Last Cunt Standing

I’m resurrecting this 134 page monster thread to note that today’s news from the UK is further proof of the utter triumph that is the Brexit project. The UK has officially entered recession (and may have been in a per capita recession more than 12 months, only saved by record immigration). Goldman Sachs says UK GDP is between 4% and 8% lower thanks to Brexit and has significantly underperformed comparable nations. Resolution Foundation says UK financial performance is now way off the trend pre-2008 Global Financial Crisis, to the tune of £23,000 per UK Household. I remember many Brexit arguments on these pages back 6 years ago. Those of us who pointed out the idiocy of the project were told we knew nothing (I’m looking at you @Mrs Roops) and that sunlit uplands were just around the corner. Still waiting? Is there anyone left on the island who still thinks they weren’t taken for a complete ride? Those pricks advocating for the scam should be in jail, the rest of you should be in the fucking streets. Never in the field of duplicitous Conservatism have so many been so thoroughly fucked, by so few.

HPV followed by manky Cervix is a fair bet, given she’s let Willie bowl a live one up her at least three times and I think we all know he’s into some deviant shit. I’m warming to the mental illness hypothesis myself. Maybe she stumbled in on Rose giving him the beans as a Christmas present and promptly melted down. She’s probably licking rubber wallpaper somewhere wishing she’d never set foot in St Andrew’s and dreaming of ponies. Sad really.

The irony of DT being rescued by SCOTUS citing a hypothetical threat to democracy isn’t lost on anyone, Bill. I’m past caring at this point. Burn it all down. Re-electing him would fire the starting gun on a remodelled world and as a white middle-aged heterosexual male with a healthy balance sheet, I’m quite happy to crack out the popcorn and watch the fireworks. I’ve seen On The Beach. The fallout cloud takes six weeks to get to my little bomb shelter in Margaret River, and I reckon at three bottles a day I should just about clear the cellar.

Off topic Bill, but I wonder what your view is on the Irish Women’s basketball team refusing to shake hands with the Israelis, who promptly handed their arses to them, citing loyalty with their Palestinian brothers and sisters. My reaction was one of shock. There’s an Irish Women’s basketball team now?

@Neil confirm or deny, Neil?

He’s no fool either, I’m sure he’d trick her by holding the door open and doffing his hard hat at her Ma’am-ness. Then it’s time for some abdominal surgery.

To be fair she’d make a good scaffolding pole, and would take up next to no room in the Bedford Rascal.

I wouldn’t worry. It’s finally dawning on the Dems that The Don isn’t going away and the Judges will pussy out, so they’ll need plan B, which is switching out Joe and Kamala for a winning ticket. This Special Counsel assessment is the opening salvo. Joe could’ve done a LBJ and been revered (there is still time) but he’s going to need to be prised from office it seems. Then the fun starts. Step forward Michelle Obama. It is written.

It was truly embarrassing Killer. Carlson was as ferocious as a kitten on Valium and ex-KGB Putin could barely disguise his glee at having an opportunity to bore an American to death. There were hardly any questions asked. Even Oprah would’ve bowled the odd bouncer. It is quite clear that Putin is no dummy, mind. Perhaps that was his aim. Something of a contrast to the likes of BoJo, The Don and Trudeau. Unless you have insomnia, I’d give it a miss.

“Stupid boy”.

Right, enough with the bullshit. Where is she and what’s the real fucking story? I’ve admittedly fallen down a bit of a rabbit hole on this one, lying here in the hammock with too much sun and red wine, but I’m not buying the official bollocks much longer. Six weeks since we’ve seen Her Royal Waifness. Not so much as a wave in dark glasses from a car or bedroom window. Now Wills turns up to an investiture swaying about looking ghastly and suddenly there’s a strong whiff of bullshit in the air. Bits of another story all over the internet. A mysterious police convoy into the London Clinic on 28th December. Spanish papers printing rumours of an induced coma. Suggestions - or wild speculation - that she’s done a version of the Diana stair dive, gone nuts after stumbling across Willie’s private toybox, or needed something a lot more involved than a laparoscopic hysterectomy, which is about as demanding on a fit forty year old as a dozen sit ups after a kebab. The King shoves out a Cancer story to cover a bigger one? Harry gets dragged back to sign a NDA or some other legal instrument before a coming big reveal? Who can say? Take the Queen as an example of serfs being lied to; I think safe to say she died “under medical supervision” a while before the rest of us knew, and the big show of the rushed family gathering at Balmers was utter bollocks. Then to cap it all, if you were a rich high profile young man who wanted rid of your problem wife, who would you call? Maybe a famous Scientologist with a direct line to David Miscavige? It all fails the sniff test for me. Just saying. @King Billy, you’re usually up to speed with this stuff. What’s the deal with these Cunts?

I’d have had you down as a Tiffany man myself, Eric.

Hard to disagree with much of this Stubbs. Warner is certainly not liked by many at the WACA whenever I’m down there, and his antics with the missing Baggy Green and then Helicoptering in from his Brother’s wedding have really sealed his Cunthood. Twitcher also has many detractors, though there’s still a few media fanboys who point out his stats are not far off Tendulkar. Australia play the Trenchtown Village XI in Brisbane shortly, and the decision by CA to ignore Australia Day on Friday out of respect to our Indigenous brothers has gone down like a cup of warm sick. Pat Cummins has, for reasons best known to himself, weighed in with his personal opinion that the date should be moved away from “invasion day”. The point has been well made of course that without the invading Brits, Australia wouldn’t be playing Cricket at all, and Pat wouldn’t be buying six million dollar property in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney. A grassroots campaign to make the Gabba a sea of drunk flag-waving Aussie nationalists is gaining ground, though I’m not sure it will seem much different. Go well.

