Arsefield's Hall of Shame
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Mowl
Member
Ah yes: the 'go-ahead' routine: you hand the conductor a pile of change and tap him on the wrist. He sorts the coins, clicks the ticket dispenser, an hands you back a few coins with a nod and a a wink. Then you start complaining about the price of a bus ticket these days?
The dole office most likely.
So you spotted a gang of lads, the decided to gung ho it through the lot of them like you were Giant Haystacks?
Of course you did, you idiot plonker spoofer.
Young mothers at the school gates? The queues outside the soup kitchens? The gangs outside the dole office? Smokers outside dodgy bars and lounges? The gangs of protesters and the homeless along O'Connell Street? The gangs of black lads outside the high street sports shops looking for an angle on doing a hit-and-run for some new sneakers by Puma/Adidas?
You're some half-pipe fantasist, Frank.
Of course you did.
And yet, due to Irish emigration, there isn't a single city on the entire planet without an Irish bar? Helsinki has three. They have fuck all to do with Ireland or Irish culture. They're mad-houses. They're opened by chancers looking to cash in on the Irish reputation for drunken brawls and other sleazy shennanigans. The last private Irish embassy event I attended I met and spoke with the owner: Molly Malone's, one of downtown Helsinki's most popular pubs for heavy drinking and meat marketing for the ride.
I told him, in company with several other business owners, that he ought to be ashamed of himself in the shitty hawking of Irish culture he makes his money on. When he opened that bar in 1990's, I and many other musicians toured through it, usually a six-nighter deal: sail in from Stockholm overnight on Sunday, play a few acoustic sets in the Captain's Bar on the top deck to cover the ticket for the truck, band, and crew. Access to the staff eatery (always splendid) and free drinks at the bar. Monday morning we berth, deport, set up stage, rest, then play through until the following Saturday night before departing onwards to Tallin, Estonia.
Molly's was always packed to the gills when we played. We have to get them up on the seats and tables dancing and singing. And crucially: spilling and breaking the glasses. More sales you see. The stage was central, nicely lit, nice PA, nice fold-back, no worries at all.
These days his stage fits two people, has no PA or lights, and is down the rear hallway right outside the gent's toilets. The smell of bleach and piss alone would floor you, but then there's an indoor smoking room beside that again. Up in the main area he has two DJ booths. Two dance floors. Techno and house all night long. All the staff are Finnish. No Irish people at all work there.
I asked him why he turned a very popular and highly successful Irish bar into a techno dance club and left the Irish flags all over the exterior. The street signs nailed to walls, the bikes nailed to the ceilings, the manky frames in the gents with front pages of The Irish Times from the 1950s. Pictures of Pearse, Connolly, Bono, Geldof, Michael D Higgins, etc, etc. While playing hard techno and deep house. He looked at me like I was trying to start a scrap with him. He stuttered a few words about 'changing models of modern business strategies' and 'staying within the market demands to maintain employment for a dozen staff members' and other buzz-word malarkey.
I told him I thought he was a parasite, a leech making huge money through cultural misrepresentation and cultural theft.
He just looked at me and waited, so I looked at him and waited.
Then he excused himself and went to the jacks. When he came out, first thing he saw was me: standing on the one square meter of stage raised about six inches off the floor. 'Smells lovely here, doesn't it Petri?' and he's drying his hands with a tissue. 'Any idea how soul-destroying it must be for a singer to travel all the way from Ireland to stand here singing about Molly Malone and whiskey in the jar with this smell of piss, shit, puke and tobacco butts thick in the air?' And he tries to walk away again. So I let him, then I follow. I see him in another gaggle of suits talking about business, so I hop in and say 'I can still smell the gent's toilets even from here where the actual stage used to be. Is there a problem with the sewers or what?' And so after blanking me, he shakes a few hands and then leaves.
I was told afterwards by the embassy staff that he said he never felt so embarrassed and cornered.
Fine, suits me - I wasn't wrong and I still think he's a parasite, and I'm glad to know he does too.
And yet Paddy and Bridie can still be found queuing outside his hell-hole every Friday and Saturday night?
Yours is a losing game, Frank: you haven't a fucking leg to stand on, let alone barging through gangs of foreign men playing it, you big spoofing fucking cunt.
Then your Ma did a great job of hiding herself in the queues outside the local soup kitchen, didn't she, Frankie?
Not to mention the several more items in your inside pocket, purchased with the five-finger discount.
So your contribution to the issues in Ireland is to behave with as much hostility and aggravation as you can (spoof) muster, all the while thinking that you're doing great work for Ireland? You're a fucking idiot, Frank. A natural born loser. I hope the next gaggle of cunts you pass in the street with a huff and a puff hand you back your two ears, you stupid little prick.
