From: Jim New!

Blog 1

It occurred to me a week or two ago, that neds are complete idiots... true story. And so, to celebrate this fact, I have decided to start remembering, listing and commenting of some of the mostly absurdly unintelligent behaviour and quotations, ever heard by the good people of Scotland. This blog, cleverly categorised under "Pets and Animals" will document these findings... so here goes...

Well, what a day I was having, playing some football down at the Palace grounds in Hamilton, when a group of neds appear from the far corner of the field (near the Davie Cooper monument, for those of you who are in the know). The area was mainly empty at the time, with the exception of sprinklers, currently turned on to water the field. "Sprinkler" meets "Low Form of Intellegence". It of course wasn't long before the herd moved to their little water hole and began to play loudly enough to entertain most of the West Coast. The phrase used next was possibly one of the most idiotic lines I have ever heard. Anybody with half a braincell would have quite probably laughed, had they known how to.

"Awww naw, it's fokkin' ringin'!!!" shouted our little uneducated friend... three letters people, O.M.G. This little fanny, seemed to lack the simple ability to predict that the water, coming from the sprinkler, would indeed be wet before he ran straight through it. This was definately a level of blatant stupidity that has been worked on for many years, because it takes an awful lot of work to reverse 10 million years of evolution in the span of a 16 year old life (lifetime is approximation). But fear not, our little friend from Hamilton managed to do it with time to spare, and his next move, would defy belief.

As the sprinkler turned away, he positioned himself, or rather, his genitals (presuming he hadn't cut them of for food), straight towards the sprinkler at a distance of roughly 3cm (give or take). Now, let me explain, that the water pressure in a simple showerhead is powerful enough to throw water in an arc, roughly two metres, and can clearly be felt as stronger, when a hand is put right up to the showerhead. This however is an industrial sized sprinkler, used to push water almost 20 metres across a park.The next shout, was no surprise.

"Ahhhh, ma fokkin' baws... that hurts yer fokkin' baws". I simply can't find the words, I just can't. It was painful to watch, as he ran around with an IQ that would struggle to contend with a dead gerbil, or even, dare I say it, a footballer. That's all for now...

Blog 2

Well, here I go again...

I had some ideas from a few drunks outside a while ago, but a recent journey home with the company of some of the "fine young gentlemen" gave me every reason to go to work immediately. Firstly however to the hilarious adventures of our two intellectual friends outside my living room window the other day, who were walking rather casually down the street with a bottle of the, now immortalised, tonic wine...

The two amicable looking fellows were swaggering (replace 'w' with 't' in previous word) along with their tongues churning out such a wonderful array of verbal diahorrea, one could not quite believe it. Whether they had shoved the vindaloo up their arse and reversed the natural bodily process, is important to neither the reader, nor the story. Their quotations however, are to be marvelled at...

"Aw mawn, am oot ma fokkin' tree, haw haw haw!". Yes. Quite. Whether this fellow had been in his tree to begin with, or whether there even was a tree is debateable, however, I am perfectly sure that to relate him to any other creatures that live in trees is purely an insult to the other creatures. Whether this was his mating call or not is totally questionable, and most scientists, on witnessing this sort of occurrance, would have to begin to wonder if this was proof that the monkey was, in fact, the missing link, and this was the other end of the animal spectrum. It certainly was an eye opener.

Next up is the homeward journey from Glasgow Central Station, whose underground platform seemed to have been invaded by a large portion of the White Lightening taste testing council. Unfortunately for these unhappy chappies, White Lightening is in fact packaged in a plastic bottle, and these intelligent young gents, were hammering furiously at a pillar, wondering why in the world, these bottles stayed together so well when the Buckfast bottles turned into perfect blades, but on seeing my entrance to the platform, their fun and games ended, and the witty comments began...

"Haw, Haw, Haw, git a haircut!", wow, how insightfully original! I had never even heard this line, not in my entire life! In fact, I was so stunned by his absolutely blinding originality, that I almost was taken off my feet! He must be an exceptionally clever cookie to have thought that up, all by himself as well!

"Ya fuckin' goff!". Ahhh, yes, the classic. I was indeed wearing the very gothic sky blue Scotland away football top and a pair of terribly satanic blue jeans, which are of course a trademark of gothic clothing! And for some strange reason, my teeth were all coloured white, unlike this bunch of twats, who's entire jaw region was filled with more bugs and decay than the toilets of a Brazilian shanty house.

