Virgin Media correspondent Sarah O’Connor has filmed the greatest piece of journalism in Irish history. A century of post-Independence Irish political development, and over a millenia of Irish heritage has culminated in the intricacies of modern Dublin’s ethnographic landscape, as it is so eloquently described by this documentary. Titled “Antisocial Ireland,” the documentary recounts the post-scamdemic resurgence of Youngfella Ireland with contempt and disdain for the heroic vitality of Dublin youths.
Following the assault on Irish Olympian Jack Woolley, concerns arose from Liberal Ireland that the growing frequency of inner-city honour scraps may disrupt their peaceful, diverse city life. Civil servants have henceforth been placed on indefinite suicide-watch as the political reincarnation of the Young Ireland movement emerges in its full-force.
In the nineteenth century, brave Fenians fought to curb the rampant landlordism of the era, and the disenfranchisement of their race from its homeland; today, that same fighting spirit can be found in the packs of young lads ganging up to batter Brazilian Deliveroo cyclists for the craic.
Virtue signalling throughout the entire documentary, the Dublin Liberals interviewed resonate a faux-sympathy for Youngfella Ireland, while in the bitter recesses of their minds, plotting its destruction. The documentary, divided into three discernable themes, focuses on a) the post-COVID Youngfella renaissance, b) their crimes against the Brazilian diaspora in Ireland, and c) a disastrous plot to seize the soul of Ireland’s youth, and re-educate it in the image of airy-fairy Leo Varadkar.
As the Irish Left continues wistfully pissing in the wind, hog-squealing for a Trotskyite World Revolution, beneath the veneer of Liberal Ireland lies the remnants of an ancient Gaelic spirit; the blood of the Milesians coursing through their veins, Dublin young-lads, are burdened with the duty to enact a veritable Reconquista of Dublin City from foreign invaders.
The real Hidden Ireland, in which the vestiges of Gaelic identity is preserved, has been entrusted to Ireland’s native working-class, a revolutionary force, in whose hands is held the key to a New Ireland. The impending Youngfella Inquisition will leave no resident South of the Liffey and East of Stephen’s Green untouched, a menacing scourge by which the Nation will be reborn – in its perpetrator’s image.
Liberal Ireland is in fear of Youngfellas’ machiavellian strategy to tear the city asunder, with the much-loved Liffey boardwalk in danger of becoming a hot-spot for undesirables. The unbridled potency of Dublin young lads, and their will to power, mogs the insipid quivering of Dáil Éireann’s hapless representatives.
The standard bearers of Marxism-Leninism in the Dáil: Fianna Fáil and Fine Gael, are in a state of perpetual dread at the thought of their beloved Indian takeaway restaurants being pushed into foreclosure by a delinquent renaissance. While the bourgeois interests of Middle-class Ireland are vehemently defended by Eamon Ryan and Paul Murphy, the hero of Ireland’s working-class Ivana Bacik – like Hannibal crossing the Alps – will take Labour across the Liffey, they hope.
The proponents of a Red Ireland stare on in dismay as their visions of the Parish Commune are shattered by the revolutionary character of Youngfella Ireland – engaging in reactionary forms of racism, metamorphosing inner-city Dublin into an anti-Bolshevik bulwark overnight.
The Heart of Ireland beats on in Dublin’s working classes, guided by a subconscious ethnocentrism, the Dublin Youngfella, like a ravenous beast, prowls the Luas line in search of Brazilian cyclists to assault.
As the Western world participates in a mass-suicide death-cult of its own making, pawning off the treasures of their ancestors for FunkoPops and drill rap; as Europe’s death knell rings, a rowdy band of young lads – rising from the gutter – decry the evils of the modern state, and in anarchic fury – seize Liberal Ireland by its neck.
In Dublin’s finest hour, more momentous than the Sack of Rome, on horse-back, marching along the Luas line flinging empty bottles of cider at the Gall, the real Dubs find themselves setting St. Stephen’s Green alight, ransacking the cosmopolitan Grafton Street, and terrorising Dublin’s upper-middle class. Drunken jousting at buskers on Grafton Street, whose low-grade performances abruptly end, while yuppie onwatcher scum, like deer in headlights, are robbed of their jackets, phones, and wallets, left to cry in the pungent gutters from whence the Youngfella arose.
