St. Brigid’s Mental Hospital, Ballinasloe, County Galway, Ireland

BEAT AND POKED WITH A BROOM; SODOMISED; ALL IN A DAY'S WORK FOR IRISH MENTAL HEALTH NURSES ...

From what Séamus Fahy told us St Brigid’s hospital
isn’t far removed from Hell.

We got to know Séamus Fahy through meeting him, a number of years ago, in a Galway city pub and after our initial apprehension regarding his unstable demeanour we found he had a very interesting story to tell.

On first sight it was very obvious that Mr Fahy was mentally unhinged but as we got to know him over a period of time we found that he was seeking friendship, and wasn’t of the type who’d suddenly set about your person.

Ulster Bank, 19 Mardyke Street, Athlone, Co Westmeath, Ireland

The Teller Looked Atrocious, Built Like a Male Orangutan, a Viciously Ugly Bitch

You have to be a snarling imbecile to

work here.

I’ve been in this branch of Ulster Bank about 7- or 8-times over ten years and on every occasion I’ve been confronted by ignoramuses.

The cretins and buffoons that seem to make up most of the staff1 here didn’t take the normal evolutionary trajectory, i.e. their coarseness and aggression got progressively worse as time went on rather than improve.

My first encounter was with what I can only call a hermaphrodite; to figure if this biped life-form was male or female was impossible. To err on the side of caution you’d be inclined to guess female but I’ve no doubt she’d also be packing a pair of testicles.

She looked atrocious; built like a male prize-fighter, a viciously ugly bitch with a fine moustache and patches of black stubble around her chin. And her manners and temperament matched; she certainly wasn’t designed to imbue anyone with an appreciation of a creator’s capabilities.

Ulster Bank, 33 Eyre Square, Galway City, Ireland

Coarse Ignorant Aggressive Galway Bank Tellers That Are Liable To Spew Your Personal Details & Financial Data All Over Town

Ulster Bank, Galway: The inbred employees might well shout your business all over the west of Ireland.

This Ulster Bank branch in Galway is not only staffed with ignoramus and unstable inbred cretins, its management will actually get upset if customers don't knuckle down and accept their atrocious behaviour.

An ATM machine at this branch swallowed my bank card one evening and upon the bank opening the next day I visited hoping to have the card returned. When I reached the bank I approached a female at reception and explained what I was there for.

A simple job of work. No big deal to go to a bank and make a run of the mill enquiry about your bank card, you might think. But nothing is ever like this in inbred backward Ireland. And most especially in Ireland’s western regions where 90 percent of the offspring are the result of incest and relative on relative rape.

As is the norm for the highly inbred pieces-of-Irish-shit in Galway this bitch on reception immediately showed herself to have the manners of an inebriated jackal. She was a vacant eyed backward cunt who had the demeanour of a turnip eating troglodyte. And, as if all this wasn’t bad enough, she, through a miasma of what smelled like stale urine1, repeated every word I said to her.

When I explained to this imbecilic bitch that, “The ATM had retained my card the previous evening and I’m enquiring about getting it back,” she, like a retarded child, repeated it back to me verbatim2. And she did the same with every further sentence I uttered.

As per Punch Magazine, if you could see into the soul of Galway females this is what they’d look like.

If you’re unfortunate enough to visit Galway you’ll encounter having your words repeated back to you quite a lot. When the consanguineous Galwegians figure out what annoys someone they latch onto it with the eagerness of an egg laden bluebottle welding itself to a rotted piece of meat.

To understand where the Irish in Galway come from on this you could think, for instance, of a badly retarded six-year-old. This retard, after years of trying, finally has found something that really annoys his older sister. She might have been immune to his many former attempts to aggravate her but then he accidently discovered that scraping a fork across a plate drives her crazy.

