Arsefield's Hall of Shame

[Mowl]

General Election 2024 day in Ireland.

Meanwhile, on planet Jambo:

'...nationalism, ethnocentrism, Jamboism, Dawsonism, racism, race denialism, Ponchymena, ethno, Afro, ismisms, leftism, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, Oasisisms, dunce, the, soapbox, nationalism, me dole cheque, ethnocentrism, racism, pawn, King, race denialism, ethno, check, mate, race denialism, Jimmyism, ethno, Afro, ismisms, leftism, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, ismisms, leftism, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, dunce, the, Liam Gallagherism, soapbox, nationalism, Ponchymena, ethno, Afro, ismisms, leftism, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, Oasisisms, dince, the, soapbox, nationalism, me dole cheque, ethnocentrism, racism, pawn, King, race denialism, ethno, check, mate, race denialism, Jimmyism, ethno, Afro, ismisms, leftism, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, ismisms, leftism, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, me dole cheque, ethnocentrism, racism, race denialism, ethno, race denialism, Jimmyism, ethno, Oasis, Jews, rightists, flerf, LOL, LOL, LOL, dunce, etc, etc...'

 

[David]

"Happy Thanksgiving - A Tribute to CGP (Annual Memorial Thread)

Happy Thanksgiving to our American Cousins and of course Dan and his family. Have a great day and enjoy your turkey! I dedicate this thread to our good friend CGP, never let his name be forgotten. And release the hounds for tomorrow!

www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com

Thanksgiving isn't celebrated in Ireland, you complete and utter muppet.

 

[Mowl]

It's the day after the vote and Jambo still hasn't left the house since around Tuesday last, which means he's down to his last two or three cans of Dutch Gold, which is worrying for the blogs. Whenever he sobers up he's a nastier bastard than he was when he was drunk, which is still an improvement no matter which way you look at it.

He's finally met his intellectual match in this complete fucking dipshit, who forks out $1,495 per annum to post the likes of this:

 

[David]

Dan is so fucking lame.

 

[Mowl]

Not half as lame as this screeching down-under gay-boy with a horn for the Mowl the size of Mamungkukumpurangkuntjunya.

I had no idea he was SO obsessed with me, but I try to take these things in my stride given the sheer reach of my charisma and charm all the way around the world from snowy Finland to the parch-dried land down under. The wife always said that I turn straight men gay within two minutes of them meeting me. I don't know why that is, but hey: free beer is free beer. She says it's in my eyes and the way I transfix them them with the glint and the cold stare.

Aussies are a weird lot. They claim to own the country but for every English-named town there are nineteen other towns named by the real Australians like the Wiradjuri. Places like Mamungkukumpurangkuntjunya or Wagga Wagga. Or how about Titwobble Lane, Teddy Bears Gap, Ding-A-Ding, and Sausage Gully? See, these ingrates are nothing but the descendants of toothless criminals sent down to the outback to scratch and forage a living from the left-overs of so many Aboriginal camp fires. Criminals, murderers, thieves, child rapists, scroungers, and retards like Fishwibble aplenty.

Modern white-skinned Aussies are among the dumbest cunts you'll meet anywhere in the world. The national dish - kangaroo giant rat burger and fries with some waggalumpydump sauce on the side - is usually cooked outside the tent by the wife on the barbie. Her name is usually Sheila, and Sheila can knock you up a rat burger in five minutes flat without you having to clatter her to get her enthusiasm brimming. She likes a few tins of Foster's while she's cooking and always saves her piss in a bucket to give it to the kangaroos giant rats. Resources are few on the giant rat's island continent.

The likes of Fishtits here is a rather typical example of your common-but-massive Australian personal/mental insecurity: he was angry that he got fired as a mod on Arsefield's and decided he was taking his ball back and going home. But it seems he began to miss me, and then found himself reading everything I write, and then foolishly trying to replicate my writing style. The simple truth is that I don't have a writing style: I simply write what I think. So trying to copy my script isn't going to work, not unless you're seeing the world through the same rose-tinted glasses I am up here in the capital city of The World's Happiest Country, Finland.

