Last Cunt Standing

Delighted to learn that the new panel for Soccer Saturday will include notable wit and ranconteur Adebayo Akinfenwa, renowned genius Joleon Lescott, and celebrity bindipper Robbie Fowler. Marvellous. I’m glad I can’t watch from over here.

AleX Jones, on the other hand. I imagine she sings Land of My Fathers at the moment of orgasm. Or possibly the theme from The One Show.

I’m afraid whataboutery won’t cut it Bill. Simple question; what will the pound/euro exchange rate be in January 2021? I’m in WA, by the way. @southerncunt is the Victorian.

I think Alitalia bought the rights years ago, just after she sang for the Pope. It’s a bit less roomy than you’d think, despite the best efforts of Gavin Henson. BA, who have rather bigger fleet requirements, have put in a bid for Ruth Jones. Her ladycavern should more than suffice.

So, where next on our little adventure? The much-vaunted deal has been canned because someone has finally told Boris he’d lose the Union. Can we expect the Unicorns and Sunlit uplands anytime soon? I see the pound is taking another rogering, which means I’ll have to cut back on the Vegemite this month. Sort it out for fucks sake, the Country looks fucking ridiculous at this point.

Some of Terry Wogan’s best work was Points of View. You could see him half-winking down the camera thinking that the outrage of Mrs Smith about the running order for Songs of Praise was fucking hilarious. If he got really bored he’d Don his moleskin trousers and shove his man bulge into the nations living rooms. I can never forgive him for the Janet and John stories. Gave me a bastard hernia, they did.

British Airways packed off another jumbo for storage and spare part stripping in Cardiff today. How very sad. Feels like the end of an era every day. I’ve put in a bid for a 747 seat for my man cave and plan on suggesting Mrs LCS sources a stewardess outfit. Just for a bit of innocent nostalgia, of course.

No, no you do it online these days Bill. Just like everything else. Even Colonel Huffton-Tuffton of Tunbridge Wells has an iPhone he can bash out missives on. I believe the email address is something like whyohwhyohwhy@telegraph.co.uk

I should have clarified they were lesbians. Or they appear to be through my binoculars.

I too remember Swine flu. I remember the mountain of pointless Tamiflu we were told to get rid of. I remember a joyless afternoon at the local RAF base being told by some polyester-tie wallah in charge of emergencies that one plan for dealing with the dead was to dig a dirty great trench and bulldoze the corpses into it. I remember the queues around the block for people with 12 hour snot demanding an examination. I remember the indignation of people having to wait an extra day for their repeat medicines. I remember the requests for home visit because it was “too dangerous to go out”. I’m enjoying this series of Pandemic much more, but that’s probably to do with having the time to cheerfully watch the world lose its shit from my hammock. I’m eagerly anticipating the next instalment of Brexit, too, which by now I am convinced is being written by Armando Iannucci.

There are two homosexual couples on my street. Both with children. Please write to The Daily Telegraph at once.

The tests are free, I presume? Well, it’s a day out, isn’t it? I’d never have imagined the usual suspects would be clearing the healthcare shelves with no thought for anyone else. Society is dead.

There is a definite trend among Aussie men, even young fellas, to get themselves a Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, or Indonesian partner. So much so that lots of Caucasian Aussie women are either Lezzing up, or decrying men in the press, or both. It’s an interesting sociological phenomenon. Oh, and you can’t get good cheese. The Postal service is laughable. Rural men eat Backpackers.

If darling Harold is thinking of Tom Rosenthal, he’s wrong. Tom’s mother is called Christine. Maureens’ son is Adam Rosenthal. Still, facts have never stood in the way of a good volley of invective on t’Corner.

If you’d like to put Big Clive Palmer in charge over there Southern, we here in WA would be grateful. He needs something else to focus on.

Meanwhile 3000 miles away on the West Coast, life goes on as normal. For me anyway.

Two charming young men. Jamal will be hanging out the back of them before they’ve christened their slop bucket, followed by the choice of boiling sugar water or pool cue to the skull. Fuck ‘em.

Longer Chains! Bigger cages! You believe what you want pal. There’s only my NHS Pension and one day maybe State Pension left behind now, so I hope you’re right and the pound is buying two Euro by the end of 2021. I guess we’ll see. Enjoy your freedom. I’m afraid it may disappoint you.

Apart from all the experts who lined up in 2016 to say it was a terrible idea and that leaving the club while retaining all the membership privileges was impossible. Gove told us we were “sick of experts” around the same time if memory serves. We are no longer led by expertise, we are led by ideologues. Let’s see how far it gets us all.

I don’t have the energy for this debate for the thousandth time. I think these two lines speak for themselves. The working class were so skilfully manipulated that they believed the way to strike back at the establishment was to vote for public school knobheads Johnson, Gove, Farage and the like, who must chuckle into their caviar at the notion they are champions of the common man. And now, four years on from 52/48, it’s become an article of faith that it must happen regardless of whether it’s a good thing or not. Like an old woman charged £30 grand for fixing a ridge tile, we are told once an outcome is agreed you can never dispute the fairness of the question. Keep watching after January. See who prospers. It won’t be the working man, I assure you.

Did you know the tradition of giving the black spot began in the Caribbean, Ratto? A little untermensch for you, no?

I’d get only involved only on the condition she finish off my Tracey Island model afterwards. I only got as far as the paper mache.

I don’t remember “we’ll be okay” on the side of the bus. Weren’t you aiming a little higher than subsistence?

That’d be Su-fuck. They like barges in Norfolk. And Neil likes Broads.

Surely your van is going spare at the moment, Neil? A few quick squirts of bathroom sealant and I reckon you can market the Bedford Rascal as sea-going to an overseas purchaser. Free carpet off cuts and protest chains in the back too, no doubt. No one is watching the Norfolk coast, I imagine. Your more intrepid refugee will surely fancy Rotterdam to Yarmouth on a warm day.