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Hello, Girls..



Did you know that if you put the word Mowl into the search box on Arsefield's that you won't find a single day where the word isn't mentioned? Not one single day can you girls let go by without nodding in my direction. Then you have slavish half-wits like Wolfie banging on about homosexuals? Wolfie's a fucking gas: not only is the cunt as horrible as the day is long, he's obsessed with me now that his previous arch nemesis got booted off Arsefield's. Wolfie can't seem to get through a day without lashing out with some cheap foul-mouthed slags he picked up in his neglected childhood at anyone nearby.

Why does he hate everyone?

Is it because he's quite used to everyone hating him?

You guys need to get real lives. Me? I'm almost done with another apartment interior I've designed for a Finn who's returning to (of all places) Brisbane, and heard about my design work on the pad I did late last year for another crew. This time it's a four bed-roomed spread with own sauna that I've converted into a three bed with an office/studio space utilizing the spare room. The money is absolutely nuts, and the work is challenging but at the same time extremely satisfying.

You sad bastards spend all day every day nattering on to each other about nothing. You'll never get the time you put into Arsefield's back, though none of you gombs seem to realize it. By the end of this month I'll be deciding on a route to do some traveling in the sun. Also by the end of this month, you'll all be an average of 120/150 hours per week worse off for your time and input on the gay bar site. Think about that? Each week, every week, you lose one hundred and fifty hours slagging each other, day-dreaming about the Mowl, trying to wind up David by mentioning Athy as though you're all in on some grand scheme, and generally wasting your (already wasted) lives obsessing over minute details that'd bore the hoop off a sloth.

Ask yourselves: 'what's the point or purpose of my activities with this?'

Then take a look in the mirror.

Then a look at your bank balance.

Then a look on here to see what my latest antics are.

See?

Do you get it yet?

No?

Ah, sure give it another month - maybe the simple truth might have dawned on you by then. Or not. Most likely.

The bloke I'm designing the apartment for has been in Brisbane for four years. He and his family HATE the place, they DESPISE Australians, and he said he never met such a nation of mutts who knew fuck all about their (relatively short) history. Racists, bigots, casual Nazis, and hateful drunks. It's too fucking hot and too dusty. Some towns are thousands of miles away from the nearest other town, and the entire wasteland is hopping with giant rats covered in lice, tics, fleas, and likely rabies. He can't wait to get home, neither can the kids. They hate the place too. I guess they had an experience just like my own: the least overwhelming reaction to a country (literally and metaphorically) built on sand.

PS: what Jew are you referring to, Jambo?

I don't have any business with Jews, I've made my attitudes towards them absolutely clear: I don't hate ALL Jews, nor am I anti-Semitic. I simply despise the Jews I know and have dealt with - remember the several times I explained that to you? And it's still flown over your rather flat head? Fuck Jews. By the time their shitshow in the Palestinian desert is done, they'll be as hated across the world as they were in Germany in the 1940s. And I think that's right and proper. Fuck 'em. My singular hope is that some Arab extremist nukes the fuck out of them before they even know what's happening. One swift cleaning of the board, and any that survive can prepare cheeseburgers for your current boss, Roundy Kelly.

Also - I've no idea why you think I'd want to join Arsefield's either. Roundy has every reason to hate me and he does, and it makes me laugh. The poor roundy thing thought he was all tucked up nice and safe and could coral his minions via his one grand three-fiddy a year 'investment' in radicalizing Irish mutts the very stripe you find on his site. A sixty-seven year old roundy white culchie from Ballinasloe with a fake degree from Sligo University and a wife and kids who hate the cunt too. He thought he could get away with what he was doing up until I tore his sign down. He's had his chips. His cheeseburgers too. But apart from that all he has is a legacy that's as embarrassing as it is disappointing.

When I finally get the remaining details about your man Golan/Fido/Swordid/Zippy the male moderator in a golden bra and heels, then I'll show you once again who and what your apparent 'betters' are all about. Many thought Declan was a tough nut from Southie, an alpha male with tattoos and a few missing teeth from scrapping in the dive bars. But no. All you got was the sad and sorry truth: a roundy little culchie in a zippernecked cardigan, suit pants shining from the ironing, with a big roundy belly and short-arsed demeanour hiding behind an anonymous character he spent years designing only for me to tear down the wall and show you the clown behind the curtain.

