Culchies
- Thread starter Mowl
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Mowl
Member
He's gone right off the handle, our Val.
He's even starting to believe his own bullshit.
Not only that, he's lining himself up for a right hiding if he keeps this shit up.
He's like a twelve year old culchie who just got an annual subscription for the Daily Mirror off his mad auntie up beyond in Dublin.
He's even starting to believe his own bullshit.
Not only that, he's lining himself up for a right hiding if he keeps this shit up.
He's like a twelve year old culchie who just got an annual subscription for the Daily Mirror off his mad auntie up beyond in Dublin.
Mowl
Member
He did a number on Brid Smith a few weeks back. She messaged me on the BBBB after I sent her link to his rather threatening video about Sinn Fein. He hates them. Loathes them altogether. Regardless, he's becoming more and more radicalized and is running the risk of stirring up some shit he's not built to handle. Smith laughed it off, said she's known about him for years, but this is the first time he named her and made a few threats about his intentions.
Val's problem is that he's a sitting duck. Anyone could take a pot-shot at him out on the bog shoveling his shit. Or burn him out of it - the farm machinery, the barns, the winter silage, the coal shed - the whole fucking lot. That natty old house too. Not even his trusty/rusty old blunderbuss shotgun's going to help him, those yokes take fifteen minutes of fussing around to load and cock the single barrel. Shooting at rats and pigeons is one thing. Pointing a shotgun at someone is something else again.
He's going to have to back up some of his mad rhetoric at some point - he's rustling at a pace that'll soon out-speed him and bring himself to the attentions of some fairly weighty types who'll do a man in for cash money dollar. He's setting himself up. It's that simple.
It's all very well having his little 1,064 army of culchie followers, but culchies aren't to be trusted - not even by other culchies. County by county, they'd stab their neighbour in the back if they thought there was half an acre with frontage going. Slash hooks in the car boot, oiled and sharpened. Ready and waiting.
He's already missing his front teeth due to smashing them (he was under the tractor fixing a leak and he dropped the spanner onto his own mouth, smashing the tooth in half, so he pulled the remaining stump out later that evening in the bathroom - and that was over two years ago) and has zero intentions of spending a few quid to have his gob fixed up. He's not so much tight as he is broke. I think the family have taken his credit cards and bank accounts away. At the rate he's going just now, the kids know perfectly well that he'd waste their inheritance on the spot if he thought there was fifteen minutes of fame for doing it.
Brid Smith's retiring, she's given it all she can and wants to get out of the filthy game. But she's smarter than she acts: she has some VERY heavy connections she can rely on. Val thinks he can get away with anything he likes because he's 'a farmer with cows'.
Let's see if his cows will protect him next time he starts naming names and threatening anyone - he'll need to have eyes in the back of his head.
Or if his tractor moves fast enough to get away from a Hiace van full of heavy-weights from Dublin in black clothes and black balaclavas.
One serious smack of an iron bar will soon take care of his remaining teeth.
Val's problem is that he's a sitting duck. Anyone could take a pot-shot at him out on the bog shoveling his shit. Or burn him out of it - the farm machinery, the barns, the winter silage, the coal shed - the whole fucking lot. That natty old house too. Not even his trusty/rusty old blunderbuss shotgun's going to help him, those yokes take fifteen minutes of fussing around to load and cock the single barrel. Shooting at rats and pigeons is one thing. Pointing a shotgun at someone is something else again.
He's going to have to back up some of his mad rhetoric at some point - he's rustling at a pace that'll soon out-speed him and bring himself to the attentions of some fairly weighty types who'll do a man in for cash money dollar. He's setting himself up. It's that simple.
It's all very well having his little 1,064 army of culchie followers, but culchies aren't to be trusted - not even by other culchies. County by county, they'd stab their neighbour in the back if they thought there was half an acre with frontage going. Slash hooks in the car boot, oiled and sharpened. Ready and waiting.