I of course dared not to accuse them of being neds, in case Tommy Sheridan was sitting waiting for a train to Legs 'n' Co to meet Katrina Trolle and the gang, but I could not help from laughing when our intelligent little friend suprised us all with his awesome ability to understand the physics-based theory of momentum...

"Haw Haw Haw, if a jump aff this bit whin the trains comin' ah'll proabably go fleein!". Well son, why don't you give us a real live demonstration of this, because I sure as hell would prefer you to die than actually infest the world with your shitty little self. Yes, that last paragraph was about sheer rage, but hey, gotta let some steam off, anyways, that's all for now, bye.

From: Michael
Now that hunting with hounds has been banned in the UK, i would like to offer a more worthwhile and amusing passtime to those who may or may not harbour a bloodlust for dismembering innocent creatures. This passtime involves nothing more than sitting at your pc/laptop, logging onto Yahoo messenger, clicking on chat and going to the Glasgow Chatroom. Here, in the comfort of your own home you can concern yourself with the sport of Ned Baiting. Pit your wits against the cream of the Ned establishment, all for free and all absolutely safe. One cautionary note, use an assumed name, we don't want your blood spilt in the name of good sport. Revel in the biggoted hatred that eminates from every unsavoury, unintelligable sentance that these manky fuckwits type. Retort with proper gramatically, well spelled sentances and watch them reel in disbelief as the Queens English pummels them into submission......... Or just sit and laugh at their sad attempts at banter, makes you proud to be Glaswegian !!!!!!!!!!!!

From: Alan
I have created a revolution in socio-economic darwinian theory.

LEGALISED NED HUNTING.

We can advertise and promote to all would be big game hunters. At £10,000 a bullet the Scottish Parliament can use the cash to subsidise the cost of the average ned/senga seven child family, until through natural selection they themselves become the endangered species. Survival of the fittest would never become more relevant. How many buckie drinkers can outrun an open top Jeep with four overwight Americans equipped with a sniper rifle and a local guide through the schemes of Glasgow?

RULES

1. Anything in Kappa,Burberry etc is fair game. 2.See Rule 1

BENEFITS

Within two to four years large sections of Scotland would open to all once more. JJB Sports, Sports Division etc would all close. Taxes/Council Tax will reduce. ( NIce in theory but can you see President Blair doing that)

Please feel free to discuss.

From: Barry Beelzebub
From Barry Beelzebub's Column in the Bristol Evening Post. I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the National Lottery. It's always struck me as a good way of conning stupid poor people into funding stupid middle class arts projects like that £10,000 upside down dead tree now "growing" in Knowle West, Bristol. (Obviously, us middle classes can't afford such things ourselves - we've been repeatedly mugged by Gordon Brown to the point where prostitution seems the best proposition when it comes to paying the school fees.) But Mrs B is a convert. Every Saturday afternoon, while I'm enjoying port and cigars in a football ground boardroom somewhere in the country, off she goes to wager her pound. Sometimes my man Whittaker will drive her, but if he's busy strangling stoats in the Lower Meadow she'll happily yomp the seven miles or so to the nearest 24-hour ScroteShop (purveyors of microwave meals and cheap cider to the Giro- wielding classes). Once there, she'll take her place in the lengthy queue amid the slack-jawed, gum-chewing, knuckle- dragging dross of society, the shiny golden coins saved religiously from their crack allowance clutched in their sweaty, tattooed, sovereign ring-encrusted paws. Bear with me. I can feel a digression coming on.

Who are these people, these Burberry Apes with their back-to-front baseball caps, their silly technicolour trainers and their boom-boom Vauxhall Astras with the windows down and the volume set at max? From whence did they spring? We didn't have them when I was a lad. Back then, poor people knew their place. They had bread and dripping and coin-operated televisions. They had too many children and a mangle in the back yard. They had vests and chilblains. They had sterilised milk bottles on their kitchen table and torn up newspaper hanging on a hook in their outside toilet. But they knew who they were, and they knew that one day it might be the pools man banging on the front door rather than the tally man. At least they lived in hope, however misplaced it might have been. Our current welfare classes have no idea how to behave. They somehow think that they're as good as the rest of us, the honest working people who fund their indulgent, selfish lifestyles. The male of the species is a feckless, workshy scrote, devoid of responsibility or ambition and drip-fed lager and Lacoste by a frightened government. He will never work. His father (should he be able to identify him from the men in his immediate community who are 14 years older than him) never worked, so why should he? Anyway, having a job means getting up, going to work and following instructions. It requires discipline and a sense of self-respect. Why bother with that when Trisha's on the telly and the bookies opens in half an hour?

