Jiggerycock

Always relied upon to organise the office 'dress like a cunt' day for Comic Relief and the staff Christmas do - before going home to their lonely bedsit and sobbing themselves to sleep to the sound of Melody Radio and their 12 cats howling to be fed as even they only want them because they've got the key to the kittycat.

Isn't he the lallygobble that shoehorns a brown-hatter angle into everything he writes? 'Andy, Teddy and Looby-Loo got back into the basket - goodnight children..goodnight...Teddy spread your buttocks for a rimming' 'I'm just a great big silly old Hector.....when I'm whacked out on poppers and have lost my felchspoon' That kind of thing.

Fuck it, no wonder I never made it to the 'Cunts Corner Illuminati' I thought the first rule was to develop a rich and informed knowledge of 'bleach as a drinks option'. You live (well, you don't, actually...) and learn....

Bloody Foreigner! Coming over here, wanting to know what love is.

And the Obergruppenfuehrer of this genre? Davina FkAll! How she gets away with this shite I don't know.

Like I care. I'm meeting an underworld spy - then I'm off to fuck your wife.

Right well if you can have that, then I'm having the entire body of work of Neil Diamond. What the fuck is a 'Cracklin' (don't you just LOATHE that apostrophe'd 'g') Rosie? No? Okay then 'A Two-Bit Manchild' (sounds like something Brony may have strummed and throbbed about)? What about 'Porcupine Pie' ? I mean he just puts words together and starts shouting. That's not music. That's bollocks. "I am (a cunt) I said"

....and that's worth a fucking Oscar is it?

Quick Google search on her revealed...... well, I never actually got beyond a picture of her, with her jaw-dropping cleavage on full display. Probably the latest idiot-savant, paraded before an expectant world, telling us all how it's going to be. (......with a spectacular rack)

Well sometimes it's the little things that, paradoxically, are the biggest pieces if grit in life's Vaseline. I have to turn off 'Big Yellow Taxi' 5 seconds before the finish to avoid Joni Mitchell doing that bass-baritone-and-forced-laugh thing she does right at the end of the song, otherwise I get stabby.

I know what you mean. 'Talking about it' is as close as I get to oral sex these days

The motherlode really of modern telly, venerating the brick-thick, the common, the plastic and the tawdry. It was always coming to this, trust me. That's why they got the frag grenade straight in the kisser

Fuck you! You were warned but oh no, you had to come the big swinging dick and take a look. You got what you deserved and since you actually copped the visuals, were they all 'neckerchiefs and long leather trenchcoats' trying to give it the 'wild eyed desperado gazing into the abyss with a cobalt-eyed flinty stare......with a mullett' vibe, or have I misremembered?

I think 'shitting it' is the first sign of your impending doom

Not Spurs fans then, the pair of shitehawks.

Get orrrrf moi thread!

Yes - and it hasn't aged well

Just caught this on my local FM radio station. What a load of vacuous, bombastic big dogs cock, from MTV-friendly hell!!

We're back to The Tate Modern again! Security guard - cunt though he undoubtedly is - should have claimed he was 'exploring the foetid underbelly of consumer capitalism and was merely holding a metaphorical mirror up to an uncaring world, juxtaposing the sickly treasures within the shopping mall ('mall' being a nod to all-pervading American monopoly culture) to the homeless waifs outside, the water in question being a metaphor for the scorn that society pours upon victims' (How am I doing here? I should have been a lawyer. This sentence alone must have earned me 80 quid. Bang in a few more subjunctive clauses, citing a load of artistic monkeyspunk and I'll be fucking minted!)

I think it's fair to say the Pheasant was pretty nonplussed with this whole deal too.

THWOCK! Below the belt that one Sir! There's this insane old biddy who works on the tills in the local Budgen, who basically has her little area turned into some kind of a shrine to that guy, just before Christmas. Pictures, letters and badges of him all over the show. I only know who he is now because I was dumb enough to ask her who he was and she went off into a hyperbolic, cantgetawordinedgeways lecture about him and the number of times she'd met him and how he was now appearing in some sub-ProfB level karaoke or jitterbug competition on the telly and what a Christ-like figure in light entertainment he was. She then tried to give me a Christmas card 'thinking of you and your family this Christmas', I mean how can you deal with someone like that? Gave her the old 'thousand yard stare' and murmured 'No! My family fears outsiders' and walked off. Sorry to change the subject so abruptly into a nom, but I thought this little vignette might counter the monotony of our otherwise boring existence. No? Oh well fuck off then.

There I am, sat in my seat, waiting for some righteous intensity from an artist I've not seen in four years. Can't wait. Oh but hang on, people around me can't sit still for three fucking hours, or haven't got the presence of mind to empty their sub-atomic particle sized bladders before the gig - or if they have then their lager withdrawal trauma kicks in if they go without booze for more than 20 minutes. So everyone on my row gets to do the knees-bent-awkward-shuffle cha-cha every five minutes whilst pinheads who've presumably paid good money for a ticket have to walk out and dick about before returning for more of the same. Then there's the cunts who have to record the whole thing on their smartphones or who have to update their oh-so-critical social media (AKA their marketing of their idealised version of themselves platforms), tap-tapping away, faces glowing with the light shining from their I-Pads with enough brightness to power a solar farm for a year. "Stick it to the man!" - but only if my urinary, digestive and social discourse functions allow.

Fucking brain dead before going on these snake-oil affairs. Crass stupidity plus grasping cunt equals one way trip to the morgue for Johhny Frenchie

He's fooling no one, the adipose balloon! Looks like John Hurt, just before the Alien shot out of his guts.

Yes I was rather hoping for some explicit 'cumulonimbus girly action' wordplay too, you little tease!