Josephine Byrne

Boots the Chemist's Profit Protection Manager, Josephine Byrne, sends solicitor's letter to complainant

These people really go out of their

way in proving Punch magazine correct.

On a recent summer’s morning, at about 08.20am, I was approached on a Cork city pavement by a stupid looking young male (Mr Moron) who proceeded to inspect me and my attire.

This fool without any fear, shame, or embarrassment walked right up to me and clamped his eyes on my footwear; he then proceeded to scan upwards in order to assess my trousers and upper-body apparel.

This type of carry-on, I kid you not, is quite common in Cork City: an idiot’s arrogance that’s born of inbreeding. I’ve seen this being done on numerous occasions in this city; all age groups, male and female, partake in it. And it wasn’t the first time I had someone try-it-out on me. But believe me when I say that, even though it happened before, the sheer audacity of the perpetrator stuns you almost speechless each time.

I very quickly recovered my verbal capacity and proceeded to give this Irish moron a talking too. But I might-as-well have been communicating with a block of granite: the backward inbred bastard just stood there with his mouth hanging open – he never batted an eyelid.

Here we have Josephine “providing insights into challenges”. The thick-as-a-plank Irish bitch took a complaint about one of her underlings as a challenge and dealt with it by sending a solicitors letter.

He’s typical of the mongrels that’s being bred in south-west ireland: you could hit him with a baseball bat and it’d be like hitting a dead horse; the fucking bat would probably rebound and split your own head – aside from his perniciousness he’s a little like the Dougal character in Father Ted.

It’s not just the sink-estate dwellers in Cork who’ll undertake such acts of stupidity (far from it actually). Because Mr Moron was clean and well attired I guessed (rightly) that he had probably recently attained employment.

Boots the Chemist, Patrick St, Cork.

A place where an ape could get a job.

When the grade-inflated Cork slack-jaw gets a job, especially when they view it as an elite occupation,1 they assume that it gives them right to display arrogance wherever and whenever it suits. As I’ve alluded to elsewhere, the age-old reputation the Irish have for monkey-ism is beyond reproach.

This fellow, though, proved to be in the higher order of imbeciles because, believe-it-or-not, he did the very same thing about two week later. It was about the same time as before when the fucking inbred idiot again approached me and proceeded to inspect my garments.

This time he’d have felt my breath on his face as I relayed various adjectival phrases, describing what an utter mongrel he and those who bred him were. And like before the nauseating fucked-up bastard just stared silently ahead with his mouth open. It was very clear to me, then, that he was mentally retarded. And I wondered who was the Cork moron who had had the honour of giving this witless cunt employment?

The fellow complained
about didn't look a lot
better than this chap.

I also wondered if the fucking idiot didn't actually remember me from two weeks previously or if he was suicidal. If you're ever dealing with the south-western Irish natives you'll discover that the vast majority are inflicted with a deep-seated dumbness: it was quite possible that this arsehole couldn't remember the chap (me) who gave him a good taking to, in the same area and at the same time, just 14 days previously. Or it could have been that he did remember me and was attempting to get the better of me by making a second attempt at belittling me – a lot of Cork's middle class are so unintelligent they'd view this type of act as a game. 

You'd be amazed at the amount of arseholes you'll encounter in Cork city that completely lack fear: the saying, "fools rush in were angels fear to tread," doesn't even begin to describe these backward bastards2. They don't have the survival instincts that'd you commonly associate with normal people or mammals: instincts that result from common sense which in turn is a consequence of healthy breeding.

I think that the evolutionary force which coerces their inbreeding is also driving them towards non existence – evolution is constantly at work in the mammal world weeding out the losers and the no-goods, and it seems to be especially busy in south-west Ireland. Here you’ll constantly see the natives pulling doors that should be pushed and vice versa – slack-jawed bastards who’ll approach complete strangers, who are much larger than themselves, in broad daylight and insult them.

