Home
By:
Filters

Culchies

Mowl said:
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.
Click to expand...

The VW Beetle. First car I ever steered when I was too small to reach the pedals. The grandfather had one and we must have gone all over Wexford in it when I was a nipper in the spring and summer. Mushroom picking. The various beaches, Curracloe, Rosslare Strand, Carne. Fishing off the strand with those really long beach rods. I'd always get to steer the Beetle when going along a boreen off the main roads. Deadly vehicles all the same. I never got to test the urban legend that they were watertight- that if you drove one into a river it would float because they were so well made the air would be trapped in the cabin. I do remember if someone slammed the door your ears would pop.

They used Beetles all the time in stock car racing because the engine was in the back and you could beat the shit out of the car and it would still fire up and keep going. You just knew that if you saw a Beetle abandoned anywhere it was truly screwed because the bloody things would keep going beyond all reason.

They had a distinct smell to them as well. A pal bought one when in my teens and hopping into it I was immediately transported back to being a nipper going off with the Grandda for the day on some adventure in the Republic of Wexforderoonia.

Brilliant machines. And they looked like no other car. And sounded like no other car. All the fun of a Porsche 911 and none of the cost or having to look like you were having a crisis.
 
That brought me back: the seats in the Beetles were covered with this nylon fabric with a pattern of tiny dots that could breathe. You climb in, sit down and get comfy, then the chair would sort of wrap itself around your bodily contact with the fabric. As for the scent, my Old Man always hung one of those classic green tree yokes you hung from your rear view mirror. That and Old Holborn tobacco, he rolled them using liquorice-flavoured and brown-coloured skins. Terrible smell from the papers, but the tobacco was nice enough when he rolled with regular Rizla whites.

Back then people used to get nicotine stains on their index and middle fingers, often the thumb too. You don't see that so much these days, I wonder why?

I'm still off the cigarettes, ten months later: a bit proud of that.

The Beetles, like the old Parkinson-Cowan gas-burning kitchen cookers were discontinued eventually. They stopped making them because the designs and builds were so thorough they never broke down. So in effect, the designers did themselves out of business by being too good at their jobs. Compare that to today's most popular products? Every modern mobile phone I see has a cracked screen. Every. Fucking. One. You can buy what used to be high end digital electronics like still and film cameras for a tenner second hand. Up here, at least. In Finland, the second hand markets are practically give-aways.

Pianos, for example: I could go around with a truck and collect all the free pianos within a five mile radius and open a piano shop the next day - fully stocked. Pianos are big and bulky, today's youth don't need one in the lounge to display the family photographs. They're a household item from another time altogether. Two lads I know, stocky little fuckers, have a company called Piano Pojat. Translates to piano boys. They usually show up in old blocks with no elevators, massive big straps around their shoulders and necks, and one man at each end can haul your dusty but trusty upright piano either up or down the steep stairs. They change per floor on top of a standard call-out fee. They get loads of work because both of them play piano too. Plus they're a right pair of typical Finnish comedians: the sense of humour so black it'd have you wondering.

Urban Beetle tales: one time just before Christmas, the Old Man came home with a huge grin on his face. The Mammy asked him what was going on and he said it had been a good day at the annual CIE pitch and put tournament for the bus drivers at The Cold Cut members club west of Ballyfermot. He handed me the keys and sent me out to empty the boot of the Beetle. When I flipped the bonnet up, I almost fainted.

He'd won three turkeys and two huge hams.

I puked up first, then almost fainted.

Worse was to come: he bled them over the bath, the blood running down into the plughole, taking the last of my sanity with it. That was around the time I decided I was wanted to be a vegetarian. That sounded worse to the parents than becoming a corner boy. But that didn't last too long either as there's very little nourishment in Tayto crisp sandwiches and Mars bars.
 
David said:
I wonder if Val will ever forgive the cow who outsmarted him that time?
Click to expand...

Which one?

There were dozens of them.

Re-reading that last one about the VW Beetle and christmas turkeys brought back another one I'll never forgive the Old Man for.

