Thursday, 5 November 2015

Eoin English, Irish Examiner & Cork Institute of Technology, Cork city, Ireland.

This might be one of Eoin English’s better tweets. But considering the inanity of others this is not saying a lot in his favour.  

Eoin English: It’s to be wondered if this prick will now delete his fatuous tweets or if he has the neck to leave them in situ?
Cork city journalist, Eoin English, reveals that Cork Institute of Technology (CIT) have a plan for Cork’s “famous” Butter Exchange Building – if a Corkonian knows where No 3 Washington St is they’ll believe that everyone else also has this knowledge, and therefore assume it’s famous.
When these guys talk about a “plan” it’s best to be very wary because they’re a type of people who can’t wipe their own butts without getting excrement all over themselves.
Their plans usually consist of something that’s completely out of this world and inane to the point of insanity. Jack Lynch, a Cork man and an ex-Irish Prime Minister, once had a plan: he and his cronies had drawn up a very uncomplicated plot to invade the United Kingdom. It was uncomplicated in so far as they weren’t going to bother with strike aircraft, missiles or tanks (they didn’t have any); instead they were going to transport the troops across the border in clapped-out ex-London busses and armed with late Nineteenth century .303 rifles.  
I-kid-you-not, Jack Lynch, leading a country that was as penniless as a beggar’s dog, with the backing of many of his cronies, had seriously considered launching a military assault against the UK. This would have been worse than Iceland (the British supermarket chain, not the country) invading the United States.
English makes a very unimaginative utterance on his Twitter profile. Though he lives up to them: he assuredly puts words together
differently. By the way, there are about 1,025,109 words in the English language.
So when Eoin English announces that Cork has a “plan” for a dilapidated building that their former colonial masters erected early in the Eighteenth century one can only smile inwardly and hazard a guess as to what kind of mess their plan will result in. Will they attempt extend it into a highrise tower and let it stand there vacant for the next fifty years? Or perhaps they’ll place a very large platform on top and attempt use it as a city centre accessible extra runway for Cork airport? These suggestions mightn’t be as far-fetched as you’d think, because anythings possible with these genetically dysfunctional Irish loons.
It’s all very funny until you get to the last six words in Mr English’s tweet: “the fight begins now for funding”. Well, the slackjawed Irish developers won’t be funding it because they all went broke circa 2007. International investors are also out; you might as well ask them to Borneo to fund a space programme that’s been managed by lobotomised asylum inmates. For Cork to borrow money from an Irish bank is also a no no; Germans, in line with the 2007/8 bailout agreement, now call the shots in the Irish financial sector and no more money is being thrown at swivel-eyed loons to do with (read waste) as they please.
Which leaves the Irish government being the only possible source of funds. And this is where it gets interesting as the Irish state has been shamelessly lapping it up from the IMF and the European Central Bank since 2007. So, disregarding how the Cork halfwits will ruin the historic building that the English erected in 1710, the Irish government will probably throw as much money as is needed at Cork’s fatuous plan.
A typical Paddy.
Native Irish employees and civil servants were very upset when German personnel started managing their Dept of Finance. Word on the grapevine was that the natives found the Germans to be arrogant and short-tempered; given to acerbically talking down to their Irish underlings. The truth is that while the Germans did probably display arrogance and vitriolic verbosity to their Irish charges it wasn’t because they are racially bad-tempered or arrogant; it was more to do with their inability to suffer fools gladly.
Niamh Traynor and Níamh O' Donovan tweet in support of a united Ireland. It’s hard to believe both are stupid enough to want Northern Ireland to leave the security of the United Kingdom and the prosperity of Queen Elizabeth II and place itself under the jackboot of Deutschland. Obviously these two are stupid and of Pictish provenance.