Scraping a fork on a plate then becomes the retard’s weapon of choice against his sister. If she asks him to stop he’ll simply start scraping ever more vigorously. The sister then realises that it’s a waste of time asking him to desist from doing it and if she’s ever to get the better of the retard she has to pretend his fork scraping doesn’t bother her at all.

The inbred Ulster Bank receptionist had more than a little of a retarded streak bounding around the parts of her brain that coordinate her actions. When I let her know that I was unimpressed with being parroted, the piece-of-shit went at it with all the more eagerness. Like a retard she latched onto what irked me with all the tenacity of a cold-turkey heroin addict hunting for his next fix.

As historical cartoon shows, when you compare vulgar West of Ireland females to ordinary Caucasians the difference is striking.

There was no doubt about it that this Oirish bank receptionist had mental health problems. She was an unintelligent and unteachable vulgar piece-of-shit that no one but the Irish would employ on a bank’s front desk. Ireland has to be the only country in the fucking world where you’d walk into a bank and find a mentally unstable retard like this employed as a receptionist.

Eventually this imbecilic and urine wafting bitch found my card and returned it to me. Unfortunately though it had been somehow damaged and proved to be unusable.

This damaged card led to me discovering that in this branch of Ulster Bank the ignoramus mongrel on reception was only the tip of the iceberg. For a couple of weeks I had to personally enter this branch to make cash withdrawals and I found that Ulster Bank in Galway has very few staff that ARE NOT coarse ignoramus fucktards.

If you went out one day, anywhere outside of Ireland, and tried to put together a group of ignoramus vulgar fucktards like the employees Ulster Bank had working in this Galway branch you’d find it very hard to do.

Galway native’s mannerisms are not far removed from that of wild pigs.    

On the other hand, if you searched the whole of Galway City just looking for a few non-mentally retarded personnel you’d find it extremely difficult to find any. But then, Galway is in an Irish province where it’s practically frowned upon if you marry someone that is further removed relatively than a second cousin.

The typical Ulster Bank employees in Galway are fatuous coarse Irish bastards that would cause even Myra Hindley and Ian Brady to baulk if they came across them.

One ignoramus red-headed female bastard that served me had the temperament and manners of a jackal that was enduring the rigours of castration. She snarled and growled with the ferociousness of a wild sow being gang raped by a herd of boars that had just eaten the contents of an overturned Viagra delivery truck. She once even stood outside the bank’s security screens in the middle of the floor and rolled her eyes upwards when she saw me entering the branch – she came to dislike me because I had asked her if the brother and sister that had bred her were still together.

“How can the Irish be so fucking stupid,” this young girl might well be asking.  

(It’s not so out of the ordinary for brothers and sisters to be fucking each other in Galway. There’s a high probability that this red-headed bitch did have sex with one or more of her brothers. So perhaps I hit a tender spot when I asked her that question.)

This moron, like the receptionist, wasn’t just a fucking retard, she was actually seriously mentally ill. But then, the West of Ireland has more mentally ill denizens per capita than any other area on earth. The main reason for this is reproducing with siblings and first and second cousins.

Oirish woman, Ashling Thompson, broke another woman's jaw in a nightclub fight. When Pict Irish women do battle, you can’t call it a cat-fight.

As if these two loon Irish bitches weren’t enough a young slack-jawed male in his early twenties had also picked up on Ulster Bank’s and Galway's culture of vulgarity. He also made an attempt to throw his weight around with me. But he pulled his horns in when I, with spittle streaming from my lips and my eyes blazing like a demon’s, told him he was a little inbred sister fucking West of Ireland cunt.

This idiot Irish male was stunned to have this fired at him. He’d have been conditioned by the culture in Galway to believe that employment in a bank meant he had the authority to dish out abuse and bullying as he pleased. And no one had the right to resist him. As far as he was concerned the customers would have to meekly accept whatever he threw at them. He simply wasn’t trained or prepared for a customer to turn on him with a high degree of savagery3.

