The other night at work we had a band called The Wolfe Tones play. They’re Irish. My family’s Irish, and I used to be proud of that. Now I wish the English had killed the drunk assholes off years ago.
In all seriousness, we had more than a thousand outrageously hammered Irish and they are absolute cunts. They yelled and demanded more beer than they could physically carry, punched women in the face (true story) and jigged around to every fucking song the band played for two and a half hours.
I felt like I was on one of the lower decks of the Titanic, and I just wanted the son of a bitch to sink already.
At first I was sorry for these peoples’ families – imagine having to deal with these pricks for parents all the time. But then I realised that their babies back home were probably drunk off their tits too, cursing the British and calling Australian barstaff racist.
At one point, I walked into the bathrooms to make sure they didn’t yet look like that burrow thing Leonardo di Caprio lived in in Gangs of New York, and saw one of the most puzzling things I’ve ever witnessed. Some prick, in all of his inebriated, illiterate wisdom, had walked into the disabled cubicle, seen the cistern, duly ignored it, turned into the opposite corner AND STARTED PISSING AGAINST THE BACK OF THE DOOR.
As in, there’s the toilet, but no thanks, I’d rather take my dick out and wee all over the floor like some errant kid who got into the whisky at the age of 7 and accidentally lost control over his bladder because he didn’t know better. In fact, this guy probably DID start downing the whisky at the age of 7. They all looked like they started hitting the bottle at around the same time as they started refusing to eat brussel sprouts.
No wonder the English didn’t grant them independence for 8 or so centuries – they can’t even use the toilet properly. I wouldn’t let them govern themselves either.