As I’ve already said: the Irish don’t like being under the German yoke, it’s a bit of a piss-off to have fought so hard against the English only to now be under the thumb of Berlin. Thus, the Irish financial sector’s annoyance at its German overloads will very probably benefit the Cork gombeens pursuit of a grandiose building extravagance. They’ll hand the money over just to spite the Germans, and Brussels for insisting on their overlordship.       
The upshot and irony is that while German personnel are doing their best to bring propriety to the Irish economy and end Ireland’s alcoholic-esque dependence on handouts the gombeens in Cork are still in a position to get and waste German taxpayer’s money.
If an eight-year-old made a claim as fatuous as this the parents would probably be consulting a psychologist and complainng about their school.
Above tweet from Eoin English is a very good example of the sheer idiocy to be found in Ireland and in particular Cork. Mr English is a journalist with the Irish Examiner which is the dominant provincial newspaper in south-west Ireland. As you can see from his tweet he claims that the Mayor of Shanghai, Yang Xiong, in his professional capacity as Shanghai’s first citizen, does not meet anyone but “heads of state”.
Cork Lord Mayor, Chris O'Leary.
According to Eoin, if Donald Trump pitched up in Shanghai with a multi-billion dollar proposal the Mayor, Yang Xiong, would refuse to meet with him. And anyone else, be they oil rich sheiks or enormously wealthy Russian oligarchs, wouldn’t get a look in with the Mayor of Shanghai – tell that to a donkey and he’d kick you. They’d have to settle with discussing their business plans with a civil servant.
But this man, who is supposedly one of the more intelligent denizens in south-west Ireland, would have you believe that Yang Xiong dropped all his Mayoral conventions when Cork Lord Mayor, Chris O'Leary, showed up with his Pictish red face and barely an arse in his trousers.
Again in this tweet Eoin English shows himself to be a complete halfwitted prick. You’ll find that a lot of Cork natives fantasise this type of shit until such point as they believe it to be reality. I believe that if communities could be sectioned under the Mental Health Act, as insane individuals can, Cork and  south-west Ireland would be put under a Control Order – perhaps some affiliate of the UN being sent in to manage them.
Pat Ledwidge getting his “award”.
He’ll most likely spend the next
six months strutting around Cork
with it stuck to his forehead.
Here’s another tweet from this arsehole where he informs of Shanghai presenting a Cork city employee with an award. He claims that it’s “v[ery] unusual for a non Shanghai native to receive the award”. In fact, the award he talks about, Silver Magnolia, is reserved by the civil authorities in Shanghai solely for presentation to non-natives. On top of that, on September 17 Shanghai dished out 53 of these awards to various foreigners at the Xijiao State Guest Hotel – little more than a sop, the way you’d give a kid a pat on the head.
As you can see, Eoin English is a complete and utter arsehole. He couldn’t just tweet the facts to his followers without a large addendum of uniquely Oirish bullshit and blatant lies. A shamelessly childish attempt to boast about and exaggerate the importance of a few Irish pricks who erroneously believe they’ll have as much success begging from China as they do from Brussels.
If your 8-year-old daughter or son made such fantastical and easily proven false claims as Mr English does you’d be very concerned about them. If they didn’t desist from making them after they had been warned you’d be taking them to see a child psychologist. And this says a lot about the idiotic Eoin English: it’s not a run-of-the-mill psychiatrist he needs to see, it’s one who is acquainted with the malfunction of the prepubescent brain.
Mr English’s puerile fatuity doesn’t say very much for his employers in the Irish Examiner or the type of Oirish ingrate that buys and attempts to read that inane rag. But, nevertheless, Mr English is held in high esteem by his community in south-west Ireland and this says a lot for the eternal reputation this area has for chronic stupidity and backwardness.
He also says much for the veracity of my blogs and my relation of the atrocious monkey-esque behaviour I’ve experienced there. Think about it: if the people of south-west Ireland revere journalists with the mindsets of mentally retarded adolescents what are the rest of them like? You’ll find the answer to this if you take a gander through Blackdwarf’s Ireland or Blackdwarf’s Little-Helper.
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Wednesday, 28 October 2015

