Friday, 16 November 2012

Until the Light Takes Us


Here at the epicentre of Francis Begbie/Smithy land, we have, on many an occasion, harangued on about the precipitous decline of the quality of the Irish lassie. But, there is much to be said about the ying, the male, the Irish lad. This post was originally going to be entitled In Defence of Irish Women, but that would have been loike, totally fucken beta.

One of the things I like, being the introverted guy that I am is grabbing a coffee somewhere, sitting down and watching people walk by. People formicating around bricked streets with bundles of groceries, parcels, kids in tow. Seeing these faces, weaving in and out of damp, drizzly weekday Irish weather. Sounds stalkerish, but for myself it's relaxing. You see someone of interest, you start creating a life story of them in your head and sip on your coffee. What goes on in your head, confabulations, the incessant and ineffable feeling of minutiae colliding, whizzing, pieces of information, pointless, excessive like sloppy carbohydrates, is too much and sometimes you need to live vicariously through someone else, stop yourself from fucking thinking about things, and killing yourself at least for a second on a Dublin City street corner.

So I'm there in Talbot Street (all my female readers are getting wet now cause they know where I drink coffee) and this pack of teenage wankers dressed in black and with colourings in their hair, enter my vicinity and queue up to get some fancy latte shit. And as they're chatting away, I overhear one of them (the boyfriend) chat to this bulldog of a (girlfriend) lassie. Poor thing. Butterfaced. Built like Pierce Brosnan's stereo. And get this right, the fucking boyfriend is talking like this:

"I ordore you Cothlin. You ore my sweet thing babes."

Caitlin (fuck the D4 accent) is there, with her face turned away, like shes in pain, like shes afraid of needles.In her eyes. She looks at me, grimaces, and then turns back to mr matchstick twat.

"Or de only woman for me Cothlin."

The cunt is back in orbit.

Gag.Splutter. Fuck.

Is this the kind of shite that lassies have to put up with? These effeminate, faggy, sanctimonious arseholes putting their arms around their shoulders like drunken Blackrock rugby players after a game with Wessers? Here's the thing, roysh. It's the most fucking obvious thing in the world, and was the case for 99.9 percent of human existence, or it was up until around fifty years ago, and if I said this to my grandfather, he would have laughed his hole off at me, but in theses decadent, post bollixed times, it's become a fucking polemic of all things.

Men should be masculine, not pussies. Women should be feminine, not fucking man eating empowered slutbags.

Jesus, I know she's a bit heavy and all, but if that's on offer, what do you do?

Maybe I'm being too hard on the kid though. Ireland's reached the stage where school fights end up with fucking rat a tat tat Ritalin being prescribed to twelve/thirteen year olds. Ever see a kid on this kind of stuff? Calm blue ocean. Calm blue ocean. Calm. Blue. Ocean. 

Graaaaaagh once said that language is power, and power is language. This is true, but a question stems from this. Did masculinity as a word, as concept, how long did it exist? Jack Donovan writes a book called The Way of Men. If you were to show someone three/four hundred years ago, tell them about this concept of masculinity, would they either ask, "what the fuck is masculinity" or would they say "yeah mate, we kind of know this!" or are both questions synonymous? Is it a sign of malignant rot that someone called Jack Donovan writes a book and it's fucking brilliant when it should be just fucking obvious to everyone? Masculinity should be like a a mathematical proof if anything. You are not special. You are an animal. You can put all this cigender horseshit on top, but that will never ever, cover over the dark, primal, violent parts of human nature. If you're giving out about the lack of feminine women, when you're a bitch tittied whiner haven a bud, is risible, a pugnacious act from a maladroit individual who is not even coming close to being good at being a man, forget about being a good man, through that out the car window altogether.  And acting like a man, not a fucking pussy, is the closest thing to fucking "happiness" (what does that word even mean anymore?) you can find. Violence, triumph, conflict, rough sex, dominating lassies, respect, The Way of Men and Burzum. That is you.

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