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A typical Fenian Youth Club gathering.

The people of Ireland - known variously as Micks, Paddies, White Niggers and landlords of most of London - are, like their African namesakes, mostly lazy, good-for-nothing parasites, interested in little except intoxication, fornication, sport, violence, sport violence, fornication violence, mass rhythmic dancing, and making large-scale property buys in expensive parts of the UK.

Their diet consists primarily of fried potatoes washed down with booze, and their day-to-day activities include drinking, fighting, laying about in their own filth, betting on football and horses, and playing upon harps, bagpipes and tin whistles. The Irish are also known for their complete and utter lack of grey matter; most Polish jokes told in America are actually Irish jokes as enjoyed in the rest of the UK.

Ireland is the Short Bus of Europe, a mildewy, cloud-shrouded island inhabited by an ungovernable race of fuck-crazed, monkey-faced mackerel-snappers whose legendary capacity for alcohol and maniacal obsession with death and misery is offset only by their incomprehensible (and likely completely fake) language [It's to confuse the Welsh]. As such, they are still better than the ill-tempered, parsimonious Scots, the tailless Manx, and the subhuman Welsh. God bless Ireland. [We like you English pricks too :)]

Faith - More Than A Social Crutch

A typical jolly Fenian about to go about his business.

According to surveys, 91% of Irish people profess Roman Catholicism, 12% Protestantism and 18% 'other'. This is due to the Irish habit of lying about everything so as not to cause offence. Most Irish people no longer attend church as they are dying from hangovers at that time on a Sunday morning, trying to convince their sleeping significant other to '... at least wank me off fer Jaysus' sake' to make the hangover go away.

The Irish people that don't behave in this manner are largely pathetic virgins who still live with their ageing mothers in small houses in the rural North-West and/or old people who know full well they're going to die soon.

The Fenian and the Bomb

The IRA is Ireland's 'peace keeping' force, and anyone born in Ireland is automatically a member. Northern Ireland traditionally hates everybody, including England, Southern Ireland, Protestants, and the guy who knocked over their drink. Starting fights in bars in Ireland is extremely easy. In fact, the fight probably already started before you got there. Still, it's customary to go through all the customary procedures. ["Hey, did yer knock ovar me pint?" "Ay, I'was me ye fecker!"] This is in stark contrast to England where alcohol abuse and bar fights are all but unknown.

Apart from bashing the town drunk over the head with a bar stool, Northerners like to gang up in terrorist groups with knives, rifles and home made bombs. They are called the IRA (not to be confused with the GAA who are incompetent with explosives but otherwise identical). They go around bombing schools, bashing people, firebombing houses and in general having a errr... blast. A good analogy is that if Canada was more like Northern Ireland, every single American would have migrated down to Mexico by now. Or something.

Fenian Art

The Irish have never been known for their visual acuity. This is a fact easily evidenced by the way they dress. And look. One glance at the plethora of grossly overweight (sometimes pregnant) women in the capital city of Dublin, who insist on wearing belly tops designed for women vastly more attractive than themselves, is evidence enough for this. In fact, if you see a woman who looks like she's taking care of herself in Ireland, she's probably not Irish.

Irish gold.

Though there are art galleries in Ireland, they are rarely visited by anyone except pretentious upper-middle class people, who by virtue of being intelligent enough to read something more complex than a football program, aren't strictly Irish anyway. Irish visual art is mostly done using the medium of thick-black-marker on a bus shelter. Notable works include 'Smell Yer Ma's Minge' By Anthony O'Carroll, displayed at the M50 Overpass Gallery, and 'Brits Out!' displayed in every gallery in the state.

Learning More About Fenians

The Central Statistics Office are the independent voluntary statistic publishing body tolerated by the IRA. Funded by the GardaĆ­, their duty is to independently collate figures from reliable sources such as taxi drivers and the Catholic Church and annually publish detailed breakdowns of American tourism, British espionage, Romanians deported and small number of GardaĆ­-related complaints received.

Proposed National Anthem

I'll sing you a song of peace and love

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

To the land that reigns all lands above

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

May peace and plenty be her share

Who kept our homes from want and care

God bless England is our prayer

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day


When we were savage, fierce and wild

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

England came as mother to child

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

She gently raised us from the slime

Stopped our drinking and our crime

And sent us to Heaven in her own good time

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day


Now our fathers oft were naughty boys

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

For guns and pikes are dangerous toys

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

From Bearna Baol to Bunker Hill

They made poor England cry her fill

But ould Brittania loves us still!

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day


Now Irishmen, forget the past!

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

And think of the time that's coming fast

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

When we shall all be civilized

Neat and clean and well-advised

Won't Mother England be surprised?

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day


Refrain: Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

So we say, Hip Hooray!

Come and listen while we pray

Whack fol the diddle all the di do day

(Peadar Kearney)


The above page started by PROXIMO, who had a close female relative impregnated on a hen night in Dublin, but he doesn't hold a grudge.