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Culchies, like this gobshite twat:



That's not a fucking poster, you thick culchie chancer - it's a fucking hoarding. Several times life-size with your dumb bovine culchie face grinning out at passing motorists causing them to swerve and crash. It's mounted on enough scaffolding to clean the pigeon shit off the top of the fucking Spire, you total spa. Where the fuck do these twats get their shit from? Try lashing something that size up alongside a Finnish motorway? He'd be arrested and busted the same day. Ireland has this really fucked up way of campaigning: these cunts lash their shit up all over the place, then start weeping and whinging when they get defaced or torn down.

Why do you let them away with this?
Are you all fucking sheep?
These goons are laughing at you - they think you're thick - like I do.

www.thejournal.ie

Fianna Fáil senator Timmy Dooley among candidates with election campaign posters defaced

Dooley’s billboard was vandalised with the words ‘DOFUCKALL’ and ‘ÉIRE’ painted on, while Labour candidate Evie Nevin’s face was cut out of her posters.
www.thejournal.ie www.thejournal.ie

In Finland you can only submit your election literature to the city council who in turn will allocate you the required number of board adverts in tandem with any and every other candidate. You pay your fees, you get your mug on the posters. But the posters are limited to specially reserved spots: along pathways nearby commercial districts like shopping centres and parallel to tram stop waiting areas. You may NOT hang any posters anywhere other than these sites and if you do, you get the same treatment as say a rock band hanging up a poster with the details of an upcoming gig: they WILL show up at your gig and someone will be questioned and eventually fined a hefty cash dollar penalty. Same as the taggers, same as the graffiti artists: you can write on designated places by appointment and your finished work will be kept in place for a set period until the next artist gets their shot at writing their thing.

(Writer: a Nordic term for a graffiti artist)

Here's a typical election board: each candidate has the same amount of space, each candidate is limited in what they can add to their section, and everyone must follow the rules and protocol or else answer to the law.



When the election is done, the council remove all boards overnight and they're dumped to the recycle. This also incurs a fee which must be paid in advance to secure your place on the advert board. The frames they sit in are kept in storage and are used for other purposes throughout the year: free festivals, out of town weekend festivals, places, dates, names, etc.

One local Green Party member hung this one near the entrance to the shopping centre a couple of years back:



She lives in the next block, so I posted it to our community page, which I administer. She was back to me immediately claiming to be a young mother with kids to take care of and who hasn't the time to be dealing with this sort of shit. So I courted her, Mowl style. In the end she removed all of her posters and all of them were hung with around half a meter of Jayzus tape, which is not at all good for the environment. And this from a green party candidate?

Meanwhile, over in Ireland, home of the weekend car crash deaths statistics:



Honestly, you sad cunts do it to yourselves, you masochistic fucking spares. What a shower of mongs you are to allow these fuckers to ride roughshod all over your face? You sit there moaning, posting snide remarks, but you never get up your holes to make it any better, because you prefer to whinge and weep. Affirmative action to you is using a little baby lotions when you wank. Your political betters are what they are because you made them so, you allowed them so, you sit there pointing fingers at them but your pants are around your ankles and your laptop screen rather blurred from all the watery jizz flying about you.

You deserve exactly what you get - just as I do: except for me it's happiness, contentedness, with many options, and of my own choice.

You dole-head bums over on Arsefield's are minions to a fat culchie spoofer from the sticks and bogs: y'all have your tongues so far up his fat arse you can see out through his ears. No wonder he's snide, off-hand, illiterate, full of lies, happy to be fat, to be old, to be wizened, and most of all to be YOUR apparent better. You make me laugh. But you also make me really sad. Because you are the end result of Ireland's many failures throughout her history.

She's not through failing just yet either: watch as votes are counted and FF and FG are laughing up their sleeves at you. Again. Wait and see what happens regarding that €14Bn Apple tax grushee they added to this year's budget? They tossed it around like confetti. But soon enough there'll be Ajai Chopra asking where the money is, because a number of other EU member states are entitled to chunks of it too. Chopra won't be happy about that one at all, at all. And even sweeter is knowing that when the news about it breaks - they'll be telling you about how you were the one who partied - you all partied.