I bet you fucking twats thought he was all that?

I bet some of you till do, regardless of the reality I shoved under your face.

Say what you like, Jambo: I'm still far better off in my life than you'll ever be in yours. Your addiction to these chat sites reminds me of the twats who were into CB radio back in the day. 'Breaker-breaker, anyone near the chipper? Over?' If you count up the average daily/nightly number of hours you've put into Arsefield's and then multiplied it by seven, then by three hundred and sixty five, then by another five - what do you get?

A better country for Irish people for all your efforts?

A better world in general, paragraph by paragraph?

What's the point of what you're doing? What good (or bad) does any of it actually serve? Take Saul Bucket? Now this twat spends an average of twenty hours a day on Arsefield's ranting and raving about this and that. Clarke/Connolly always LIKES what Saul posts and Saul always LIKES what CC posts. Grand so far, right? Now tell me: for all the LIKES and slags and jibes, what in the real world is the exponential effect of their sad efforts? A happier community? A better country? A more balanced and accepting world? A hotter heat from the sun and more moonlight from the moon? What then?

Nothing at all?

Sounds right to.

So the chances of me ever posting ON Arsefield's is zero, but that doesn't change what I said to Golan/Fido/Swordid/Zippy only two days ago. Ask him what was in the message I sent. Ask him how accurate I was about who and what he is? Ask him if he's beginning to worry about the hints I drop him in posts I wrote only for him to see and then discard - because there's no fucking way he's going to let me put a name and a face to his many fake female accounts. He's had his arse handed to him and he knows I'm on his tail - getting closer all the time. See, Zippy's too smug to realize he has more enemies than minions. While I have more informers and snitches than you could even dream of.

But sure keep it up, lads.

It's better all round for this world that you sad shower of losers only have each other (and man do you need each other) to argue with.

It keeps you all in the one pig-sty and well fed on slurry and other human waste.

And yeah: of course The Mowl is the one name you'll see repeated on Arsefield's day after day, that's exactly how things ought to be, see?

 

Guest Chat - Guest Chat

For the chimps around here who are a bit slow and still conflating coronavirus infection and vaccination fallout. Below concerns a study done on 7,500 individuals who caught Covid-19 before the vaccine was available in the UK...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com


Hi Mandy, how's your Mam...is she hanging out down by the docks much these days?
 
David said:

Guest Chat - Guest Chat

For the chimps around here who are a bit slow and still conflating coronavirus infection and vaccination fallout. Below concerns a study done on 7,500 individuals who caught Covid-19 before the vaccine was available in the UK...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com


Hi Mandy, how's your Mam.
Click to expand...

Likely has her head in between some fisherman's thighs, sucking for her supper.

David said:
..is she hanging out down by the docks much these days?
Click to expand...

She's like a statue to herself - all day every day, waiting for her boat to come in.

All that comes is another smelly fisherman - in her gob.

Terrible slut, Missus Feeney.
 
David said:
I wonder will Mandy ever discover which sailor was his father?
Click to expand...

I'd say there's around seven hundred odd Russian fishermen who might all lay claim to begetting the little runt.

He's a walking pimple, an ad for acne.

David said:
There must have been at least a thousand or so of them hanging around Galway harbour the night he was conceived.
Click to expand...

Spanish Arch is another 'dogging' hot-spot for Irish slappers like Mandy's auld hoor.

And as for Val's ego?

Pahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaa!



You're only making a fool of yourself, Val - in the end you're going to realize your mistake long after it being much too late.

Get help, any sort at all: dentist, shrink, general practitioner, astrologist, scientist - they'll all tell you the same thing.

You're an imbecile.

 
Nice try.



But no cigar.

While I appreciate the few hours it took you to try (but fail) to mimic my writing style, you come across as too laboured - you're trying too hard to capture the nuance that's natural to me as a writer. My actual style of writing draws the reader in; it's not a shouty political speech in the manner yours is, but rather a paean to the soul of the reader, a means to allow them to identify themselves through my phrasing.

