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Mowl

Mowl

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Well, we don't refer to country people as cowboys and Indians for no reason.

Ever been to a culchie nightclub?

One client has a bar/restaurant out in the sticks near Dunshaughlin, and I used to decorate it for her once a year. There's a nightclub on the side called 'The Vortex' and it's the weirdest thing: there isn't a house for miles around, yet every lunchtime (for culchies, that's usually around 1100) the place is stuffed to ceiling with boggers in wellingtons and overalls. They grab a massive plate of food off the smorgasbord and a pint and then they set into the food: shoveling that stuff up and mouth-breathing really loudly, then taking in a gulp of lager or even Guinness, to soften the grub so they can swallow it after only chewing once or twice.

The eating habits crack me up, but I can't actually laugh at them, Beanie would fire me on the spot.

Another trick is the way they only use a knife once at the start of the dinner - they hack up the meat into smaller chunks, then start shoveling huge fork-fulls down the gullet, mostly whole. Then the slurping of the tay after: this is another ritual the culchies practice: who in the whole bar can slurp their tea the loudest? Then there's the belching with the jaw wide open. The rubbing of the belly and the comments to the waiting staff like: 'jaze, that's some craic, that' as she takes their plate away - nothing on it but a few gravy trails and one or two peas that got away.

But the nightclub?

Fuck me, the place is in the middle of nowhere, there's nothing but bog for miles around, but come eleven o'clock on a Friday evening? Coach-loads of them, hundreds and hundreds of young culchies all arriving at the same time, booting and shoving each other to get a table by the dancefloor, the room freezing cold, slowly warming with the heaving bodies of young culchies on the razz. Vodka and Red Bull next to pints of lager and everyone with a naggin in their back pocket. Culchies necking on the dance floor, then heading back to the mates to give an appraisal of yer wan's shifting technique. The verdict comes in: 'ohhh, well jaze she's a looker alright, that one. Tricky too. But those calves of hers? Those thighs? Lots of room in there lads, wha?''

At three in the morning the bar is supposed to close, not a hope of that though. They buy up rounds and rounds and fill their table, then make sure not to leave even a drop behind.

This joint, though I just read it's now closed down.

The club was renamed since I was last there.

www.google.com

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www.google.com www.google.com

Redneck territory alright.
 
David said:
Sounds like a pigsty / barn during feeding time. 😅
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Trust me: I rather have been in the barn tied to a pig in heat than in that club watching their antics.

It's like a time machine - it brings you back to the old dnacehall days of Albert Reynolds before he got into politics. All the lads hugging the bar and the extremes of the walls. All the girls dancing around a pile of handbags, lurching like cattle being fed into the mincer.

'Hon, tis yourself - how's it gawn? Fancy a shift on the flaar? Noah? Ri' so..'

A salty mixture of lads in track suits and shiny new sneakers competing against lads in suit jackets and pants with the legs tucked into the wellingtons and the cotton shirt buttoned up to the neck. Pint in hand, standing staring into the middle distance of the dancefloor, trying to catch anyone's eye.

The music is some terrible house music played at top volume with CDs played on rotation until someone changes the discs.

Mostly it looks more like a silent disco, because when they're all dancing and the floor is full, it's hard to spot even one bogger who's actually in time and on the beat. The lads mostly shuffle around the edges until the final hour, which by then they're swinging the tracksuit top around while 'dancing' on the floor, naked from the waist up.

Irish people.

Gas.
 
The pig would probably have better manners as well.

It's crazy to think people like this make up so much of the Civil Service / Gardai etc....they're about the only places which would have them outside of the farming community.
 

40 THINGS CULCHIES LOVE

How's she cuttin'?
www.fm104.ie www.fm104.ie

01 : A nice bit of Ham.

02 : Buttered biscuits.

03 : Diggin' Houles.

04 : Saying it's too cold to snow

05 : A quare stretch in the evenings

06 : Glass bottle Lucozade

07 : Pretending to like Holy Week.

