Rev

It's not fuckin' rocket science, scroters. There's a ten spot and a 35cl bottle of vodka up for grabs if you fuckin' assassinate the cross-dressing, maladroit, melted-faced, fascistic, thick cunt who's Scotland's FM. Send me the photos after you've stamped on the ugly fucking bitch's face. If you send me a video link of the cunt pleading for her miserable piss-stained life, there's an extra bottle of Frosty Jack in it for you.

Fucking poofs. In times gone by, if some cunt had put a commercial G-clamp around this fucking pot-ugly scouse sow's hips, to shore up her inconceivably slack vagina, I'd have fucked her. Maybe.

The moustachioed fucking transsexual top lip missing bitch-cunt Nicola Fucking Bastard Sturgeon promised to take some of these swarthy suicide belt-wearing bastards into her own anti-austerity six bedroomed home, but of course, has reneged. Why the fuck can't some White Lightning-drinking, shaven-headed, toothless chav cunt not borrow a high-powered rifle and blow the fucking nationalist cabbage bastard, jihadi-supporting, child-exploiting fucking sow's brains right out of her bullet-headed cunting skull? I'll put up a tenner and a half bottle of Smirnoff for any takers.

True, nocti. It ably demonstrates with a lot more clarity how insular and astonishingly unintelligent some of the learning difficulty-entrenched flids are here now. I have no problem with trading insults, but faced with the unpalatably long time it takes some of these mouth-breathing, dribbling spastics to formulate a suitable rejoinder, I'd have more success debating post-Weimar Germany with a fucking Twix.

It's ironic, isn't it, that some of the newer interlocutors willingly attempt to engage in sparring with their near empty arsenal of poof narratives, while doubtlessly and simultaneously wrapping their withered six-fingered little hands around their father's cock for moral support and calorific value and demonstrably struggle for even more condemning insults to add to their pitiful lexicon. In the real world, it'd be the bark-stripper for these Sun-reading turds and a trenching shovel to put their screaming remains out of their familial twelve-toed misery. Cunts.

You may be right, Bill. I am a cunt, there is little doubt of that. I'm not entirely sure I "prattle on far too often" to be fair. I drop by and see what new drivel is being shat out by the new wave of swivel-eyed cockthistles every now and then, but contribute only when something catches my eye. Thank you kindly for your generous CV of my qualities, though.

I have taken a sabbatical, scrote, ergo, I haven't made any recent nominations. However, I don't consider any that I did make previously were in the category that you would deem as "bad". Now kindly fuck off, young sir.

I remember the good old days when almost all nominations were articulate, funny, informative and a good read, even all of the noms that Jugs submitted, with or without Stavros' special sauce. This place still has some erudite and very noble nominations, mostly from my good and learned colleague, klefto, but if some cunt-blisters here want to talk about fucking rabbits and vegetablist propaganda, fucking just let 'em, but stand aside while the professional bastards nominate subjects that really matter, like bowel movements, glassings, volcanic diarrhoea, fucking the shit out of Lucy Verasamy's wringing gusset, gonorrhoea, setting cunts on fire, unwarranted violence and herpes. Real Ale is for cunts.

That's rather fucking ungentlemanly of you, Gurt. I seem to remember Mrs R being more than adequately equipped in the lady department.

Not a bit of it, Mr B. I just found it a bit difficult changing from the old format. Ah, Christ. I remember that avatar.

Best not to encourage the bastards at all. If they truly lack proficiency and talent in equal measure, they should be gifted with a baptism of fire and a complimentary tour of your brogues. Buskers are of course, all itinerant, travelling, caravan-dwelling, thieving cunts. They'll have the lawn-mower out your shed and the fucking roses out your garden if you don't keep an eye on the bastards. Shabby waistcoated, earring-wearing cunts.

Your problem is your fucking diet. There used to be a jolly fucking good thread about regulars' bowel movements on the old site. But in the absence of the encyclopaedic knowledge it gifted us all, here's what to do...part cook a chicken and throw the cunt into a pot of Butter Chicken Sauce, or Madras. Empty the bastard onto a plate after the first hint of steam and Bingo...the next day, you'll be scattergunning the cunt all over the fucking bed at the first fart. You know it makes sense.

Many thanks, Mr Gas. The fact that you can put a name to that gap-toothed bastard (I had to Google the cunt), let alone masturbate to him, relegates you to a demographic of lower standing that neither Mr Scrote nor I could stoop to. Good day to you, sir. Cunt.

I thank you. Spoken like a gent.

I'm not a newbie. I'm an absolute cunt of long standing here, which Mrs R, Spotto, Scotty, Cuntybaws and many others can vouch for. Consider me a fair-weathered bastard.

Never mind fucking that coiffured cockthistle ponce Bobby Davro...who's up for fucking the shit out of Debbie McGee, now that that jug-eared fucking pixie Paul Daniels bought the big ticket?

Hunting estate, naturally, Jacko. They must be gypos. They've taken over the paddock that I usually reserve for shooting horses in when I'm bored.

There's a shower of fucking pissed-up bastards setting off rockets on the spare ground in our estate right now, beside a huge bastarding bonfire. Thank fuck there's trees and shrubbery between us and them; they won't see where the lit, petrol-filled Buckfast bottles are coming from. Watching them screaming and desperately trying to kill the flames on their highly flammable track-suits will be as pleasurable as throwing Nicola Sturgeon into busy traffic.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/non_fictionreviews/3672334/The-erotic-vagrancy-of-Richard-Burton.html

I'm afraid it's true, Bill. Feel free to research it. It's all in the public domain...and in several of his biographies. Moore also mentioned it in his "An evening with..." tour.

When they were filming The Wild Geese, both Burton and Harris were on the wagon, paid fucking astronomical sums for crates of Tab to sent on set and indulged in the local Ganga. Moore decided that this was a signal for him to become an alcoholic, while the others dried out. Later on in filming, Burton did a scene where he was drinking in Harris' character's house and could barely lift his glass to his mouth with both hands. It was later found that his back was paralysed, due not in any small part to his entire spinal column being covered in crystallised alcohol. Rex Harrison was a cunt.

When I was a single bloke, I always found the best possible outcome can be effected by whipping out the big gun and waving it at females who glanced over for that second too long. You're either going to be faced with a red-faced husband cunt jumping out of Dorothy Perkins to save her honour, or her undercrackers will flood and her paraurethral ducts will leave a cunt-puddle where she stands. T'was ever thus.

Have to agree with you here, swarmers. Re-unions are singularly for bastards, in an effort to demonstrate how much better some other fucker has done than those he wishes to be a smug prick in front of. "Oh yeah, Jeremy's a dentist now and Ken's a flying paediatrician in Australia. What is it you do now? Oh...you're a cunt". My only advice to any cunt thinking of attending one of these unctuous knob-fests is turn up with a fully loaded semi-automatic weapon, a selection of your favourite fragmentation devices and a broken bottle. Any cunt crawling about afterwards, screaming for their mother and trying to gather up their shredded innards from the floor can simply be set on fire.

I'm with snatchers here. Who gives a flying cunt what this hoop-kissing bastard deems patriotic, or not? He's a bastard footballist and that means only one thing, to wit, he's a fucking screaming homosexual and therefore ripe for burning alive, after having the living fuck kicked into him. You know it makes sense. Stop being cunts.