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In fairness to him - he's designed his own way of presenting things that actually does appeal to his fellow culchies. Yes, there are a million hilarious things about Val that are easy to fling back at him. But aside from me - show me one other member of any of these sites who can match his audience scale and reach? Yes, only culchies would even consider taking their advice from Val about anything bar whether Barry's or Lyon's would win in a duel at dawn. But they're still watching him, and he's boosted his viewers by at least five or ten per day for some months by now.

Obviously, he wants to reach the magical 10,000 in an effort to pass me by, but sure I'm only a couple of dozen off the ten thousand mark. And I don't mince my words either, so there's a lesson to be learned there. In fact, if and when it happens for Val, I'll be the first to congratulate him, because he did it by himself. He said he would, then he started - now you're beginning to see the end result of all that neglect of his cows and wife, sons and daughter.

He's renowned in Kingscourt, like royalty when he calls by the builder's providers for his shovel and fork handles, knives and forks for the table, and some rough grade sandpaper for his hole. But soon enough all of Cavan north will know his wrath. He may even cross the border into Brit territory, thereby unleashing the fury of the PSNI on top of the farmer's union.

Yes, he's as thick as they come, but no: not one of you can match him when he takes to his stride - and you know his main objective there is to try his level best to out-number the membership of the Mowl. Of course, I don't need to try, my site was built for me by concerned locals who directed everyone they knew to my articles as soon as they possibly could. Including their kids, who were reminded that the Mowl went to the same schools they did, and look at how well he writes? He's usually a few days ahead of the real news too, so his informers and providers are clearly on the ball.

This was Val not so long ago:



This is Val today:



Taking on Sinn Fein, no less. And his name and address all over the internet along with his phone numbers? And him living next to the border? With cows? With two houses and a Shitting Ditch? Fair fucking play to him, even if it has all cost him dearly. The hours he puts in every day? Every night? The laptops he goes through what with letting them fall into the Shitting Ditch while he's broadcasting from his throne? he's earned his little perch, don't forget that. He went right out of his way to get it done and it's worked for him.

Meanwhile, here's Jambo:

 
The difference between how farmers and townies view / treat animals is startling.

Whereas urban folk see animals as loving pets and creatures worth preserving in the wild - farmers see them as little more than objects to be shot, stabbed, trapped or brutalised. Most farmers would happily cause the entire ecosystem to collapse if they could get away with it.
 
Twitchy fucker. If he was to sit a sight test and during the procedure his face started trying to hop off his skull like it does when he gets an twitchy attack, they'd ban him from driving for life. The cost of diesel/petrol wouldn't even come in to it. They'd tear up his license and tell the mad fucker to cycle.

Or walk.

The fat fuck.
 
Does he ever stop sticking his fingers in his various orifices?

Ears? check
Nostrils? check
Eyes? check
Anus? check - (both of them)
 
The Finns take old cars like that and strip them down to the bare essentials, then soup up the engine, strap themselves in and rally it all over the wilds. This is why we've given the world so many excellent racing drivers as well as gritty rally-drivers. The only animals that might get hurt are big dumb moose. Every other living thing hightails it out of the area, but the moose are always curious and will stand in front of a speeding car like big dopes and get smacked back into the forests.

There's no point in using moose fences made of wire that far north, plus there are too many off roads to make any difference, so you take your chances and try not to kill or be killed. Smash into an adult moose at say seventy mph and you'll be left scattered among the engine parts and car furniture. The moose will just walk away.

Imagine Val rally driving?

He'd probably attach a slurry spreader to the toe bar.
 
I wonder what 'freedom' means to these lads. Becoming a prisoner of the Irish past I suspect. Funny watching these old bastards trying to find a way to squeal about change by framing it is a political issue rather than their own small island based mentality.

They'll generally be against seeing brown skinned people in shops. They won't like change in any way, shape or form. Likely to hate tetra-pak instead of 'bockles' of milk. Convinced that Ireland was a better place when they were seven years of age when they were protected against the evils of the time.

I may found a pro-Euthenasia Party. My suspicion is that if we culled everyone over 75 years of age Ireland would be much freer than it is now. Or camps. Preferably run by the Little Sisters of the Mailed Fist and the Holy Five Pound of God. Give 'em the nostalgia they want. Give it to them hard.
 
We're missing the obvious. We have loads of isolated islands. There should be a rule that when Irish people get to 70 they should be made live on the western islands like Peig Sayers where they can sit around being depressed in the rain and making music through their noses because they are too tight to buy a tin whistle.

It would probably keep whales from beaching as well so there's a conservation element to it. I blame Ruairc on RTE for all this. Sunday night was Entertainment for the Manic Depressives night when I was small. They used to love sending some poor bastard camera crew as far west as they could until they found some Sean Nos singers huddled in some damp hut near the sea. Lots of shots of lowering skies and rough sea scapes. It was like some horror in a suit at Montrose had decided this was heritage. I couldn't believe the shit they had on on Sunday nights. It was as if there was some weird notion in it that the nation had had its weekend now and from here it was back to the grind and by the way here are some elderly people making their own entertainment the way they used to (Sean Nos was only invented relatively recently, probably by the same bastard at Montrose).

It was a sort of glorying in misery. You'd have no idea how mental this all looked to a young lad transported away from school abroad and plonked in the middle of 1970s Ireland. Hence, the interest in euthenasia.
 
