sounds to me like he's trying to impress them, talking about the "Garda helicopter" and "the Guards". Danger, danger, our roving "reporter" is not scared, though, etc.
Then he's putting the camera right up into the face of the redhaired girl.
I can't really hear what the girls are saying though. He must have the microphone strapped to his own mouth or something.
Mowl
Member
Probably has his left hand down in his pants, the filthy bugger.
You've seen the guy's head, right?
Groundskeeper Willie looks like a refined gentleman in comparison.
I think he preferred her to Jodie, she looks more like a budding porn star - can't wait for the cameras to roll and the big cocks start slapping her in the face.
Something about 'awlla these black bleedin' rapist's comin' inta arr cuntry and raping uz all an' tha'..'
She sounds more she's doing some wishful thinking than she is complaining.
Last edited:
Mowl
Member
Yes, this is a link to his 'corporation' website for Boston Walking Tours. Dot com. It's pink, and a zany yellow in places. The chosen type-face is childlike/amateur. But it offers his direct phone number, a bunch of photos of fat Declan with his hands on various people's children, a few videos of him yapping that can't be heard for the passing traffic, and some classic shots of his work regalia: shiny navy-blue Farah pants that have been ironed so many times they gleam in the sun. Cheap patent leather shoes and the short-sleeved shirt with the clip-on bow-tie, and some vague gestures with his fat arms waving about pointlessly in his trademark zipper-necked cardigans.
Private Boston Tours - Boston Private History Tours
The Best Private Tours in Boston
www.privatetoursboston.com
It's a busy business, this walking the pensioners about. There are lists and lists of chancers offering 'guided tours' of Southie and the north end. Declan's not listed among them, so his profile is clearly that of the losing chancer. But you'd think he'd be used to that by now? His wife Marianne certainly is. He's been kicking poor drunken Myles around lately for mentioning that male model and civic engineer Rory O'Connor from 184 Blank Stare Avenue, Sandyford Co Dublin while giving Jambo space to defend himself against the truth about his personal life emerging.
Rather, that he sent his boy Eric out to do it for him, then slipped him a fake silver coin made of Hershey's chocolate (98% sugar, 2% saccharine) which the poor boy ate on the spot, what with the previous contents of the kitchen fridge now languishing in Kelly's digestive tract. But yes - Kelly's land ownership? The wife's house sits on around one/eight of an acre. Which is barely enough to house her lazy husband's fat arse, never mind a room full of gold bullion and silver coints with Kelly's fat face on it.
Then he parked a hoover behind the perspex of his aluminium storm door, so if the revenue inspectors call they'll think he's busy.
A good day's work, Dan.
The mattress sitting in the garden?
That must be for the nights when he's had a curry and has to sleep out in the garage with the rat in his bin due to the wet-fart risk he poses to the bed-sheets.
The black plastic bags sellotaped to the windows around said garage are telling: it's not weed - likely cabbages and turnips.
One Paddy I know up here (he's currently behind bars over in Somppasaari) had a bright idea: he said he went around all the Irish bars in Helsinki claiming that he'd lost his wedding ring the previous weekend and asked if anyone handed one in. On each occasion he was handed a whiskey glass with a few rings in (his reasoning being that married Finnish men who went out to get drunk and spotted a score would take off the ring and pocket it until they got home) which were lost by blokes over the previous few weeks. He'd snuffle around in the glass, find one in white gold, claim it with gushing thanks to distract the staff member, then head over to the next Irish bar to do the same. By day's end he said he got four rings in total, all white gold, and sold them back to a dealer and made around three hundred yoyos. Sadly, the rings were marked and dated with the names of the original owners and the dealer had to call them in.
Brian was recorded on CCTV and identified by his criminal record (dealing weed/stealing your money) and they located his address and busted him. The income was reported to the welfare people who were paying him sickness benefit. That was removed and the court date set. The judges were sick of the little cunt, as were the few other Irish expats I know up here. He got three years for the dealing with additional time for the ring theft scam.
Still, Brian made more money
I hear recently that he lost his front teeth after a severe hiding he got off the local Hell's Angels, one of whom he took money from to buy weed and instead spent it on drink in another bar while your man was sitting waiting for him in another bar across town. The story goes they set up another deal, and when he showed up they shoved him into a waiting van and drove him up north of the city and battered the shite out of him first, then took his clothes and shoes and dumped him down some country road as naked as the day he was puked out into the world.
Which was exactly the point I'm making: if a Crumlin scruff can pull a scam like that, then Declan better up his game.