I phoned Ulster Bank Customer Services in Dublin regarding these pieces-of-shit in their Eyre Square branch but ended up speaking to a witless imbecile – a moronic grade-inflated Irish cunt that tried to tell me that the bitches in Galway meant no harm, that I had just misunderstood them.

A letter of complaint to this branch’s manager elicited only a mixture of threats and defensive explanations – a type of childishly defensive response that would be expected from a person with an average IQ of 60. That’s the inbred retarded West of Irish for you. Even if they were stood in front of you covered to their ear lobes with their own shit and stinking to high heaven they’d look you in the eye and deny they had any dirt on them.

Ulster Bank Headquarters, Donegall Square East, Belfast, Northern Ireland.

I then mailed a complaint to Ulster Bank’s headquarters in Belfast. They made no response or acknowledgement whatsoever. They simply completely ignored it. A person suggested to me that Ulster Bank headquarters ignored my complaint because they were fed up to their back teeth with the constant bullshit that was going on in their Republic of Ireland branches. I think this person wasn’t far off the mark.

There’s one very important thing about the type of utter Irish shit that are to be found in Ulster Bank’s employment in Galway or in any other Irish city for that matter: there’s a very real risk that these uneducated vulgar Irish bastards would reveal or divulge a bank customer’s personal details. The backward Irish bank employees wouldn’t even need the enticement of money to divulge a customer’s personal data; these pieces-of-shit would do it just for the fun of it.

You’ve seen above how Ulster Bank’s Irish staff can – like demented hyenas and to their heart’s content – abuse customers and how complaints about them will be ignored or tossed aside by management, even right up to the headquarters in Belfast.

Irish universities’ grade inflation sparks claims of ‘dumbing down’ https://t.co/O2kLiw1TaA

— The Irish Times (@IrishTimes) 1 January 2019

Lazy incompetent Irish “academics” are finding out that grade-inflation is literally shooting themselves in the foot. For a long time Irish college and university certificates have been viewed as worthless abroad. Then foreign companies operating in Ireland cottoned on to it. Job applicants were turning up with diplomas and degrees and within minutes showing they were incapable of following a storyline in a child’s comic.

Which means you’re dealing with mentally unstable and highly vulgar imbeciles who have no fear whatsoever of losing their jobs or even being disciplined by their managers. In fact, in the Republic of Ireland the managers are usually as vile as the ranting unstable bitches to be found employed as tellers. A bank’s staff can do whatever they like without fear of reprimand. Which means they can give your personal details to whomever they please, and their management will do nothing about it except sit there with their Irish gobs hanging open.

Iveco after Paddy had it for a few days.

An interesting case in which personal financial data was spread around a town by Irish bank staff concerns the owner of an Iveco dealership in Athlone, Co Westmeath. A competitor was eyeing this dealership at one time because he was planning to set up in competition to it.

There was gossip that the Iveco dealership was nearly bankrupt. But in the midst of these rumours the Iveco dealer tarmacked his very large yard – this didn’t tie in with the stories that he was almost broke. When the rival saw this he wanted to know how much the tarmac job cost and whether the Iveco dealer borrowed money or had the spare cash to pay for it.

To cut a long story short, the rival found out that the Iveco dealer had the spare cash to pay for it and that the job had cost £15,ooo. This info was vital to the rival and he got it quite easily via an Irish bank teller. In fact the rival didn’t even have to pay to get this information from the teller. The inbred Irish bank teller had spewed it all over town because it made her feel important to be in procession of such information – in her idiotic way of thinking, no one would know she had access to such important information if she didn’t tell them and then prove it by giving them the information.

Considering this Iveco dealer and how his financial details were spread around a large town and the atrocious vulgar staff that are inherent to Galway and Irish banks generally, people need to be very careful if dealing with banks in this country.

Tourists buying local currency in Galway City banks are probably putting themselves at risk.