Now, I'm well aware of the awe you saps on the gay bar site have for The Mowl's adventures in general, but if you're going to try to cod people that you're me, then at least use an avatar that reflects my own, and don't forget to verb me while you're at it. In Ireland, being verbed is an ancient tradition, one which reflects the nature of the person being verbed as one who stands taller than anyone near. You have names like Michael Joseph O'Rahilly, better known to culchies as The O'Rahilly in English. Monaghan man Seamus 'The Banty' McEnaney is another, though he is (like most Monaghan in-breds) a rather thick culchie with the big jug-handled ears, a scalpy haircut, and a tone of voice that could strip the paint off a nuclear reactor.

So all in all I'd give you a four out of a possible ten.

Three deducted for forgetting to verb me, and three more for the lack of a picture of a fresh-faced little angel baby infant.

I use that type of image to remind you industrial quality yobs that I am at heart a pure and innocent angel myself.

So long as you don't get on my wick, in which case you'll find yourself down a hole not dissimilar to Declan Kelly's present location.

The Mowl's writing style is known by every blogger ever born in Ireland as being uniquely outstanding, as well as my own people who happily joined my site to read my opinions on how miserable life is for Irish people IN Ireland and by now there's 9,786 people waiting for my next article. They don't care how long it takes until I do fling something up, but word of mouth brings them in by the dozen a day.

On Arsefield's you have Val fucking Martin and Jambo - neither of whom can write a sentence without mentioning The Mowl.

Being verbed is of course an honour for any Irishman, but actually being The Mowl is even better.

Try harder lads, it's a few hours yet until Dutch Gold hour, but I'll forgive you having a sixer for now and a full slab later.

Sure there's fuck all else to do in Ireland these days, eh..

​

 
To think someone is sad enough to spend half an hour of their precious time (which they'll never get back) to convince others they're the Mowl...when even the dumbest Arsefielder wouldn't fall for it. The reference to the bus conductor makes me think it's Dan behind it. That and the grammar, paragraphing, calm demeanour would seem to point in that direction. It certainly wasn't highly strung Feeney with his bad grammar / predictable childish name-calling.

Note to Dan, get a life. Either that or just admit you're jealous of the Mowl's bohemian lifestyle and access to beautiful women, in a beautiful and cosmopolitan European capital city known as Helsinki. Unlike you who's stuck in boring suburban Massachussets, in the arsehole of nowhere, stuck with a wife who probably hates your guts / is cheating on you at every opportunity.

Your repeated attempts at portraying Boston as some bastion of culture and history are also lame and pathetic. Maybe in comparison to other American cities (the sunbelt in particular). But by European standards Boston is quite frankly a run down shithole. What person in their right mind who had the opportunity would chose to live in Boston over say a European metropolis such as Paris, Amsterdam, Venice, Florence, Helsinki, Copenhagen etc? Even cities in the poorest of Eastern European countries are worth visiting and exploring by comparison.

But if it makes you content then by all means continue to convince yourself that moving to Boston was the greatest decision of your life, or something to be envied by others. Perhaps it's understandable you've nothing better to do than spend half the day pretending you're the Mowl considering there's fuck all else to do in suburban America...bar of course sitting around on your computer all day. Perhaps if you resided in say - Barcelona, then your mind would be too occupied with the real world, the sights and the smells. The fake Mowl post wasn't in the least bit funny. Even the dumbest among your regular clientele would see through it.
 
Jaze, I see the guys over on the gay bar site had a very productive Friday night in.

One of them wrote seven chapters of a book about me, and another one some poems.

Talk about gay?
 
Facebook statistics has reported that the page for The Senators Of Helsinki has had one hundred and seventy-six views since midnight last night.

All from Ireland.

??
 
Well, you lads over on Arsefield's certainly do live very full lives, eh.

The whole weekend writing poems and other short stories about David and I?

How fulfilling that must be.

And as for this roundy little cunt?



:ROFLMAO: 🍗🍔🌭🌮🍟🍕🍖🥪🥙🍔🍪:ROFLMAO:

Declan, you can hike twenty miles uphill and you'll still be roundy when you crawl back down again. You can go three weeks without eating any cheeseburgers but you'll still be a fat cunt no matter how long a break you take. Two ten mile walks a day? You said that. Ten miles, twice a day? How far away is your local cheeseburger joint? It wouldn't happen to be ten miles away, would it?

