Last Cunt Standing

How long might this dialogue of the deaf continue? Neither you or Bill are remotely capable of retreat at this late stage, so perhaps keeping quiet might be an alternative strategy for the next twelve months?

I’ve just had my retinas singed by the sight of a (probably faked) picture allegedly of Huw Edwards showing his arse to a webcam. If it’s genuine he’s obviously toast. I’m afraid though it meets no legal standard, if he doesn’t issue a denial soon he’s already damned in the court of public opinion. Thirty five fucking grand.

Controversial this, Eric. I suspect the male Champ would have wiped the floor with the female champ in most years since Ken Rosewall. In fact I rather suspect Steffi Graf only married Agassi to buy his silence about the score when they practiced together. I’m a fan of the women’s game, not just for the totty factor, but because it’s a much more skilled game. On grass the men’s game has become a power serve contest.

I’d have had you down as an Arthur Ashe man myself.

That’s the point isn’t Bill? I read the average Only Fans poster makes a couple of grand a year from their site, with only the top 1% making anything like serious money. Either the anonymous star has no idea what the going rate was, which makes them pretty fucking stupid, or they were paying a huge premium for some seriously depraved shit. The possibility that they had a financial domination kink, which has been known to make grown men meet trollops at ATMs and fork over hundreds to them in return for being spat at and called names, should not be ruled out with some of these rich degenerates. 35k is serious wedge, and the fact it’s apparently mostly gone to some county lines gang for tinfoil-wrapped narcotics with an aroma of arsehole, is a fucking tragedy. What would £35,000 buy in one of your establishments?

On the principle you can’t defame the dead, I think it’s worth a fiver e/w on Dale Winton, if only because he gave me endless indigestion talking about balls, red areas and big ones on that lottery show he did. Hiding in plain sight if you ask me.

This used to be called “getting your excuses in early”. I think you should give the zipped gimp mask and arseless chaps a go, Decs. Perhaps at your next performance review. You’re clearly gagging for your poxy Council to give you your freedom, and the resulting wrongful dismissal tribunal would be both hilarious and strike a blow for common sense against the newspeak. You might even get Peter Tatchell and Edwina Izzard showing up to wave placards outside.

Joker is a Cunt, always was. I don’t give a fuck what his stance on the vaccine was, much as I don’t care if Dr Fauci has a mean topspin forehand. I’m sure he’ll win most tournaments he enters at a canter, because there’s no much depth to the tennis these days, and he’s sadly quite good. A mightily unlikeable tosser, though. The hypocrisy of the English middle class lining up to applaud the prick from their debenture seats is as predictable as it is nauseating. He should by rights be playing to a half empty court.

I refuse to believe there’s not a little bit of you stirred by the sight of men in skirts fingering their pipes furiously.

I see your Kilted rock stars, and raise you with the Red Hot Chilli Pipers. An abomination.

By woods, do you mean tenements?

Society is increasingly litigious, too.

Unlike some Corner stalwarts, my cock isn’t 9000 miles long.

“Trapped in a small tight dark crevice in Thailand”. Don’t tell me, you work at GCHQ and compile the Times Cryptic in your time off? I don’t wanna be in your gang, your gang. Fuck off.

The NHS turns 75 today. Happy Birthday old girl. You once were beautiful. Now you’re knackered, gasping for breath, and unlikely to make 80. The public mostly don’t give a shit. It’ll take a sprinkling of medical bankruptcies to change hearts and minds, and even then they’ll be too stupid to realise they've been tucked up by capitalist scumbags and the Daily Mail. I’ll raise a glass of Chablis in the general direction of Nye Bevan later. I’m a bit nauseous right now having just seen that oily bastard Barclay get defenestrated by Beth Rigby. In any normal country there wouldn’t be a free lamppost for miles.

Fret not Southern, he’s pretty much guaranteed to be extinct in hours.

This pallet bonfire we were discussing….any hope of you throwing yourself on it?