08 : A good jiving session.

09 : Gettin clattered in muck.

10 : Shania Twain.

11 : Spittin in their hands before doing anything manual.

12 : Steel toe caps.

13 : A big bowl of carrots & parsnips.

14 : Eating sandwiches out of the boot of a car at GAA

15 : The smell of fresh dung.

16 : Slice-Your-Own Loaf.

17 : Work Clothes.

18 : A bottle of mineral.

19 : Weemin wha resemble their Ma.

20 : Saying "Aaah" after taking their first sup of tae.

21 : Red diesel.

22 : Talking about tires.

23 : Pretending to like mass.

24 : Shouting 'Yeeeeeoooo' when something good happens.

25 : Muhammad Ali posters.

26 : Keepin a "good shirt" in the car.

27 : Club Orange.

28 : Rubbing their hands together before tucking into their dinner.

29 : Talkin about the Foot & Mouth.

30 : Takin the dog a walk after Sunday dinner

31 : Checked Shirts

32 : A nice vintage car rally

33 : Chucking the last dregs of tay round the garden.

34 : Having big red faces

35 : Pictures of Ireland pre 1800

36 : Asking after your Aule boy

37 : Smithwicks

38 : Faintly smelling like diesel

39 : Wanting to know how things are cuttin'

40 : Cuttin’ Turf
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The Culchie Commandments


The Culchie Commandments

01) - Thou shalt drink only pints and/or "whiskey." 02) - Thou shalt always ate the skin of yer rasher. 03) - Thou shalt always stand at the back during mass, or even better, in the porch talking. 04) - Thine Wife shalt emulate Biddy from Glenroe. 05) - Thou shalt emulate Miley.
foot.ie


01) - Thou shalt drink only pints and/or "whiskey."

02) - Thou shalt always ate the skin of yer rasher.

03) - Thou shalt always stand at the back during mass, or even better, in the porch talking.

04) - Thine Wife shalt emulate Biddy from Glenroe.

05) - Thou shalt emulate Miley.

06) - Thou shalt "Suck Diesel."

07) - Thou shalt pretend to know all about "The Headage."

08) - Thou shalt look after your tractor better than your car.

09) - Thou shalt have no "Revershing" lights or number plate on your trailers.

10) - Thou shalt display a "Travellin' to Flavin" sticker on the back window of all vehicles.

11) - Thou shalt wear your Ivomec Pour-On fleece with pride.

12) - Thou shalt not use but half-inch Wavin or "a good Sally Rod" for beatin cattle.

13) - Thine sons shall play GAA.

14) - Thine daaawwwthur shall marry the local centhur-forward.

15) - Thou shalt hold regular arguments with d'telly.

16) - Thou shalt reminisce the Fair Day, the Threshing, Kickin'Cabbages and the Corncrake.

17) - Thou shalt know a Mickeen Tomeen Joe and a Paddy Joe Paaaack from "the top of the parish."

18) - Thou shalt ate "Hang Sangwiches" at all GAA matches.

19) - Thou shalt hate "Those Backstard the Tans."

20) - Thou shalt be edumacated by the Chrissshtian Brethers.

21) - Thou shalt pronounce 'Yellow' as 'Yella'.

22) - Thou shalt carry the A.I. Man's mobile number on you at all times.

23) - Thou shalt not visit Dublin ( except to Croker and to bring
the wife shoppin' on the 8th of December ).

24) - Thou shalt not fail to attend the Ploughing Championships and all Steam Rallies.

25) - Thou shalt always know how to reek turf bether than thine Neighbour.

26) - Thou shalt use balin' twine to hold up thine trousers.

27) - Thou shalt not ever visit the dentist.

28) - Thou shalt not miss an episode of "The Weather."

29) - Thou shalt have many many injuries from "that Hooooor of Charlois I got from that cowboy calf-dealer."

30) - Thou shalt wear cap crooked.