He's already missing his front teeth due to smashing them (he was under the tractor fixing a leak and he dropped the spanner onto his own mouth, smashing the tooth in half, so he pulled the remaining stump out later that evening in the bathroom - and that was over two years ago) and has zero intentions of spending a few quid to have his gob fixed up. He's not so much tight as he is broke. I think the family have taken his credit cards and bank accounts away. At the rate he's going just now, the kids know perfectly well that he'd waste their inheritance on the spot if he thought there was fifteen minutes of fame for doing it.
Brid Smith's retiring, she's given it all she can and wants to get out of the filthy game. But she's smarter than she acts: she has some VERY heavy connections she can rely on. Val thinks he can get away with anything he likes because he's 'a farmer with cows'.
Let's see if his cows will protect him next time he starts naming names and threatening anyone - he'll need to have eyes in the back of his head.
Or if his tractor moves fast enough to get away from a Hiace van full of heavy-weights from Dublin in black clothes and black balaclavas.
One serious smack of an iron bar will soon take care of his remaining teeth.
Mowl
Member
Another car crash from Val: go to 03m40s and check the poor old trout out.
This time he refers to Mel Gibson's 'Braveheart' as a factual historic film about events that happened in exactly the way Gibson portrayed them.
Val genuinely thinks that Conor McGregor's watching his clown show uploads.
This is an indicator of how far out into loon territory old Valamhic's gone.
Totally fucking interstellar.
This time he refers to Mel Gibson's 'Braveheart' as a factual historic film about events that happened in exactly the way Gibson portrayed them.
Val genuinely thinks that Conor McGregor's watching his clown show uploads.
This is an indicator of how far out into loon territory old Valamhic's gone.
Totally fucking interstellar.
Mowl
Member
Val looks closer to death than Shane McGowan ever did.
Maybe someone should put him out of our misery?
Or whack him into an OAP home - preferably beside a busy abattoir?
EDIT: he's also dumber than a bag of hammers: every digital recorder can be paused in record mode - or at least they have since around 1978.
EDIT (II): so we did put a man on the moon after all. Good man, Val - never hold onto or stand by your principles if there's an easy alternative option.
Maybe someone should put him out of our misery?
Or whack him into an OAP home - preferably beside a busy abattoir?
EDIT: he's also dumber than a bag of hammers: every digital recorder can be paused in record mode - or at least they have since around 1978.
EDIT (II): so we did put a man on the moon after all. Good man, Val - never hold onto or stand by your principles if there's an easy alternative option.
Mowl
Member
This is why his wife booted him out of the family home.
Val's living alone in the old house near the shitting ditch, you can tell: he's stopped washing himself at all these last few weeks, and the culchie dress-sense is taking him over: a woolly hat over a flat cap. A round-necked jumper over a lumberjack's heavy shirt buttoned up to the gizzard. The suit jacket over that. A pair of wellies with his suit pants tucked into them. A fork and a Swiss army knife in his breast pocket.
The smell gradually becoming visible on him, like a shivering aura of pure skitter, as he likes to call his morning glory.
Oddly enough, he hasn't referred to his 'mickey' in quite a while.
I guess Luke Kelly was right.
Val's living alone in the old house near the shitting ditch, you can tell: he's stopped washing himself at all these last few weeks, and the culchie dress-sense is taking him over: a woolly hat over a flat cap. A round-necked jumper over a lumberjack's heavy shirt buttoned up to the gizzard. The suit jacket over that. A pair of wellies with his suit pants tucked into them. A fork and a Swiss army knife in his breast pocket.
The smell gradually becoming visible on him, like a shivering aura of pure skitter, as he likes to call his morning glory.
Oddly enough, he hasn't referred to his 'mickey' in quite a while.
I guess Luke Kelly was right.
Lumpy Von Talbot
Member
Won't get the chance. The cow committed suicide not long after.
Mowl
Member
I liked that scene in The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy where the crew have dinner at the restaurant at the end of the universe. The house special was where one got to 'meet the meat' as in - the customer might fancy a nice t-bone or maybe the entrecôte, so the cow would lumber out from the kitchen to introduce itself and tell you all about its recent diet and exercise/fitness regime and which areas of its posterior were particularly delicious. Then it went and out back and shot itself in preparation for the chef to get busy.
Ten minutes later, there was your steak, steaming and smelling delicious.
Of course, Val's cows are unique in that every one of them has its own therapist.