Sitting out by the fire pit on a beautifully clear night, the stars shining in all their glory, as the Jarrah logs crackle away. Half a bottle of Glenmorangie down. I lost an old friend today in the UK. Fuck Cancer. This one’s for you Mike, may the odds be ever in your favour.

Like the infamous Pompeii wanker, perhaps? I imagine the JSO fellow won’t stand up to a nuclear blast though. From what I’ve seen on the telly they are about 70% mung beans and tofu.

Are you Player or Referee this week, just so we all know? Or do you intend on continuing this schizoid position of straddling both camps? And by “straddling both camps”, I’m not surreptitiously slipping in a reference to those infamous Readers Wives shots we’ve all been struggling for years not to confuse with the Great Pit of Carkoon. And by Carkoon I don’t mean @Eddie.

Well, thanks for that. I’m sure there’s a point in there somewhere.

Oh dear, my little joke seems to have upset you. It’s rather a good job this is written down (well done on that, by the way) as every other argument I have ever had with one of you leek-fancier types has resulted in me being covered in spittle as you mangle your way through vowels and consonants like Vorderman on acid. Your foot-stomping insecurity about how beautiful Wales might be speaks largely for itself. Personally I can’t forgive the place for giving me my first and only needlestick injury on a Rugby field just outside Merthyr. I wasn’t playing with you savages for clarity, rather one of your young ladies had offered to show me how green was her valley and I rolled on to the fucking thing mid-act. Your hope that the PLA will one day slaughter every Australian is quite sweet of you. I will pass it on to our Armed Forces next time I see any of them in the pub. Perhaps you could give my regards to your local sheep farmers, who seem to have been tucked up like rollmop herrings by the Aus-UK FTA Boris was so desperate to sign. The local livestock community here take the view that the competitive edge they now enjoy over the British farmer might be the best use of a packet of TimTams since Marianne Faithful toured Australia with the Stones. Get fucked you thin-skinned cunt. Go stick your head in a popty ping and give yourself three minutes. I’m sure any Welsh housewife can give you an idea of what three minutes waiting for something to happen feels like.

I remember snapshots of it even now Eric. The tearful pregnant Ruth scraping wallpaper while the radio tells her how to take cover “when you hear the air attack warning”. The bloke on the bog when the bomb drops. The woman pissing her trousers when she sees the mushroom cloud. And what does the CND woman say, before they cart her off to the cells? “You cannot win a nuclear war”. Bang on. If it eventually kicks off in the Northern Hemisphere, you’ll find me slowly decomposing surrounded by the contents of my wine cellar. At least down here we’ll get a bit of warning of nuclear winter.

Virginia Wad - she won it for the Queen, you know.

I’m no stranger to discussions of a gynaecological nature, in fact I spent too high a proportion of my working life discussing menstrual flow with women of all ages. And a few men. I have to draw the line though at the LTA, who’s big PR drive this year to launch Wimbledon is to permit the XX community (aka “people with a uterus”) to wear dark undershorts, previously banned by the all-white kit policy, in case said Tennisette happens to be shedding the lining of her endometrium during a forehand rally. Presumably these highly paid athletes are well aware that medical science has moved on from handfuls of straw or newspaper down the undercrackers? Believe it or not, medical science can now have a fair stab at controlling, delaying, or indeed stopping monthly bleeding for most women, particularly young athletic types. Surely this would be preferable to the now inevitable whispered commentary among the assembled Home Counties types about which young Russian bit of totty might be on the blob. Those choosing dark shorts might as well be marched on to court by a ball girl ringing a hand bell crying “unclean”. Former female champions presumably had to deal with this issue without coming onto court in thick black “dignity pants”, causing murmurings from the royal box. Chances are Steffi Graf and Billie Jean King were often shaking hands with the Duchess of Kent whilst haemorrhaging. We didn’t need to know then and we don’t need to know now. It puts me right off my strawberries and cream, for one thing. Cunts.