They should to beware of the amount of personal details and data that ignorant and grade-inflated Galway bank tellers have access to whilst the transaction is being conducted. How much information are Irish staff able to view about the tourist’s homeland bank account if a credit or debit card is used to buy the local currency?—is another pertinent question. And tourists should be very careful what access Irish bank employees have to their homeland bank accounts if they get money transferred to a bank in Galway.

Grade inflation: The fire that burns out of control in Ireland.

A few years ago grade-inflated Irish bank tellers could spew a customer’s personal details around only her or his local area. Now with social media the inbred and retarded Galway bank tellers4 can disseminate a customer’s data over a very wide area. What’s really dangerous about the Galway ingrates is that they would do it for no other reason than to simply feel important, or to get revenge on someone higher up the hierarchy who had bullied them or given them too much work to do.

What’s most alarming of all is that if you went to the manager of Ulster Bank in Eyre Square and showed him or her rock hard evidence of staff revealing customer’s personal information you’d be most likely met with insults, aggression and bullying. The Irish are true morons. They don’t like their backwardness being pointed out or highlighted. Complaints from outsiders about one Paddy to another Paddy are always met with aggression and ridicule.

The Irish to be found in Galway and surrounding areas are the worst type of subnormal inbred cretins that are to be found on this planet. They are the dirtiest (I mean this physically and mentally) and coarsest lowest IQ bastards that this world ever spawned.

Before visiting or (God forbid) thinking about living in the backward Irish city of Galway it would be wise to mull over two biblical proverbs about fools.

First is Proverbs 26:4/5

• “There is no good way to answer fools when they say something stupid. If you answer them, then you, too, will look like a fool. If you don’t answer them, they will think they are smart”.

This proverb speaks thousands of words about the Irish in Galway. You simply can’t argue, debate or reason with the Galway fool – no matter what, the inbred Galway arseholes will always consider themselves geniuses.

Second is Proverbs 13:20

• “Walk with the wise and become wise, for a companion of fools suffers harm”.

Deal with the Galway fool and you’ll suffer the consequences. Try live with Galway fools and you’ll also suffer consequences. Even visit Galway and its plethora of fools will most likely cause you harmful consequences. Like the proverb says, avoid fools like the plague. Avoid their towns and cities. Like these proverbs tell, you never ever win with fools, especially Irish fools.

__________________________

1Galway females like to get the best mileage possible out of their knickers. Buying a new pair of knickers is a big undertaking and something they brag to their neighbours about for weeks afterwards. They’ll then don the new knickers and wear it for up to three months, or until it becomes so caked in menstrual blood and excrement that it can be broken off. As far as using washing machines and showers go they have a very small carbon footprint. They don’t consider it a downside that they always smell of stale piss. Because when you have a house or office full of people smelling of stale piss, none of them notices.

2This kind of mimicking is quite common with Oirish ladies west of the Shannon (Connaught) and also in the Cork/Kerry region. I can imagine them all in unison aping Sir Oliver Cromwell when he gave them the ultimatum: “To hell or to Connaught”. Mr. Cromwell, you see, didn’t like the inbred bastards. And it’s not hard to figure out why he disliked them.

3This is what happens when you spend too much time in the company of coarse ignorant Irish mongrels.  They’ll slowly grow on you and crawl under your skin; and before you know it you are adopting their traits and becoming just like them. Travel and new places sometimes doesn’t broaden your mind; in backward holes like Galway City your mind will actually be narrowed. Their backwardness and coarseness will slink into your subconsciousness in much the same way that emigrants in foreign countries gradually and without noticing pick up the host country’s accent.   

4Grade-inflation and general stupidity in Ireland means there’s no bar on vulgar ignorant halfwits being employed in the business world. The Irish, instead of admitting that their low IQ Paddy students can only be trained up to a mediocre level of education, simply dish out college pass certificates and university degrees like confetti at a wedding. Every year very high numbers of grade-inflated vulgar idiots leave Irish colleges and universities clutching pass certificates and degrees that they are in no way qualified to hold.

