Rev

Yeah. Her soggy tits could have been crude blue-print precursors for airbags in Triumph Heralds, or something and were fuck all to write home about even in 1962. I reckon nowadays the Windsor cunt has to tie a couple of gym ropes round the fuckers attached to curtain weights slung over her humphy Lord of the Rings dwarf back to stop her fucking nipples scraping the Tarmac when she walks. I think she should be rendered into adhesive, after being set on fire and put out with a fucking golf shoe. She's a cunt and no mistake. And a bastard.

I'm with bill stickers on this one. They're all cunts, really. The bus driver should have been shot in the legs and told to fuck off if he wanted to exit the locale with his turban intact. The woman should have been dragged behind the Chinese Takeaway and given a damn good fucking and perhaps some advice on breast augmentation. The "trained fighter" prick should have had a dimpled beer tumbler smashed in his fucking face and told "Stitch that, cunt" and the woman's car should have had the child-locks activated and set alight. Y'see, there's always a simple solution. You just need to think outside the box.

Quite right, Sticko. It provides an aesthetic interlude for blokes seeing womenfolk in tight strides. However, they are heir to the same problems as us cunts. If they lean over to pick up a crate of Budweiser for their better half in Sainsburys (if you're poor), or Waitrose (if you possess some social etiquette), or even bend down to pick up a foetid pile of their gentleman's undercludgers in need of a boil-wash, they similarly can trap their bollocks in their gusset. It's the sweaty fold of the clackerbag that always gets nipped like a fucking bus ticket in these circumstances. I therefore believe women should just forego this eye watering situation and simply wear wet T-shirts and a thong, before lovingly handing over a chilled bottle of his favoured tipple.

Yes. Quite so, Spotto. Nothing screams testosterone more loudly than an elaborately brocaded kimono at Coitus Lodge. I sometimes wear it in conjunction with spats and gaiters while lazily surveying the grounds surrounding our sprawling estate and jokingly drop a bead on the Untermensch scum tending the sunken garden with the old Beretta DT 11. Amon Göeth was a cunt.

Yeah, sorry Snatchers. Once you've reversed over the bastards until your suspension can detect no obstruction impeding it's progress, why not pour a litre or two of forecourt 98 RON on the fucker's screaming remains, light a match or flip open your Zippo to complete the project and flambé the cunt. You know it makes sense.

I always fancied rebuilding a Lambretta when I was a young cunt. An old mate had a 175 left in his garage from the mid-sixties, but I lost interest and rebuilt an old Triumph Trophy 650 instead. A proper bloke's bike. These plastic rice-rocket heaps of shite are ridden by the type of wanker-haircut arse-candles that need their fucking clackerbag scythed off and then drop-kicked into a fucking bark-stripper. I've shat out chicken dopiazas that go faster than these benefits-dependent mong chariots. It should be made law that you flatten these bastards out on the road.

I had a look at one, because I thought they looked okay. It's just an overgrown car. It doesn't even have 4WD. A cunt's car to be sure. That Series 1 in your picture doesn't look too dissimilar to an old 2a I used to have, Dingo. A real man's motor. No tassels, no hand-tooled leather satchels, no poofery...just the faint whiff of oestrogen from all the women moistening at the sight of it.

Murray is a fucking bawbag of truly Olympian magnitude. A closet separatist, but is still happy to take the Queen's shilling. A lot of "personalities" in Scotland have followed this path and are beginning to comprehend why their popularity is dropping like a fucking stone. He's a cunt and should be hanged in public. And set on fire. Bastard.

Very nice, Spotto. I got this cunt for my birthday.

Shit. You've rumbled me, Jugs.

