Last Cunt Standing

Might have known that in holding it in the National Centre for Emotional Incontinence, what used to be a sensible review of the sporting year - think David Coleman in a V necked sweater - those Cunts at the Beeb would turn this show into a PC wankfest. Noel Gallagher singing All You Need Is Love over footage of people presumably maimed in the Vietnam war is the last straw. All we need now is a chorus of Justice For The 96, a solemn march round the Liver Building for the dear departed, a quivering lipped address of righteous indignation from Andy Burnham, then a comedy monologue from Stan Boardman about the Germans winning in a Russia next year. Fuck off Liverpool, you are a cunt of a place, and have truly excelled yourself with this shite. Ma Boswell is a Cunt.

I’m sure your care assistant told you to stay away from the Irony in case you Burny your (monocreased) Handy you drooling spastic. What I drink, and who with, is my business you fucking Dullard. Be assured when I do drink, it isn’t from a bi-handled plastic cup with a gnarled spout, and I don’t need a minimum wage woman in a perm and a tabard to wipe my chin when I am done. Fuck off. Again.

Chris Froome will win the Salbutamol award for best Medical Exemption. Lewis Hamilton will win the Manx Government award for Creative Accountancy. Mo Farah will win the Guardian Award for Positive Immigration Stories. And Clare Balding will fight the urge to sit on Gabbys face. I hope she yields to temptation.

So I presume you’ve seen it five times already, you over-chromosomed cunt? Fuck off back to your hovel and let the adults talk, prick.

Wrong. First thing in the morning she looks like a hungover Miriam Margolyes. Farts in bed, too. Rough as sandpaper.

But Baws, surely your heart is melted by Every Time A Bell Rings An Angel Gets It’s Wings? By which I mean the seminal album by Swedish rockers, Logh.

In that case, stay away from your local bookmaker, or you’ll end up selling your ring to Punkers. I bought one adult and 2 child tickets, in cash, about 20 mins before the start. I don’t do lines, or queues, as we civilised types call them. Fuck off.

Which is why we went on Saturday afternoon, some 2 days after it opened at our multiplex, you soppy cunt.

Nina Cunti can suck my balls. Let’s see whether the talentless haggis-munching old bike can really not move her lips when she has to. I don’t understand football metaphors, I’m afraid, having lost all interest in bladder kicking about the same time as Gregory’s Girl. Ventrilocunts, as should by now be obvious, are fucking awful.

Took my 10 year old niece and nephew to this yesterday (so my sister/Santa had time to empty the local M&S). What an absolute cuntfest. Two and a half hours of pointless noise, a near zero muff rating (Daisy Ridley looks like a fucking cricket stump), a plot more contorted than a Michael Hutchence cum face, and Luke Skywalker has a fucking beard, thus resembling Graham Norton, King of the Jolly Irish Chuts. Worse yet, even in the premium seats, we were surrounded by dubious obese greasy men in a variety of black t shirts, tutting and groaning their way through a vat of popcorn as they dissected the plot holes in forensic detail. I imagine the local branch of Games Workshop had a very quiet day. A ghastly experience. Thank God for my home cinema system. Admiral Ackbar is a Rebel scum Cunt.

Didn’t he vomit after a jacket potato and end up under his car, the Cockney wanker? I’ll nominate A Spaceman Came Travelling, by Cunt De Burgh. Nails down a blackboard every year.

Six hundred and sixty two for nine declared. I mean, fuck off. If this is what happens when BT Sport cover an England team abroad, let’s hope David Davies gets a new job in their rights acquisition department once this European debacle is over.

I saw RDC do an after dinner routine about 20 years ago and saw hard faced rugby players laugh so hard one of them actually pissed himself. Sadly times are now so hard for Mr De Courcey he scratches a living as the Theatrical Agent for Rick “Keyboard” Wakeman. Nookie is giving furry hand jobs to HGV drivers in a lay-by on the M20. Ventriloquists are Cunts. Many were Children’s TV stars in the 1970s, too. Keeping tight lipped with your hand moving was a very useful skill back then.

a A cursory flick through the lesser known Sky channels tonight, and I stumble on this unfunny cunt. This lip-twitching tosspot had a room full of Wisconsin cheeseburger addicts guffawing with the sort of shite that Hughie Green would have had taken round the back of Thames Television and quietly euthanised about 1974. It speaks volumes about the intellectual rigor of the “real America” that this gottle-of-geer fuckstick can play to packed houses every night, with an act so excruciating you’d expect to find it in a Bayswater basement being administered to a Tory MP strapped to a pommel horse. For a start, he is technically not that good - his lips move more than Sally Gunnell’s labia at the Barcelona Olympics, and his larynx boings about like Rick Waller doing a bungee jump. Then its the usual tired fare of tit jokes, dick jokes, fat jokes, gay jokes and digs at Blacks, Muslims, Mexicans and Women for 60 minutes using a variety of cunty puppets, while Jeff and Stacey Lardburger whoop and holler. This cunt can’t even dress like a grown-up, either; instead while somehow channelling Johnny Cash and Mark Wahlberg, he gurns away in his black leather jacket like the lovechild of The Fonz and Vicky Pattinson. Lastly, the camera pans over the audience to reveal his audience to be 40% giggling College bimbo, which means not only is the cunt truly awful, he’s also getting into more pussy than Whiskas. A more punchable man I would struggle to imagine, outside the Cheshire Catholic Golf Association. Roger De Courcey and Nookie Bear must be spinning in their graves. Or they would be, if they were dead. Cunt.

Fuck me, this is awful. Steve Smith has Root by the throat. I can’t watch any more.

Jim Beam is a far superior bourbon. It’s also much better than JD when mixed with Coke.

A used tube of Anusol marked “ sorry to have been such a pain in your arse all year”. Cunt. Still, he’s dead now. Hung himself.

I once knew a colleague whose wife said if he bought her a new coat for Christmas, she’d come down to his workplace wearing the garment and nothing else and give him a teasing flash. He bought her a duffel coat, which he got back in the subsequent divorce.

After Trumps announcement, those familiar with The Book of Revelation are no longer in need of laxatives. Punkers, as our dedicated a Religious Affairs Correspondent, can you keep an eye out for pale horses and trumpets for us? Don’t look at the flash, people.

Cunts Corner word of the day, Baws. Respect.

Look it up yourself you prick. I’m not here to spoon feed you.

Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? Poof. Lol. Fuck off.

(Together) Oh no he can’t.... I’d have thought the prospect of dubious men in frocks tossing stuff over children before bursting into communal singing would fit well with the best traditions of our Papist community...

Bathgate? What the fuck were you doing in Bathgate? I need to correct you on Fibromyalgia; nothing made up about it I assure you. I mean just because it happens to regularly co-exist with depression, IBS and chronic fatigue syndrome, has a fivefold higher incidence in lower socioeconomic groups, and has never been shown on muscle biopsy to have any pathological basis at all, doesn’t mean it’s entirely functional illness, does it? Pregabalin all round. Which funnily enough you’ll find is a phrase heard regularly in Bathgate.

Off the top of my head I’ve come up with a pithy slogan to sell your policy to the electorate, Decs. One People, One Nation, One Leader. I have a nagging feeling that this has been tried before, mind.