No matter where you go in Ireland – be it nursing, policing, medical and paramedical, doctors and their receptionists, dentists, dental nurses, bank staff and tellers – you’ll be met with the atrocious affects of grade-inflation. There’s no profession in Ireland where you’ll NOT find dreadfully unintelligent baboon-like mongrels employed – ask the German personnel that went to Ireland a few years ago to work in the Irish Dept of Finance.

If Satan wanted to make Hell more unpleasant he need only follow the cultural template in a typical Irish city such as Galway.   

Finbar and Declan Fielding, Painters & Decorators, Rosemount, Moate, Co Westmeath, Ireland

Hey Peter, You’ll Have To Marry Her Or You’ll Have A Broken Back

Mr Fielding, on right, displays the ubiquitous Pict arrogant.

Finbar and Declan Fielding are twin brothers that, for many years now, have inflicted themselves as painters and decorators upon the numerous idiotic residents that are to be found in rural Ireland.

Their family name, Fielding, with its English connotations and associations with civility and intelligence is, though, very misleading. It gives the impression these brothers come from a well bred family, which could not be further from the truth. Fielding isn’t actually the original surname of these two brothers or their father. These brother's ancestors were given this English surname by colonists who ran poorhouses in Ireland during the period that Ireland was under British rule.

The only connotation that Finbar's and Declan's surname, Fielding, has with the family name their ancestors were known by is that it begins with an F. This family’s real surname is Fearoc (pronounced Ferr-ack). Knowing this better prepares one for their idiotic behaviour, ape-esque intelligence and incomprehensible arrogance.

Back in the day, Finbar and Declan’s Irish ancestors would have frequented Workhouses begging for food. British Workhouse operators were under instructions to register all alms seekers. The typical Fielding ancestor would have blundered into the Workhouse with a raggedy spouse and sixteen children in tow – with more hair on them than lowland gorillas – and screamed that they wanted food. For good measure they’d have also probably yelled that the English were cunts for having given their potatoes a disease.

The Fielding ancestors would have displayed amazing arrogance and aggression when they showed up at Workhouses.

The Workhouse staff would have made attempt to register this family and therefore have asked the father his name. In response he’d have yelled indecipherably through a haze of spittle and snot: “Ah begorrah, it’s Fearoc”.

“Is that your Christian name or the family surname and how do you spell it,” the workhouse operative would have further queried. By this stage the Fearoc family father would have been in an incandescent rage with his hair standing on his head and snots dangling from his beard. Not understanding what "spell" meant he’d have probably ranted in reply: "Are ya English cunts going to put a spell on me like ya did my spuds?"

With his inability to spell or even properly pronounce his Gaelic surname you'll understand why the English workhouse operatives took the only route available and registered his family under the surname Fielding. They’d have chosen this name out of kindness because they knew that Fearoc could at least pronounce the F sound.

☆☆☆☆☆

You don't though have to go back to the 1840's Irish famine to find weirdness in the Fearoc clan. The origins of the family that begot Finbar and Declan is also very worthy of note because their beginnings has its roots in circumstances that normal people think doesn’t occur outside of fiction. Their father’s name was Peter and his engagement and marriage to their mother, Jane, was, to say the least, quite unusual.

Jane, in her younger days and beyond, was free and easy with her womanly charms and generously gave many of her male neighbours access to her vagina. Some old folk around Moate and Tuber assert she had more sexual encounters than Imelda Marcos had shoes (probably a little exaggerated).

A club proposed marriage to Peter Fielding.

Good Catholic Ireland’s stance against contraceptives (usually a pig’s bladder at that time) worked badly against Jane; she fell pregnant by one of her local slack-jawed lovers. A single woman being pregnant in Catholic Ireland prior to 1950 was outrageous. It was something that could not be tolerated and which required extreme countermeasures.

