Last Cunt Standing

Better, m’lady. Now all you need is a sprinkling of creativity and I’d say you’re a shoe-in for your Adult Literacy course. You can get that Arsewipe Simian to help you if you like, the Cunts’ a genius with his BBC Micro and head wand combo, just keep him off the energy drinks or he tends to mash his monocreased hands into the keyboard too, rendering his output even more unreadable than normal. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Ape. Now fuck off back to your cage and get back to picking lice from your body hair, you drooling Cretin. Can’t you catch Cancer from the Frenchman? We’d all be overjoyed to know even your internal organs hate you.

Can I get this in English please you dried up old Witch?

Often when treating Genital Warts in some trembling Royal Engineer, I’d wonder quietly to myself whether we wouldn’t be better putting the wart in a beret and jamming the Sapper into the specimen pot for analysis then incineration. Bigger grunts than the grunts, in my experience.

Hang on a minute there you metastasising old Cunt, have you ever seen a Vox Pop piece on Canal Plus or another Froggy Network? A film crew wandering round Paris is likely to see a fair share of grunting old cavemen, bearded Algerians with ticking clothing, and a sprinkling of Rive Gauche fruits themselves partial to rectal confectionery. I don’t think you’re in a position to criticise over there in Rhineland West.

I think Stephen Hawking should make the next one. I wonder if he bets?

I’m guessing....Infantry. It’s just basically armed football hooliganism, isn’t it? Explains your subtly nuanced world view.

Watching too much telly now the Christmas break is here, and this Cunt, long an irritant, has moved up a notch or two in the Cunt League to be rivalling Kay Burley and Kirstie Allsop for mid-table dominance. For a start the cunt is tone deaf, and excluding some sort of hypoxic brain injury the spacky prick has no excuse, given that in all likelihood he has all day every day to perfect his falsetto. Then he has the ingratitude to label a very helpful steward “clueless” for assisting his transit through the ground, when any right-minded club would make him wear a cowbell round his neck and get to the ground two hours early for his seat behind a six foot concrete pillar. He spunks his PIP money away on meaningless bets with a faceless algorithm, and drags his poor carer in the brown jacket along to change his stoma bag at half time. The team wear green, which makes him either Plymouth or Yeovil in origin, shaving another few percent from his already feeble IQ. Finally, as he vocally stabs Tony Hadley through the heart, we are meant to believe the opposition fans he is goading wouldn’t loiter in the car park for the bearded tossbag and jam each spoke on his Spagchariot up his crusty ring. Epic Cuntery from a Cunt firm in a Cunt industry.

No. But team it with a Rasta hat, a comedy spliff and start calling everyone “mon” as you screech through the opening bars of No Woman No Cry, and you can expect a hand on your shoulder from Trevor Phillips and The Morality Police. Fine lines, Gyps. Mind, you are probably exempt from such fuckwittery, given that you are in an minority group yourself.

She does appear to have had a steel rod inserted up her cloaca though, the dirty tapas munching bastards.

What is it you’re dying of, Mr Scrote? Listeria from the Foie Gras? When the time comes, you might find Midazolam goes very well with a good Claret and Oxycodone chaser. Merry Christmas!

Apparently, Dr McCann still buys her missing daughter gifts every Christmas; http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5207243/Kate-McCann-reveals-buys-Maddie-presents-Xmas.html Anyone care to speculate what might be in the boxes she lays in her daughters room 10 years after she no-commented her way through the interview with Portuguese Plod and scurried back to Rothley on EasyJet?

I must disagree, Scruff. Victoria is beautiful, Melbourne the best Australian city, and the MCG when full is a sight to behold. I see Ponting has been playing the traditional Aussie game of bait the Captain with an honest appraisal of Roots’ captaincy, and straight into the psychological bear-trap walks one Jonny Bairstow. I give up on these cunts. Put Alex Ferguson or Dr Steve Peters in charge for fucks sake, or even Bernard and Jonno of Salford City FC.

I’m sure there’s no truth in the rumour that Phil The Greek carved the Turkey in Blackface while singing Ol’ Man River, or that Horseface Anne got her old Save The Children T-Shirt on and offered Meghan a mosquito net to send the family back home. Neither can I believe that Hatey Katie took a break from spewing up her ring in the Diana Memorial toilet to squirt testosterone into Markle’s soup, or that Wills chucked his Norfolk Ambucopter keys on the table and announced a game of musical Wives for all Gingers in the room. I can absolutely believe that jug-eared Chuck bored her rigid with his model of Poundbury and Andy licked her seat cushion bald, mind. Vive la guillotine, I say.