The female of the species is an even more simplistic specimen. With their bejewelled kebab bellies rising unopposed above their elasticated waistbands, their builders' bottom thongs and their babies with pierced ears, these young women no longer look upon raising a child as a labour of love but as a career opportunity. Kids equal council houses, and benefits, and a lifetime diet of Lambert and Butler and Pot Noodles. And the more the merrier. And if a Friday night fumble with a stranger up a night club back alley, a bag of chips clutched in one hand and a bottle of alcopops in the other, results in yet another pregnancy, then so what? Just don't spill my chips, sweetheart. And what's your name again? And do you know what's really scary? We're on a downward spiral. Think about it. The average couple, with two jobs and a mortgage, can barely afford to feed themselves, never mind finance a pair of expensive offspring. Meanwhile the shell-suit mob are at it like rabbits. Just ask Lizzie Bardsley.

Decent society, however you might care to define it, is under siege from a burgeoning underclass that breeds like rats and is gradually taking over by sheer weight of numbers. And while we might sneer at their so-called fashion sense, at least they're readily identifiable as they lurk smoking and spitting outside Poundstretcher and Argos. It's now the school holidays, right? And every day, another school burns to the ground. Who do you think is doing it? Henry and George from the fee-paying prep school? Or Dwayne and Wayne from the excluded gang outside the amusement arcade? I think you know the answer. Maybe we should be more proactive. Perhaps we should have a council-funded ScroteCatcher van that goes around picking up no-marks of either sex and forcibly sterilising them. Then we can look at ways of barcoding their existing offspring at birth, perhaps by inserting a microchip condemning them to lifelong expatriation to Wales. Maybe we should be even more radical than that. You know those laboratories where evil scientists routinely scalpel the eyelids off kittens for fun? Let's get them to come up with a kind of Myxomatosis for scrotes. A deadly disease only transmitted through polyester sportswear, microwave chips and tin jewellery. Let's face it. You'd only have to plant the bug on a Post Office counter on a Thursday morning and the problem would be solved.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the Lottery. I think we have established by now that any idiot can win the Lottery. Solicitor or scrote, the fickle finger of fate is indiscriminate in its pointing. You've never seen Nelson Mandela running into the local and buying drinks on the house because he's got the bonus ball, have you? You've never seen Ghandi and Mother Theresa cruising the streets in that new Bentley coupe after coming up trumps on their grandchildren's birthdates, have you? (Hang on, that doesn't work.) Which brings us, more or less neatly, to a gentleman called Iorworth Hoare. He's Welsh, of course. And he's also a serial rapist who was serving what passes for life these days in relative anonymity until he popped into a ScroteShop while on weekend leave and won £7m on the National Lottery. Cue much wailing and gnashing of teeth from the NuLabour law-making classes, who obviously hadn't thought this one through. Consequently, that nice Mr Blunkett is now coming up with yet another new law - I am led to believe that this will be the 662nd since Mr Blah came to power - to make sure that in future, serving prisoners won't be able to share in Camelot's largesse. Might I make a simpler suggestion? Mr Hoare is a repeat offender who has been in and out of the clink for the past 30 years. Every time they let him go, he tried to rape another poor woman and got banged up again. What on earth was he doing out "on leave" in the first place? He should never, ever have been able to pop in a ScroteShop and buy a Lottery ticket for starters. In fact, if we had a proper legal system in this country, he'd have had his hands cut off after his second offence and wouldn't even have been able to fill out the ticket.