Buggering young boys or girls and shitting in your trousers was totally acceptable; but a visit from the Devil would be more welcome than an unmarried daughter being with child.

When an unmarried Oirish daughter falls pregnant the first course of action for the parents is to give her a good beating – this placates the local parish priest and bishop. After this there’s one of two choices left: either the offending daughter is incarcerated for life in a nunnery or she’s found a husband.

The man that impregnated Jane already had his hands full.

The chap who impregnated Jane was out of the question because he was already married with sixteen or seventeen children. It’s alleged that he gave a cow and two calves to Jane’s father in way of compensation – by Irish standards this was very expensive, his sex with Jane had cost him dear. Read on and you’ll see why he was prepared to pay such a high price for poking Jane.

Jane’s father and brothers decided they’d first have a go at finding her a husband, and if that didn’t work out they’d stuff her in a nunnery. So they looked around the local area for an idiot with a bit of land that’d be willing to take her as his wife.

They soon found Peter Fielding who lived with his parents on a small plot of land just outside the small town of Moate. Peter was the quintessential Oirish moron, a bumbling slack-jawed imbecile who’d rather tether a cow and shag it than spend money on a woman.

Jane’s father and his enforcers surveyed the small holding Peter was to inherit and, being satisfied he’d be able to feed Jane, paid him a visit. They collared Peter and probably softened him up by whacking him across his legs with their clubs. It’s said Peter resisted for a time but then decided that life would be easier to live with Jane and her bastard child then it would as a paraplegic.

Jane’s father was none too pleased when he found out his daughter was pregnant.

(Now you can see why the man that impregnated Jane paid the enormous price of a cow and two calves to her father.)

Not many people can say that it was an enraged slack-jawed father, a club and a dim-witted pregnant daughter that initiated their family. It must be weird for Finbar and Declan to think that their very existence is due to this volatile father choosing Peter to force his daughter on rather than some other local halfwit.

Interestingly, it was said by Jane’s generation that, even after marrying Peter, she continued to freely share her vagina with her male neighbours. The man with sixteen or seventeen kids who originally impregnated her called regularly to Peter’s home to service her – he obviously wanted to get value for his cow and two calves.

A trick the neighbours used to get time alone with Jane was to call and tell Peter they had seen his three sheep straying along the road. And the wild eyed Peter, without first checking his few acres, would immediately jump on his bicycle and go in search of them. Whilst Peter was gone the neighbour would keep Jane warm. What was sad about Peter is that this very mediocre trick worked on him numerous times.

Over the years Australia got an awful lot of Irish that weren’t wanted at home.

The bastard that Jane brought to the marriage turned out to be female; and when she reached 18-years-of-age Peter and Jane dispatched her to Australia. The slack-jawed Peter probably found it hard to have evidence of his wife’s smuttiness walking around the homestead. This unwanted daughter would have been a constant reminder of the brutal way that Jane’s father and brothers proposed marriage to him.

Jane also brought into the world numerous other sprogs but the apple of Peter’s eye were the twins Finbarr and Declan. This might have been because they were the only pair of children in his house that resembled him.

As Finbarr and Declan came of age it became clear that they definitely had Peter’s genes. They both developed the same fatuous inbred and arrogant demeanour as that of their old man.

(Any arrogant person is bad enough. But there’s nothing worse than an arrogant person that has absolutely nothing to be arrogant about – and this describes the Fielding brothers.)

The Fielding brothers, while not very bright, are amazingly arrogant.

These pair of morons wouldn’t have been educated beyond primary school. If you showed them a globe of the world they’d hardly be able to point out Ireland on it. Back in the day, neither of them could talk very well either. Declan’s name was pronounced in the locality as Dett-lin in mimicry of their pronunciation.

Like their father, their range of conversation doesn’t extend much beyond parish football teams, or what the neighbours had for dinner. They drive second hand vans and would be very lucky if they could bring their families on a foreign holiday once every five years.