Farmer’s Market, Cornmarket St, Cork city, Ireland.

The fishmonger, blinded by sunglasses and foggy rain, lacerated his own hands and dripped blood all over the customer’s fish
Cornmarket St, Cork city, Ireland.
The sheer unbelievability of the depravity and backwardness that will be encountered 24/7 in Cork city will not only stun you but also make you question the origins of humankind. That humans have evolved from an ape-like creature is clearly evident but after experiencing south-west Ireland you’d be forgiven for thinking that the race which resides there developed immeasurably later and from a much lower species of ape than the rest of mankind.
If you read on and imbibe the fatuous act I witnessed one morning in a Farmer’s Market in Cork city you’ll realise that the people in question don’t even have the levels of intelligence that is to be found in today’s higher-order simians.
One dank, wet and cold February morning I went to Cornmarket St in Cork city to check out a Farmer’s Market which pitched up there every weekend. Initially it was much as I expected: most of the stall staff had some degree of mental retardation and any queries about the product’s prices were met with slackjawed stares or fatuous comments that were millions of miles away from what might be construed as relevant answers.
I toddled among the stalls thinking that all was as it should be in south-west Ireland: I was surrounded by brain-dead ingrates selling iffy farm produce to slackjawed gombeens. Everything was a gaping-mouthed swivel-eyed normalcy until I reached a fish stall at the southern end of Cornmarket St. And then a thumping great reminder whacked my occipital lobe, informing that I wasn’t simply amidst the Irish but among the very lowest of this genus.
At this fish stall I encountered an unique act of Gaelic dumbness, so bad it would probably confuse a sober monkey as whether to laugh or cry. Fifteen to twenty natives waited in a queue to buy fish and when I glanced towards the stall’s attendant I saw a sight that would leave an experienced psychiatrist no option but to consult her textbooks in attempt to comprehend how this multi-celled creature could display such amoeba-esque behaviour.  
The least alarming aspect of the attendant’s and customer’s behaviour was their way of trading. The stall had on display a barely legible handwritten sign which informed that the fish was being sold in bags and that each (bag) cost €5. The Cork halfwits don’t do weights very well; a pound or half a kilogram of fish means nothing to them, they have to visualise what they’re buying and only then will they be able to gauge whether they have enough for that day's meal – just like 150 grams of sweets means nothing to a 3-year-old child, he wants a bag, and only then can he estimate how long he’ll be chewing for.
The oversized marker was stuck
to the scale’s dial similar to above.
When a customer stepped forward and ordered the attendant proceeded to gut and fillet a number of small fish which he then threw into a bag that he had positioned on a weighing scales. An irregular  piece of paper was adhered to the scales’ dial at about the half-a-kilogram mark and when the pointer reached its vicinity the fish-filleter knew he had enough fish in that particular bag.
It was obvious that this fish-filleter’s boss didn’t trust his employee (or son) to use the scales’ factory fitted markings to measure how much to put in each bag. But the size of the paper marker which had been used to customise the dial didn’t say much in favour of whomever it was chose it. It was about an inch wide and straddled both sides of the scale’s original 0.5 kg mark; and the fish-filleter wasn’t very particular, so long as the needle came anywhere near the vicinity of the ad hoc marker he was happy. So, depending on the fish-filleter’s whims, a buyer’s €5 could get him from as low as 300 grams, or as high as 700-800 grams of fish.
This type of simian idiocy is commonplace with sellers and buyers in south-west Ireland and after a few years of living there you become inured to it. But the manner in which the attendant was filleting the fish and the appallingly unhygienic practices which Cork consumers showed they will tolerate go beyond a normal person’s comprehension.
I’ll reiterate that it was a cold damp February morning; a foggy steady rain was being driven northwards along Cornmarket St; you wouldn’t be able to distinguish a person’s face from any more than 12 metres away. But all the time the attendant was wearing a pair of wrap around sunglasses1; they were of cheap and gaudy manufacture and were jet black rather than simply opaque.
The fish-filleter’s hands looked as
if he’d put them in a meat grinder.
Upon spotting this fish-filleter it immediately became apparent that he couldn’t see what he was doing. Moving closer I realised it was much worse than him simply trying to blindly feel his way along in an attempt to look macho and chilled-out. 

