All entries for Wednesday 26 January 2005

January 26, 2005

Roisin's harrowing true story

worryingly, this actually is true.

"It all began when Roisin and her family got new neighbours. At first, Greta and her daughter, Tracey, seemed normal enough. Stand-offish, but not rude. But over the weeks and months, things began to change. The first clue that something was going wrong was the littering of crisp packets and empty vladivar vodka bottles around the back garden. Thrown over the fence from next door. And that was only the beginning. Soon, it became apparent that Anthony Reilly was in on it too. He was the grumpy old man from up the estate. Alcoholic. Would drive his tractor up the town. Come back with Special Brew in the link box. Bring it over to Greta's. Get drunk and slag off the Muldoons. A legacy of hatred was soon germinating in the twisted minds of these filthy protestants.
"Taig bastards" Anthony shouted out of his tractor window to Greta, one chilly spring morning.
"That commie Muldoon has parked his bastard red commie van, you know that brown Vauxhall, all over my land" Greta screamed back.
"Let's kill them" retorted Anthony.
"No. We'd have to go to jail, and we'd lose our benefits. Instead, let's just be absolute bastards to them until they finally crack, and take their stinking catholic sovietism back to Russia. Or at the very least, out of the estate."
The reign of terror began.

At first, the Muldoons were only mildly perturbed by the erratic behaviour of their neighbours. Living in a world of utter lunacy for so long, it was difficult to surprise these filthy red bastards. It just seemed slightly sad that a drunk and urine-soaked old man would give their house the fingers every time he walked past.
But then, things got serious.
"I'm tired of looking at their commie-mobile" spat Reilly one evening, to his pet monitor lizard. Brilliantly, in their desire for independence, the politicians of Northern Ireland had neglected to instigate the Wild Animal Possession law. Reilly had already released a puma, three black bears, and an elephant into the small village of Aughnacloy. "It's time for action" he continued.
And three weeks later, time for action it was. Reilly had perfected his plan. It was foolproof. And no one would know it was him. Except for all the neighbours, who would see him doing it from the transparent squares of glass inserted into the walls of their houses. He pulled on his wellies, determinedly, and tightened the baler twine around his trousers. Off he marched towards that bastard vehicle of Soviet propaganda. That automob-Che. "I'll show you!" he cackled aimlessly into the morning dew. Summoning up his last reserves of strength, he gloriously ripped the bumper and the exhaust from the Vauxhall. Carrying his spoils triumphantly above his head, like some vagabond gladiator, he returned to the Muldoon mansion, covered in silver and gold from the family's plundering of long-lost shipwrecks on the Tyrone coast. With an almighty roar, Reilly flung the exhaust at the living room window of the nonplussed Muldoon family. He jumped into his tractor and nobly reversed over Daniel Muldoon's go-kart, speeding off into the village to reward himself with a six-pack of Skol lager.
Returning later that evening, he paid a visit to Greta, to boast of his bravery. But Greta had some shocking news. She was now engaged to Shakin' Stevens. Or rather, to his impersonator, 'Shakey'. What would Reilly do without his faithful sidekick? This would have to be his final glory.
"Don't worry, Anthony" said Greta. "We won't let this drop. We need to drive these filthy catholic, commie, Jap, wop, bratwurst-eating bastards out of our glorious estate. Orchard Park. Loyal Orange Lodge yin nat yin. We just need to take our time. Be subtle."
Time passed. Greta became a mother once again. Anthony worried that motherhood might mellow her. But she soon lactated the milk of bitterness from her loveless teat when, one evening, as they were drinking Tennent's Super together and watching 'Catchphrase', her daughter came in pantless.
"Shereene, you little bastard, where are your knickers?" Greta angrily asked the four-year-old. In response, Shereene could only pick her nose. The only words she knew were "fuck" and "finduscrispypancake."
Greta marched outside. She was going to solve this mystery. There they were, in her back garden. Shitty knickers, covered in shit and piss, and stinking of shit and piss. "Shit and piss" thought Greta. She carefully lifted the pissy, shitty knickers with a stick and brough them into the house to investigate, only to find a big shitty, pissy stain on her sofa where Shereene, covered in shit and piss, had been sitting, in her own shit and piss.
There was only one conclusion to be drawn from this. Those bastard Muldoons. It had to be them, thought Greta, logically. Clearly their eight-year-old daughter had been wearing these 'Age 3-4' pants, whilst playing in the locked and reinforced back garden of Greta's fortress, shitting and pissing herself all over the place. She removed her stinking, filthy drawers and took her shitty commie ass home. Yes, that was the only logical conclusion. But how could Greta wreak her revenge? She set the shitty, pissy knickers on the kitchen counter, beside Shereene's shitty, pissy face, whilst she pondered.
It was then that the thunderbolt struck. Espying a bag from Curley's (the friendly store), Greta put together her plan.