31) - Thou shalt love all Big John Wayne's fims, especially "The Quiet Man."

32) - Thine son shall be nicknamed "Bungalow," 'cos "he's got nothin' upstairs."

33) - Thou shalt shoot stray dogs.

34) - Thou shalt drown cats.

35) - Thou shalt think all Lesbians are from Lesbia.

36) - Thou shalt annually run the tractor off the end of the pit when ramping silage.

37) - Thou shalt taste all barrels of Molasses.

38) - Thou shalt think it's great craic to ring PJ and roar into the phone while he's with "the bit of stuff."

39) - Thine favourite chat-up line shalt be "Howya fixshed for a bit a howya goin' on ?" whilst winking like an epileptic.

40) - Thou shalt paint "Whatever County for Sam!" on all of your round bales.

41) - Thou shalt never leave the country.

42) - Thou shalt have a Heinz-57 mongrel of a dog which is good for nothin' except terrorising the neighbour's sheep.

43) - Thou shalt only bathe on a sathurday niyat, using only carbolic soap

44) - Thou shalt read the Farmer's Journal.

45) - Thou shalt always support your county GAA team whilst curshing them for being "pure ****e" at every given opportunity.

46) - Thine sweet of choice shall be either Ritchies After-Dinner Mints or Silvermints.

47) - Thou shalt only be aware of strippers of the bovine kind.

48) - Thou shalt refer to Soccer as "The Foreign Game."

49) - Thou shalt always sing to dirty line to "Alice."

50) - Thou shalt always receive Communion on the tongue, licking the priest's hand in the process
 
Would you look at the state of this mad culchie cunt?

Val's obviously pissed off with Declan using his account over on the gay bar site to spam his gobshite members with fake Val news, so Val's getting his own back by becoming a tour guide himself. In the attached and rather culchie video, watch as he revels in the memories of his childhood holidays in the splendour of Blackrock, Co Louth: the greyest, most overcast, most miserable graveyard of a place. He regales us with tales of The Holy Black Rock Of Ireland, the pennies lost on the slot machines, sharing a bed with his Grannie in the upstairs of a seafront pub that 'duz de bit of accommadayshun' of a B&B.



Val's tours.

Val's Custom Tours.

Val's 'Not Fake Tours' Tours?

Never in the infinite ignorance of the entire universe have I ever come across such a thicko gombeen child. It's un-fucking believable the lengths this clown will go to to try and get your ear. He Declan obviously had a lover's tiff, and Declan decided to ram his point home by using Val's account to mimic Val's daily thicko-isms. Two right specimens of Irish culchies doing what they do best: making arses of themselves.

Poor auld Wolf had to come dragging his arse back into the fray after a two-day flounce, and right now he's after Val as well as Jerry. Poor auld Wolfie's obviously not well in the head. He could use a bit of electro-shock therapy to see if his tiny brains have been fried by his own rage and anger, but I doubt he has a fifty pence coin for the meter. That's if he has any brain at all in the first place. And afterwards he can take a lovely trip to lovely Blackrock-On-Sea in the dreary county of Louth on a tour with Val.

Beaches of brown mucky sand and the smell of chips hanging on the air from early morn til way into the wee hours. That smell you get like slurry when the tide goes miles out and the seaweed and crabs are everywhere. The smell of the local untreated shite-pipe flowing like mead out onto the brown sand, coagulating into piles of dead crabs and dried seaweed for your entertainment. Sticks of rock in the candy shops. Then his microphone claps out and he's still banging on like a demented pensioner. Mullen's chip shop and the cocktail sausages in batter - they go great with the cuppa tay. The windows of The Clermount Hotel and the nice paint job there, wha? Then the Neptune Bar, painted in a girly pink. Then a slot arcade - he walks in and the doors open automatically - and he's back out onto the streets like a shot.