They bought you magic beans.

You're dumb enough to plant them.

That's why you are where you are and I'm not: I'm where you want to be, but you can't get a foot in the door, can you?

This is my land: I take no prisoner - I'll never surrender..

 
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Another of Val Martin's transvestite videos.

He loves to dress up, his boobs up to his chin, the sort that when he lays down will both disappear under the armpits and down into the lower back.

The kind of tits that give black eyes to the owner when they go for a run around the park.



Val doesn't mind at all, not even the smelly head of a mop bothers him, nor the wife.

She must have no sense of smell at all, the poor auld slattern harpy.
 
What is it with Arsefield's and transvestism?

If Mrs Martin, Mrs Kelly and the rest of the wives knew what was going on they'd surely be shocked.
 
David said:
What is it with Arsefield's and transvestism?

If Mrs Martin, Mrs Kelly and the rest of the wives knew what was going on they'd surely be shocked.
Click to expand...

I'd say the wives already well aware that their husbands have in the past flaunted with transvestism and that the residue of those same antics are still doing the rounds because neither Dan nor Val are in the position whereby they can delete their past online affairs. For example, take a look at the previous pages on this 'Culchies' thread and count how many 'this video is not available' blips you see from Val's youtube account.

I'd say he's had his son working on his youtube uploads, parsing every one of them and eliminating the ones that reflect badly on Val's clownish antics. But regardless of how many videos Val deletes, the ghosts of them haunt our hard drives and they cannot be eliminated. That's the crux of it for Val in particular: if he honestly thinks that the events of the last few weeks since his Big Announcement about running for the Irish Freedom Party weren't noted by lampoonists like I, then he's in for a big shock. You cannot completely erase your online history when you've been acting the clown online all day every day for around twenty years. Look at some of the regulars on P.ie? Some of those guys have post counts in the high five figures margin. And still at it. All day. Every day. Every single fuck day of the week, month, year. That's why the other crank Swordid thinks he's getting away with it - because (as yet) nobody has given me an image of him that I can truly say is him. But there have been a few attempts made, so it's good to know I'm not the only one on HIS tail. He has lots of enemies. The kind who'd plot and plan colourful ways of exposing the fake cunt. It's only a matter of time: I get my man every time: search infiltrate, destroy. Take a look at Declan? While he appears to be happy enough to post his bullshit, he's acting like my exposing him for the buffoon spoofer he is still rankles. I know it gnaws at his soul. Nags his nerve endings and makes him jerk like an epileptic when he sees my happy/Ballyer face smiling back at him. From his point of view, he has every reason to hate me. From mine? I just laugh at the sheer pathetic nature of the man. See, I know the view from the front and back of the stage like the back of my hand: I'm an artist, not a humper. Declan only sees the view of the rear doors, the drive-in delivery/collection bay. The STOP signs and the NO PARKING 2100-0500 signs. Where the trash is gathered. Where it's always dark and oppressive. Where the smell of gas mixes with the stink of garbage and bleach. Where all of the concrete underfoot is stained with kerosene, petrol, oil, anti-freeze, and cigarette butts stuck in gobs of phlegm.

His wife must at all costs be protected from ever seeing that shot of him in drag: the make-up in particular. Marianne's going to crown the fucker with an iron skillet when she finds out he used her make-up, lipstick, one of her party wigs, and dressed up in her bra and panties knickers bloomers pantaloons. Big enormous white panties that start between the thighs and ends just under the tits. I'd say Declan's lad Eric gets the pocket money for making sure of that. Deco's fucked: he can never walk away clean any more than Swordid.