His shitty little website of pink, lilac, and pale green needs as much updating as the fat man does himself.
If you're interested in booking him, then you can call him at: (781) 492-3409
Senior discount available.
My new
Yes, this is a link to his 'corporation' website for Boston Walking Tours. Dot com. It's pink, and a zany yellow in places. The chosen type-face is childlike/amateur. But it offers his direct phone number, a bunch of photos of fat Declan with his hands on various people's children, a few videos of him yapping that can't be heard for the passing traffic, and some classic shots of his work regalia: shiny navy-blue Farah pants that have been ironed so many times they gleam in the sun. Cheap patent leather shoes and the short-sleeved shirt with the clip-on bow-tie, and some vague gestures with his fat arms waving about pointlessly in his trademark zipper-necked cardigans.
Private Boston Tours - Boston Private History Tours
The Best Private Tours in Bostonwww.privatetoursboston.com
It's a busy business, this walking the pensioners about. There are lists and lists of chancers offering 'guided tours' of Southie and the north end. Declan's not listed among them, so his profile is clearly that of the losing chancer. But you'd think he'd be used to that by now? His wife Marianne certainly is. He's been kicking poor drunken Myles around lately for mentioning that male model and civic engineer Rory O'Connor from 184 Blank Stare Avenue, Sandyford Co Dublin while giving Jambo space to defend himself against the truth about his personal life emerging.
Rather, that he sent his boy Eric out to do it for him, then slipped him a fake silver coin made of Hershey's chocolate (98% sugar, 2% saccharine) which the poor boy ate on the spot, what with the previous contents of the kitchen fridge now languishing in Kelly's digestive tract. But yes - Kelly's land ownership? The wife's house sits on around one/eight of an acre. Which is barely enough to house her lazy husband's fat arse, never mind a room full of gold bullion and silver coints with Kelly's fat face on it.
The mattress sitting in the garden?
That must be for the nights when he's had a curry and has to sleep out in the garage with the rat in his bin due to the wet-fart risk he poses to the bed-sheets.
The black plastic bags sellotaped to the windows around said garage are telling: it's not weed - likely cabbages and turnips.
One Paddy I know up here (he's currently behind bars over in Somppasaari) had a bright idea: he said he went around all the Irish bars in Helsinki claiming that he'd lost his wedding ring the previous weekend and asked if anyone handed one in. On each occasion he was handed a whiskey glass with a few rings in (his reasoning being that married Finnish men who went out to get drunk and spotted a score would take off the ring and pocket it until they got home) which were lost by blokes over the previous few weeks. He'd snuffle around in the glass, find one in white gold, claim it with gushing thanks to distract the staff member, then head over to the next Irish bar to do the same. By day's end he said he got four rings in total, all white gold, and sold them back to a dealer and made around three hundred yoyos. Sadly, the rings were marked and dated with the names of the original owners and the dealer had to call them in.
Brian was recorded on CCTV and identified by his criminal record (dealing weed/stealing your money) and they located his address and busted him. The income was reported to the welfare people who were paying him sickness benefit. That was removed and the court date set. The judges were sick of the little cunt, as were the few other Irish expats I know up here. He got three years for the dealing with additional time for the ring theft scam.
Still, Brian made more moneybuying andselling gold than Declan Kelly ever will.
I hear recently that he lost his front teeth after a severe hiding he got off the local Hell's Angels, one of whom he took money from to buy weed and instead spent it on drink in another bar while your man was sitting waiting for him in another bar across town. The story goes they set up another deal, and when he showed up they shoved him into a waiting van and drove him up north of the city and battered the shite out of him first, then took his clothes and shoes and dumped him down some country road as naked as the day he was puked out into the world.
Which was exactly the point I'm making: if a Crumlin scruff can pull a scam like that, then Declan better up his game.
His shitty little website of pink, lilac, and pale green needs as much updating as the fat man does himself.
If you're interested in booking him, then you can call him at: (781) 492-3409
Senior discount available.
My newtour vanvehhhickle, by Declan Kelly (aged 69)
Post moved and date changed so as not to displace OP.
roc_abilly
Member
Before Mowl started upbraiding him about being fat and not working, he never went out of the house.
Back when his gambling addiction started, at least the element of it he broadcast online (in the vague notion to put his voice with a mass of others to try and move markets by prophesising doom), there was little bookie stuff online.
Now there is, Dan's too set in his habits to change.
Interestingly though, one of the founders of Paddy Power regrets the social problem he helped cause. Granted he blames the government for lack of regulation.