Fishknob also knows that my neighbourhood of Arabianranta is the single most desirable address in the whole country, and that makes him very angry.

He's so tired of being baking hot all the time and there's nothing he wouldn't enjoy more than a swim in an ice pool to cool his burning skin.

But sadly Fishwife's a shut-in: can't leave the house - not even when there's no Foster's left in the fridge.

So it's no wonder he sat up all night writing that rather bizarre but complimentary paean to my gravitational pull on his curiosity and insecurity.

He had fuck all else to do really.

Here, Fishdribble: like my new avatar?

He's one of the real Australians, the ones who don't eat the kangaroos flea-bitten giant rats.

 

[David]

Kangaroo-boy must have been up all night trying to put that post together.

 

[David]

I can indeed write better than Mowl

Lol...nah, bro. Nice try though all the same.

---

 

[roc_abilly]

It could go straight here. Laughable. - http://www.trygve.com/turgid_prose.html

Good writing is simply writing what you know, writing simply, telling the truth as you understand it.

Whereas that little performance fishy gave there maybe revealed something of his inner truth, i.e. what a twisted little fuck up he is. But not in a manner he held any agency over.

I'll take another pass at him later if I get some time. There are some interesting elements of the racist psychology to be got at through him.

 

[David]

Kangaroo-boy is going to spend the next few years regretting he ever made that post. Just look what happened to Dan when he tried to be a smartarse.

 

[Mowl]

Kangaroo-boy must have been up all night trying to put that post together.

Better that than out all night hunting for lithe young Aborigine girls for tomorrow's barbecue.

Lol...nah, bro. Nice try though all the same.

Why the need to compete? I don't write as I do for any other reason than the fact that it's the truth as I see it. There's no style, there's no reference book of quotes or rare words, and there's fuck all need to compare apples and goozegobs. Though wait: I doubt they call them goozegobs down under. They probably have a name in their own dialect, maybe something like guzzapimperelladillydallies or wazztakanopolipoliplos? The Abos are gas lads. I've met a few over the years and they totally get the Irish sense of humour and our fascination with word-play. They do the same - mostly to annoy pasty-faced Aussies descended from thieves, gypsies, and child-rapists. But when they do it's a sight to see:

'Ere, Mazzamizzarumplepumperdillybong, what's the right direction to Alice Springs?

'Oh, yeh man, nah warries: ya go straight ahead, four miles, then turn left at Chungarangpumpadillybing and follow the path north to Tackabunnybillyrooroo. When you see masses of 'roos grazing on the sand, you're getting near. Ask for a fella called Rangaroollitooplerpilly and tell 'im he's a bastard - for me. After that, it's a straight walk through Pozzapillarpoolymontlemillymillydilly and on out into the outback by Wallywallyducklingmingtonghillysplilly on the left and Pinnapinnacollariodillydilly on the right. Got it?'

'Er, yeh - cheers mate'.

'Yeh, right..'

It could go straight here. Laughable. - http://www.trygve.com/turgid_prose.html

I love that site.

Good writing is simply writing what you know, writing simply, telling the truth as you understand it.

Exactly. So going to the lengths Fishwimplegilly did with his love letter to me only goes to show you the competitive nature of Aussie losers who clearly failed basic English in school. Fishsticklesrickles seems to think he has to be 'the best' at everything. Things like failing to hold down a moderator's position overseeing some of Ireland's thickest twats ever given access to the internet, then doing a runner. He managed to turn every arsehole on the entire board of Arsefield's into enemies, even after trying so hard to schmoozle them into a false sense of security with his warnings and 24hr bannings and so on.

Look at him now?

He's even angrier than Jambo Dawson.

Did anyone else think that that was even possible?

No?

See?

Whereas that little performance fishy gave there maybe revealed something of his inner truth, i.e. what a twisted little fuck up he is. But not in a manner he held any agency over.

