Last Cunt Standing

There’s a Cunt of an event on my horizon. As with all immigrants, celebrating the cultural traditions of your lands of origin becomes hugely important. Hence it is no surprise that the local contingent of porridge-wallah refugees from the land of heroin, rain and sectarian violence have taken over the local community hall next Thursday, intent on bedecking it with tartan and serving the assembled guests cullen skink, multi-offal with root vegetables and Bells-infused trifle. Some idiot in the full tribal dress is going to bellow Ayrshire incantations at us all then deafen us with a demented pipe rendition of Down Under by Men at Work. Then, after we are all stuffed and half cut, comes the deranged Ceilidh band with lots of twirling round and round, presumably till we vomit all over each other. Of course, I could refuse to go. In previous years I’ve had a holiday, Covid or surgery recovery to hide behind. Not this year. My idiot but endearingly keen wife has signed us both up with a party of our Caledonian friends. She has neglected to consider the current weather over here is touching 38 degrees and jigging about in black tie is almost certain to cause issues. The food and whisky I don’t mind, and the banter is usually strong, but the dancing can get to fuck. The only saving grace is that given the following day is the Australia Day public holiday, the whole neighbourhood will stay in bed until 5pm nursing our hangovers. I’d be interested in any collective advice on how I can best turn up, eat and drink my fill, then fuck off before the mass embarrassment starts. Some of you must have some original excuses I can nick? Anyway, this Cunt of a thing will ruin my mood for a full week and I’m not too proud to share my annoyance.

My issues with @Wolfie are a matter of record, and I’m very familiar with the concept of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend”, but fuck me this is pretty thin rhetorical gruel. In any case, he’s too angry to be a whoopsie. They wouldn’t have him.

This is slightly off topic, but I’d be interested in the collective view from The Corner Cricket Club. Dave Warner, a divisive figure if ever there was one, fresh off the PR binge of a misplaced baggy green and being helicoptered into the SCG for a Domestic T20 game, has hung up his tatty Test cap for the last time. I was never a fan after sandpaper-gate. He’s been replaced, not by outstanding openers Bancroft or young prospect Renshaw, but by Steve “Twitcher” Smith, disgraced ex-captain, and the most unsuitable opener since Michael Barrymore MC’d the Essex RNLI annual cabaret. Australia are playing a tepid West Indies, so given half-blind Sloths armed with a banana could knock a fifty easily, he’ll probably twitch his way to 200, but still, it’s a cunt on principle. Makes me almost nostalgic for big Rob Key picking his golfing mates and paying no attention to County form, the twat. @Stubby Pecker @camberwell gypsy what say you?

To be fair, it does bear a second airing. Belting cover. I wish he’d stick to this troubadour for hire stuff, he’s increasingly a parody of himself. I saw him play in Belgium a few years back, and when his backing band included a French bird on the scissors, I did wonder what a younger Mr G would have had to say about such cuntery.

You what mate?

Can I presume then you’ve amended the wall mural? Surely the big red hand is now just a single finger pointed skywards, and the Union Flag is now black with Arabic scrawl. Big Arlene would look better in a burka, granted.

Good man. And the knocking shop? Inflation biting? Footfall down? Any militancy among the Kiev contingent? Have the Orange Lodge been round with the collection tin? Do keep us posted.

It’s Qing Qing in the original Mandarin, smartarse. And yes, the only SW white I never enjoyed was fucking Jethro.

Funnily enough, in sampling the recent work of VF, I have similar thoughts. Almost bad enough to flog to Tesco next time they are in town. Chin chin.

How’d the Christmas trade go this year, Bill? A good December and January in Barbados, perhaps?

In a former life, DNR meant “Do Not Resuscitate”. In this case it means Definitely Not Rattled. Because he certainly isn’t folks. Absolutely not.

What’s your view on the remakes, Eric? I’m still not allowed back to the Community Hall Tuesday film night after suggesting a double bill of I Spit On Your Grave and The Last House on the Left to liven up the place a bit. I did sneak White Chicks on to the list of coming attractions though, the mugs.

Readers will be aware that this effluent is a great example of a contributor who is, by his own admission, letting things wash over his head, and generally conducting himself in a Zen-like manner more usually seen in orange-clad men dotted about on a Tibetan hillside (and no, I don’t mean @King Billy on his holidays). Any suggestion that this timid invective is actually the work of the Corner’s Ronnie Pickering, charging about the place in his metaphorical Citroen Picasso, picking fights every few hours with anyone he takes a dislike to for holding up a mirror to his own inadequacy, is of course wide of the mark and perhaps open to legal redress. For the record, these are most definitely the calm and considered writings of a man truly at ease with how life has turned out for him, rather than, as has been so wickedly suggested, the ill-tempered discharge of a middle-aged Cuck who thinks an hour pounding the heavy bag in the garage every morning will keep him hung, virile and relevant. I don’t know who I feel sorry for the most; the dogs or the teenagers. And……..breathe……

