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Val's setting himself up with a little army of fellow culchies via his youtube site.

He's becoming militant even faster than dumbbell Sual/Coal/Piss/Shit.

It's amazing what you discover when you study a real culchie for a while: it's like they're not even from the same planet as normal people.
 


I'm a long way away from Ballyer these days, boyo. See, that's what you're supposed to do with your life: get out and see the world before settling down in some one horse town with eighteen other culchies, most of whom are near death anyway. Yeah, Ballyer was tough. But it didn't stop me from stepping out and taking what's mine. Which is quite simply a better life in a better place. Sadly you weren't born to do this. You were born to be the useless eater you are, as we all know you to be: a mouth. And fuck all else.

As for those thirty 'nigg*rs' as you call them, didn't you wonder why they attacked him?

Or did you presume that it was for no reason at all bar filling in time?

Because all 'nigg*rs' are bad?

Tell us: how easy do you find it to be a raging racist online while your physical self only moves between the bed and the sofa? And maybe the fridge for another Dutch Gold? You're a burden on the welfare state, you have no job and you contribute nothing to Irish society apart from your rabid racism against anybody your 'A Team' buddies tell you to take aim at.

You're such a sad little loser it almost touches my heart.

Almost, but not quite.

You are a perfect and shining example of the scum that tore Dublin city to pieces a few weeks back. And you're dumb enough to justify yourself destroying your own country and culture by allowing yourself to be led by the nose-ring your scumbag friends drag you along with. It's only a year or so since you went full militant (while sitting in your sofa all day) after being influenced by the scum Declan pays to hang out with. The big fat lonely twat he is.

But you?

You're even worse - you run with them because you're afraid not to.

I know you don't mean half the horrible things you say, but you feel you have to put up this radicalized front just to maintain 'friendships' with the scum on Arsefield's. You're a coward. A small little bug on the arse of existence. The yellow stains of two week old underpants. The off-white pussy phlegm matted into the gussets of your Ma's knickers. That you're likely wearing as you read.

You're scum, yes - but not in the same way as your crew. You're simply too fucking thick to understand half of what's going on, so instead of asking questions, you instead simply fall into line and echo what they say. That's why you make me sick: because you're too fucking slow to figure out anything for yourself. So you scream and yell out other people's opinions hoping nobody will notice you or take a fine tooth comb to your online efforts.

And as for me being 'immigrant filth' in Finland?

You compare that to 'jungle creatures'?

It never ceases to amaze me how fucking thick you are. If you could stretch that far then you'd have your tongue up Declan's hole telling him he's a great van driver who managed to make it out of Ballinasloe or Kiltimagh and all the way over to Amerikay. But another lad from Dublin emigrating to Finland offends you? Do you not see how fucking thick you are? Have you any idea how dumb you come across as? The only reasons you yourself haven't emigrated are simple and few:

Your son, the burglar who robs the elderly up and down the west coast.
Your lack of any skills or any funds to afford making a move to better climate.
Your fear of the unknown, and therefore your susceptibility to culture shock.
Your entire uselessness.
Your lack of any education, sophistication, or betterment: 'if it was good enough for me Da then it's good enough for me...'
All your ideas come from one tiny and insignificant culture.

You can fly anywhere, but you can't live anywhere else but where you are. It's all you're fit for. Nobody needs or wants you, that's also why you're such a pathetic suck-up and a laughable racist with how many threats to murder the 'nigg*rs'? You aren't going to do jack shit. We ALL know that. You're 99% mouth and 1% slurry. A typical Irish culchie loser, bitter with the world around him, oblivious as to why, and desperate to be accepted in any gang at all. Even the worse gangs online these days out of Ireland. In that light, you're even lower on the register than the gang of black kids who chased that white kid for reasons unknown to you. Right? You don't KNOW why they attacked him, do you?

See?

That's you and your knee-jerk mentality.

You can talk all you like about hatchets, baseball bats, setting fires, throwing punches, smashing windows and robbing sneakers, then selling the lot from your front door, along with whatever booty your middle-aged son nicked in the previous night's burglaries. But in reality, you'll do nothing. At all. Ever. Zilch. You'll just continue to sit there counting out your dying moments while idly filling in the time until death takes you. In reality, your son is far more enterprising than you are: at least he robs for his daily bread. You bum yours from the welfare state. Quite a team, eh? Fucking culchies: all you're good for is shoveling shit.

Now get back to your day job, loser - those racist threats won't write themselves you know.
 
Christ on a bike...the N-word was even censored on Pish of all places.

In real life I bet Dan drives his SUV at full speed, with the windows up and doors bolted shut when travelling through the black part of Boston. Internet tough guys......
 