What a fucking gobshite.
Mowl
Member
You know the drill, dickweed: mention the Mowl, and you're out.
Still, there's not much that's ever going to shut you the fuck up with your whining about Ireland. If you had any balls you'd have left years ago. But no: no balls at all, only your Captain fucking Hindsight bullshit world view. The one thing you need to keep in mind while you're crying your crossed little eyes out is that you yourself are as much part of the problem as anyone or anything you're screaming and wailing about.
You hate me, a fellow Irishman. You hate me because I'm smarter than you, prettier than you, further away from the godforsaken rock than you, I have better stories than you, prettier girlfriends than you'll ever have, I'm better off in every possible way than you can even dream of given your current situation. Bogged down by an aging wife you haven't fucked properly in decades. Bastard children who drain your money, your spirit, and your entire being.
You're a loser of epic scale, Wolfie - the sort of scale that would frighten the bejeezus out of me were I in your shoes.
But thankfully I'm not: because I have balls enough to demand what I want and how and when I want it served.
You can stay right where you are, the eternal victim of your own cowardice and lack of even the one good testicle.
You're in great company too: the ever-deluded Jambo, drunken idiot Myles (banned again for mentioning the Mowl), dead guys like Saul, idiots like Swordid, complete fucking retards like Clark/Fuckwit (! ! ~ ~ ! !) and of course the fat fucker himself: Roundy Kelly, the floppiest fucking fool in Boston. Who owns your ass, you stupid fucking cunt. I love it when you whine. It makes me laugh. It's a fucking gas knowing how hopeless your entire world really is.
I've known some sad fuckers in my time - but you?
You're a fucking marvel.
Kill yourself.
Nobody will care.
Not even me.
Mowl
Member
Meltdown? Moi? Hardly, dick-weed.
I'm laughing at you, at your sorry state of affairs you call a life. The only meltdown going on here is yours: your tragic little excuse for a life in Ireland. The same country that has you by the scrotes and keeps on twisting them, making you yelp and scream while I laugh at your sorry little dance of desperation. Don't be kidding yourself that I haven't read you like a kiddie's fairy tale.
You can't fucking stand it when I needle you with the truth about yourself and your shitty little life. Padre this, that, and the other doesn't bother me even slightly. If anything, it reminds me of the moral reward of doing the right thing at the right time: my conscience is clear. My reward was fate designing me a better life. I was guided through the maze by it and it landed me here, in the happiest country in the world. With the most beautiful girls in the world. While you're still glued to the dead end of a rock out in the ocean, lost and lonely, as miserable as sin. It's what we deserve: I got mine, and am still getting it. You're getting yours, right now as you're reading this little reminder of how and why my life is so sweet and yours is covered in dark clouds and a cold wind that cuts through your bullshit and deep into your miserly heart, pinning you to the wall.
Posting a few laughter emojis isn't a reply either, dumb-balls. It certainly doesn't illustrate your present feelings either.
Try a few of these - they look pretty much exactly like you:
Does it hurt when you have to compose a message directed at me without mentioning my name? Will Roundy boot you out like he did your best bud Myles? The drunken moron with the attention span of a tick? If you could, you'd spend your days with your Mowl this, Mowl that, Mowl the other. But you can't. You're not allowed to mention me. It kills you. It makes you want to hop a plane and come visit me. Which would be great fun: you could fly in, scope all the hot chicks you'll never get near, swing by Arabia and see how I live, cry your eyes out, then shuffle back home to Dublin where the dull grey clouds have no feelings nor favor: they hate all of you equally. They love to make you miserable. To rain on you, washing your shame and regret away for a moment only for it all to come tumbling back down to earth when you look in the mirror and ask yourself: 'oh my sweet fucking jaze - what have I done with my life?'
But hey, it's Friday - try to keep the brave face up - the drinks haven't even been poured yet.
Your few tins of cheap Dutch lager are out on the window sill - chilling in the rain and wind.
Try to clear your desk and finish your week before cracking them open, eh?
Good lad.
I'm laughing at you, at your sorry state of affairs you call a life. The only meltdown going on here is yours: your tragic little excuse for a life in Ireland. The same country that has you by the scrotes and keeps on twisting them, making you yelp and scream while I laugh at your sorry little dance of desperation. Don't be kidding yourself that I haven't read you like a kiddie's fairy tale.