A great moment missed, Snatchers. These are things that are meant to be savoured. Thank you kindly, Drew. A record 32 minutes, 26 seconds here. A pleasing beginning, rather uneventful, yet ungainly waisted mid-section and what could only be described as a classy glossy-sheened tail-piece, reminiscent of a Bordeaux jus served at more upmarket restaurants. After flushing (second attempt), it left a long-lasting slightly green-tinged puddle at the bottom of the bowl, not unlike the colour favoured by working class scum when tinting the windows of their 18 year old Vauxhall Nova, or indeed the quite fucking dreadful curries we got served at boarding school. A pleasant birth, well worth the exorbitant prices as suggested by the tea-rooms of the old Royal Burgh. The Reformation Martyrs were cunts.

A favourable result, as I'm sure we'd all agree, mate. After a Saturday meal of garlic bagel, smoked salmon, chives and attendant cream cheese, followed by a simple repast of Prince of Cambridge scone and a board of peppered ham, pancetta, Brie and Emmental on a day out to St Andrews, I can feel the burgeoning quake of explosive, but no doubt, perfectly clustered and tapered rectal discharge, the vapours of which I've shared quite freely around the Coitus household, to sage nods of approval this morning. It smells just as good as I presently dilate for breech as it did going down. This beauty is going to be photographically catalogued as a Classic. I shall record the timing once all afterbirth has been fully discharged.

41 minutes 52 seconds for my last one, Jacko. It was a fucking corker. Took me two chapters of "Rudolf Hoess: My Time At Auschwitz" to squeeze out the last pellets and I had to break the fucker in two before the cunt would flush. As luck would have it, one of the missus' hair-brushes was within arm's reach when I launched the bastard.

I can only drink this shit if it's diluted with Smirnoff. Any cunt who drinks it from a can is likely in the demographic of hairy-arsed bastards who smear margarine on their nipples, watch football and ride a Harley.

Correct.

While that is to a greater degree quite true, as masturbating is the second best thing about an en suite shithouse (I'm not talking about public conveniences frequented by footballers, Harley riders and their questionable trade), there is nothing quite as satisfying as curling out a long overdue steaming turd that resembles one of Samuel L Jackson's legs. My last one, perfumed with Butter Chicken, but fortified by Guinness had so fucking much of it that sat proud of the water-line, that it looked as if I had to stand up to give birth to the cunt.

Of course it's bent. The game is chock-full of fucking homosexuals. Hope this helps.

My learned colleague Mr Peacock is entirely correct. These fucking ring-lords will make public rimming an actionable law if we don't set alight to each and every one of the cunts. I suspect these screaming, shit-plunging arse-candles will have football-related saggy arse-buggery as an Olympic event before long. This is why the bearded cunt upstairs gave us fire, to quell the promotion of these raving sperm detectives. Let's kill them all. Big G Hates Benders, although Fred Phelps was a bit of a cunt.

I agree, mate. Although I've heard that gherkins are good for thrush, if inserted diligently.

And let's not gloss over that other doyen of the music charts and key instigator of the Punk/Indie scene, Keith Harris. Who can forget the incendiary flagship thrash metal anthem, "I Wish I Could Fly"? He made being a curly-haired, leching, plushie-fisting cunt cool and fashionable, while retaining the moon-faced bastard next door appeal.

Fuck me. She looks like Arthur Mullard with a pigtail. And tits.

I actually fucking agree with this nom in principle. So does my guitar, Colin.

Any cunt considering using a public convenience has a shabby tendency for homosexual leanings...and football-related buggery. I wouldn't be caught dead laying a cable in a grubby lavatory frequented by chocolate cha-cha dancing sperm detectives, preferring instead to curling out a dirty great Cleveland Steamer within the comfortable confines of the cab on the way home and using the spare naan from my doner deluxe to clean up the superfluous beer, poorly cooked lamb and vodka-infused residue. Keith Floyd was a cunt.

I'd bulldoze the fucking shithouse; preferably with that cunt-lipped dwarf Sturgeon nailed to a fucking desk in the centre of it. The repair bills top £110,000 a month at present. The bastard who designed it has gone on record as asserting that it'd be cheaper pulling the fucking place down by 2020 than constantly throwing other cunts' money at it. Did I mention that Sturgeon is a cunt?