In his self-inflicted myopia this sad idiot was actually lacerating his own hands as he tried to gut and fillet the fish. He was wearing blue latex gloves and both of these had numerous cuts with clearly visible bubbles of his own blood underneath – he was obviously in pain and suffering discomfort.
What further added disbelief to his schizophrenic act of imbecility was his frequently switching the knife from his right to left hand. It wasn’t that this chap was ambidextrous, it was because both his hands had become so painful that he had to alternate the knife frequently to give each a rest in turn.
Due to his awkward attempts to wield the knife with his right hand and then his left it was impossible to tell which was the dominant one – he had gotten to a stage where he was hacking at the fish in the manner of a blind madman. What was alarming and unsettling was that the blood seeping out from the cuts on his hands was being splattered all over the fish he was preparing.
He became more and more psychopathic
as he blindly hacked at the fish.
And like a scene out of a low-budget zombie movie the queue of natives moved forward one by one to buy a bag of fish which was soaked in the imbecilic fishmonger’s blood. At times there were up to twenty people queuing at the stall and each of them would have had a clear view of the fish-filleter’s abnormally sick behaviour – I’d suspect his idiocy even made passing gulls queasy. 

 Not one of the customers showed any sign of discontent or unease at the fish-filleter’s insane conduct, or at his bodily fluids being all over the badly hacked fish they were buying and intending to eat.
I don’t think even a lobotomy victim would buy fish from this idiot let alone bring it home and feed it to their family. If this fishmonger was infected with HIV, Ebola or any other virus he most definitely passed it on to many citizens in Cork city that morning.
When you'd witness this type of incredible stupidity you'd think twice about rural Irish restaurants and gastropubs that advertise the use of fresh local produce. Are they buying the fresh fish and meat from traders that have in their employ insane people such as above self-blinkered imbecile. And what are the odds that the viruses and germs it has probably been infected with survive the cooking process?
_______________
1It’s rare to enter a Cork or Galway pub or restaurant on any winter’s night and not find at least two morons roving around wearing gaudy dark shades. They’ll further exacerbate their moronism by attempting to slyly peep out under them when trying to count money or check their change.
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Wednesday, 7 October 2015

Subway, Unit 4 Kiltartan House, Forster Street, Galway (and An Garda Síochána, Mill Street, Galway, Ireland).

Subway restaurant, Galway, Ireland.
On a recent summer’s evening I witnessed the most disgusting act imaginable from a member of Ireland’s An Garda Síochána (Irish police) in this Subway outlet in Forster St, Galway.
A uniformed middle-aged male Garda (Irish policeman) turned around, after being served at the counter, and walked straight back into the queue of three people who were waiting behind him to make their orders. This ignoramus Irish bastard, with his head slightly down and a scrowl on his face, forced the three to jump aside as he pushed his way gibbon-like to the seating area.
The designers of this Subway outlet had left ample room for customers who had been served to leave the counter area without pushing others out of their way. There was plenty of room for this inbred Irish mongrel to turn to his right and make his exit without bullying anyone into jumping aside.

 Sophie Toscan du Plantier
An Garda Síochána: it’d be bad enough if some were just stupid but quite a few are mentally retarded.
He was a typical west-of-Ireland vulgar bastard who simply wanted to show his authority and exercise his urge to bully others; and did so in a manner that wouldn’t be expected from a mentally retarded Limerick thug.
Another example of the subhuman type personnel to be found in An Garda Síochána in Galway was where a man went to Mill St Garda Station to report an attempted assault. At about 4:00pm on a bright August day this man had been threatened with a baseball bat by a middle-aged Oirish-loon in the city’s Merchants Rd.
The Oirish-loon, who was frothing at the mouth, accused the man of having attempted to burglar his home and swung the baseball bat with the unstableness of an utter madman. This type of swivel-eyed loon is very common on the streets of Galway; in fact they're so common that a lot of natives don’t view them as having anything wrong with their personality, let alone their mental health.
Considering this Oirish-loon was a danger to himself and innocent pedestrians the victim of his assault went straight to the Garda Station in Mill St to report him. In the Garda Station he had just started to make his complaint to the Garda on reception when another younger Garda with red hair butted in.
Sophie Toscan du Plantier’s murder remains unsolved.
The red-headed Garda had overheard the complainant relate how the Oirish-loon had accused him of attempting to rob his home. And all of a sudden, from about 3 metres away, he loudly butted-in and accused the complainant of lying; he told the complainant that he probably had been trying to burglar his attacker’s home, insinuating that he had deserved being attacked.
The complainant was speechless, within four minutes of entering the Garda Station to report a very serious attack, an assault that was quite terrifying, he was accused by an imbecilic and unintelligent Irish arsehole of being a house burglar.
Manuela Riedo would still be alive and never raped if the Gardai were competent.
The Garda in Subway was a witless thug, most likely a grade-inflated Irish ingrate and of a type that is ubiquitous in An Garda Síochána. The red-headed chap in the Garda Station was mentally unhinged, an inbred moronic prick who wouldn’t even get hired as a labourer on building sites in other European countries – he’d be viewed as too unstable to be let loose with tools that might be used as weapons. The alarming thing is that many of his type are also to be found in An Garda Síochána.
The Irish have forever been caricatured as being drunks and arseholes but it’s only after you live there awhile that the sheer depths of their vulgarity, stupidity and backwardness hits home.