Yet both Finbarr and Declan, with idiotic sneers that only inbred Irish Picts can display, swagger around like demigods. It’s as if the sun shone from their arses. What everyone – who comes across Paddies like these – wants to know is, what have they got to be arrogant about?

The answer is nothing. They’re simply arseholes who are descended from a long line of imbeciles. It’s in the genes: an awkward useless horse begets an awkward useless foal.

And their father Peter had more than his fair share of moronic genes to pass down. He was so idiotic that in any other European country he’d have been sectioned under the mental health act. In fact, in Sweden up until 1977 they used to sterilise morons like Peter, Finbarr and Declan before they had a chance to pollute the country with more of themselves.

Peter Fielding was a moron that constantly wandered the roads in his locality, gate-crashing neighbour’s houses. He hungered for gossip, especially if it showed anyone in a bad light. Anything bad about one neighbour that he could relay to others made Peter’s day.

Peter couldn’t resist relaying Mona McCormack’s origins in the traveller world.

Once Peter heard an anecdote concerning a neighbour, Mona McCormack, who as a child had been abandoned by Irish gypsies (tinkers) in Moate, and reared in the local orphanage.

He spent two weeks running around his parish breathlessly informing all and sundry that Mona was a tinker, and that it was no wonder her children were ruffians that were always fighting.

This was laughable considering Peter, being a Pict, is of the same race as the tinkers. And doubly laughable considering how he himself started his married life and the uncertainty about the genetic origins of many of his children.

(A tinker in Ireland is considered the lowest of the low. They’re an ethnic minority very similar to the Romanian gypsies. Life for the tinker doesn’t consist of much more than stealing, drinking and fighting. And reproducing with cousins.)

There was another time when Peter heard, early in the morning, that a local girl, Mary Burn, had been killed in a car accident. This to Peter was on a par with hearing of a Russian invasion of Western Europe. He didn’t waste any time in disseminating this information all over the local parishes.

A High Nelly was the only type of vehicle 

that Peter Fielding ever owned.

He mounted his bicycle at about 6.30 a.m. and crisscrossed three parishes with a hurriedness that suggested the country was facing imminent destruction if anyone should remain uninformed.

His modus operandi was to stop at the gate of every farm house and roar at the top of his voice that Mary Burn had been killed. He’d keep roaring until someone showed themselves at a window or door and then, satisfied he’d been heard, quickly rode onward to the next homestead.

Once when travelling between two houses, which were about 100 metres apart, Peter couldn’t make up his mind whether to mount his bicycle or run alongside it. He was confused as to whether he’d cover the distance quicker by cycling or by running.

He probably estimated the time it would take him to throw his leg across the bicycle and mount it, and then compared this to the distance he’d have covered if he instead ran and pushed the bike alongside him. Sigmund Freud said the Irish were the only race impervious to psychoanalysis – the Fielding family are proof of this.

He never actually made up his mind whether to ride the bike or run. He'd race along pushing the bike beside him for a few metres and then change his mind and attempt to mount it. Then he’d change his mind again and decide to run.

Peter criss crossed three parishes announcing girl’s death.

He continued at this toing-and-froing for about 50 metres when it all got too much for him. He tripped whilst making his unteem decision on whether he would or wouldn't mount his bicycle. His forward momentum flung him across his bicycle and headlong into a blackthorn hedge that was decorated along the bottom with crops of nettles and thistles.

This didn’t faze him in the least. Without a second thought he immediately burst back out of the hedge with briers and thistles clinging to his clothes and head. Then he dived back in again to retrieve his flat cap. Then, with cap replaced on his head and plucking briers and thistles from his clothes, he went to the next house and shouted the news about the girl’s tragic death.

I believe Peter Fielding got a morbid sick pleasure in relating the young Mary Burn’s untimely and tragic death. The way Peter was forced to marry his wife was belittling and would have played on his mind his entire life. And the way he sought closure on this was to revel in other people’s misfortune. This trait is very readable in his twins Declan and Finbarr and has its roots in their Pict Oirish genes.

