Rev

She should be wakened while pissed with her good hand chained behind her back and her gimpy one at the controls of an A370 Airbus which has just run out of fuel at 35,000ft. I suspect the hoof-wanking bungle-cunt would be swimming in her own piss before the landing gear was down. I want her dead.

Healthy dietary options are for cunts and bearded, piss-soaked gender-fluid sausagers. These are the frottagers who follow a poofter's game called "football", have ketchup with a full breakfast and masturbate over a laminate of Tim Farron. I want them dead.

I wouldn't stick the boot in the skinny cunt. I suspect she'll need FemFresh for her "curtains"; every cunt from here to fucking Bogotá has explored those gammon hangers. I'd fuck the shit out of Kimberley Walsh though.

Football's for poofs. And cunts.

To be honest, I'm glad this McGuinness prick is dead. It's just a pity the cunt didn't suffer like the many victims of his actions or orders did. There are many apologists for this cowardly and parasitic cockthistle, who cite his "work for peace". Sorry, it doesn't absolve him of any of the knee-cappings, tortures, or murders he committed against defenceless, innocent and unarmed men, women and children. That would be like excusing Savile being a paedophile because he raised cash for children's charities/hospitals. Fuck off. His obituary claimed he left a widow. Actually, the fucking bastard left hundreds. Good riddance.

If Islam is so fucking marvellous, why are all these swarthy jihadi wankpuffins coming to a Christian country? Why don't they fuck off to somewhere that embraces their goat-bothering? Cunts. They can fuck off.

Many moons ago, I used to be hopelessly in love with Mrs Roops, long before Lady P dismissively fucking drop-kicked me off the back of her guard's van, but she spurned my affection. All the promises of romantic strolls along the Corniche were but an illusion. She is a cruel and heartless mistress. Body to fucking die for if I recall, though.

The worst thing about Paris is that it's full of poofs, cunts and smelly fucking women who refuse to shave either their armpits, legs, or moustaches. In lay speak, it's full of rifle-dropping bastard collaborators, or French cunts if you will. There is no best thing.

I'm pretty sure the regular fistings she received from Roddy Llewellen in the 70s widened it sufficiently to the point where every time the gin-soaked cunt coughed, half her uterus would prolapse, drop to her ankles and slosh around like half-cooked Farmfoods gammon hangers, until some fucker doughnut-punched her clap-riddled giblets back up. She was that shagged-ragged by the time she fucked off this mortal coil, her fucking pessary ring was like a bastard lifebuoy.

I meet too many of these overly sensitive cockthistles on a daily fucking basis. From liberal lefty bastard student types, with an astonishingly over-developed sense of entitlement, to the fucking stay-at-home special snowflake cunts who project their erroneous superiority on all us lesser mortals. In the real world, these fucking spastic-herding cunts would be beaten fucking senseless with a bitumen-filled hose and be subject to some rudimentary DIY repair, courtesy of a veritable cornucopia of Makita power tools and a varied selection of 16-28oz ball-pein hammers. I just happen to have a discreet and fairly isolated lock-up, well-equipped with the above for the sole purpose of instilling fear and humility into the fucking arse-butler cunts. I want them dead.

I see some fucking rifle-dropper broke his bastard leg on the vault, or some other gymnastic poofery. Good. Shower of fucking collaborator cunts. I want them dead.

There aren't many things that get right up my fucking tits than fucking Dairylea-smelling slab-crackers...well, apart from that cunt-ugly, moustachioed Nicola "Deeply Unpopular Bastard Fucking Communist Sow" Sturgeon I mean. These fat butter-injected, calorie-abusing bastards have no meaning in the modern world. At all. When I become emperor, I'll have the Creme Egg-bothering cunts herded up, chained to a diesel space-heater and skinned from the ankles up. I want them dead.

I'll never understand all this fucking rainbow-flavoured Tom-poofery. These badger-dangling arse-butlers should be scored like pork rind, before being slow-roasted and ground into a coarse paste. I'm known as a tolerant man, perhaps too generously tolerant at times, as I'm sure many of you cunts will rush to attest to, but these fucking man-bag wearing homosexualist turd professors can fuck right off. I want them dead.

