Carol Ann Duffy

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Carol Ann Duffy is a bit of a cunt, isn’t she?

Who’s this yeasty-looking gorgon and why is she so miserable? Well, she’s Scottish and she’s stepping down as Britain’s Poet Laureate, i.e. she writes poetry for the Queen (the first wo-man to do so) after holding the position since 2009. Her poetry has tackled MPs’ expenses, LGBTQ issues, Christmas, even David Beckham. She has also worked as poetry critic for The Guardian.

Now, I know some of my cunter-colleagues don’t care for poetry but I like it. Let’s give the bisexual, catholic, Guardian-contributing Scottish poet a chance, shall we.

Duffy is also a playwright, and in 2017 wrote a Brexit play call My Country: a work in progress. In case you wondered where the sympathy lay, it was dedicated to Jo Cox. Hmm.

In her new collection, ‘Sincerity’, her last as laureate, she attacks some modern “problems”:
“With the evil twins of Trump and Brexit” she squawked courageously, “there was no way of not writing about that, it is just in the air”. The Brexit poem includes the words “arseholes”, “gatekeepers”, “chancers”, “tossers”, “bullshitters”, and “patriots” .

Sigh.

What a shame we hard-working plebs can’t do a difficult, authentic job like waxing twenty or so lines poetically, glugging free booze and quaffing venison pastries at poetry festivals, and earning a year’s salary for a fucking poetry competition. This hackneyed, holier-than-thou harridan only inspires me to put books DOWN. Why don’t you wipe the conscientious sweat from your priggish brow you carping, chronicling crone, stick your pencil up your ungrateful arse, and shit off.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

28 thoughts on “Carol Ann Duffy”

    • Enough to float a battleship, Mike. Five bottles of Bushmills for me, 15 gallons of Frosty Jack/Special Brew Snakebite for Fanny (she’s a Lady of large appetites) and a small bottle of Babysham for you. I’m not risking a repeat of my finest Egyptian bed linen floating away down the staircase on a tide of tiddle again.

      • Stroke of luck there. The Gay,Darkie,obese,old,benefit-claiming,father of many children, Jewish/Muslim,David Cameron loving, local butcher is a fan of …”is a Cunt” and “simply adores” my posts. He’s insisting on giving me a turkey marinaded in his own “Special Sauce” and stuffed with various herbs and mushrooms….can’t wait to see you and Fanny tucking in. Unfortunately,my more Puritan beliefs mean that I’ll be sticking to the more humble Fray Bentos pies.
        Christmas is more than just an excuse for stuffing one’s maw,you know. Some of us like to consider the “Real” meaning of Christmas and behave with decorum and moderation….attributes which obviously continue to elude you and your over-stuffed Paramour.

        For Shame,CMC,for shame.

  3. Looks like your typical, furry-top-lipped Milli-Tant, Wimmingstruggling kind.

    Reminiscent of that She Devil thingy back in the 80’s.

  4. Yeasty looking gorgon. I like that.

    Had a look at Wikipedia. Fuck me, enough to make a cat puke.

    Poet laureate! Carpet munching porridge wog with a face like a bear’s arse that’s been hit by an RPG. And as for the risible shite that this hound from hell has the audacity to call poetry. Please don’t, you’ll end up in a cunt induced coma.

    I shudder to think what sort of monstrosity we will get next.

    We have cunt of the year. Maybe you cunters could nominate a cunt laureate from amongst the hallowed ranks for the most pithy and penetrating cunting.

    Joking aside, one of the reasons I like this site so much is for the sheer quality and creativity of the invective.

    Anybody who says swearing isn’t big or clever is, of course, a cunt but they have clearly never visited ISAC.

    What about it cunters?

    • Cunt Laureate, Cap’n, I love it.

      On this Wintry cunt of a morn,
      I cunted a cunt who seemed beyond cunting.
      Cuntious and cunt-faced,
      it seems
      she was
      infact
      Cuntable.

  5. I don’t know about poetry but I abhor The Guardian. That dismal rag can’t feel the cold steel of my hatred enough.

  6. Never got (comprehended) poetry at school and certainly don’t give a fuck now.

    Unless it’s a Limerick beginning: “There once was a man from…” then I’m not interested.

    Christ it was bad enough having to toil through the war dirges of Wilfred Owen and Rupert Brooke on a subject I didn’t mind studying in history without being inflicted by some feminazi rug-muncher’s champagne socialist, marxist observations!

    My dead pool noms include that other poetry cunt Pam “fucking” Ayres, who’s – so called – 2016 poem to celebrate our achievements in the Olympics, was another explicit “Brexit Baaaad! Orange man Baaaad!” platform.

    What is it with these self-righteous cunts, who’ve likely never done a real day’s work in their lives, thinking they can lord it over the rest of us with their cuntitude? It goes beyond the fucking pale, it really does!