A few days before Christmas I'm sitting at the kitchen table reading while the Mammy runs the cooker and everything else like a professional. She's preparing things for Christmas Day and wants it done in advance. While I'm sitting there waiting for my lunch, the Old Man swoops in, says hello, then mooses around the cooker a while before walking over and putting a plate of food under the newspaper I'm reading.

I fold it away and look at the plate: there's a severed and bloody turkey's foot sitting there all alone.

I literally hopped out of the chair and out into the back garden, screaming and yelling.

He was creased in laughter, so was the Mammy.

But that was the Old Man; he grew up beside The Rock Of Cashel, and he learned to butcher on the small family farm.

Gutting fish, prepping a turkey, a chicken, or any other visceral kitchen porch antics were second nature to him, but alien to me. Just goes to show you the rapid pace of change in Irish life across the 1900s. That lifestyle's pretty much dead and gone unless you venture deep into culchie life in the midlands. City folk don't have the stomach for blood and guts. Culchies eat their own pets; slaughter a lamb for the Easter, a few chickens for summer barbecue, gut some fish for Good Friday, and hack up a turkey for Christmas. They can even name their dinner after the animal it was born of.

Fancy a nice tender entrecôte? Here, have a slice of old Daisy's shank.

So thank fuck for the culchie rednecks, eh.
 
Gas here, an article talking about how "the rural population is falling behind in education and skills", and how they are economically poorer than their smarter cousins in Dublin, and so on.

The usual political correctness, they won't touch the fact that the poor sods have a congenital lack of mental capacity caused by inbreeding.

Anyway, very topical article looking over at the culchie infestation of Arsefielders. It's basically talking about how they get recruited by "the far right" precisely due to the fucking state they ended up in through inbreeding.

www.irishexaminer.com

Far-right poised to exploit urban-rural divide

Situation likely to lead to a shift to the right in European elections next year
www.irishexaminer.com www.irishexaminer.com
 



Poor auld Jambo's trying hard to be as popular as Saul/Coal Bucket:


Mowl Cleary asks -

"Didn't you wonder why they attacked him?"

I wasn't asking, I was observing a simple fact. Neither you, Coal Bucket nor I know why that situation occurred or what happened to cause it to kick off. We see only what happened after a group of immigrants ran after some Irish bloke, not why they ran after him. If you saw a video of thirty white Irish kids running after and beating up one dark skinned immigrant, wouldn't you wonder why they chased him down and beat him up? Or would you simply consider the black kid fair game for the mob under the current circumstances?

You guys are so fucking thick it's pure comedy reading your bullshit.

'...and goes on to say..

"Or did you presume that it was for no reason at all bar filling in time?"

And that's exactly what you did. You saw a video one of your gang selected and posted. You observed what happened in that moment and felt angry that some Irish knacker was getting it in the neck from a mob of immigrants. I'd doubt those immigrant lads were on their way to Lidl to get the shopping in for Mammy but decided instead to hunt down and batter some white Irish knacker - for the craic like.

You should read what your best bud Saul has to say on that issue:



First of all, what reason does he wonder would justify a gang of Africans attacking a lone Irish kid like that?

Perhaps the kid called them nigg*rs? Perhaps he insulted their god? Perhaps he kissed one of their sisters. Perhaps he fucked one of their mothers? Maybe he gave the Mammy of one of them the clap? Maybe he spat on their cheeseburgers. Or any one of a million reasons you simply don't know about and will never know about.

Tell us anyway - what reason do you think they attacked the kid?

Because until you can say for sure what the reason was, you're just being your usual short-sighted and half-witted self. Saul's 100% right in what he said:

'..the illusion of fake consensus must be maintained at all times on regime media and publications ........the scum of the earth must be accommodated here to make Ireland a better place...'

He's right there: the scum of the earth would be a better proposition for Ireland's future than for any of you losers to have kids growing up emulating what you and your arsehole pals get up to. You deserve everything you get, in fairness. I hope you are replaced with anybody at all bar your own seed. You're useless.

'Secondly, they don't need a reason to attack Irish (white) kids..that surmounts to much more than filling in time (many such cases).