Worse than that, following hard on the heels of the wandering Mr Hoare, we learn that another Leyhill "lifer" who absconded last week has been regularly travelling into Bristol to undergo a "work placement" in a city centre office. When he did a runner on Tuesday, police advised the public that he was dangerous and shouldn't be approached. Hang on a minute. This bloke has been working in someone's office for God knows how many months. Did they know he was a nutter? What if someone had entombed his stapler in jelly for a laugh? It doesn't bear thinking of. I am drawn, like a moth to the flame, to the comic possibilities of that nice Mr Blunkett's dalliance with a married woman, the subject of much newspaper coverage in recent days. I mean, what did he see in her? Ah well, love is blind. And anyway, I always thought he was gay. Every time I see pictures of him he's holding some bloke's hand. And for a man alleged to be the Government's most hard-working Minister, whenever he appears on the telly he's out walking his dog. How hard-working is that?

-- Barry Beelzebub

-- The views of Mr Beelzebub are purely personal and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the Editor or staff of this newspaper, of anyone who doesn't think that the Alf Roberts memorial fountain is a waste of public money, of anyone who can understand why the Government is publishing a guide to asylum seekers in ... Welsh, or of anyone who didn't spend Sunday morning transfixed in front of the telly watching Sharron Davies' nipples. Chapel hat pegs don't do them justice. Outstanding work, and worth the licence fee on their own.

From: Doug
The Ned Collective.

Neds - A collective of people who cannot be described as individuals for they are as one in there fashion sense, train of thought, and other related areas. These "people" can be found throughout Britain and in smaller pockets throughout the globe. They can be identified by there relentless ability to follow the latest trends down to the smallest detail. Often referred to as "Sheep" as they follow the shepherds that are Thomas Burberry and Adidas tracksuit bottoms. They can most often be seen hanging around street corners, or outside a Spar where one is available, in vast numbers, usually carrying a bottle of cider or an alco-pop of some sort (Specificly bacardi breezer, or a "Bucky" (Buckfast)) and harassing every passer by with almost unrecognisable slang, e.g. "Here mate, you wan a ****in square go like?". Neds will always refer to themselves as a collective, even when alone, e.g. "You messing wi us like?".

Recent research suggest that neds may actually be able to grasp the concept of singularity within a multi-consciousness collective, but cannot express this due to their link to the "Hive mind", which robs them of any non-sanctioned thoughts through a majority of complex advertising campaigns. This "Hive mind" is the central plexus from which the single minded train of thought of the Ned collective orriginates. Research also suggests that this plexus may be under the control of one individual, an individual who may control the neds like pawns, or in fact be the vessel through which the collective consciousness is derived. Evidence points to the former, as this individual, or "Ned King" has been identified as Thomas Burberry, the fashion designer. This was discovered when it became clear that each and every ned adorned the signature plaid design of said Ned king.

It is not clear at present if the Ned King has an agenda of any sort, but we are led to believe a global eradication of free-will and diversity may be part of the hives higher agenda. The neds have spread from there roots in southern England and have now infected the majority of the British isles, and more alarmingly still, they are spreading throughout the world at an alarming rate. Some believe that the Neds are the carriers of a plague of sorts, which eradicates the free will of the victim and links them to the hive mind, whereas others believe they harbour much more sinister assimilation techniques, which involve subjecting the victim to repeated beatings from the drones older siblings. If you encounter a group of "Drones" do not engage alone! Neds will only fight if the odds are in there favour, usually if they outnumber there opponents 10 to 1. If you find yourself unable to escape a group of Ned Drones, try and tempt them away by pointing out the nearest Sunny D stockist to them, this should draw their attention long enough for you to make an escape.

Thank you for reading, and remember...BEWARE THESE PEOPLE!!! THEY MAY GET YOU WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT!!!

"We are the neds, you will be Burberryicated, we will add your single mindedness and social indistinctivness to our own, resistance is futile"

Ian Johnston
The Scotsman
AS MANY as one in seven people in parts of Scotland are not related to the man they believe is their father, according to a leading geneticist.

Dr John Gow, of Glasgow University who has recently set up a company offering DNA testing, said that in areas of Dundee and Glasgow about 15 per cent of the population were the offspring of someone other than the person they had been led to believe was their biological father. This rate is three times the national average.

The revelation that so many people have been misled about their parentage was described by a leading child psychologist as "dynamite" that could destroy family relationships.