There's nothing an old man in his late sixties can do about fat. It's way too late. Your entire fat little roundy body is already well past it's sell-by date. You'd be better off just enjoying the few dozen cheeseburgers a day and waiting for death to come for you. Even if you ran a marathon a day every day for a year you'd still be roundy. And short. What height are you, by the way? And do you measure yourself in inches or centimeters? How about your weight? And don't be trying to tell me you have 'big bones' either, you fat fuck.

That's the main reason you hate me, isn't it?

That I'm slim and in excellent shape? And young. And adventurous?

And what are you?

A fat and roundy little van driver whose wife just loves the big black cock, eh.

A cheeseburger munching fatso culchie with a culchie accent and a flab of fat hanging over your pants belt?

No wonder your pig-ugly wife won't fuck you - though from what I hear about your daughter you may be in with a chance with her, no?

Anyway, you can starve yourself for a month - you'll still be a fat cunt.

You can jog to the moon and back, but you'll still be roundy.

And old.

Any solutions for the age thing?

No? You thought a diet might make you look younger?

Declan, a head transplant wouldn't alter a damned thing about you or your excess fat and flab.

You were born with the fat gene - just look at your avatar photo? That photo was taken thirty-odd years ago, and you were fat then - just as you are now. Except now you're older and your old bones are brittle. All that sitting in the van queuing for cheeseburgers and coke took its toll. Ever wondered who's fucking the Missus? Ever asked her? If I was in your shoes it's certainly something I'd consider very carefully. But then I'm not you, or even like you. Fat. Old. Past it. Shrinking by the month. Getting smellier every passing day as your nose goes deaf to the fog around you.

The smell that emanates off you has a sound to it: not quite a bell, but something like that - a loud humming buzz, like flies on shite.

Those suit pants of yours, the ones you keep ironing but never washing? Ever considered trading them in for a smock? Or one of those long yokes the Muzzies wear? No? Maybe they don't make them that big, eh?

I'd give you a 99/1 chance of succeeding in not eating anything for twenty minutes.

Fat is your only real friend, Declan.

Not even your wife can stand the sight of you without your zippernecked cardigan on, never mind the kids. Hasn't Eric ever mentioned it? Your fat? I mean, the lad isn't a complete fucking thicko, he managed to get a used car out of you, even if the wife was pissed you spent her money on him instead of her. Would you not consider giving her some fresh flowers and taking her out for a nice dinner? And NOT at the cheeseburger joint either, cunty. She probably dreads the idea of being seen in public with you in tow, struggling to breathe and keep up as she tries to get away from you in a crowd. Like the rest of us she can probably smell you before she sees you. She has that sort of face on her: a permanent look of disappointment and frustration. The sort of face only a flying brick could alter. But it's her legs that make me laugh: she looks like she just got off a horse. Or out from under one, depending on her levels of excitement and lust.

When did you stop loving her, but?

Was it when her Ma finally died and left her the clapboard gaff down by the pond? With the flies everywhere, the smell of stagnant water and dog poo? Were you expecting that her Ma was actually going to leave YOU anything in her will? I mean apart from the mental scars of having to wash her hole for her when she was at the dribbling stage of a slow and boring death? What was it like being a nurse to an old timer her age? Did you find yourself hallucinating cheeseburgers talking back to you when she started in on one of her mad rants under the rage of another bout of the auld Tourette's?

'Cheeseburger. Cunt!

Fuck.

Ass.

Piss.

Piss in the ass.

Fuck!

Fuckkkkkk!!'

Poor Declan: as roundy as the round window and as fat as Laurel AND Hardy together.

A seven day diet would kill you after twenty-six minutes flat, Roundy - give it up.

You haven't a fucking chance, you useless van-driving cheeseburger-lover.
 
This bit.

This bit is where you fucked it up:



It reads that you're saying my parts and I'm saying yours.

Pretty fucking lame, eh?

You wouldn't happen to be that Fish-flat bloke from Australia, would you?
 


A 'loving wife and children'?

Declan?

K(Sm)elly??

You've obviously never been married - or even had a fuck buddy, have you? Moron.

His Missus hates him. The kids are mortified by him, especially when their school mates call by and Declan's semi-naked in the kitchen leaning over the handles of an electrically powered treadmill in his pissy old man y-fronts while eating slices of beef carved off the bone from the open refrigerator door he's gasping the cool air from. Closer to death than most cadavers.

And as for:

'...at least Dan has a loving wife and children to come home to, unlike someone who seems to find solace in the solitude of their library internet...'