In what scenario? The one in the video? Or another one you remember from last month? Last year? When? What was it? Was it as serious as the riots in Dublin after the stabbing of three kids and a woman? See? You don't know, you're just clutching at air. You have fuck all but a video of some kid getting battered by a gang. A gang he likely sneered at, put down, slagged off, owed money to, fucked the sister of, stole their laundry from the washing line, said nasty things to someone's Ma, refused to get up and let one of their grannies sit down on the bus, sold bad weed to, or ecstasy, or fireworks, or owed money to, refused to do the homework for, or didn't want to share his Tayto with.

In short, your knee-jerk racism is laughable.

Mostly because it's only going to get worse for you - not better. The more you and your sad little 'a team' rant and rave, the deeper into Irish society and culture your black brothers are getting. They've outsmarted you: they infiltrated your system and are now hooked firmly onto the teat of Irish welfare. They're going to bleed you, suck you dry. Well, not you - per se: you don't work or pay tax, but it'll be your cousins and neighbours whose cash dollar taxes are paying for their new sneakers, shell suits, hoodies, baseball caps, and anything they can hide their faces with while they rape your country and seed your women, leaving you and your gang with little willies in your hands looking for something to wank over.

Try your culture, your history, your traditions; they're all among the first to go.

And they're going under your watch.

Not mine.

'What a vile cretin he is, no wonder he was ran out of Ballyer...'

I understand your anger with me. You hate the fact that I'm doing SO much better than you or any of your 'a team' twats. I'm happy. I live in a very happy country. We closed our borders fully last week after closing most of them along the eastern front the month before. We don't want any of the international refugees who are arriving on bikes at the smaller border crossings further to the north. We're telling them to go back to wherever they came from and make an application to arrive in via any of our international airports. But they won't be cycling into Finland - the checkpoints are firmly shut.

See?

That's how we keep a population of five and a half million Finns speaking Finnish first and Swedish second. English and Russian vie for third place but the pendulum swings further into English as Putin continues his 'mini-me' routine against the whole fucking planet west of Moscow. In Ireland, around 3% of you speak Gaelic daily. Most of you have English variation names: James, not Seamus, etc. You haven't had a proper election in decades. You're being played by small timers, and they have you in perfect concert pitch, all in harmony sleeping as your country disappears under the weight of the incoming tribes.

It makes me laugh - it really does.

As for Ballyer? Seriously, Jambo: who listens to you (apart from schmucks like dopey Saul/Coal Bucket)? Almost ten thousand locals from Ballyfermot have signed up to read me. Ten thousand. Think about that? They want me to finish the book I'm writing so they can buy it for each other in celebration of our community. One I spearhead socially with their support.

What have you got?

Clarke~Conolly and Saul Bucket? Collett/Mortar/Woods? That's it? That's all you've got? Pahahahaaaaaaaaa! I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You sad little cunt. You're some fucking clown alright. The scum of the earth are on their way to your town to take over your schools, hotels, parish halls, your high streets, your street corners, your local community centre, they're driving your taxis and buses, they're serving your cheeseburgers (now with added phlegm) and driving your food to you on motorized scooters. They're fucking your sisters. They're raping your mothers. Killing your neighbours.

And what are YOU doing in response to all that?

Chasing ME around the internet?

Pahaaaaaaaaaaaahaaa!

You utter dunce.

Loser.

You need to get your head straight, Jambo. Give your cluttered upstairs a good spring cleaning before the heat gets turned up so high you'll have to either boil slowly like a frog or else hop in fully like a lobster. Your war is being won elsewhere than on this site or any other, especially Arsefield's. Your country is dying, pal. Your language is dead already, next is your history (which since around 1922 has been kind of dull really) and your future.

When the day comes that you start scrambling for an exit, I'll still be laughing at you from up here in my Finnish ivory tower. You'll never make it this far, you haven't got the credentials to make it here. We have another language besides Finnish. We speak it only in whispers, but we all understand what it means: our language is (along with our epic weather) far too much for the average white man like you. While Ireland continues to dribble-piss its way down into the sewers of history, the books will recall Finland giggling to itself while the entire planet is in self-destruct mode, with losers like you sent out as cannon fodder.

