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Post by johnofgwent on Oct 25, 2024 8:55:27 GMT
Back twenty years ago when men were still men, women were women and sheep outside the 275 acres of Brecon And Radnorshire, where they are under my protection by treaty signed in the 1400's by my maternal great great great oh bloody hell how many more ... have good reason to be worried ..... I was just about to bring a piece of cutting edge technology to the swift waters of the Menai Strait when some racist bastard in peaked cap and jack boots declared our planning application 'an unwarranted intrusion of the English language into the Lleyn peninsula' and told us to fuck off Which is why Croatia now has an interesting research take on fish farming and the goats of Great Orme have to keep a lookout for unemployed Welshmen with not much to do for leisure activities Well, the racist scum are still thriving THIS from the pages of The Spectator from the 5th October this year. I am not surprised. But now I can wave this at the lefty shitheads who call me a liar Jesus, if I said I wanted to make the bits of Gwent stolen from the English by Ted Heath's 1972 Local Government Act English only, there'd be SWAT teams kicking in my door Why are these scum still free men never mind still in fucking power... The first image is from an advert for The Spectator mag on ArseBook The second is from my public library subscription to the magazine, reproduced for fair comment purposes. Those words Copyright The First United Church Of Cthulhu, Registered In Nevada For Tax Purposes ....   |
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Post by Red Rackham on Oct 30, 2024 23:03:29 GMT
My uncle & aunt bought a dairy farm in South West Wales in... 1959 or 1960, they moved there from Shropshire, and they were never accepted by the locals. I say locals, it was a very rural farm their nearest neighbour was half a mile away as was the local shop and garage. The nearest pub was about half a mile in the opposite direction. But whenever my English speaking aunt who was a lovely woman went to the shop, the language instantly turned to Welsh. They were not welcome and that continued for forty years. When they sold the farm some years ago now, they continued to live in the area because they had been there so long, and that's where they're buried. They were hard working lovely people, and I don't mind telling you, I loathe the Welsh wankers who live there. When they sold the farm they got some grief because they sold it to a developer, no one wanted to buy a farm. You couldn't give away a working farm, and this was their pension so I completely understood their motives. Bless em.
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Post by The Squeezed Middle on Oct 31, 2024 6:33:50 GMT
My uncle & aunt bought a dairy farm in South West Wales in... 1959 or 1960, they moved there from Shropshire, and they were never accepted by the locals. I say locals, it was a very rural farm their nearest neighbour was half a mile away as was the local shop and garage. The nearest pub was about half a mile in the opposite direction. But whenever my English speaking aunt who was a lovely woman went to the shop, the language instantly turned to Welsh. They were not welcome and that continued for forty years. When they sold the farm some years ago now, they continued to live in the area because they had been there so long, and that's where they're buried. They were hard working lovely people, and I don't mind telling you, I loathe the Welsh wankers who live there. When they sold the farm they got some grief because they sold it to a developer, no one wanted to buy a farm. You couldn't give away a working farm, and this was their pension so I completely understood their motives. Bless em. A colleague of mine is Welsh, and tells a similar story.
She's lived in England for years and has an English accent, whenever she goes back to visit and the locals hear her "English" tones they instantly switch to Welsh.
Unfortunately for them, she also speaks Welsh. So she waits until they finish slagging her off, and the English generally, and then gives them a dressing down in their own language!
LOL! 
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Post by johnofgwent on Oct 31, 2024 8:11:41 GMT
My uncle & aunt bought a dairy farm in South West Wales in... 1959 or 1960, they moved there from Shropshire, and they were never accepted by the locals. I say locals, it was a very rural farm their nearest neighbour was half a mile away as was the local shop and garage. The nearest pub was about half a mile in the opposite direction. But whenever my English speaking aunt who was a lovely woman went to the shop, the language instantly turned to Welsh. They were not welcome and that continued for forty years. When they sold the farm some years ago now, they continued to live in the area because they had been there so long, and that's where they're buried. They were hard working lovely people, and I don't mind telling you, I loathe the Welsh wankers who live there. When they sold the farm they got some grief because they sold it to a developer, no one wanted to buy a farm. You couldn't give away a working farm, and this was their pension so I completely understood their motives. Bless em. My grandmother spoke Welsh as her first language and three of my primary school teachers all of whom hailed from the same street as her as it wended it's way through five mining villages in the same south Wales valley spoke to me in it at least some of the time As a result of that I was, by the age of ten, able to understand most of the language you would hear every day. In secondary school the Welsh teacher had barely any interest in teaching it to people who did not speak it 100% at home. While employed in Wales I found it useful to understand enough to know what people were saying, for the same reason it was useful to be fluent in French so as to understand what the bastards think they're saying behind your back. These days of course my daughter's are forced to use it in work and my grand daughter is forced to waste time learning it in school when she could be learning a useful language like French instead. Because the truth is, every time I sell a radar jamming guided missile Toma Frenchman, a German, an Italian, a Spaniard, a Greek or an Arab, I get praised by the equivalent of the Dept of Trade and Industry, but every time I sell one to a Welshman I get a visit from Counter Terrorism officers. The cottage burner fraternity hate me when I say that, because it's pretty much true. One of their number tried to acquire something (not from me) made by my client to waste Charlie at some state occasion a good few decades back. The fallout was ... Interesting.... |
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