He linked the high numbers found in Dundee and the east end of Glasgow to high teenage pregnancy rates and said they were both a symptom of poverty.

The policy of not telling children that they had been adopted - something that was done up until the early 1960s - to try to protect their feelings were also said to be a likely factor behind the figures.

Dr Gow, whose firm Crucial Genetics is building up a database of Scottish and Irish DNA samples, said: "Approximately one in 20 children don’t have the biological father they think they have, but in certain regions it is higher than that.

"In some areas of the east end of Glasgow and parts of Dundee it is as high as 15 per cent, which is about one in seven. If all the men start thinking: ‘If the numbers are that high then...’, we’ll have a queue at our door."

The DNA database is developed anonymously with the permission of those involved and so Dr Gow has not had to break the news to people attending the centre, which is based at Glasgow’s Southern General hospital. But paternity tests can be carried out as long as all the parties agree.

There have been several high profile cases of people belatedly discovering the true identity of their father. Paula Yates, the late television personality, discovered at 37 that she was the daughter of Hughie Green, the Opportunity Knocks star.

And Soraya Khashoggi, 57, former wife of arms dealer Adnan Khashoggi, told how a DNA test had proved that her daughter Petrina was the child of Jonathan Aitken, the disgraced former Conservative minister.

She said her ex-husband had been understanding: "He gave her his name without ever asking who her true father was."

Leading Scottish psychologist Dr Jack Boyle said: "Who your father and mother are is crucially important to most people. If a person finds out that biological father is not the person they thought it was, that can be quite devastating.

"First of all because they have been deceived, probably by their mother, this love figure. There’s also going to be a tremendous questioning as to who their real father is.

"And if the mother has deceived both her husband and child, the chances are they both won’t forgive her. She has a huge problem. The betrayed husband would have to be a very tolerant man indeed."

He said the east end of Glasgow and Dundee were known as areas with high rates of illegitimacy and teenage pregnancy.

"It’s a product of poverty. Getting pregnant today is totally unnecessary. If you get pregnant and don’t want to today, you are just ignorant," Dr Boyle said.

He said people who were adopted before about 1960s - as many children in poverty-stricken parts of Scotland were - they may well have not been told. "This was to make the child feel secure, quite erroneously," he said.

Henry McDonald
Sunday December 7, 2003
The Observer
Hoods don't do camouflage. And I should know because for the last six weeks every security guard and shop detective in Belfast has been on my tail. It's all down to my sartorial transformation. I have morphed into a spide, a boy thug. When you break a bone in an upper limb or, in my case, shatter your right wrist, you are forced to wear the most convenient garb available. In terms of legwear, that means tracksuit bottoms. Their elasticated waistbands and loose-fitting material are ideal for the man or woman with only one hand.

The drawback, however, is that these type of trousers are an essential part of the hood/spide uniform all the way from Cork to the Corcrain estate, Ballyfermot to Ballymena.

The downside of these dressing-down days has been to fall constantly under the suspicion of former cops and Brits who still want to feel important in their red caps and jaundice-coloured uniforms out hunting for shoplifters and handbag-dippers in shopping malls across the North.

One flash of the white stripes down the side of a pair of sports-style trousers and the sentinels of the superstore are on red alert breathing down your neck as you flick through racks of sexy lingerie for your wife or squeeze the Incredible Hulk to see if its roar won't terrify your two-year-old who normally worships the green-skinned monster.

Subjected to constant surveillance between the shelves, you start to believe you might actually be guilty of something.

In a spidey form of Stockholm syndrome, you start to fiddle nervously around your neck in search of that must-have chunky gold chain, flick the earlobes for those matching gold earrings and scan your clothing for slashes of fake Burberry.

Christmas shopping in downtown Belfast is the anthropological version of going on safari. The best vantage point to spy gaggles of hoods and spides is around the Castle Junction/Royal Avenue, a favourite habitat for the fake Burberry baseball-hatted hordes.

It is here where you can buy souvenirs of your trip such as the his and hers fake Burberry watches at the knockdown, knock-off price of £15. No doubt the equivalent arena for this type of southern hood watching would be anywhere on O'Connell Street but especially on O'Connell Bridge.

