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Last Cunt Standing

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About Last Cunt Standing

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    Massive Cunt

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  1. Dentistry. Two years learning how to mix pink squash, another two on how to disable the CCTV while your patient sleeps off the nitrous, 6 months of sadistic drill handling, 3 months of advanced sexual harassment of your teenage dental nurse, and 2 weeks practicing stock phrases “ask your doctor for some antibiotics for that nasty abscess”, “that’ll be £250 please” and “have you considered whitening?”. BDA membership comes with a free Porsche. Cunts to a man.
  2. Ok I’ll bite. You were a pharmacist, weren’t you? Pedantry, an inflated sense of self-importance and an inability to follow even your own rules. It all points in one direction for me. I imagine you wielded your green biro like a fucking pick axe, tut-tutting that those foolish Anaesthetists had not filled in the allergy box for the 90 year old stroke patient on a ventilator. The subsequent degrees and the MBA seem wasted to me though. I mean asking Doris if she’d like a free blood pressure check, prawn sandwich, 2000 Cod Liver Oil tabs and another 12 points on her Advantage card is hardly the stuff they teach on the “Pairing Red Braces with a Striped Shirt” module at De Montfort, is it? Perhaps you morphed into a drug rep, trying hard to bamboozle a room full of tired medics with your flashy PowerPoint when all they are interested in is a free pen, where you bought the sandwiches from and whether they really can see your bra in this light. Such a career trajectory might have a deep and unfortunate psychological impact, producing a person prone to petty and capricious acts of revenge. So on retirement they take up the Magistracy, and a fondness for internet policing. I’m sure I’m not even close, your Worship. The NHS thanks you for your service.
  3. Or Bacterial Vaginosis, which can really linger in the nostrils on a hot day. Ladies and those so identifying: if your clinician dons a surgical mask for your cervical smear, it’s either a) because they are licking their lips trying to adjust the focus on their hidden iPhone, or b) because they have a jar of Vaseline up each nostril because your cunt smells like Billingsgate in July. The retained tampon is also an utter delight. When the antibiotics run out, we are fucked. I always found a Fisherman’s Friend was a good choice to get you through a Midsummer Pelvic exam, the irony of course being that Fisherman’s Friend was most likely the Rugby Club nickname of the malodorous whale with her legs in the stirrups. She no doubt gave you a burning red tongue, too.
  4. The thumb stump has its own equity card, can be booked for weddings and bar mitzvahs, and is rumoured to be lined up for Question of Sport when old Ma Barker hangs up her V necked pullover. Bring back Suzanne Charlton I say. You’d never get through a forecast without wondering if one day she’d end up with her Dad’s hair.
  5. I used to really like the News Quiz on Radio 4. Barry Took, Sandi Toksvig and Miles Jupp always used to give me a good chuckle on the drive home and it was the cradle of some pretty good writers and comedians in years gone by. The miracle of the internet podcast means even I am now on foreign soil I can listen along with a morning coffee, risking odd looks from some as I giggle into my scrambled eggs. I have no wish to be unduly unkind to the poor girl in the latest edition, but fuck me. How can she be expected to deliver comedy with no control of her bottom jaw? The audience titter nervously, clearly embarrassed. You can imagine the edgy glances from even the most woke of fellow panellists. What is wrong with saying people sadly just can’t do certain things? I’ll never make the FA Cup Final because I’m differently abled at sport. Who do I complain to? It’s like this mass exercise in self delusion that we mustn’t erect barriers to anyone or anything, and that if Little Molly Flidspack wants to be an Astronaut she bloody well can be. Either way it made bloody awful listening and put me right off my flat white this morning. Which is a right cunt. https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m000d7kg
  6. My views on the Teeside homunculus are a matter of record. I’m bloody glad this latest televisual shite will never make its way over here, the drawling accent and prominent chin would confuse the Australian viewer hugely, who would conclude not unreasonably that some sort of chromosome issue was at play. Fuck knows what the nipper will look like. I haven’t given up on the IBS diagnosis myself, and look forward to the Hello photoshoot of a gurning Steph clutching a swaddled eight-pound turd.
  7. Fancy Smith. My mum loved him.
  8. He also denies being in Panto with Barrymore, and certainly not being invited to the Pool Party where everyone drank GBH cocktails in his honour. Even Michael Watson thinks Frank is a bit slow on the uptake. Rumour has it he was still answering the picture round on Question of Sport while he was being driven home. Imagine Bletchley Park populated by Big Frank, Ian Wright, Nigel Benn and Linford Christie. You’d need to bring Big Ron Atkinson in to get them beyond arguing how you spell “Enigma” without being racist.
  9. Did he not fight Joe Bugner as well? Looked like a Chicken Shop hood relieving a pensioner of his wedge at a Brixton ATM as I remember it.
  10. Don’t forget Frank Bruno, who’s been doing the Uncle Tom two-step for 30 odd years, to the delight of the English middle class who regard him as safe enough to live in their street, if not date their daughter. How they applauded him in Panto and guffawed at his forelock-tugging act straight from the Plantation. Course this was before he started clucking like a chicken and needing Olanzapine to get through the day. Opinion may have shifted since then. Know what I mean, Harry, you Cunt?
  11. It’s possible her full name is Beau T. McBoatface. Certainly has the displacement.
  12. Ah yes but it’s also famously a horrendously corrupt country, Wolfie. A few Billion Rupiah in the right palm from his wealthy parents and he’s free as a bird to perhaps haunt the streets of Bali looking for drunk Western arseholes. He’d be in luck, place is chock full of them. I’d rather they forgot to lock the door of the segregation unit one night, personally. Or alternatively let Abu Hamza check the cunts’ prostate. On Sky Sports.
  13. What’s her surname? Selecta?
  14. It’s an unfortunate trick of the light but that combination of specs, nose and bushy ‘Tache makes me think of the Marx brothers. Hippo, perhaps.
  15. It’s even all over the news here in Oz, and frankly we’ve got bigger things to fret about than where ginger bollocks and his half-cast memsaab chose to park their over-privileged arses. I am looking forward to the inevitable tv interview with Gayle King or Megan Kelly though. I hope they go nuclear and tell the world David Icke is right, Granny is a shape-shifting lizard partial to the blood of newborn children.
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