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The case of the Welsh choir boy and the telekinetic knife
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2025-01-21 at 10:21 AM UTC
This was one if the catalysts over the summer for the riots.
The picture on the left is the one they released days after the attack, the other is the picture that was taken when he first taken into custody and was released 6 months after the attack.
We have a lying jedi communist for a head of state who basically called everyone hitler for guessing correctly it was muslim attack.
Wat u fink guys -
2025-01-21 at 10:33 AM UTCWhat's wrong with his mouth, looks like he's got third degree gurns.
Just another example why niggers shouldn't be allowed in the UK. -
2025-01-21 at 10:35 AM UTCHe is British. He was born in Britain. It wasn't a terrorist attack either, it was just a random thing.
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2025-01-21 at 11:04 AM UTCThe following users say it would be alright if the author of this post didn't die in a fire!
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2025-01-21 at 11:37 AM UTC
Originally posted by Instigator Wrong. If you can't trace your lineage back to a white british person on your family tree back to the pre 1900s Britain, you're not British.
Then why does he have a British passport? You are mistaken, the British aren't an ethnic group like some people are. Anyone can be British. And he was born and bred there, blood and soil, a son of the land. -
2025-01-21 at 12:33 PM UTC
Originally posted by Cosmopolitan Then why does he have a British passport? You are mistaken, the British aren't an ethnic group like some people are. Anyone can be British. And he was born and bred there, blood and soil, a son of the land.
Upon further research he was born here but his family are not British born like Instigator said. Just naturlized monkeys. -
2025-01-21 at 12:36 PM UTC
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2025-01-21 at 5:38 PM UTCwhat a proud british man
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2025-01-23 at 4:48 PM UTCSentenced today
52 year term before parole.minimum. -
2025-01-23 at 5:27 PM UTCRapists should all be housed in GP and pedos should get the chair.
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2025-01-23 at 5:53 PM UTCOp would never say anything in person. Only complains about the state of his country online.
Nationalist pride ends when he leaves his home. -
2025-01-23 at 5:54 PM UTCAnd once that door is locked and he's back online it's FUCK THOSE PEOPLE again
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2025-01-23 at 6:10 PM UTC^Stabbed a dog.
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2025-01-24 at 7:04 AM UTCVirtue signaling smug cunt.
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2025-01-24 at 7:27 AM UTCIn the sleepy Welsh town of Llangollen, where the Dee River softly serenaded the cobblestone streets, a peculiar boy named Gethin lived. His eyes, a deep shade of blue like the slate roofs that lined the town, held a silent curiosity that often went unnoticed by the villagers. With unruly hair and a constant smudge of dirt on his cheek, Gethin was known for his angelic voice, which soared during the choir practice at St. Collen's Church. Yet, there was something more to him, something that even he was not fully aware of.
On a blustery afternoon, as the leaves danced in the chilly autumn wind, Gethin ambled through the local market, his eyes darting from one stall to another. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the tang of saltwater taffy, creating an irresistible aroma that wove through the air like a warm embrace. His stomach growled in anticipation of the sweet treat, but his pocket held only a few coins, a meager allowance from his choirmaster. He paused before the butcher's stall, where a gleaming knife rested on a wooden block, its blade sharp and menacing amidst the plump sausages and neatly packed meat.
The butcher, a burly man named Mr. Jenkins, caught Gethin's gaze and winked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You've got quite an eye for the finer things, young Gethin," he said, his voice booming over the market din. Gethin shyly nodded, his cheeks reddening as the villagers chuckled good-naturedly. Little did they know, the knife would soon play a role in an event that would leave the town in awe.
As the shadows grew longer and the market wound down, Gethin found himself drawn to the quiet corner where Mr. Jenkins packed away his wares. The knife caught the fading sunlight, casting a tantalizing glow across the cobblestones. The butcher noticed his interest and handed it to him with a firm pat on the back. "Just be careful with it, lad," he warned. "It's a fine piece of craftsmanship, not a toy." The weight of the knife felt surprisingly comforting in his small hand, the handle worn smooth from years of use. Gethin nodded solemnly, promising to treat it with respect, and tucked it into his pocket.
