Last Cunt Standing

Don’t forget Frank Bruno, who’s been doing the Uncle Tom two-step for 30 odd years, to the delight of the English middle class who regard him as safe enough to live in their street, if not date their daughter. How they applauded him in Panto and guffawed at his forelock-tugging act straight from the Plantation. Course this was before he started clucking like a chicken and needing Olanzapine to get through the day. Opinion may have shifted since then. Know what I mean, Harry, you Cunt?

It’s possible her full name is Beau T. McBoatface. Certainly has the displacement.

Ah yes but it’s also famously a horrendously corrupt country, Wolfie. A few Billion Rupiah in the right palm from his wealthy parents and he’s free as a bird to perhaps haunt the streets of Bali looking for drunk Western arseholes. He’d be in luck, place is chock full of them. I’d rather they forgot to lock the door of the segregation unit one night, personally. Or alternatively let Abu Hamza check the cunts’ prostate. On Sky Sports.

What’s her surname? Selecta?

It’s an unfortunate trick of the light but that combination of specs, nose and bushy ‘Tache makes me think of the Marx brothers. Hippo, perhaps.

It’s even all over the news here in Oz, and frankly we’ve got bigger things to fret about than where ginger bollocks and his half-cast memsaab chose to park their over-privileged arses. I am looking forward to the inevitable tv interview with Gayle King or Megan Kelly though. I hope they go nuclear and tell the world David Icke is right, Granny is a shape-shifting lizard partial to the blood of newborn children.

The only one smiling is the boss with a suntan? I imagine there will be plenty guffawing when ol’ pipecleaner legs gets folded into his child’s coffin. As for The Jam, and I realise this is likely to start a war, A Town Called Malice is for me their best work. Lyrically bang on, and for years was the source of all my NHS passwords. Raised a smile each morning before the onslaught. Very fond of that song.

Bruce Foxton can kiss my ring.

I would give Chris Packham a miss in his version of The Terminator, and Susan Boyle in Basic Instinct might not get past the Edit suite. The remake of Sophie’s Choice starring Francesca Martinez will be outstanding though. Easily 40 Oscars.

He’d clearly had his wings clipped though. Dame Elton John was a target that got away, Eddie Murphy sat lips-pursed throughout, and Tom Cruise was so busy chasing Thetans he forgot to turn up. He could have really torched ‘em if he’d been allowed. James Corden joke was unfairly overshadowed by his Dame Judi one.

Is less of a benefit issue MC, as many of the #neurodiverse community have pre-existing diagnoses. This is more about parents on Twatter wanting to broadcast to other like minded souls that their offspring might spend all day in the dark learning the periodic table, but that’s absolutely fine and should be embraced. “After all, Newton and Einstein were neuro-different too”. I shit you not.

I learned a new word today over Sunday lunch, well a few actually if you include the bonus Profanisaurus entries. My visiting lunch guest introduced me to “Neurodiverse” as a label to cover all sorts of diagnoses. Anything from Autism to Dyspraxia and Tourette’s can now be bundled together in Neurodiverse, just in case someone somewhere takes the identification of difference to be pejorative. There is, of course, a hashtag to use when sharing pictures of Little Jonny and his 200 yard stare. When I was at Medical School all those eons ago, I distinctly remember a lecture about what constitutes disease; it is almost by definition the extreme ends of the normal distribution curve. But we are all too precious for that these days. So next time I’m in the Bakery I’ll tell my plump mate not to worry about his new diabetes diagnosis, he is, in fact, glucodiverse. What a load of Cuntery.

Yvette Fielding will be on the news later then. Whenever I see her, my first thought is whether she shagged Mark Curry before he came over all John Inman. Perhaps she’ll ask Derek to tell Caron Keating she still owes her a fiver.

Sounds like a divorce is on the cards if she’s taking you to The Red Lion. They have fish fingers on the menu for fucks sake. Call in for a stick of rock and wave it at her menacingly on the way home is my advice.