Yeah.

Two things.

One: people pay to give me a platform to post on.

Two: Declan Kelly ('s wife) pays one thousand three hundred and seventy dollars p/a on his gay bar to host some of the worst scum Ireland ever shat out.

That's $1,370 per year, to host a gang-load of you swine on Boston's faggot central and still you guys can't ruffle so much as a feather on my well-worn wings?

All this costs me is laughter, and lots of it.

Tell you what: why not go home, grow up, get married, then tell us all about coming home to 'a loving wife and children'.

You utter fucking moron.
 
Seems I've triggered the inner Mowl in several Irish bloggers, all of whom - as my ex-wife used to say - are turning gay just looking at me.

It's been that way for years, but I'll still never get used to it.

Next they'll be writing poems about me.
 
The stupidity of Irish people never ceases to amaze me.

www.thejournal.ie

Poll: Will you use the new deposit-return scheme to get rid of empty cans and bottles?

It’s part of efforts to reduce litter and increase the amount of materials that get recycled.
www.thejournal.ie www.thejournal.ie

Reading the comment stream gives you an idea of how completely fucking thick most Irish gobshites are. This system has been in effect across the Scandinavian and Nordic regions since the year dot. It's very simple: you buy the products you want, your receipt will show you the deposit value on any bottles and cans eligible for return. So you consume/use the product and instead of throwing the bottle/can away on the street, you instead keep it and any other eligible containers and return it/them via the code-reading deposit/return machine in the supermarket lobby or interior.

Finland has stopped placing them inside supermarkets and leaving them in the malls instead. Empty cans and bottles attract flies. Masses of little midges during summertime. The machines are washed clean at night but it doesn't stop the flies/midges returning as they feed off the remnants of the contents. So they're usually next to the main door in the lobby for convenience.

Some people (kids/students/drunks/unemployed) collect any vessels they spot when out and about and return them for the petty cash. At major city outdoor events, whole teams and families (usually Roma) rake the area clean of cans and bottles, collecting them by the sackful and they take the other rubbish with them to gain an edge from the crowds who'll reward them with all their cans and bottles for cleaning up.

Nothing goes to waste, the less well-off can get some instant cash, and the entire area is cleaned by the collectors and the council staff.

But reading the comments attached to the article above shows you how fucking dumb Irish people can be.

They can't seem to get their head around the concept of deposit/use/return in even the simplest terms.

Every product has a bar code, right?

The vessel returns machine reads the bar code, right?

It tells you how many and of what type vessels you just returned.

It adds up the fees and the total is credit you can claim as cash from the supermarket or use against the price of your daily shopping.

33cl can = 15c
50cl can = 15c
33cl bottle = 10c
75cc wine = 10c
1ltr plastic bottle = 40c
2ltr plastic bottle = 40c

Most outlets have at least two returns points, but you cannot redeem the deposits of non-Finnish shops/brands from outliers like Lidl and Aldi. In those shops, they have their own return machines for their own bar codes. I rarely use them and prefer to support Finnish shops. But if there's a big event on, a weekend festival with live music in the parks, then the teams of families of the Roma community or even the student's union will be at your service collecting any vessels you don't want. The kids sometimes do it too, just for some extra pocket money.

In Ireland's case, you guys need this shit SO bad it's hard to understand why Paddy and Bridget are so fucking thick about it. Ireland is a notoriously dirty country. Rubbish strewn all over the place. No sense of civic duty or national pride. No sense of responsibility. Immature and wasteful. Unsophisticated. Piss stinking streets and lane-ways you have to close down rather than renovate. Bottles and cans blowing around in the breeze. Filthy bird-life like pigeons and seagulls, covered in fleas and other rancid bacteria, trying to grab your food from your hands. Shit and piss everywhere. Spitting, endless fucking spitting. What's that about? Why do Irish shams keep spitting every few seconds?

You poor twats, you haven't a clue really - have you?

Even the simplest of things that require you to take responsibility for yourself seems to fly over your heads in your pathetic indigence at anyone asking you to act more civically and maturely with your waste products. You're like children. Idiot kids who spend their school day in the dunce's corner. A whole generation behind the rest of the normal world, all waiting for you slow cunts to catch up.

You're fucking useless really.

Thank fuck you're all out on a dismal island in the Atlantic Ocean.
 
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