Arsefield's Hall of Shame
- Thread starter Electricity
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Screenshotted before Dan deletes 
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Should I get a Part Time Job.
The major differences between the US and Ireland is the ease of getting a job. if you want to work , you just get a job. I actually never meet anyone that is unemployed. So the question is. In my off season, say November through June, should I get a part time job. Say 4 eight hour shifts or 3...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Mowl
Member
Fucking hilarious really. Meanwhile, over on Val's mad channel: he's made a video based on his need to reply to many of his followers who post replies that he says are too long to answer. Too long to answer? Err, okay - moving along: he then refers to that deviant Cleary from Ballyfermot, who Val claims to have doxxed (Val, everyone knows my name - everyone) a couple of years back. The fact that everyone on the Irish internet scene knows my name since around 2007 hasn't dawned on him yet.
Video timestamped for accuracy:
Poor Val. He's still raging and moaning that there isn't a single video recorder on the entire planet that has a pause/record function.
As in: a pause button you can hit and the tape will stop/pause until you press record again. Like they have in VCRs since the 1970s. Like they have on 8mm cameras since the 1960s. Or 16mm cameras from the 1960s. But not any more, according to Val. It'd make you want to grab the stupid cunt by goolies and slap him back to his senses, if he ever had any. But yeah - Cleary and Slattery, two scruffs from Ballyer and Lucan (?) who he took on and won. In his tiny culchie fucking mind.
It's gas the way he does these 'right of reply' type uploads thinking no one notices him trying to big-up himself about his more popular videos. His ego is so huge and terribly fragile that he has to lie to himself about the simple facts everyone else takes for granted. For a start: Val, most of them are there to laugh at you. Not with you. At you. You're their after-dinner relax and giggle to get set on opening a few cans and smoking a few doobs. Even though you're just one man from Cavan, you're still the Cheech and Chong of evening spliffs.
Here's a small suggestion, Val: wash yourself daily, not every three weeks. Occasionally brush what few teeth you have left. Get a proper haircut, not another face-gashing chop-chop from the local sheepshagger shearer. Wear a clean shirt once in a while. Change your underpants twice daily. Change your jumper more frequently than every six months.
Utter fucking moron.
Video timestamped for accuracy:
Poor Val. He's still raging and moaning that there isn't a single video recorder on the entire planet that has a pause/record function.
As in: a pause button you can hit and the tape will stop/pause until you press record again. Like they have in VCRs since the 1970s. Like they have on 8mm cameras since the 1960s. Or 16mm cameras from the 1960s. But not any more, according to Val. It'd make you want to grab the stupid cunt by goolies and slap him back to his senses, if he ever had any. But yeah - Cleary and Slattery, two scruffs from Ballyer and Lucan (?) who he took on and won. In his tiny culchie fucking mind.
It's gas the way he does these 'right of reply' type uploads thinking no one notices him trying to big-up himself about his more popular videos. His ego is so huge and terribly fragile that he has to lie to himself about the simple facts everyone else takes for granted. For a start: Val, most of them are there to laugh at you. Not with you. At you. You're their after-dinner relax and giggle to get set on opening a few cans and smoking a few doobs. Even though you're just one man from Cavan, you're still the Cheech and Chong of evening spliffs.
Here's a small suggestion, Val: wash yourself daily, not every three weeks. Occasionally brush what few teeth you have left. Get a proper haircut, not another face-gashing chop-chop from the local sheep
Utter fucking moron.
Mowl
Member
So you admit that your wife's a cheap-assed slut who's been fucked senseless by most of the other dole-sponging cunts in Monaghan town center?
Have you no pride? You're not only raising another man's son as your own - you also taught him to be a professional burglar and violent beater of old Irish pensioners? Your life is one of a fucking kind alright - and thank fuck there isn't another culchie as thick as you are you spoofing 'my big brothers are in the IRA' and 'I'm a builder, I can handle bricks' lying little dog-shit.
I don't blame your wife though: I can imagine what it must be like for her watching you sit there all day grunting at your phone and trying not to say 'N**ger, N**ger, N**ger' out too loud too often. You're some sad bastard, Saul Bucket. Ever occurred to you how sad it is that you once had your tongue up my arse telling everyone how much you hated Roundy Kelly, and now you have your tongue up his ample arse telling him how much you hate me?