Yours is a losing battle, though you don't seem to have grasped it.

If I were in your boots, I'd ask Declan if he needed someone to wash down his van of caked-up sperm and melted cheese each morning and if there was any room in the garage for a tent and a sleeping bag for you. Get out while you still can, while you're still somewhat compos mentis. Declan can't even see his own nuts, he's at the age now that his mother-in-law was when he was assigned to be her carer in order to earn a place in her free gaff (handed down to his wife) after she kicked the bucket. He's well into his sixties, can't trust farts any more, has the wizened white hair of a man under constant stress, his heart's fucked from the cheeseburgers, he's so unfit he actually tells you when his monthly walk is due. He walks at least half a kilometer every month to stave off the heart disease. The rest of the time he thinks climbing into the van and driving around Dedham is better than a trip to any gym in town.

When I get home to Ballyer, I'll not have to put my hand in my pocket in any Ballyer bar.

They'll happily pay me to speak as I write.

They're so proud of me - and you can't stand that - can you?

See?

Look and learn, kid.

Even Val has managed to outdo you.

Heh.
 
I saw that little back and forth.

Crazy isn't it. What's the explanation.

A. He truly sees blacks as another "species" who thinks in different terms.

B. He's projecting his own mindset, in that he has in him an impetus to chase down and injure a black person on no other account than that he's black.

Or perhaps a bit of both?

Also interesting was the "love" that shit or coal bucket gave the post.

Now that is a poster without a single brain in his head. Whereas Jambo actually has a brain or two in his head.

No doubt God if he exists completely fucked up the wiring together in Dawson's head. (Whether that was an accident or incompetence or actually deliberate would be a ecumenical question).

But it is intetesting the symbiosis isn't it. Jambo needs Saul. And Saul needs Jambo. Without the other, neither of them would exist, in terms of the existence of the racist personality or individual that lives in them.

Who facilitates that symbiosis? Leprechaun Dan and the Feeney media family.

Sometimes watching the fucked up clowns on Arsefields parading their visions of the world, I am reminded of the success of the 1751 Gin Act in London.

Remember that Act targeted the unlicensed merchants and small-time merchants who were dealing in an abominably poisonous merchandise towards addressing the serious addiction problems and manifestations of this addiction in (what were then referred to as) "the inferior people", who they were merchandising this poison to.

Is the situation in Arsefileds not eerily similar? Just instead of peddling bad gin, they're peddling bad information to these unfortunates, profiting from their misery and degradation?
 
More than Jambo and Saul Bucket needing each other is the fact that Declan's site wouldn't and couldn't exist without them. And you can see yourself how proud of his creation Declan actually is. He has his minions dancing and twirling about, lost in the music, in love with the moment, the movement, the assimilation of more Irish idiots into his online sewers. The absolute scum of the entire Irish online blogging crowd, all in one place, all in harmony, and all in love with each other. Declan put down $1,150 a year for the last two years with another year's fee upcoming in a few days.

That'll be nearly five grand all-in over four years.

Will he pay it and continue with his little project or will he consider it's time to close up shop before the American system catches up with him? He has a lot to lose if they do. Or any Afro/American club/society local to Dedham? All it takes is one disgruntled ex-member (let's say Jarry for now) to get pissed off with being gang-banged and then booted out to ring the bell and have the Feds take a look at Declan's little hobby. If they send mail to his house about it, his wife and the kids will find out what he's been up to. If the wife doesn't like what's going on she'll tighten the purse-strings and take his little toy off him before he gets the whole family burned out of their clap-board tinder-wood little shebeen in Dedham.

Declan's walking a high-wire, the drop beneath him is sheer and absolutely guaranteed to fuck up his family affairs and most likely leak into his van-delivery business. It's one thing helping other people move address and humping their possessions for them as a profession. It's another thing having to empty your own house and move elsewhere due to some angry people of alternative skin colour than The American Dream is happy with coming around with buckets of petrol and dousing the Kelly gaff down before setting it alight.

Neither Jambo nor Saul could care less, they despise the fat fool even more than I do, or any right thinking person.



