I can empathise with Huntley's predicament (crossword-wise only, obviously. The negative reaction he has received as a result of the whole murder/paedophilia thing is a nasty business and, I’m afraid to say, largely of his own making).
You can bomb us, maim us, kill our people indiscriminately, but you cannot break us.
If all fox-followers are as petulant and precious as Otis Ferry I may have to rethink my position as a keen, opinionated and wildly under-informed hunt aficionado.
Shane Richie inspires a catalogue of doom and despair and unadulterated hatred. Strangely.
"I am not one of those who in expressing opinions confine themselves to facts."
I tell you what, Alexei, you write the first half of the story, and I'll write the second. And if you didn't envisage a homoerotic plotline when you started the job, by Christ you've got one now...
Chipolata? Is that the best you lot can do? Fooking king-size saveloy more like it. You jealous bastards – Us Prescotts have always been hung like ruddy donkeys.
News, reviews and larks from the world's premier comedy festival (plus a little light stalking)
I have no particular affection for Irwin – I considered him borderline psychotic the way his eyes bulged and enthusiasm perpetuated - A khaki-clad, baby-faced maniac in rucked up shorts, I thought – But he was, at least, a doer.
While I coo and gloat as my hit counter soars up to and beyond the 30,000 mark, it’s worth pointing out that the large majority of visitors stumble upon Amateur Scribe purely by accident. Indeed - Most of my punters are perverts...
It had to happen. First the amateur pornographer swiped my name, and now an ingenuous, God-bothering blogger from New Jersey means there are three Amateur Scribes in operation. Not that I'm bitter.
Oh that Scandinavian hell-hole. Oh that malevolent warehouse of cold, characterless pine and cardboard boxes.
In the red corner, the Prime Minister: Dour, blustering and thrifty with that weird jaw-jut following every monotonous proclamation. And in the blue corner, Disco Dave: preening, foppish and a mass of sanctimonious energy.
With the Chessboard Killer safely behind bars, we look at the psychopaths who inspired him.
How did the authorities find out about Ms Gibbons’ heinous crime? Was there a snitch in the staffroom? A milk monitor mole?
With the brutal inevitability of Richard Dawkins nasally browbeating a kindly rural vicar, I find myself careering towards my 33rd birthday.
I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for the crazy, pompous arse. I used to clock him barrelling out of my favourite London eatery - the Anchor & Hope in Southwark – replete on Beef Wellington and red wine and no doubt mentally concocting his latest wry review.