At around 08.50am a couple of mornings after Mr Moron’s second act of imbecility I spotted him standing outside the door of a Boots the Chemist’s pharmacy on Patrick St. If this were a normal part of the world I’d assume he was waiting to get his fix of psychotic medication. But this is Cork city, Ireland, and I knew there was a high possibility that this idiot could actually be employed in this pharmacy – I had already encountered the obstreperous morons Anne O’Brien and Pamela O’Sullivan in two other of Boots’ premises in this city.

Here we have the Pharmaceutical Society 
of Ireland's Gaughan, Stokes, Reilly, Kinsella, 
hAodh, McGoldrick, Bryan, Nestor, Hogan. 
A shameless coterie who'd find the vulgar 
Josephine Byrne exhilarating. They'd all 
eschew the chap in the middle but it's 
amazing how much like him they really are.

I entered this Boots outlet a few hours later on the pretext of getting indigestion relief, and who should be standing at the till? It was Mr Moron, that’s who: a one man band who’d make the Three Stooges and the Keystone Cops look Einsteinian.

I picked up a packet of Rennies and went and paid him, certain that, after our two memorable encounters, he’d know me – I also wanted the receipt with his name so I could inform Boots’ Customer Care in the UK.

And, I kid you not, the fucking nutter didn’t know me. I looked for signs: nervousness, awkwardness, fear, shame, embarrassment, but he displayed none of these. He was as calm as a dead sheep; as serene and sycophantic as a hungry tom-cat looking for a saucer of milk. A chap with severe cognitive and mental health problems – only in Ireland would such a moronic bastard be found working with medicines.

I was gobsmacked, dumbfounded and dazed; I walked away without taking the receipt. I thought at the time that this must be near the nadir of Paddy stupidity, but I couldn’t have imagined the Irish mongrelism that lay just around the corner.

Jackie Healy Rae – of Ireland's political
elite replete with boot polish on head
– who legislates for the likes of the Irish
Pharmaceutical Society.

I left and soon thereafter emailed Boots’ Customer Care in the UK3 complaining about the unstableness and general madness of their employee in 71-72 Patrick St, Cork City. I knew from experience that his conduct wouldn’t be investigated because Boots’ Customer Care would pass the information back to Boots’ Irish management4;  and these bastards couldn’t wipe their own arses without getting shit all over the WC.

But I also knew that emailing my complaint to the UK would really infuriate the incompetent arse-wipers. And I have a weak spot when it comes to infuriating insolent inbred morons.

Was I right? Yeah, I sure was. Boots’ Irish management were more than just infuriated, they were incomprehensible with rage. And how do incompetent arse-wipers react when their blood has been boiled? First I had a Gestapo-type email from a Paddy bitch called Josephine Byrne who is Boots’ Irish Profit Protection Manager.

Jackie with his moron sprog Michael.
They give proof to the adage about
where the apple falls.

Even though I had given the exact time and date of my meeting with Mr Moron  in 71-72 Patrick St, and described him in terms that even a six-year-old would understand, Ms Byrne, nonetheless, asked me to again characterise him. She did this in an email that didn’t even attempt to conceal her arrogance and contempt. The only interesting thing I found in her communication was that the backward bitch had included her mobile-phone number.

I couldn’t resist calling her and, just as I had expected, the Irish bitch responded aggressively and insultingly. She threatened me that I was annoying very important people. A typical diatribe from a backward inbred Irish bitch. She sounded like the typical inbred female who can frequently be seen urinating5 publicly in provincial Ireland.

It was laughable considering that Josephine quotes “Security and Investigations” as being within her remit. Would Boots’ UK Profit Protection Manager be as coarse and backward as this stupid Irish bitch? 

Josephine Byrne would not only have been vexed that news of Boots Irish staff’s backwardness and coarseness was being transmitted to the UK. She’d have also  identified with Mr Moron and be grieved that he was complained about. She’s have been reared with inbred siblings of the same ilk, and if she has given birth to any sprogs they’re probably walking around open mouthed, and uttering inanities, the type who’d have to wear nappies until their early teens – moron’s genes ensures that they beget more of their ilk.

Cork ladies can frequently

be seen along the streets

urinating in a very similar
manner to this dog.

