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The man is for the birds.

Not even the birds, the rats maybe.

Scottish independence is on the agenda again.

Those lads don't seem to know what they want - unless it's a beer and some smack.

David Icke banned from the Netherlands.

I got barred from the Netherlands myself - for one year. I jumped ship in Den Haag this one time after overstaying a few days in Amsterdam on a friend's InterRail ticket. Ran out of money, ran out of everything, had to hitch a ride down to the port and try to get on board after requesting a ticket I could pay for later to sail to England and get to London to see family and get sorted.

The cops refused so we said we were hungry and would eat whatever we could steal so. Fine, said the cops - then you'll be arrested and deported. That'll do, says us - and went down to the local supermarket and started making sandwiches at the cheese counter, then eating them. Cops arrive and throw us out - no deportation.

So we hustled the truck drivers waiting in the line to get us abroad the next sailing. No joy there either, a bomb scare had spooked British drivers and two hungry Irish lads weren't a great idea for stowaways. But one driver said there was a food bar beyond the next gate where we could get something to eat, so we sat in his cab and hid at the entrance, then legged it inside and had some coffee and a bite to eat.

Then the horn went off for last trucks on board and we hid behind the wheels of one and ran in through the truck entrance in the rear of the hull. Grand. We're aboard. Himself heads off and comes back with a bottle of Southern Comfort, robbed from the duty free. We set into that and along comes the ship's purser, busted.

Get hauled off the ship, back to the cop station (they knew we were aboard because we weren't to be found on the streets) and they take our passports, security takes us back to the boat, we're told to sit down and stay where we were and when we get to England we can have our passports back.

Arrive in Dover and get off: cops are waiting - searched, interrogated, then handed our passports: both of us barred from entering Holland for one year from that date. We were pissed, drank all the Southern Comfort (sickening stuff in large amounts) and hitched up to a squat in London, then on to Cambridge for family and some readies, then more hitching up to Stoke-On-Trent with a mad driver who I couldn't understand anything he was saying. We end up in a barn checking out his prize pig who won a rosette in some farming competition or beauty pageant. Mental old fucker.

Eventually get to Liverpool and sleep outside the Liverpool Housing Authority offices doorway out of the wind and rain. Next morning we're booted off the plinth and sent packing to the port. Met a very strange lad who needed a place to stay in Dublin, so your man sorts him and he fronts us two tickets. We board ship and off we sail, at last.

With a few hours to kill, we saunter about the decks and I ended up sitting with this old man: he was heading over to his retirement/holiday home in Sligo. Told me his story: he was a British paratrooper in the Korean War. Told me horrendous things about the treatment doled out by both sides: English lads peeled of all skin and sent back into the bush. Lads having their hands chopped off. Men being burned alive. Horrible stuff, but he had a liter of Vodka and between the two of we finished it off as the story went along.

I passed out, had to be carried off the ship and was unceremoniously dumped on the doorstep of my old workplace, the National Maritime Museum. They left me there and I was found by the lady who managed the building, she knew it was me and called an ambulance. I wake up in St Michael's hospital and my lady was sitting there: she had my keys, bag, and passport and I asked what was going on. When she told me I started laughing, but then spotted the cops out in the hallway. Grabbed my stuff and slipped out and went for coffee. She filled me in on your man I was traveling with, he took the English lad and gave him a place to stay out in Ballyer. The old soldier took his train and retired to Sligo. Never saw him again.

All grand.

Went home to my little flat in Rathmines and after a bath I slept for days.

It was a gas trip: the InterRail tickets belonged to a local couple we knew and they bought them thinking they'd go and see the continent. They got the stage fright in Paris and came straight back home, so we took the tickets and used them ourselves. Three weeks of unlimited travel, for nothing.

The only problem was the names, so we told anyone who asked that the names on the tickets were in Gaelic and the passports in English - Ireland's at war don't you know. We got away with it too.

The coppers in England made sure to print my Dutch barring order on the page opposite a green card I swindled in London several months before from an English staff member at the American embassy. Fucked. Up.

Still, better to have stories than to lead a boring life, right?



Brings to mind an insane Buffalo Bull type character forcing his terrified, trembling victim to film him while he's tinkering around with the tools he's going to use to skin and scalp him/her. 😆


Val's basement: the one place you don't want to end up after a rake of pints.

Poor old fart, thinks he's an internet sensation: but the only people who listen to him are other culchies with even bigger chips on their shoulders due to being, well.. ..culchies. I kind of pity him. He's as oblivious to his social position as he could possibly be, and as a result solidifies the typical traits of a country bumpkin with a hate for city folk. Someone ought to get him offside and have some friendly with him before he starts signing autographed cow-pats and dead rat sculptures.

By the way, you can get him at this number:



The likes of Val are extremely thick and ignorant. They actually think farmers such as themselves are the saviours of humanity, whereas on average they are a drain on resources, a drain on urban taxpayers... as well as being corrupt, greedy and environmentally destructive.

Ireland would certainly be a much better country if they didn't have so much influence. Farmers basically have FFG in their back pockets, hence why they get away with as much as they do. All they have to do is stomp their feet and FF / FG will bow to their every demand. Cheaper beef from Argentina? Not if Irish farmers have their way.