Chronic depression, low self esteem, self harming, borderline personality, and a terrible bovine for the drink.
I heard that Val also names his cows.
Names like:
'breakfast, 07.06.1977'
'dinner, 08.06.1997'
'supper, 10.07.2001'
'sammidges, 12.09.2002'
Ten minutes later, there was your steak, steaming and smelling delicious.
Of course, Val's cows are unique in that every one of them has its own therapist.
Chronic depression, low self esteem, self harming, borderline personality, and a terrible bovine for the drink.
I heard that Val also names his cows.
Names like:
'breakfast, 07.06.1977'
'dinner, 08.06.1997'
'supper, 10.07.2001'
'sammidges, 12.09.2002'
Lumpy Von Talbot
Member
Yeah, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe was great. The cow reassuring people at the table. 'Don't worry. I'll be quite humane.'
Mowl
Member
Look at the head on Val?
I mean WTF is that?
Toothless, unwashed, unshaven, thinks he's upper class, thinks he's dead smart. The still image you see above is exactly what the old buzzard looks like: death warmed up. Val had a stroke a few years back, but he refused to deal with it, and that's why the left side of his face and head are all sagging down lower than the bags under his eyes. I simply find it strange that nobody has actually pulled him offside and gave him some friendly.
He's fucking crazy really; a total nutjob culchie in the purest sense. Hates Dublin, hates Dubliners, has a hump about us, can't figure out why young Dubliners keep outsmarting him, so he decided to go full mental retard on things and dropped his disguise because Mowl put out is name, address, age, phone number, past and present occupations, lifestyle, personality type, history, criminal record, the lot. He'd like to think he's unbeatable, claims to be the second most intelligent man in Ireland, claims all sorts of fantastic things about himself.
He did a video on Sinead O'Connor after her demise. Decided to analyze one of her songs 'The Emperor's Got No Clothes On' (sic - it's actually the emperor's new clothes) and after reading the lyrics, said he figured out what she was singing about - AND THAT HE'S THE ONLY PERSON IN IRELAND WHO EVER FIGURED OUT WHAT THE FIRST LINES OF THE SONG MEAN. Sorry for shouting, but he actually said that. And more. The line is about a young Catholic girl who can't access the pill but who instead relies on her fertility and monthly cycles to assume when it's safe to have sex and when it isn't.
'You said it wasn't safe after Sunday and I knew you loved me...'
Val. The only man to ever figure out what Ms O'Connor was singing about.
On her multi-million album sales which topped the charts around the world?
Only Val understands, now d'ya see? Wha'?
Here, his ignorance is truly breath-taking:
I mean WTF is that?
Toothless, unwashed, unshaven, thinks he's upper class, thinks he's dead smart. The still image you see above is exactly what the old buzzard looks like: death warmed up. Val had a stroke a few years back, but he refused to deal with it, and that's why the left side of his face and head are all sagging down lower than the bags under his eyes. I simply find it strange that nobody has actually pulled him offside and gave him some friendly.
He's fucking crazy really; a total nutjob culchie in the purest sense. Hates Dublin, hates Dubliners, has a hump about us, can't figure out why young Dubliners keep outsmarting him, so he decided to go full mental retard on things and dropped his disguise because Mowl put out is name, address, age, phone number, past and present occupations, lifestyle, personality type, history, criminal record, the lot. He'd like to think he's unbeatable, claims to be the second most intelligent man in Ireland, claims all sorts of fantastic things about himself.
He did a video on Sinead O'Connor after her demise. Decided to analyze one of her songs 'The Emperor's Got No Clothes On' (sic - it's actually the emperor's new clothes) and after reading the lyrics, said he figured out what she was singing about - AND THAT HE'S THE ONLY PERSON IN IRELAND WHO EVER FIGURED OUT WHAT THE FIRST LINES OF THE SONG MEAN. Sorry for shouting, but he actually said that. And more. The line is about a young Catholic girl who can't access the pill but who instead relies on her fertility and monthly cycles to assume when it's safe to have sex and when it isn't.
'You said it wasn't safe after Sunday and I knew you loved me...'