But he particularly singles out the "young and vulnerable", and old people past their sell date, with their last few marbles rolling around, like Dan, as categories of most concern.
Dan though is just like that over enthusiastic chap you used find in the bookies, grey and nicotine stained, like one of the fittings in the place, "helping out", climbing up to mark the odds on the blackboards for the staff, turning up the TV, giving out a few tips on some mare first into the corner, or whatever.
But his losing days far outnumbered his winning days. He stayed around through the years, and decades, only because those far and few between winning days felt so good.
Like Dan when the stock or commodity reaches its peaks in the graph. Even though he never sells at those peaks, the feeling of being on top, at least on paper, is the only feeling that can make him feel alive.
In between, he stores up the butts he finds on the streets, metaphorically speaking. "Any odds". Have you got a spare smoke on you". "Any coppers". "Have you a spare pound for a cup of tea". His day to day life being basically angling to get the best spot on the corner for panhandling.
Isn't that what his charter fat man jalopy gig is all about at the end of the day.
Meanwhile life inexorably runs out. Entropy increases, and no amount of tidying away the detritus of his life, the car tires and mattresses in his garden, the size 44 Walmart slacks spilling out of his wardrobe, is going to hold it back, and its inevitable conquest of Dan's increasingly febrile attempts to impose some type of order.
In other words, the probable. While Dan has staked his existence and life and meaning on the improbable. But that grand bookie in the sky, Jambo's haloed master designer, the mathematical laws of the universe, are ultimately going to take all, aren't they.
Usually this is a social spectacle that is kind of sad to watch, just like with the old men we used see IRL in the bookies once upon a time in this country. Though in Dan's case, I think we might make an exception, and laugh.
Mowl
Member
Declan's kids ought to be worried: unlike with previous Irish/American generations who diligently stored and protected any little wealth they had to pass along to their children after their demise, he's of the newer generation of current oldies who don't care for such trivial things as leaving an estate. But thankfully the house they were reared in belongs to Declan's wife, Marianne; which means Kelly can't use it as a float for his gambling ways, much to his wife's irritation. If she was stupid enough to put a share of the property into Declan Kelly's name, then you can be sure he'd fritter that away just like he's frittered the meaning of his entire existence away after I named and shamed him into revealing himself before I did.
I'm sure his kids are old enough to understand the nature of their loser Dad's lifestyle: but I can't imagine what it must be like to have to take orders from a father who busks for a living. All that cheap-assed nurgling for cash money walking the pensioners must make them feel rather poor in sociological terms. The Ma seems a wise enough simple Irish-American woman who knows the value of hard work, after all, her own father worked himself to the bone to buy that house and then develop it to make it into a reasonably comfortable family home. He died in the early 1990s and his wife plugged along for another decade before she too kicked the bucket, but not before doing the decent thing and passing the house along to her daughter - and ONLY her daughter: Kelly's name is not on the deeds, which are available if you search the house number and street name (which I can forward to any of you who are interested via PM) in Dedham. Had she put Roundy's name on it too, then he likely would've lost it all betting on copper and brass.
The gold and silver markets are by now far out of his frugal reach, so any further spoofing about gaining great wealth from gambling on precious metals is a thing of the distant past going back over twenty-five years. So he made good once. Every failure of a gambler makes good occasionally, those are realistic odds at best. Some get lucky, they try the game once, make a few quid, then walk away with the profits. Gambling addicts don't do that: they believe the odds are better for them because they're in it for life, they think they're 'professionals', like Jimmy Dawson, AKA AN2 - who also claims to have both won and lost millions of euros playing poker online.
Gas fucking bastards, these cunts.
Jimmy won nothing. He had nothing to begin with anyway and that's what he walked away with: nothing. Huge amounts of nothing.
Of course, in Jambo's case there might be a few differences regarding family and estate post-death. His Ma's already in the ground, so that leaves just Jimmy Jnr and his Da Jim Snr in the family home. The old man's a drunk and is out drinking from lunchtime through to close. Maybe he too enjoys a flutter while watching the horses in the bar?