I wonder what 'freedom' means to these lads. Becoming a prisoner of the Irish past I suspect. Funny watching these old bastards trying to find a way to squeal about change by framing it is a political issue rather than their own small island based mentality.

Valamhic insists global warming is a fake because he gauges the global weather patterns based on what he sees happening in Cavan. Says global warming is a lie because it's very cold in Kingscourt all the time. Floods in towns and cities across Asia have nothing to do with local tillage/silage issues in the upper midlands and therefore the whole thing's a big massive spoof designed to cause complications and expenses for the small farmer - with cows. Val has a few acres of hilly bog and one flat field he feeds the cows on. When it rains, all the rain water on the hilly end tends to drift down into the flat end and like King Canute, he tries to hold it back by the power of prayer and self-aggrandizement.

Another issue is that his cows can't digest their grass in either of their stomachs unless they stand sideways on the hill the rains seep down from, and as a result, all of his cows have two legs shorter than the others. This directly affects their value at the markets, so he went into his little metalwork shop and designed two steel boots for each of his cows to be worn on the left rear hoof and the front left hoof.

Of course, at night when they're dancing in the barn over by the Shitting Ditch, they can hear the festivities in Val's house as he dances a merry jig around the kitchen wearing naught but a hand-towel around his neck and his cleanest yellow y-fronts, and they like to join in the fun by putting their right leg in, their right leg out, then they do the hokey-pokey and they shake it all about. Except with just the two steel boots, they're always off rhythm and this causes them to self harm out of social exclusion and deep depression.

They'll generally be against seeing brown skinned people in shops.

Depends which side of the counter they're on, no?

They won't like change in any way, shape or form.

Especially when it comes to underwear.

Likely to hate tetra-pak instead of 'bockles' of milk.

My Mam always washed the milk bottles before putting them out at night.

I say my Mam, but in reality it was me acting on clear instruction.

I thought we were weird until that one day the milkman came late and I saw that everyone along our street also washed their empties.

It's somewhere in between absolute insanity and a generalized social respect for others.

Convinced that Ireland was a better place when they were seven years of age when they were protected against the evils of the time.

I read somewhere recently that culchies age much faster than jackeens. Say two regular pale pink Irish people are born in two different hospitals: by the time the one born in the Dublin hospital reaches their teens, the other one in Cavan has reached their fiftieth birthday. It plays havoc with the pensions and wills, but the turnover is moderate and the death rate healthy enough to keep a number of conveyancers and undertakers in work.

I may found a pro-Euthenasia Party.

Don't we have one already?

I mean, Fianna Fail and Fine Gael have been at that for years.

My suspicion is that if we culled everyone over 75 years of age Ireland would be much freer than it is now.

That's quite young going by today's standards: I know loads of seventy year olds who are only just out of their kiddy nappies and transmogrifying into old people's nappies. Mad the way you stop shitting yourself around two years after you're born and then after a brief period of respite, you're shitting yourself all over again at age sixty-five? Makes you wonder how many in your circle are wearing more than just pissy-yella y-fronts down the pub.

Or camps. Preferably run by the Little Sisters of the Mailed Fist and the Holy Five Pound of God. Give 'em the nostalgia they want. Give it to them hard.

They don't call them the Little Sisters for nothing: those little bitches are responsible for more telephone directories being abused and used as seating devices for young girls sitting on the laps of much older men. Remember that? That was actually a thing - for many years. A girl must never sit on the lap of an older man without that directory to offer her some sexual protection.

I reckon they'd have been better off just whacking the older male in the chops with it, then rifling through his pockets and making off with the wallet.
 
There is a point in Ireland where the elderly just want to live in Ruairc. We definitely put the wrong people in institutions in Ireland, historically. All the nutters were walking around in uniform outside. And making a living out of being the lunatics running the asylum.

The only Irish indigenous industry for milennia has been farming. Not surprising that even the lunatics who had the asylum 1930 - 1985 or so found a way to do farming without having to buy animals.
 
We're missing the obvious. We have loads of isolated islands. There should be a rule that when Irish people get to 70 they should be made live on the western islands like Peig Sayers where they can sit around being depressed in the rain and making music through their noses because they are too tight to buy a tin whistle.

It would probably keep whales from beaching as well so there's a conservation element to it.

John Lennon (the musician, not Terry-Lee's pet gerbil) wanted to buy an island off the west coast before he died. He died a bit too quick after meeting that weirdo in the hotel lobby, the guy with the copy of 'The Catcher In The Rye' in one hand and a fresh gun in the other. Yoko Ono was intending to write her next album on the island and Lennon was happy to buy it for her so long as he didn't have to be there listening to her wail and scream.

This is also the explanation for Mark David Chapman wasting Lennon: he was on contract for Ono - who got a great deal in that she didn't even have to pay him.
 


Oh shut up.
 


Oh shut up.

That kid's rightly fucked up in the head department.

His Ma, god bless her ugly mug - must have clattered him off every wall in the house when he woke her up needing a nappy change in the middle of the night. His aul fella likely did the same - but not for the same reasons - it was mainly because the little cunt was an accident. Dave thought he was doing her up the jaxie, but it turned out her fanny always smelled like that.

If he wants a clean slate to begin again - he should really just top himself.
 
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