Special needs kids have more cop-on, you dumb culchie red-necked unemployable fucking dope.
Have you no pride? You're not only raising another man's son as your own - you also taught him to be a professional burglar and violent beater of old Irish pensioners? Your life is one of a fucking kind alright - and thank fuck there isn't another culchie as thick as you are you spoofing 'my big brothers are in the IRA' and 'I'm a builder, I can handle bricks' lying little dog-shit.
I don't blame your wife though: I can imagine what it must be like for her watching you sit there all day grunting at your phone and trying not to say 'N**ger, N**ger, N**ger' out too loud too often. You're some sad bastard, Saul Bucket. Ever occurred to you how sad it is that you once had your tongue up my arse telling everyone how much you hated Roundy Kelly, and now you have your tongue up his ample arse telling him how much you hate me?
Special needs kids have more cop-on, you dumb culchie red-necked unemployable fucking dope.
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Val doesn't know half as much about me as he likes to think, nor do Feeney & Co. As for going to my mother...I wouldn't even give a flying fuck if she cared, or not.
I'm just one of those individuals who couldn't care less what other people think of me - the Mammy included. Nonetheless any false allegations against me and I'll be gladly suing the scumbag/s for everything their worth, mark my words.
I'm just one of those individuals who couldn't care less what other people think of me - the Mammy included. Nonetheless any false allegations against me and I'll be gladly suing the scumbag/s for everything their worth, mark my words.
Mowl
Member
Val's as thick as two Val's glued together back-to-back.
He claims Roundy went to 'visit her at home.
I bet one clatter from her would land Roundy Kelly back into Ballina quicker than Concorde.
I care what people think of me - especially the users of these forums.
I care that they hate me, that they loathe, me, that they fear, and that they're hugely entertained by me even when they themselves are the butt of my jokes. Ans they are jokes. Like Val's 'funny' jokes.
I mean really: why would anyone need to inform a comment by clarifying it as 'funny' jokes?
They can say what they like about me: I'm still living a far better life than any of them are, no matter how many (spoof) millions they have in the (spoof) bank.
I am who I am and have been since I introduced myself to you all back in 2009 - name, location, profession, hobbies, habits, wit, accuracy, and hilarity.
Sixteen years ago - though just today Val says he doxxed me last year.
Excellent work, Val - really excellent.
Your dumb culchie followers must be thrilled with you for that one.
I know I am - you dumb and bovine old fart - get your teeth fixed, you tight fucker.
I'd rather have every last tooth in my head pulled without an anesthetic than think sexual thoughts of Val Martin.
As for him being a "conservative", he's nothing of the sort - more like your average rural cute hoor, gombeen, mé féiner, parish-pump opportunist...who talks the talk of ethnic nationalism yet would happily have over a few Albanians / Turks to pick spuds on the farm if it saved him a few shillings. Conservatives actually have principles, wishing to conserve societal traditions. Val cares about himself and himself alone.
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
As for him being a "conservative", he's nothing of the sort - more like your average rural cute hoor, gombeen, mé féiner, parish-pump opportunist...who talks the talk of ethnic nationalism yet would happily have over a few Albanians / Turks to pick spuds on the farm if it saved him a few shillings. Conservatives actually have principles, wishing to conserve societal traditions. Val cares about himself and himself alone.
Deleted posts and bans
Why is a post with a video of the Dublin riots being deleted, without any reason or even a notification? Why is a pixelated video of a Ukraunian being executed being deleted, without any reason or even a notification? Why are user bans then being issued for the above? Why are users allowed...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Lumpy Von Talbot
Member
I get in trouble sometimes for pointing out that peasants still exist (in all western countries) whereas people tend to think of them as something of the past. 'Val' is almost certainly an example of what I mean.
Mowl
Member
It's amazing that people as caustic and nasty/vile as the daily crew on Arsefield's are all religious men who attend the church, who go to confession, who take the body and blood at the altar, then come home and post the ugliest, most ungodly horrors of personal opinions and outlooks like there's no tomorrow.
The hypocrisy truly is astounding - but it does illustrate the true nature of Irish Catholics at their worst.