When the Pict Irish experience grief their very first reaction is to get closure by causing grief to someone else. If they are not in a position to cause grief to others they settle for reveling in the latest misfortune that has befallen someone they know – this is another way they have of getting closure.

The Picts are wired wrong. They have extremely bad genetics. When they cause others pain it releases endorphin-type chemicals that gives them a sense of pleasure. This sense of pleasure lessens whatever internal hurt they are inflicted with so therefore they basically use bullying and belittlement as a painkiller. The Picts are driven by the same gene that drives the stereotypical and very unintelligent schoolyard bully.

☆☆☆☆☆

Entrance where Declan performed gross acts on Maggie Conner.

Peter’s son Declan also got his wife in a very unusual way. It wasn’t Neanderthalic threats from her siblings and father that convinced him to marry her, but the marriage proposal was odd because it was she – after knowing him for about only four weeks – that proposed, not him. It might be alright in other countries for the female to propose to the male, but not in Ireland.

Declan’s would-be wife went all-out to 

attract him.

Declan’s wife used a variety of very sophisticated (by Irish standards) methods when proposing to him. First she targeted Declan in his favourite pub on a Saturday evening and sat herself in his direct line of sight. Then she hitched up her skirt just enough to give him a glimpse of her knickers and, with a toothy simper, stared straight at him.

Declan didn’t get it. He didn’t seem to care about the nirvana that her spread legs displayed. That’s because at this time Declan was sexually fatigued. Whilst Declan’s would-be wife was showing him her wares he was busy planning his usual Saturday night shag with the local public bike, Maggie Connor.

Maggie could best be likened to an apple tree at a country crossroads: every young male within twenty miles had been in it at some point or other. But Declan knew of Maggie’s reputation and therefore he’d only meet her outside after the pubs had closed and when no one was around to witness it.

A great advantage to Declan was that Maggie had a car; he had the joys of copulating with a very experienced lady, and also a lift home – it’s hard get a taxi in rural Ireland, but even harder, as in Declan’s case, to pay for them. And besides, Declan can’t drive; he’s never had a vehicle for more than a few months before he’s driven it through a hedge.

Declan was spotted by neighbour acting extremely indecently.

At 1 o’clock one morning a neighbour happened upon Declan performing cunnilingus on Maggie at the entrance to his father’s house.

No disrespect to Maggie or Declan, but he might as well have been licking the inside of a small city’s main sewer pipe. It can't be imagined the sheer amount of bacteria and viruses that he has very probably acquired immunity to as a result of his many alfresco liaisons with this lady's vagina.

Declan lives in the most underpopulated area of Europe, miles of country roads and lanes where you’d be completely undisturbed. Yet Declan went down on the slut at his own front gate. Declan’s snow white arse against the car’s dashboard and his head stuck in Maggie’s groin was a sight to behold. I can only think of what the average teenager might say: “gross”.

He seemingly hadn’t the imagination to take her somewhere that was out of the way, a place where the neighbours wouldn’t stumble upon them. But, I suppose, God's gift of procreation got the better of him.

Declan’s would-be wife failed to snare him with a Marilyn Monroe type skirt lift.

The upshot of Declan’s liaison with Maggie was that the lady who sought to tempt him into marriage via semi-stripteases was wasting her time. After a few weeks of flashing her nether regions and tits at him she gave up and took the verbal route. She had to walk right up to him and ask him to marry her. And Declan said yes. Although it’s unclear if he dumped Maggie or not.

The fact that Declan Fielding was at the time successfully defrauding the European taxpayer, through some fatuous Oirish agricultural scheme, was the icing on the wedding cake for them.

Declan will have a happier life than his father. He won’t be reminded every time he looks at his wife about how a club had been used to force him to marry her.