Last Cunt Standing

Indeed our Vera was something of a pioneer in the downstairs topiary stakes. She invented the landing strip, and rumour has it it’s where Glenn Miller was trying to land when he got lost over The Channel. She never forgave herself, and to avoid confusion in future, she went for the full pubic Kojak on her 30th birthday. Prince Phillip was particularly enamoured reportedly, and ordered the privet hedge at Sandringham be thinned in the hope that Brenda would take the hint.

That’s no rug. Jimmy was the index patient for hair transplant surgery, and sadly due to a labelling error he has a monkey scrotum where his scalp should be. And while we are on the subject of sporting pricks with hair transplants, I bet Spudface Rooney is in deep mourning today, given I expect he spent his formative years imagining he was the meat in a Vera Lynn / Queen Mum sandwich.

No justice in the world when this rancid old trout gets to 103, yet Willie Thorne gets barely into his mid sixties. One made a good living bending over tables and handling wood to polite applause in dimly lit Working Men’s Clubs. The other cunt went bald at 30.

Happily.

No, “arsehole” is as close to a diagnosis I’ve made with you. You moan when I use terminology, you moan when I don’t. As I’ve said before, short of tattooing my GMC Number on your forehead with a blowtorch, there’s literally nothing I can say to shut you up. You think I’m a fraud. I think you’re a wanker. So? I’d suggest you take a leaf out of your nihilist new mate Judy’s book and accept that none of it really matters. You’re boring the piss out of me now.

If you don’t get the gig for the voiceover on the M&S Food advert soon Rev, I’m going to write to The Sunday Post on your behalf.

I have literally no idea what the fuck you are on about. Can you draw me a clock face? Can you spell WORLD backwards? I’d suggest a check up, because from this distance you sound like the sort of sorry fellow who gets fished out of the river in his pyjamas.

He doesn’t have any amyl nitrate Punkers, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

Oh for Christ’s sake, what are we, eight? I’d say my Dad’s bigger than your Dad, but given you’ve already told us your unfortunate father spent more time in t’Legion than he did with you, presumably to avoid the temptation to drown you in t’tin bath, I think it can remain unsaid. Make yourself useful and take a shift medal-polishing off your sister.

Do you read what you write before hitting enter with your head wand? It’s not for me to Police the place, thank God. Winds change. You’ll be dealt with in time, as many like you have before. Oh, and in case you get too comfortable I’ll let you in on a secret; no one truly gives a fuck what you think.

Well whatever I chose I’ll make sure I’m proudly council regulated and will avail myself fully of the canteen. Begging you? I sincerely doubt it. I might manage a polite request to neck Domestos from time to time but mostly I’m ignoring the shit you’ve been vomiting up since you arrived five fucking minutes ago and started sucking up to all and sundry with your thin reactionary gruel. It’s a sad indictment on The Corner of 2020 that you were not strangled at birth like imbecilic newbies used to be. Have a nice day.

I see that nice Mr Hutchinson is on the news for carrying off an injured Caucasian like a bag of coal. I’m sure you’re a fan Eric. The irony of this national cuck fantasy being all over the BBC is not lost on me. I imagine Punky hasn’t been able to get his trousers off today.

Oh, absolutely. Bereft and eviscerated, I now cower in your presence. Ponce.

Benaud -morning everyone- was of course the King of the Comm box, never bettered when paired with the King of Yorkshire. Now Boycs has been dumped from TMS I’m looking forward to him getting the gig in Killers’ Grand Apocalypse show. Explaining to everyone the grenade-bowling from the Chinese Special Forces is “as scary as my Aunt Annie after she’s been on the sherry” would go down very well, as would reminding viewers that they don’t make soldiers like they used to, for in days gone by a US Marine would charge a machine gun nest with only a stick of rhubarb and a Yellow Pages stuffed in their trousers. Bloody Roobish I tell thee.

Is it possible to get a huge pay check in County Cricket? IPL, maybe.

Who is doing the commentary, Killer? The clipped tones of Brian Johnston, or the rolling R’s of Bill McLaren? Andy Gray and David Coleman channel excitable schoolboy like no one else. Except Sidney Cooke. Of course, this being modern times, we’d need a splitarse involved somewhere, so let’s go for Helen Skelton doing live coverage of the 101st Airbourne taking on the Frucking Nutter Squads of the PLA. I hope she gets her tits out again, really livened up the swimming, that.

In addition, who gave the order for BBC weatherpersons to dress down when they do the Countryfile forecast? It’s really very distracting to see Schaferknacker or that Welsh rent boy in their man at C&A outfits. No middle ground in the Countryside. Surely it’s either full dress uniform, or it’s almost stark bollock naked, perhaps with Wellies and a belt made of baler twine. Suzanne Charlton would have obliged just to piss off her Dad.

I think you mean FLidz. Innit.

The glass-jawed little fairy was way off decent, Eric. Klitschko chased him round the ring that night he blamed his toe and looked a complete twat. In fact if you squint a bit when you watch it on YouTube it looks like Dolph Lundgren beating up Diane-Louise Jordan. Which would have been a closer contest, I imagine. The Hayemaker my eye. Heavyweight bouts are always shit anyway. Middleweight is where it’s at.

Keep flirting with me like this Judy and eventually I’ll succumb. Perhaps you know of a good Greek Restaurant? At least then I can can sample the Retsina while you moan about wheelchair access, youth crime and kebabs while picking the maggots from your leg ulcer. This riveting evening will of course have to wait until The Plague is over. Pencil me in for 2025. I do hope you hold out till then.

I didn’t know you’d progressed from the mobility scooter to full wheelie, so my apologies. Mind you I’d still bet my left nut you’d be on your knees in a flash for a rummage under the sofa if you dropped your last Chocolate Hobnob. Have a great day, Cuntchops.

Sounds like sound neighbourhood policing to me, given the number of Yoot stabbings in Chicken shops. Have you taken a knee yet Judge? Just be careful you can get back up when you do, otherwise you’ll have another stuck-in the-bath debacle. No point ringing an ambulance round your way. Ring LBC instead.

This cunt has been on the radar for years, but look at him now, arguing that 2m is not 2m and floundering about like a newly landed Tuna. Even by modern standards he’s an epic fail of a man. Keep an eye on the cunt, that’s all I’m saying. Fireplace Salesman of the year, 2007. Aim high.

And yet again the supposed ref drops her whistle and makes a run for the try line. Neither fish nor fowl. Unless we’re talking about your rancid snatch.