See, I've worked for Louis FitZgerald since around 1992. Louis is one of Ireland's wealthiest men, and not just on paper. He has restaurants, hotels, bars, night clubs, lounges, rough-neck pubs, off-licenses, dive bars, classy cocktail joints, and everything else you can think of. His specialty since around the late nineties was to lease properties with far more space than he needed, which he would then dangle in front of smaller business owners who would sub-let a space in his latest multi-functional super-pub, giving Louis a monopoly on the local boozing scene. His typical joint would be like say this one:
Located in Walkinstown, I've worked in this joint for many years. Louis leased the entire property and put in a men's bar, casual lounge, music/event venue, restaurant, and off license. He then let one shopfront space to an Italian chip-shop run by a one-armed Italian bloke who's name escapes me but who was a diamond geezer and did proper fish and chips and took pride in his standards. To the other side of the door, Louis let another shop-front space to one of the well-known nationwide bookie shops. He also had a taxi rank out by the front gates from mid-evening into the small hours. This meant that once a regular came into the bar, they had the bookies to place their bets, cheap food at another door, and tellies in every corner of the bar for the gambling. The off license also stocked the papers (which was usually the pretense of their showing up at midday) so the lads could survey the odds for today's race meets.
They had no need to leave the bar at all, they could come in and set up at the bar, scan the racing form, lash down their money, then sit back and count their winnings. If they were hungry, a bag of chips and a battered sausage with onion rings for a fiver. A bottle of wine and a bunch of cheap flowers for herself when he got home which kept her off his back. He had them nailed in every which way and they they literally threw their money at his complex because the only other options were down on the roundabout in Walkinstown who all charged far higher prices for food and drink. In fact, the chipper had a sliding hatch on the wall and in the evening the lounge customers could order a fish supper which would then be brought to the hatch and they could eat at their table with their drinks.
Win/win/win.
Declan Kelly seems to think he has some sort of monopoly on walking the pensioners when in fact there are dozens more grifters just like him all vying for the same cash dollar money. Just type in 'walking, tours, pensioners, Boston, Southie', and see what comes up. Just like Louis has to compete with Conor McGegor's 'The Black Forge Inn' - Roundy has to compete with better informed/studied tour guides than himself, and they can drive busloads of tourists around instead of two or three at a time in his little vannette. So we know he's on the lower rungs of the business model, which he likely clocked from one of his regular drunks in the dive bar he worked for as a barman back in the 1990/2020 period.
So we can a clear picture emerging here as to how Kelly sustains himself and his cheeseburger addiction.
Being fat and short is the least of his actual worries, though he does worry a lot: especially when a man as slender, lithe, and young as I makes a point of laughing at his enormous carriage, he has to look in the mirror and wonder whether it's too early or too late to consider dying his wizened white hair, which was once mousey brown with grey flecks. Nowadays it's pure white, like Val Martin's. Aul fella's, the pair of them. Both desperate to promote an image of refinery and sophistication, when in fact neither of them could even correctly spell the words, let alone aspire to them.
Both filthy, they wear the same trousers for weeks at a time. Val with his manky jumpers and toothless grin, and Kelly with his Walmart pants, ironed into mirrors without ever being so much as rinsed out on the washing line in the rain. Culchies, the pair of them. And full of all those culchie traits we jackeens find so amusing and medieval. The Shitting Ditch. The lower barn with the rats and mice. The vans. The total obliviousness of their own overblown egos. The need to be 'known' to others. I recall once reading one of Kelly's self-inflating lines when he said:
'I would have been known to all in Ballinasloe at that time..'
Ask yourself?
What does that even mean?
Known to all??
Would have been?
These idiots think that nobody can see through them and their stupid little games.
Who are they trying to impress?
Their kids?
I'd say the kids are singularly mortified by their respective Da's antics.
Their wives?
Too late for all that now, boys.
Strangers on the street?
Yeah, especially when they have a hand in their pockets - while the other's pointing out some historic loading bay or off ramp.
One has to ask oneself why their handful of regular members continue to hang around their sites, especially Kelly with Arsefild's. Have these twats no self respect at all? They bend at the knee for these aul fellas. They kiss their arses for them too, which they're happy to do in lieu of having to pay for a site of their own. So like leeches, they attach themselves to Declan and Val's ankles and they suck for all they're worth to stay attached.
We're living through some strange days, my lovelies - very strange.
I'm sure his kids are old enough to understand the nature of their loser Dad's lifestyle: but I can't imagine what it must be like to have to take orders from a father who busks for a living. All that cheap-assed nurgling for cash money walking the pensioners must make them feel rather poor in sociological terms. The Ma seems a wise enough simple Irish-American woman who knows the value of hard work, after all, her own father worked himself to the bone to buy that house and then develop it to make it into a reasonably comfortable family home. He died in the early 1990s and his wife plugged along for another decade before she too kicked the bucket, but not before doing the decent thing and passing the house along to her daughter - and ONLY her daughter: Kelly's name is not on the deeds, which are available if you search the house number and street name (which I can forward to any of you who are interested via PM) in Dedham. Had she put Roundy's name on it too, then he likely would've lost it all betting on copper and brass.