Nah, not even close Jimmy. To me, you're a rat in a cage. I poke at you with a long stick whenever I'm bored, riling you up into yet another rage while I keep jabbing at you and you keep screaming and mewling louder and louder wishing I'd stop destroying your peace of mind. You'll get no peace in this lifetime while you stay online, Jimbo. It's not your fault they all call you Jambo - it's mine.

Except I only did it to annoy you, get you to show your teeth - and it worked.

Sadly, your teeth are yellow and brown, your tongue is carpeted in dried bloodstains while it hangs from your gob, you trying to catch your breath and manage to kick back even once before I quit poking at you for the night. You fall for it every time. That's why I do it: to help you fill in the emptiness and disappointment with life's low odds. You played and you lost - get over it.

Even with your army of the seven monkeys, you still can't get a clean jab at me.

Roundy Kelly hates you as much as anyone else, but you still have to do what he tells you if you want a stage to try to get one back at me. But it's a losing game. Like you and poker. Or chess with a seven year old girl with a terrible stutter and worse skin rashes. No matter what games you play in this world, you'll always lose when Mowl's your opponent. That's just how it is.

I'm currently smiling at life because I've been wondering since early morning why there's a strong smell of lilies/sweet flowers in my apartment. I just clocked what it is: it's the huge potted plant I've been caring for for over twenty years and which I call Spyke. She blossom some white flowers. I've never seen anything like them before and never once imagined that evergreen indoor plants blossomed at all.

The scent is delicious.

It had been teasing me all day while I worked on my final commercial project before the holidays: I was asked to take apart, clean up, refit, and replace the tuning lugs and bolts on three drums built by Tama, Japan. Issued in 1982, these drums are heavy shells, fifteen plies in the largest, two less for the next, and two less again for the smallest: 8'', 12'', and a 13'' - which is rare. The owner won't need them back until February as he fucked off to Thailand for his annual holiday. So I'll use them myself for the next recordings I'm booked in for from December 28/29/30 and again into January for as yet more unannounced dates. They sound fucking amazing, long sustain, superb low end, massive impact off the top heads, and kind of retro looking even if they're only forty years old.

Ever get asked to rebuild something delicate only a qualified engineer (or The Mowl) could do for cash dollar money, Jambo?

No?

You poor sad bastard.

Anyway, the rebuild is finished, they're currently drying out over by the balcony door for a serious polishing tomorrow, then a re-tune and some experiments with different head types to see which work and which don't. I love this kind of work: I'm at home, I charge by the hour, have my own music blaring, can ignore my phone, and can play drums as loud as I like - everyone's windows and doors are wide open due to the faulty radiators being so fucking hot.

Are you warm over in miserable old Ireland, Jambo?

No?

Ahh, sure fuck it - nothing ever works out for you, does it?

Poor jambo.

It's Bellini time for The Mowl - seeya later, sucker.
 
Fuck Christmas. It was yesterday anyway, the Finns celebrate the big day on the 24th, so we had the big dinner, the long hot sauna, the walk through the snow on the ice across the frozen bay to Herttoniemi, the glöggi with Viru Valge, the smoked fish supper and an excellent warm sleep. Today I get to do the whole thing all over again.

My gift from nature this year was sublime:




Four days ago, this white stem appeared on the top of one of my tall house plants called Dracaena Fragrans. A fairly common and popular houseplant, it grows very well in any conditions whether light or dark with the Finnish seasons and needs only a quarter litre of tap water a day, along with a bit of old chat to remind her she's beautiful and has been with me since my first address in Finland.

I was working on a few drums for a client and I got this strange and really unfamiliar sweet but flowery scent. I checked everywhere wondering what it was. As evening drew in it was getting stronger and stronger and became really powerful and had filled the entire apartment. Then I spotted it: the white stick had become an arching terminal panicle of pinkish buds that open into masses of white flowers. The perfume they gave off almost floored me when I stuck my nose next to it for a sniff. Three dozen sneezes later, it was getting stronger and stronger, almost to the point I felt like gagging.

