Wolfie

I'm sure your carer can offer her much advice.

I bet she doesn't. I can imagine you peeling back one of your incontinence nappies from her bumcheeks as she delivers a Cleveland steamer onto your freckly, saggy-titted old man's chest. Fuck off.

Manhandling 'Cuddly', your koala bear? Surely you're getting this confused with the time he tried to finger you behind the bike sheds.

I see you've lost none of your penchant for eating suppositories.

Did it work for you?

So you do like dogs, after all.

Christ Gyps. We're like two peas in a pod with our mutual love of the sweet science. Have you ever boxed? I bet you've taken a fist or two in the lips in the past. I keep inviting your around for dinner, and you keep eschewing my advances. Seriously, we also both love curry and wine. With the assistance of alcohol, I won't care less if you look like Giant Haystacks' twin sister with a Romany shadow and biff that keeps Dyno-Rod in business. When the next big AJ-Wilder-Fury fight is on, come visit me, eh? My treat xxx.

Does Furey fill in for Fury when he's unfit? Seriously, I didn't realise you liked a bit of ring action. I cannot see AJ's glass jaw standing up to Wilder's right-hand bombs. He's undoubtedly a better boxer than Wilder but Big Klit put him on the canvas with one punch and I don't consider him as powerful, and as you say, White had him wobbling about like Amir Khan's shadow. I also despise his Lewis Hamilton wannabe hip-hop badboy accent (he's from Hertfordshire, not Hackney), and his rather contrived Africa tattoo. I consider Fury (soz – Furey) to be a superior boxer than anyone in the current HW division. Either way, the look on Eddie Hearn's face when his no.1 star's career is confined to Strictly will be utterly priceless.

You fucking stupid tranny cunt. I bet you were typing 'meat' and 'big sausages' into Google and stumbled upon this utterly pointless piece of shite. Not only are you clearly incapable of interpreting stories for yourself (instead choosing to cut & paste tabloid data for simpletons in a manner most teenagers would), you still haven't managed to grasp the relatively easy concept of the apostrophe. Add to this your recent vapidity of unwittingly creating a direct link from this site to the Met Police, as well as your painfully unfunny and verbose posts, and it underlines your status as this site's most fucking pea-brained fuckwit. Kill yourself.

I loathe Barry Hearn almost as much as I hate his greedy, ostentatious son – so much so I'll be cheering for Wilder (or Fury) to KO AJ just to see the smiles wiped off their fucking faces. Eddie Hearn, despite being good at his occupation, is everything I despise in another person: privileged, cocky, loud, arrogant, deceptive and greedy. He's also got the face of someone who's never had a bad night's sleep, such is the fortunate millionaire circle he's been accustomed to. I would pay thousands just to have the opportunity to take a shit in his Bentley. All that money – yet still as much class as a scabby Bulgarian street donkey. Wanker.

What the fuck did the old cunt expect? Don't put your hand into the fire if you don't want to get burned. I also have a hunch this was Arseholes, whose dementia has lead him to believe he was attacked by a large dog.

Peter Snatchnil.

The shoulder-barge was disgraceful. While I admire Ronnie's raw talent, I am sick to the back teeth of people claiming he's the 'best thing to have ever picked up a cue'. For me, this doesn't illustrate the mental aspect of the game, which lends itself to World Championship trophies more than any other skill factor. This puts Hendry, Davis and Reardon – in my opinion – above him. Frankly I'd be happy to see the utterly self-obsessed shitstain, who talks about little else other than himself, retire – period. He keeps threatening, as though everyone's lives depend on his last breath. Do it. He's not as important to the game of snooker as he seems to think he is. Still, I must admit I've had a drunken wank thinking about his mother, who looks as though she could record the fastest 147 in history by sucking the balls into the pockets.

Go easy on Arseholes, Stubbs. It's obviously his advanced years. Just imagine what it must be like sitting next to the mobile toilet on one of his acclaimed OAP coach trips, desperately trying to stave off the ensuing tinnitus from the old fart's constant repetition about how dogs and children have led to his incurable incontinence.

This is you, isn't it?

You spat?

You work for yourself, yes? This must be where you've developed your legendary people skills. That said, you must at some stage have worked with your missus, to sell her soiled and skid-marked bloomers to fellow pervs and other sex cases circulating the dark web.

German girls are renowned for having hirsute pits when compared to their British counterparts. Was she therefore surprised to see a set of humungous batwings sprouting from your swimming costume during PE?

His wife and kids must be devastated.

Based on your experience of brushing shoulders with the starts at the very highest echelons of the music industry, which includes David Bowie, and subsequent wealth in which you own more LC Tiffany decorative French glass ornaments than brain cells, when do you envisage Cliff's Scat Party Xmas Special to be available to the likes of Pen and Albert?

I think we may have inadvertently met. I've just been held up by the sort of doddering old fart who slothfully idles along the walkways in Lidl, pointlessly perusing the cheap products on sale because there's nothing better to do with the miserable time they have left on this planet. You know – the sort of cantankerous, hateful, Victor Meldrew-faced fuck who also spends half their pitiful existence clogging up hospital waiting lists while having a posthumous wank over the latest wheelchair-friendly Saga Magazine coach holidays to Skegness. Fuck off you vile, digitally illiterate, uncontrollable sphincter muscle.

Are you sure it wasn't you, when you were drunk, shortly before you fell unconscious in your garden?

Humble and self-effacing as always. I don't think for one second Bowie died of cancer. I think he took his own life because he was sick to the back teeth of you going through his rubbish bins at 3am. I also have a growing suspicion Bowie had a secret penchant for cheap, glass-stained Chinese ornaments.

While our politicians may have decided to pick a fight with the biggest cunt in the school playground, the fact the Ruskies have 7,285 more warheads than we do seems pretty pointless when you consider one nuclear-armed fighter jet carries enough armament to obliterate a city half the size of London or Moscow. I'm more concerned about the higher proportion of homosexuals which make up the UK's armed forces.

My money's on Tom and Tosh Barron, which is indicative of Jazz's split personality disorder.