You can't fucking stand it when I needle you with the truth about yourself and your shitty little life. Padre this, that, and the other doesn't bother me even slightly. If anything, it reminds me of the moral reward of doing the right thing at the right time: my conscience is clear. My reward was fate designing me a better life. I was guided through the maze by it and it landed me here, in the happiest country in the world. With the most beautiful girls in the world. While you're still glued to the dead end of a rock out in the ocean, lost and lonely, as miserable as sin. It's what we deserve: I got mine, and am still getting it. You're getting yours, right now as you're reading this little reminder of how and why my life is so sweet and yours is covered in dark clouds and a cold wind that cuts through your bullshit and deep into your miserly heart, pinning you to the wall.
Posting a few laughter emojis isn't a reply either, dumb-balls. It certainly doesn't illustrate your present feelings either.
Try a few of these - they look pretty much exactly like you:
Does it hurt when you have to compose a message directed at me without mentioning my name? Will Roundy boot you out like he did your best bud Myles? The drunken moron with the attention span of a tick? If you could, you'd spend your days with your Mowl this, Mowl that, Mowl the other. But you can't. You're not allowed to mention me. It kills you. It makes you want to hop a plane and come visit me. Which would be great fun: you could fly in, scope all the hot chicks you'll never get near, swing by Arabia and see how I live, cry your eyes out, then shuffle back home to Dublin where the dull grey clouds have no feelings nor favor: they hate all of you equally. They love to make you miserable. To rain on you, washing your shame and regret away for a moment only for it all to come tumbling back down to earth when you look in the mirror and ask yourself: 'oh my sweet fucking jaze - what have I done with my life?'
But hey, it's Friday - try to keep the brave face up - the drinks haven't even been poured yet.
Your few tins of cheap Dutch lager are out on the window sill - chilling in the rain and wind.
Try to clear your desk and finish your week before cracking them open, eh?
Good lad.
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Mowl
Member
Same reason you were allowed taunt Kangal off the site, thereby cutting Declan's site traffic in half at the point you claimed some sort of 'victory' of your foe, which was in fact just bullying with the assistance of the moderators on your shit site. Besides, you have nothing else to discuss than your discontent with Ireland and your paltry existence there.
As for 'Poster Of The Month' it has fuck all to do with content and everything to do with post count.
But you're too fucking thick to know that, hence your incessant whining and grining.
Yes, and you have been for some time. You have four active members (even if Declan keeps telling you that there are around forty-five daily active members) and you're all as boring as each other. A right motley collection of suction cups. Does to never occur to you to try to get Declan to post even ONE COMMENT that isn't littered with child-like misspellings and disastrous grammar? I mean, it is a forum for the written word. Maybe he just doesn't care because he doesn't have to. None of you are what anybody might call dexterous with the English language (the only one you speak, Wilf).
The fucking state of this sham, though? Claims to be rich. Claims all sorts of shite. Take a look at how the bum lives?
The lace curtains, and the short-arsed little flowery curtains up above them? The 'work of art' on the wall behind him: his mother in law's final attempt at using acrylics before she croaked suddenly and pooped the bed sheets. The shirt he's wearing? There are videos of him from 2009 and he was wearing it then. Clearly a man of vast wealth, eh Wilfred? Millions in gold and silver stock(ings).
The way his whole head looks like a football waiting to be drop-kicked into touch.
A fat little man in cheap pants - whom you look up to and admire, and whom you aspire to be like one fine day.
Spoofers and chancers.
Losers and wasters.
US Politics.
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Ah yes, that wonderful document penned by individuals such as James Madison who despised democracy ("demagoguery and mob rule" in their own words), wanting only wealthy, propertied individuals such as themselves the privilege of voting/ holding public office. Men who loved freedom so much they never saw the irony of owning slaves. Money and self-interest trumps wishy-washy ideals about liberty every time it seems.
Mowl
Member
Isn't it gas the way these plonkers over on Arsefield's have these boring but highly nuanced conversations about the finer points of Irish nationalism while the voting public simply get on with voting the same old same old back into office? This cunt must be breaking his bollocks laughing at how hopeless the Irish are at, well, pretty much everything.
www.thejournal.ie
All hail the new Taoiseach - exact same as the previous new Taoiseach.
No wonder he's grinning like a Cheshire cat?
You can all the nationalists you want to be. You can adopt any stance you like too, it doesn't matter. Nothing that happens on these blogs makes even the slightest fucking difference between ethnic nationalism, civic nationalist, nudist nationalism, dietary nationalism, sugar-free nationalism, or blog nationalism. It's all good. It's what passes the time for those stuck on the hopeless little rock out in the Atlantic.