    So Carol Ann here’s one just for you, you CUNT! Feel free to publish it in your next coffee table flotsam that Tristram and Poppy types love to leave lying around in their faux academic existence, whilst remaining forever unread!

    Cunt!

    —-

    There once was a poet called Duffy,
    Who liked to chow down on some muffy.

    But to her dispair,
    It was a cock that was there.

    And so she ran off in the huffy!

    • There was an old man from Nantucket.
      His cock was so long he could suck it.
      He said with a grin,
      As he wiped off his chin.
      “If my ear was a cunt I could fuck it.”

      • Yes “Ode to Cunts” will be available in paperback from the “Fuck You” publishing house early spring next year.

        Titles will include:

        “I’m a post-op tranny and now I don’t give a fuck.”

        “You first!” (a distressing tome of a young Jihadi after being picked for martyrdom by his 70yr old fanatical Imam)

        “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will get me arrested.”

        “Oh to be a shark, the Med is where I’d be.”

        “Life below zero.” (an observational piece relating to my bank balance shortly after Christmas)

        “Pull the other one!” (a reflection of “what if” had I targeted the sister-in-law instead)

        “Where am I?” (the angst of waking up in Londonistab)

        “Theologist and the Minor Bore.” (humour relating to a “peaceful” groomer who targets such a boring under-aged cunt he can’t get it up anymore)

        “Chinese phone book.” (a Haiku poem relating to Adele’s neckline)

      • Fuckin’ hilarious stuff Rebel!!!

        You brought a much-needed laugh to me there. A right old Christmas Compendium for Cunters to enjoy!!

  8. Oh! Pointy Birds
    Oh! Pointy Pointy
    Anointy My Head
    Anointy-Nointy….

    ‘The man with two brains.’

    Totally sums up poetry for me….

    • She looks like one of those 1960 “women” Russian athletes, doesn’t she, like the shot-putter Leeva Vestoff.

      If the job is going, I’m up for it. I know an obscene version of Jingle Bell Rock, which I am sure Philip would enjoy, and the Queen might like:
      A fellow called Fred
      Took his bike from the shed
      And shouted I think i’ll skidaddle
      As he leapt on the seat
      He started to shriek
      The silly cunt had forgotten the saddle.

  9. A copper from old Clapham Junction
    Whose organ had long ceased to funtction
    Would pleasure his wife
    Every night of her life
    By the dexterous use of his truncheon
    Eyethankyou

  10. I like to think Roger McGough dedicated a poem especially to me. Unemployed, divorced, permanently pissed, he aimed low in life, and missed!

  11. Some sublime pieces of poetry appearing today. Each and every one better than this, the poem old Duffy wrote for Stephen Lawrence:

    Cold pavement indeed
    the night you died,
    murdered;
    but the airborne drop of blood
    from your wound
    was a seed
    your mother sowed
    into hard ground –
    your life’s length doubled,
    unlived, stilled,
    till one flower, thorned,
    bloomed
    in her hand,
    love’s just blade

    Psh.
    If I ever got murdered on the streets if London, even if it was No: 133 that year, I hope I’d have a better eulogy than this, half a dozen melodramatic lines scribbled on the back of a fag packet.

    • Cold pavement indeed,
      You took one upside the heed!

      Even when London wasn’t quite as stabby,
      Parent’s heartache diminishes as they become grabby.

      A Dame of the realm,
      Virtue-signalling at the helm!

      A statue next – we must be solemn,
      Alongside Nelson’s paltry column.

      Light of this, I make not, see,
      But what about Lee Rigsby?

  12. My favourite poem was actually penned by keyboard legend Stevie Wonder….

    Roses are black
    Violets are black
    Everything’s black
    I can’t see….

  13. It’s not poetry, it’s prose with hiatuses. She’s an expert player of the wimminz card, and PC beyond belief.

    She nailed Blair once:

    “The Ex-Ministers

    They rise above us, the ex-ministers,
    in private jets, left wing, right wing, drop low
    to Beijing, Kuwait, the Congo, Kazakhstan;
    their deals and contracts in the old red boxes, for sentimental reasons.
    Beyond our shores, they float on superyachts, Nostrovia!,
    guests of the mortal gods; the vague moon a Bitcoin.
    We are nothing to them now; lemmings
    going over the white cliffs of Dover.
    And when they are here, they are unseen;
    chauffeured in blacked-out cars to the bars
    in the heavens – far, glittering shards – to look down on our lucrative democracy.
    Though they have bought the same face,
    so they will know each other.”

    Shite as poetry, but the last two lines are good..

  14. Poetry, yo can fucking keep it, left wing ideological poetry? You can ram it up your shitter as far as it can go and then give it a last shove.

  15. To all of you people who voted “Remain”
    – considering “Leave” just a ‘stunt’
    To all of you “Luvvies” like Carol Ann Duffy
    Fuck Off you arrogant cunt

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