The next morning, Eugene Muldoon tied his commie tie, opened his commie front door, and prepared to get into his commie Jap car, off to work for The Man. Bastard Communist, spoiling it for the rest of us. There it was. Facing him. In the face. Staring him in the face. Facing him. Right in his commie face. Winking at him. Glistening in the sunlight. Taunting his commie sensibilities. It was…
A BAG FULL OF SHIT, PISS, AND PANTS. And shit and piss. A Curley's bag full of shit and piss.
"Shit and piss" he thought. "What is that shit and piss, and pants, and shitty pissy pants, doing on the spoiler of my Toyota?"
He was soon to find out exactly what that shitty, pissy bag of shitty pissy piss and shit was doing on his gleaming, slave-made, bastard Commie Jap car. Greta hurtled across the road in her chenille dressing gown from the Belfast branch of Primark (where Sue had earlier proposed to Roisin).
"That'll teach you to put your shitty, pissy, pissy, shitty knickers in my garden, Muldoon!" screeched this protestant harridan.
Bastard Commie Eugene could only gape. He returned to the house, put on some commie rubber gloves, and carefully scooped up the mess, placing it in the commie bin. He sped off to his commie job, blissfully unaware of the legacy of shit and piss he had left for the hard-working, non-commie binmen of northern ireland.
Greta smirked, satisfied with her work. "I think it's clear", she said, to no one in particular, "who won that battle. I'll quit while I'm ahead, and leave those commie bastards to fester in their giant vat of shitty, pissy, holy water, as they are disgusting, shitty, pissy taigs."

Roisin was paid eight million pounds for this story, which she has donated to the foundation for the care of shitty, pissy children.

Disclaimer: Every word of this story is true. Except for the bit about the wild animals. But the rest of it really is true. During her reign of terror, Greta also locked one of the Muldoon children in a shed full of piss and shit, crushed another of the Muldoon children's bicycles, pulled a chair out from underneath one of her friends, and stood in her doorway telling everyone to fuck off.


A fable of grimness

Writing about web page http://www.benzo.org.uk/chat1.htm

…by roisin and eim.

My birthday. I hated it. Relatives. Friends. Sprouts. Cakes. Chipolatas. Romans. My gran.
"Get in!" screamed my eight-year-old daughter, Shereene.
"Fuck you!" I replied.
I was down. Couldn't deal. Then something hit me.
…................ an ashtray
As I slipped into a coma, I couldn't help but think…
FUCK
Since my days behind the bar at the Canley Dolphin, things had gone from bad. To worse. To worse. To worser. To worsest. Bad enough that my childhood sweetheart, Sucky, had gone to clink for benefit fraud. Bad enough that my dog, Spastic, had chewed next door's child's leg off. And had to be tagged. Bad enough that Sherenne had stole my fave clown necklace. But now this. I didn't think I could cope any more.
Trisha was moving to Channel 5.
Ever since Channel 5 was launched in 1997, I had felt cheated. Used. Abused. The DSS were paying my licence fee for this? I couldn't even get a clear picture! Sucky and I tried everything. Stole the aerial from next door's Nova to try to improve the picture. Got our eldest son, England, to hang out the tower block window with a wire coathanger. We even got a new telly from the skip. Nothing. Nothing but a grey fuzz and the numbing whine of feedback. England and Shereene got bullied at school for not being able to watch The Worlds Wildest Police Chases. No-one would speak to them, they weren't even getting beat up after school anymore. Poor Shereene. She couldn't even get some boys to doubly penetrate her. Bad enough for me, but torture for the kiddies.
The Kiddies
I just couldn't cope with the alienation any more. I hated being the only one down the Benefit Office who couldn't chat about that morning's edition of The Wright Stuff.
But I struggled on, holding it together for the sake of the little'uns. The only thing that helped me keep my head above water was Trisha on ITV. Every morning when I watched her show, I realised I wasn't alone.
alone
Other people had problems like mine. It was a relief to be able to see normal people, people like me on the telly. Everyone else on the other shows, they were so posh. So clean. So tidy. So literate.
Not like me
So I decided to struggle on. And set up a market stall selling candles, pirate videos and fleeces with dogs on. Maybe, just maybe, I would one day be able to afford pirated Sky.
But then, it all fell apart…on my birthday.
England had saved up all the money he made from stealing ornaments to sell to Kev, of Kev's Nik Naks, to buy me a copy of The Sun.
Trisha was moving her show to Channel 5
I dropped the bag of potatoe's and karrot's I bought down the stall that morning. Now I would never have a chance to bask in the comforting reflected glory of that saint in human form, that angel of mercy, that aphrodite of a woman. Trisha. Trisha. Trisha
It was then that the ashtray hit me.
Gran, 47 from Skegness, came running over. Slapped Shereene up about the head with the baseball bat she always carried. Grandad's baseball bat. Used it to fight Germans in the war. Never got over the war, did Grandad. Used to mumble about the rising price of chicken fillet burgers, couldn't afford it on the meagre wage he made as a pyramid driver. Eventually died of a broken heart and massive internal injuries.
Gran picked up the ashtray and kicked me in the face to try to rouse me from my stupor. Didn't move. She extinguished her tower of ash into the glass tray. "No point wasting it, is there?" she cackled. Told England to ring an ambulance for us both.
When the ambulance arrived, Shereene had come round. She started to stone the ambulance, just like I'd always taught her. Made me so proud. But wait….
Who was that driving the ambulance? I could see the outline of an afro-caribbean head and there was only one of that sort around these parts. It had to be….
It was....It was her....it was that woman....that amazing woman....Trisha
She touched me gently on the forehead and I awoke. I also regained the use of my legs, which I had not had since 1987 due to my morbid obesity. Leaping from my mobility scooter, I embraced her.
"But Trisha," I hesitatantly began "You're moving to Channel 5…what will I do without your guiding hand?"
"You'll know…you'll just know" she said, leaping onto her motorcycle and speeding off into the distance.
Shereene Hillsley, 8, and England Hillsley, 12, were both arrested for assault. Finally, the curse has been lifted and I am free.
Trisha was right, I did just know. I finally got my pirate Sky. I think of it as my gift from her.
From Trisha

Miy'SChyelle Hillsley, 22, Canley

Miy'SChyelle was not paid for her story


The incredible adventures of penis finger and his amazing Spanish dancing boots

hee!

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