These guys find jokes about victims of child sexual/violent abuse genuinely funny.
Peasants isn't the half of it: they're scarecrows, mostly.
He's currently very big in Cavan :
As you can see, he topped the one million-plus views mark late last week, which I predicted last spring.
He found his métier, he's in his full stride just now, he's shaving and bathing less often though as filming himself talking about himself takes up a lot of his time. That and doxxing your man Cleary from Ballyfermot and the other lad, Slattery from Lucan. Val's convinced he's the man who doxxed me. Of course my name being thrown around on P.ie since 2009 hasn't quite dawned on him. And besides: how much snout does a cop need to find the single loudest mouth from Ballyfermot Dublin in Helsinki Finland, when I'm singing my name from the rooftops for over a decade?
But I still think he's a gas man: he may even run for office if he's allowed bring his cows with him.
The hypocrisy truly is astounding - but it does illustrate the true nature of Irish Catholics at their worst.
These guys find jokes about victims of child sexual/violent abuse genuinely funny.
Peasants isn't the half of it: they're scarecrows, mostly.
He's currently very big in Cavan :
As you can see, he topped the one million-plus views mark late last week, which I predicted last spring.
He found his métier, he's in his full stride just now, he's shaving and bathing less often though as filming himself talking about himself takes up a lot of his time. That and doxxing your man Cleary from Ballyfermot and the other lad, Slattery from Lucan. Val's convinced he's the man who doxxed me. Of course my name being thrown around on P.ie since 2009 hasn't quite dawned on him. And besides: how much snout does a cop need to find the single loudest mouth from Ballyfermot Dublin in Helsinki Finland, when I'm singing my name from the rooftops for over a decade?
But I still think he's a gas man: he may even run for office if he's allowed bring his cows with him.
Mowl
Member
Word to St Zipperneck: your filthy double-standards are as creepy and vile as ever. You wrap yourself in shit-stained robes and the smell of your wheelchair seat is what keeps normal humans at a safe distance. There are all kinds of people in this world, some are good and decent people, but there are so many like you, Zipperneck, that pure souls such as mine can do nothing to save you from yourself.
In time you'll realize the sheer waste you've made of your entire existence: that's really all it is, the bare minimum of breathing, eating, and shitting.
Even the part-time engineer and face model/extra/actor R0ry O'Connor of 101 Belfield Close, Sandyford Co Dublin can see your double standards and piteous efforts at meting out 'justice' via your golden ban-hammer. The acidic mongrel's vomit that constitutes your basic nature will wash away in time, but only for the rest of us. Never for you. You have to live with yourself, nobody else does though. And that makes me happy: you're a sad old man trying to be a virtuous young woman. There are few victims of the Catholic church quite as fucked up as you!
No matter what you say or do today, you'll sit over that first screen grab above and smile at your winnings. Finnish diabolism aside, you're entitled to them. Use me. Use my name if it helps you to feel better about yourself. Snigger after the fact. Then tonight when you lay down your laptop and consider your day and what it gave you, think of me sitting here on my balcony, listening to the waves lapping at the shore. The sun shining brightly across my tanned and sallow skin, fresh olives in my bowl, yesterday's oranges picked from the trees and crushed and pulverized with a measure of viina to give it some zest.
I sit here in the bright sun in the world's happiest country thinking of you all over there in the world's most fucked up little rape factory, trying to find the good in anything your minions lay at your feet. But there's nothing pure or fresh for any of you bar the guilt and shame that comes with laughing at broken and permanently damaged children - the children of your neighbours and friends. You mock their shattered souls. You find garrulous dark humour in the burning of innocence to flame a fire to warm your cold damp toes. It's pitiful really, and I do pity you. I always have.
Your life has been a complete waste of not just your own time, but also those who see you do what you do day after day. There are no weekends in your life, no days off, no holy days of obligation, because every day is like a cold wet Monday: as grim as it gets. When you woke this morning and saw what needed cleaning and what didn't, you smirked that knacker smirk only 100% muck-and-shit pure Irish blood can make. You're the child of cancer born to a crippled and wasted body. You take no steps toward anything because you have nowhere to go. You're stuck in a loop that's going to strangle you in the end. And the end for you will be just as now is for you: empty, worthless, to be filled in and forgotten as you limp sadly along to your next ego boost.