You're not wrong there, gypo. John Bishop is a depressingly dreary, humour-resistant wanker. He's the kind of cunt that otherwise would have been a trolley-jockey at Sainsbury's under the Equal Opportunities programme for Scouse flids with learning difficulties. I'd quite happily stab the boring cunt in the fucken teeth. In fact, I'd go as far as to say I want him dead.

Footballists and Nicola "Fucking Commie Bastard Pot Cunting-Ugly Sow" Sturgeon, hopefully.

Similarly, I had to Google the yogurt-weaving social justice warrior cunt. I'm not sure why this fucking bearded, clothes dyed with her own piss bastard thinks her fucking opinion has any credibility. She should be kidnapped by the Household Cavalry and be dry-fucked up her Quorn-squirting dung-hatch with Prince Phillip's crusty old canoe, then set on fire. I want her dead.

As a matter of principle, I refuse to wear snug-fitting Lycra shorts and skip around narcissistic, sweaty cock-watching poofs in a fucking leisure centre. However, if there are limp-wristed bastard fart-knuckles who tie their hair in a bun and "work out" with pastel-coloured dumbbells to the soundtrack of Flashdance, before they all gay off with each other in the fucking toilets, that's their concern. It all sounds a bit footbally to me and not in the least bit manly. Fucking card-carrying benders, the lot of them. I want them dead.

Is this what we're now reduced to...notarising our own fucking posts? Cunt.

Ordinarily, as we all know, fat cunts smell of piss, have bad teeth and should really be boiled down into an asphalt additive. However, they are perhaps not the demographic with the most displeasing aesthetics. Gingers smell of supermarket Brie, have yellow teeth from birth and have chromosomes that are that fucked up, they are one step away from actual bona fide Down Syndrome, yet these Fanta-pubed cunts are still allowed to integrate with proper humans. Faced with being in a sinking boat with a chubby bastard and a ginger flid...actually, I'd throw both of the cunts out. They're of no use to any cunt, unless used as a fucking draught excluder. Bastards. I want them dead.

The only fucking reason these corpulent, bearded and dreadlocked, liberal left-tard fucking chunters are demanding this is because there's no bloke desperate enough to harpoon one of the cunt-like-a-burst-kebab cows on a night out. It's petty jealousy at just not being fuckable. As we all know from personal experience, all self-respecting, attractive and willing ladies go moist at the gusset at the male call of, "Show's yer fucken hamster". These killjoy 400lb leviathans can fuck off. There's fuck all sexy about sagging and hairy tits that look like shopping bags half filled with dog food. I want them dead.

You get the list up and running and I'll drop kick the fucking bearded vagitarian cunts through it. It seems only fair.

I suppose I'd fuck her. However, of course I have conditions; as long as I get to wipe my cock in Heidi Allen's hair and receive a damn good tea-bagging off Lucy Allan, I'll be more than happy to accommodate. I'm a generous man and giving is in my nature.

I'm afraid this special needs bastard's excuse is fucking piss poor. If it was going to have a "detrimental effect" on his chances in Rio, then he should never have fucking entered this homosexual pushbike race in the first bastard place. I've never heard of the fucking cocksucker before tonight, not being a poof (or sports fan, if you prefer), but I will nevertheless not hesitate to assert that I want him dead. Freddie Mercury was a cunt.

To be fair, I'd worn those split-crotch French Directoire undercrackers of Esther's until every last drop of her perfectly delightful moistness had been squeezed out of the cunts anyway. Fear not, my fellow bastards; I am establishing a new format for my next two competitions, Victoria Wood - Fuck Off and get Cancer, and Carla Lane - Thank Fuck You're Dead, You Grizzled Old Sow. I'm not entirely sure what the top prize should be yet, but I'm thinking along the lines of a thirty minute elbow-deep fisting session with the not nearly as fragrant as she used to be Debbie McGee, or an updated adaptation of that 80s teatime favourite Through the Bark-stripper with a fucking lesbian politician of your choice going through it feet first.