The gold and silver markets are by now far out of his frugal reach, so any further spoofing about gaining great wealth from gambling on precious metals is a thing of the distant past going back over twenty-five years. So he made good once. Every failure of a gambler makes good occasionally, those are realistic odds at best. Some get lucky, they try the game once, make a few quid, then walk away with the profits. Gambling addicts don't do that: they believe the odds are better for them because they're in it for life, they think they're 'professionals', like Jimmy Dawson, AKA AN2 - who also claims to have both won and lost millions of euros playing poker online.
Gas fucking bastards, these cunts.
Jimmy won nothing. He had nothing to begin with anyway and that's what he walked away with: nothing. Huge amounts of nothing.
Of course, in Jambo's case there might be a few differences regarding family and estate post-death. His Ma's already in the ground, so that leaves just Jimmy Jnr and his Da Jim Snr in the family home. The old man's a drunk and is out drinking from lunchtime through to close. Maybe he too enjoys a flutter while watching the horses in the bar?
See, I've worked for Louis FitZgerald since around 1992. Louis is one of Ireland's wealthiest men, and not just on paper. He has restaurants, hotels, bars, night clubs, lounges, rough-neck pubs, off-licenses, dive bars, classy cocktail joints, and everything else you can think of. His specialty since around the late nineties was to lease properties with far more space than he needed, which he would then dangle in front of smaller business owners who would sub-let a space in his latest multi-functional super-pub, giving Louis a monopoly on the local boozing scene. His typical joint would be like say this one:
Located in Walkinstown, I've worked in this joint for many years. Louis leased the entire property and put in a men's bar, casual lounge, music/event venue, restaurant, and off license. He then let one shopfront space to an Italian chip-shop run by a one-armed Italian bloke who's name escapes me but who was a diamond geezer and did proper fish and chips and took pride in his standards. To the other side of the door, Louis let another shop-front space to one of the well-known nationwide bookie shops. He also had a taxi rank out by the front gates from mid-evening into the small hours. This meant that once a regular came into the bar, they had the bookies to place their bets, cheap food at another door, and tellies in every corner of the bar for the gambling. The off license also stocked the papers (which was usually the pretense of their showing up at midday) so the lads could survey the odds for today's race meets.
They had no need to leave the bar at all, they could come in and set up at the bar, scan the racing form, lash down their money, then sit back and count their winnings. If they were hungry, a bag of chips and a battered sausage with onion rings for a fiver. A bottle of wine and a bunch of cheap flowers for herself when he got home which kept her off his back. He had them nailed in every which way and they they literally threw their money at his complex because the only other options were down on the roundabout in Walkinstown who all charged far higher prices for food and drink. In fact, the chipper had a sliding hatch on the wall and in the evening the lounge customers could order a fish supper which would then be brought to the hatch and they could eat at their table with their drinks.
Win/win/win.
Declan Kelly seems to think he has some sort of monopoly on walking the pensioners when in fact there are dozens more grifters just like him all vying for the same cash dollar money. Just type in 'walking, tours, pensioners, Boston, Southie', and see what comes up. Just like Louis has to compete with Conor McGegor's 'The Black Forge Inn' - Roundy has to compete with better informed/studied tour guides than himself, and they can drive busloads of tourists around instead of two or three at a time in his little vannette. So we know he's on the lower rungs of the business model, which he likely clocked from one of his regular drunks in the dive bar he worked for as a barman back in the 1990/2020 period.
So we can a clear picture emerging here as to how Kelly sustains himself and his cheeseburger addiction.
Being fat and short is the least of his actual worries, though he does worry a lot: especially when a man as slender, lithe, and young as I makes a point of laughing at his enormous carriage, he has to look in the mirror and wonder whether it's too early or too late to consider dying his wizened white hair, which was once mousey brown with grey flecks. Nowadays it's pure white, like Val Martin's. Aul fella's, the pair of them. Both desperate to promote an image of refinery and sophistication, when in fact neither of them could even correctly spell the words, let alone aspire to them.
