Last Cunt Standing

This headline seems pretty stark, I grant you. Britain having a lower GDP per capita than Poland and Slovenia within a decade must warm the collective cockles though. The spectacle of young British economic migrants wiping the arses of the elderly in Krakow is surely proof God has a sense of humour. Something to mull as you fumble about for your ID papers to vote on Thursday. https://www.palladiummag.com/2023/04/27/britain-is-dead/

Just out of interest Stubbs, which other countries would you say make the top five? Please spare me the “well it’s not fucking Australia” etcetera.

SNA have some beauts, Decs, that’s for sure. Have a look at the horse-faced Peta Credlin or exploded sofa Paul Murray, both purveyors of the sort of right wing bilge that would get Marjorie Taylor Greene’s gusset moist. It’s a fun game whenever there is an election down here lately to tune in and see either of their faces contort from confusion to sadness to rage as their preferred Liberal candidate gets their arse handed to them again. Farage does pop up occasionally as some sort of London editor, but I tend to hit the mute button with cat-like reflexes whenever I see his gurning face these days. GB News seems to filling a similar need in the UK. It looks like a fun watch. Incidentally, you might want to rephrase “coming across” Pauline Hanson. To me, the old trout looks like she’s not had cock since Alan Border was Captain, and if she interprets your remark as flirting, she’ll be over to Norfolk on a fact-finding mission before you can say atrophic vaginitis.

Except in his case it has the unfortunate effect of looking like you’ve walked in on him mid fumble, or ball tampering, if you will.

That’d be my noble Lord Punkape’s department, I fear.

I used to think Botham was a top bloke; Flamboyant Cricketer, Charity Walker and Question of Sport Wit. But he’s turned into a boorish Tory plonk merchant with an unfortunate habit of getting his cock out on the internet. Not the sort of chap I’d be buying vibrating equipment from, that’s for sure.

Arkell vs Pressdram, Eric.

He does a lovely line in vibrating plates for old people to strap their legs into here, Eric. I believe Ian Botham does a UK version. In the adverts for Countdown he pops up with his knarled old trotters lashed to a Black and Decker, alluding to his off-camera mate that on hour on this thing will put lead in your pencil and fix your achy feet. Silly old cunt.

I will defer here to @southerncunt, who is surely a greater authority on these issues. I’m a fairly new citizen by marriage, and as an immigrant the finer points of Australian race relations are probably not for me to comment on. I do though feel qualified to call Pauline Hanson a fucking nutter.

I limited my missionary work to Ugandan discussions, Eric.

Currently there are plans for a referendum later this year, which I can only hope comes down with a decisive 52/48 split, on giving Aboriginal people a “Voice to Parliament”. I suspect there will be much clamour shortly, when your average Aussie sees Charlie strutting about in his bejewelled hat, for there to be a second question on the ballot about severing the umbilical to London and electing an Aussie Head of State. Alf from Home and Away, perhaps fits the bill.

I’ve never, to my knowledge, met your wife. I’m sure she’s lovely.

Well, just under a week to go until jug ears and his bitch get to float about London in their Gold carriage waving at the soft-minded wankers in their TK Maxx anoraks who’ll line up dutifully in the rain to kiss his ring. What’s the bill running at currently? £100m? £150m? We are told the coming ceremony will be fit for the modern age, which according to the TV news piece I’ve just seen, includes some dotty old Dorises’ hand-embroidered anointing screen, strict quotas on “minority representation”, and Floella Fucking Benjamin processing as Keeper of the Royal Teddy. What a Country. Much amusement here though, at the notion that the Peoples of The Commonwealth will be encouraged to join their British cousins in standing in their living rooms and loudly pledging allegiance to His Royal Jugness. Fuck that, was pretty much the tone of the Newscaster, stifling giggles. I imagine he speaks for many. I’ve never been more grateful to have Saturday night Dinner plans. Enjoy the show, Serfs. https://www.smh.com.au/politics/federal/in-a-land-far-far-away-a-silly-ritual-will-hand-us-our-new-king-and-queen-20230426-p5d3c9.html https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2023/apr/29/public-invited-to-swear-their-allegiance-as-king-is-crowned

“They do bring in a lot of tourists, though, don’t they?”. “What’s the alternative, President Boris Johnson? President Tony Blair?” ”They do a lot of good though, that Princess Anne works so hard” ”They bring the country together, like when the Queen addressed the nation during Covid” Vox populi, Vox dei. Britons should get off their fucking knees.