I opened the windows and doors (it's still too hot in here, they didn't fix the thermostats, so we're stuck at around 30 degrees plus in all apartments along the street, no fix until next year) and let some of the scent out. After getting back from sauna, the apartment was flooded with the scent. As soon as I got out of the elevator I smelled it. So I looked it up and found the reason. From a google search:

'The Dracaena Fragrans - also called cornstalk plant and false palm, is a popular houseplant cultivated for its beautiful growth habit: an erect trunk with arching lanceolate leaves. Each with a broad yellow to pale green band in the center in the case of the most popular cultivar, Dracaena Fragrans Massangeana and its surprising ability to resist almost any combination of indoor growing conditions from full sun to shade. They can grow to a very old age, that’s why it’s not unusual to see specimens that are 10, 20 or even 40 years old: a very rare situation indeed for a houseplant. On the other hand, the plant is universally considered a foliage plant cultivated solely for its attractive leaves. But sometimes it offers you a surprise: from time to time, perhaps only after decades of cultivation, it flowers, producing an arching terminal panicle of pinkish buds that open into masses of white flowers. They only open in the evening and at night, but then what a perfume they give off. Intense, heady, sweet, the fragrance invades the whole house. It is often so intense that it sometimes becomes intolerable and the owner feels obliged to cut the flower stem off or to stick the plant in a spare bedroom and close the door at night.'

Wow!

A once in a lifetime moment on the winter solstice.

Another wee tale from another plant lover:

'Back in 1984, I was working in a 5-story office building in the Old Port. One evening I stayed on a bit later than usual, then, shortly after 6 pm, an extraordinary perfume began wafting into my office. What was it? I set off in search of the source of the incredible fragrance, finally to find discover it 3 floors below, in the building’s lobby: a corn plant in full bloom. Imagine, blooms so intensely fragrant that they can fill an entire 5-story building with their scent'!

So last night was pretty much the last of the buds opening, and even now the whole place still smells wonderful.

Even the neighbours asked what that strange 'Christmassy' scent on the air was and if it was food cooking - so I showed them the flowers, which they loved.

I take good care of my household foliage and my guests always remark on them when visiting. I live in a wee jungle of my own making here. Plants everywhere, mostly taller pieces and each of them are related to each other. Whenever a plant grows too tall, I cut the stems and stick them in water until they bear roots and then replant them and watch them grow. Some people have cats, others have dogs.

I have a jungle.

Happy fucking Christmas.

Is it over yet?
 
Poor auld roundy - he hasn't a fucking clue how to comport himself: https://www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com/threads/general-chat-for-all-to-read.483/post-71025

This is the image he added to that post. Take a close look and what do you see?



First off, he has no pants on his hairless legs. See the freckle/mole on his thigh? The stupid fucking cunt: I can just imagine him sitting there like Homer Simpson, happy in his own farts. Even the book has a dirty gravy stain on it - the fat fuck never stops eating. He's like the cat who visits every house on the street and gets fed something, then turns his nose up at the wife's efforts.

The classic item in the photo he took of himself is of course the metal bucket on the coffee table to his left. That's his domestic spittoon I guess, the one he always has by his side when he feels like pulling the fake leather sofa over to the kitchen table for extra comfort, his underpants on the floor behind him. Roundy's bucket. Sounds like the title of a Stephen King book that flopped. Nobody wants to read about fat little men who think they're 'important' and 'on point'.

The bar-stool in front of him's another dead giveaway - that's where he rests his feet to try to drain the blood out of them after a long day of sitting around at home doing fuck all, then getting into the van and going for an aimless drive around Boston city to eat some time. In his y-fronts.

He's not only naked from the waist down, I bet he's still fucking eating even right now - as I write: chomp, chomp, chomp.

Imagine having your lady over to join the family for Christmas dinner and Declan fucking Kelly walks in with just his underpants on?

Stinky yellow-fronted y-fronts he's been in since the previous week?

Fucking animal, what a slob?

His son just turned twenty-six: and he's still a virgin - Deco must be freaked out that the boy might have turned out gay.
 
Why are culchies such as Dan and Val so desperate to be seen as posh / bourgeois / middle class? I imagine Dan being the sort who saves up a few weeks wages - all so he can dine at some fancy, pricey restaurant in order to impress the managerial types he'd like to be associated with.

Yet I bet Mammy Kelly was the sort of culchie mother who'd slap down a bowl of porridge on the morning table....or give the kids a clip behind the ear if say young Dan (literally) left so much as one Brussels sprout or piece of bacon fat on the plate, aka. tis far from fancy New England fare he was reared.

Dan and his notions...
 
David said:
Why are culchies such as Dan and Val so desperate to be seen as posh / bourgeois / middle class? I imagine Dan being the sort who saves up a few weeks wages - all so he can dine at some fancy, pricey restaurant in order to impress the managerial types he'd like to be associated with.
Click to expand...

Yeah, but you can always spot a knacker in a classy restaurant: the mouth-breathing, the swallowing un-chewed hunks of meat too hot to chew on, slurping the wine and talking with their mouth full, elbows on the table, slumped over the plate, and answering calls while stuffing their faces.