In August 2018 I saw a harbinger of this woke nonsense on Keswick High Street, and knew both the end was nigh and it was time to check out. Vegan Kendal Mint Cake. Fuck the fuck off.

Is it true in Norfolk iPhones ask you to place both right thumbs on the home button to unlock them? Happy New Year one and all. Here’s to 2020.

I agree and so does the wife, to whom he is related. In the short time since my post I have now learned the young man plans to do Sports Science at Loughborough and be a PE Teacher (dissertation: sniffing the pommel horse). So now he’s marked as dubious as well as stupid. Thank fuck he’s 9000 miles away but I’m just waiting for the ignorance wheel to flick around to “gap year” and the suggestion he call uncle LCS....

I say, would you two chaps care to make up a four for croquet? There is sadly a rather large mound of earth with two spindly legs jutting out of it in the middle of the green, but I’m sure we can play around it. Mallets provided, just be careful of the broken Roops, er Hoops, Hoops.

Point of order, Mr Speaker. Would the Hon. Member for Cotswold-Fantasy please explain to us what a psuedoephedrine political project is? Might the delightfully red-faced gentleman be referring to the despicable plan from Brussels to make the use of nasal decongestants compulsory in our schools? We on this side of the house say no to that; good British snot for good British noses! Who do these Eurocrats think they are, Lording it above their supposed electorate, many of whom they hold in utter contempt. Do they not know that’s our job?! Down with this, Mr Speaker! (House erupts in animal noises).

The productivity problem is widespread. My nephew did some temp work in the Electoral Services office of his local council in Yorkshire earlier this year. A bloke and two women paid to oversee the electoral roll, print ballot papers etc. I’ve no reason to disbelieve his summary of the unsupervised 9-5 work day. 920 - arrive for work yelping something about traffic, TOIL or childcare. 925 - brew up and chat about last nights telly. 10 - do some work, mostly open post and check emails. 1025 Brew up listen to PopMaster then share memories of nights out on the piss from 10 years ago. 1115 - Bacon butty run to Greggs 1200 - half an hour of personal phone calls 1230 lunch hour and a shopping trip in town, arriving back about 2 with a dozen bags 1400 loud debate between the three of them on who can’t be arsed the least/most 1430 the girls decide to do each other’s hair while the bloke pops out to Ladbrokes 1530 a spot more work/email 1600 girl A books an online holiday with the help of girl B 1630 final brew of the day and a 5 minute diary meeting about the rest of the week 1645 one girl leaves early for a doctors appointment 1655 end of work day “ because it takes five minutes to get to the bus stop”. My nephew is 17 and after 4 weeks observing this shit while mailing postal ballots, he has decided a career in Local Government is for him. Perhaps “something in planning” said his mother. @Decimus..any need for a feckless 17 year old in your patch?

If we are playing this game, I’ll go back a few years in the pedigree of the talentless media whore, to T4 on Sunday mornings. June Sarpong, Miquita Oliver and Alexa Chung were doing vacuous bullshit long before Laverne got her claws into Auntie.

I think we probably agree.

My point seems to have passed you by; simply an observation that this talk of the pound “soaring” is very much dependant on from where you measure from. And it’s interesting to me that when the pound was almost at parity with the Euro the standard right wing line was how good it was for UK exports, now it is rising again then that’s also somehow a good thing. People pick the facts that suit them. And while blind optimism in the name of The Project is apparently very fashionable, uncertainty and doubts are treasonous. Think about where that leaves us.

I think for the sake of balance a withering assessment of the Tories is in order too. I’m sure you can summon up some outrage from your days in a Northern Mill Town. Boris’ greatest trick is to have the very people he despises lick his boots. It’s a truly disgusting spectacle.

When the Iron Ore runs out it might be time to dust off the red passport and book a flight. I believe current forecasts are for 2600 or thereabouts.