Monkeys Fist

You calling me two faced? I'll get some ladders and head butt your knees, cheeky cernt

hello I've come for an argument no you haven't yes I have

Getting? Who's this Miles Lane fella anyway?

no it wouldn't

You're all cunts

sorry mate, couldn't resist.

Oi, I said nowt, it was you fuckers assuming I just sat back and laughed like a bastard Nose first? Mais oui Mrs Fist, since you insist

Relax Stevie, she's not my lass She's a pal, but tbf, if she said yes, it be up it like a rat up a drainpipe

Ah is that your lass???? Sorry, she's lush mate. You've done fuckin well there.

CT told me he had a Prince Albert- proof

*maintains enigmatic silence*

FFS

Was just thinking about them as it happens. Half Cambridge / half Oxford iirc (not sure about Gillian). Who's she? The Office- working class or middle class?

Does posting that make me middle class?

access denied, what's your password for that porn site mate? password " google images, sheridan smith nips, 1st image" Try this- same piccy (tbh , its a bit shite, but, never stopped me before)

High standards on this board are shocking like, I'd be happy to help any of those three on that evidence.

To move on the debate over working class/middle class comedy and it's merits, here are Sheridan Smiths nips.

tell you what mind Borderline Boilers?

Camp curry in the Fist house tonight!

see what you mean like

Has he found the perfect snag yet?

Only if you can find one

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Bethankit! hums. Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew Wi' perfect sconner, Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned, Like taps o' thrissle. Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer Gie her a haggis! By which time the haggis, neeps and tatties will be clay-cold