I imagine a small and rather bald chap well past his best years, dressed in desert fatigues and wearing a hat with loads of bottle-corks wobbling around the rim of it to keep the flies off his eye scutter. Boots up to his knees with the socks up over the kneecap. Carries a knife and fork at all times, just in case like. Loves to play spoony-spoon and has a small faux-silver statuette on his mantle-piece of a copper spoon atop a kangaroo's giant rat's head he won as a schoolboy.

'That's not a spoon - nawh THIS is a spoon..'

I'll take another pass at him later if I get some time.

Take your time - he's not going anywhere.

Ever.

There are some interesting elements of the racist psychology to be got at through him.

I was thinking exactly that after I gave up reading his short story epic novel about his fascination with the Mowl.

Not even I am that enrapt with the Mowl: and I'm his best friend, spiritual advisor, lawyer, and handler of his will and estate.

Kangaroo-boy is going to spend the next few years regretting he ever made that post. Just look what happened to Dan when he tried to be a smartarse.

Dan? Smart? Arse? I must have missed that. Ever notice the way that every time Roundy makes a 'prediction' - he gets it completely fucking arseways? His dread and horror view of the modern world is consistently wrong, ill advised, way off the mark, and totally fucking backwards. Every Fucking. Time. He can't write a single sentence without mangling up the English language like a virgin teenage retard on way too much coca cola and sugar Shreddies. Five thumbs on each hand:

Fashionable cunt, isn't he?

Clip-on tie with short-sleeved shirt under zippernecked cardigan and polyester trousers with a shiny arse on them from all that sitting around in the van admiring the car parks and loading bays, then ironed around two hundred times too many. Shoes? Slip-on black booster boots with height-adjustable innards. No need for laces, he can't bend down that far.

I mean really? Just look at the fat face on the fat fool?

Imagine that that creepy hand of his is sitting on YOUR arm, gently tugging at you so your eyes meet his and he tells you how much he likes you? Like, really LIKES you? Damn, man. He has the sort of face I'd never tire of kicking. That smug expression? What's he so smug about anyway? That he's never had to work a day in his life? That he's managed to both keep Marianne going to work AND staying on as his main financial providor? That poor woman. She gets to wash his streaky y-fronts for him too. No wonder she's getting hers elsewhere.

After all, who the fuck in their right mind would want to be touched by this:

Eeesh..

 

[Mowl]

 

[David]

People here have lives outside of online chat forums, unlike Jambo.

Oh yeah and did Arsefielders spending all day, everyday online accompanied by their cans of Dutch Gold accomplish anything in the 2024 election?

Spoiler

No

 

[Mowl]

People here have lives outside of online chat forums, unlike Jambo.

Oh yeah and did Arsefielders spending all day, everyday online accompanied by their cans of Dutch Gold accomplish anything in the 2024 election?

Spoiler

No

Damn straight.

But sweet Jayzus'n Mary and the lights shining down on us from above, but this plonker Declan 'Roundy' Kelly's twattishness knows no bounds.

Here he is acting the gang boss interviewing Alan Fagan, a right fucking scumbag racist pig with a reputation for his heavy-handed/violent approach.



Here, this is him:

Not even The Sunday fucking World can find a good word to say about him.

This is exactly the sort of rat bastard Roundy Kelly and Val Martin actually rub shoulders with, whereas the minions of Arsefield's only get to rubberneck their heroes from a distance. Ask yourself, when the likes of Saul Bucket's last charitable act before his untimely death by cancer was to send a hundred euros to Val Martin's bank account for his election bid, what sort of deviated simian biped almost-humans are we looking at here?

Try not to keep thinking of Val when Fagan's answering even the simplest of questions: the knacker bastard can't keep his fingers out of his ears either. He's literally digging into his own brain at times. Maybe trying to restart it rather than removing whatever filth grows in there.

Man, every time I think the gay bar scumbaggery has bottomed out they surprise me with some even lower level shit than you'd find under Val's Shitting Ditch.

 

[David]

Common Sense.

I have decided to start a new political movement . It is named after the book that inspired the American Revolution by Thomas Paine, Common Sense. We are about to be either returned to Common Sense or swept away. I will be using this space to lay out my ideas and to accept advice. Over the past...

www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com

Thomas Paine was a liberal, a radical, an abolitionist...the man would have detested Arsefield's and everything it stands for.