Been up to my tits in work and studies lately, so I've had little time to drop in on the forum. But time is now my friend again and I'll be whizzing about over the next few days. Winter's setting in here in southern Finland and the autumn leave are now dust on the ground. The sun is blazing though and the light is so bright it burns into the back of the retinas.

The sea is beginning to ice over and somebody asked me recently ( V Vice-Admiral Con?) what the deal was with boats and winter ice here in the Arctic Circle: yes, they all have to be taken out and stood upright on land with covers over the top that have to be cleared of snow lest it freeze hard into ice and crush the hulls.

Smaller boats have to be taken on land, and only on Friday evening my ex and her new guy (two hardcore boating fans) had to take their boat home to his place over in Käpylä in the wooden house district as he doesn't have a berthing site as they're really expensive. He hooks up the trailer, reverses the car into an incline on the waterside, then uses a winch to load it onto a carrier trailer and off home to put it in the back garden for the cold season. Herself's a bit sad about it as the water is still flowing and there's little ice on the southern coast. But I reminded her that she can still use the accommodation rooms and kitchen all winter and she brightened up a bit.

Here's the gang loading up:

Some bigger ships can be left in the sea all year round. The very big ships also have heating systems that can be raised and lowered to keep the hull protected and prevent the ice from adding constant pressure to the hull that will eventually cause it to burst and crack. You could lay into it with a lump hammer for half an hour and cause not a dent in the steel. But the constant pressure of water freezing and latching onto the hull will crack it in time. And given the five of seven months of extreme cold during our winter, that's a lot of constant pressure pushing at all sides of the vessel.

But my next sailing will be a trip over to either Tallin or Stockholm to reward myself for getting everything done over these last three months of endless work and study. Feels great to finally have some free time to do what I like and go where I feel like it. The interior decor I did on that competition has paid back in massive dividends with offers of several more interiors over the next two to three years. The buyer loves our work ethic and standards (we do five hours a day, from 0800 to 1300 and then out. I thought at first this was because of the noise levels of the machinery bothering te neighbours, but no: I was wrong.

Kalle said that he doesn't like to work any longer than that as we can put in more effort on a shorter day without breaks (just five minutes for a smoke) and get more done than a team doing an eight hour shift. Me? I like it a lot. Finishing and getting home by 1330 gives me the evenings to study and complete the required papers for the child psychology course, and then some rest time before an early night to get started again by 0700 and out for my ride to work with my neighbour (who offered me the gig) and then back home again.

A proper professional team of renovators has to gel like a band on stage. We have to get to know each other's working styles and standards and try to match them as best we can under pressure and the eye of the clock (we're paid by the hour, and we don't work slowly to scam, we work at speed) and all contribute to an agreed goal day by day. I swore I'd never work with industrial scale power tools again after having to use a hand-held circular saw to cut a hole in a solid concrete wall for an emergency door back during the Flow Festival production I did back in the early teenies. Just one error could cost you an arm, a leg, or your belly sawed right through. It's important to know your limits around tools so powerful, just as it is with suck minor details as tiny cracks in the paint or joinery. Detail matters just as much as brute force in taking out a brick wall in an apartment block with a sledgehammer.

I love Betty Blue, my favourite French movie of all time.

She's so sexy, raw, insane, and delicate.

My kind of people.


I was a big fan of Betty Blue.

Walked into the local cinema at 16, with a newish girlfriend, a little late, straight into the opening sex scene on the big screen. Good memories.

The sound track on recorded tape was a staple for years. Probably my favourite soundtrack.

Love all that frenchy stuff, particularly their movies.


Jambo, if you recall the hand of DS was forced into giving me those powers over my own threads, because you were spamming and derailing threads with extremely low quality supremacist cliched content.

It's pretty simple. No more white supremacist cliches. No more slogans. No more memes. No more tropes. No more stereotypes. No more regurgitated waffle from the likes of Morgosh. Instead form a thought of your own, and express it.

Tall order, you're probably incapable of it. However if you don't make even a small effort, I will be forced to jettison your cliches entirely from those discussions I have editing control over, and I would highly recommend it on other threads dragged down by your racist cliches.

Up your game.
Shut your cakehole you deranged fucking anti-white low IQ lunatic.

You endlessly posts links to (anti-white) trash and there's over 20 threads now in your (mentally ill) "blog".


Bahahahahaaaa.. -

Post in thread 'I, Jambo' https://politicsisle.com/index.php?threads/i-jambo.120/post-6887


roc's a big boy now, he has his long pants on and gets to play moderator

(the absolute fucking state of this site 🤣)

We're all sick to the back teeth of your childish antics, you unemployable loutish layabout. You need to stop wanking and get a ride, you fucking fool.

You have nothing of any originality to offer, you're just a sad little messenger boy for the Brit bloggers, you sad little prick. Arsefield's is where you belong. The intellectual level over there is right on par with your junior cert mentality and fast food lifestyle.

G'wan to fuck, nobody wants you around.

Only Dan and Val - your true father-figures.

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