I'd say both Harris and Martin get home at night and crack open a few bottles of Crystal and proceed to roll around the floor breaking their shite in hysterical laughter. The Irish: as lame duck as it gets. And the fun's only just beginning: within the next couple of weeks watch as Ireland starts bleeding out multinational corporations only too willing to comply with Trump's demands that they bring all their boys back home, Ireland's corporation tax just bellied out. Shift them all back to the other side of the pond thereby cutting off Ireland's lifeline to who-ever's in office pond-side.
You twats put all your eggs in the one basket, cracking a few and tossing a few others overboard.
Soon enough they'll all be scrambled like those sad bastards down in Wexford who worked at BNY Mellon: expect more of the same to be drip-fed to you over the next few weeks and months: https://www.thejournal.ie/bny-mellon-wexford-jobs-6599952-Jan2025/
The consultation period to decide those next steps for staff will begin tomorrow.
Meanwhile, up above in Dublin:
www.thejournal.ie
But as you can see, the lads in the Dail are 'taking care of business' while hitting the ground running by awarding themselves ANOTHER week of holidays from running the country into the dirt on full pay. Grin, chew, chew, chew, grin. As if their holidays aren't the most generous already? Four weeks over Christmas, twelve weeks over the summer, a few national holidays here and there which usually stop only due to alarming situations arising from international issues affecting the country directly while they're dancing along to Riverdance in a little caravan down in Courtown during the wet summer months.
The only reason they're not shouting about Trump is that they know they'd better keep their heads down, make NO demands, offer NO shamrock, kiss as much ass is required and then some. And as for this simpering fucking harlot, let her fuck as far away off as she fucking likes. Scumbag fucking Jews: I hoep another holocaust comes along and wipes the whole fucking lot of them out. In fact, were I in Ireland today and happened to meet any Irish Jews I used to know, I'd happily spit in their eye and kick them in the bollocks. The blokes too. Y'know, showing up on the evening news dripping in gold chains around the nuck and chest and diamond rings on your fingers probably wasn't a good idea:
Fuck 'em. They've been eating out on the holocaust for far too long already. So a few got cooked during the second war? It was in the middle of the previous century. Who fucking cares? It's ancient history but they still trot it out time and again, and most people are dumb enough to swallow it. Let them have their little enclave. Let them all decide to move home to Zion and at least then you'll have them all in the one basket, just like your own two-party state. Even they have to busting a gut laughing at how hopeless the Irish are at figuring out the game first and the rules last.
Fuck the Jews, I hope they get nuked.
Just like you twats are doing to yourselves with all these fancy dreams you have about being a global 'player'.
You're a fucking loser of epic proportions, really.
It's just around the corner too, so best prepare for what's coming while you still can: dig your own grave, trust no one, and be sure to swallow that cyanide pill lest you wake up in the coffin with a Jew under you, freeloading in your final resting place like a hippie squatter in a Georgian building just off St Stephen's Green pulling up the floorboards for tinder.
Hopeless fucking fools.
Today we get a new Taoiseach - here's a rundown of how the day is going to go
Fianna Fáil leader Micheál Martin will become the next Taoiseach of Ireland.
www.thejournal.ie
All hail the new Taoiseach - exact same as the previous new Taoiseach.
No wonder he's grinning like a Cheshire cat?
You can all the nationalists you want to be. You can adopt any stance you like too, it doesn't matter. Nothing that happens on these blogs makes even the slightest fucking difference between ethnic nationalism, civic nationalist, nudist nationalism, dietary nationalism, sugar-free nationalism, or blog nationalism. It's all good. It's what passes the time for those stuck on the hopeless little rock out in the Atlantic.
I'd say both Harris and Martin get home at night and crack open a few bottles of Crystal and proceed to roll around the floor breaking their shite in hysterical laughter. The Irish: as lame duck as it gets. And the fun's only just beginning: within the next couple of weeks watch as Ireland starts bleeding out multinational corporations only too willing to comply with Trump's demands that they bring all their boys back home, Ireland's corporation tax just bellied out. Shift them all back to the other side of the pond thereby cutting off Ireland's lifeline to who-ever's in office pond-side.
You twats put all your eggs in the one basket, cracking a few and tossing a few others overboard.
Soon enough they'll all be scrambled like those sad bastards down in Wexford who worked at BNY Mellon: expect more of the same to be drip-fed to you over the next few weeks and months: https://www.thejournal.ie/bny-mellon-wexford-jobs-6599952-Jan2025/
The consultation period to decide those next steps for staff will begin tomorrow.
