Hello there, wretched peons and victims of deluded grandeur. Hello! Tally ho! Wake up, Pretty Polly! You have a visitor! Yes, you, you blathering little covey of self-abusing MOABites, living in your tiny little world of convoluted rubbish and inanity. I see that you are attempting to arouse the wrath of our Penelope again. Well, it won't work...she has gone away to London for a holiday. I, however, am willing to spare just a little of my valuable time to deliver you a token of my esteem which should be sufficient to cover any and all future eventualities involving your feeble attempts at humour and controversy.
Picture this. I am standing at a large bay window in Twillingsgate. You are on the street with the rest of the urchins. I am now deliberately turning my back to you. I am undoing my belt. I am lowering my trousers...and my shorts...and bending over...thus presenting to you a well-muscled pair of buttocks...buttocks which you only wish you were the proud owner of.
Take a good look. That is my opinion of all of you. You are pathetic. Your "king" makes George the Third appear lucid. Your musical abilities are akin to those of a village idiot. You are so far beneath even contempt that there are no words fit to describe the lowness of your miserable lives.
I am now pulling my trousers back up, drawing the curtains, and having a good laugh at your expense.
Don't go away mad, as they say in America...just go away.