That evening, as the choir rehearsed in the candlelit church, Gethin felt an inexplicable energy pulse through him. His voice grew stronger, resonating off the ancient stones and filling the vast space with a power that silenced the other boys. They stared at him in wonder as he hit notes that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The choirmaster, Mr. Pritchard, a stern man with a penchant for perfection, was visibly moved. His eyes grew wide, and his mouth fell open. The only sound in the church was the echo of Gethin's voice as it soared heavenward.
The moment was shattered when a candle on the altar flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. A murmur of confusion rippled through the choir, and the boys huddled closer together. The knife in Gethin's pocket grew warm, almost alive, and without thinking, he gripped its handle. The flame from a distant candle shot through the air, relighting the extinguished one, casting eerie shadows across the choir's faces. Gasps filled the room, and the other boys whispered in terror. Gethin looked down, his hand trembling around the knife. He had done this. Somehow, he had controlled the fire with his mind.
The whispers grew to a cacophony, and Mr. Pritchard's face paled. "What sorcery is this?" he demanded, his voice quaking with fear. Gethin tried to explain, but the words caught in his throat. The knife grew hotter, and suddenly, it began to rise from his pocket, floating in the air before his eyes. The choirmaster stumbled backward, knocking over his chair. The other boys scattered, their voices a symphony of horror. The knife hovered for a moment, then shot through the air, embedding itself in the wooden door with a thunderous crack. The choir practice abruptly ended, the boys fleeing into the night, their once harmonious voices now a discordant wail.
Gethin was left alone in the church, his heart racing. He approached the knife, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and fascination. As he reached out to touch it, the door creaked open, and the knife slid out of the wood, pointing directly at him. He stumbled backward, his eyes never leaving the weapon. What kind of power did he possess, and what was it trying to tell him? The wind howled outside, carrying the distant sound of the river's lullaby, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that had invaded the sanctity of St. Collen's Church. The silence was deafening as Gethin realized his life was about to take a turn more dramatic than any aria he had ever sung.
Word of the incident spread through the town like wildfire, and by the next morning, whispers of witchcraft and dark omens filled the air. Gethin's mother, a kind, superstitious woman named Mair, sat him down at the kitchen table, her face etched with concern. "What happened at the church, cariad?" she asked gently, using the Welsh term of endearment. He recounted the events of the previous night, the knife's unexplained flight and his sudden ability to manipulate fire. Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of a lie, but found only truth and fear. She took a deep breath, her hand trembling as she clutched a wooden cross hanging around her neck. "You must not tell anyone else," she whispered urgently. "People fear what they don't understand. They'll only bring us grief."
The following days were a blur of half-truths and evasive answers as Gethin tried to navigate the sudden suspicion that clouded the town's perception of him. His choir mates avoided him, and Mr. Pritchard's gaze was cold and accusatory during their rehearsals. The once warm embrace of the church felt like a prison, the very walls seeming to close in on him with each passing note. Yet, the knife remained silent, its power hidden away in his pocket. Gethin felt torn between the urge to explore his newfound abilities and the fear of the consequences that might come with them.
One evening, as he sat by the river, the knife grew warm again. He pulled it out, watching as the water's surface rippled around the blade without it ever touching the water. A strange sensation washed over him, a feeling of belonging, of purpose. He knew he couldn't ignore this power forever. It was a part of him, as integral as the air he breathed or the music that sang in his soul. As the moon rose over the Llangollen hills, casting a silver path across the water, Gethin made a decision. He would face his gift, learn to control it, and uncover the secrets it held. Whether the town would come to accept him or fear him remained to be seen, but he knew he couldn't live a lie.
The journey ahead would be fraught with danger and discovery, leading Gethin down a path that intertwined with the ancient legends of Wales. He would soon find himself at the center of a battle between light and dark forces, with the fate of not just his town, but his very essence hanging in the balance. Each step was a silent verse in a song not yet written, and Gethin was about to become the composer of his own destiny.