Meanwhile, up above in Dublin:
TDs set to get extra week of holidays as row over Independents' Dáil speaking time heats up
TDs will return to the Dáil tomorrow for the first time after Christmas before getting another week off the following week.
www.thejournal.ie
But as you can see, the lads in the Dail are 'taking care of business' while hitting the ground running by awarding themselves ANOTHER week of holidays from running the country into the dirt on full pay. Grin, chew, chew, chew, grin. As if their holidays aren't the most generous already? Four weeks over Christmas, twelve weeks over the summer, a few national holidays here and there which usually stop only due to alarming situations arising from international issues affecting the country directly while they're dancing along to Riverdance in a little caravan down in Courtown during the wet summer months.
The only reason they're not shouting about Trump is that they know they'd better keep their heads down, make NO demands, offer NO shamrock, kiss as much ass is required and then some. And as for this simpering fucking harlot, let her fuck as far away off as she fucking likes. Scumbag fucking Jews: I hoep another holocaust comes along and wipes the whole fucking lot of them out. In fact, were I in Ireland today and happened to meet any Irish Jews I used to know, I'd happily spit in their eye and kick them in the bollocks. The blokes too. Y'know, showing up on the evening news dripping in gold chains around the nuck and chest and diamond rings on your fingers probably wasn't a good idea:
Fuck 'em. They've been eating out on the holocaust for far too long already. So a few got cooked during the second war? It was in the middle of the previous century. Who fucking cares? It's ancient history but they still trot it out time and again, and most people are dumb enough to swallow it. Let them have their little enclave. Let them all decide to move home to Zion and at least then you'll have them all in the one basket, just like your own two-party state. Even they have to busting a gut laughing at how hopeless the Irish are at figuring out the game first and the rules last.
Fuck the Jews, I hope they get nuked.
Just like you twats are doing to yourselves with all these fancy dreams you have about being a global 'player'.
You're a fucking loser of epic proportions, really.
It's just around the corner too, so best prepare for what's coming while you still can: dig your own grave, trust no one, and be sure to swallow that cyanide pill lest you wake up in the coffin with a Jew under you, freeloading in your final resting place like a hippie squatter in a Georgian building just off St Stephen's Green pulling up the floorboards for tinder.
Hopeless fucking fools.
Excellent post. Paddy cares about himself...and to hell with everyone else. So long as the local bumpkin councillor fixes the potholes, then that's good enough for him.
Arsefielders need to realise this - it's Ireland, where people associate more with the local parish than with the nation as a whole. That's why their dreams of an all-white Ireland will never come to fruition. National ideas need a national mindset.
Arsefielders need to realise this - it's Ireland, where people associate more with the local parish than with the nation as a whole. That's why their dreams of an all-white Ireland will never come to fruition. National ideas need a national mindset.
Mowl
Member
The gas part is that these so-called 'nationalists' over in the gay bar all hate each other. Of the five or six regular moaners, they get into these pointless fucking rows about absolutely fuck all in the real world, thinking that scoring one over each other is as good as it gets. Perhaps for them it is: maybe they really do believe that a fat little shitebag like Declan Kelly is their natural born leader. In fact, he seems to think so himself, if one can actually manage to read any of his fat fingered posts littered with misspellings and other dumb-assed Americanisms.
While they're patting each other on the back, Ireland's going down the u-bend and out to sea, totally untreated.
Some days I can laugh at it.
Other days, not so much - I still have family there after all.
Funny thing is, when they read what I write these days, they all NOW say I should have stayed and tried to fix the leaking canoe while I still could.
Not my responsibility, you see: I left because I'd had enough bullshit from these mongs.
Ireland's simply to broke to fix, there is no cure for whatever the fuck is wrong with her and the armies of little dancing ants to preside over.
If the five or six proponents of whatever the political jargon of the day is in Ireland can't manage to converse for a few minutes without wanting to kill each other over minor differences in outlook and opinion, then how the fuck are you supposed to bring five and a half million Paddy's and Bridie's to the table and manage to get a result? The catholics hate the protestants. Both the cats and the prods hate Islam. Islam hates them back in equal measure. But the state brings more and more of them over to share in the spoils of Ireland's last big shite post-Celtic Tiger. The working classes have to live with them. They hate them too. And they're hated right back, with machetes attached. The culchies still hate the jackeens, the northsiders hate the southsiders, the middle classes despise the working classes and the very wealthy don't give any fucks at all. Why would they? Their way is greased to the max. They can't lose.
Do you think even ONE of these imports gives a flying fuck about the national debt?
They care even less about it than I do - and I only use it pea-shoot these morons in the back of the neck.
Your country is being fucked senseless and deep into the dirt.
But by all means, keep on trying to define your exact type of nationalism down to the nth degree: that really does make a difference.
And you know I mean that, eh.