Spide-Stockholm syndrome also induces strange feelings of solidarity with the knots of grinning, shellsuit-wearing 'muckers' laughing in that menacing manner that only Belfast hoods can do while out on the town. You want to stop and grab one of them, and wail: 'Don't make it obvious, lads. The jobsworths guarding the shop doors know what you're up to!'

Such friendly advice would be lost on most of them and you would probably end up with a bottle in your face. They will continue to stalk in and out of stores wearing their gear, talking and clowning about as much as they can in order to draw attention to themselves.

This all makes you wonder why then so much money is apparently lost by retailers every festive season through shoplifting. Either the jobsworths on duty are blind to the signs that spides are at hand or else the sneering, loudmouth hoods barging in and out of the shopping malls and superstores are really decoys for the professional thieves who probably dress up like North Down ladies who lunch or gin-and-Jag-belt golfers.

The idea, however, that there is a SAS-style elite of the shoplifting fraternity operating somewhere amid the Christmas throng seems too outlandish to be true. The banal truth is that if the hoods are so obvious then those deployed to stop them are evidently incompetent.

Imagine then if the fake Burberry brigade ever decided to change their image, put on suits and ties, shed their gold, close their mouths and stop uttering vacuous and threatening remarks in a bid to conceal their mission to pilfer and plunder. The economy would probably collapse. Hoods don't do camouflage? Just be thankful for small mercies.

From: John
I can not contain my delight at having found a site that shares my interest in the socio-economic study of the genus Ned. Congratulations at having pointed out some of this species finer points to potential tourists. Far from being a blight to our communities a Ned can both brighten our cities and educate our children, provided of course we have suitable containment. I have been campaigning for years for the cities of central Scotland to follow my own model of themed Safari parks which have been operating with varying levels of success on the islands we referred to as Jurassic Park Site A and Site B. As with J.P site A, we would be able to enclose the Neds with high voltage enclosures such as are being used at HM facilities at Barlinnie. Visitors to the attraction would be able to see wild herds of the common Ned hanging around at the base of authentically re-built housing blocks or trying to make wee-rollies whilst swigging MD 20, 20 at bus stops. Tours would be conducted in the shells of burnt out police cars so as not to attract the attentions of the Neds. If however a tourist were approached by any of the Neds the burnt out police cars would be equipped with sound recordings of a school, this being the most alien of all sounds to a Ned, he would be temporally confused and need a fix of spray solvent to help clear his mind.

There would be gift shops with shuttered windows and screens in-front of the counters to enable young Cheeky Neds to mingle with tourists and staff, staff would be Working Neds and heavily pregnant Nedettes all trained to serve with an air of contempt for being made to do anything. Tourists and staff would have toilet facilities provided on every vertical concrete surface and any secluded passageways between shops or buildings. Attached to the safari part of the attraction would be a fun park offering a full range of Ned pass-times. The choices of activities would include Driving round slowly listening anything sub 20 hertz allowing the squeaky wine of your Cruiser Ned guide to be herd above the pounding base. Driving round quickly as above, but trying to throw all contraband "oot yer windae" before the Police catch up with you. If you were to favour a more intellectual pursuit there would be daily games of "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire" –the benefits edition and "The Weakest Genetic link".

All patrons would receive lasting memories of their trip in the form of either a facial stab would or severe tooth and gum disease, acute cholesterol problems and a photograph taken at the moment their first hit off the crack-pipe took effect I hope I can count upon your support with my project in the future.

From: anon
Our immediate reflex reaction is to order the castration and sterilisation of every male and female ned respectively. This is based on the premise that neds breed quickly and indiscriminately, thus spreading their unfavourable genes far and wide. This may be true, but it is necessary at any given time to have a large percentage of the workforce capable of filling the many blue-collar employment vacancies. The fear that the ned population would swell to uncomfortable proportions is allayed by the fact that the neds’ lifestyle ensures a relatively short life.

Poverty & Day-care Culture
Poverty is the single most often used term to absolve, extenuate, or explain away any number of deviant or anti-social behaviours. The very mention of the term 'ned' will have many wielding this unfortunate condition as a weapon, meaning to strike us down for daring to attribute such wanton behaviour to helpless victims of circumstance. It is this 'responsibility rot' that creates the day-care culture of today where no one is to blame for anything. It is taken as a matter-of-course that poverty is never self-inflicted, and that poverty is itself an excuse for reprehensible behaviour. If everyone stricken by poverty did as neds do, things would be far worse. There are always choices to be made, for better or for worse.