When you die, nobody will miss you bar the kind of people who fund the cesspools you call home.
After you've been buried, not even mongrel dogs would piss on your gravestone, because mongrels have more self respect than you've ever had.
You're universally disliked by anyone with half a brain who sees what you do: pity and disgust is the usual reaction, then loathing sets in after they've gotten to know even just a little about you. You sit there in the same underwear you put on last Tuesday, and the way you keep promising yourself that today you WILL take a shower to wash off the horrors of the last week of your existence, and that you WILL change your underpants before anyone else gets a waft of your person when they call by to deliver your meals on wheels cold suppers. You'll eat alone just as you shit alone, just as you are now: in the public toilet of life's wonders and disappointments.
Mongrel dogs, Zippy - they outclass you.
Fleas and ticks, Swordid: they serve a better and more positive function than you ever will.
You're the bacteria on the arse end of a sewer rat carrying rabies.
You'll be forgotten as soon as your cold heart quits its last beat.
But the Mowl will still be a working class hero, the one who got out in the nick of time to find joy and happiness in the same world you occupy but will never enjoy as I do. You serve a fat little man with empty pockets and a massive lying ego. You oversee some of the worst scum Ireland ever gave breath to. You congratulate yourself on all these things, you feel proud of them. They make your worthless and unproductive life go round and round, every day the same as the last. Horrid, disgraceful in the truest sense of the term, in cahoots with the worst vermin Ireland has ever produced.
I know how much you hate yourself - it's apparent in everything you do and say.
It pleases me greatly that this post will continue to occupy your twisted mind for the hours and days yet to come.
Monday, Monday, Monday: rain, drizzle, damp.
The wheels on your wheelchair groaning and wrenching to get away from you, trying to unseat you.
Next time you close your eyes and think of me, remember to try to smile as broadly as I am just now.
Happiness, Zippy - is for those of us with the courage to seek it out.
Misery is free, with second and third helpings also available.
In time you'll realize the sheer waste you've made of your entire existence: that's really all it is, the bare minimum of breathing, eating, and shitting.
Even the part-time engineer and face model/extra/actor R0ry O'Connor of 101 Belfield Close, Sandyford Co Dublin can see your double standards and piteous efforts at meting out 'justice' via your golden ban-hammer. The acidic mongrel's vomit that constitutes your basic nature will wash away in time, but only for the rest of us. Never for you. You have to live with yourself, nobody else does though. And that makes me happy: you're a sad old man trying to be a virtuous young woman. There are few victims of the Catholic church quite as fucked up as you!
No matter what you say or do today, you'll sit over that first screen grab above and smile at your winnings. Finnish diabolism aside, you're entitled to them. Use me. Use my name if it helps you to feel better about yourself. Snigger after the fact. Then tonight when you lay down your laptop and consider your day and what it gave you, think of me sitting here on my balcony, listening to the waves lapping at the shore. The sun shining brightly across my tanned and sallow skin, fresh olives in my bowl, yesterday's oranges picked from the trees and crushed and pulverized with a measure of viina to give it some zest.
I sit here in the bright sun in the world's happiest country thinking of you all over there in the world's most fucked up little rape factory, trying to find the good in anything your minions lay at your feet. But there's nothing pure or fresh for any of you bar the guilt and shame that comes with laughing at broken and permanently damaged children - the children of your neighbours and friends. You mock their shattered souls. You find garrulous dark humour in the burning of innocence to flame a fire to warm your cold damp toes. It's pitiful really, and I do pity you. I always have.
Your life has been a complete waste of not just your own time, but also those who see you do what you do day after day. There are no weekends in your life, no days off, no holy days of obligation, because every day is like a cold wet Monday: as grim as it gets. When you woke this morning and saw what needed cleaning and what didn't, you smirked that knacker smirk only 100% muck-and-shit pure Irish blood can make. You're the child of cancer born to a crippled and wasted body. You take no steps toward anything because you have nowhere to go. You're stuck in a loop that's going to strangle you in the end. And the end for you will be just as now is for you: empty, worthless, to be filled in and forgotten as you limp sadly along to your next ego boost.
When you die, nobody will miss you bar the kind of people who fund the cesspools you call home.