But as you can see, Jambo decided that the only way to properly answer what I handed him yesterday was to find a video and post that as an 'explanation' of his true feelings. Oddly enough, he picked DS's favourite movie of all time: The Shining. So when Jambo's using DS's sources as evidence of his own 'feelings' then you know the tables have turned. He's still using DS's name, several months down the road at this stage. He's also got around fifteen previous user names that have all been deleted. His life's work all washed the toilet, every time.

As for Saul and even poor Myles, there's nothing much left to say about either of them other than taking a look at their best efforts.

That alone is so sad and pointless I almost pity them suffering such shitty and pointless lives.

Jambo's angle on my moving to a 'whiter than white country' like Finland is hilarious. If they could emulate the Finnish model on immigration, then they'd swallow it like the Kool Aid and start their little dance. Yes, it's very white up here, and I'm not talking only about the snow. There are less reasons for any brown skinned person to choose Finland as a new home than there are in the Irish model. In Ireland they get the free house, dole, free food, free prams, phones, laptops, clothes, an around two hundred sheets a week. In Finland they get sent to language school and have to work an evening job (usually delivering pizzas, cleaning the public transport, sweeping the streets, shoveling the snow, and whatnot) in the sub-zero months of winter.

Ask yourself: if the choice was to either (a) be sent to strictly study the Finnish language for five days a week and then work your ass off all night every night and get fuck all bar pocket money and tips to pay for your shared hostel room, or to (b) move to Ireland, grab all the free stuff and settle in, get your two hundred and thirty euro weekly money, get to hang out with mobs of your own kind and have instant access to things to burn, loot, deal in, batter, and generally cause mayhem for 'de white man' - which would you choose?

I like love Finland just as she is now. As do my neighbours, friends, workmates, and followers.

We enjoy the old traditions. The incoming migrants haven't a clue why, but they also know they can't infiltrate what they don't understand.

Our language and way of life is secure for the foreseeable.

Yours is already in the toilet, because you let it happen while you sat there posting on Arsefield's while your arch enemy was stabbing your kids in their schools, stabbing their teachers, setting your main thoroughfare alight and looting your stores, then running away laughing about it. What did Jambo and Saul do? They sat there typing in words like 'nigg*ers' and 'in-breds' to post onto Arsefield's along with some trite emojis to best illustrate their deeper feelings.

Like this little cunt:



This is what passes as 'quality posting' over on the gay bar site.

Emojis.

Dozens of them.

But still, if the African-born members of my current Finnish projects were to read Jambo's daily scutter, they'd simply laugh at him; they wouldn't and couldn't take such a twat seriously. Same with my neighbours: incidentally, and since the beginning of last month - both I and my Somali-born neighbour Yaz are the two heads of the street/block house committee. We handle the annual purse-strings for over eighty people/families, we hold the keys for the various facilities including the party room and rooftop barbecue deck with (2x) private sauna, both of the ground floor bike/pram and ski/toboggan lock-ups, the laundry and drying rooms, and the two laptops we were given to use for domestic affairs with the neighbours. Yaz is the main man: the neighbours love him, he's always on the go fixing things and helping the oldies lift their furniture while the guys from the heating company try to figure out how to turn our heat back down again after a fuck-up last month. We're all (well, not all) complaining of the heat, especially in the evening time. We're just under thirty degrees indoors and they can't find the problem, so they said it might even be until the new year before they can import the parts to fix it, so they apologized and made some suggestions as to how to reduce the heat by opening the window vents at night.

Imagine complaining about being too hot while living in such a cold country during winter? Can you imagine that happening in Ireland? Then them apologizing to you that you're having to walk around indoors in summer clothes in late December? The heat is free, by the way: electricity services we can choose for ourselves, whereas internal heating is a community/council issue, paid for in our annual taxes. So financially for us - nothing's actually going to waste, bar the heat we let out every few hours to cool the apartment down a bit for sleeping at night.

Yeah: you read that right - it's too hot in my Finnish apartment, the free heat from the radiators wakes me up at night and makes me fling the covers off the bed so that I/we can sleep better. So Yaz and I try to help the older neighbours but we can't reduce their heat because all of the thermostats were removed last month and replaced with plastic caps until the new thermostats arrive, some time early next year. We can open their vents for them (they're located high above the main south-facing windows) and suggest they open the balcony door every hour or two to let the heat out.