Now Sword McZippy isn't in the same category as either Val or Dan: they're family men. Zippy's a loner. A bit of a freak, he suffers something awful with the agoraphobia. No family, no friends, no kids, no workmates, nothing. Just his laptop and the seven million post-it notes with all of his passwords and usernames on. A right miserable gimp. Too ineffectual to be bothered by, but too clingy and musty to ignore. When I finally get the beans on him, I'll lay any money with any of you right now at considerable odds, that he'll disappear moments after clocking it. Real name. Exact location. Recent photo. Previous workplaces, schools, mental institutions, gender reassignment rejections from Johns Hopkins, criminal records, known pedophile history, sexual preferences, and how often he ever leaves the house (never).

Meals on wheels, counting the last saddening moments until the shuffling of this mortal coil finally ends his misery. Dying alone. Nobody will even notice. Even fewer will care, apart from site owners looking for Grade A morons to work for them for free.

All in all, those three are all way too far out to be reeled back in.

It's going to be a fucking free for all by the time Val's election bus van car tractor starts on the long trek up to Dublin (ahh, one-two-three-four-five) to clock in his fob key for Leinster House. All the lads'll be out to greet him, press some palm, crack open a few tins of Dutch Gold. Saul, Jambo, Myles (in a drunken hump on the kerb) Swordid (in his wheelchair, and Saul - dressed in burglar's black and white stripes and a sack over his shoulder marked : SWAG

Val on the telly, at the final count in Cavan north. All his mates and fellow soap-dodgers all in a line supping from pints of Guinness in the background.

Val, dressed in his best but still looking (and smelling) like Father Jack.

Val, doing his best version of 'A Rover I Was Born' ala Brian Cowan on the back of a flat-bed truck on the town square - locked. Foaming beige dribbles running down either side of his trap, they flick in all directions when he shouts out the words of the songs. I want to be there: right in the front row: a download MP3 of 'The Scratchin' Song' blasting out of a ghetto-box from hell.

'Oh, I burst me new pants from the britches to the balls,
An' me wife's all a-fretting screaming up and down the halls...'

His campaign is going to be fun: he has only a few weeks to get his shit together, so he'll be keeping busy and will have selected a trusty team around him to take on 'dem Jackeens abuv in Dubbilinn' with his culchie schtick. They're going to love him, RTE might turn their noses up but you have to let the other channels hear about him. I was going to ask the producer of 'Upfront With Katy Hannon' on RTE. They wanted me to appear last year to discuss the effects of online activism across all the political chat-boards of the time. They know who I am. That's why Jack (the producer) emailed me multiple times: he's knows what I do. He sees the value in it. He also sees the humour and irony dripping off all of it.

One guaranteed money-spinner is to do a (say) fifteen minute short infomercial about Val's online history over the years during a discussion where the IFP are actually present. Send in a few emails before the show is filmed: if they arrive in the morning, they can reviewed and graded for use during the live presentation. Imagine Ireland's reaction to Val's antics? His general toothlessness? A cheap suit that's hanging all over him like, like.. .a cheap suit. Val singing the American National anthem. Word for word. Totally and utterly out of tune. In the see of key. A laughing stock. A national clown. The Last Of The Great Cavan Lads. Minister Martin. Shaving his chin with a hatchet and brushing his teeth with the burgundy velvet curtains. Nicking all the toilet paper. The soap he leaves.

What date is the election?

I'm really looking forward to Val's campaign: there'll never have been anything like it.

Ever.

 
It's only a matter of time before Val gets banned from YouTube due to a drink-fueled rant about d'blacks.
 
This one's a fucking classic:



'Who is Val the man?'

And so he takes us on a grand tour of his cramped little quarters full of cobwebbed wardrobes from the 1970s and some half-arsed carpentry the crazy old goat is rather proud of. Warning: when he starts showing you his mouldy auld shower unit (the tiles from the late 1960s) and then his two-way switch gets a mention as though he's just reinvented the wheel, don't look too closely at the filth of the place. The mould has taken over the tile cement and needs to be blown up - not pulled down. Val's tastes in raw materials is god-awful. His colour palate is like something from a Stanley Kubrick nightmare and his sense of scale utterly bizarre.