The knife remained a constant companion, whispering secrets of power and heritage that Gethin had never dared to dream of. It was as if the very essence of his ancestors flowed through its steel, guiding his hand and speaking to his soul. The first time he tried to wield its magic, it was an accident. In a fit of frustration, he pointed the knife at the bullies who had taunted him for years. With a flick of his wrist, they transformed before his very eyes into life-sized gummy bears, their menacing grins frozen in time as they bobbed and jiggled in the soft autumn light. The villagers watched in horror, then in amazement, as the boys' laughter turned to shrieks of terror. The town was forever changed, the line between reality and fantasy blurred.
The transformation spread like wildfire, and soon, the streets of Llangollen were filled with panicking townsfolk, desperately trying to escape the fate of becoming sugary confections. The once vibrant market square now resembled a bizarre, sticky tableau of gummy people, their eyes wide with shock and fear, forever stuck in the moment of their transformation. Gethin, his heart racing with a mix of terror and exhilaration, realized the gravity of his mistake. He had unleashed a power that could not be easily contained, a power that could bring about the town's ruin.
In the days that followed, Gethin isolated himself in his small cottage, the knife never far from his side. He studied it, whispering to it as if it were a living being, pleading for it to reveal how to reverse the spell. His mother, Mair, brought him meals of stew and bread, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and fear. She knew her son was special, but she also knew that with great power came great responsibility. The townsfolk, now wary of the boy who could turn them into candy, whispered about him in hushed tones, casting suspicious glances in his direction.
One evening, as the scent of apple cider wafted from the kitchen, Gethin sat at the table, the knife laid out before him. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the warmth that emanated from the knife's handle. He could feel the power pulsing within, a rhythm that matched the beating of his own heart. With a tremble in his voice, he sang the ancient hymn that had been passed down through generations of his family. The air grew thick, and the knife began to glow a soft blue, the same shade as his eyes. The house grew silent, even the mice in the walls seeming to hold their breath.
Suddenly, the knife shot from the table, soaring through the air with a grace that defied its weight. It hovered above Gethin's head, spinning in a slow circle before plunging downward, stopping just shy of his skin. The warmth grew, and a soft hum filled the room, resonating through his very bones. The glow grew brighter, and with a final, piercing note from his voice, the knife sliced through the air. The gummy figures outside the window began to shiver and change, the candy coating peeling away to reveal the villagers beneath, bewildered and unscathed. They stumbled to their feet, the world snapping back into place as if it had never been altered. The town of Llangollen breathed a collective sigh of relief, the nightmare of their sugary imprisonment over.
Gethin knew that this was only the beginning. The power within him was vast and uncharted, and he had to learn to control it. The knife, now cool in his hand, whispered of ancient battles and heroic deeds, of a destiny that awaited him. He would train, he would grow, and he would face whatever the future held, armed with his voice, his courage, and the telekinetic knife that had become a part of him. The town may have feared him, but he was their guardian now, whether they knew it or not. And as the moon cast its silver path upon the Dee River once more, Gethin's heart swelled with the knowledge that he had the power to protect those he loved. The story of the Welsh choir boy and his magical knife had just begun, and it would be sung in whispers and legends for generations to come. -
2025-01-24 at 8:55 AM UTC
Originally posted by Speedy Parker In the sleepy Welsh town of Llangollen, where the Dee River softly serenaded the cobblestone streets, a peculiar boy named Gethin lived. His eyes, a deep shade of blue like the slate roofs that lined the town, held a silent curiosity that often went unnoticed by the villagers. With unruly hair and a constant smudge of dirt on his cheek, Gethin was known for his angelic voice, which soared during the choir practice at St. Collen's Church. Yet, there was something more to him, something that even he was not fully aware of.
On a blustery afternoon, as the leaves danced in the chilly autumn wind, Gethin ambled through the local market, his eyes darting from one stall to another. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the tang of saltwater taffy, creating an irresistible aroma that wove through the air like a warm embrace. His stomach growled in anticipation of the sweet treat, but his pocket held only a few coins, a meager allowance from his choirmaster. He paused before the butcher's stall, where a gleaming knife rested on a wooden block, its blade sharp and menacing amidst the plump sausages and neatly packed meat.