I’m sure the rich blue colour of our passport will be of great comfort when we present it at the bureau de change and thrust our £500 at a spotty youth, who in return gives us six Kazakhstani Tenge, a quart of Yaks’ Milk and a bag of dust. Until St Nige, no society in history has voted to make themselves poorer and more impotent in the world. John “Vulcan” Redwoods’ advice to his Billionaire fund clients is to sell GBP and buy Swiss Francs, the lionhearted patriot that he is. Cunt. I look forward to the summer of 2019 when 3 million pensioners on the Costa Geriatrica realise their pension paid in Sterling now runs to two Dairylea triangles, and sell up their pad to come back to Blighty. Buying opportunity!

What the fuck does this product say about the nations’ toilet habits? http://www.airwick.co.uk/our-products/v-i-poo-pre-poo-toilet-sprays/ Shit smells. This is a universal truth, not a source of embarrassment. How about we stop inventing solutions to problems that don’t exist? Exactly the same holds true for the wet wipe craze. People having been using toilet tissue for decades without attracting flies or sticking to their gussets. Now the adverts say we all have to be as fresh as a mountain stream, and apparently the only way to achieve this anal nirvana is to use an impregnated rag that won’t biodegrade until 2065. Bollocks. And Ladies, if you keep using these damp rags on your lady garden, be prepared for a future of volcanic cystitis and atrophic vaginitis so bad that walking briskly carries a risk of self-immolation.

And in other news; https://www.theguardian.com/society/2017/dec/19/jails-exempt-smoking-ban-uk-supreme-court-rules So the old lags will still be able to chuff away on their 20 a day B&H with impunity, while the poor sods charged with banging them up live in fear of lighter-based assault and after 30 years on the landings, get a nice passive-smoking bronchial cancer to retire with. Not exactly Fletcher, Grouty and Mackay, is it? This Supreme Court decision also largely negates my preferred suggestion for this highly nuanced CC debate on our penal system: Organ Harvesting all Life sentence prisoners. The convict cunts get better treated than Wagyu cattle for decades, might as well get some quality offal for the NHS to treat the sick.

Given your previous tone, I wish to assert my fifth amendment privilege.

Is this a question, or a tentative statement of your dental qualifications? Please stick to The Queen’s, birdman.

Coming from you, my Simian friend, I’ll take that as a compliment. It can’t really be much else, given that you are universally regarded as too dimwitted to formulate anything other than a primitively optimistic view of the world. Consequently, I imagine you give a silent thumbs up and chew on your macroglossal tongue every time you manage to strike the return button with your head wand. I suspect your leg bag needs emptying, fuckstick. Perhaps you can do us all a favour and go drown yourself in the toilet. Fuck off.

I still can’t believe they named a stand after her at Bramall Lane. Mind you, considering 8,000 rough men enter it every Saturday, I can begin to understand their logic. Flattened some grass, has our Jess. She’s very good with a Shot Put.

The way it’s going you’ll be shortlisted for your Seated Toblerone Gold medal performance next year Gyps. You already have your gender and your traveller ethnicity to fall back on, so all you need to do now is come out as Autistic Transgender Lesbian with Bathroom Confusion Syndrome, overcome adversity (spilling tea on the seat cushion) and have an entirely coincidental connection to geopolitics (Camberwell is annexed by Kim Jong Un and the inhabitants sold into sex slavery). I’d say you’re a safe 4/5 on in those circumstances.

Quite.

Because, Cricket and alleged cheating aside, barbecued lobster and a glass of chilled Hunter Valley white, (in t-shirt and shorts as it’s 30 in the shade) pisses all over dry Turkey in a scatchy jumper while your Nan farts her way through the Morecambe and Wise repeat. Even if the Convicts are 3-0 up, I’d give blood for a free flight to Melbourne and a ticket to the MCG, rather than trooping up to Yorkshire for yet another Christmas with the in-laws, who insist on showing me their eczematous navels and demanding I second-guess their doctors’ prescribing habits.

Mo Farah. What a fucking surprise. And, in the capital of being cut off for non-payment, they lose the satellite feed from Civilization. Priceless. For Christ’s sake, hold it at the O2 next year and sack Polly Toynbee as Chair of the Judges. It’s fast becoming an irrelevance. Who the fuck is Johnny Rae and is he more appropriate a winner than say, Anthony Joshua? The multiple box-ticker Dame Jessica gets a lifetime achievement award in the same year Phil Taylor and Usain Bolt, who transcend their sports, retired. Horseshit. Here’s hoping David Duckenfield is in charge of the Exit doors.