Thomas Paine - Wikipedia

en.m.wikipedia.org

 

[Mowl]

It'd be common sense enough that Declan get himself a real job and stopped all this hanging around out by the bins behind the main bar. Of course, as we all know, he's been 'very busy' with the van this year. Loads of pensioners need dropped off at the bingo hall and the meals on wheels office to order their Christmas dinner items before it's too late. Apparently he can fit around seventeen of them into the back of the van - but only if they all lay down horizontally to be stacked - and then tied into place for extra safety.

When Roundy wants people to think he has a life, he goes on about how hard it is for him to post on his own site, so that when he does manage a post it's usually so fucked up in terms of spelling and punctuation you can't tell what the fuck he's banging on about. He could learn something about punctuation from the site dunce Crap/Codology. Now there's a culchie who loves his exclamation marks and sudden pregnant pauses. I bet he talks like that in real life too:

'Aw'ri' there, Clarkers?'

Hello ! ! Yes ~ ~ I Am doing - - - 'Fine' - - - today ! ! !

'Any yokes?'

Oh ! Now ~ ~ That's A Good question ! ! How 'many' do, You ~ ~ Want ? ?

'Gimme six of the white ones and two of the blues, cheers thanks.'

Okay ! ! I will Go - - and Pick them - - out of my ~ ~ 'hoop' ~ ~ in One Moment ! !

'Grand. How much do I owe ya?'

You can ~ ~ Just Shoot me, - - - Now ! ! and Put me, 'out of everyone's' ~ ~ Pain ! ! !

The only movement Declan 'Fats' Kelly is gonna have is in his ample bowel. He's more full of shit than the poop treatment centre in Ringsend, which is aptly named. I used to do the run out to the Poolbeg lighthouse most mornings when I lived at Beggar's Bush back in the 1990s. Only I didn't cycle the path, I cycled the top edge of the grass ridges of landfill above the paths all the way from Sandymount right out onto the start of the pier, and then it was all about speed and agility to dodge all the holes in the rocks and not fuck up my hybrid racing/off-road bike getting to the lighthouse in a shorter time than the last. First thing in the morning, just as the sun's coming up. You'd be surprised how many people there are out on the pier at that hour. Some walking dogs, others speed walking, slow cycling, or simply standing there gazing out to sea. Rarely saw anyone swimming but that's no big surprise: there's more than Val's entire Shitting Ditch worth of brown shit floating all over the water up northward towards the Bull. Hop in there and you'll need to be scrubbed down with bleach and three decades of the rosary.

The Dublin Bay oysters grow really well by feeding off the human waste pumped out into the Irish Sea.

The eat so much shite they're practically bursting out of their shells.

Then they're harvested and sent to your upmarket restaurants around the city for the fat wives who 'lunch' at wine o'clock in over-priced shitholes like Pasta Fresca and Trocadero, spreading gossip and having cheap affairs that usually culminate in a quick ride out in the Gent's toilets in two minutes flat. They eat their own shit like there's no tomorrow. Which they might be right about: there isn't even a today to be had in Ireland any more, never mind a tomorrow.

This uniformly applies to Declan Kelly too: if you're not 100% in agreement with him, you'll be censored, frustrated, booted out, and banned.

This is the only reason he's willing to throw $1,495 per annum on his own site: so he can swing his banhammer at those who don't fall into line.

Without it he wouldn't stand a fucking chance on these blogs, the illiterate fat rat pig.

 

[Mowl]

Jaze, but I see Val's been rumbled.

This is why you only ever see his big mad fat head in his videos: he's a fat bastard.

That portly belly of his would have needed an office of its own if he had been elected.

Which he wasn't.

Which he's now blaming everyone else for.

As per usual.