While they're patting each other on the back, Ireland's going down the u-bend and out to sea, totally untreated.
Some days I can laugh at it.
Other days, not so much - I still have family there after all.
Funny thing is, when they read what I write these days, they all NOW say I should have stayed and tried to fix the leaking canoe while I still could.
Not my responsibility, you see: I left because I'd had enough bullshit from these mongs.
Ireland's simply to broke to fix, there is no cure for whatever the fuck is wrong with her and the armies of little dancing ants to preside over.
If the five or six proponents of whatever the political jargon of the day is in Ireland can't manage to converse for a few minutes without wanting to kill each other over minor differences in outlook and opinion, then how the fuck are you supposed to bring five and a half million Paddy's and Bridie's to the table and manage to get a result? The catholics hate the protestants. Both the cats and the prods hate Islam. Islam hates them back in equal measure. But the state brings more and more of them over to share in the spoils of Ireland's last big shite post-Celtic Tiger. The working classes have to live with them. They hate them too. And they're hated right back, with machetes attached. The culchies still hate the jackeens, the northsiders hate the southsiders, the middle classes despise the working classes and the very wealthy don't give any fucks at all. Why would they? Their way is greased to the max. They can't lose.
Do you think even ONE of these imports gives a flying fuck about the national debt?
They care even less about it than I do - and I only use it pea-shoot these morons in the back of the neck.
Your country is being fucked senseless and deep into the dirt.
But by all means, keep on trying to define your exact type of nationalism down to the nth degree: that really does make a difference.
And you know I mean that, eh.
Mowl
Member
If you're staying at one of the quality hotels (unlikely) in the city centre, then from Rautatientori (Central Station) take tram 6 to the end of the line at Arabianranta. Takes about twelve very pleasant minutes. You'll know you're there because the tram does a sharp loop back towards the city and then stops at the terminal. Hop off and you'll see a large open square, looks like an inside out domestic lounge with a white marble mantlepiece and some rotating stone seats standing over a floodlit from underneath floor of glass bricks. To the left of that you'll see a pub called Ravintola Olotila. Just yell my name out really loud: I'll be looking out for you off my balcony, you long slithering streak of an alco's piss.
If you're staying in one of the cheap hostels (most likely) trams 8 and 8h also run to the terminal at Arabianranta. But they come from the west end of the city instead of the centre. There are also gangloads of busses from downtown that stop along Hämeentie: just look at the front signage for that road, or ask the driver to let you off at The Pop & Jazz Conservatory, that too takes you to the terminal. If you can afford a taxi, just tell the driver to bring you to Ravintola Olotila, Arabianranta. Don't forget to tip him, either you tight cunt.
There are multiple McDonald's across the city centre if you get hungry. There are no cheap bars. Not for your pocket, anyway. The cheapest supermarket is Alepa - do NOT use KMarket or Smarket, those are for people who have actual money to spend. Tins of Finnish beer are cheap from Alepa, much cheaper than pub prices. No pissing up the walls in the lane-ways after knacker-drinking either. They'll shove you in the tank for that if they catch you. Spitting filthy brown and green phlegm into the gutter is also frowned at. And don't be asking people for directions or spare change either, they'll likely report you on the spot as an illegal immigrant.
If you're the predictable Irish abroad sort, then Molly Malone's on Kaisaniemenkatu is your best bet. Around a tenner for a Guinness, and they either pour it all at once by hand, or if they're busy, the tap is remotely controlled to pour it for them. It's horrible, but you have fuck all taste anyway, so it'll do. Try buying rounds. See where that gets you. Try shouting out to let everyone know you're actually Irish. The Finnish DJ might even play some Irish techno for you.
Some basic Finnish to help you along:
- Hei (“Hi”)
- Moi (“Hi”)
- Terve (“Hello”)
- Hyvää huomenta (“Good morning”)
- Hyvää päivää (“Good day”)
- Hyvää iltaa (“Good evening”)
- Mitä kuuluu? (“How are you?”)
- Kiitos, hyvää. (“Good, thank you.”)
- Entä sinulle? (“And you?”)
- Entä teille? (“And you?”)
- Miten menee? (“How’s it going?”)
- Oikein hyvin, kiitos. (“Really well, thanks.”)
Some other basics for best efficiency:
Missä Mowl on? (Where is the Mowl?)
Auttakaa minua, olen peloissani. (Help me, I'm lost and frightened)
Sirut, sipulit, makkarat ja tomaattiketsuppi, kiitos. (Chips, onions, sausages, and tomato sauce, please)
Minäkin haluan onnellisen lopun, kiitos. (I want a happy ending too please)
Voi, minun tahtoni on niin pieni. (Oh no - my willy is really small)
Onko varavaihtoa? (Any spare change?)