The antipathy and sheer hatred brewing between Nativist Youngfellas and Deliveroo Auxiliary Brigades has culminated in the formation of Brazilian Intelligence Networks solely to avert the menacing spectre of Youngfellaism – the indiscriminate, internecine strife enacted by Ireland’s fiercest warriors – the flatmen, whose concrete abodes shelter them from the deepest of Global Ireland’s folly: worship of the foreigner.
Within barbarism, there is heroism, and the unabated harassment young-lads have brought against the Brazilian community exemplifies this. Brazileroos will forever be traumatised by the occupation of Phoenix Park by the Fianna who so courageously bashed them in a one-sided battle for the fate of their nation.
Irish Liberals, now left in shock at the disastrous calamities engendered by the unchained vitality of Dublin’s youth, find themselves singing “¡viva la Quinta Brigada de ciclistas deliveroo brasileños!”. An indispensable group of Dublin’s ethnographic landscape: Brazilians, who, like Atlas holding up the sky, labour with their styrofoam shells, packed with greasy soy-steeped food from all four corners of the inner city.
In a display of modern urban heroism, Brazileroos pedal slop from postcode to postcode, to appease the hunger of Irish families – greeted at the door with a wojak’s smile. In opposition to these Brazilian pushers, the Youngfella employs hit-and-run tactics in a perfection of guerrilla warfare tactics.
The exploits of Youngfella late-night escapades are great: an Indian couple kicked out of St. Stephen’s Green at closing time, a strong smell of spice-bags in the wind – indiscernible from the streets of New Delhi – they’re home. A jolt of fright stiffens their spines as an army of young-lads march toward them – “YUP THE FLATS” – as they’re dropped to the ground, and assaulted by lads as young as 14 years old.
In a display of cutting-edge journalism, Antisocial Ireland receives diverse commentary from Brazilians of multiple skin tones, a Dublin councillor, an English journalist, a Bangarda, and South Dublin’s greatest criminologist. They opine upon the mental health of inner-city youth, and the ways in which they may be socially engineered, conditioned, and imprisoned by their little-liberal list of permissible action: the law.
A homosexual Brazilian cyclist, when interviewed, recalled spine-chilling cries of “PAKI, PAKI, PAKI!” as the skanger horde incessantly berated him at the Luas stop.
Irish Liberals reading Diarmaid Ferriter’s and Fintan O’Toole’s weekly Irish Times columns, with a cup of tea and a bump of coke to start the morning,lament the oncoming apocalyptic climate disaster – a Diverse Island at the crossroads of the world submerged beneath a wave of intolerance. As South Dubs fawn over the beauty of the Liffey boardwalk, they commit an ethnic taboo: crossing the Liffey.
The swampy-green scum-ridden water of the Liffey beneath their feet, the Irish Liberal ponders the beauty of Dublin City. As the northside becomes more gentrified, and foreign tech workers move in, the nativist revolt intensifies.
It only takes half a century for a practice to become traditional in the minds of the people – a new era and the linear movement of time necessitates the adoption, and adaptation of cultural practices – traditions that may conflict incessantly with one another, as the South Dub vs. Youngfella feud has proven.
Young lads have begun a recreational exploitation of modern technology in a fashion that would bring a tear to the most ardent anti-industrialist’s eye: ordering food from deliveroo only to jump the courier and batter him – murders have been perpetrated over this nascent tradition.
As the number of no-go areas on the Brazileroo radar grows, South Dubs, impatient for their next fix, in a drug-fueled coke-rage plot the plantation of working-class communities with more slop-peddlers.
The Garda Rahts, though thoroughly understaffed, have been seen to escort convoys of Deliveroo drivers along Dublin’s mainstreets as the Youngfella promises an eradication of slop-pushing onto Irish communities.
Rather than condemning these young lads they should be given state regalia to honour their services as the defenders of Dublin’s inner-city. The defence forces don’t need funding when these young lads can do their job for them, who, as the inheritors of the Anti-Treaty Republican tradition, have demonstrated a mastery of protracted political warfare.