Taking a shower in that tiny space would mean stepping in to get wet, then having to step out again to actually wash, then step in again for a rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. Then don't forget to pull the dusty old string for the two-way switch: leaving the immersion heater on costs money. Can't be havin' that, wha'?

It kind of reminds me visiting the relatives down on the Ring Of Kerry whose house was bought with a lottery win way back when the Irish lottery was first introduced. They bought the house and gutted it, then got the builders in to create a nightmare of colour combinations that'd give you an intense headache after fifteen minutes in it. Last time I saw some photos of it, they haven't changed a thing. The views are amazing, up on the curve of the hills, the Atlantic Ocean just a couple of hundred meters away. Open invitations to my family went unclaimed, we always stayed in a local B&B, it was much easier on the eyes and the brain in general. Eating dinner in their kitchen wouldn't be possible: I couldn't keep the food down for the floor tiles screaming at me.

Val's house looks like the kind of 1970s nightmare that defies the space/time continuum in that when you switch on the flat-screen TV in the kitchen, it shows the likes of The Sweeney, Play For Today, Mart & Market, A Prayer At Bedtime, The Mike Murphy Show, and Here's Lucy - with Desi Arnez. Pull a suit out of the wardrobe and it has bell-bottoms and high waistbands - with the three buttons on either side of the flies. Hairstyles, mouzers, and sideboards from a 1960s Swedish porn movie. Orange carpets and brown armchairs. Wallpaper with the same patterns as the carpet in The Overlook Hotel when Danny Torrance goes for a whizz on the tricycle.

I bet the kitchen's even worse (I had to take a break from watching after the 'two-way switch' moment - couldn't stop laughing) and jaze only knows what sort of bed clothes he has. The towels too: one with Mork & Mindy pictured on it for herself and the other with JR Ewing of Dallas fame for Val.

All in all another fucking classic from the ever-worsening dementia of Val Martin.
 
Val's interiors are absolutely manky alright. Culchies have no taste, nor do most Irish furniture stores for that matter...give me Nordic minimalism any day of the week - even if it's a somewhat flimsy self-build from Ikea / Jysk. Being a renter within Ireland's private rental sector is incredibly frustrating for anyone with so much as a modicum of knowledge concerning colour coordination or the efficient use of space. 99% of landlords in Ireland are elderly culchie males who create the naffest living spaces known to man, with:


▪︎Magnolia paint everywhere being a must.

▪︎Floors covered in either manky carpet or cheap, orangish, plastic looking floorboards.

▪︎Ancient, clunky, ugly cabinets lifted straight out of some SVDP furniture shop.

▪︎Cheap, bulky, inefficient, rusting, ill-placed, shit quality electronic appliances in the kitchen which break down more often than not.

etc.

It doesn't help that said elderly male culchie landlord feels he's entitled to enter your home, without notice...due to originally insisting on keeping a spare set of keys for himself. Nor that he feels impervious to rules concerning renting as he's a good friend of the local Fianna Fail TD.
 
The French/ Italians love opulence in design, probably due to both countries having an historical culture of the Baroque.

The Nordics / Dutch love simplicity by contrast, possibly owing to the historical influence of Calvinism and Puritanism.

While I prefer the Swedish approach to the Sicilian I still respect the latter's intelligence in all matters spatial...even down to the simplest, rustic country cottage. Ireland though is neither Baroque nor Calvinist...just full of thickos with bad taste - hence cringey interiors such as Val's.
 
Dear sweet fucking jaze above. Imagine if there were two Vals? I'd imagine he'd kick the shite out of himself for being a smart-arsed culchie suffering from narcissistic dementia and smelling like a soggy and pissy carpet just ripped up off the toilet floor and put out on the window-ledge to 'air' itself. That mop-head likely sleeps beside Val, I'd say he's given it a name and considers it his best buddy.

Kind of like Jambo with Cunt/Colony over on Arsefield's: it took them a long time, but now they're finally together - just as the universe intended.

As for 'Tiger' and 'Wolf' ??

Please: do these dickheads actually choose these names because they take this shit that seriously?