Then, as if to prove beyond doubt, their utter stupidity and  shamelessness, Boots’ Irish  management sent me a solicitor’s letter ordering that I not return to any of its pharmacies. I was banned from all Boots’ pharmacies in the Republic of Ireland.

They warned me that if I were to attempt to enter any of them they’d set the authorities on me. Luckily for me I’m not addicted to Boots’ outlets and wouldn’t have to endure cold-turkey as I gave-up visiting them. I also found it consoling that I wouldn’t be having any further contact with any more of Boot’s coarse ignoramus Irish employees.

I photocopied this letter and posted it to Boots’ management in the UK expressing my thoughts on their dysfunctional counterparts in Ireland. I suspect, though, that they’re (the UK) simply fed-up of learning and hearing about Irish backwardness.

Is there any other country in Europe, or the world for that matter, where the management of a pharmaceutical company would react to complaints about their staff in such an imbecilic and fatuous manner? Not likely, I’d think.

You’ve not experienced real stupidity, or how morons are devoid of the emotion called shame, until you’ve spent some time dealing with the backward Irish. After a few months you’ll then understand why the Irish have never been know for anything other than stupidity.

The biggest problem these mongrel Paddies had was that details of their staff’s coarseness and imbecility was being sent to the United Kingdom. The Paddies will leave no stone unturned in their quest to stop transmission of their idiotic mongrelism to outsiders, especially the UK – any stone, that is, except sorting out the imbecilic mongrels that they’ve got employed.

In Ireland, Boots the Chemist have no problem employing incompetent, coarse, ignoramuses regardless of people like Donal Kelleher and Margaret Swaine who have been killed by grade-inflated incompetent Irish pharmacists.

_________________________________ 1In Cork City, and to a certain degree all of Ireland, any type of office-type work is considered elite. Even if the slack-jaw is the chief tea-maker he/she will view themselves as on a par with Donald Trump. I’ve encountered some stupendously stupid clerical workers in Ireland. High numbers of imbeciles are being bred in Ireland and, as a result, they’re generally regarded as normal. So when the slack-jawed mongrel comes looking for a job the boss hires him/her because he has four of five just like it at home. Mental retardation is, in a lot of cases, normal to Oirish employers – especially in the west and south-west of the country. This is part of the reason why Ireland has always had a name for backwardness and stupidity.

2The typical Cork taxi driver is an example of the Cork Pict’s general dumbness. Enquire of these drivers what the population of Cork City is and the range of answers will astound you. You’ll be told anything from 1-million to 30-million. During the Noughties Eastern Europeans, dumbfounded by the ignorance of these people, used to ask this question just to hear, and laugh at, the ignoramus answers.

• The vast majority of the local morons have no comprehension of the difference between 100,000 and 10,000,000 – begob and begorrah what difference does a few noughts make?
• A foreign comedian who had done a show in Cork mentioned this on the Late Late Show: while being taxied from the airport to his hotel he asked the driver what Cork City’s population was; the answer he got was three-million. The actual human population of this place is in dispute, but there’s 120,000 bipeds to be found living there.

3The view this in Cork as the lowest of the low. I had learned from earlier experience that the inbreds here absolutely detest anyone relating news of their imbecility to outsiders. And in Cork you can’t get anymore outsider than the UK. It’s high treason, a hanging offence, and drives the nutty bastards absolutely bonkers. But what do you do? Ignore their acts of gross moronism; take their bullshit; swallow their arrogant elitist fantasy; or show them as the inbred bastards they are, and get some payback and enjoyment in the process – the people who view the Oirish as being backward are on the right track; Cork City, and south-west Ireland, is basically an open-air Lunatic Asylum.

4About as worthwhile as complaining to Ian Brady about corporal punishment in schools.

5Numerous times have I seen ladies on the streets of Cork City with their legs bent at 120° and, with the crotch of their knickers pulled to one side, urinating with the shamelessness of an average dog. And it’s just as common in the streets around University College Cork Cork (Ireland’s forthcoming go-getters) as it is in the many sink-estates that surround the city.