Dyslexic cnut

Yeah, fuck off. The council/immigration are coming around on Thursday to inspect the fucking gaff. So that gives me one day to scatter gimp masks, bondage gear and monster dildoes everywhere and buy a Jimmy Saville outfit and a cigar for when I open the door to them. We’ll see. Standby. I won’t be on here tomorrow as I’ve a busy day ahead. Fuck off Bill, you horrible heartless cunt.

Laugh it up, cunts. It’s not fuckin funny. Stupid Cunting bitch hasn’t thought this through. The twatting truffle-pig we’re getting isn’t even blonde.

I’ve been there Raaaso. Gorilla trekking on the Virunga National Park. It’s fuck all next to Cantrill Farm or Speke. But it is where I met Idris Elba and his family.

So, at the start of this Ukrainian invasion thing, Mrs Cnut is in tears watching the refugee crisis unfolding before her eye on tv. (Don’t ask, an accident at Girl Guides when she was younger.) She insisted that we offer at least one of the poor blighters a home and some security. I nodded but didn’t think it would come to much. Without going into too much professional detail, she went to work which involved, by chance, flying 300 Ukrainian tourists who’d gone on holiday to the Caribbean back to Europe as whilst away old Vladimir had rolled into their country and they couldn’t go home. She told me that she’d met a lovely 24 year old, single Ukrainian woman and had stayed in touch as the poor woman was shunted throughout Eastern Europe for the next four weeks. The wife told this young lady that she could stay with us as we have several spare bedrooms here. Now, a single, 24 year old female Ukrainian moving in seemed like a lovely gesture and, feasibly, an opportunity for filth based activity in my eyes (not to mention my nob.) I asked the wife if she had any photographs of the said refugee-ess and she showed me a picture taken on the rescue flight of her surrounded by about twelve Ukrainian women. It looked like a fucking Miss World line-up, all in their early twenties, all about 5’9” tall and blonde. Except for one. I dismissed the grotesque, fat midget gargoyle cunt in the picture and asked the wife which one was coming to stay. Take a fucking wild guess which one we’re getting? Yup…the only fucking female in the bunch that the Red Army wouldn’t rape. I’ve tried to convince the bint I married that this is not, perhaps a good idea anymore as Ukrainians are thieving cunts and often carry Ebola but she’s not having it. So…there you have it, eleven Kelly Embergs to choose from and we’re getting the fucking Bella Emberg of Kiev. I hope Putin kills her.

Whereabouts on the Amazon are you? You’ll struggle for a signal until you sail into Amsterdam, according to Roops the piss-flap flasher.

I hate the kopshite Cunt, Raaso. He’s from Hoylake, very close to our gaff. He’s definitely a chutneyferret and I’m glad the cunt got killed in the last movie. He needs outing.

So, Sinn Féin…going forward?

Simultaneously?

Billy’s a hymen thief. Roops won’t let it go…well, after she initially did.

A little bit of you wants to though, out of badness?

Reported.

Usual. Bent ref and a win for Murder FC. On the plus side, no innocent Italian children were trampled to death at the game. Why the fuck do you care? Aren’t you a Glentoran fan?

I see she’s up to her old tricks again.

Tea is for lesbertarians.

Hard boiled eggs on a beach with a blue flag status.

Never mind all that…the question must be, does Amber Turd take it in trap 2. Judging by the size of that log, would you touch the sides even with your Caribbean-sized kidney-wiper?

Johnny’s sound. Never ducked a round and paid his rent on time when he stayed in our cock-loft in the mid 80’s.

We don’t know enough about Liston. This clouds the comparison. Clay beats both of them though. You can’t hurt what you can’t see.

This is no time for fear, after what’s gone on lately. Don’t let us down Jako….get the Cunt.

It’s an interesting discussion. My old man, born in 1934, ran our local boxing club. I had many hours of such discussions. My angle was that modern boxers, with their diets, athleticism and pure size would do well in an any era. His counter argument ran something like this…’listen son. EVERYONE boxed in the town when I was a kid. You needed 70 fights before you got the chance of a shot at the British belt. There were no JCB’s in them days, men were physically powerful, hand balling on the docks or on the shovel. They only needed to crack you once, they had arms like girders. As for diet, we were on rations until 1955, I was 18 when I saw a fuckn banana, never mind Coca-Cola.’ Dad was a top boxer and boxed for England at ABA level…one name…Sugar Ray Robinson, for him. The only other he loved was a little Panamanian light-weight.

Gypps?

He’s on his arse. Deliver the blow, Jake.

Don’t bottle it now, Jako. It’s about time someone stood up to @Decimus. You’ve got his number. Finish him.

Your best work ever, Prof. Now, get disembowelled you stupid cuntess.

I don’t get the ‘duck’ thing Jako. Can you elaborate. Trust me, if it’s good, I’ll join in. I’ve got previous for about turns. Standing by.