Last Cunt Standing

Well I hope to Christ you’ve got a Mirena on board. Trisomy is not a Greek Island.

Oh please, stop, you’ll make me cry. How about a rousing blast of Jerusalem, now you’re all puffed up with nowhere to go in the cul-de-sac marked Last Refuge of Scoundrels. Short of me stencilling my GMC number on your forehead with an sharpened Boomerang, I don’t see how this bollocks moves forward. So for the umpteenth time of asking, go play with someone else. It’s nearly bedtime here and you’re much less fun than the present Mrs LCS.

To the delight of headline writers everywhere, Christian Brueckner is apparently being fingered by the German Authorities.

Marvellous. Just one more push and I’d say that Adult Literacy Course you saved up for will have been entirely worthwhile. You’ve exposed nothing except your own foolishness. Now go and clean your Dad’s cap badge and have a little cry. I imagine he spent rather a lot of time out of the house down t’Legion, didn’t he? Have you considered the possibility he was avoiding you? Why might that be, do you think? Once you’ve finished with the Brasso, be a good chap and get back to your Ladybird Book of Logic. You clearly need more revision, given you look a right cunt at present. Not sure what it is I’m supposed to be convincing you of, but given I couldn’t give a tiny shit anyway it’s all a bit academic.

Listen dipshit, by “venture out” I meant crossing one of intrastate borders which have been enforced in this area for the last few weeks. I’ve been entirely unimpeded otherwise, thanks for asking. And of course, like every loudmouth gobshite I ever encountered, you’ve mastered Dr Google, which by extension makes you Emeritus Professor of Medicine at Harvard. So you don’t need me adding my two cents, I’ll just keep my diagnosis of “wilfully ignorant cunt with a personality disorder“ to myself. Please find another outlet for your attentions. Train sets are popular with simpletons, I hear. Incidentally the “regs” here are, just like the death toll, rather different to Blighty. But then you know that already etc...

Since you ask you soppy cunt; 1. There is not much Bush in Margaret River, more vineyards and coastline. Topped up the cellar nicely now we are allowed to venture out. 2. No. And I’m not sure there’s a market for inbred sheep, thus not many farmers. 3. Anusol, like most rectal sclerosants is available otc here so no need to prescribe, and besides if your pissy inference is it’s a sodomy-induced rectal fissure I need treating then it’s generally Rectogesic you’d need. But then a bright chap like you would know that, or at least you’d know which friend to ask in the canteen until your tachograph lets you back to work, or whatever other council-approved vocation is keeping you in Wotsits. I see that you are intent on clinging to my every word like a literary genital wart. I assure you after a long career dealing with diseased twats and arseholes you are about as anxiety provoking as condensation. Fuck off, you’re boring me.

I see the bar tab for the Met’s Holiday Club is getting back up to critical again, so a press release on Operation Grange notepaper gets faxed off to London naming a random German nonce as a new suspect and it gets lapped up. If only Fat Bob, a disgrace to his Hendon tie, had hit double top on the office dartboard instead then they could’ve gone back to blaming Clement Freud and demanded another £5M to carry on in the sun till they all retire. With Priti Vacant in the Home Office hotseat, I imagine they’ll get whatever fag-packet figure they ask for to keep them all in golf balls and tapas for a while yet. There’s more chance of Punky joining the Orange Order than there is Plod cracking this case. Joke.

Packing heat? You think highly of yourself, don’t you? From the photos I’ve seen I’d say you’d need a truckload of topical oestrogen to get to “tepid sandpaper”. Heat, I suspect, left you a long, long while ago. Even a vintage Sean Bean in full hunt sab get up would alas be as tears in the desert.

Freudian. You’re clearly spending too much time with Judy in the stupid cunt club. In fact, let’s just call you The Scarecrow and be done with it, given you’re a brainless friend of Dorothy. I don’t recall finding either the bullshit gland or the Walt radar on my cadaver all those years ago, but no doubt you can point me in the right direction, once you can distinguish your puborectalis from your olecranon. I’m “rage quitting” off to Margaret River now to restock over the long weekend, so you’ll need to talk to yourself for a while, which I imagine you are quite good at, given you have inevitably cleared more bars in your time than Dalton Grant.

