Decimus

Yet another unfulfilled promise, just like your assertion that you'd finish off last weekend at the top of the LB. And now we're here. Not only have you ended this bank holiday nowhere near a top four spot, you haven't even managed to put a chink (lol) in my armour, despite a record amount of weekend posts attempting to do so. I'm bowing out again for the foreseeable on a high, it was nice doing business with you, although it looks like the transactional result ended up in my favour...number five wanker. Lololol.

I actually find it quite flattering that you consider something I knocked out in thirty seconds whilst coming down from a three day coke, booze, speed and benzo binge to be that perfectly structured it could only have been produced by A.I. technology. For avoidance of doubt, I've never assumed that anything you have ever shat out on these pages has been anything other than the spasticated, drunken ramblings of your own wet-brained imagination.

You're not wrong. Where I grew up we had a large Greek Cypriot, Italian and Maltese community from the 1950s onwards. They all had their own businesses, married local women, spoke the language, invested in the community and their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren are indistinguishable from the locals. In the early 2000s the floodgates opened and the area was flooded with eastern Europeans, Portuguese, Kosovans, Albanians and Romanians. Some of them were ok, but the difference between them and the 1950s immigrants was palpable and the tensions are still there. I think that demonstrates that the British people are welcoming and ready to embrace outsiders who work hard and integrate into the local fabric of society. It's totally on the incomers to do this and if they don't then they can't complain when tensions subsequently arise.

Tanyalee Davis. You made a nom about her once upon a time, a very good one I'm ashamed to admit. I actually saw it being interviewed by Look East on a Greater Anglia train from Norwich to Yarmouth not long after it was turfed off another one for clogging up the aisles in its massive fucking scooter. How many cans of Kestrel would it take to persuade you to rag it fucking silly in front of your bungalow's roaring two-bar fire?

Andy McShit-Stab.

ELC, you seem very hyped up and happy today, and dare I say it, slightly less of a racist fucking cunt. Have you been out on the piss?

The old whoever smelt it dealt it gambit. About as believable as The Judge accusing other members of penny pinching and alcoholism. You're a smoker of cock, a connoisseur of cum, a right bent cunt. There's no shame in it and certainly no reason why you should try to deflect...mate.

When I'm not snorting lines off of a black man's old chap, I've been known to put a sentence or two together.

It's a devolution of the mind, and quite the outrage when you consider the country that this has been implemented in. A nation that once boasted the envy of the free-thinking literati of Europe, amongst whom stood the likes of Adam Smith, David Hulme and Adam Ferguson. I doubt you will ever now see a second Scottish enlightenment where its citizens will lead the world in theorising, philosophising and innovating the way humankind in the future will adapt and evolve its attitudes towards society, the economy and literature. What hope is there of a second 'The Theory of Moral Sentiments' when your average woad-wearer can no longer say "nig-nog" on Twitter without fear of censure? Shameful.

You're clutching at straws, Frankie goes to Hollywood. The only thing you can see is a great big black cock hurtling towards you through the glory hole you're currently crouched at. Lolololololol.

The numerous references to your back door specialist proclivities is hardly an indication that I also indulge in marathon gobbling sessions. Queer is as queer does as they say in the deepest and darkest regions of Soho. If the white plimsoll fits you can hardly complain when every time your name is referenced by either myself or anyone else on here, it's usually in conjunction with a homophobic slur. In other words, if you want it to stop, cease dressing like a twelve year old, gender neutral San Franciscan. Take a hammer to your bent as fuck dog and replace it with an Alsatian, and don't post any more nominations about how badly you want to fuck a hairy soldier-dwarf. Do you know what I mean...mate?

It's the bugle.

It's apparently known as the John Steed fetish down at the old Duncan. Insert, twist and open. Although why you'd want to spend half a grand on something that mainly lives up your arsehole I don't know. Have you ever considered cock as a cheaper alternative? Lolololololol.

I'll not mention the 48 @s you made of my name during my five minute (lol) absence and all the emails begging for me to return under the guise of your multi, Proper. At best I've made you a co-dependent bitch who can only thrive via a four legged human centipede, love/hate relationship with me. At worst you're the obsessive Aschenbach to my Tadzio. Either way you're as bent as Jazz's Bowie autograph collection.

As suspected, more of an Athenian than a Spartan. If I ever meet you I'm going to kick your fucking teeth in, you eromenos scuttling catamite.

No idea, but he's got Frank's Rachid's on.

If you're looking for a comparison that best suits this awful shite, I'd suggest that it's the nineties equivalent of TikTok. Tone deaf council estate scum hog a platform in order to inflict their cochlea-bursting warblings upon other talentless wankers who have delusions and dreams of Simon Cowell fisting them live on stage at the Royal Albert Hall. That being said, there's invariably a few stock characters that pop up each and every time a landlord decides to dust off his old VHS player and mothballed microphone. 1-The boomer cunt wearing a suit that last fit him on Black Wednesday, doing an impression of Frank's old dad doing an impression of Mitch Winehouse doing an impression of Frank Sinatra. Usually a cab driver and almost certainly a sex case. 2- The divorced and perimenopausal tart belting out Whitney Houston/Celine Dion numbers, piggy fucking eyes screwed shut whilst deep throating the mic. Delusional enough to think that every trite line in the song is a perfect metaphor for her own failed love story with a wife-beating plumber who preferred knocking her about to shooting one up her rancid clout. 3: A not half bad but majorly overdressed slag in her twenties, accompanied by the inevitable fat friend who ad-libs Catherine Tate catchphrases throughout a Taylor Swift track because "she's the funny one". I can currently hear all of the disgusting animals above, plus more, from the sanctity of my garden 400 metres away from the local boozer. Where's a Glaswegian helicopter pilot when you need him?

Give us a nom, you squalid, squaddie-milking faggot.

I've just looked him up. Despite having a Bronski Beat look about him, he isn't overly fond of northern neanderthal and serial turncoat Lee fucking Anderson, so he's alright by me. What are your thoughts on the human ambergris producer, James O'Brien?

I got him sent to the camps by winding the old kike cunt up until he blew his little hat off his head in a massive meltdown. Whoever could have guessed that he'd be so sensitive about his heritage?

I know what you want, what you really really want, zig a zig queeeeerrr:

A queer Russell Watson and a jock to boot, I'd wager. Who is this cunt?

I'd like to wish our resident cock-in-a-frock "Lady" (lol) Penelope, a very happy Transgender Day of Visibility. Considering "she's" (lol) hardly inconspicuous on the 364 other days of the year, stomping along the promenade of Torquay in "her" (lol) fuck-me-boots at an imposing height of 6'8, I wonder how "she" (lol) plans to become more visible on this holiest of days? With a cock that swings like a pendulum below even the most modest of hemlines, perhaps the only way "she" (lol) can become more visible is to set "herself" (lol) alight and jump in front of the next Eddie Stobart lorry that passes the Torquay Sanatorium for the Sexually Deranged. Fuck off.