Chat Politics Isle - land of Socks

Youngdan

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Freedom of speech, I hear so many people talk about this like they know everything they are talking about.

P.ie was nearly shut down forever and sued into oblivion after they wrongfully doxxed someone and ended up in serious trouble.


Read below


Website owners have to be careful about what is posted on their site, it's not something I would risk, especially when some posters think they can say what they like.
And the poster, one of the most respected, had to change his handle.

Say it ain't so Joe.

That is a baseball slogan wrt Shoeless Joe Jackson, over a century ago
 

Mishka

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I dont think Superhans owns the place, Superhans has a brain. Look at how well Mowl, Godsdog and Saul behaves on political irish, then look at them on the Isle. Totally different mentality, they are allowed to libel and defame with impunity. Even Superhans isnt that stupid.
Christ - if you're going to lie about me - at least try to tell lies that might stick, eh?

Libel and defamity?

Anyway - is your Ladyship actually one of Danny's female forms?

She certainly whines like a bitch in heat.
 

Youngdan

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And let's get another thing straight, I am standing my ground through necessity over the constant attacks from trolls on me and the site I set up recently.

Unlike these trolls who have had been targeting my site with attempts to sabotage it, I will do no such thing here, nor intend to. I have zero intention of obliterating a site that gives people a venue to voice their beliefs and I wish anybody who enjoy this website all the best.

I certainly did not start my site with the intention of starting an enemy site. One thing I will certainly not tolerate though is trolls and troublemakers trying to undermine it, and myself in the process. Absolutely no different to how there would be no tolerance for proverbial Isle trolls come over here and attacking the site and it's posters.

As far as I'm concerned, I know who's be doing it and I'm asking him to get lost and let me and others get on with our lives.
You failed from the onset by your infatuation with me and having someone pretend to be me.

You and Dog seem to believe I am some sort of Forum God.

I am a humble poster, little different than Saul.
 

Youngdan

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Christ - if you're going to lie about me - at least try to tell lies that might stick, eh?

Libel and defamity?

Anyway - is your Ladyship actually one of Danny's female forms?

She certainly whines like a bitch in heat.
Look who is back the wicked witch from the North. I am not on the DS site and have one account here. Having a sock account is very difficult for a highly intelligent poster
 

Mishka

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You failed from the onset by your infatuation with me and having someone pretend to be me.

You and Dog seem to believe I am some sort of Forum God.

I am a humble poster, little different than Saul.
You are a spoofer of the highest order - I've seen your work these last few days.

You have NOTHING whatsoever on anyone - and anything you think you have on me or those who support me, is bollocks.
 

Youngdan

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You are a spoofer of the highest order - I've seen your work these last few days.

You have NOTHING whatsoever on anyone - and anything you think you have on me or those who support me, is bollocks.
Do you wish me to post your groveling request to be allowed back onto PI
 

Anderson

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There's no such thing as Palestine. And even if there was, I don't give a fuck. That's for the commies, demonstrably
Well that's a relief, I thought you were one of those love Palestine fucks.

Clarickyard is decent chap, I just think he is misunderstood.
 

James Dawson

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Fuckin hell, he supports Arsenal, Ban this fucker now!
He's a liar.

I've caught him out on some big lies, and he's what I like to call a - TJ, which stands for - Terrified Jew.

He gives them all a bad name. But as he is a despicable (subversive) he should be banned from all Irish political fora and in the future, put in prison
 

Mishka

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His entire personal background is extraordinarily questionable even at the best of times.

Best and safest to say: he's in Ireland and has an Irish passport - but like the savages he bleeds from the heart for, he's not really really Irish at all.

I mean, the man has all the sense of humour as a gutted pig still conscious and looking at it's own innards hungrily.
 

Anderson

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Ahh come on lads, so what if he has a soft spot for Israel, lots of people including Sinn Fein have a hard-on for Palestine.
 

Mishka

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Seriously though: imagine actually being Clammy for a day?

Even as a fictional character?

I mean, he's some anonymous auld fart from your Grannies intersnot days back in the noughties, he just hasn't stop jerking his limbs yet.

Sketch scenario: (background as conclusion - single actor, pillows for bodies, grey and ominous detail, loud ticking clock as soundtrack)

Wakes up, makes coffee for all the guests on the living room floor and out on the front corridor, tries to squeeze his way into the bathroom to take a slash but the piles of colourful guests clothes don't leave much space. Between those piles and then the boxes full of yams and Red Stripe, he manages to have a squirt without hitting the seat which he never lifts. There's no point. It's been like this for months now. Years, even.

Goes downstairs and tries to find anything to eat: there's nothing. Little savages ate everything, even the whole black peppers and sticks of cinnamon. There isn't even ice in the icebox. Hungry bastards.

Goes out the back garden and dodges the rain en route to the garden shed: unlocks, enters, and then securely locks door again behind him.

Turns on the naked bulb and waits for it to brighten before opening the top buttons of his soiled shirt hidden beneath the manky bathrobe.

Hark! Is that footsteps, he wonders? No, 'tis nothing but the rain dripping and the wind howling.

He looks again to his own breast and now opens the shirt wide and away from his dying and greyed skin: and there it is, where it always is.

His bleeding heart, gulping out bursts of warm and sour-smelling blood, running through his fingers and dripping to the floor.

He stares at the blood, pooling and drying: he can see the very soul of himself reflected in it.

I am an angel, he thinks.

Yes, I must be - my guests await my last and final curtain: yes, now I know what to do.

I shall go back into the burgeoning stronghold of Mother Earth I used to call my private home and end it all: I shall be the one! The Almighty First!

On my own Ikea carpet I shall bleed to death for all of Ireland to see, yes - it was always thus.

And so he strides into the very mantle of the lounge and rips out the little giblet he calls his heart and tears it to shreds, bits flying everywhere.

And slowly he begins to expire, arms weakly flurrying about, jaw hanging slack and eyes misted over.

Gibber, gibber, gibber, go the nerves.

And in perfect rhythm with his final breaths, the sound of slurping as his aorta is minced by yellow teeth.

Ends.






Not a bad little stage play now, what?
 
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