The geas of Global Ireland has been broken – and the Youngfellas are wont to plunder the leftovers of a never-great city. Guided by Providence, Dublin’s working-class raze the Tower of Babel; reconstructed by Dublin English language schools, Ireland’s heroic proletariat with Divine favour, demolish the follies of their former countrymen.
The existential terror that permeates the collective consciousness of South Dublin: a sudden Youngfella Völkerwanderung from the north-side into the heart of D4, following the Luas line from City-West and the Jervis Centre into the heart of Donnybrook and Sandymount.
Champagne socialists in D4 shivering in fear as their Empire collapses around them – glimpses of a Liberal Tetrarchy in their deluded daydreams – Leo Varadkar, Simon Harris, Paschal Donohoe, Neale Richmond – are to no avail; working-class barbarians cross the canals as Caesar did the Rubicon – led by their elderly oglach – “the die has been cast!”
Patrician families south of the Liffey rally their state-funded NGO shock-troops and flaming gimps to die on the altar of Modern Ireland and defend gay rights – how proud Ireland’s heroes-past would be, as Leo Varadkar pursues a crusade to relocate parliamentary after-drinks to The George.
Liberal Ireland’s Sisyphean endeavour to pozz the parliament appears complete, lest the valour of Young-fella Ireland trounce it for good. In the face of an intrepid youth, they seethe and slander their vitality as antisocial and problematic, with malicious intentions to alter forever their brain-chemistry with a state prescribed mental health programme.
Hidden in the background, waiting to pounce on the slightest opportunity, the CCP plots Ireland’s renovation into an international city-state, tarmacked from North to South so as to maximise the construction of apartment complexes for our new residents. As the tigers of Central Asia, the Celtic Tiger, too, will be hunted to extinction by Chinese poachers for traditional medicine – lest the Sinophobe cadres within the YFG de-couple from their parent’s party and aid the nativist rebels.
In its ritualistic suicide of the Irish nation, the established parties burn-up in a revolutionary blaze, the heroes of the Classical World return: Cu Chulainn and Fer Diad, Hector and Achilles, as the vitalism of Dublin young-fellas bends the system to its knees. Like Theseus, they wade through a labyrinth of filth, a clew to chart their path behind them, Ireland’s heroes delve into pits of Dáil Éireann – only to pull themselves out in dejected horror at the sight of the ministerial adrenochrome dispensers.
In a final stand, South Dubs cry in fear of inner-city violence leaking south of the Grand Canal by roaming tribes of dole-warriors, they force the introduction of military police on the DART to defend the southside from an impending völkerwanderung. Not even the Luas is left untouched as Liberal Ireland’s last gasp to defeat the delinquent menace is to increase the presence of traffic police.
Liberal Ireland, contrary to fat liberal womens’ horoscopes, is in danger, as the signs of the times indicate the Nietzschean heroism of Dublin’s working-class will propel the Irish race to new heights. The Übermensch of the era emerges as an Iron Surgeon who, lamenting the industrial world, seeks an introspective renaissance within the Irish psyche and an amoral reconstruction of national life in all its sectors.
In an exclusive interview with a Dáil press-correspondent turned Canada Goose re-seller, possessed by the vitalism of inner-city Youngfellas’ predatory abuse of the Brazilian community in Ireland, the following prophetic statement was given:
“I can feel post-Youngfella Ireland subsiding. Malachy Steenson has brought back the eternal fire of YOUTH to our island. Friends have told me of Dublin teenagers firebombing a Brazilian rickshaw on Grafton Street. Friends have openly berated foreigners for speaking to Irish girls in public – TO APPLAUSE. It’s going to be a Youngfella Summer. Lads riding electric scooters and wearing Canada Goose jackets will wipe away our trash world. I’m going to raid my local Centra for plastic bottles of strongbow. Pearse Street lads are mobilising. The Tallaghatchies are on the move. The new era beckons to you Irishman, with a mysterious and primordial ‘howiya.’ How do you answer?”