Val's fixation with climate change is based on little more than how his farm is faring given the daily weather within a half kilometer of his current location on the Shitting Ditch. No matter that here I am sitting in -5C with blazing sunshine and fuck all snow on the ground when it would usually be two meters deep at this point on the calendar. No matter that Spain's eastern seaboard is flooded, destroying the coastal towns. Wildfires in California, earthquakes here, geo-storms there, hailstones the size of melons falling on Japan, rising seas and oceans bothering Cork and Galway. But so long as Cavan north is okay, then so's everywhere else.

Imagine: this fat fuck nearly made it into your parliament house.

Think about that.

 

[Mowl]

No, they don't have to. I did to keep the peace.

Nah Brah, you do it because you LOVE me, innit.



You LOVE me.

Mowl is simply turds the whole way down. Just dogshit, everywhere you look.

Wow, Brah - you really do got it bad, huh?

Would you feel better if I replace my avatar with a kangaroo giant rat's head?

No?

Okay then: how about I simply invert the little Abo?

Good for you?

A classic case of the closed-loop-cycle of the abused becoming the abuser.

Classic? Case? You study these things, do you? Aware of much, are you? Been down into the sewers with it, eh. Where may I ask do you go for your 'classic' research materials? The dark web? Some banjo-swinging tobacco-chewing cult-weirdo pedophile site? Adults only type sites that demand a cash deposit in their bank before you get to jerk off to pictures of little boys taking a whizz? I mean there's really nothing else to do in Australia, now is there? Every day is exactly the same. Non-stop. Forever and ever. Amen.

Everybody's pain is his pleasure, he makes sport of it.

Yes, but especially yours.

He probably visits the oncology ward at the local children's hospital and hides behind the aspidistra in the corner, jerking off.

You seem very familiar with children's hospitals and water fountains for jerking off behind.

Hobby of yours, is it?

Something to fill in the monotony of life down under in the dust, dirt, and sand of the once-colonial open prison you call home?

An ugly, narcissistic, sociopathic, sadistic little manlet.

You're concerned about my looks, right? I get it. I really do. Of all the photos of me on your private thread, the only one you fools keep using publicly is the one of me on the veranda, my dreads wrapped up in a scarf before hitting the sauna. You never post any of the others (not publicly anyway) because I'm simply too devilishly handsome in all of them. And I know how often you twats visit The Senators Of Helsinki page, and how many things you looked at, copied, and ran back to Arsefield's with. Facebook has very simple visitor information containment for page administrators: it tells me how many pages, photos, etc. How long you spent selecting images, how many pages/collections you went through and when exactly you did it.

You do understand at least that much about internet protocol?

The last Australian woman I met was so ugly I thought she was a bloke when she stepped up to me.

'Aw'ri', Mate?'

Fuck off.

'Wozzah! Easy, Mate, easy nah..'

I said fuck off.

'I 'eard ya, I 'eard ya - take it flumpin' easy, eh? '

Lookit: first go and have a wash, then a hair style, then a bit of shopping - no mucky army boots, no short cargo pants, no y-fronts. Maybe then, maybe not.

'Wah, a bit high maintenance for a bloke, in't ya?'

Wash your butt.

I visited Islepoli after the news of CPG's passing and sure enough, there's Mowl in his usual deranged masturbatory glee, celebrating it, defaming the dead and his family.

Usual?

USUAL??

So you are stalking me.

Grand.

Besides, you can't defame the dead - not even if they were yellow-bellied rat-bastard culchie cowards who raised their son to be a professional thief. A thief who robbed the weakest of all Irish people out there: the grannies and grandads - so people in and around your own pensionable age. I don't overlook or forget these things even in a life/death scenario. Just because he died (quite quickly) from cancer doesn't exonerate his behaviour while he was alive. And when he was alive he was a racist pig of the worst kind. The 'kill 'em all and let's be done with it' type racist.

Sofa bound, all day every day.

And you next to him.

If not for that, I might have spared him.

Spare me what?

Your dull and boring threats of some sort of payback from your bolt-hole somewhere off in the Australian outback to beautiful Helsinki? Don't be kidding yourself. Saul Bucket used to do the same. Threats of this, that, and the other from his 'big brothers - who are all in the 'RA...'