Make sure to tell someone at the desk in the hostel where you're going when you set out, otherwise you might end up washed up on the beaches of Katajanokka. If you do get lost, that number on 'Windows By David' is still kosher. Tell us anyways: why are you twats so fascinated with my old windows gig? You're all over that page dozens of times a day. There's only one photo of me there now as I deleted the other one I put there to taunt you losers about traipsing around after me. Is it that you like my stuff and wish you could afford me? I do occasional reduced prices for the needy, so you might yet get lucky.
Other than that, you picked a shit winter to visit Finland. There isn't a flake of snow falling and we're currently sitting at a winter record of plus four Celsius. The waters are frozen of you fancy some skinny dipping after a sauna. Oh, and about the sauna: you CANNOT wear your y-fronts OR your swimming togs into the sauna. Instead, if you're very ashamed of your tiny little willy, take a clean white towel off the shelf and wear it around your waist. Remember to shower first, then sauna, not the other way around, you uncultured little shitstreak.
We use euros up here.
English is the fourth language after Finnish, Swedish, and Russian.
Mowl
Member
So you have the address of a house I haven't lived in for over thirty years?
Good man - you're doing horse's work for donkey's wages, you thick cunt.
And on top of that you have another address in Leixlip where the man in question hasn't lived for several years either?
Y'know if hindsight was monetized, you'd be a rich culchie?
What a bonehead.
Mowl
Member
So, are any of you fat slob nationalists planning on getting up off your holes to help in the clean-up of your country, or were you all planning on sniping from sidelines while your immigrants roll their sleeves up? You're what? You're not well? You're too old? You're too busy? Tell us: what's the point of your nationalism if you won't leave the house - even in times of extreme dire need such as these?
You're going to laze around all day, all weekend, all month yapping about how you haven't got any power? Your man from the ESB with the pointy chin was interviewed on RTE 6/One news last evening and was saying that while over seventy thousand homes are without power for at least another week, that they should keep on eye on the TV news and an ear to their radios for updates on the repairs. Only, how does one get news from a telly that has no electricity to power it?
Are all of you as thick as him or is he a special case?
Anyway, getting back to you sad bastards on Arsefield's: is it more civic nationalism that inspires a man to get up off his arse and help out or is that more in line with ethnic nationalism? Is it the case that you'll simply wait things out while sipping on tins of Dutch Gold and passing comments about nationalism of various types and strains? What's the point of being ANY sort of nationalist if you don't give a fuck about your fellow Irishmen? I mean there are likely thousands of grannies and granddads up and down Ireland who gave their working lives to Ireland and who are now shivering with the cold and having to light a fire in the grate to heat some water for a cup of tea? Then toast a slice of bread on the end of a stick? Do you think they deserve to be left stranded and alone? What if it was your granny? Wouldn't you at least hop on your bike and drop by with some supplies for her? Spend some time with her? Basic food items, the papers, a few magazines, blankets, clean/laundered clothes? Maybe a couple of novels and a box of chocolates?
Have any of you rat bastards a decent bone in your body?
The really funny thing is that those who are out there trying to get Ireland back on her feet can only try to repair and reinstall the basic systems to what they previously were, which is kind of like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound. Lashing the wires back up onto the old wooden poles that've seen better centuries is hardly a smart idea, not when the next storm comes along. Face it: you live on a little island in an enormous ocean, weather events like Eowyn are only going to increase given the shifting global weather patterns that are quite clearly accelerating.
Today in Helsinki it's +3C, there's no snow, only patches of ice here and there from two weeks ago. In the last week of January? No snow? No ice? We may not see any more snow at all until next winter. This is unheard of. It's not causing us any major issues, if anything there's less work needs to be done by the city council crews. One mate (whose lady just had an angelic little baby) does the night shifts clearing the pathways of the city parks of snow in a large adaptable truck with a huge plough out front. Instead, he's confined to the barracks doing other stuff until the council decide what to do with their budget and staff.
You lot?
You're a shower of useless fucking pricks - useless eaters, wankers, oxygen thieves.
You ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.
I know I'm horrified by the whole lot of you.
Mouths.
Yaps.
All bluster and zero decency.
Lazy pricks, selfish with it.
Civic or ethnic - it's all hot air, you shameless fucking losers.
No wonder your country's on her fucking knees.
So you have the address of a house I haven't lived in for over thirty years?
Good man - you're doing horse's work for donkey's wages, you thick cunt.
