Last Cunt Standing

I’ll make you a promise; I’ll pop down to the medical centre and discuss my fleece issues, when you see a doctor about the tertiary syphillis that has obviously driven you quite mad, you addled bint. Pass the Clozapine, fuckface.

Golf club membership would definitely put you on the list you utter wanker. It’s Sunday morning, shouldn’t you be down at Our Lady of The Sacred Uterus sucking off Father McFeeley? Then perhaps down to the faux golf club for a few tough holes with your wood in hand, followed by some hot Roast Cock and a glass of Penis Gringo or some such bollocks. You need a new act, you transparent cum rag. Get fucked.

Fair point, I was going for the genre.

Standard uniform for cunts in shithole market towns across the county. Almost to a man or woman, you’ll find the pasty inhabitants flopped on to mobility scooters or clutching walking aids as they huddle for warmth outside Farm Foods rolling a tiny ciggie from a yellowing Vitalite container circa 1990. Often accompanied by the stained beige nylon trouser or skirt, inevitable re-entry specs, and an embarrassed-looking Labrador. Closer inspection might reveal the odd gob of phlegm, a dressed leg ulcer, and lank, unkempt hair. The ultimate wrapper for those who have given up on life, these items produce quizzical looks from the wider public who wonder where one might buy such a monstrosity. These scumbags should be first on the bus for Operation Thin The Herd. Cunts.

Now the slips slam into each other. The embarrassment-ometer now reads “Harmison at the Gabba”, so fuck this, I’m walking the dog.

The Tapeta racecourse is a fucking floodlit hellhole you daft cunt.

Oh, she’ll suck like a broken Dyson, be in no doubt. The reality of this disaster is starting to dawn on the Zombie government, and once we get into 2018 with no clear direction, the country will turn on her. I’m praying the Russians hack her insulin pump and she has to retire after a DKA coma. If there was any sensible opposition, other than that fuckstick Gove and his wolf army, she’d be walking the streets of Maidenhead in her leather pants by now. A fucking mess from fundus to apex.

Apple, isn’t the usual pattern that we play like cunts until the New Year, then the Aussies get mullered on VB and we sneak a win at the SCG, ensuring the post-mortem is all about how unlucky we were? The last hour has been unmitigated shite. Woakes is being buttfucked by Marsh. Cummins knocking Root about like a battered wife. Roots’ naivety as Skipper has been completely exposed. Darren Lehman must be on the beer by now. As beautiful as the Adelaide Oval is, I’d be on a tram to Glenelg for some seafood if I were there. Instead I groan into my toast every time Alison Mitchell opens her over-educated yet ill-informed fucking gob. I miss Bumble’s Lancashire burr and Mikey Holdings’ pronunciation of Johnny Bairstow. Fucking BT Sport. Hoist the white flag, boys. We are fucked.

Surfers Paradise vs Newquay Apollo Bay vs Sandbanks Great Ocean Road vs The Needles Melbourne vs Manchester (sorry Manky) Sydney vs London yeah, we really knew how to sock it to the sheep rustlers, didn’t we? Australia is a fabulous country, with fabulous people. Sitting on the edge of the Pacific trading area which will keep them prosperous for the next 200 years. However crisp the Autumn morning is here, I’d rather be knocking back a Hunter Valley White watching the sunset any day of the week. I’d sign up for “the colony” in a flash, and i’m happy to waive my right to stand for Parliament ( why would you choose to live in Canberra, anyway?).

Things to remember on this crisp Autumn Sunday morning; 1) we hold the urn; a drawn series means they still come home with Root. 2) The Gabba is not for us ; the convicts haven’t lost there since 1988. The d/n at the Adelaide and the shiny track of the WACA might be a bit more receptive to the Jimmy and Stu show. 3) Cook will get big runs. Eventually. 4) Avon and Somerset Police can come to the rescue yet and get The Ginger Ninja on a plane. so do not despair... they aren’t Ponting/Warne/McGrath any more. Starc is a streaky cunt. Cummins’ bowling is as ugly as him. quick Q for Southern; why was Brisbane half empty today? Everyone at bloody church?

So nobody told Big Bob it was time to fuck off. Coming soon to a Harare lamppost, it’s the all new Kenny Lynch show....

I see this cunt has announced he is off to spend more time with his tomatoes. Can’t help but wonder why now, just as Brexit makes a de facto united Ireland a possibility. The current trend for sexual misconduct, or definitive proof of his IRA membership perhaps? Or perhaps like his old buddy Martin he has some exotic terminal diagnosis. Strung up by piano wire would be a much more fitting end for the cowardly fuckstick, who in his Black Beret days denied many young men and women a similar retirement. Instead he’ll spend his remaining days shouting at the telly, watering his growbags, and praying the Garda don’t find the stash of Northern Bank tenners next to Shergar under his greenhouse. “his words are spoken by an actor“

Sheridan Smith. Living proof that Olanzapine does nothing for your sex appeal. Poor, addled, bloated, psychotic cow.

