Mowl
Member
I'm sure they would if they could. These fuckers are simply lazy yaps who love to let off steam by convincing each other that they're actually soldiers, friends, team-mates of a sort. Like the extremist wing of a gang of fools who don't know what they're fighting for. 'Send them all back' you say? Keep Ireland for the Irish you say? It's already your island, you're just not very good at protecting her borders. You seem to think that part's someone else's fault. It isn't. It's yours, all of you. As individuals, as collectives. Or were you twats under the impression that the events of the period 1916 through 1922 were fought by mythical warriors of old? The Tuatha Dé Danann? Cú Chulainn? Fuck no: these were ordinary men during an extraordinary time. They ate, drank, farted, slept, and breathed just like you do. They had families around them: brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers. They lived in a very difficult time of Ireland's history, and they did what needed to be done not because they were mythical heroes, but because they were simple men. Like any other. Like you - perhaps.
But where they differed was that they were also men of action. These were not men who sat around reading fantasy tales of wealth and power. These were men of the dirt who knew how bad they and their neighbours had it. Who saw the culture of the country being ravaged before their eyes. They took up arms to defend what they believed to be their own. The ground beneath their feet. The sunlight that ripened the barley. The winds that carried the news of more and more dead, enslaved, treated with contempt. All of it. It belonged to them and to others of their kind.
In time the generations that followed ultimately delivered you bastards to the world, and for as long as you've been here, nothing's improved and everything's far worse than it really ought to be. Under your watch, not mine. I did my bit long before I got out. By the time I was thirteen, men went to prison because of me, and others of my kind. Salt of the Earth people. Morally aware and unwilling to stand in line. I did what I had to do and it showed me exactly what Ireland truly is. Which is why I'm much happier today than any of you tramps will ever be. You built your house with hate, filled them with loathing, and you poisoned your kids and turned them into destructive thieving parasites with nothing left to believe in. They have no sense of who they are, where they're from, or what their true culture really is. As parents, you're the ones ultimately responsible for not just those kids' past - but their future. And you're shitting all over them day after day.
What if James Connolly or Padraic Pearse decided that, instead of heading up a revolution and causing their families no amount of shame and embarrassment around the parish pump, they were going to stay home and play tiddlywinks? Where would you be now? What if the Irish Civil war hadn't created the fractured patterns of Fianna Fail and Fine Gael? Who and what would you be following or supporting today? These things happened because real and true Irish men stood up on their own two feet and made it happen. They didn't spend years sending messages back and forth to each other reminding each other what great heroes they are for 'wanting things to be different' and telling each other what great men they are.
You twats sit on your arses day after day, repeating the same tired old lines about comradeship, shared visions of freedom and great riches made off the land. By comparison to the great Irish men of one hundred years ago, you cretins are the spastic vermin which should have been confined to the abortion bucket. You should have been plucked from your mother's womb while she was alive to see it. The Ireland you're presently sucking off is a cheap whore with rank diseases, and you've only gone and infected not just yourselves, but your kids along with you. The older you get, the more they're going to loathe you, wish you were dead, wish you were gone so that they can take some compensation for the misery you dumped on their shoulders by selling off everything you ever worked for. Which ain't much, boys. Expect to be 'accidentally' poisoned. Expect to be accidentally nudged down the stairs. Expect them to sit you down to have a wee chat about why euthanasia is a wonderful option for people your age, a great freedom you battled for and won. Expect your own victory to be the death of you.
Because yours is the single worst/most useless generation your country has ever seen. Yours is the one generation that had it all in the palms of your hands but you flushed it all away like yesterday's left-overs. You have nothing left to offer your children. You're spending their inheritance on lottery tickets and on horses down the bookies. Gambling away the one good thing you had to stand to you after your time is up. And they can see you doing it. They know exactly what's coming down the line for them because of it, and they know exactly who's to blame. They can barely contain their rage and loathing even now, and over time that's only going to increase. When they stop to consider your life and your achievements by your age, by when you were born through to when you died, by what you saw, what happened on your watch, the world as it was in your time, and what you did or didn't do about it - they'll be angry. They'll be raging.
It's already started, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Like a snowball gathering weight and speed, like an avalanche moving faster than the speed of sound, there's nowhere to hide, no safe perch on the fence. The cracks are beginning to show and like melting ice under your feet, it'll eventually crack and pull you under, swallow you whole.
You may find yourselves considering Feeney's bullshit yesterday about how you're all going to simply walk away when things get too tough, become too hard to fix, change, alter, or cut to fit. That emigration to 'safe havens' like Norway, Iceland, and Finland are actually an option? You fucks are dumber than a sack of bent wrenches. None of these are options for you - not a one. You speak only one language. You're too old to start afresh. There's nothing for you in any of these places. These are some of the world's most difficult and complex cultures in which to assimilate. I know, I've been through it. Take it from me: not one of you sad bastards has a fucking hope in hell of getting off that shitty little island and into any of the western world's most successful republics and democracies.
You think Norway needs you? They have the oil, you don't. A beer costs around fifteen euro average. Do you speak any Norwegian? What do you think is your best qualification that they can put to use? Ever been to Reykjavik? Ever sat naked in a thermal pool atop a glacier? Speak any Icelandic? Like Bjork? What have you to offer Iceland? Can you fish for whale? Find a revolutionary use for all that snow and ice? Or were you planning on using up your life savings retiring into the Nordic life?
These countries don't need you. They don't want you. They don't give a flying fuck what your best intentions are either - because you have precisely nothing whatsoever to offer them. They'll turn you around and send you home while trying not to laugh at your preposterous stupidity in imagining they have a warm welcome waiting for you because you're Irish? Excuse my laughter - but you're just too fucking idiotic for anything else.
You really haven't thought any of this through, you utter losers. Nobody wants any of you. The entire planet knew the Ireland of old as a rather different kettle of fish to the one that exists now, along with the people on it. Nobody wants to take any of you in. Nobody needs you, not even your own kids. They're watching you watching everything fall apart. They're wondering why you don't do something, anything, before it's too late. That'll only bring them closer to the idea that you're a dead weight; steerage at best. They can replace you with any inanimate object of weight. You're nothing more than a liability and unnecessary expense on their already over-burdened lives. When they glance at the clock to check the time, it's with you in mind: they're counting down the last seconds of your miserable lives. The same misery you'll leave them in your last will and testament.
That's why they loathe you.
That's why they want you gone.
So they can make their own mistakes - not spend eternity trying to fix yours.
Time's up, Lads - finish your drinks, and don't let the door hit you in the arse as you leave.
Last edited:
