Last Cunt Standing

I agree, this “out of nowhere” bit is probably bollocks. A few sly New Yorkers probably hoping they could knock out their East Side apartment with a “genuine Banksy artwork” to a Russian Hedgie with no brain. Instead the only buyer for their apartment now is the shrinking Male Sauna market.

Looks like the sort of building our dear departed Punkape is commonly found in, lurking in the stall clutching his carrier bag and slowly rocking back and forth muttering some bollocks about golf clubs and nice claret. Ten quid says when he pops up hydra-like from whatever hole he’s crawled up, it’ll be some bollocks about his fortnight in Sandy Lane.

I can’t quarrel with your logic or your venom. A Hellfire missile up the wazoo would be a fitting end for the wet cunts.

You'll have a job, as contrary to public belief, Banksy is not one person, more of a brand. Several people use the principles and techniques and get off on the world scratching their collective heads at the mystery. Banksy is a Multi-Cunt, and we all know what happens to multis....

Would that be Katy, Russell or Jo, M'Lady? Please don't speak with your mouth full.

A rare sentence in which you are right and wrong at the same time, Luke. How very Schrodinger.

I believe it’s a multi-use building which doubles as a homeless shelter and halal butchers every third Wednesday. Or at least it was when I last visited the Florence of the West Midlands on a poverty safari.

Well apparently you are nearly dead from an unspecified neoplasm anyway, so why don’t you do something inspirational and newsworthy involving suicide geese and a French kindergarten? Immortality and 72 virgins awaits, brother!

Withers, this only happens as there is a dirth of real news. Pop down to your local town square and have a chat with some of the duskier Froggy youths with Algerian connections, see if they can’t pull their collective finger out and give us a real story soon. Surely there’s a kosher Boucherie or satirical magazine office near you in need of an instant renovation by suicide vest? Then you can leach off our BBC for nothing watching endless talking heads talking geopolitics, rather than what to do with your demented grandmas gift of a bootleg Russell Howard DVD.

My apologies Luke, I realise the longest book in Wolverhampton Civic Library is a pamphlet on the cultural highlights of the Black Country. Those of us not living in caves and picking our gormless arses like Barry from Auf Weidersehen use things called words to form an argument. Sometimes a thought more complex than “do yaw wanna go down the Bullring, bab?” might take a paragraph or too. I will strain for brevity in future, but in other settings being longer than average attracts such praise it’s clearly affected my psyche.

Believe me, there are many and varied ways, some terribly verbose, of telling someone they are a fat cunt who should fuck off out of my surgery. A particular favourite are the arthritic knee crowd, who look so crestfallen when you say the NHS won’t fund their surgery until their BMI is lower than the national debt. Advising them to take up jogging on their fucked knee, or find £10k to go private always makes me chuckle. I have just realised there is a Bee Gees song I like. Massachusetts is not awful.

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2017/dec/27/new-york-art-penis-mural-carolina-falkholt So if you lived in a building on the Lower East Side, and woke up one morning to find some Swedish Feminazi artist had painted a giant cock on the side of your house, exactly how long would it be before you shot down to Home Depot for a tin of emulsion and went to town on this Cuntstains’ handiwork? What is it with these artist types dawbing their paint everywhere in a desperate urge for controversy? If it’s fame or infamy you want, try this phallic art on the Washington Monument or a Minaret near you and wait for the press to show up in full outrage mode before you even finish the preliminary sketch of the glans. Otherwise, stop going after the media teet you crave in Bono-esque style, get a fucking canvas on a fucking easel with some fucking watercolours and do some proper fucking work. “I usually paint giant vaginas, pussies and cunts” said the artist. Yes love, of course you do. Banksy is a Vandal Cunt.

Finally we have proof that Root is the worst Captain since Mohammed Atta, and I don’t give a fuck if it’s his birthday. We need the Convicts skittling quick so who gets a go turning his arm over......Dawid Malan. I know it’s a shitty drop-in pitch, it’s forecast heavy rain again in a hour, and the Aussies have mentally checked out, but Jesus Christ man, can we at least pretend to go down fighting? I reckon I could knock Malan for at least six hundred while blindfolded, pissed, and using a fucking bamboo garden cane. Such incompetence boils my piss. Time to bring them home, Economy Class, as Bob Willis once said.

And when you rise in the morning sun....you’re still a Cunt of the highest order. I never did like this Cunt, ever since he and his malodorous brothers took musical inspiration from the Aberfan landslide to come up with the mangled mess that is New York Mining Disaster 1941. But now he’s allowing one of the Windsors to doff him on the shoulders, he’s promoted himself to mega Cunt. He and his retard brothers spent their entire career behind the curve, attempting to piggyback the creativity of others. Odessa should have been a death knell, being half amphetamine-inspired psychedelic wet dream and half Alan Partridge nonsense. Yet even then the Cunt wouldn’t die, shamelessly plagiarising the cream of Motown to develop that beyond-parody falsetto and wail about Nights On Broadway. Then came his moment of Cunt immortality, bashing out a few lazy fag-packet efforts to form the backing track for a low-rent B-movie in which the worlds’ second favourite Scientologist weirdo gets a white suit on and struts about a gay nightclub, in between gang-raping a woman by proxy and loitering about like a pisspoor version of the Jets from West Side Story. Saturday Night Fever was an utter abomination, a backstreet abortion of an album that killed the mainstream disco movement just as it began to show promise. The cunt grew fat on the royalties from the tone deaf and the gullible, then carved a second career as purveyor of MOTR warblefests for the intellectually lazy. As his brothers had the good grace to die, presumably of sheer embarrassment, this cunt ploughed his ill-gotten resources into trying to look like Aslan The Lion fucked Esther Rantzen. The inevitable Country music experiments, endless collaborations with bored warblers told by faceless PR types to stretch their demographic, and a frankly sad “legend” appearance at Glastonbury, all did nothing to atone for a lifetime of Cuntery. So, with the announcement of his knighthood and his beatification amongst the dullard press, let me be the first to say this man is an unrivalled Cunt, who needs staking out naked in the desert sun while a thousand wasps swarm over his honeyed scrotum. Fuck the squeaky Sir-twat. Paul Gambaccini can go fuck himself, too.

Any double ton is worth a doff of the cap. But his form has still been awful for far too long, and there’s an after-the-Lord-Mayors-show feel to this now. As I said before The Aussies will win an early knockout, before England traditionally rally in the dead rubber games, thus avoiding a media beasting and the sack on their return, because they only just edged it 3-2 (though still feel a draw is likely). It’s an old story. The Aussies have taken their foot off the gas, and the MCG pitch is a featherbed.

Here’s the Tramadol mule, for reference....

No, of course not. They are a controlled drug and thus subject to quite stringent controls in supply, storage and prescription. Problem is, every bugger is on them for low back pain or fibromyalgia and despite regular exhortations to reduce/stop them, your average patient loves their opioids and thinks you are a crap doctor if you tinker. The other problem is that they come in various strengths, (we don’t know exactly what she was carrying) with a usual max of 400mg per day. People might easily be taking six Tramadol 50mg per day, which is 168 tablets for a 28 day prescription, so not hard to collect 300 from Grandma, who stopped taking them years ago because they constipate her but never told her GP. They are everywhere on the street, where our drug taking community use Tramadol with Benzos and Gabapentinoids to manage their ups and downs. As for this bloody silly girl, I’m inclined to agree with the thrust of previous comments. There must be a penalty for stupidity or anarchy will follow. If she spends a year or two as the entertainment for the Hurghada Prison Officers Association, tough. She’s partial to Arab cock anyway, so sod her.

Number one programme on Christmas Day. Nation of Cunts.

Agreed. National shutdown from Christmas Eve to the 2nd of January should be standard. I can’t wait to get to work tomorrow, to be greeted by a sea of mucus, teething infants, and people panicking they’ve gone 2 days without their Statin.

The only thing to be out in Melbourne today is the Sun. Root’s face when he lost the toss was reminiscent of a toddler filling his nappy. Ten quid says they make five hundred plus.

Root on the Radio this morning saying Pontings’ remarks were “a load of rubbish”. He almost squeaked. No attempt to deconstruct the analysis, to reflect back his own appraisal of his performance, or to provide insight into what he will be doing differently at the MCG. Mike Brearley he is not. I suspect even in the face of a 5-0, the ECB will stick with Root, partly as no one else wants the job. Bit like Theresa May in that respect. It’s a mistake for Root personally to stay on though in my view, and he’d get respect if come January he announced the job was too big for him and he would in future focus on his batting. Merry Christmas Cricket Cunts.

Black Corton in the 155 on Boxing Day. Only negative is that he has an inexperienced lady jockey called Bryony. Merry Christmas, Cunts!

I thought you said you were a Sapper? So surely you meant turning up hungover in a 30 year old Snatch Land Rover, 4 days after the fighting is done, to bolt together some portable toilets for the embedded media throng? The only action you guys ever saw was the frantic boing of the bedsprings in the bunk above you as some drippy youth wept about his boyfriend back in Chatham. And while it’s true that there were a few rippling torsos amongst your Spanner wielding fraternity, I seem to remember a few highly mobile chins and thighs too, a highly unusual pattern of penile burns from contaminated Swarfega, and a flurry of requests to be exempted from the bleep test for various spurious Orthopaedic reasons. Inspirational Stuff.

Prove it. Biopsy the Cunt. I’d suggest using a snow shovel.

Erm, because making large groups of men joyful is your job, according to the UK’s leading purveyor of Bukkake videos. Perhaps this explains your skill in wiping Ape’s chin. Fuck off.