The butcher, a burly man named Mr. Jenkins, caught Gethin's gaze and winked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You've got quite an eye for the finer things, young Gethin," he said, his voice booming over the market din. Gethin shyly nodded, his cheeks reddening as the villagers chuckled good-naturedly. Little did they know, the knife would soon play a role in an event that would leave the town in awe.
As the shadows grew longer and the market wound down, Gethin found himself drawn to the quiet corner where Mr. Jenkins packed away his wares. The knife caught the fading sunlight, casting a tantalizing glow across the cobblestones. The butcher noticed his interest and handed it to him with a firm pat on the back. "Just be careful with it, lad," he warned. "It's a fine piece of craftsmanship, not a toy." The weight of the knife felt surprisingly comforting in his small hand, the handle worn smooth from years of use. Gethin nodded solemnly, promising to treat it with respect, and tucked it into his pocket.
That evening, as the choir rehearsed in the candlelit church, Gethin felt an inexplicable energy pulse through him. His voice grew stronger, resonating off the ancient stones and filling the vast space with a power that silenced the other boys. They stared at him in wonder as he hit notes that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building. The choirmaster, Mr. Pritchard, a stern man with a penchant for perfection, was visibly moved. His eyes grew wide, and his mouth fell open. The only sound in the church was the echo of Gethin's voice as it soared heavenward.
The moment was shattered when a candle on the altar flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness. A murmur of confusion rippled through the choir, and the boys huddled closer together. The knife in Gethin's pocket grew warm, almost alive, and without thinking, he gripped its handle. The flame from a distant candle shot through the air, relighting the extinguished one, casting eerie shadows across the choir's faces. Gasps filled the room, and the other boys whispered in terror. Gethin looked down, his hand trembling around the knife. He had done this. Somehow, he had controlled the fire with his mind.
The whispers grew to a cacophony, and Mr. Pritchard's face paled. "What sorcery is this?" he demanded, his voice quaking with fear. Gethin tried to explain, but the words caught in his throat. The knife grew hotter, and suddenly, it began to rise from his pocket, floating in the air before his eyes. The choirmaster stumbled backward, knocking over his chair. The other boys scattered, their voices a symphony of horror. The knife hovered for a moment, then shot through the air, embedding itself in the wooden door with a thunderous crack. The choir practice abruptly ended, the boys fleeing into the night, their once harmonious voices now a discordant wail.
Gethin was left alone in the church, his heart racing. He approached the knife, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and fascination. As he reached out to touch it, the door creaked open, and the knife slid out of the wood, pointing directly at him. He stumbled backward, his eyes never leaving the weapon. What kind of power did he possess, and what was it trying to tell him? The wind howled outside, carrying the distant sound of the river's lullaby, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil that had invaded the sanctity of St. Collen's Church. The silence was deafening as Gethin realized his life was about to take a turn more dramatic than any aria he had ever sung.
Word of the incident spread through the town like wildfire, and by the next morning, whispers of witchcraft and dark omens filled the air. Gethin's mother, a kind, superstitious woman named Mair, sat him down at the kitchen table, her face etched with concern. "What happened at the church, cariad?" she asked gently, using the Welsh term of endearment. He recounted the events of the previous night, the knife's unexplained flight and his sudden ability to manipulate fire. Her eyes searched his, looking for any sign of a lie, but found only truth and fear. She took a deep breath, her hand trembling as she clutched a wooden cross hanging around her neck. "You must not tell anyone else," she whispered urgently. "People fear what they don't understand. They'll only bring us grief."
The following days were a blur of half-truths and evasive answers as Gethin tried to navigate the sudden suspicion that clouded the town's perception of him. His choir mates avoided him, and Mr. Pritchard's gaze was cold and accusatory during their rehearsals. The once warm embrace of the church felt like a prison, the very walls seeming to close in on him with each passing note. Yet, the knife remained silent, its power hidden away in his pocket. Gethin felt torn between the urge to explore his newfound abilities and the fear of the consequences that might come with them.