That’d be an aneurysm, you stupid cunt. I learnt that at medical school. And by medical school, I mean the summer I worked as a Hospital Porter, hung about the doctors’ mess and picked up some tips. The rest is just Latin, chasing nurses, bad handwriting and obfuscation. But a bright and well-read chap like you would know that. Personally I’m hoping you get rapid-onset tertiary syphillis when Jewdy finally talks you into an initiation blow job. Might be something of a diagnostic challenge, mind, given that you already act like the sort of brain-dead wanker who’d be kicked out of a class full of Edwards Syndrome patients for being a bit slow on the uptake. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. You need a TF BUNDY tattoo like no one else alive.

Guess again, motherfucker.

I’d be angry too if I was losing 600 to 1 at half time. You’ve not had that much of a pasting since the days of Alan Ball, have you?

Somehow I knew you two would find each other. Bless.

Too good for this place Killer. Chapeau.

Your shite’s what? Maybe pop along to the greengrocer and ask for some apple’s or pear’s. Oh, and given the symptoms you describe I suspect you have Cancer of the Caecum, so I’d be biking down to the doctor for an urgent colonoscopy referral if I were you. Punky would be happy to look into it for you.

Why travel at all? There’s nothing to be found there you can’t learn from someone else in the factory canteen over a bag of Wotsits. I thought you knew this by now?

Sorry, it’s rather late here, so I read that as “I’m a self employed dickhead” and thought you’d acquired insight over the past few weeks. Well done on the gouging, mind. You must be so proud every time you look in that rusting mirror in the downstairs bog, before you stride out to the Taxi ready for another day of high achievement. It is a Taxi you drive, I assume, for they are on an approved council list, and taking an NHS Manager to the Cleaning Contractor is definitely key worker employment, so you’ll be forgiven the extra 75p you billed him. Treat yourself to some HP on your Sunday Pot Noodle you daft cunt.

Ish will wait. He’s a very patient man.

And you’re still breathing. Life can be so unfair. I imagine being furloughed has put a real dent in your education, hasn’t it, given all the works canteens are closed and you’ve thus got no one to pester for inside information on how you make the orange Revels or some other priceless skill.

I understand many acute hospital staff are feeling similarly fatigued by the crocodile tears clapping every Thursday, and are in their unguarded moments, getting all nostalgic for the days they had to pay for parking with no parking space, were disciplined for making themselves a tea on the ward after no break in six hours, and had to field emails about the permitted colour of socks. Frankly the sooner we get past the hero worship and back to the days of pay freezes, shouty litigious relatives and abusive drunks, the better for everyone. There’s an honesty to being treated like shit, but to be whipped daily while being told you are loved, that’s a whole new level of fucked.

Hair. And lots of it. Like Captain Caveman.

Well that being the case, I think a drawing is in order as you’re clearly good at them. He’s like a fatter Moeen Ali bred with that Sameera Ahmed bird who used to be on the Channel 4 News. Get yer pencils out. I’ll tell Ish he can expect your doodle shortly.

Amateur. Everyone knows you claim mental illness when you’re bang to rights on matters of cultural sensitivity.

About time you showed up you tired old muff-flasher. Disgusting racism is by now well established on the Corner and meets little if any resistance from those who should know better. I realise you spend your Lockdown Sundays scrutinising the dogging section of the Mensa magazine, but if you could put some stick about from time to time, the place would be better for it. Just imagine the usual offenders are braying red-jacketed fox hunters on horseback, might help you summon up the blood.

I would but, y’know, fatwa and shit. A death warrant from an Ayatollah can really put a dent in your day. I don’t want my beach walk interrupted by anxious thoughts about booby-trapped Muffins and Sarin-infused flat whites. Quiet life please.