Pacificly, it’s been 2,335 days.

Much amusement Down Under at this story and the fawning coverage in the British press. So Chuck needs a re-bore? So what? The very idea that armies of elderly men will go battering down the doors of their GP this morning demanding a PSA and a finger up the ring in case they have the royal affliction too is making many of us giggle. Prince William is of course no stranger to a thorough prostate exam himself, allegedly. I’m sure he’ll find time for another one while Katie recuperates.

I can highly recommend an overseas Test tour with Gladstone’s travel agency. Lovely man with an excellent back catalogue of cricket chat.

Charitable of you squire. Next thing you know they’ll be linking hands through the Erez crossing and singing Kumbaya. But bollocks, all the same.

I’m obviously now duty bound to call bullshit, not just as my regular correspondent thinks I’m some sort of gimpy superfan, but also because over the years I’ve heard about 20,000 of your lot claim lineage with Burns, and it’s about as convincing as the 1000 people that must have been in John Lennon’s primary class. The Union Jack waistcoat won’t be that controversial either, some of these people are Rangers fans for fuck’s sake. And this is bollocks, too. I’m the wrong side of the continent for either of these destinations (unlike @southerncunt) and my pool house makes the local Ritz-Carlton look cheap.

I didn’t see much of The Masters, but I gather it was quite a pedestrian victory for Ronnie yet again, which he’s punctuated with a piquant post-match debrief interview. I think we can safely assume he’s by now given up on SPOTY, and he’s basically goading World Snooker to ban him so he can run off to China and fill his pockets with LV Snooker or some such. I hope they don’t, and Ronnie turns up to Sheffield in full Scarface mode, thrashing everyone to nil until he meets Selby in the quarters, and pops an aneurysm when “The Jester” rolls up to the pack when breaking off. https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2024/jan/16/ronnie-osullivan-tells-bitter-rival-ali-carter-to-sort-life-out-in-expletive-laden-rant-snooker

There’s a Cunt of an event on my horizon. As with all immigrants, celebrating the cultural traditions of your lands of origin becomes hugely important. Hence it is no surprise that the local contingent of porridge-wallah refugees from the land of heroin, rain and sectarian violence have taken over the local community hall next Thursday, intent on bedecking it with tartan and serving the assembled guests cullen skink, multi-offal with root vegetables and Bells-infused trifle. Some idiot in the full tribal dress is going to bellow Ayrshire incantations at us all then deafen us with a demented pipe rendition of Down Under by Men at Work. Then, after we are all stuffed and half cut, comes the deranged Ceilidh band with lots of twirling round and round, presumably till we vomit all over each other. Of course, I could refuse to go. In previous years I’ve had a holiday, Covid or surgery recovery to hide behind. Not this year. My idiot but endearingly keen wife has signed us both up with a party of our Caledonian friends. She has neglected to consider the current weather over here is touching 38 degrees and jigging about in black tie is almost certain to cause issues. The food and whisky I don’t mind, and the banter is usually strong, but the dancing can get to fuck. The only saving grace is that given the following day is the Australia Day public holiday, the whole neighbourhood will stay in bed until 5pm nursing our hangovers. I’d be interested in any collective advice on how I can best turn up, eat and drink my fill, then fuck off before the mass embarrassment starts. Some of you must have some original excuses I can nick? Anyway, this Cunt of a thing will ruin my mood for a full week and I’m not too proud to share my annoyance.

My issues with @Wolfie are a matter of record, and I’m very familiar with the concept of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, but fuck me this is pretty thin rhetorical gruel. In any case, he’s too angry to be a whoopsie. They wouldn’t have him.

This is slightly off topic, but I’d be interested in the collective view from The Corner Cricket Club. Dave Warner, a divisive figure if ever there was one, fresh off the PR binge of a misplaced baggy green and being helicoptered into the SCG for a Domestic T20 game, has hung up his tatty Test cap for the last time. I was never a fan after sandpaper-gate. He’s been replaced, not by outstanding openers Bancroft or young prospect Renshaw, but by Steve “Twitcher” Smith, disgraced ex-captain, and the most unsuitable opener since Michael Barrymore MC’d the Essex RNLI annual cabaret. Australia are playing a tepid West Indies, so given half-blind Sloths armed with a banana could knock a fifty easily, he’ll probably twitch his way to 200, but still, it’s a cunt on principle. Makes me almost nostalgic for big Rob Key picking his golfing mates and paying no attention to County form, the twat. @Stubby Pecker @camberwell gypsy what say you?

To be fair, it does bear a second airing. Belting cover. I wish he’d stick to this troubadour for hire stuff, he’s increasingly a parody of himself. I saw him play in Belgium a few years back, and when his backing band included a French bird on the scissors, I did wonder what a younger Mr G would have had to say about such cuntery.

You what mate?

Can I presume then you’ve amended the wall mural? Surely the big red hand is now just a single finger pointed skywards, and the Union Flag is now black with Arabic scrawl. Big Arlene would look better in a burka, granted.