One evening, as he sat by the river, the knife grew warm again. He pulled it out, watching as the water's surface rippled around the blade without it ever touching the water. A strange sensation washed over him, a feeling of belonging, of purpose. He knew he couldn't ignore this power forever. It was a part of him, as integral as the air he breathed or the music that sang in his soul. As the moon rose over the Llangollen hills, casting a silver path across the water, Gethin made a decision. He would face his gift, learn to control it, and uncover the secrets it held. Whether the town would come to accept him or fear him remained to be seen, but he knew he couldn't live a lie.
The journey ahead would be fraught with danger and discovery, leading Gethin down a path that intertwined with the ancient legends of Wales. He would soon find himself at the center of a battle between light and dark forces, with the fate of not just his town, but his very essence hanging in the balance. Each step was a silent verse in a song not yet written, and Gethin was about to become the composer of his own destiny.
The knife remained a constant companion, whispering secrets of power and heritage that Gethin had never dared to dream of. It was as if the very essence of his ancestors flowed through its steel, guiding his hand and speaking to his soul. The first time he tried to wield its magic, it was an accident. In a fit of frustration, he pointed the knife at the bullies who had taunted him for years. With a flick of his wrist, they transformed before his very eyes into life-sized gummy bears, their menacing grins frozen in time as they bobbed and jiggled in the soft autumn light. The villagers watched in horror, then in amazement, as the boys' laughter turned to shrieks of terror. The town was forever changed, the line between reality and fantasy blurred.
The transformation spread like wildfire, and soon, the streets of Llangollen were filled with panicking townsfolk, desperately trying to escape the fate of becoming sugary confections. The once vibrant market square now resembled a bizarre, sticky tableau of gummy people, their eyes wide with shock and fear, forever stuck in the moment of their transformation. Gethin, his heart racing with a mix of terror and exhilaration, realized the gravity of his mistake. He had unleashed a power that could not be easily contained, a power that could bring about the town's ruin.
In the days that followed, Gethin isolated himself in his small cottage, the knife never far from his side. He studied it, whispering to it as if it were a living being, pleading for it to reveal how to reverse the spell. His mother, Mair, brought him meals of stew and bread, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and fear. She knew her son was special, but she also knew that with great power came great responsibility. The townsfolk, now wary of the boy who could turn them into candy, whispered about him in hushed tones, casting suspicious glances in his direction.
One evening, as the scent of apple cider wafted from the kitchen, Gethin sat at the table, the knife laid out before him. The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, focusing on the warmth that emanated from the knife's handle. He could feel the power pulsing within, a rhythm that matched the beating of his own heart. With a tremble in his voice, he sang the ancient hymn that had been passed down through generations of his family. The air grew thick, and the knife began to glow a soft blue, the same shade as his eyes. The house grew silent, even the mice in the walls seeming to hold their breath.
Suddenly, the knife shot from the table, soaring through the air with a grace that defied its weight. It hovered above Gethin's head, spinning in a slow circle before plunging downward, stopping just shy of his skin. The warmth grew, and a soft hum filled the room, resonating through his very bones. The glow grew brighter, and with a final, piercing note from his voice, the knife sliced through the air. The gummy figures outside the window began to shiver and change, the candy coating peeling away to reveal the villagers beneath, bewildered and unscathed. They stumbled to their feet, the world snapping back into place as if it had never been altered. The town of Llangollen breathed a collective sigh of relief, the nightmare of their sugary imprisonment over.
Gethin knew that this was only the beginning. The power within him was vast and uncharted, and he had to learn to control it. The knife, now cool in his hand, whispered of ancient battles and heroic deeds, of a destiny that awaited him. He would train, he would grow, and he would face whatever the future held, armed with his voice, his courage, and the telekinetic knife that had become a part of him. The town may have feared him, but he was their guardian now, whether they knew it or not. And as the moon cast its silver path upon the Dee River once more, Gethin's heart swelled with the knowledge that he had the power to protect those he loved. The story of the Welsh choir boy and his magical knife had just begun, and it would be sung in whispers and legends for generations to come.
Am I fuck reading all that. -
2025-01-24 at 9:13 AM UTC
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2025-01-24 at 9:20 AM UTC
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2025-01-24 at 9:33 AM UTC
