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Wait a minute, we get it… This is funny because you’re fat and you’re doing, like, excercise, right?

Sport. Whatever for.

And the matching pink sweatbands and ankle-warmers add a whole other high-LARIOUS angle, right?

And if we watch this Sport Relief sketch that will be aired on 19th March on BBC1 *PR signs cheque* and find out that you’ve used ‘Xanadu’, we’ll fall off our sofas at the unprecedented genius of the whole thing, right?

Then we’ll have a heated debate whilst nibbling bread sticks that will have the title, ‘Why is it, when the BBC decides to have a crush on a someone – for argument’s sake, let’s say James Corden – they’re never off our fucking TV screens?’

Then we’ll down a bottle of ‘your cheapest vodka, please’, go down The Joiners, snog the first six people we see, decide the place is a dump, then come home. Homo, if we’re lucky. Right?  

Oh, the old ones really are the best…

ps. Bum Rio Ferdinand, much?

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This old thing? I only wear it when I don’t care HOW I look.

We've got the same pair! In extra large!

This is Lady GaGa poppin’ in for din-din-de-dins at the Mandarin Oriental in Big London last night. Which is nice but that junction round Harvey Nics and Sloane Street is an absolute fucking bugger. The minutes/hours/days we’ve spent sitting on the No.19 staring at the Candy brothers’ new block of retarded real estate (to Lady G’s left. And not the shaven headed fellow-me-lad who can normally be found sipping lager-tops down Comptons, drawing the name of his sweetheart on an Etch A Sketch) currently selling for £7.2million per square foot and thinking, ‘What cunt of a cunt would pay that for that?’ whilst concluding that if a gentleman caller were to offer to buy us a chunk-with-park-view, it’d be rude to say no.

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Bisexual egomaniac? We want one!

It's a worry and a tradge.

Welcome to Cunty Headline of the Day, courtesy of the Daily Cunt.

Not only have they slipped a hyphen into egomaniac like the dirty scurrilous bastards they are, but they’ve also capitalised ‘did’. It’s a slippy sloppy slope.

But ’tis indeed a worry and a tradge that Zowie Bowie turned into someone as normal as Duncan Jones despite being the sow of *drum roll; record scratches to a halt in the Queen Vic* bisexuals. It’s a wonder he isn’t riddled with the Black Death.

But the question on everybody’s lips is… *whispers ‘Roxy’*… Our parents read the Daily Mail yet we turned into admirable gents who like an all-male spitroast of a weekday (weekends are a whole other kettle of ‘mo). They should sue!

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‘I mean it’s pretty much my cunt zenith’

She may not be a lady, but she's all cunty.

Peaches Geldof, thank god we have you in our lives. Without you, what would fledgling cunts have to aspire to? Don’t answer that, save your words. When dealing with eloquence such as thine, less is more. It’s a mantra you should adopt in all aspects of your life. Starting with the top of your head and finishing with that last little piggy that went to market.

We real life fear and dread that Peaches Geldof off-of pancake face thinks people like her. Don’t confuse interest in you with affection. If there’s a steaming turd on the pavement, people will point.

Today’s dose of Peaches Cuntof comes courtesy of Twitter. Course it does.

It shows Peaches getting ready to go to a party held in honour of *checks notes* Peaches Geldof.

Who dat?

She’s very excited. You can tell.

‘Paul Banks of Interpol’s side project Julian Plenti is playing at my @Nylon_Mexico party. He is both talented and hot,’ she Twatted.

And in honour of being honoured, the honourable Partying Potato (TM) dressed like a hooker.

‘I mean it’s pretty much my goth french maid zenith.’

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To the left, to the left. Everything you own in a box to the…


*looks at hands*

Right. To the right. Box, to the right.

ps. We’ve got that tap! (American translation: We’ve got that faucet!)

pps. Courtesy of this month’s Out magoizeen. We down a bottle of vodka to thee…

ppps. Goddammit, we feel a song coming on…! (more…)

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This woman was thrown off a bus for breastfeeding.

Stick with the red. Brings out your eyes.

Just be grateful someone had sex with you.

Why not go the whole hog and take a dump?

Amy Wootten is 25, and an advocate of the Jeremy Kyle School of Aesthetics.

Amy Wootten felt ‘utterly humiliated’ after the event. As do we, as do we, (as do we…).

The country’s gone to the dogs.

Amy Wootten had just been to a ‘Breastfeeding Support Group’, and was therefore feeling rather brazen.

Breastfeeding Support Group?

*enrolls in Taking a Piss Support Group; gets stage fright*

Amy rhymes with lamey, Wootten rhymes with button. (more…)

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World’s oldest dog. The options are endless.

Why the long face?

This is – almost probably – the world’s oldest dog. You can never really be sure of these things. Language is a barrier.

Any and a dirty ho’, this is Lulu. Only unlike Lulu off-of shouting, this dog doesn’t have a face pumped full of botox.

Lulu turned 21 this week. Which investigative journalists will tell you is 147 in dog years. Or three minutes in London Transport time. Or one digit away from BT’s almost certainly obsolete 1471 service, which tells you the last person who called. If it’s Mother, tell her to fuck off.

Lulu lives in Coventry, a place we are unlikely ever to go to, and her owners are Susan Parybus and Travis Buckley, 54 and 60 respectively.

*penny drops*

Unmarrieds? UNMARRIEDS?

Lulu is ‘a bit deaf and almost totally blind and has been known to walk into the odd wall,’ says Travis.

*does juggling routine in front of Lulu; nothing*

‘She’ll still play with all the little dogs but if a big dog comes in she just rolls on her back and plays dead. She’s a wise old girl.’

Rohypnol’s wasted on the willing.

ps. Champagne for Lulu!

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Honey, you noticed!

How on earth will we fit it all in?

Tis to advertise this. (It’s amazing what adding an ‘h’ can do to a word.)

It’s in New Zealand. (Where’s Old Zealand?)

Looks like he’s circumcised. (The excess could’ve clothed a small African nation.)

How we’ll fit it all in is anyone’s business. (The excess could’ve fed a small African nation.)

*checks diary*

Sorry, busy on Mondays at 9.40 on One.

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