If this is you letting things wash over your head (isn’t it wash over you or go over your head ?), I’d be interested to see what happens when something or someone really gets to you. You already give the impression of a scarlet hypertensive, boiling with impotent rage that you keep getting your arse handed to you by anyone who wouldn’t be taxed by the quick crossword in the Daily Star. You do know that one day all this rampaging cortisol is going to come back and bite you, don’t you? I’d invest in a hammock and a good pair of noise cancelling headphones if I were you. Works for me on a glorious January day. As for the wretched state of the UK, it is quite interesting to me how little the ex-pat community here in WA have to say on the subject these days, just a shrug and a rueful shake of the head whenever they are asked for commment (sic). Incidentally, is skinny-fingered an insult where you come from? The last time I heard such a toothless barb, I was visiting a care home during the afternoon bingo. You fucking old woman.

@Cuntybaws has already dealt beautifully with this feeble gumming. Pathetic. I’d have thought Fuhrer was capitalised personally. I’ve omitted the umlaut deliberately too, before you get your bloomers all knotted. You’re revealing yourself to be quite the old woman, aren’t you?

I’m already planning my trip to the Brisbane Olympics in 2032, Eric. Undoubtedly the highlight will be an ageing Uphemia Bolt winning the Women’s 200m for Jamaica while waving to the crowd, then hanging the gold medal off her schlong. Thankfully we’ll all be underwater or speaking Chinese by then. What a load of utter bollocks it all is. There’s also a campaign going on in the medical journals to “de-gender medicine”, by renaming whole swathes of anatomy and diseases which were named after old dead blokes. All of them frightful misogynists, natch. The hand wringers have really got it in for a 17th Century Dane called Casper De Bartholin, and want a modern alternative for slippery cunt glands. I nominate Glands of Mone.

Joey is doubling down this morning. Delighted with the outrage he’s caused, he’s threatened to register as a trans player with the Women’s league, once he confirmed he could keep his Gentleman’s area intact, and once he sits out the 12 month qualifying period he can sign on as Jolene Barton. He’s already goading Lady Keeper Mary Earps, telling her she’ll need Net Rash cream when he bags 100 goals a year. I’m warming to the idiot, I must say.

How about you Google, you halfwit? But since you asked so nicely, here you go. https://www.bbc.com/sport/football/67897623

Corner stalwarts will appreciate I am somewhat hampered in my appreciation of this story given my distance, but from what I am reading elsewhere, Barton appears to have had some sort of stroke. All very well and good for blokes in the pub or even on certain websites to bemoan the rise of squeaky females in football punditry and sports coverage generally, and his point is not entirely baseless, but for someone in the media to do it, he’s got to be mad, high, or subject to a bet with parties unknown that he can’t become the Andrew Tate of sports journalism. One of the Garys (Neville) has already weighed in in defence of the ladies, and it surely can’t be long before St Gary of Linekershire puts down his sack of Walkers and steps up for the sisterhood. So my question for those back in the UK; what’s going on with Barton and how long has he got before he’s carted off to the asylum, or Talksport, which is much the same thing. What a prick.

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” Did he write for ACN?

Oh, so you’re one of those people. Espresso > tea, morning training, an army of Rottweiler land sharks, a deep love of boxing, weaponised progeny, and a reactionary world view. You’ll be banging on about Testosterone Replacement Therapy, ice baths and cryptocurrencies to any unfortunate who’ll listen I suppose. Almost like you’re compensating for something. I can only conclude you’re a West Country Ronnie Pickering.

Only three reasons to hang around in a graveyard at night, Raas, and all of them deserve a round of applause. Especially in Winter.

Must admit I found better things to do that sit through it Eric. But I imagine it’s about eight minutes long now once the ABC Indigenous affairs team have been at it with the red pen.

Thinner skin than a 24 week neonate you, you big poof. I was up at 530 myself today, though the sun was already up here, and I like a cup of tea on the sundeck before the rest of the house stirs. My “life as a civil servant” was surprisingly short, given that I spent the last 30 years of my life self employed. I too know the lies you tell yourself, that you’re somehow in control of your workload and working hours, when in actual fact you’re as in thrall to the next payslip as anyone else. Retirement, on the other hand, is a veritable dream of passive income. I recommend it. But enough of that. I’m feel compelled to check - what is it you’re doing with teenagers at the ungodly hours of the day? I’m sure you’ll confirm said teenagers are the fruit of your withered loins before you set off the Corners’ Yewtree Information Device (YID) and all manner of unpleasantness ensues. But still, what do they need from you? I’ll spare you a thought next time I brew up, trudging about in the dark with a little yellow bag of dogshit in hand. Whatever makes you happy. I’m off to the Tennis.

Believe it or not, Eric, they showed Crocodile Dundee here on Christmas Eve. With an inevitable warning about “dated stereotypes of First Australians”, which seemed a bit hard on Paul Hogan to me.