Aggressive Interactions
The behaviour of a ned is inherently aggressive. Their parents were aggressive, their siblings aggressive, and without too much levity, their Rottweiler dog was most probably aggressive too. It stands to reason that they are most likely to deal with things in an aggressive manner. This can be remedied if they so desire, but invariably aggressive acts are a paragon of toughness within their sub-culture, and are not behaviours they will relinquish easily. This is nothing new, as it is merely a characteristic of the underprivileged that has always existed, but only now more visible dressed in white. A large proportion of aggressive acts can be quelled by reciprocating the behaviour, as this single ned response, by probability, isn’t always going to be the most practical one. All in all, common sense will dictate how we should react. They have one response, we have many.

Other Cultures
Only a ned can claim others are to blame for societies failings and maintain a straight face while doing so. The continued problem with ned culture is that it has yet to be imbued with any form of guilt or shame. We all know what neds are responsible for, but the neds themselves either do not know or do not care. Consequently, from their point of view, there is no stigma attached to being a ned. Neds like to scapegoat other cultures, such as goths and moshers, in much the same way we like to scapegoat neds. One is justified, the other is not. It is other cultures that neds will claim are more of a social problem than themselves, but usually these arguments have no grounding and were formulated only for the purpose of aggravation. Neds like to ridicule what is overtly different, which is why they delight in maddening whole legions of angst-ridden band-wagon-jumping teenagers decked in black and chains. Goth and mosher culture is harmless outside itself. Ned culture is not. What have you learned, ned.

From: anon
this mp3 is the attachment referred to. (right click and save as (518Kb))

Don't know if you have heard this or not. I believe it helps the debate of "what happens to Neds when they get older?" Nothing, clearly they are still Neds trying to take on the World and abuse people. Does this beg the question "Old Neds" classification. They are easy to spot, still with gold, some still in trackies and the women are usually utterly foul - think Greece in the summer with an old fat minger wearing a thong with a kebab hanging out the side - revolting! The sad thing is this turkey in the attachment probably has 7 Nedlets and Nedlettes and they too will be breeding at an alarming rate from 12 years of age.

On the issue of Ned breeding, there was an article in The Telegraph from a Danish Professor suggesting that low lives be discouraged from breeding thus increasing the quality of the gene pool. Clearly, a sane and rational thinker. It has caused outrage among the liberal intellegensia, so no surprises there. The only thing I saw wrong with the good Prof's arguement was that it required reasoning with the pond life rather than merely imposing the will of the country on the dregs of humanity that inhabit the dump of society. I have cut and pasted a couple of salient passages for you, which you may wish to post on the site thereby adding intellectual gravitas and infuriating the wooly jumper bunny hugging brigade.

The dulcit tones of a weegie losing the plot in the attached mp3 - he gets utterly hysterical at the 2.5 minute mark plus 3 mins 15.. Not one of Glesca's more articulate gentlemen but just what one expects of the pond life sub-species that inhabit certain aeras of Scotland.

Fury over call for selective breeding
By Julian Isherwood in Copenhagen
(Filed: 01/10/2003 Daily Telegraph)

A leading Danish psychologist has caused outrage by calling for the state to encourage the selective reproduction of children from intelligent parents and seek to stop less gifted groups having children.

"Intelligence is hereditary," said Prof Helmuth Nyborg, the dean of the Psychology Institute at Aarhus University. "The 15 to 20 per cent of those at the lower levels of society - those who are not able to manage even the simplest tasks and often not their children - should be dissuaded from having children.

"The fact is that they are having more children and the intelligent ones are having fewer."

He insisted that his proposals could not be likened to extermination policies under the Nazis.

"Hitler didn't believe in eugenics. He just wanted to exterminate individual groups, and in fact exterminated the most intelligent among them," he said.

Prof Nyborg said he was raising the issue because average intelligence was falling in Denmark and the problem needed to be addressed.

"The statistics show that more highly educated women use their time studying and at work before having children, while less educated women have more children," he said. "We could reduce the workload of intelligent women and simply pay the less intelligent not to have kids."

