ANDY McFUCKUP DOES WHAT HE DOES BEST.
MUTANT, RETARD, IMBECILE MOMMA'SBOY.
BRITAIN'S LATEST HERO.
THE ONLY TWENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD IN THE WORLD WHOSE MUMMY GOES TO WORK WITH HIM
BRITAIN'S LATEST HERO.
THE ONLY TWENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD IN THE WORLD WHOSE MUMMY GOES TO WORK WITH HIM
AND HIS MUM.
GO ON, SON, SHOVE YER BRAVE WEE FIST UP HIS NASTY SWISS ARSE.
DEPRIVED OF AN OPPORTUNITY TO GRANDSTAND, MEDIAMINSTER FILTHSTERS SLINK AWAY.
Howzabout, prime minister, I say it's a great day for Scotland, you say it's a great day for Britain and he says dulce et decorum est, or some of his usual, facetious, coked-up bullshit; that way we all win.
But look, first minister, waddabout if the great, hulking pansy loses?
Well then we all leg it, sharpish.
You mean, gosh, golly and oh my giddy aunt, just disappear, like Gordonus Brownicus?
Aye, Boris, that's it.
What about Nick and wotsername, his Dago bint, behind us?
Fuck 'em, let him answer the press questions, he loves it, prat.
What about Nick and wotsername, his Dago bint, behind us?
Fuck 'em, let him answer the press questions, he loves it, prat.
And that Roger Federer, first thing he does, very first thing, after winning some record number of titles and one-point-one million pounds for a fortnight's work, first thing he does is root around in his kitbag for his hundred-carat gold Rolex wristwatch and slip it on, just right there, for all the world to see; didn't want to actually play tennis wearing it, mind, but Fuck me, Jesus,
the very second the tennis is over he just has to get that vulgar piece of shit right back on his arm. There's Rolex DeepSpace, Hadron Collider, Quantum physical, precise-unto-infinity, uranium powered atomic clocks all over the fucking tennis courts and Roger just has to get his watch out, too, bless. Corporate slimeballs all of them, cunts, tainting the whole world with their greed and corruption and hypocrisy.
Sir David Beckham, Britain's illiterate, gibbering, nincompoop Sporting Ambassador - only not to Ms Loos, not any more - sports his latest beard. And some neat facial hair.
But on this greatest of great days, when a moron won the day for Britain by having his arse kicked around the court, good and proper, and then whinging his stupid face off, true royalty was represented by Princess Waitress of Cambridge and her sister, the one with the arse, apparently.
Well, you'd laugh too, if you were them; free clothes, free seats, free everything. The future Queen Gormless and her sister reflect on the burdens of monarchy and on how you fool most of the people, most of the time. Jubilee, Wimbledon and the Olympics, almost an entire year of posturing, rancid celebrity; who, so blessed, needs a health service?
But on this greatest of great days, when a moron won the day for Britain by having his arse kicked around the court, good and proper, and then whinging his stupid face off, true royalty was represented by Princess Waitress of Cambridge and her sister, the one with the arse, apparently.
Well, you'd laugh too, if you were them; free clothes, free seats, free everything. The future Queen Gormless and her sister reflect on the burdens of monarchy and on how you fool most of the people, most of the time. Jubilee, Wimbledon and the Olympics, almost an entire year of posturing, rancid celebrity; who, so blessed, needs a health service?
24 comments:
Dr.Kruschevski, from local NHS outpost: 'We will bury you.'
Mr.Ish: 'Not so fast my friend...'
Never mind about the chap with the string frying pan; the really good news is you are back.
Hurrah.
Well done, Scottish health service and Mr Smith! You survived each other! :-)x
I had forgotten how missed you were!
So very glad you are here again.
Glad you`re back, Mr I.
Bienvenido Mr Ishmael, bienvenido
Mr I: I was getting worried..... (that Murray might win).
Hope you are in fine fettle.
He also popped on his jacket with a little Roger Federer logo on it courtesy of those nice child employers Nike and a cushtey £40 million in le bank. The money is fucking vulgar for what is, ostensibly, a bit of a shit sport. In golf the cash comes from useless fat bastards who retire and pay £2000 for clubs that they can't use, footy - TeeVee rights, clothing and numbnuts spectators but tennis is really quite cheap except at the proper higher echelons.
Glad you're out of the factory, take it easy dude.