'There's the wall, the famous wall - the Louth Wall. And there you can see the sea off of it, see? Lots of little steps too that you can go down, for a walk or what have you. Yeah. That was it. That was it, as they say. And here's the grave for the young childerren, two lads who died here. Two, yeah. Dead. Both of them. In the water, d'ya see there? the water? And the sand and the little ripples on it, sure yeah - it's EXACTLY how it was. D'ya see? So that's it from Louth. That's it, on this day the eight of October - not any other month, now - but the eight of October - twenty twenty tree..

'..sure I talked me poor Mammy god be good to her into taking off her shoes and going for a walk in the sea water. And sure then I went swimming over there in the outdoor swimming pool, and jaze but I nearly had me life it was so cold, so I had three brandies afterwards to warm up the blood, but whether they worked or not. I. Don't. Know...'

And lots more classic culchie-speak from Ireland's second thickest man.

Hope Declan's pissing himself.
 
Of course Val's channeling THIS guy - who's doing it for the laughs - while Val's taking himself seriously.

 
Wouldf ye evr fucck off the runjng dwn th county peolppe. Ye strsve too deth witoutt thr famrs an dounty people wiekin inn the xity.

The Jafkeens nothun chage sincr thee day off Quen Victira. Jackeeb al of the. Ungratefful lot. Culchiss me arshe.
 
Gerry said:
Wouldf ye evr fucck off the runjng dwn th county peolppe. Ye strsve too deth witoutt thr famrs an dounty people wiekin inn the xity.

The Jafkeens nothun chage sincr thee day off Quen Victira. Jackeeb al of the. Ungratefful lot. Culchiss me arshe.
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Bad enough being born a culchie, but making a lifestyle out of it?

Jaze, now.
 
Gerry said:
Wouldf ye evr fucck off the runjng dwn th county peolppe. Ye strsve too deth witoutt thr famrs an dounty people wiekin inn the xity.

The Jafkeens nothun chage sincr thee day off Quen Victira. Jackeeb al of the. Ungratefful lot. Culchiss me arshe.
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Have you been drinking?
 
That's when they have their 'drinking pants' on.

Rest of the time they wear nappies: both around their arse and around their thick skulls.
 
Wouldn't like to be the security man, some of those farmers are big feckers.
 
David said:
Wouldn't like to be the security man, some of those farmers are big feckers.
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The big mad mucky hands on them too?

It's like five thumbs on either paw.

And a tongue hanging out of their gob dripping like a happy Alsatian at Christmas-time.

But if you ever feel physically threatened or wary when in the company of a genuine Irish culchie who's growing the horn for clattering an unwary jackeen the more drunk he gets, then this is a sure-fire way to plot your escape. The more he keeps staring and mumbling 'wha' , haw? Hon-now, wha''' while shuffling around in his wellies, the less time you have so try to shift him over to the jukebox and play him this attached song.

He'll be so swooning with culchie pride and raw emotion and his by now down to his belly-button tongue that you won't even need to run. You can just walk casually away, he'll not notice a fucking thing for three (horribly painful) minutes while he's dribbling all over his suit pants and smiling wistfully off into the middle distance as his hips sway side to side.



David said:
I think Cavan would be the perfect filming location for The Hills Have Eyes 3...between the hills themselves and the scary-looking local yokels.
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Apparently Ireland's best banjo players are grown out on the bogs of Cavan West.

They dig them up every year around early January, when the sewage pipes are at their limit after 'da bit of de Christmas hollyers'.

* Foster & Allen are not and will not be forgiven at any time while I'm still alive.
 
Mowl said:
.But if you ever feel physically threatened or wary when in the company of a genuine Irish culchie who's growing the horn for clattering an unwary jackeen the more drunk he gets, then this is a sure-fire way to plot your escape. The more he keeps staring and mumbling 'wha' , haw? Hon-now, wha''' while shuffling around in his wellies, the less time you have so try to shift him over to the jukebox and play him this attached song.
Click to expand...

Or maybe throw him a raw turnip to munch on? 😅
 
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