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David said:
Arsefield's must have the greatest ensemble of idiots across the entire internet.
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It's the one thing Declan's good at: attracting the idiots like flies to a cow-pat.

Plus he has to pay for the privilege.

The fat loser.

David said:
It's almost like a circus, minus the animals.
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Circus animals have some skills, Arsefield's has a license to ill.

Lumpy Von Talbot said:
To the Waters and the Wild was the best homegrown TV programme ever made in Ireland. There was an RTE commissioned documentary about the Spanish Civil War called 'Even the Olives are Bleeding' which was a close second and the closest RTE ever came to the The World At War.

That is all.
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Aye, three excellent choices there which I'd say myself are awesome. Gerrit Van Gelden has some amazing documentary materials and the RTE archives are full of his work. That material ought to be shown during the wee hours so the native Irish could download/record the shows for personal use. There's years and years of material, RTE act as though it's theirs and theirs alone.

Fuck that.

If Montrose gets torched, someone needs to raid the archives beforehand - that material is gold.

My Dad used to sit me down next to him to watch The World At War every Sunday afternoon. The opening credits alone were harrowing, and once the show began it took wings and flew you away into another time and another place. That was more educational than entertaining. In fact, it often had me in shock at the piles of dead bodies from the various world wars, especially the Jews and the Holocaust. Back then I didn't know any Jews personally apart from the commissioner of my branch of The St John Ambulance. I sensed from the start that there was something about that man that wasn't quite sincere. The sense of there being a void in between us that could never be bridged. As life moved along, every experience I had with Jewish people came down to the same result: lying, thieving bastards.

But that's not to say I harboured hate or enmity for all Jews, but rather just the ones I knew personally.

These days the Jewish bastards in general make me sick.

I also noticed that none of them (who used to be prolific social media users) have disappearance off the maps. One had just released his first solo album, he was plastering media with clips and takes, and then the news came in about current conflict which shut him up really fast. He pulled down materials from social media to try to cover his tracks, but he was a bit late in making his mind up about who was right and who was wrong.

The album flopped.

Which I sniggered at, mostly because he invited me in to play some parts on another project of his years before.

And the cheque never arrived.

Grubby money.

Grubby Jews.

He can keep it.
 
I can see why you're all hanging around here like a bad smell: Jambo has that effect on you. Right?

While he dodges your question by first insulting you and then asking you another one himself, the warren he's trying to drag you down into has fuck all to do with politics, political science, race-baiting, gender, type, nationality, colour of skin, or otherwise. His whole raison d'etre is actually just about language. The most minor and most insignificant of differences of a definition of 'what exact type of' nationalist you are, or anyone is.

He loves to gather up these terms he finds on Telegrams from Woods/Collect/Morgosh and then juggle them in front of your face all day and night - if you let him.

Because in truth, he has exactly and precisely fuck all but that.

Quote me on it - then try it out for yourself: he's laughing at you, he has no fucking interest in anything or anyone bar his Big Three Male luvvies and the second hand shiny bits he collects like a magpie to feather his nest. I ran the stupid cunt off here because there's no point in discussing anything with the thick bastard. Just because he acts the big man with his 'I'll break your fucking neck for you, Skippy' type threats, he's still just a dole-head who has to cycle everywhere because he can't afford to take a bus.

You've all had it going on for three fucking months at this stage and still not fucking ONE of you can suss the stupid bastard out?

And he is fucking stupid - all he has is The Big Three: ask him any question you like and he'll fist tell you your IQ is sub-zero. Then he'll say something about your Ma, then ask you if you play chess. And that's it - in its entirety. But you fucking gobshites keep arguing with him. You complete fucking twats - can't you see what's right in front of your fucking face, you thick cunts?

He's blowing off time; his daily routine MUST be obvious to you by now, no?

He starts drinking long before he has a smoke. Cup of tea for breakfast. Cheap beer and John Player blues throughout the day, then by evening time his head's all sozzled and his moods start to swing. Out comes the gnashers and off he goes on another one. And you fucking chumps fall for it - every fucking time. You make me want to throw something sharp and heavy at you, you stupid fucks. You're worse than Jambo is himself with your idiotic trailing after the daft twat. There's only one way to deal with Jambo.

Laugh at him.

Jambo-no-mates truly has no mates.

Jambo/chess? Please.

Jambo/IQ? Jaze.

Jambo/one original thought?

Not a fucking chance in hell.

So gawp around the Isle all you like - you won't find a clearer answer to the Jambo issue than this.

You stupid little cunts.
 
Poor Jambo - he knows time's running out.



And that when Roundy Kelly finally boots him out, he'll be back here with low IQ shit, tiddlywinks games with seven year old girlies, another new name, all the rage he can muster after nine cans of Dutch Gold and a packet of Benson & Hedges. Looking for a mate. Someone to talk to. To be with. To feel less alone in this big confusing world he's terrified to venture out and taste.