From: anon
I feel it is my duty to inform the citizens of Glasgow they are not alone in their battle against the common ned. The East coast ned known to locals as a gadgie (not sure how to spell it but thats how it sounds) deserves a chapter all to themselves. As dangerous, if not more so than the Glasgow ned they do not however speak with the thick as the water in the Clyde accent. They do however speak with an undecipherable lilt, common phares include eghh, ged, jeer and the unmistakable inability to pronounce pie. If you ever need to destinguish between a East coast ned and any other type of ned ask the ned in question to say pie, the reply will most likely sound like peh. Move futher out from the vicinity of Dundee and you will find the more rural ned. Not to be taken lightly, these neds are fearless as they face minimal observation from the police as the police to ned ratio is around 1:12,700 . Another problem is that there are no clubs for the dressed neds to spend their weekend. The only other source of entertainment for this and all other types of ned is a trip to the local park to down a couple of bottles of buckie (the drink of choice in these parts, even md20/20 is too good for these people) then to engage in the wantant destruction of anything they might pass including people. The police much like the general public do not wish to engage with the neds as this often creates a stand off situation resulting in the police having to take action. Tayside police known to the locals as useless b******s only appear one night a year for "Braemar night". This heinous event is like an annual apocalypse, as soon as the blood and broken glass of the last one is finally cleared it is time for the bloody thing again. Braemar night signals the rising of the gadgie, thousands of them line the streets (all the pubs are full with them already) then after 10:30 all the law abiding citizens barricade themselves in their houses. After 10:30 the likely hood of meeting a drunken gadgie with some sort of weapon is over 98%, the likely hood of this gadgie confronting you and asking for something is about 75% and the likely hood of recieving some sort of abuse is 99.9%. I can account the other 0.1 percent as being the gadgie who is so minced on buckfast they can no longer talk or have passed out.

From: anon
Is it true that neds are unaware that they are neds? I would have found this hard to believe had I not once saw a documentary where a "Borrhead" youth denied in one sentence being a ned, and in another claimed that having shoe laces tied visibly at the front of his shoe was "shtoopit". The likelihood is that most know they are neds, but just don't care much for the term "ned" and dissociate themselves from it by denying they are such. Well too bad. They are neds. And we will continue calling them neds. And if they wish to no longer be referred to as a ned, then they will cease wearing gravity-defying caps, dumb down their horrid florescence and develop something they have neither given nor received: respect. They think they know respect but they have simply confused this with fear: they do not "respect" big Bonzo - they "fear" him.

Modern society, long since lapsed into a sociological stupor, wishes to rehabilitate neds with positive reinforcement, believing the negative variety to be inhumane. It is now a case of "I will give you a Burberry hat if you do not throw stones at that ambulance" rather than the more intuitively appealing "If you throw stones at that ambulance I will kick the crap out of you". Remember, such "pain distribution" would not be wanton - that's a ned pastime - but rather a method of teaching the ned to "not do it again or this will happen". What is that you say Mr and Mrs liberal? You disagree? Shouldn't you be in Palestine standing in front of a moving Israeli tank, and then wonder why you were subsequently crushed by it?

These commune-loving types with a desire to share what isn't theirs tell us that the loathsome behaviour of the ned spawns from a lack of privilege and opportunity. I am forever open-minded and sought to test this theory by using rats to represent humans in a laboratory experiment. I placed the first group of rats in a box lined with delicate silk and supplied them with a healthy amount of rations, while I placed the second group in a box fresh from the local dump and supplied them only with paltry provisions. If our body-pierced, dread-lock loving friends are to be believed, the first group of rats would behave impeccably, while the second group would behave ferociously, breed quickly and indiscriminately, acquire alcohol from an unscrupulous lab technician, fit their box with a Burberry lining, put FHM calendars on their walls, develop a penchant for clothing patterned with horizontal stripes, and apply liberal amounts of gel to their short fur so it turns spiky. Hell, I bet they even believed that the first group of rats would make a BBC documentary on the second group and call it "Chancers". Or perhaps they would ditch the euphemistic crap and go for a title that described the bad rats in a less vague and gutsier manner. "Look What We're Spending Money On", perhaps. What I found was that, irrespective of the environment they were in, some rats were complete arseholes. As simple as that, really.