After you've been buried, not even mongrel dogs would piss on your gravestone, because mongrels have more self respect than you've ever had.
You're universally disliked by anyone with half a brain who sees what you do: pity and disgust is the usual reaction, then loathing sets in after they've gotten to know even just a little about you. You sit there in the same underwear you put on last Tuesday, and the way you keep promising yourself that today you WILL take a shower to wash off the horrors of the last week of your existence, and that you WILL change your underpants before anyone else gets a waft of your person when they call by to deliver your meals on wheels cold suppers. You'll eat alone just as you shit alone, just as you are now: in the public toilet of life's wonders and disappointments.
Mongrel dogs, Zippy - they outclass you.
Fleas and ticks, Swordid: they serve a better and more positive function than you ever will.
You're the bacteria on the arse end of a sewer rat carrying rabies.
You'll be forgotten as soon as your cold heart quits its last beat.
But the Mowl will still be a working class hero, the one who got out in the nick of time to find joy and happiness in the same world you occupy but will never enjoy as I do. You serve a fat little man with empty pockets and a massive lying ego. You oversee some of the worst scum Ireland ever gave breath to. You congratulate yourself on all these things, you feel proud of them. They make your worthless and unproductive life go round and round, every day the same as the last. Horrid, disgraceful in the truest sense of the term, in cahoots with the worst vermin Ireland has ever produced.
I know how much you hate yourself - it's apparent in everything you do and say.
It pleases me greatly that this post will continue to occupy your twisted mind for the hours and days yet to come.
Monday, Monday, Monday: rain, drizzle, damp.
The wheels on your wheelchair groaning and wrenching to get away from you, trying to unseat you.
Next time you close your eyes and think of me, remember to try to smile as broadly as I am just now.
Happiness, Zippy - is for those of us with the courage to seek it out.
Misery is free, with second and third helpings also available.
Swordid, Wolf, Saul, Mandy etc would pay good money just for Val & Dan to do The Full Monty. They certainly enjoy licking their arses and telling them it tastes like ice cream on a daily basis.
It's little wonder Val & Dan have such inflated egos when you consider the above.
It's little wonder Val & Dan have such inflated egos when you consider the above.
Mowl
Member
Can you even begin to imagine the grey and pink and red skin covered in little brown curly hairs that grow in small patches here and there on their loose bodies? The bald patches on their heads where the sun burns them one day and then the rain polishes them the next? The rolls of wrinkled fat around their sagging waists and the drooping musculature of their upper arms? Ten miles walks won't shift any of that flab and excess, not even one hundred mile dashes twice a day - it'd only give them heart attacks. That and men's nipples down to their belly-buttons.
But again - let's not overlook Val's recent successes - especially in that one video upload from last week where he mentioned Cleary up in Finland and Slattery down in Lucan. He's been waiting to do that for some years by now, so please don't tell him anything about my full name and address being published under Zippy's moderation on P.ie back in 2008.
He thinks he's Sherlock fucking Holmes.
Lapdogs act like lapdogs NEWS SHOCKER!
Val's entitled to his, but Roundy has to pay for his.
Big difference there and one that no doubt galls the shit out of Roundy, watching Val march way ahead of him in leaps and bounds.
Val can write a book about online fame one day - hell, maybe Jack might well make the call and invite him onto the Katie Hannon Show like he did me. I dropped him a line a few weeks back and he accepted the link to Reel Through
They obviously didn't make the connection between the Mowl and my public persona.
Not yet anyway.
The Ugly Mob and The Catholic Church
What Israel is accused of is unending. If 30% of the internet is devoted to porn, there must be 60% of it devoted to demonising Israel. But do you ever note who the loudest accusers are? If you're talking states, it is the world's worst human rights abusers who are loudest in these...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Hi Dave. How's the wife?
Mowl
Member
So now you know who's who, let me remind you of one thing, Reilly: Swordid works for me - not you. Now get back into your 1973 Corolla and clean your shit up. Living in your car at the end of runway one is all life has to offer you. That and going to English ale houses to use their toilets and drink their rancid plonk, like the scumbag gay-boy you are.
All your Sirs and Ma'am's mean fuck all to me, you typical knacker paddy-whacker.
No wonder everyone hates you.