>>10022105I always thank British women for making it so Irish women are not the most revolting women in the world. Seriously, these rice-dimpled flabtitted rhinos stride confidently through England's Muslim infested streets wearing tight thongs, carrying themselves like they are filming a Maybelline ad but to all observers appearing like a large leg of ham wrapped in baling twine, with cleavage that looks like Simon Weston's face. These sardine-encrusted vagina harpies watch Loose Women, Emmerdale, X-Factor and Jeremy Kyle all day in their pink pyjamas, using the stubbly head of their illegitimate African halfbreed son called 'Tyson' or 'Reese' to scratch their itchy raw pubes, while they let out oohs and aahs at the sight of new adverts for washing powder. "OOH that'd be the right thing get those cumstains out of me black dress, I FUCKIN TELL THEE OUR KID." They collect chav sprogs like some people used to collect model cars. These vicious, plump-faced dimwits think that a night drinking copious amounts of alcoholic syrup before being thrown out of multiple establishments for trying to dance on the tables, because a table put together by Thomas Chippendale himself could not bear the weight of one of these shrieking, moon-faced Miss-piggy lookalikes dancing to Beyoncé while trying not to drop their cheap knockoff handbag, which will come in handy later to vomit in as they fall in and out of doorways on the way home, balancing the acts of eating greasy kebabs and releasing torrents of steaming, putrid piss all over the streets, giggling and laughing about the size of black men's cocks, is the height of culture.
