Decimus

Surely even the dead have standards, she looks like a cross between the cunt from Nickelback and Tobias Menzies. When Neil inevitably dies of a massive cardiac event this year, I doubt that even his raping-spectre would unload its ectoplasm over her tits.

Cut your hair, you scruffy fucking cunt.

Gather round fellow cunters, and make yourselves comfortable. Dim your lights, lock your doors and pour yourselves a large medicinal brandy. What I am about to divulge has never been discussed outside of my inner circle through fear of being ridiculed by sceptical naysayers. But as the weather cools and the nights slowly begin to draw in, I feel that it is time to share the horrors that I once confronted during a cold foggy, and damp November evening whilst wandering the bleak fens of Norfolk in 2013. Having attended a birthday of a colleague in a small hamlet just outside of Swaffham, I was dismayed to discover that the taxi I had ordered to take me to Norwich railway station at 11pm had failed to appear. Due to the complete lack of mobile phone coverage within the area, I was unable to call Mrs. D to mount a rescue mission, so began a five mile walk to the next village where a colleague was staying at a cosy local hostelry. No sooner had I set out upon the narrow country lane which led toward my salvation, than a thick mist suddenly descended upon me, rendering my surroundings completely obscured beyond a radius of a mere four feet. Stumbling blindly along in eerie silence, I desperately attempted to grope my way towards civilisation as I suddenly became overcome with a feeling of existential dread. Within a minute of the fog cloaking my senses, I began to sense that I was not alone in my nocturnal journey. A slow, rhythmic breathing was ever present behind my right ear, deepening and becoming more ragged as I nervously increased my pace in an effort to escape the spectre that was stalking me. As my own heart rate rapidly increased, I began to feel myself hyperventilating to the point that I had to stop my journey through fear of rendering myself unconscious and vulnerable to whatever was hunting me. After a brief two minute interlude where the only noise to break the sudden silence was the mournful hoot of a tawny owl, I began to run at full pelt, blindly crashing my way down the twisting lane that by now was completely cloaked by a veil of fridgid, ethereal vapour. I eventually reached the safety of my colleague's lodgings, and fortified with a double Laphroaig, I considered relaying to him the horrors that I had faced during my eventful night-time adventure. As I was about to begin, my colleague turned his face back from the roaring fire of his room and looked me directly in the face. It was at this point in time, I realised that the true horror was only just beginning. This was not my colleague that I was face to face with. The hideous face that still haunts dreams was none other than....

Let's hope for her sake then that she never finds herself on a moonlit night in Norfolk, her taxi slowing to avoid the numerous empty bottles outside of your tumbledown bungalow. Before she could scream "Me Too!" your cheesy little worm would be slithering in between the gaps of her tombstone nashers.

After reviewing all the evidence, it would appear that the man behind the Stubby profile has got a ponytail. A fucking ponytail!

And I was under the impression that Stubby would struggle to write a letter to Father Christmas. Just goes to show that you should never judge a book by its cover.

@Stubby Pecker?

I've reviewed the evidence, and it would appear that he is the stinking, fat yellow t-shirted spastic who can regularly be found chasing butterfly's with a plastic spoon at Daneway banks. Now his location has been confirmed, can I assume that he will be dealt with in due course? Has he checked the children?

There's always been a strange obsession with multi-ID's on The Corner, and I've never got my head around why anyone would give a shit. Every now and again there's a massive bout of "Reds under the bed" paranoia that drags on for weeks. Does it really matter? I for one think that everyone should be allowed at least one alternative account on here and a chance to portray another character. This isn't real life, so what's the harm in being two different personalities? Pen might choose to bizarrely adhere to some sort of Island of Sodor Lily Savage persona, but I'm sure that anyone else would use the opportunity to bring an alternative type of humour to the board.

I'm absolutely fucking appalled that Stubby is sullying the leaderboard with his presence. I'm not sure what the hell you, Bill and Bubs are playing at, but I want him gone and replaced by either one of you by Wednesday. Pull yourselves together, this doesn't look good for you.

I've just listened to the interview, and as far as I can tell, he was asking legitimate questions about an event that the alleged victim was rather hazy about. She criticises the police for not doing anything as CCTV is deleted after 30 days, even though she apparently reported the incident the next day. When asked why she did not provide the number of the taxi, she claims that she was too drunk to remember, despite the fact this was undoubtedly on her phone or could quite quickly be discovered by a formal police investigation. Finally, she had the audacity to state that she didn't take it further as she did not want to be subjected to a lengthy court case that would have resulted in an acquittal, despite vocally supporting the #metoo movement and women doing everything they can to bring sexual assaulters to account. She's right about one thing, it would have been an acquittal, as she is quite clearly making the whole incident up. When asked to provide corroborating evidence, she clearly couldn't and instead threw a hissy fit and got a man suspended from his job. Apparently it would seem that in this country women can now make up fantastical stories about rape that have the potential to cost a man his liberty, and no one is allowed to question the validity of their bullshit through fear of a media backlash. Can someone tell me when the entire male British population became emasculated enough to allow this shit to happen?

I take it that you are of course referring to Alma, the Russian incarnation of Bigfoot?

She was solely responsible for all the Decimus profile's output until April 2015 when I took over.

Let's not forget about the true horror that is involved in this nom, when said happy-snappy cunt gets home and decides to regale their nearest and dearest with a pictographical odyssey of their ten days in Benidorm. Apart from tedious cunts who insist on relaying their dreams to others, there is no worst bore in the world than someone with 267 photographs of a half built water park in some fly-blown Mediterranean shithole who then gleefully tortures their victims for three hours with a preprepared slide show.

I hope that you've sat and seriously considered where you are going to go with this. There's a place at the top table that you vacated in 2015 at stake, and you've got one shot. Lose yourself.

Wasn't there some nasty business surrounding his patented curry recipe? I do believe that you tracked down an exact replica in a Women's Weekly magazine.

I won't. You've got your own individual nuances and quirks, leave the mate shit to those who are less respected around here.

Don't ever say mate again.

Ollybore?

I do quite enjoy the Byzantine and Machiavellian machinations of the admin team. Quid pro quo, if I destroy that nosey little cunt Stubby for you, will you let Quincy back?

Gyppo, I can imagine you trying to play the damsel in distress card. Stood in a puddle of your own piss in a Wetherspoon's, your massive size 12 feet squeezed into a pair of stilletos and mascara and tears streaming down into your five o'clock shadow. If your hairy chest and 6'4 frame doesn't give you away, you'll be rumbled as soon as you get up to do a pitch perfect rendition of Barry White on the karaoke. You make me fucking sick.

Frankly, I'm more than a little bit surprised that someone who parades around Camberwell with a dick swinging like a pendulum from beneath the hem of a sack cloth dress has the audacity to pass sartorial judgement on others.

To be fair, he's got his brother on hand to do that for him.

I'll thank you to keep your big fat fucking beak out of matters that don't concern you.