Cheers Bill. Wednesday will be interesting.

Football is for Irons.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2017/11/16/nonsense-baby-boomers-suggest-millennials-cant-afford-houses/ These Cunts are about to get a rude awakening. Even a Tory government, traditionally in electoral thrall to the grey mafia, are turning on them. The feather-bedded golden generation, who love to cluck on about how hard it was in their day, in the style of the 4 Yorkshiremen, are about to get a taste o' the Cat from HM Treasury. Cabinet Ministers get wheeled out the week before Budget day to lay the ground - and look at the subtext of what Mr Javid is saying - "you lot have had it good for too long, the triple lock has kept you all insulated against the economic cold since the crash of '07, well stock up on blankets grandma, 'cos a change is gonna come, you voted for brexit and now you get the bill". These old cunts do need a taste of fiscal pain. The average pensioner household now has a higher income that the average working household, which when you think about it, is completely unsustainable. They bang on about their free TV licences, prescriptions, council tax reductions, and how miserable their state pensions are, while at the same time rattling about in 500k+ houses way too big for them that they bought for 4k in the 1970's. Of course, thats when they aren't spending their winter fuel allowance on four bargain weeks in Tenerife every January to escape the cold. They cry crocodile tears for their struggling grandchildren as they write the annual £5 Christmas cheques, (grandchildren who unlike them don't enjoy free university education, job security, affordable housing and unfunded final salary pensions), while the same time muttering to Doris and Ada at the nightly bingo that if only these young 'uns would stop spending their McJob wages on iPhones and Avocados they could afford a little place in Dunstable, just like they did in the 1950's. Self-justification it may be, but it is also utter bollocks. So here's my few suggestions for the budget next week, Mr Hammond: 1) Scrap winter fuel allowance. Entirely. 2) Suspend the triple lock on pensions, which will rise by CPI only from 2018. 3) End free TV licences for everyone except the blind or the intellectually disabled. Or Punkape. 4) No more single person reductions for council tax - you own the fucking place, pay for it all, or move. 5) Inheritance tax threshold to be set at £250k - though gifts to offspring in the 10 years pre-death will be exempt from IHT considerations. Let the wealth start to move down the generations. 6) Social Care costs to be capped at lifetime £100k - enough to pay for about 3-4 years in your average care home before the state kicks in (average residency is 5.2 years). Anyone else care to add to the list?

false. Is this a test? Thank fuck for The Enlightenment, or nutters like you and Punkers would still be dunking witches and torturing astronomers. Fuck off back to the fifteenth century. Try Syria.

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/royal-preston-hospital-s-praise-for-manful-father-leads-to-sexism-row-pz3djbr7r Are there bigger cunts on the loose in Britain right now than this pair of imbeciles? For those not arsed to read the article, the story basically goes that Dad took the offspring to an NHS outpatient appointment in the absence of Mum who was laid low with some unspecified malady - though vaginismus would be my guess. They then chose to launch into full press-release mode with sad face pictures because the surgeon remarked that Dad had "stepped in manfully" in his outcome letter to the GP, cc'd as sadly is the modern way, to the parents. These pricks really boil my piss. Firstly, manfully isn't a sexist term. Look it up. Secondly, the GMC consider it good practice when you are making paediatric consultation notes to record who attended with little Jonny. So the surgeon was following professional guidance. Thirdly, you could just be grateful that your daughter saw an expert surgeon on the NHS and her problem was addressed. This letter wasn't even directed to you, it was between two health professionals. And lastly, if you think "manfully" is the worst thing written in your average set of medical notes, you'd be mistaken. Health professionals used to write all sorts in the notes to give their colleagues an early heads-up on difficult and neurotic patients - of which I suspect Mum is one, looking at her glum press photo expression next to her defeated, downtrodden slob of a husband. While health professionals no longer add "NFN", "LONOH" or "FLK" to the notes, they have become masters of subtext and subtle sentence construction, to achieve much the same end. Plus, word of mouth is by definition not written down - and I'm willing to bet this soppy cow is well known at her local health centre as Queen Heartsink. She can probably expect her next cervical smear to be done sans lube. Utter Cunts, the pair of 'em.

And tell me Ape, you simpering fuckwit, would you find these stationery escalators in Staples, WH Smiths or your local branch of The Works? Stationary - not moving Stationery - relating to paper and office materials. Please keep up, Cunt.

thanks for your considered contribution to my post, Decs. For every patient "enabled" by the internet, there are six dozen rendered incontinent with anxiety by Dr Google, and I'll chose to take your first sentence as broad agreement with this estimate. I'm sorry you found my spleen venting tedious, though delighted you are happy with your doctor, as indeed are the vast majority of my patients, prattling fish wives aside. Fuck off yourself.