In Val's case, he hasn't the teeth in his head to chew anything, so the wife chews it for him - then spits it into Val's awaiting gob.

In Deco's case - a McDonald's on the highway is classier than one in a mall, but at least in the mall they give you an electric wheelchair to carry your fat arse around the place buying crap from the one dollar store while chewing on a pile of cheeseburgers.

Culchies may well turn out to be aliens.

David said:
Yet I bet Mammy Kelly was the sort of culchie mother who'd slap down a bowl of porridge on the morning table....or give the kids a clip behind the ear if say young Dan (literally) left so much as one Brussels sprout or piece of bacon fat on the plate, aka. tis far from fancy New England fare he was reared.
Click to expand...

Declan's so fat and hungry he'd eat the logo off the underside of the plate.

David said:
Dan and his notions...
Click to expand...

Not to mention his minions.
 
Watch out President Joe....Arsefield's is against you. Not even the Secret Service / FBI / CIA / NSA can save you now.
 
Saul's such a sad little chap.

Most of time I can't stop laughing at how pathetic he actually is.. ..I guess it's a Finnish dark humour I previously didn't have - until I encountered Mister Bucket.

Real as fuck?

I imagine he isn't referring to his own last fuck - which was probably around 1987, when his burglar son was born: that cunt's now in his mid-40's.

Which puts Oil, Shite & Poop at around sixty-eight/sixty-nine.

The only 69 he's ever known in his provincial parish pump skiving little excuse for an existence out in fucking Monaghan or some other redneck dump.

Maybe this should be in the 'Culchies' thread?

Saul Bucket's a right fucking culchie - real as fuck too.

Real as fuck?

Poor Saul.

Mini-dick.

Old fart.

Well-worn loser.

Terminal online 'activist'.

Ireland's most comical nationalist.

But not in the way he hopes.
 
I wonder if Viriato will join? Arsefield's would officially become the most Portuguese forum outside of Portugal - an honour once held by Isle.
 
The Sopranos. I watched Breaking Bad during lockdown and enjoyed it but didn't watch all of it and only saw a couple of seasons of it. The Sopranos was compelling from every angle and I think responsible for kicking off a new development in US television drama in moving towards a more realistic view of life. HBO pretty much revolutionised US tv drama with The Sopranos and other gritty dramas such as the Wire. Kind of a new warts and all form of TV drama in the US which had suffered a long time from the inherited style of Peyton Place and Rich Man Poor Man and so on.

I think the Sopranos episode where Pauli and Christopher were lost in the woods was a television masterpiece of comedy and drama. Worthy of a film industry award by itself. The casting in both dramas was superb and magnificent performances and direction all around but Breaking Bad still had elements of the moralistic parable to it underlying the drama, whereas the Sopranos sort of was more self-contained and had a more sustained dramatic element in that the lead character of Tony Soprano was a more layered and complex offering than the main character in Breaking Bad.
 
Haven't watched either of them fully from start to finish, but Breaking Bad I haven't seen at all - everyone keeps telling me how much I'd like it but sitting staring at a television screens for hours and hours just doesn't work for me. Perhaps in the future I'll buy the box sets of both and watch them at leisure but I still don't feel like I'm missing anything. Whatever the TV throws out is always available somewhere else later on, so I don't mind waiting.

The last series I did watch was The Tudors, and even then it was only because someone very close to me had a role in it and I loved watching them at work. We'd talked about performance and the entire creative process so seeing them actually act out what they told me was extremely rewarding and it taught me a lot about the actor's role and methods. I considered the stage when I was younger but music and art were too strong a force for me to deny and I went my own way with those instead.

It reminds me of how everyone kept asking me why I didn't listen to Bowie.

It took me until I found out that an old friend was writing songs with him that I finally gave him a serious listen, starting with the classic tracks I did like but never studied. When I finally 'got' Bowie, I was sucker punched. I loved it, it was well worth the wait and now Bowie shows up in my regular listening chart.

So I'll approach the two series mentioned at some point in the future when things fall into place.

It's good to have things to look forward to.
 
David said:
I wonder if Viriato will join? Arsefield's would officially become the most Portuguese forum outside of Portugal - an honour once held by Isle.
Click to expand...

Nooooo!

That cunt was Portugal's tourism minister and their national advertising agency.

If I needed to hear seventeen thousand nine hundred and eighty-six songs in Portuguese, then I'd go to youtube and find them.

A boring cunt, massive poster of bullshit do-nothing videos, grumpy, no fun, nasty arsehole.

Three hundred posts a day.

With fuck all of any interest in any of them.
 
I don't have any of these paid channels, but I do have a cool story.