Into the cold Finnish night air.

Gas, innit?

Well, actually - not gas: electricity, you see.

Paid for in my taxes.

Keeping me warm, warm, warm.

Keeping Yaz and his lady wife wife hot, hot, hot.

Making the Finnish oldies uncomfortable, sticky, sleepy, and lazy.

So enjoy the upcoming grey/dismal/depressing Irish Christmas: and try to keep warm, eh.

If you need me, I'll be outside throwing snowballs with the kids or else in the sauna that is my lounge.

Laughing at you.

Like always.
 
Arsefield's hatred for Finland is peculiar. I don't think I've ever met one Irish person in real life who hates Finland or Finns.
 
The green-eyed jelly monster: they hate what they haven't got - an excellent quality of life, happiness, security, consistency, and mystique.

Finland's always been the odd one out of the EU member states, but even though we're Nordic by nature, we relate to European values more so than soviet or even Scandinavian values. More like Iceland than Ireland culturally speaking, apart from the social lubrication that comes with booze. The Finns love their alcohol, and this is the prefect time of the year to sample al the wonders of Nordic drinks.

Lots of my own guests are now big Bellini fans, using my recipe at home after learning it here.

But anyway, it's not about these twats hating Finland per se. They don't know enough about Finland to have any reason to hate it bar my living here. In reality, it's about jealousy, envy, and the loathing of another of your own kind because he got out clean and made good in the best place the world has to offer any Irish person with a sense of adventure and a taste for the unusual. I fitted in from the moment I first landed here. And from that day (August 1st 1996) to this, I've considered myself a lapsed Irishman looking for another way of living life to the fullest possible limits.

I found it right here on the north-eastern border of Europe, a road less traveled, and therefore more warmly accepting of those of us who came from afar to see and stayed to be a part of it. Its future. Its excellence. In its ability to transcend limits and push the envelope. The work you put in pays you back tenfold. But you must have the language to earn your place, and sadly for Jambo and his 'a team' buddies, it's a nearly impossible language to learn. One of the world's most complicated by far. That keeps them out of here, they're too fucking thick to make it from Helsinki/Vantaa to my abode right here in the middle of Finland's first and original virtual village.



Everybody in Finland knows about Arabia. It's the most sought after address in southern Finland. They all come to visit the nearby Iittala and Arabia craft stores to buy up on high-priced Finnish glass and ceramic art. People from all over the world, especially the Orient. The square outside my block is another art piece in itself, built as a tribute to the great Finnish designer Tapio Virkkala. The marble fire mantle and the scattered standing lamps light up at night and the intercom system from Helsinki/Vantaa airport is relayed live from the airport via an underground cavern housing some Tannoy speakers at extremely low volume announcing the various incoming and outgoing airplanes live twenty-four/seven.

The standing stones are Italian marble, all cut by hand and they stand over three meters tall.

Your average culchie Irishman wouldn't know what to do or how to react to a place like this where everyone's happy and friendly, no matter what the colour of their skin. Which is exactly what allows for Yaz and I to run the community office and act as go-betweens for the tenants and the housing body. We're both immigrants, though I'm here several years longer than Yaz. He has more time and wants to get into local politics, so I'm happy to stand aside and let him run things while I help out where I can.

So really: do the yaps on Arsefield's really hate Finland or are they simply bug-eyed with jealousy?

Well, try 'The Frozen Wasteland' as a slag from an Irish loser.

If this is a frozen wasteland, then what does that make Ireland?

See?