I've had the lot this week. From three of these Pacific/Specific dumbos, to a pregnant woman who told me she had compensation running down the inside of her windows, to another loss to science who told me she was worried her compact lenses were getting stuck in her eyes at night. Sick of biting my lip after 30 years, I've taken to guffawing openly at these linguistic pearls while their originators sit and blink at me, clueless. And thats before we get onto the hilarity which results from the various mangling attempts people make at telling me which medicines they'd like more/less of this week courtesy of the taxpayer. OM-EP-RAZ-OLE you big ugly sack of shit, it is really not that difficult. I'm supposed to check you understand how it works and why you are taking it, and you can't even fucking pronounce it without a random sprinkling of vowels and more spittle than is ever necessary. WTF. What bloody hope is there for civilisation when people can't even speak the fucking language anymore? Then you have the nerve to tell me the eminent Sri Lankan Cardiologist you visited at the hospital last week was in your view difficult to understand because "he was one of them Pakistanis". Go and jump in the river, you cretin. In case our Korean brethren are listening, and to paraphrase John Betjeman; Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough, It isn't fit for humans now.

My neighbours retarded nephew tells me this is a rip off of a segment on Keith Lemons Celebrity Juice, where Holly and Ferne make much merriment from the fact some words sound like others. A fine tribute to the National Curriculum. The Beeb used to give us Civilisation with Kenneth Clark and Life on Earth. Now we get a faux cockney dance teacher giving us the TV equivalent of flashcards. Fuck off and die.

Just bury her in the garden and tell the neighbours you thought she was a gold fish.

i'll dip my toe in the toxic swamp of CC after some considerable time away from you lovely people by giving 80% of my workload this week an absolute unbridled Cunting. I expect i just need a holiday. From the cunt who wants his passport picture signed and has no friends to do it, the biathlete who wants advice on how he can get a blue badge because he is dyslexic, to the podgy arsehole with a freckle who is adamant Dr Google has diagnosed metastatic melanoma and wants me to do a skin graft on the spot, it seems silly-season Cuntery is no longer unique to Westminster and the Media. Everyone with a mild twinge of back pain after strimming their hedges wants an MRI and Oramorph just in case they have "that spinal cancer what was on the Telly". Or teenage boys wanting a prostate exam "cos Wayne Rooney says men shouldn't neglect their tackle". Rotund elderly dullards and amateur sex offenders who want me to prescribe Factor 50 sunblock and some standby antibiotics for their trip to Pattaya but are also terrified of flying and want me to dish out some diazepam to get them through the plane journey. Politely telling them maybe its time they stopped shoving it up Thai teenagers before their rancid cock falls off gets a toothless shrug of the shoulders and a "I've paid my stamp, Doc, we aren't all on your wages, I'll have some calpol for our Tiffany while i'm here an' all, an' some of them NHS Condoms". I'm supposed to sit there smiling, of course. Then once I've done with a morning of 16 ten-minute Mastermind rounds, its off for a home visit to little Doris who's forgotten why she requested a visit by the time i get there but wonders if I know someone who can fix her Sky TV for her as she can't get Challenge TV anymore and she likes that nice Jim Bowen - opened her cupboard to find a yellow pages only to be near drowned in about 6 months of unopened repeat prescriptions "because that nice Indian lady at the chemist orders everything for me every month and I like her popping round". Her fat gormless teenage granddaughter, entombed in a duvet and a onesie at 1pm just grunted when i suggested she might pop to the chemist for grandma occasionally. Too thick to know even the basics of their own anatomy (whats this lump in why chest, Doc, is it cancer? - no madam, it's your xiphisternum and has been there since birth), and whipped into foaming anxiety by countless public health campaigns saying you can't be too careful (except of course you can be too careful), the public now troop into my office with an insane list of demands and wants, and are completely resistant to the idea there is most likely fuck all wrong with them. I'm in my 30th year in this job, and suspect its time to retire soon, but seriously, when did people become so unable to cope with anything, and when did it all become my problem? I really don't remember a week like this one. Its some fucked up end of empire shit. Roll on flu season and the phlegmy viral masses who "just can't go on coughing like this" after 6 hours. Really? My granddad worked down the pit for 30 years and coughed a thousand times a day for 40 years you fucking pussy. Man up. I think a machine gun nest at reception might be our next innovation. Do any of you esteemed ladies and gents have any solutions to this epidemic of needy, stupid, irresponsible leeches? Bark strippers are forbidden.