THE EASTERMOST PARTS OF IRELAND

The Irish, as is well known, have some of the worst food in the English-speaking world, considerably more repulsive than English Public School grub, Scots Boiled Sheep Guts with a deep-fried Snickers bar, or even Australian Cuisine, which serves Spaghetti Sandwiches larded with Vegemite to unsuspecting foreigners who were hoping for something edible.

Please note: The United States is NOT part of the English-speaking world, per my grammar school classmates in the Netherlands a long time ago, who sought to constantly remind me of that and other facts which proved I was an inferior being as an American, and spoke gibberish. I do not remember many of them with any fondness.
Een stelletje kleine rotzakken.

But their sickening plate-and-pan horrors are NOT a reason to boycot their pestilential public establishments. Which regrettably litter cities all across America. Their support of Celtics FC, a Glasgow soccer club, is. Most anti-Semitic bunch of buggery pustules in fandom, outright HAMAS and Islamic Jihad supporters, riven with syphilis and congenital defects caused by generation after generation breeding with people called O'Reilly or Kelly.

Glasgow is like Berkeley (CA), except with worse beer.
And considerably less physical cleanliness.
Much more deep-fried stodge.

Boiled starch, burnt fat, semi-rancid grease globs; a side of neo-Marxist revolutionary rhetoric justifying rocket campaigns and the murder of civilians provided they're English, Jewish, or American. Absent the ghastly mushy peas, thank providence, but with unintelligible gibberish and Greta Thunbergian sanctimony thrown in. Altogether nightmarish.

Sadly, you cannot smoke your fine Peterson pipes indoors anymore there while enjoying their excellent whiskey. They've gone all Brussels in their puritan disapprovalisms. But that's okay. As long as they keep exporting liquor, you can smoke at home while having a drink, entirely without needing to suffer their dreary conversation, repetitive turaluraleigh singing, violent tempers, or outright stupidity.

And everywhere the sickening fragrance of baked beans.



By the way: As the poet says, "there's feck-all meat in a spice burger". Which is axiomatic for damned well everything between Tipperary and Balanark or Baillieston. A blasted paradigm.


There is still an open tin of Erinmore Flake near my chair.
I think I'll smoke some of it this morning.

PS.: Why is it you can't find soap anywhere in the Irish world?
It's almost as rare as penicillin, dammit.

And their poetry sucks.



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