Last Cunt Standing

Far too serious a post for t’Corner....but your appeal for people to look beyond short term profit is like farting into a hurricane. Spivs, chancers and speculators run the show now old boy. The electorate have been warned countless times about the risks of this, but as long as their house price increased and they could afford two weeks in Magaluf, who gives a fuck. The loft will be collapsing with all those pigeons coming home to roost.

Now now Stubbs, that’s the sort of attitude the ECB are specifically trying to stamp out. I mean just because your average village team would give the England Women a good pasting, that doesn’t mean the Western Terrace at Headingley would not welcome the views of a double-x’d trundling pace bowler or a batsperson with two breast pads but no box. I imagine The Long Room is full of enlightened Colonels from the Home Counties who would hang on every word of a short-haired bull dyke with a batting average of nine. Any suggestion she’d be either loudly asked for Gin and Tonic or beaten over the head with a rolled-up Telegraph is distinctly late 20th century. I can’t wait for the Pakistan tour, they’ll love Ebony and most certainly will not wonder why the slut is not in hijab and away from home without her husband. Fred Trueman must be spinning in t’Grave. Si’thee. Incidentally, that photo of Kirsty Gallacher is like catnip to me. I wonder if she swings/handles balls/wood as well as her Dad?

I quite agree. Popular with student nurses, mind.

I can remember picking glass out of a fat girls’ arse in Christmas party season many years ago. You can picture what she’d done. Came down rather hard on the Xerox, with her paper crown at a jaunty ankle, glass of Chateau de Kwik Save In her hand and her knickers round her ankles. I loved A&E in December, came home laughing every day.

Ethnics now is it? “Pakis” is no longer acceptable to you, then? No wonder you didn’t join up like Grandad; you’re a fucking coward.

No, you’re thinking of this lot

Well she’s not Nigerian. But you’d need a 9000 mile cock and that’d be something of a problem for a career on t’Doors.

Have you been talking to my wife as well as @PANZER MURPHY?

If you haven’t seen some of the Cricket fellas trying to talk to Ebony Rainford-Brent in the rain breaks, then do so, it’s a sight to see. Like the father of the groom finding himself stuck on the “gay mates and work colleagues” table, it’s as awkward as fuck.

Hell of player, Le Tiss. He won me a few quid often, and he gets big marks from me for both being a one club man when he could have fucked off to a London club anytime he liked, and for being a fan of the Cricket - he is often seen at The Rose Bowl and is very patient with fans who want to shake his hand or buy him a beer. Still I imagine he is far from poverty.

Now here’s a Cunt who I’m amazed has never been mentioned on here before. Putting aside him taking the Murdoch shilling for 25 years, or his morally dubious betting ads to milk the poor and soft-of-intellect, his latest moment of smiling treachery is of epic proportions. It seems his hackneyed act of joshing with his mates every Saturday afternoon while discussing the idiosyncrasies of the Tranmere back four was all bollocks. Sky have decided that a few of the dinosaurs need culling, and several ruddy-faced gobshites like Phil Thompson have been shown the door. Much wailing now from the Gammon community about the potential changes, with the collective view that Jeff will soon be joined in his dissections of Arbroath’s new striker by Rustie Lee, Frank Bruno and Saracen from Gladiators. There will be fewer jokes about Jeff being a Monkey-Hanger, I’m sure. I don’t give a fuck about that, not least as I can no longer see the show. What pisses me off is that a man can spend 20 years laughing it up with his mates but show not a drop of loyalty to them when they are pushed. How much money does the leathery old cunt need? Did it even cross his mind to say, “you know what, ours is the most popular show on the network, and you want to make a change, then so do I”, then fuck off to become Chairman at Hartlepool and be applauded for all time. But no, filthy lucre wins out every time. Fuck him off for a 20 year old with cracking tits, I say. These days it’s all about image over content, anyway. Who cares if she knows how many penalties Crewe have conceded since the Wilson Government? Unbelievable, Jeff.