 Garda KoalaBear, Brideswell, Cork
When they accept subhuman unintelligent buffoons like the above two Garda into their police force it’s understandable how they completely fucked-up the investigation into a French woman’s (Sophie Toscan du Plantier) sodomy and murder in Cork. And how they let a known rapist and thug roam free in Galway city until he raped and murdered Swiss girl, Manuela Riedo.
Irish paedophile, Brian Curtin’s, case was blatantly dropped.
Then there’s the debauchery the Irish perpetrate on their own; the shocking and animalistic abuse at a care home, Áras Attracta, in Swinford, Co. Mayo. Which matches well with the satanic-type sodomy and abuse that staff perpetrated on patients in St. Brigid’s psychiatric hospital, Ballinasloe, Co Galway – what you should bear in mind about this is that some of the abusers were Irish females in their late teens and early twenties.
The shamelessness the Irish display in covering up their backwardness is nauseating; the case of Judge Brian Curtin is characteristic of their couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude in sweeping paedophilia, sex-abuse, rape and general debauchery under the carpet.
Though, the mistake the Irish make is that they think when they brush their backwardness and immorality out of their own minds that it’s also swept out of foreigner’s memories.
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Tuesday, 29 September 2015

Southern Star Public House, 9 Southern Rd, Cork city, Ireland.

