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.

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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.

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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.