Most 'white Irish' girls have no idea what's in store for them..
I saw that PJW video last week. The girls were all singularly pissed as newts. Not that that warrants them being raped or shuttled off to some gang-bang, but slappers are slappers in any culture. Islamic women in full headdress and body-tent are hardly attractive to regular white blokes because there's nothing under their hoods and black body-tents that can be seen. They could have crossed eyes and nose warts for all we know.
White English slappers in greyhound mini-skirts that leave nothing to the imagination are of course going to garner attention when they stumble out of some late-night club, loaded on bottles of luminous blue WKD and vodka and Red Bull shots. Heels standing nine inches off the ground, unable to walk, all leaning on each other, crouching down to piss in doorways and on the kerb, screaming and screeching like banshees, one can hardly say they're in any way discreet.
If it was your daughter, Jimmy - would you be content to see her heading out on the piss with her girls dressed in little more than a pocket square, heels like syringes, make applied with a trowel, hair even more fucked up than mine, and tits hanging out like melons falling from above? Would you even allow a young girl in your care to wander about in the state the typical English slapper dresses and behaves? Or is that what you refer to as 'British culture'?
Lips fattened up with a bicycle pump, blow-jobs written all over their fat faces. Tempting fate and not giving a flying fuck about what danger they might be
putting themselves in, then complaining when some dodgy bloke looks at them? Walks alongside them? Asks them to join him?
You act as though these twats have no responsibility to take care of themselves, that modern England should be so safe for them that they can walk down the street practically naked, skin bursting out of every opening in their miniature clothing - all of which is designed to tempt, to lure, and to attract attention. To make them center of the frame. Then they act as though butter wouldn't melt in their fannies when some creep notices them stumbling along dressed like whores? You see, being selective about their rights as modern women and framing all this as though they have no role in their own safety is a box-load of arsehole. And you know it. Watson here just loves to think he's on the moral high-ground, but how high can it be when it's about cheap sluts dressed like cheap sluts doing cheap slut stuff? Does your own Mam/sister/cousin dress like them and behave like them?
Ireland's woes are slut's woes, Jimmy. If some Clondalkin/Ballymun fuck-bunny decides to step out for drinks dressed for high summer in the depths of winter and finds herself stranded without a taxi and is then dragged down a lane and gang-banged, would you say she had no part in her own downfall? Seriously? Talk about hopping out of an aeroplane without a parachute.
Yes, plenty of rape victims absolutely didn't/don't cause their own rapes by tempting high-testosterone men in public places due to their presentation and attitude. Many are dragged into bushes, into fields, into the van, car, or doorway and are helpless. Add in the demon drink, the stumbling and the screeching in laughter, the milky fat thighs and push-up wonderbras.
Let's say it was a typical sixteen year old of the type you like to post pictures of?
Let's say she had a skinful before going out, which is the norm these days: all the girlies assemble at the selected girl's place, get dolled up, do their little dance, try on various costumes, keep drinking, finally settle for a g-string, push-up bra and see-through dress, then hop into the cab and away to the pub. Lash in another several Red Bull and vodkas, tease the boys with the titty-wank dancing, accept drinks from anyone who offers them, then head stumbling like a weeble for the kebab shop when the lights come up and the music turns off. Stands in the street waiting her turn to place her order, finally gets inside the bright lights of the shop for her shish kebab and chips, starts slurping into them like she's eating pussy, laughing at the blokes eyeballing her, telling them to lighten up, get a life, etc. Sits on the kerb with her g-string visible to all. Her fat thighs glowing in the street lights. Giggling, wobbling, shivering from the cold.
Then along comes Creepy McCreepnuts and spots her.
Are you trying to tell me that it's not her fault that she's attracted the attentions of some utter scumbag stroking a hard-on under his raincoat?
It's easy to point to the extremes, Jimmy - but it's harder to quantify blame when it's some fucking idiot girlie pretty much asking for it.
Yeps, you'll find loads of loaded terms in the above - just cherry pick the ones that suit your narrative, which I'm sure you have already worked out and probably even proofed and made ready to publish as soon as I drop this clanger on your notions. Yes, it's their country. No, it isn't that creep's country. Yes, she can wear what she likes. No, it isn't any of his business what she's wearing, or not wearing. Yes, she has the right to feel safe and protected. No he has no right to even approach her. And so on.
But your games aren't that hard to spot, you shit-eating messenger boy from telegram.
Sometimes it very much
IS her own fault.
If she already knows there are potential rapists hanging around, then why the fuck is she tempting fate?
Because there's no law against it?
Correct, not on the statute books, of course not.
But she has to be some fucking dope to think that that's what matters - and you're even worse for taking her side, like JPW, the skin lotion boy.
Have you bought his products, Jimmy?
Do you moisturize?
Like to wear a mini-skirt yourself?
Why not try it?
Lash on a wee dress, some knee-high boots, a wig covering most of your face and a wonderbra with a pair of football socks in each cup. Stumble down the street with a bottle of cider in hand, swinging your hips and ass, laughing out loud and shouting into your phone in a girly voice. You maybe surprised to find that even you start looking like prime game. Even with your knobbly knees, hairy calves, and stubble on your chin. Doesn't fucking matter to Muhammud: he doesn't give a fuck what you look like, you're gonna be face down in the dirt either way while he's busy banging the hoop off you. And when he's done, he'll likely punch you a few times in the chops to put the fear of the bejayzus into you while he makes his happy getaway.
But it wasn't your fault, right?