The Pentagon, I imagine. The British Armed Forces couldn’t stop traffic on the North Circular these days, much less The Red Army or a coked-up bunch of Spetsnaz psychopaths. Christ, you’ll be singing Rule Britannia next.

We have the opposite problem here, in that we aren’t allowed to leave the country without Government permission. Everyone is imprisoned on the island until further notice. <insert your own lazy reference to penal colonies here> That’s penal, not penile, Neil.

You’ve been talking to my wife, haven’t you Panz?

Was it an A3 copy, just out of interest?

You could use Leslie Ash’s lips as floatation devices these days. You didn’t by any chance ask her if it’s true she shagged Eric Cantona? The rumour that won’t die is that Lee Chapman told Howard Wilkinson it was him or The Frenchman after catching him offside, and Howard lifted the phone to ring Alex Ferguson, rather than telling Lee he could fuck off and sign for Crewe.

And surely they would have waited until she was inside, and despatched her silently. Not gunned down on her doorstep like John Lennon at the Dakota Building. But then Lennon was coming home to expose Emlyn Hughes as an Arms Dealer or something wasn’t he? He and Ray Clemence were up to their armpits in Ugandan Yellow Cake.

I’ve always felt conspiracy theories were a sort of black comedy. People trying to make sense of randomness and chaos by tying bits together, mixed in with the odd nutter and occasional malevolent shit-stirrer. The believers hugely underestimate how stupid rich and powerful people are, and overestimate their ability to keep anything quiet. Here’s my favourite conspiracy theory clip which I caught on late night telly a few years back. The Gateshead Grey, who travelled light years across space only to be beaten to death in a Ginnel with a coal shovel.

To quote the incomparable Chris Morris, you’re talking Nonce Sense. QAnon this ain’t. Jan Dildo was as threatening as a Labrador with a brain injury.

Latecomers to sodomy-based lifestyles usually end up semi-tragic figures once Old Compton Street turns on them as paunchy Arrivistes, sadly drowning in booze and living anonymously up a hill in New Zealand. I imagine Schofield has thumbed through a few property sections in the Wellington Advertiser before now.

I imagine her running down the platform yelling Daddy might have featured in your vinegar strokes, too.

Bruno talks extensively about his friendship with Michael Barrymore in his autobiography, Let Me Be Frank. Awight?

I’m surprised you found an Uno with enough Torque to pull the Caravan, Gyps. And there’s no way you’d get a Caravan round the Arc De Triomphe roundabout, so unless you’d pitched up at Versailles, I call Le Bullshit.

It’s perhaps no surprise that in the absence of mass air travel, people all over the World are rediscovering the joys of life under canvas, exemplified by comedy Slug Boris Johnson. Personally I’ve never understood the attraction of leaving a perfectly nice house or warm car to spend precious time off living like a refugee. The advocates romanticise the fresh air, the roaring campfires and the night sky. I prefer to focus on the insects, the constant smell of smoke, and sleeping on the floor. If I wanted to stand in line to empty a slop bucket chemical toilet, I’d rob a bank. There are no redeeming features to the idea, and the sort of bearded backpacking freaks that think the great outdoors could ever compete with a warm bed, hot shower and cooked breakfast that even £60 a night would buy you, need dunking in acid. The wife suggested a few nights in a hired motor home last weekend, such is the fashion here, and for a few hours I contemplated drowning her in the pool. Reminding her the only tent I’ll ever pitch is the trouser variety, the idea has thankfully been dropped in favour of a 5* trip to Cable Beach. Much more my cup of enamel-mug tea.

She’s something of a Tiger in person, Eric. She gave me a right gobfull when I left the fire door closed at a Ronnie Exhibition match a few years back, telling an assembled audience that she’d “chin the next cunt who shuts that door, there’s a menopausal woman over here drippin’ wet”. Gave me the right horn all the way home, that.