Last Cunt Standing

Farage must be wanking himself blind today. Finally, the British Passport is less powerful than an Estonian one and the working class are forever trapped on their island, leaving him and his establishment mates to enjoy their French and Spanish retirements in peace without all those uncouth Brits. If you planned to retire to the sun after 30 years in the Amazon sweatshop, your train just left. Enjoy.

Can apathy ever be overwhelming? When apathy is at root a lack of something, by the time it is approaching overwhelming, with its consequent implication of urgency and vigour, it’s surely called something else? Maybe I’ll write to Melvyn Bragg. He’ll no doubt tell me to fuck off too, but with more syllables than most. Form a queue, knobheads.

I’d be interested in The Corners’ reaction to this little tableau of modern London. Form an orderly queue with your punishment suggestions. Unless you are @Rev in which case the floor is yours. @Eric Cuntman also usually has a few choice words for animal cruelty. And any cunt that points out the pushee is in Crocs can fuck off.

Don’t forget the fedora. Steve Davies always seems a bit reticent when asked about Alex. I’m sure we only know a fraction of what went on between those two. It’s well known Higgins hated his guts for a long while, not sure they ever made it up. In other news, when is Willie Thorne’s funeral, and will it be in Leicester or Spain?

I can recommend John Virgo’s book on Alex, if you’re minded. He clearly loved the old fella.

I stand corrected. He was a hell of a player, I know that. I saw him play an exhibition once, Salford if memory serves. Took on one of the club players with no tip on his cue and made a 70 odd break including a blue down the side cushion at pace that was probably the best shot I’ve ever seen. Mad as a cut snake though and completely skint at the end. Snooker should have done better by him.

Or perhaps “I don’t give a fuck which way up you wear your glasses you Proddy cunt, you’ll not see a car bomb coming”.

Well, yes. I don’t know who your friends‘ dad was. By the sound of it neither did he.

Didn’t he threaten to have Dennis Taylor kneecapped?

A night in Glasgow was never the same when they closed The Truffle Club, just over the way from The Horseshoe. All the deep fried confections in the world couldn’t compete with that place at its peak.

I doubt it. We’ve all seen the growler shot. Drier than a Tehran stag do. My conclusion? Postmenopausal.

There’s a sister establishment on the Byres Road in Glasgow that offers deep fried Tunnocks Tea Cakes. Food of the Gods. They’ve even awarded themselves a McMichelin star, if I remember rightly.

You know wot you can do if you don’t bleedin’ like it ‘ere: leave.

Who’s stomping? This is your Kingdom; a place where the word nonce is forbidden, but the word nigger is not. Your rules, not mine. The conclusions people draw from this distinction are entirely a matter for them. Your Kingdom is a swamp, m’lady.

Oh that’s right, it’s just Indian doctors you approve of, I forgot. You’re better than this Eric.

She’s too busy editing me for daring to suggest someone has an upstairs window. Meanwhile “blacks smell”. Free speech, apparently. This place is cesspit these days.

Isn’t it time for your Lantus you dribbling old cunt?

Pathetic. You’re clearly running out of firepower, aren’t you? Floundering about trying to impress yet ultimately failing to penetrate. I take it back, maybe you are your fathers‘ son after all you witless cunt.

I’m quite surprised the good people of Paisley have not suggested a statue to Smeaton, famed the world over for his “Don’t come here, we’ll set right about Ye” moment of gold. Perhaps they could have cast it from the melted SUV.

Laughably awful and rather obvious projection. You’ve already told us your Dad spent much of his time in t’Legion, presumably because after she squeezed you into the world he could never look your mother in the eye again. All that time away defending the Empire, only to get home and find a turnstile where his front door used to be. Poor fella.

He’s much better in this Gyps.

That wouldn’t have been me Bill, but if it’s the two blondes I’m thinking of you’ve got problems and you need a close inspection, ideally in stirrups with your good readers on. Sharon has had so many genital warts burnt off her labia they look like a pair of 70’s lounge curtains, and Barbara, well let’s just say in a former life she might have driven the cab in Royston Vasey. You’d be better off warming the KY in the microwave and indulging in a night of passion alone, or perhaps making balloon animals from the Titan condoms. Sexual activity will of course be a challenge for you until you get your Peyronies sorted, but I imagine firing off round a corner takes you back to your Shankill childhood and possibly maintains the feeble erection. I should also tell you that Northern Bank fifties were withdrawn some years ago, to try and smoke out the ones covered in red ink currently boxed up with Shergars’ ashes. Be lucky.

Sounds like projection to me Edward. Though I’d have put you in Kindergarten at most.

Sportscene have fired up the Videprinter as a one off mind..... West George Fundamentalists 1 Strathclyde Polis 1....3 points on your Pools coupon Dougie Donnelly is a Cunt.

My goodness, soundproofed and three bedrooms. Well done you. No doubt Kevin McCloud is on his way round to view your diligent work with a hundredweight of egg boxes and a stapler. Probably best you invent an innocuous hobby like playing the drums, rather than admitting to Kevin the project was really inspired by the need for privacy when you get remorselessly pegged every Thursday by the cleanest looking hooker you can tempt into the Kia. I’d also steer him away from the racks of pasta and water purification tablets, lest on enquiring why you have such items you let slip you’re expecting a teeming hoard of Africans at your door any day. You wouldn’t want to come over like a simpleton.