Classic tiny willy syndrome - Dunning/Kruger up the hoop.

He knows the gang are all focused on here after I gave them the down-low on Jambo's sad reality.

Twenty-odd of them this time - all reading Mowl's instructions and nodding to each other with emojis and smileys.



Between the fact that Arsefield's cannot and has not passed one single day without reference to me is driving Jambo nuts.

He'd like to be admired, even if it's only borne of jealousy, but he's beginning to realize his little game doesn't work if you don't play it with him.

Like a used-up sheet of cheap toilet paper on Valamhic's crusty knickers, he's hanging around until the ultimate end.

Poor Jambo, has no mates. Has no original thoughts. Has no point of view of his own apart from the subtle nuances between a nationalist, another nationalist, a civic nationalist, a rubber nationalist, a chocolate cake-covered nationalist, a drunk nationalist, a perverted nationalist (like Jambo, the type who takes regular breaks throughout the day to shoot his muck into a tissue paper watching porn) ogling little seven year old girls playing snakes and ladders, mentioning The Mowl as often as he can, and generally pulling your plums until you just want to give up and quit.

You stupid fucking cunts: if that's the best ye can do then ye deserve him.

Twenty seven visitors - all reading about Jambo's complete lack.

Of.

Anything.

At.

All.
 
See? Even by myself, I still outnumber you in every way that actually matters, Jambo.

Jimmy D - the plastic nationalist with a horn for Wolf.

How fucking SAD is that?
 
Bahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!



See?

That's how you do it, Jambo.

When you fuck with me - you fuckin' with the best.

Who put this thing together?

Me, that's who.

Who I trust - who I trust?

Me.
 
So it appears I have several new addresses: mainly the insides of the heads of all of Declan's minions, where I live rent free and have them writing poems to me, composing songs about the wonder that I am, and their uploading of tiny photos and stretching the pixels out so much nobody can see anything clearly. Apart from me, that is.



I see a gang-load of patrons of the infamous gay bar that is Arsefield's, full to the brim with lads/auld lads/blokes/geezers/buddies - all fascinated with the Mowl's life and general sense of how to enjoy it. Even today we can see thirty-plus lurkers hanging around, waiting for jaze knows what. But it's gas knowing that NOT A SINGLE DAY passes without me being the subject of their interest. All blokes too. Or at least male by appearance.

It's hard being loved by so many and it causes me to spread myself too thinly across so many slices of batch loaf in trying to accommodate you all.

But there's room on BBBB if you want to join the 9,187 members who already joined to check out my cheeky snarks about the sadness of life in Ireland.

What misery it must be seeing me have so much fun while you saddos can only look on in envy.

I'm flattered, really.

But sorry, boys: I'm straight - unlike you lot in your male exclusive gay bar, populated with the most loser Irish males to be found anywhere online.

You big fat shower of bennies.
 
Our Aussie friend doesn't seem to appreciate that unlike on Arsefield's, people here at Isle have a life. We also don't take ourselves too seriously as it's understood these sites are just talking shops, aka. you still get one vote at the end of the day irregardless of whether you spend your entire life whinging and ranting on internet forums...or more to the point - find a real hobby, you useless cretin.

Guest Chat - Guest Chat

It was Tony "The signing Priest" Walsh and he's still very much alive albeit behind bars. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tony_Walsh_(priest) Yeah see in Australia he'd probably not have survived long in the slabs. Rockspiders tend to meet untimely demises here.
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com


Go shove your tiny dick up a Kangaroo's arse.
 
David said:
Our Aussie friend doesn't seem to appreciate that unlike on Arsefield's, people here at Isle have a life.

Go shove your tiny dick up a Kangaroo's arse.
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I love the fact that the dopey Aussie Fish-lips writes up these long posts about all the stuff that happens here while trying to insinuate that he never looks at the site at all. That's Australian logic for you. Being from the land down under comes with a massive chip on the shoulder what with white Aussies being the descendants of murderers and rapists. On top of that they have to live with the crimes their own parents committed against the Aboriginals over the years.

Every generation of Australians inherit a guilt complex that'd leave your Catholic version in the shade.

If there was any shade to be found on the big giant desert - which there isn't, hence all the giant rats skipping and hopping around.

But yeah - Fish-paste is some right langer: his reply to Jambo is actually full of information I wasn't even aware of myself.

That's a clear sign of his rubbernecking this site on a regular basis looking to gain a little notoriety.

Sure there's fuck all else to do in Australia apart from listening to Men At Work over and over again.

I met the lads from INXS at a party after their gig at Le Rex in Paris years back. They were doing a theatre-scale tour even though they were huge at the time but they wanted to 'get back to their roots' and decided to play smaller venues so they could smell the sweat. I got backstage triple A passes from Hutchence's Irish gardener who tended his place down the south of France. They were shite. The sound was fucking horrible, even though the theatre has awesome acoustics. This all stems from Jon Farris using electronic drum-pads in place of acoustic drums. When digital drums are hiked up to the volume needed for a theatre, the sample sounds are as thin as a dying roo with just the one good leg. Nasty.