They can't hate what they don't know - but they do know me, so they hate Finland in the hope that Putin might 'drop a bomb on Mowl's flat (sic)' and silence me for good. But that ain't going to happen: not only are the border points between us locked down, we're well aware that Putin's most recent threats were just hot air. He hasn't got the numbers to attack on two fronts. Most of his cannon fodder are already in the ground further south in Ukraine. Who's he going to send to Finland? The Outer Mongolians? The Siberians? His own army's fucked. Russia can't afford to fight two wars at the same time. We all know that, but still our NATO membership has Irish bloggers dumbfounded. They seem to consider Putin rather differently to how we do: you lot think we ought to be terrified. We can't figure out why, we just find it comical. Ireland's always Paddy last to clock what's happening during any series of global events. They see things in a two-up, two-down front/back garden mentality. Your average working class housing estate level thinking.

But whatever, the heat's killing me, time to open the windows and doors and head out for some shopping while I cool my apartment down.

How's the weather in Ireland?

Still under the yellow/red weather warnings?

That has to suck.
 


See now what you've gone and done, Jambo? You've upset roundy. Every time you start writing about me from your point of view as my biggest fan, it reminds him that he has to pay cash dollar money for you to deal with him at all. The rest of the time you're at my feet begging to lick in between my toes. I can hardly blame you, though: I'm unbearable cute. As the ex used to say: 'you have so much charisma you manage to effortlessly turn heterosexual men into blubbering lumps of jelly wanting to kiss and hug you'.

She's right too.

But these days I'm less interested in how men react to me - I'm a lover, not a fighter. See?

Last Friday's gig was amazing: my first time onstage with a band since the heart surgery. The crowd was awesome, the DJs banged it out, the girlies owned the floor and The Mowl was given a standing ovation by all of them who later bought me lots of drinks and then took me dancing uptown at a reserved table in Helsinki's 'Millionaire Club' nearby the Helsinki university Theology Department, where I used to work. It was a fabulous night and the video of the complete show is incredible. I had an excellent time out and of course even better at home later that morning.

Now I have to decide which Christmas parties I'm going to attend with the new lady as there are too many happening at the same time over the next weekend.

That's how they think of me up here: I'm immigrant royalty, loved by the natives, especially when they hear my cute take on the Finnish language.

It's lovely to be loved, really it is - you should try it.



You're right there. Loads of them tried that on the BBBB. Writing poems to me, about me, for me. I never reacted to any of them until I was asked why, and even then I'd reply only by PM to tell them to quit being so soppy, I'm as Ballyer as the next man. Fuck off with your lovey-dovey guff - you're a grown man with a wife, kids, grand-kids, for fuck's sake. But of course the best compliment is to try to copy me. Many have tried, all have failed. There is now and will only ever be one Mowl, and that's me. Not you. Not only do people not copy you, they try their best to be as unlike you as they possibly can, in this life at least. It's because you're an angry bore. You have one line, and that's it. Nothing else. Whereas I can join a conversation with complete strangers and within moments be the centre of the action. See? That's real charisma. People are attracted to me like a magnet, but I never let anyone get too close - least of all you and your scumbag buddies over on the gay bar site.

So try not to get booted out of Arsefield's before or during Christmas - that's the time lonely bastards like you need the blogs the most.

Even if you don't know who the fuck you're talking to half the time.

I guess in your case that's more acceptable than being all alone and in a rage about life and where it's dragged you to and dumped you. I'd really hate to be in your shoes, pal. Nobody wants you around. Nobody. Anywhere. How does that feel? I'm genuinely interested, like. You'll spend your Christmas Day counting out the minutes, staring at the clock, wondering why you're so alone. You'll be so sad and lonesome you'll hit the gin by midday, then be as pissed as a newt by mid-afternoon, barred from Arsey's by five, and unconscious on the floor by seven in the evening. And there'll be nobody there to pick you up and put you to bed. Or out for a piss in the back garden.

It's mostly because you're a nasty little cunt at best, and a complete fucking bore on top of it.

Who the fuck wants THAT casting a shadow over their holiday?

