Jiggerycock

It's always cancer isn't it? Never AIDS of the leg.

I'm quite the fence sitter generally in this bike / car debate. Cyclists don't pay road tax and don't help themselves and car drivers get into their little tin boxes and go 'look out World! I'm an iron-clad mutha with a giant ego and a cock the size of Jupiter, come to lay waste to your entire fucking bloodlines! However, I was in Oxford last night and my God the cyclists there have an attitude like they were sole heirs (pluralising the unplurable, yes, I know, don't get picky with me you cunts!) to the Sun King dynasty. Clad in black (naturally - cunts try to exude an air of intense danger-mixed-with-existential-angst), barrelling down the Cowley Road like Bradley Wiggins on angel dust. "Lights? Oh how '21st century'. We just do it by how we 'feel' and possibly smell daddy-oh". I execute a perfect 'mirror-signal-manoeuvre' routine and one of these 'Grade one honours Politics Philosophy and Economics with titty goatee beard' pricks nearly goes over my bonnet - and then gives me a mouthful that makes Shaun Ryder look like Malcolm Muggeridge.

Totally jumped the shark with that one, compounded by the fact I was still tripping on Carol Smilie and Liz Hurley indulging in a bit of cumulonimbus, before the (metaphorical) slap in the face with a cold sponge of your posting....

What did you win - a dialysis machine?

They ARE bloody, bleeding, cunting Babylon FFS!!!!

This is the new touchy, feely 'caring' politics from the party who bought you egg pelting, spitting, 'Tory Scum' and disgusting smears of a dead man's reputation, which would be libel anywhere outside the cloak of parliamentary privilege.

'An Incident At Stockwell' - Where one pumps three rounds from your love-musket into some poor, unsuspecting Brazillian.

I imagine that a buttplug up the old chuff would help in the overall biomechanics of this pseudo-sport, so I wonder if it's been outlawed as a performance enhancing substance? ....and if it has, who has to check?

He's a walker (no, that's not a euphemism. It really is the brand of athletics he pursues). This should come as no surprise as essentially, all he does for a living, is a 50 kilometre mince

They don't fuck about, these dictatorships! This old cunt goes all 'Breaking Bad' on them and he gets a year in the Pokey and flogged like old DVD's at a car boot sale. Imagine what they'd do to Savile?

Unintelligible git - yes, but he has always been that, however he now appears to have added 'louche lounge lizard' to his messianic twat reporter repertoire. Think 'Early 1970's Bryan Ferry with irritable vowel syndrome' and you get the picture

Of course, Ayrton Senna looked like Princess Diana ...........after their respective crashes.

Just tell the locals that the tower blocks spilled their pints.....on purpose....then called them 'puffs'

A sport has to have an intrinsic simplicity and 'soul' if it's to have any worth. Formula 1 long since lost both and is now a giant bag of marketing hot air and no amount of 'Suzi Perry, live from the pit lane, trying to appeal to the sad act Onanists' is going to change that fact. When this implodes, it's going to generate a black hole the size of which will have Prof. Brian Cox shitting treacle

Those bastarding Tesco's self-service (self-serving more like) machines have a lot to answer for. Their weight sensitivity levels have tolerances that would put the space programme to shame. As if that's not bad enough they actually talk to you "Have you scanned your Clubcard as this can earn you a gazillion points that could buy you a stick of chewing gum if you live and shop with us for another 90 years". I don't want to be sold to by a robot (which is why I'm not interested in Lewis Hamilton in the Santander advert). So I'm there - a grown man, at high noon in the middle of a busy supermarket - giving the finger to this digital piece of shit that's chatting me up with a voice like a slightly-more-threatening Joanna Lumley, Then we have the fact that I put something wholly reasonable on the scales - a jar of Vaseline say - and it goes fucking spactard mental with it's "UNEXPECTED ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA!!" schtik, yet the ginger kid next to me can put a packet of condoms down and he gets off scot free, I mean where's the fucking justice in that!!?

Debbie Does Dereham A classic, even though I say so myself, wherein a snaggle-toothed local attempts to finger the local sad specimen of whoredom and ends up fisting her due to the genetic defect causing his grubby little webby claws, before they all go sacrifice a three-holed fuck-doll to the Turnip God.

Power-dressed 'wannabee-alphas' whose self-belief is inversely proportional to their ability to actually deliver. Will play along with the whole, pathetic, 'mug it up for the cameras' charade whilst the more clued up viewer will understand that if they are as half as good and clever as they think they are, they would have approached and been taken on by a venture capitalist and be actually doing their pissant 'what the world is waiting for' load of old toot, instead of indulging in this fucking boring, played-out load of old wank. Does that predatory homosexual Claude still posture and preen his way through the semi-finals, milking his few seconds in front of the camera for all it's worth by being a bully?

Same on the beach. Acres of sand that Donald Campbell could have tested 'Bluebird' on and - fuck you Decimus you 'aint the only big swinging dick in here - me and the Mrs contemplating re-enacting the Burt Lancaster / Deborah Kerr bit in 'From Here To Eternity', when a bunch of chippy proles from Dewsbury park up 5 yards away, windbreaks a go-go, invading our space like Space Invaders. You want to punch the cunt so hard in his balls he makes Geddy Lee sound like Pavarotti.

Or the Scouse Haka, whereby Stevie Gee poses and preens his way through another 90 minutes at Anfield, whilst a load of tooled up Toxteth Bucks ransacks his Formby mansion for all the Rolexes they can grab.

You can't educate pork

Anyone who isn't me - SUCKS!!

Just shorten it to 'Christ-Child On Board' and be done with it. I actually think these things are there as a wind up. The suggestion is 'Yes I am fertile and pop out offspring like shelling peas - something your poor, barren, shrivelled womb will never manage, you middle-aged, three fertility cycles and still no result, pitful loserwoman!'

The Welsh can just go in for the drunken flailing of arms like kicking out time in Swansea every Saturday night.....either that or the Nicky-Wire-from-the-Manics frantic pogoing.

More camp than Chicory coffee, the opposition should stand there, laugh it up then go into a pastiche of their own National dance. So Ireland channel Michael Flatley in Riverdance, Robshaw et al put bells on their legs and start twatting each other with inflated pigs bladders and Scotland do the Gay Gordons. Yeah McCaw! Deal with THAT!!

Billy Joe Saunders will get the job done if him and Andy Lee ever get in the ring together