The Southern Star, Cork city.
Spending an hour or two in this bar over a few evenings will give good insight into what the general south-western Irish denizens are like. This is a pub that caters for a mixture of Cork city’s trades and business people. For those who are class conscious the patrons could be best described as middle and working class.
It’s necessary when describing south-west Ireland to sometimes revert to un-Politically Correct class structures because in places like Cork, Kerry and Limerick a large proportion of the population can be best described as an underclass or sink-estate type. They are a type of animalistic sub-human that couldn’t even be compared to rabid hyenas. Thievery and thuggery is their raison d'être and they have the sexual inclinations of lobotomised baboons – hence the high occurrence of inbreeding, incest, sexual assault, rape and murder in this part of Ireland.
You don’t ever go near the type of pubs these people drink in; and if you do, you certainly won’t be in possession of your watch, wallet or purse when you leave – you’ll be lucky to get out with your limbs still attached.    
So if you’re in Cork city and you consider yourself either working or professional class the Southern Star might seem a good place to get to know the natives and perhaps make some contacts. In Cork this establishment is classed as upper crust, a place where the riff-raff won’t get past the threshold. Also, this pub leans towards sports, and people of this persuasion are usually, at least, mediocrely civil minded and processed of a moderate intelligence.
But a visit to the Southern Star would turn these preconceptions on their heads; to say you’d be in for a shock would be an understatement. This pub and its clientele will turn your stomach inside out; you’ll be liable to puke up stuff you’ve never known you’ve eaten.
The owner of the Southern Star.
During my visits here three of the bar staff had mental health issues; one of them was quite severely cerebrally handicapped. But the aggressive halfwitted staff would be the least of your objections. It’s the clientele, the middle class Cork citizenry, that would drain the blood from your face and give you never before experienced bouts of nausea.
A perfect example would be the three besuited middle-aged males I encountered here at about 09:30pm one evening. These chaps would be considered professionals in Cork and might well be found working in some type of clerical position, bank or insurance or such like. You wouldn’t encounter a more ignoramus trio anywhere outside of rural Ireland, and the fact they were part of Cork’s elite made it all the more disgusting.
A lone man, a visitor to Cork, had entered prior to the trio of arseholes and was seated at the bar having a drink. It was easy to know he was new to the area, on a business trip or holiday perhaps, because the locals were eyeing him suspiciously – the way dogs that had never seen a bear before might react on meeting one for the first time.
The visitor was seated at the end of the bar watching television when the trio of morons came in. To the visitor’s right there was space for only two other people at the bar; and two of the trio sat on the stools that were there while the third dragged a stool from another part of the pub and squeezed up beside them.
After ordering drinks the trio decided they hadn’t enough room because the thicko who had dragged up the third stool found it difficult to reach his drink on the bar. So, with a mindset that only an inbred backward Cork mongrel could process, one of them started to push up against the visitor in the hope of getting him to move – the ignorant bastards wanted him to vacate his seat so they could have his place.
Two of the lesser idiotic customers.
The look of surprise on the visitor’s face was worth writing home about when he realised what the trio were trying to do. But he wasn’t going to vacate his chosen spot in front of the telly for these three Cork arseholes. He requested that the trespasser leave his personal space and suggested that if they hadn’t enough room at the bar there were plenty of empty seats and tables just behind them – which there was, the pub was at about 15 percent capacity.
The three Cork arseholes wouldn’t give up, though, and kept leaning back against the visitor – like typical Irish arseholes they didn’t like their fatuity pointed out and could only answer by getting even stupider. After a few minutes of harassing the visitor one of the trio, a diminutive little prick with whitish hair, suddenly became exacerbated with his refusal to move; he actually turned to the man and told him that they wanted his seat.
He might enjoy the bra more than he’s letting on.
All this took place over the course of about 15 minutes and the visitor was visibly shocked. He told the trio that never before had he experienced such “fucking stupid pricks” and using his good sense he duly left this typical backward Cork dive.
The trio were delighted, they could then spread out along the bar and feel important. It was almost as disgusting to hear these three middle-aged Irish1 imbeciles sniggering like sink-estate morons as it was to watch their disgusting antics a few minutes earlier. And while it was going on an inbred slackjawed female barmaid fumbled around behind the bar with her mouth hanging open – a fucking meteor could land within 10 metres of her and she wouldn’t notice.  
A couple of things that’s unique about inbred Cork mongrels like this trio is that apart from being as thick as planks they have absolutely no shame. There’s no type of childish thuggery or insane stupidity that the majority of Cork or Kerry’s mainstream society wouldn’t be capable of undertaking – they were created as fools but their inbreeding has brought them into the realms of debauched insanity.
Another evening I was seated at the bar in this same pub when a middle-aged married couple came in and sat at a table across from me. The lady was obese and very butch looking while the male was petite and emanated meekness. The female proceeded to stare directly at me and anytime I returned her gawk it took her at least 15 or 20 seconds to avert her eyes – she was the type of Cork bitch that would be both willing and capable of breaking a man’s jaw.
Typically, a picture of a very stupid
Irish man (RIP) hangs on the wall.
The husband meanwhile was sat about half-a-metre from her with his shoulders hunched; as if afraid she’d lash out at anytime and give him a wallop – and I’m sure by the look of them both she gave him many a beating.
After a while I got sick of her demented staring and asked her if there was something troubling her. She responded by launching into a loud guffawing laugh that would have given a jack ass the shivers. When the petite husband saw me challenging her he slipped further away along the seat while hunching his shoulders even tighter – they left shortly afterwards and I’d bet my right arm the little man got a hiding on the way home.
What you discover fairly quickly in Cork is that not only are the people for the most part stupid but an abnormally high percentage of them have mental health issues. To challenge any Cork native is akin to arguing with a donkey that’s on steroids.
This idiotic female was most likely a lesbian; X and Y chromosomes radiated from every pore on her inbred face. The meek little husband was sequestered so as to keep up face in Cork; this bullying backward Irish woman probably wouldn’t even admit to herself that she’s attracted to her own sex, let alone anyone else.
As for the Southern Star and its owner, it’s much like any other mainstream pub in Cork city. It’s staffed for the most part by mental retards and caters for a type of halfwit that can best be described as subhuman. _______________ 1Ignoramus, Repulsive, Inbred, Stupid, Halfwits.
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