roc_abilly
Member
Ah, I see. The old celebrity bathtub claims yet another victim.
Chat 🔥🤬General Chat Thread
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Mowl
Member
Your son Dave's in a bit of a state.
You might at least call him and check if he's alright - last seen he was pulling rats out of a cloth sack and searching for his Missus.
If he isn't doing too well, try two slabs of cider: when he's napping in the sofa, you climb up a ladder and drop both slabs into his snoring gob and see if he wakes. If he starts bleeding, don't worry - that just shows that he's still alive.
Mowl
Member
The wonderful feminist Nell McCafferty has died aged 80, a great run for a unique woman of substance and acidic retort. My own Mam was on the train back in the early seventies and many of that generation who are still with us will remember a time in Ireland when the church ran the show. Not on Nell's ground, mind you. She took no prisoners, she took no shit, and when she aimed and fired - she hit the target. Usually it wasn't the target you thought was the target. No, quite often she hit the hidden target, and in doing so put a rat up the ass of everyone she was trying to educate.
I can barely remember meeting her once at least with my Mam, who was a stage actress in her earlier days. Nell was at the pre-production show in the old Player's building along the SCR and she and my Mam, along with a Labour Party candidate from Ballyer and close friend of my Mam, Mrs Anne McStay: mother to thirteen children in a two bed house sat for tea and talked about women's rights of the day. All I remember is this big strong and loud woman with a vaguely musty scent off her. She had a wicked grin that she wore when tearing people a new arse and them not knowing anything about it until they'd already been taken for a ride. One of a kind for sure. I've a copy here of her collected short stories 'The Best Of Nell' with an introduction from Eavan Boland. Like another great Irish journalist and author, Gene Kerrigan of the Independent, she could load every sentence with buckshot and still hit every target without wasting even one pellet. Caustic, acidic at times, yet so tender and caring and loving for Irish women and their children under the Roman Catholic Church. Nell, my Mam, and many other concerned Irish ladies set to tearing down the edifice of the church state, and it was their generation who caused the cracks to form. It was our generation who were expected to hammer home the final blows.
That was the train that set in motion my own experiences of seeing the church/state for what it was, and the various orders too. Fr Anthony Walsh was still doing his worst when I gave evidence about what I'd seen in my school and in my area. My Dad courted me through all of it and my Mam was there when the day was done. The years passed, Walsh went down for twenty-odd years and I later left Ireland because Ireland doesn't forgive - especially not when your shot hits the target. Many Irish children know already that there's no place for us, that if we stay after taking a shot and hitting the target, then the friends of the friends of the accused will hold a grudge until the day they die. I knew that before I was out of my teens, there's neither forgiveness nor forgetting. These institutions have long histories, much power and influence, wealth, determination, and evil in their ranks.
Sleep well, Nell.
RIP
I can barely remember meeting her once at least with my Mam, who was a stage actress in her earlier days. Nell was at the pre-production show in the old Player's building along the SCR and she and my Mam, along with a Labour Party candidate from Ballyer and close friend of my Mam, Mrs Anne McStay: mother to thirteen children in a two bed house sat for tea and talked about women's rights of the day. All I remember is this big strong and loud woman with a vaguely musty scent off her. She had a wicked grin that she wore when tearing people a new arse and them not knowing anything about it until they'd already been taken for a ride. One of a kind for sure. I've a copy here of her collected short stories 'The Best Of Nell' with an introduction from Eavan Boland. Like another great Irish journalist and author, Gene Kerrigan of the Independent, she could load every sentence with buckshot and still hit every target without wasting even one pellet. Caustic, acidic at times, yet so tender and caring and loving for Irish women and their children under the Roman Catholic Church. Nell, my Mam, and many other concerned Irish ladies set to tearing down the edifice of the church state, and it was their generation who caused the cracks to form. It was our generation who were expected to hammer home the final blows.
That was the train that set in motion my own experiences of seeing the church/state for what it was, and the various orders too. Fr Anthony Walsh was still doing his worst when I gave evidence about what I'd seen in my school and in my area. My Dad courted me through all of it and my Mam was there when the day was done. The years passed, Walsh went down for twenty-odd years and I later left Ireland because Ireland doesn't forgive - especially not when your shot hits the target. Many Irish children know already that there's no place for us, that if we stay after taking a shot and hitting the target, then the friends of the friends of the accused will hold a grudge until the day they die. I knew that before I was out of my teens, there's neither forgiveness nor forgetting. These institutions have long histories, much power and influence, wealth, determination, and evil in their ranks.
Sleep well, Nell.
RIP
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roc_abilly
Member
Seconded, Mowl. R.I.P.
Recalling a touching little piece of writing of hers:
"... God send John a job; God send Jackie and Rosaleen a house; Holy Mother of God look down on Peggy in America and Leo in England; Jesus and His Blessed Mother protect Mary that's going out with a sailor...".
Well, things haven't changed that much.
Recalling a touching little piece of writing of hers:
"... God send John a job; God send Jackie and Rosaleen a house; Holy Mother of God look down on Peggy in America and Leo in England; Jesus and His Blessed Mother protect Mary that's going out with a sailor...".
Well, things haven't changed that much.
roc_abilly
Member
Oh no, how long was he left to binge watch Morboing, Doods and Nugget with no other outlet?
