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Poet Laureate

Bubba C

By Bubba C
in The Corner

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Guest Quincy Cockfingers

Guest Quincy Cockfingers

Posted
Posted
1 hour ago, Ape said:

Yeah good point - I can't take any more tales of glory days.

Now, fuck off.

Stick to glory holes, northern bandit 

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Bubba C

Bubba C

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  • Author
Posted
1 hour ago, luke swarm said:

I think even they know they are talking bollocks......despite all the whinging and handwringing about the supposed golden years...these cunts still infest this site......staying on the sidelines..tutting disapprovingly, whispering among themselves as they glare at the cunts who they consider common and uncuntworthy.

Yet here they remain, remnants of a cunt era that never was.     

In the interests of research, Luke, I had a little peek at some of the posts in the old forum, just so I could make an educated judgment on the whole debate.

I think the highlight had to be the nom 'Carol Vorderman is a cunt for looking good at 51'. 

With that, the defence rests, the old site was fucking shit. 

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Guest Quincy Cockfingers

Guest Quincy Cockfingers

Posted
Posted
39 minutes ago, Ape said:

The French shit-fuck beat you to it wih the glory hole comment Quincy, you soppy cunt. 

Oh my, how embarrassing - what must you all think of me !

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Guest N/A

Guest N/A

Posted
Posted
On 18 April 2016 at 4:07 PM, Bubbles said:

Carol Ann Duffy, is a rug-munching, drivel-spouting Jock who works at Manchester Metropolitan University. 

If the above wasn't enough for her to be classed one of the U.K's biggest cunts, she is also Britain's Poet Laureate, and for an additional income of about £25-30k p.a, she can pen ditties about 'major' news  events. Some of her best work includes 'Achilles', about Beckham's foot, a sonnet about the MP's expenses scandal and 'The Counties' about Royal Mail removing counties from postal addresses. 

Her most recent work could be her best yet http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-36072091

 

Poetry......paid £30k.....is she for fucking real?    This is the 21st century......not much call for regailing poems around a cracking fire place in pre Netflix Britain of yesteryear with Lord George (get out of town) Byron ........unless you live in boreton on the water.

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  • 4 years later...
Cuntybaws

Cuntybaws

Posted
Posted
On 18/04/2016 at 16:07, Bubba C said:

Carol Ann Duffy, is a rug-munching, drivel-spouting Jock who works at Manchester Metropolitan University. 

If the above wasn't enough for her to be classed one of the U.K's biggest cunts, she is also Britain's Poet Laureate, and for an additional income of about £25-30k p.a, she can pen ditties about 'major' news  events. Some of her best work includes 'Achilles', about Beckham's foot, a sonnet about the MP's expenses scandal and 'The Counties' about Royal Mail removing counties from postal addresses. 

Her most recent work could be her best yet http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-36072091

I happened upon this nomination of yesteryear quite by chance, and thought I'd confirm the sheer fucking awfulness of Duffy's work by letting you read the actual poem, which hadn't been written yet when Bubba originally posted. 

METERS

Found by torchlight fingering gloom 
inside the cupboard under the stairs 
or in the hall, clamped to the wall; 
in kitchen, garage, utility-room, 
in bedsit, bungalow, semi-detached, 
tenement, high-rise, council flat, 
The Rochdale Electric, K. & J. White, 
Ferranti, James and Graham & Co., 
measuring energy, consumed and used 
by gas-oven, wireless, 2-bar fire, 
40-watt lightbulb, 13-amp fuse… 
for the whumf of the flame on the water-heater 
it was shillings or florins into the meter. 
Shillings or florins into the meter 
in London, Liverpool, Llanystumdwy, 
Perth, Prestatyn, Prestwich, Poole, 
for the weekly bath, the hard-boiled egg, 
too near the fire, the corned-beef leg, 
the gramophone, the Christmas Tree lights, 
the pan on the cooker simmering tripe, 
Hoover, kettle, twin-tub, lamp, 
sheets, shirts, steaming, damp 
under the iron, the television 
newly-installed for the Coronation… 
then the luxury of central heating and quarterly 
bills and a meter reading. 
Quarterly bills and a meter reading 
by the man from the Gas, Electricity Board, 
polite, peak-capped, alert for dogs, 
checking the digits under the disc, 
the whirring wheel, the soft tick 
of monitored moments skyping, googling, 
downloading, scanning, Facebooking; 
out at sea the wind-farms churning 
air into profit, the salty breeze 
powering the big flatscreen TVs, 
the underfloor heating, costs mounting… 
the kilowatt hours burning, turning, 
meters, like monks in their cells, counting. 
Like monks in cells, the meters, counting 
well-thumbed, numbered days and nights 
beneath the energy-saving lights 
as though murmuring prayers, clicking beads 
to the switching On and Off of needs; 
each private, domestic revolution 
circling the time of its own extinction 
when mechanical meters, old Latin tomes, 
stand behind glass in hushed museums, 
gun-metal grey, silvery, black, 
from household goods to artefacts… 
while digital, internet meters glean 
that History’s bill to the Future’s green. 
History’s bill to the Future’s green. 