But apparently not Saul - who was too busy plotting to kill every non-white cunt walking the streets of Ireland via the gay bar site.

To his credit, David did not engage in this.

David's credit is just fine, you dirty old man.

So props to him for having some standards.

Standards? Now what the fuck would a kangaroo giant rat eating loser like you know about standards?

You're Australian - you're descended from criminals.

You have no culture, no language, and no fucking right to kick the Abos around in the manner you do.

And when you do read this David, please, for the love of God, if you're going to hero-worship somebody (but don't, you're not in high school any more, and it's really sad and pathetic) let it be somebody worthy of that.

Like whom?

You?

Rolf Harris?

Brett Peter Cowan?

Robert 'Dolly' Dunn?

Brian Keith Jones (AKA Mr Baldy)?

Robert Hughes?

Milton Orkopoulos?

I mean, child rapists in your parliament house and nobody batting an eyelid even though they all knew exactly what he was up to? Or how about all those undocumented rapes and beatings meted out to Aboriginal kids taken in by white Aussies who physically and mentally abused them and turned them into personal slaves about the house? Yours is a rather short and blunt history, eh. There aren't any sweet spots in it either, no?

A big fan of Rolf, are you?



'Two little boys had two little balls,
Each had an Australian rapist..'

Not some talentless, broke, mean-spirited dork who has played an instrument for 30 plus years and still can't get a real gig for love nor money.

Talentless is not a word, Mate.

I am literally better at my instrument (didgeridoo) by quite a margin and for me, it's just a hobby. That's how shit this guy is.

I wouldn't have imagined there was too much work for a deranged and angry old didgeridoo player, eh.

 

[Mowl]

Poor aul Wilf: he spends his days (and nights) writing his angry little posts complaining about how absolutely fucked Ireland is, how crap everything is, how horrible Irish politicians are, how there'll never be any change, and that things will always be of the shite variety. Then he shits out this sort of thing - entirely oblivious to himself:

Poor Wilfred. His daily frustrations truly are are a tonic. Like the rest of his 'nationalist knitting-needle club' he's at the end of his tether in hating his country and his life in it, but as nowhere to go and no money to get there either. So he's fighting this battle with all his might and his end-goal seems to be that he and he alone has the right to criticize Ireland and ex-pats like me can go fuck ourselves. Or something.

The poor fool just doesn't get it: he's oblivious to his part in Ireland being the shithole it is, genuinely thinks his endless whining is going to change anything. If he's serious about change, then I would politely suggest that he go wash his butt and stop being such a pathetic little dick all his life. If that's the right term. Which it isn't: every day is Groundhog Day in Wilf-land.

Wakes up, writes about how terrible his life is.
Makes the coffee, writes about how terrible Ireland is.
Has a shit, writes about the cost of living being insane.
Pulls on his manky jogging pants - writes about how Dublin is going to the dogs.
Sticks on his peaked cap to hide the baldy patch: writes about how much he hates Ireland.
Reads the headlines, writes about the darkies and the rag-heads always being the headlines.
Has another shite: writes about how he hates that Mowl fellow.
Cracks open a tin of Dutch Gold, writes about how imported beer tastes like shit.
Answers the phone, gets asked how well he knows the taste of shit in the first place - slams the phone down again.

The poor cunt. He'll never learn. He's too angry to absorb simple information. He's like an acne-infested and pepped up pubescent boy on Ritalyn, distracted by anything that moves, especially those damned fruit flies that hover right in front of his eyes as though they're mocking him. Which they are. Wants to be happy but doesn't know how. Or why. He's so used to being in a state of permanent boredom and frustration with his (sad excuse for a) life that he hasn't a clue how to change things for the better. Like killing himself. Walking out in front of a speeding bus. Hopping off a tall building. Mistakenly overdosing himself on laxatives instead of painkillers and getting taken to hospital with the toilet seat still stuck to his arse.

No wonder he's angry.

No wonder he hates Ballyer people.

 

[Mowl]

See?

 

[David]

If all of these sites shut down tomorrow then how would Jambo cope with having nobody left to argue with?