Last Cunt Standing

Amen.

Mangled thinking you contemptibly thick twat. Health trade unions have condemned the idea of war repeatedly, precisely because it maims and kills people. They then deal with the broken people for life, long after they are forgotten by a grateful Government. As for people being applauded for doing their jobs, presumably you’ll be picketing Remembrance Day with similar sentiments, perhaps yelling from the Cenotaph that the Veterans were being paid for doing their job for once and the national thanks offered by the annual Poppy festival makes you utterly sick. Dulce et Decorum Est? Moron.

I can assure you all there are many in the NHS who don’t want garlands, clapping and free coffee. Crocodile tears. The staff well understand it’s their job, and are in large part getting on with it, between collapsing and dying. That they have been sent into the trenches with no armour by generals in a distant Chateau is a lesson we should have learned by now.

He had Rod, Jane and Freddie too. All at once, with Dawn the next door neighbour as the sandwich filling. They had some fun pre Yewtree.

Despite a thorough search I’ve been unable to find this Saudi yacht tour in the latest Cunard brochure, which is a shame as I was prepared to consider an outside cabin if they fly in Welsh skirt. Put me down for a few hours with Katherine Jenkins and Charlotte Church, followed by five minutes with Ruth Madoc circa 1986.

Really? I heard she likes German sausage. She is a bit thin mind. You could fold her into a pretzel and dip her in salt, should you wish.

You’re forgetting Dr Jug Ears, who’d have them lining the streets for his organic homeopathy potions and ointments, guaranteed to do fuck all for the problem but make you feel warm inside, much like the Windsors themselves. Princess Michael of Kent would get the keys to the Mengele Research unit inevitably. Kate would be running the WRVS stall in the lobby, while Mum and Dad would be watching on from the Royal Box nearby. Wills would be breathlessly whizzing about in his chopper, trying not to laugh at the word chopper. A shit show all round. But I’d bet my left bollock they’d all have PPE.

Stop wasting what’s left of your life on here you fucking dullard, get the pitchfork out and the torch flaming, dodge the black helicopters and UN soldiers keeping martial law in Cotswoldland, and set to with the real enemy. 5G masts are causing radiation stress to your cells and causing your lungs to eat themselves. Or at least that’s what David Icke was just now telling us all, I may have missed the vital point as I was too busy trying to reduce my laugh-induced hernia. If you care momentarily for your country, these things need to be felled in huge numbers across the land so I expect to see progress. Only when the country is down to its last bar of signal, collectively waving their Nokia 3310 at the sky, will we be free of this tyranny. No patriot would ever be found hunched over his laptop when the revolution comes calling. To battle! Or something.

Hey Panz, I see that nice Mr Varadkhar has lifted his stethoscope again after a few years as Teapot and intends to work his magic one day a week. Bad news for Daniel O’Donnell who no doubt will take a sales hit from Leo laying waste to whole town fulls of Mrs Doyle types with a stroke of his pen. At least he can ring the boyfriend if he gets stuck on a difficult spelling. Ass-pirin, perhaps, which as we know is taken tree times daily.

If you’re some sort of Physic, I’m Robert Hooke. I’m sure you knew I’d say that.

I hope so to. I must admit I did something a few weeks ago I never thought I would do. I bought a firearm and some ammo. I’m planning on turning my Pagoda into a pillbox when they come for the Navy Base at Henderson.

It’s way too late in the game to be deciding manufacture of antibiotics and ventilators might have national security implications, SC. The Chinese won’t stand for their economic model being threatened and will make a move on Taiwan, Korea or both imminently. War coming. Hope you can dig a trench.

Tasteless fruit? You’re thinking of Punkape, surely? Hope all is well in Victoria. Any plague ships off your Coast?

dragon fruit also worth a miss. Looks like a late abortion when you stand up and look into the pan.

Think Clemence Thioly in Colette. I could see Victoria filling her shoes perfectly.

Alas Ms Bux no longer shares his bed, as I gather jug ears didn’t want more kids. The Welsh tart slipped off to LA to find an inseminator for rent, and I’m told Gary gets on well with him, the snivelling cuck. I’ve long suspected Lineker to be on the Schofield trajectory, and keep tuning in hopefully for the tear stained interview with Garth Crooks. His defence of the money grabbing cunts in the EPL has been nauseating but of course entirely predictable.

I’d give Asparagus a swerve too for the moment if you’re lurching towards hypochondria. A rigid cystoscopy is never a good start to the day from the end you’d be on.

His wife might be sent to Kanada given she’s got needlework skills and the Selection officer might want a curiosity fuck. I fear she wouldn’t last long mind, stripes are sooo last year.

Oh I imagine he’s quite aware. In fact he’ll be serving the drinks in his pinny while Jerome and the Cripps run a train on Meghan. A cuck if ever there was one our Harry, his little ginger cock was retired as soon as that Black preacher sat back down on the Windsor pew. I bet there’s not a day goes by he doesn’t wish he was still getting sucked off by Chelsey Davy.

Well in a sign of our increasingly desperate times, Old Liz has been rolled out from her Fuhrer Bunker under the Chancellry Gardens, also known as St George’s Chapel, to fix us all with a steely TV glare to get us through the peak of the death curve. In a pre-recorded statement, Brenda will speak to the Commonwealth and likely trot out the same out hackneyed bollocks while, in keeping with the mood of the nation, she sits on the sofa in her pyjamas idly picking her feet. Early contenders for bullshit bingo: 1. National Crisis 2. The War 3. My family and I 4. The NHS 5. Spirit/resolve/determination 6. Grief And loss 7. Brighter days to come Then follows a rousing chorus of Rule Britannia, mass forelock tugging, and off to bed trying hard to remember it’s not Christmas Day and you don’t need to polish off the sprouts like you do every year after The Queen. I hope Charles does a Pidgin Version, we may as well die laughing.

I hope this lot never did a Calendar Girls style shoot. There’s surely not enough cake in England to hide their arid genitals behind. In other news, they have a cracking array of cheap open-toed sandals on display, plus the old slapper doing the selfie in the lower right corner looks to have nailed it, and that’s not easy with a Box Brownie.

Sarah Millican is dead? Was it cancer of the nunny?

Did it deserve a BBC News Alert in the current climate though? 9000 miles from London I heard the bongs from my phone, thought “oh fuck, what now?”, then laughed out loud for a good 20 seconds. To be fair, it’s the only laugh Eddie Large has ever given me.

Your aggression is uncalled for, Stubby. Though I fear it is already too late, I’m as up for defending the natural world as the next man, I just think it odd that so many people who will happily chain themselves round an oak tree would cross the road to avoid a Big Issue seller. Perhaps it’s simple misanthropy, with which I have great sympathy, given after a life of 10 minute moans I now prefer my dog to most people. Speaking of which it’s walkies time, and I’ll look out for taipans. Thanks.

I hate to come over all Das Kapital, but would it not be wiser to turn your GPMG on the lords and ladies? The lackeys are replaceable and turning them into manure isn’t solving the problem, is it? But take out the organ grinder and the monkey can go back to his tree.