And on top of that you have another address in Leixlip where the man in question hasn't lived for several years either?
Y'know if hindsight was monetized, you'd be a rich culchie?
What a bonehead.
What's Feeney going to do - go crying to our mammies?
General Chat in The Marcus Lounge.
There was once a Green minister in Germany named Joshka Fisher. He said on public record that he didn't care what happened to his country's tax revenue AS LONG AS IT WAS NO LONGER IN GERMAN HANDS. This is the Frankfurt School attitude that finances such projects as the one above in Roscommon...
www.sarsfieldsvirtualpub.com
Nah, that's Feeney's wife you're thinking of.
Mowl
Member
Yeps - and then demand a GDPR.
Before coming back with another lame-assed name.
Like Jambo does.
Mowl
Member
Isn't it a gas the way that pretty much EVERY ONE of Swordid's OPs and threads flops out?
Old grey balls: he was never very interesting.
That's why he's a cheap-assed whore, lending himself to any site that'll have him working for free all day and all night since around 2004.
You really should just hang yourself, old man: your best days are long since behind you.
No ceremony, no fuss, just you and a length of rope.
The universe will struggle on, you old fart.
Just do it - and save us all the misery of you sinking further into incontinence, forgetfulness, uselessness, ugliness, and general pointlessness.
Stupid old man.
You're only fooling the exceptionally stupid with your pretense at faking you own a vagina.
Grey old balls, no less.
Very grey, and very old - which pleases the Mowl greatly.
It'll be a gas when you die.
Hilarious, really.
Even your gravestone will have a fake name, like your entire existence.
Old grey balls: he was never very interesting.
That's why he's a cheap-assed whore, lending himself to any site that'll have him working for free all day and all night since around 2004.
You really should just hang yourself, old man: your best days are long since behind you.
No ceremony, no fuss, just you and a length of rope.
The universe will struggle on, you old fart.
Just do it - and save us all the misery of you sinking further into incontinence, forgetfulness, uselessness, ugliness, and general pointlessness.
Stupid old man.
You're only fooling the exceptionally stupid with your pretense at faking you own a vagina.
Grey old balls, no less.
Very grey, and very old - which pleases the Mowl greatly.
It'll be a gas when you die.
Hilarious, really.
Even your gravestone will have a fake name, like your entire existence.
Mowl
Member
Become a nationalist? So it isn't something you're born into. It's something you decided or observed in others and took up the mantle of. One simply wakes up one day and says:
'Oh, nice day out there. I think I'll become a civic nationalist. No, wait - maybe I'll become an ethnic nationalist. That way I can stay at home while the women do the heavy lifting and I can point out their mistakes to them from a safe distance. Never bend at the back, always bend at the knees. That way the heavy load one's lifting won't permanently damage the spine, if I had one, which I don't, because I'm only in the aul nationalist game to pass the time with other floppy tits on the intersnots...'
It's been two days since Eowyn hit: how many fallen trees have you helped chainsaw, Jimmy?
Have you been out to check on your elderly neighbours? No? Why not? Too busy waffling about this and that, is it?
Did you stock up your shelves before the wind began to blow? Frozen pizzas X 7, six slabs of Dutch Gold, sixty Johnny Blues, five packets of red Rizla, no condoms, several skin rags and plenty of tissue, and a quarter of soap bar hash? You're some fucking tulip, Jimmy.
Think I'll become a Finnish nationalist.
Maybe a sauna nationalist.
Or the world's happiest nationalist.
You useless fucking cunts have truly shown your true colours over this storm, my weak-kneed friends.
You're pathetic.
Utterly fucking pathetic.
Mowl
Member
He's right, Jimmy - because you're English.
But not English, right?
In that Tigger also slapped you all over the shop making a complete arse of you and managed to keep it going for the best part of a week. In fairness though: the massive paragraphs of text did signal a whiff of desperation, but still - his heart was in the right place and he did give you an awful pounding.
You see, winning an argument isn't posting another meme.
And nationalism doesn't involve sitting on your hole all day waiting for someone, anyone, to post just the right comment so you can add another meme to it that you've been saving for a rainy day like this one.
You're not a nationalist, Jimmy.
You're a stay-at-home serial moaner.
A sofa nationalist, if you will.
Dole-sponging, layabout bonehead with too much time on his hands. Really ought to be practicing his tiddlywinks with little Jemima or whatever that little girl's name is. Ought to deciding which crappy Oasis 'song' from 1994 he's gonna post next.
Sofa nationalism - Jambo personified.
Doesn't seem to realize what everyone else has known all along.
Poor Jimmy.
Sorry, I meant poor English Jimmy.
Silly boy.