I mean, poor Wooftie's now using the terminology he picked up from me on here likely thinking nobody has noticed.

Here - Woolly: get your shit-stained fingers out of my pies, thank you very grand - find your own language, you lame-assed poodle-fucking loser's melt.

'Tiger' ain't much better either, mind you.

Maybe the other lads should change their names to scary animals too, eh.

Rat, Pig, Stoat, Weasel, Skunk, and Ferret are all free, how come they don't want to use those animals as names for themselves? Jambo would make a pretty good Mongrel, while Saul would make a great Sloth. Myles has to be the Rat, the filthy little cunt that lives under the drip tray for the Boddington's Real English Ale tap. Sword ought to be re-named 'Lying Old Cunt' - which, while accurate in its description, doesn't really cover for his old man/young Jewish female routine. Which is far beyond tired and jaded by now.

Declan Kelly?

Cow.

Big fat fucking smelly/sweaty wrinkled/rolled up bovine-fatso cheeseburger-hound with more rolls of fat under his seven chins than I have on my entirety, which is slender to say the least. Who else is there? There are more than that but I can't remember their names, so disposable is their character and content.

Val's manky jumper.

His missing teeth: I reckon he's thinking about just leaving it as is, he's been practicing hiding the gap with his upper lip, but when he loses the rag he forgets to hide it, and that's where all my favourite stills from his videos come from.

Val's manifesto?

Let's put it to the test though:

 
Even Arsefield's posters such as Jambo and Wolf understand that Val is a bit thick...or the proverbial village idiot / country bumpkin of rural folklore.

Most of the arse kissing seems to come from individuals such as Swords who decided to create a thread on P.ie, slobbering over Val and his so-called election campaign.

Popular Irish dissident Conservative commentator Val Martin running in this General Election.

If you find the claim of him being popular hard to believe than look at the amount of views he receives on youtube. He is running on a ticket of ending the severe problems arguably created by Roderick O'Gorman and defending Civil Liberties concerning our freedom of speech and conscience. I think...
politics.ie
 
Swordid doesn't give a shit about Val, he just wants to be on the side that's winning, the lazy and lying old cretin.

Nobody really gives a shit about Val apart from Val - who's in love with Val.

Hence all the tranny-dancing and wigs and make-up: his long lost other half was merely in hiding down the back of the closet waiting for his day to come. Looks like it's here alright. Val currently has twenty five year old photo as his campaign/button badge image. He has a new suit, grey, not exactly tailored but close enough given Val's fat neck and heavy gait via his shoulders and collarbones. A new matching tie too. Of course, he'd never have given it a second though if I hadn't spent the last three or seven years telling the tight cunt to spend a little and get his fucking culchie/farmer act together.

I guess the visit to the dentist was a bridge too far in my own expectations, but still: the suit's a start.

If I find out later that he's got the suit pants tucked into his wellies, then I give up - enough already.

The real bone of contention here is exactly what Val will do if he gets trounced in the elections. Of the 6.4k subscribers he's got, if he nails all 6.4k of them then he has a foot in the door. But what happens if he gets none at all? Would he come back with his tail between his legs or would he slink off into obscurity? The silly old goat knows I can help him, but he's way too proud to ask. So fuck him, let him fail and fall on his won sword - hopefully NOT Swordid.

Val's off to a bad start: choosing a photo that old will be seen as vanity.

Lying to your constituency isn't a good foot to begin on either.

My people know exactly who I am and they know I've no need to pretend to be anything I'm not, but it seems Val's not the sort to risk appearing too bourgeois to his fellow culchies. After making and publishing around seventeen gazillion videos in his toothless and manky-jumpered existence, why don a suit and tie now? Why not go the whole hog and show up at his clinics dressed as he normally dresses: like a culchie farmer with a red neck, filthy/hairy hands, and a set of molars not even Scrooge himself suffered? Spoofing the voters isn't wise, at least not in his case.

