Last Cunt Standing

Another seedy billionaire with a predilection for young girls. Well I never. Straight to the Satanic spanking bench to be sodomised with a hot poker for the next 200 years if you ask me. Fuck the greaseball Cunt.

I am reading about the plan by the sack of fetid custard to give 29 year old ingenue Ms Owen a peerage. Some have suggested, given he was married to her mother once, she might in fact be his daughter. Some have rather more base suggestions. Others point out the two might not be mutually exclusive, citing Ivanka Trump as proof of concept. Answers on a postcard, please. Whole business smells like a nylon-knickered yeasty Cunt on a summers day to me.

I’m sharing this for no other reason than I heard a very good version of this from a busker on Perth Metro here this morning, and as I rose streetwards on the escalator I was suddenly catapulted back 30 years to a Friday night in a Midlands boozer, and this song blasting out as I looked around my medic mates, huddled around the pool table, laughing, drinking £1.50 pints, and the world at our feet. Some are gone now, many retired or on the brink. I had a bit of a moment. Happy times. Fuck the lot of you, before you start.

I suspect he knows rather more about the colon.

And now as I watch the World Test Final (handier Ashes warm up than Ireland, you might think), Nasser Hussain has chirped up with some hot air about Moeen being second only to Swann in terms of wicket haul, and thinks his home crowd at Edgbaston will make him grow ten feet tall. I call bullshit. My Wisden tells me all I need to know. Smith, Head, and Marnus will knock him all the way to Bourneville. Bring me the head of Rob Key.

Fucking Moeen Ali. That’s all I have to say. Boils my piss watching Aussie Sportscasters cry with laughter on my telly this evening. They puts his stats up against Australia. He’d be better deployed wearing a Helmand vest during the handshakes, to be honest.

We have a history of some mild acrimony, and given you might be the most inflexibly-minded polymath ever to hand out the sandwiches at the Swindon Mensa meeting, I’m 90% inclined to give you a swerve for the next decade or so. It is literally pointless arguing with you. But I can’t let all this good-natured badinage between the site’s titans go without reminding you again that I warned you long ago it is not sustainable to be both player and ref, to be both fond of the studs-high rhetorical assault and then wield the red card of a month in the cooler if someone strays from your preferred line. Neither have I ever really understood why “nonce” and the like is a forbidden word, but genocidal racism, for example, is apparently fair comment. I’ve generally concluded such arbitrary rules and their enforcement are something to do with your personal politics, to be honest, which I imagine are somewhere between Enoch Powell and David Duke. I wish you’d stick to Admin. It’s a valuable role and someone needs to hold the coats while the others fight. They generally do it with a panache which escapes you. Your inevitable treatise on why I am wrong and you’re right, is of course, eagerly anticipated…. Yours etcetera etcetera,

I’m no fan of Jack Leach particularly, but cracking his vertebrae weeks before the big push is a poor show. I read today that Moeen Ali, who has a dreadful record against Australia, is seriously being considered as a replacement. Is the cupboard really that bare? Say it ain’t so @Stubby Pecker @camberwell gypsy.

I was always slightly uncomfortable with the public school feel of TMS, Gyps. All that old school tie, tea with cake and breezy glossing over of anything non-establishment in the game made me fairly queasy. The guest summarisers from Truman to Bumble to Vaughan have always been the tame Northerner invited to Tea with the posh boys. Nevertheless it was the gentle soundtrack to my English Summer, always there burbling in the background. It saddens me a little to hear it’s gone the way of all sports comms these days, inviting on some shrill nonentity to balance the panel. There’s an option here this year to watch The Ashes with just the stump mic as soundtrack, and I’ll take Jonny Bairstow chirping repeatedly about Jack Leach every time over Alison Mitchell’s thoughts on whether white clothing is compatible with menstruating batswomen.

You’re missing both a possessive apostrophe and a second X chromosome you egregious little weirdo. My generosity in unblocking you lasted 15 hours, most of which I spent asleep. A decision I have now reversed. Shush.

Bloody marvellous. Look at the effort she put in. Adele can kiss my arse.

Francis and I have an understanding of sorts. I don’t get involved in his little poofy squabbles and he leaves me the fuck alone. It seems to work well for us both, you should try it.

You wanna dye, bruv?

So according to Sky News just now, they are collapsing their little tents and packing their bags after their search yielding half a dozen mysterious brown envelopes, which put me in mind of Neil Hamilton, for a moment. I’m sure El Plod will be back to the airport first thing Sunday afternoon, just as soon as they finish their extensive inter-force deliberations in the decimo nono hole. Nice forecast for the Algarve this weekend. Charlatans.

If you’re a fan of white wine, I should recommend a little holiday in the Margaret River region of Western Australia. It’s been known to convert even the most ardent fan of the Bintang singlet into a full blown wine snob. Direct flights from Heathrow every day…..

This is Annie Mae Bollocks.

Inevitably the death of paedo-cartoonist and wobble-board nonce is going to be discussed at length on The Corner. Obviously Australia is in deep mourning. Having only just recovered from the death of Barry Humphries, the Nation reels at the passing of another cultural Icon. We can only pray for Germaine Greer’s continued health. Two things strike me though. It’s fascinating timing surely, what with the sacking of Philip Schofield, the dredging of Portuguese lakes to find to bones of a young girl, The Sweatless Prince, and the conclusion of the Nikki Allen trial in Newcastle. Is there some cosmic alignment at play here? Perhaps the Sun in Uranus? And while we are at it, what is the collective noun for nonces? Secondly, I’m astounded to learn that the Nonce Harris died 13 days ago, and he’s already in the ground, presumably in some unmarked grave, lest the locals fit a mirrorball and sprung floor. Are we permitting disgraced celebs a period of grace now before their death is announced? Why? Is the British press now so consumed with Harry and Meghan that even the red tops don’t splash with the death before rigor mortis sets in? Something very fishy here in my view. Fuck off Rolf, you twisted fuck. See how many breathy noises you can make when Savile starts fucking you through your fungated neck tumour in Hell’s waiting room. Cunt.

Is it time for the Met’s summer golf tour already? I thought they usually pencilled in the last week of June for their annual anonymous tip-off? A few weeks’ open water swimming in the Algarve on full pay will no doubt be a nice way to round it all off, just in time for your big fat pension and the endless round of true crime podcasts. What a bunch of bullshit.

Well quite. If ever I want an independent view on whether the US M67 or Australian F1 is the best hand grenade, which oddly dominated my boozy lunch with friends today, I know where to come.

Not at all Eric. Our conversations away from the public forum tell me you’re no dunce.

I much prefer the Ishihara plates, Eric. There’s a neat little in-joke in there if you can find it. Alan Turing-Baws @Cuntybaws will no doubt crack my code if you’re struggling 😀.

Cocks, Eric. Caucasian ones though, so don’t get all antsy.

No. To both suggestions.

An interesting semantic point, which I suppose must depend on the angle of the dangle. I hadn’t factored on being sounded with a cricket stump being an arousing thought for the man in question. Here I would have to bow to your expertise.

Almost like they had a point to prove against the gurning spastic, no? Crawley got an average of 26 over both innings. I do hope Foakes made a point of shaking his hand.