I know your return has been more controversial than finding mifepristone in the Confessional, but I have to say this is a hell of a sentence, perhaps only surpassed by the one that’s probably coming your way soon. How’s the golf these days? Still fingering your Wood with other men twice a week?

Right, I’ve about had it with this Cunt now. Greatest Genius to ever lift a cue he may be, but how many times must we sing the same song? Play some scintillating stuff to put one foot in the Semis in the easy half of the draw, an eighth title at your mercy. Then turn up Wednesday afternoon looking, tired, pissed, and disinterested, playing like a lobotomised Stevie fucking Wonder after a night on the nitrous oxide. Misses left right and centre, and you can literally see the fight go out of him. I know his whole schtick is mercurial talent and everything, but how the fuck do you contrive to lose seven frames in a row to a man who’s never won a Crucible match until this year? Frankly, it’s got the whiff of Chinese money about it, just as alas the whole game does now. Barry Hearn better be straight in the dressing room to administer a piss test, that’s all I know. It’s the same fucking disgrace from a lazy, increasingly boring Cunt. Fuck off, Ron.

I very much enjoyed his seven things you can’t say on television bit, but I am more familiar with his brother Will, who surprisingly captained the England Rugby team.

Overused word, but he was undeniably a genius. I was lucky enough to see him perform twice and both times I laughed until my ribs hurt. Liked his painting too. He was one of that wave of Aussie intellectuals, Greer and James among them, who made the UK their stage, to World acclaim. We just won’t see his like again. Is there a modern equivalent? I particularly loathe the fact that though he is barely cold, the usual humourless mob are weighing in on him being transphobic, racist, and punching down in his comedy. Which thankfully is greeted by most Aussies I’ve spoken to today with the sort of withering put down Barry himself would have crafted, if slightly less poetically. Vale, Barry. You’ll be missed.

As this seems to be a thread for nominating Cunt of the Decade, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Alexander Boris De Pfeffel Johnson, the cunt’s’ Cunt.

For fuck’s sake. South Norfolk Council. What is it, drive by on a Massey Ferguson? Pop a (flat) cap in your ass? Pathetic.

Everything? That’s quite a boast, Bill.

With inflation at 10%, what’s the going rate for one of your bordello staff to say hello to your little friend these days? Asking for a friend.

I saw a clip of the Eurosport commentary. Jimmy White soon perked up at the mention of unknown powder all over the table. Where’s Tony Montana when you need him? What a bunch of bollocks.

January 2018, incidentally.

Naturally I’ll be expected to weigh in on this subject, and I hate to disappoint. The fun of a GP appointment doesn’t end with the receptionists, but these days it continues well into the consultation room. Think of it as your X factor moment; you’ve got about ninety seconds to impress a bored judge in the dog days of their career with your tedious rash or burning piss before they hit the red button and you’re kicked out with a pointless script, 12 month wait for a referral or a leaflet on social prescribing. There’s a small army of other desperate souls waiting for their moment to shine and they haven’t got time for you stumbling over your lines or needing three goes at the medical equivalent of a Coldplay cover. Fuck it up, and you’re cast out into the car park of waiting six weeks for your next audition. It boils down to one simple fact. You get what you pay for. Collectively, you’ve entrusted the current UK Government to run the NHS and specifically General Practice in to the ground. You’re lucky to have a waiting room to sit in. Give it a year or two and you won’t get so much as a thimbleful of Calpol without selling your firstborn to a Rotherham Taxi Driver. It’s past the tipping point now. Unsavable. Buckle up Killer, and for Christ’s sake stay well.