Meet Uncle Monty

They're not all cunts (well in this respect). They have a palate partial to some week-old roadkill, as do I so cut them some slack you bitter old bastards and embrace the culture of smoking Gitanes, dead squirrels, hairy arsed women and a police force clubbing you to death for as much as protesting about the age of retirement. Just say Non and take to the streets if you're British and watch the filth kettle you.

In my misspent, drug-ravaged days of the early 90's there was a DJ called 'Bob Funkhouse' who also dealt copious quantities of pharmaceuticals. You don't get that kind of service nowadays.

I'd be careful, look what the BBC's Gerald Sin-stadt got caught doing.

Not a weatherman, surely?

Too many middle class, private schooled players, all the facilities and privileges and a hair-brained 'Bazball' idea that only IPL playing cunts can relate to. And that's the problem - millionaires prioritising IPL rubbish over the red ball game. Sir Geoffrey calls it reckless, you know.

In my cooler clubbing days there were clubs that had a 'No Ralph Lauren' door policy. Just the sight of that big logo reminds me these bellends are in fucking charge. I've had enough, I really have.

Whilst you clueless lot lament the (undoubted) modern-day cuntbreeds in cricket, I bow only to Sir Geoffrey Boycott - the gospel of analysis. It's the best plan of attack, is that.

He has the charm and eloquence of a three day corpse. Pronounce your Ts and quit the false, ultra-working class demeanour. Has the income and abode of considerable wealth which must boil the piss of his members. In fact this nom itself is piss boiling, thanks a bunch, comrades.

John Higgins is the WPBSA's ambassador and could swallow 300,000 all right. Were you the spectator who shouted at him during that match, Cunt?

No Further Action, Sir Cleft.

As a proud imperialist and blood-thirsty thug I am deeply miffed when the media slag my class of person this time every year claiming they are not chasing government approved decoys and instead foxes. I have an old friend who was once an anarchist 'sab' who tells me they never did chase decoys and I say Tally-Cunting-Ho to that. Those weeping lunatics will find another topic once the cameras have fucked off. The picket lines will need some numbers and extra voice soon.

You leave Paul Ross alone. Being a humble daytime TV and chat magazine jobber - all the while struggling under the shadow of his brother with a huge cock and bank balance greater than the Prince of Monaco must be ego-crushing enough without your bizarre and churlish claim. Take it back Decimus you fiend.

😏 Raw nerve.

Uncanny sycophantic response there, Mr Admas. Is that Mrs Roops's fanny batter in that face fungus?

Why not have the bottle to confront the cunt - if this beef even existed in the first place? I suspect you're fishing for cheap feedback, the like of which is abundant here.

That leftist, dystopian bullshit of the Mirror that starts to grate - fuck VLS and the annoying Orb.

Imagine a wooden box full of his shite with your name on it for Christmas. Your best hope would be Parcelforce going on strike and it getting lost forever in transit. This is the man who gave us the Frog Chorus. You'd need to be caning an 1/8 a day to come up with that.

Their concept of central heating is a bongful of weed and a crate of Carling. The government really need to crackdown on these meatheads.

And Daniel 'Swampy' Hooper, while being as thick as a plank, is suffering in that yurt in the freezing cold for our sins. Or is he in a cosy house on the sly?

Wiggers with dreads and those who've cultured those pathetic lockdown inspired, cunt-heavy beards solely to get attention are everywhere and they're going nowhere. So get used to your fluffy do-gooding comrades with their ethically produced niche beers in jam jars and stop the hatred, you bastards.

It's not enough they offer up the women's game as prime time sport in a fucking heatwave. Oh no, those fuckers are all over the world cup. Mind you Hartson is about as butch as you can get with that neanderthal gait. The whispering is misleading. Very non-Welsh.

Quite, Sir. The sideshow has now become the actual fucking match. The selfish, mean-spirited bastards are lording it in front of purposely assembled crowds of Japanese Arabs, dancing mud-hutters, Maradona cardboard cutouts, all in the depths of winter with McMoist handed the job of describing it. What he really thinks of it - besides the blood money - will be a more gritty Glaswegian profanity no doubt. Industrial strength cunts they are.

With subtitles on Ceefax.

Decimus, old hand, far from trying to steal your considerable thunder, I think the corner of cuntery would benefit from free speech. My thoughts are bollocks to you, and big bollocks they are indeed.

When this man talk politics I think only of Cromwell Street and ‘Death Row Records’. Not helpful is it?