Hope the wounds are healing nicely and the wee quinie nurses saw you alright.
Murray and Fat Eck, both there with their fucking mums, eh. But only Salmond is shagging his?
It is a subject curiously avoided by the press, isn't it, Mrs Fat Eck; she doesn't campaign with him and only appears when there is no avoiding it, like at Wimbledon. No kiddies either, most remiss for a politician, I mean, they can always buy one, like BananaMan Miliband Maybe it's part of his compact with Rupe - the Sun don't mention Salmond's wee, ancient, pretend wifey and he stays on board with skymadeuonewsandfilth. Is it a marriage of Lavender-Beard-Brownism, or is it worse than that, even, some mad Oedipal shit? Anybody know?
I'll talk to you about the nurses by and by, Lord, by and by.
Happy days. Welcome back. Time to put a bit of stick about.
You'd think Beckham would give E.T. a bite to eat.
Murray blew it with the blubbing. Twat. Bobby Charlton had it right - you can cry when you win a big one, if you want. Otherwise schtumm & dry eyes, if you please.
FedEx is some kind of Eurotrash Apotheosis. That gear with his monogram on the lapels makes him look even more like a cruise-liner lounge-lizard gigolo, kit-bag full of medicated butt-plugs and high-end fuck-pills. Twat cubed.
Can I add my own "Welcome back" and sincerely hope you have no future problems, of any kind.
Having now read your summary of events at Wimbledon I am surprised you said nothing regarding the continued submediocrity of the would be first lady of haughty couture, skininess and downright ignorant rudeness. One can only assume that because of the thickness of his epidermis her husband has not yet noticed it.
Well, that's all right then. I needed some good news this month. And now I've had it. The Bard of Ruin is back amongst us. Hosannah!
I noticed in the newsagent that one of the celeb magazines (forget which) informs us that Andy says - publicly - he is not ready to marry Kim.
I expect his mum won't let him.
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Whoo hoo - yer rich! I'll contact the lad just for kicks. This 5 a day fruit bollox is just making me spend more on indigestion tablets - it's a con!
Oooh, don't click on that lad's title thing - it foooks yer 'pute!
Glad to find you alive and well(?) Mr I.
I find it astonishing that Andy Murray has any fans at all at Wimbledon in deepest Englandshire after his repeated proclamations about how he is not 'British' but Scottish and how he'd like 'anybody but England' to win at Football. Now you can take these quotes as nothing more than a little tease from a Little Scotlander but those of those with the mental scars of spending time in the shithole will tell you that the nasty fuckers aren't joking. All those Shirley Valentines on 'Murray Mound' might harbour some quaint Victorian notion that we are in some way a United Kingdom but Little Scotlanders like Murray, informed as they are by the historical evidence of Mel Gibson's bravura performance in 'Braveheart', are laughing all the way to the bank.
If there were a tennis tournament in Fucking Scotland with an English competitor who insisted on being called 'English' instead of 'British' and who volunteered that he didn't give a fuck who won as long as Scotland lost then they'd need an armed escort from the airport and he'd be playing in front of a crowd that would cheer his opponent to the echo.
Instead of which I had to listen to the BBC telling me that Andy-Fucking_Murray blubbing after getting his arse handed to him was somehow going to make Murray more popular.
He's a very good tennis player and, if he's lucky, he will one day enter a major tournament where Nadal, Federer and Djokovic are all injured and win the fucking thing. But, if we're lucky, he won't and we wont have to look at him and Moira McGlashan's toyboy parading about the place proclaiming that this victory is for Mel Gibson and an independent Fucking Scotland.
So glad you're back.
Can't wait for Mr Ishmael's Olympic reports. Please, please, Mr Ishmael, write something about the build-up and especially the cleaners who have been stuck in close-packed portacabins in a holding camp.
What on earth was anyone thinking; the organizers seem to have assumed that labour could be produced six months down the line with no retainer payments, as if it it is a reservoir which paid for its own storage costs.
People said they'd do the work but continued to look for jobs in the meantime. If they found permanent work they obviously were not going to scupper that for a short temporary contract.
In the meantime, the gang workers who were brought in were told they'd have to pay for accommodation but their wages wouldn't start for a fortnight. That is clearly people-farming rather than employment.
Welcome back, airman.
Welcome back.
I hope the seals are singing to you still, mr ishmael.
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