They won't even recognize him as this young fella:

pixvid.org

young Val

Image young Val hosted in PixVid
pixvid.org pixvid.org
 
Val has fairly thick skin, so none of those jibes are going to bother him. In his mind, any hype is good hype, even if it's taking aim at his nuts. He's a lot like a spoiled and precocious child on the one hand, and an angry old man losing his marbles to dementia on the other. I know he absolutely hates my guts but that's okay, I'm not interested in being in his gang. His gang has only one man in it: the legendary Val Martin himself.

His uncouth manner and complete lack of any sense of awareness can be extremely comical, and he does use his 'my funny jokes' type culchie sense of humour to win his neighbours over. If it's taken him eight years to build up his audience to around 6.6k members, then it'll take him another ten years to capitalize on it. He's not a negotiator, he's a nag. A serial moaner with more gripes than an infant child in teething stage: though sadly he's missing the more important teeth from his slack jaw. He was under the tractor doing some sort of (menial) repairs when the vice-grips in his hand slipped and knocked out his upper front tooth. He's a clumsy oaf with little grace or dignity. His fingers and the filth under his nails makes me gag, and he can't seem to stop sticking them into his ear-holes, up his nose, and likely up his arse too.

ear.jpg


Instead of going to the dentist, he made a video about his new pocket item: he showed us the gap where the smashed tooth used to sit then reached into his pocket and took the tooth out to show it off. It was mostly brown with rot, even if the front face of it was scrubbed somewhat cleaner than the rear. He said he was going to drill a tiny hole in it and mount it with a clasp so he could wear it as a necklace. One can only begin to imagine the smell of the rotten thing, but Val surrounds himself with so much shit, shite, slurry, and poop - it's not going to bother him too much even if others want to vomit at the sight of the damned thing.

I see he's finally invested in a suit and tie. This is a positive step forward: I've been on at him about his presentation for years by now, and if it took me a decade or more to get the old buzzard to sort himself out, you can be sure that his new suit will soon enough become his farming wear. Trousers tucked into the wellies, held up by a worn out leather belt pulled tight around his waist. A heavy cotton lumberjack type shirt buttoned up to the gizzard. A woolly hat sitting at a jaunty angle to indicate his playful mood while he explains to you why his 'funny jokes' are funny and why you're too stupid to get them.

Val's around three to six weeks away from full-on dementia. I can't even begin to imagine what his family think about his weird habits and mouth almighty personality, but whatever they're suffering now will only get worse in time. One day, when history is being rewritten, Val's name will crop up like he was some imaginary character from ancient Irish history. Not so much the salmon of knowledge as the holy stone of Clonrichert. Poor auld Val, upgraded to a Class 2 relic in 1996, still hanging around like a bad smell.


He needs some consistency in his presentation: he's using this photo taken in Macchu Pichu in 1978 as his avatar on the Irish Freedom Party site; this one:


young-Val1.jpg



Not a good idea to put out so many contrasting images of himself, vanity in a male culchie politician is a big no-no. Bertie learned that one from Charlie but it never stopped him trying to act all 'cool' and trendy in his cheap anorak over a tailored suit. Val's idea of trendy is to wear his own front tooth on a piece of twine around his neck. Thinks his new wellingtons are suitable for a night down the pub with a dinner of spuds, cabbage, and bacon to line the stomach before lorrying the pints of Guinness down his gullet as he prepares for a long night of boring the shite out of everyone in the place with his crazy tales of derring-do.

He should have taken me up on my offer of some assistance with his general presentation, he has zero sense of style. He recently went to Italy for a friend's wedding party. This was his chosen attire for the event:


valitaly.jpg



The tie down to his knees is an absolute howl. The entire ensemble a car crash of mismatched second-hand St Vincent De Paul bargain-bin buy-two-get-one-free items from the mid-1970s. If he took me up on my offer of some styling, I'd have to insist that this be his election poster photograph; it's honest, it reflects Val 'the man' and he seems very comfortable in it too:


ED.jpg



So here's to November 29th and Val finally getting lifted up onto the shoulder of giants.

Long may he reign.

A man of truth, of vision, and a friend of the stony grey soil.
 
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