Both filthy, they wear the same trousers for weeks at a time. Val with his manky jumpers and toothless grin, and Kelly with his Walmart pants, ironed into mirrors without ever being so much as rinsed out on the washing line in the rain. Culchies, the pair of them. And full of all those culchie traits we jackeens find so amusing and medieval. The Shitting Ditch. The lower barn with the rats and mice. The vans. The total obliviousness of their own overblown egos. The need to be 'known' to others. I recall once reading one of Kelly's self-inflating lines when he said:
'I would have been known to all in Ballinasloe at that time..'
Ask yourself?
What does that even mean?
Known to all??
Would have been?
These idiots think that nobody can see through them and their stupid little games.
Who are they trying to impress?
Their kids?
I'd say the kids are singularly mortified by their respective Da's antics.
Their wives?
Too late for all that now, boys.
Strangers on the street?
Yeah, especially when they have a hand in their pockets - while the other's pointing out some historic loading bay or off ramp.
One has to ask oneself why their handful of regular members continue to hang around their sites, especially Kelly with Arsefild's. Have these twats no self respect at all? They bend at the knee for these aul fellas. They kiss their arses for them too, which they're happy to do in lieu of having to pay for a site of their own. So like leeches, they attach themselves to Declan and Val's ankles and they suck for all they're worth to stay attached.
We're living through some strange days, my lovelies - very strange.
Mowl
Member
That giant rat from down under did some damage, that's for sure. But the real damage is being done by that bastard's cunt Swordid/Golah. His snide way of trying to appear innocent of any horrible behaviour makes me want to track the fucker down and squeeze the life out of him by the neck and then stuff his droopy old grey-haired balls down his fucking throat.
And film it, then send it to Zion.
Declan Kelly's supposed to be the site owner, but he hasn't the money available to spend $1,450 p/a to host old buzzards' like this mad bastard:
He does to satisfy himself after you or I've given him a right dressing down into reality.
He'd never say boo to a goose in the real world, the fat little cunt.
He'd need a ladder to try and clatter me, he's around five feet squash.
And as fat as the court jester with it.
When he booted you out, his post count dropped massively, because Wolfie had no one to be angry with any more. Off he slithered back into the same sewers he came from and hasn't been seen since. Well, he does show up to do a bit of cut/paste from anywhere regarding Ukraine. As if the stupid cunt's affected by it in any way at all.
You were in the company of some the Irish intersnot's worst cunts ever born to their whore mothers.
You should set up camp here and we can team-tag the whole shebang of them.
I wouldn't use that wiry little cunt to unplug the u-bend.
He's a right fucking creep too, as sleazy as they come and with a voice like a choking chimp crushed by a hungry anaconda.
Well, at least they have the last one, eh?
Declan's wife has enormous diddies, but sadly they point directly toward the ground rather than the heavens.
Nipples like big pale-pink saucers and a bush of pubic hair stretching from the crack of her arse up and around the bend to her belly-button.
Hairy nipples too - big long spidery hairs that emanate from the edge of the areola and get stuck in between his teeth when he's giving her her annual servicing. After which he has to take a weekend off to recover. Can't be easy being expected to get it up when he's sixty-seven and sexually redundant. I doubt he even uses porn any more. There's no point. It doesn't arouse him. He's lost his faloorum, he's got no ding-doorum-ah. Not since back when this was a hit:
Well, Wolf still lurks here, the poor bastard.
His obsession with me continues, as per his latest comments. I loved triggering him over there, and how he'd copy everything I did and then call it his own. He was easily the most prone to trolling and manipulation. Its a wonder the penny never dropped for him.
roc_abilly
Member
A contrived effort to speak in Hiberno English, in the worst Boston Paddy tradition.
Though word does get around Ballinasloe fast. It's possible there is a semblance of truth in his claim?
As a kid I remember that you'd drive into the town, and they knew even before you arrived at some house or shop that you had come into the town.
I think the town is not far from the scene of action of that old novel "Valley of the Squinting Windows".
Possibly old Dan was probably known by "all" in sense.
"There's yer man made Pat McDonagh a millionaire."
"There's yer man who was bottom of his class in UCG and has been scrubbing the floors of pub toilets in Boston, where all the Irish go."
"There's yer man who sat in Biddie O'Balaghy's antique chair and collapsed it under his weight".
And who knows what else he did as a youth to make him infamous.
A bit like Farmer Val a mhic and the stories that are out all over Kingscourt about what goes on around his farm.
The village idiots.
roc_abilly
Member
They tried me as the token "contrarian voice". But it didn't work out well for them. They hated the mirror I kept holding up to them. Old Dan regularly kept on deleting all of my posts. Sad bastards.