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camberwell gypsy

camberwell gypsy

Posted
Posted
7 hours ago, Cuntybaws said:

I happened upon this nomination of yesteryear quite by chance, and thought I'd confirm the sheer fucking awfulness of Duffy's work by letting you read the actual poem, which hadn't been written yet when Bubba originally posted. 

METERS

Found by torchlight fingering gloom 
inside the cupboard under the stairs 
or in the hall, clamped to the wall; 
in kitchen, garage, utility-room, 
in bedsit, bungalow, semi-detached, 
tenement, high-rise, council flat, 
The Rochdale Electric, K. & J. White, 
Ferranti, James and Graham & Co., 
measuring energy, consumed and used 
by gas-oven, wireless, 2-bar fire, 
40-watt lightbulb, 13-amp fuse… 
for the whumf of the flame on the water-heater 
it was shillings or florins into the meter. 
Shillings or florins into the meter 
in London, Liverpool, Llanystumdwy, 
Perth, Prestatyn, Prestwich, Poole, 
for the weekly bath, the hard-boiled egg, 
too near the fire, the corned-beef leg, 
the gramophone, the Christmas Tree lights, 
the pan on the cooker simmering tripe, 
Hoover, kettle, twin-tub, lamp, 
sheets, shirts, steaming, damp 
under the iron, the television 
newly-installed for the Coronation… 
then the luxury of central heating and quarterly 
bills and a meter reading. 
Quarterly bills and a meter reading 
by the man from the Gas, Electricity Board, 
polite, peak-capped, alert for dogs, 
checking the digits under the disc, 
the whirring wheel, the soft tick 
of monitored moments skyping, googling, 
downloading, scanning, Facebooking; 
out at sea the wind-farms churning 
air into profit, the salty breeze 
powering the big flatscreen TVs, 
the underfloor heating, costs mounting… 
the kilowatt hours burning, turning, 
meters, like monks in their cells, counting. 
Like monks in cells, the meters, counting 
well-thumbed, numbered days and nights 
beneath the energy-saving lights 
as though murmuring prayers, clicking beads 
to the switching On and Off of needs; 
each private, domestic revolution 
circling the time of its own extinction 
when mechanical meters, old Latin tomes, 
stand behind glass in hushed museums, 
gun-metal grey, silvery, black, 
from household goods to artefacts… 
while digital, internet meters glean 
that History’s bill to the Future’s green. 
History’s bill to the Future’s green. 

Obviously a cunt. 

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  • 3 weeks later...
Bubba C

Bubba C

Posted
  • Author
Posted
On 13/03/2021 at 14:25, Cuntybaws said:

I happened upon this nomination of yesteryear quite by chance, and thought I'd confirm the sheer fucking awfulness of Duffy's work by letting you read the actual poem, which hadn't been written yet when Bubba originally posted. 

METERS

Found by torchlight fingering gloom 
inside the cupboard under the stairs 
or in the hall, clamped to the wall; 
in kitchen, garage, utility-room, 
in bedsit, bungalow, semi-detached, 
tenement, high-rise, council flat, 
The Rochdale Electric, K. & J. White, 
Ferranti, James and Graham & Co., 
measuring energy, consumed and used 
by gas-oven, wireless, 2-bar fire, 
40-watt lightbulb, 13-amp fuse… 
for the whumf of the flame on the water-heater 
it was shillings or florins into the meter. 
Shillings or florins into the meter 
in London, Liverpool, Llanystumdwy, 
Perth, Prestatyn, Prestwich, Poole, 
for the weekly bath, the hard-boiled egg, 
too near the fire, the corned-beef leg, 
the gramophone, the Christmas Tree lights, 
the pan on the cooker simmering tripe, 
Hoover, kettle, twin-tub, lamp, 
sheets, shirts, steaming, damp 
under the iron, the television 
newly-installed for the Coronation… 
then the luxury of central heating and quarterly 
bills and a meter reading. 
Quarterly bills and a meter reading 
by the man from the Gas, Electricity Board, 
polite, peak-capped, alert for dogs, 
checking the digits under the disc, 
the whirring wheel, the soft tick 
of monitored moments skyping, googling, 
downloading, scanning, Facebooking; 
out at sea the wind-farms churning 
air into profit, the salty breeze 
powering the big flatscreen TVs, 
the underfloor heating, costs mounting… 
the kilowatt hours burning, turning, 
meters, like monks in their cells, counting. 
Like monks in cells, the meters, counting 
well-thumbed, numbered days and nights 
beneath the energy-saving lights 
as though murmuring prayers, clicking beads 
to the switching On and Off of needs; 
each private, domestic revolution 
circling the time of its own extinction 
when mechanical meters, old Latin tomes, 
stand behind glass in hushed museums, 
gun-metal grey, silvery, black, 
from household goods to artefacts… 
while digital, internet meters glean 
that History’s bill to the Future’s green. 
History’s bill to the Future’s green. 

I’m a cunt quite ahead of my time. 

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Stubby Pecker

Stubby Pecker

Posted
Posted
Just now, Bubba C said:

Stubbs! How are the mongs? 

Even bigger cunts than last time you asked, wankstain 

But never mind that shite, it’s the Mongs here that really worry me. I’m not even allowed to call them the irrelevant spastics they clearly are. Admin are acting like proper tits due to a bit of light poking with a stick covered in dog shite and the nerve of some punters to challenge their rule of law

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