But they knew how to party.

Still, a pity your man Hutchence hung himself trying to get an orgasm off a door?

He had a few great songs, even if he was an awful slut.



I bet Fish-tits is also mad into that whole auto-eroticism thing: all you need's a leather belt and a standard door that's well hung.

David said:
Congratulations to Jambo on becoming Top Poster of [the] month.
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Quantity, not quality though.

David said:

David has been banned

www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com

You now have men's respect. Women will be throwing their knickers at you.
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Women like Saul Buckett and Sham Fish-gunk.

And their knickers:

Wet ones.

Sticky ones.

Holey ones.

See-through ones.

Ones that go from the hip down to the knee type ones.

Poor Fish-balls: can't even spell his own name, the big Australian mong.

 
It's posts such as the above which prove no amount of Arsefielders...even a thousand of them combined could ever write something as interesting, or as witty as the Mowl. They're a dull lot, constantly throwing out one-liner brain farts, while engaging in twitter spamming on an almost hourly basis.

They're a waste of space, and why Declan doesn't simply send them packing to Twitter I'll never know - wasting money which could otherwise be put toward the electric, gas or broadband bills....or perhaps one of his beloved trips to Rhode Island.

At least when Mowl, Roc and Lumpy have something to say it's interesting, and well worth the wait. It's what makes Isle worthwhile.
 
I see another storm's about to besiege Ireland.

What's with this lark of naming your rain?

Isha?

Who came up with that?

And why?

It's the fucking weather, not a sex symbol.

Up here we have minus fourteen by the sea but the skies are clear blue with zero clouds. The lads from the maintenance departments are all up on the rooftops shoveling the packed snow down onto the streets below: they use ropes to secure themselves and there's another lad down below making sure the pavements are cleared of passers-by. We have to get rid of the bigger piles up on the rooftops because over time they start to melt and drain over the edges of the gutters forming long sharp daggers of solid ice, some as big as two meters long and weighing ten to twenty kilos.

Get one of those hitting the top of your head and you'll be impaled on the pavement, they'd crack right through your skull.

Yes, it's happened lots of times. Nordic people by their nature tend to walk on the outside edge of the pavements during winter. Walking too close to the walls of tall buildings might well see you buried under a falling pile or else stabbed by a sharp icicle. The rooftops are fitted with guard rails so that heavy snow can gather along a metal frame that secures the snow at the edges of the roof. These are the rails the lads hit with the shovels and pikes to dislodge the snow when the piles are too heavy to allow stand.

But it's the icicles that do the worst damage.



It's beautiful out there today: there's been endless amounts of snow falling since November and I can't recall a winter as perfect as this one. Lots of crystal clear days with no cloud at all and still there's snow flakes falling gently through the air. Once the winds kick in, a temperature like minus ten will instantly drop to twice as cold, and every corner you turn the wind hits you in the face like a hammer.

But today it's a calm and peaceful as it could possibly be. Blue skies, bright sunshine that'd blind you in moments. It's magical watching snow falling in the sunlight. Jet planes way up the skies leave vapor trails that criss-cross the skies and stay in place for a long time before fading. When the planes landing at Helsinki/Vantaa airport bank towards the airport they catch the sun and reflect it back at me here in Arabia, miles away from their route.

It's a weird paradigm: sunshine and snow, severe cold with no wind chill versus the problem indoors we've been having with our thermostats and not being able to turn them down. It's ridiculously hot in here, and I have to open the balcony door to let some heat out every few hours. Indoor temperatures regulated by the city say that apartments needs to maintain an average of twenty-two degrees indoors. Except we've been dealing with an average of twenty-eight/nine for the last few months. New regulators have been ordered and will be delivered and fitted by the end of the month, or so they say.

Down at market square Hakaniemi last evening around 1500:



And out on the square half an hour later:



Beautiful days in Finland.

Even more wonderful at night with the snow reflecting the lights and stars above.
 
Storm Isha, given a name because the Irish need to name their enemies.



There's the lads from the ESB trying to erect an IKEA shed but failing miserably.
 


Here's a tip, Jambo: if it gets you all riled up and in need of an early tin of Dutch Gold whenever 'Wolf' * starts calling you a drunk, simply post something like: 'Mowl's a right fucking cunt' and hey - presto! It's all good between you two and the rest of the members. No matter how deep the shit you're in, saying something/anything about the Mowl will soon repair any rifts between you losers.

* what kind of sad bastard calls himself 'Wolf' anyway?​
 
So what's the deal with poor Wolfie here?

He's gay, right?



Who else but the lads who drink in The George would even know that pap like this even exists?

And ask him (Wolf - grrrr-grrrrr, etc) if they really call it 'The Boy George' whenever Panti Bliss is in town?
 
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