Finnish TV is currently undergoing a transformation since Perussuomalaiset came into power: they're showing mainly Finnish produced material and the largest percentage of their listings don't have any translations on-screen unless you use their menu services at a fee. I think it's a great thing, fewer American and British trash daytime television shows, movies, or documentaries, and lots more vintage TV from over the last fifty years or so.

I said many times that RTE and the national archives could be put to better use quite simply by stopping showing trash and cartoons all through the night into the wee hours by repeating the likes of Amuigh Faoin Spéir and To The Waters And The Wild instead. Irish people would love it, as would your many immigrants. They could learn a lot about Ireland watching Hall's Pictorial Weekly and The Minister For Hardship. This is the kind of thing Finland's doing right now. If the non-Finnish speaking sorts don't like it, then they can pay for their own choices with any number of subscription channels. But the national broadcaster here in Helsinki is delving deep into the historical materials and is transferring them from analog to digital for later use too.

This is how quickly change can be effected in the Nordic model. The True Finns got a sizeable vote last year and in the short few months they're had power, they're using it to promote Finland, Finnish things, the Finnish way of life, things the kids can learn from, the oldies too. Makes me wonder why RTE have such free reign to do what they like with your historical materials made from your tax euros but locked away where you can't ever see them. Only the privileged few get to see any of it.

But if it gets to the point that there's fuck all in English, Russian, Swedish, or even Estonian language programs on the TV, I most certainly wouldn't be complaining. Finnish ads for example have a massive turnover for persons employed in film, stage, etc. Because we speak Finnish, our ads are in Finnish, we don't import many ads, rather we make our own (even McDonald's have Finnish made ads) because it's a better way to sell to Finns. Those in the production end of things have endless amounts of work right across the year: set designers, lighting techs, sound engineers, locations managers, catering staff, the list goes on and on. Musicians writing jingles on the side (Stig Dogg for example makes a small fortune doing jingles and voice-overs for TV and radio) or like me doing voice-over work on the side can coin in extra cash by doing a few gigs a year for TV, cinema ads, private productions doing all sorts of learning/instruction videos and DVDs.

Stig Dogg is the equivalent of Finland's Richie Kavanagh. He takes the piss out of Finnish culture and you have to laugh at his accuracy, he doesn't mince his words. But even with his music gigs he needs videos, photo shoots, wardrobe staff, etc. Finnish music uses Finnish staff to make their visuals. The fact that we have this obscure language might look weird to you lot looking in, but for us it's at the core of our working lives. You never hear me on the Irish radio or TV because I haven't made any material in Ireland in ten years or more. But up here I play/feature on all manner of stuff from golfing instructions to dog training. Voice-over work pays really well, and there are multiple agencies offering their clients lists of suitable people in all areas of media.

Try to imagine Ireland speaking only Gaelic?

What would the outcome be?

Would you have as many incoming welfare tourists immigrants if everyone spoke Irish?

Would there be more or less work for Irish production staff?

Dramas in Gaelic. Documentaries in Gaelic. All of your news and weather, gossip and strife?

Would it employ more people or less people?

See?

That's where Ireland keeps fucking herself up. She's in such a hurry to LIKED by everyone abroad she spits her own children in the eye for butting in while she's licking ass. There's no sense of anything unique about modern Irish culture: it looks more and more like England and America to me from this perspective. If the Irish nationalist parties got in, what are the chances they'd make a directive to the national broadcaster to show more Irish made and Irish language shows and less foreign crap they can watch on another channel anyway?

See?

Again, Ireland and her people would go ape-shit. They'd complain that their license fee entitles them to watch Eastenders and having their kids learn more about the cockney accent than the Donegal or Kerry lilt? I'll again say that Ireland needs to wake the fuck up and smell the coffee. This grand unified theory of us all being happy EU members drones speaking English and French and German together isn't really working out. Finland's turning to her history to show the next generation how this country and all its wonder was actually built. The efforts of the generations since the first world war into the civil war and on to the winter war and the second world war built this for us. This didn't happen by itself, and neither will the next moves deeper into the unique Finnish culture happen with baby steps. Leaps and bounds, more like.

It feels great to look at the TV listings and see that there's fuck all English material throughout the morning into daytime into the evening. After 2100 you can get an American or British movie, yeah - but throughout the day it's all about Finland. This is what keeps the broadcast industry staff in work all the time. More Finnish shows, more Finnish ads, more Finnish language and symbolism. It feeds itself by its very nature.

Now consider Ireland and the content RTE fling at you for your €185.00 license fee?

Ever get the feeling you're being taken for a ride?
 
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