PS: don't keep reminding Declan roundy that everyone reads everything I write - that's what he hates the most, because even though he pays out $1,350 per annum to have anyone to chat to online, he's still a lonely bastard who hates the fact that I keep outsmarting him. Exposing him. Showing everyone what a weazel-shit maggot-brained little knacker he actually is. A van delivery boy - in his mid to late sixties, desperately trying to appear young and vital but unable to because The Mowl keeps kicking him back down just as he thinks he's finally able to allow himself a modicum of self-respect. But he's finally realising that he never will, because I'll also outlive the fat fuck as well as outsmart him. He can't get his head around the fact that all of his years and years of spoofs have finally washed up on the shore, exposing his reality as a bum, a sponger, a lousy father, an even worse bum for a husband, and a loser of such epic scale even I have to laugh at the truths I expose about him. The more he lies, the more I laugh. Then make him suffer again, just because I can. Because I like it. I enjoy giving the roundy little cunt his daily whipping, which is unusual for me: I'm generally a very kind and sensitive fellow in real life.

Ask him what the difference is between one man driving a bus for a living and another (fat and roundy) man driving a van for a living?

Ask him what it's like having his wife pay for the kid's tuition?

Ask him why he keeps mentioning millionaires when he hasn't an arse in his pants?

Ask him if he really thinks anyone anywhere (apart from Myles and Saul) believes a single word he says?

Ask him what it's like to have to pay out $1,450 a year to have anyone to talk to?

Ask him if it makes him happy that they do reply to him, or if it's all just a great big sad lie and his investment went belly-up?

Ask him if he'll spend Christmas Day online with you - I bet you he'll say he's 'having people out, they're billionaires' referring to his van?

Then ask yourself how the fucking fuck you ever ended up where you are now - with fuck all left to live for.

Ask yourself if it's been worth the last five years of repeating yourself online under how many names to an audience of entirely disinterested people? I mean let's be real here: if you can't influence the filth you run with on Arsey's, then where else can you go? You've tried and failed, tried and failed so many times by now you must be sick of yourself? Have you contemplated suicide yet today? How many times did you consider it yesterday? Do you think things might improve by say Saturday night? Or of they don't, will you head up into the loft to get that four meters of rope you bought at Lenihan's a few years back? The rpoblem there is the quality of Irtish houses, and you better believe me when I tell you that the only thing worse than a suicide is a failed suicide. The kind you're likely to commit, given your ineptitude and poverty. You'll probably look at the attic thinking you can loop a rope around one of the joists and let the noose section hang to just below the attic floor level, then kick the ladder out from under you. But given the crappiness of Irish gaffs, the joist will probably snap eventually because of your wriggling around in the death throes, dropping you onto the landing barely breathing and with your brain stem ripped from the upper spine leaving you paralyzed and vegetated.

So why bother waiting?

Why not just do it today?

Hanging yourself on Christmas Day is so fucking cliched, Jambo.

Try to be a bit more original, eh.
 


Well, you obviously do.

Why else would you bring it up?

You call yourself 'Tiger'?

What age are you? Six? Seven?

Special needs school?

A violent father and an alcoholic mother?

You must be dreading the Christmas?

Heh.

What a shower of fucking losers - even in a gang you still can't win.
 
That place seems to me to be a bit of an old rural broken down pub toilet. The urine leaking across the floor. The wind coming through the broken small pane high up the only redeeming feature. A smell of ammonia and old national school.

Broken door on it that looks like it is being chewed a little more every night by a badger. Weeds coming through the cracks on the floor.
 
...and the stench of urine slowly seeping into the fabric of their old cardigans and zipper-necked jumpers, oblivious to their stench.

That old fashioned hard/cold/rice type toilet paper that absorbs nothing and merely slides itself across your nether regions.

Single folded sheets, in a cardboard box you really shouldn't touch.

A rusted chain hanging from an overhead cistern, the worn out wooden handle worn down to the last of the grain, caked in green mould.

A mobile spittoon the head barman (and part-time van driver) can move to your table for you to hack into after a good cough while smoking Woodbines.

...

Shit - this movie writes itself.
 
Val kind of reminds me of Uncle Junior from The Sopranos....and just as grumpy too.


 
Poor auld Val - he's living the ultimate culchie farmer's dream: being popular with the neighbours.

Of course, we're talking about Cavan here, so you know the drill.

His twitchy-eye issue is getting worse by the week.

Why doesn't the cheap fucker get his teeth fixed and buy a decent hat that actually fits?

What a scummy, uncouth old trout?

 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Top Bottom