All Twitter-spam goes in the below thread from now on.
islepoli.com
X / Telegram etc
By the way, I saw this clip on Telegram recently and I couldn't help but be reminded of @roc_abilly. It's a clip taken from a rather long stream with The Distributist, Wokal Distance and some moderator. I wouldn't know much about any of them, a little bit about The Distributist, who's not a WN...
islepoli.com
Mowl
Member
He's probably sitting in an armchair, bones and gristle hanging off his bottom lip, slavering and casting about like a madman.
I'd imagine Jambo would find quitting crack easier than posting his trio of doom like he's one of the gang rather than some slavering lapdog.
All Twitter-spam goes in the below thread from now on.
X / Telegram etc
By the way, I saw this clip on Telegram recently and I couldn't help but be reminded of @roc_abilly. It's a clip taken from a rather long stream with The Distributist, Wokal Distance and some moderator. I wouldn't know much about any of them, a little bit about The Distributist, who's not a WN...
Jambo should take a high-dive into it like a true daredevil - hop off a seventy meter tall cliff right into Keith Woods' arsehole.
Woods wouldn't even notice, would he?
Wait, would Woods what? Why? Where, in the woods? When would he? Why would he? Who? Woods? Would HE? Who? Woods would. Woods would what? Where was Woods? Which woods? When? Why, etc, etc...
Damn this is good weed.
Mowl
Member
A few years back I got into a row with a bunch of Turkish lads in a bar. The big mouth of the gang kept calling me 'Irish' as in: 'hey, Irish - c'mon man, it's a just a spilled beer' and 'hey, Irish - take it easy Bro'. So I turned and looked him in the eye and said: 'hey, Turkey - fuck you and your fucking beer'.
'Hey, Irish - no need to be offensive, man.
'Hey, Turkey - go mix some gravy - you big Sunday dinner'.
'Don't call me Turkey, man'.
'What should I call you, chicken?'
This is why I never go Irish pubs abroad: they're full of Irish idiots and chicken-licking foreigners.
'Hey, Irish - no need to be offensive, man.
'Hey, Turkey - go mix some gravy - you big Sunday dinner'.
'Don't call me Turkey, man'.
'What should I call you, chicken?'
This is why I never go Irish pubs abroad: they're full of Irish idiots and chicken-licking foreigners.
Lumpy Von Talbot
Member
I always go to Turkish barbers. They serve a proper apprenticeship. It is a bit like barmen in ireland, the old barbers of Turkey. Same with Cypriots. Handy trade, like, hardly likely to run out of business and all you need you can carry around with you without needing a van.
Yuk Yuk Yolla.
Yuk Yuk Yolla.
Lumpy Von Talbot
Member
There will never be another revolution in Ireland until such time as Mna Na hEireann give permission for it. Until 'don't be making a holy show of us in front of the neighbours' becomes 'why are you sitting there just moaning?'
Mowl
Member
The fun part about that is that the Turk's only do one style of haircut. I mean, in North Korea every barber's shop has a poster they stick up on the wall with eight slightly different styles of hair, of which you get to pick one and then live with it until next time. That they're all pretty much the same cut, training to become a barber in North Korea takes about forty minutes.
What I love about these Turkish lads is the joke they're puling off day after day in Ireland. The classic hipster style, which is - without a shadow of
The cut is what it is because when Jamal the happy Muslim puts on his head-rag, the clean shaven area from nostril height to eyebrow height is where the rag is tied tight to his skull - and having hair under it tends to tickle and tug, depending which way you turn your head. I say your head, but you know I mean Jamal's head.
Irish hipster's walk around utterly oblivious to the sniggers of his Muslim neighbours who find his cuckolded hairstyle highly hilarious.
Half of those fucking dopes you see parading up and down O'Connell Street protesting Jamal, his religion, his language, his big fuck-off machete, and his haircut, are all star-struck by their apparently 'Oirish' hairstyles - and they feel good in it because every other (non bald) bloke has one. No wonder Jamal and the lads can't stop laughing at poor Paddy. Neither can the Turks, who are selling Islam to Ireland by the pound.
Mowl
Member
That's exactly the same reaction I had to the Finnish dish of Mämmi, a traditional meal around Easter time which the entire nation scarfs down like custard. The mere look of it, let alone the smell, is enough to turn this boy's tummy over and make it run like the clappers. Apparently, when the Russians came over the border in 1938, they found the Finns eating this stuff - they assumed they were eating their own shit, so they backed slowly out the door they just came in and disappeared back into the wilds. It's made of yeast, or so they said - I couldn't confirm that as there's no fucking way it's make it past my palate.
The only Irish equivalents I can think of would be giving the kids a spoonful of castor oil or a bowl of sago before heading to school in winter.
Vile foods that sit on the tongue and can't be swallowed without a massive heave returning the whole lot back into the bowl it just came from.
Porridge does that to me too - like gruel of some kind, my stomach refuses point blank to host it so it's spat back out with severe prejudice.
The only Irish equivalents I can think of would be giving the kids a spoonful of castor oil or a bowl of sago before heading to school in winter.
Vile foods that sit on the tongue and can't be swallowed without a massive heave returning the whole lot back into the bowl it just came from.
Porridge does that to me too - like gruel of some kind, my stomach refuses point blank to host it so it's spat back out with severe prejudice.
That might explain why he's so angry all the time?