| How it all began: the start of the on-going flame war beween Richard and Fitzroy. |
| Richard: | Fitz: |
|---|---|
| You know what your trouble is, mate? No balls, that's what. Let's just leave it at that, should we? | Fuck off you stupid cunt. |
| Four-eyed, baldy twat. | Tubs. |
| Wank stain. | Helmet rim cheese. |
| Squits. | Cantilever bridges (with poo on them). |
| Fish bits. | Dog's dos in custard. |
| Soapy tit wank. | It is high time you understood that pratt-featured tossers like you never get anywhere in this life. |
| Knob off, tit-face. | Fart breath. |
| Fish fingers. | Masturbatee. |
| Turd stabber. | For God's sake take off that ridiculous mask! |
| If your face was part of a cow, it would be the arse. | Farty breath |
| Bollock features. | Hairy arse. |
| Gruts | Festering syphilitic knob-head. |
| Belgian. | Christian. |
| Mooning Moony. | Witless Witness. |
| Toss merchant. | Sheep-shagger. |
| Arse-faced goat fancier. | Wool-botherer. |
| Flabby bits. | Sad plums. |
| Turd on a stick… | |
| George Michael philanderee. | Toilet trader. |
| Fellator. | Flatulenturion. |
| Moist parts… | |
| Phlegm face. | Jam rag. |
| Pustule. | Crusty urinal stain. |
| Fucking bastard. | Splashback. |
| Utter spastic… | |
| Ovine concubine. | Rectal fissure. |
| Trouser merchant. | Cocoa shunter. |
| Anal cavity. | Frilly pants. |
| Trud (anag.) | That's not how you spell 'dirt', you daft wanker. |
| Stupid berke. | Phallic thimble. |
| Arse-faced gonad. | Twat. |
| Tit. | Wankster |
| Muff fluff. | Stupid. |
| Limp dick… | |
| Fromage feet… | |
| Smear. | Yeasty effluent. |
| Not very nice person. | Bad smell. |
| Bed-wetter. | Oh how my pathological scar desires to read poems through the ruddied girth of your soul! I should welcome flagellation by your ovoviviparous torso. Madam, what a handsome moustashe you wear! Its a far far better thing I do than to require that you find me a hammer and pummel me with all due diligence, but yet remember that it is I, your solicitor, who keeps you from aligning too much with the listerine salesman. I love your eyes, but only with ketchup. You salivate strongly, like a platoon of army core engineers simultaneously trapped in a fit of malaria. May bathtubs overflow upon your gardenias. Your nasal linings will last as long as the skin of rocks, thrust enigmatically upon a distant shorline of mating beetles. The Green Paint on the Walls Clouds my Thoughts of Flying Planks of Wood, Much Like the Elephant Impaled on the Hood of a Lincoln Town Car. Blood Covers One, Paint the Other, and Love Covers You. Your elbow patches rumble with a fear reminiscent of mayonnaise sidecars cradled in scotchguard. Certainly your trout are more proseperous to vaccuum than the flying coachmen of Czar Nicholai! Your face is like an imperfectly shaven tennis ball. Your delightful banana reminds me of a cosmonaut in high heels. Sir, what exquisite breasts you have! Oh, how your melodic chewing of cotton balls cancels the stamp on my papyrus telegram from the Queen of England. (Check out the Surrealist Compliment Generator.) |
| Bastard. I was going to tell you that. I read the Guardian as well, you know. Despite your loquacious elegance, you're still a turd… | |
| Knob-head. | Fucking nutter. |
| You big drip! If you were any wetter, you'd qualify as a homeopathic remedy. |
Continued in 1999…