nocti

I actually miss Keith at times. He was a bit like Punkape, only self-aware, and occasionally funny.

Now this I take no issue with whatsoever. If it wasn't for hearing the accent when accosted by homeless people in London, or Rob Brydon mentioning it every third sentence whenever the cunt is on TV, I'd forget it was even there.

She's not half bad now. In fact, I'd go far as to say that she's getting better with age.

What the fuck are you basing this on, RK?

The fucking nerve.

I don't even know who this wanker is, but irrespective of what shenanigans he's involved in, his first name is Dean. For that alone, I hope the cunt catches fire.

Reported for doxxing.

Cunt looks like if Santa fell on hard times. And a landmine.

Neil. Taking on climate change, one wank at a time.

What this pair of wankers have basically done is found somebody that charges £20 less per head. How fucking stoic.

Not bad. I'd have sex with her on purpose.

I'd fuck her now as it goes. She might have her objections, but I'd certainly be up for discussing it. She hasn't aged quite as gracefully as old Mirren, but at the risk of sounding overly sentimental, I'd add her to the pile of septuagenarians that are ripe for rooting.

I was about to mention the tattoos. Another issue with them, is that they either get David Blunkett to do them, or all kids these days just happen to look like Simon Weston's reflection in a fun house mirror. They are, without exception, fucking terrible.

That's just how he comes across sometimes.

Co-hosts a programme convincing people to save money by using grated cardboard instead of rice, then blowtorches a broccoli floret and charges 50 quid for it in his (s)wanky fucking poof parlour. More fool the thick cunts who fall for it, but still; what a twat.

Women's rugby is good to have on when you're fucking arseholed. It reminds me why I shouldn't drunk-dial any of my exes. International volleyball is quite the spectacle when the Japs aren't playing. You'd expect a bit of eye candy from them, but I assume they push all the girls whose faces you could plane a fucking door with into playing it, whilst the others fuck off to start those nails-down-chalkboard J-pop groups. The little cunts.

I love how that line precedes such a scathing rant which is delivered immediately after receiving applause, for what seems like a genuinely heartfelt and profound tribute to his son. He wears his influences on his sleeve, but No Cure For Cancer and Lock and Load have some fucking great harangues in them.

Absolutely. I was actually discussing this with a friend not so long ago. With all the fanny in the world at their command, John goes for an absolutely fucking batshit slanter, whose autobiography will end up being written in her own shit and menstrual blood; and Paul Mc-fuckwit-Cartney settles for some ropy kale-weaving livestock-bothering yank with all the charm and charisma of Andy Murray losing at scrabble. Baffling as all fuck.

Whilst I'm no Neil, I am however notorious for having perilously low standards. But if just this "woman" and I were the last living beings on earth, given the task of procreating to further the existence of humanity, for the very sake of future generations and their dignity, I would have to fuck her up the arse.

Whatever happened to noms like this?

I think it should be solely reserved for those who fucking watch it.

Bit harsh Pen, he speaks highly of you.

I still have my fingers crossed that his curiously bass-baritone vocals are due to a rare and untreatable form of throat cancer.

Someone asked him the other day what the "J" stood for in Donald J Trump. He replied "Genius."

Do handjobs tend to go through PAYE, Neil?