Val. The only man to ever figure out what Ms O'Connor was singing about.
On her multi-million album sales which topped the charts around the world?
Only Val understands, now d'ya see? Wha'?
Here, his ignorance is truly breath-taking:
Lumpy Von Talbot
Member
Those are someone else's glasses. Head on he looks like a battered 1974 Volkswagen Beetle abandoned in a river. Bonnet up and half a broken hurley poking out of it.
Mowl
Member
Probably some man from the health board came around to check on the animals - only to end up in Val's coddle.
The VW Beetle's had great lines from any angle.
The only type of car my Father ever bought: Sunday afternoons out for a spin. Saturday afternoons washing it for pocket money. Standing on the grill under the front doors like a gangster riding shotgun as he drove out to work. Engine out back, luggage up front (usually his golf bag and kit) and a roof rack for the suitcases when heading down to the coast of either Wexford or Cork/Kerry for the summer holidays.
The VW Beetle is one of life's greatest gifts.
See what happens when you reverse Val's image?
Compare that one to the previous one - the first thing that'll strike you (apart from the rancid ugliness of the man) is that he's totally off kilter in ever possible physical way. By the looks of him he's only burning one engine, and that's on his left side. They say that symmetry is an important factor in finding beauty in another human.
In Val's case, Pythagoras himself gave up the ghost.
Mowl
Member
Now, admittedly he does look - at a glance - like a circus clown with a red nose. But from a strictly medical point of view, a closer inspection will reveal so much more about this very public persona known as Valamhic. A man who freely offers his real name, address, location,function, preferences, opinions, and much, much more on a daily basis but somehow still can't seem to connect with any real people in the real world.
Like a thirteen year old girl with a new phone, he has a desperate need to be popular and will go to any lengths to have a few column inches per day to sate his blustering ego. It's a chemical mismatch bonded with a complete disregard for normal human standards of hygiene and wisdom not even Einstein himself could counter.
The way he ensures the rusty old tractor is level is another feat of human engineering: when the spit's rolling down both sides of his gob evenly, then the slurry tank hooked up on the back is safe to drive. If there's only snots in one side of his nose, he'll block it and just use the one on the other side until a nice big fat bogey beckons his index finger and lures it into its nasal nest.
He also has a system for figuring out if his keks still have another few days in them.
It involves a damp wall, a mighty fling, and eighteen liters of white emulsion paint.
Enough said.
Like a thirteen year old girl with a new phone, he has a desperate need to be popular and will go to any lengths to have a few column inches per day to sate his blustering ego. It's a chemical mismatch bonded with a complete disregard for normal human standards of hygiene and wisdom not even Einstein himself could counter.
The way he ensures the rusty old tractor is level is another feat of human engineering: when the spit's rolling down both sides of his gob evenly, then the slurry tank hooked up on the back is safe to drive. If there's only snots in one side of his nose, he'll block it and just use the one on the other side until a nice big fat bogey beckons his index finger and lures it into its nasal nest.
He also has a system for figuring out if his keks still have another few days in them.
It involves a damp wall, a mighty fling, and eighteen liters of white emulsion paint.
Enough said.
Last edited:
Mowl
Member
Val makes Father Jack look like a handsome man who washes frequently.
Of course, the true measure of any culchie is how much in love with themselves they are. Some men make it through life saying very little. Others can't shut the fuck up from the moment they say 'gaga-goo-goo' for the first time. Others go to exceptional lengths to find things to say that are of no significance one way or the other. You can guess which camp Val's in:
The average length of any one of Val's mental purges is around twenty minutes. He averages around five videos per day (lately) so the math is fairly easy to figure out given the above image and its contents. The attached image shows you just one hundred and twenty videos. Of course, it's also true that the image you see doesn't even come close to a quarter of the total number of video uploads (they're somewhere in the seven thousand mark) he has. That's just a tiny portion of them. So by the time Val's dead and laid out to rest next to the shitting ditch, all that'll remain of him (apart from a shit-stinking brown suit jacket and pants plus a well-worn pair of wellies) will be thousands of hours - days/weeks even, of Val nattering on about jaze only knows what.
Culchies: they're a breed apart.