Internet passwords

Internet passwords are cunts, aren’t they?

I remember my first internet account, a aeons ago. Subsequently I opened another, to use as a work one. It’ll make life more simple, I reckoned, easier to organise things. Later, I opened one without my name for extraneous leisure activity. The trouble was, I had to remember the bloody passwords.

I opened a Yahoo one because they were best for images, apparently.
Then you had to change your password once a month. Sigh.

My mates opened gmail accounts and advised me to open one, especially as later you could align your youchoob thingy or something. I also had to open one for my mobile. Plus ones at work. More passwords.

You want to close your account? Achingly difficult. Harder to get rid of than a Pakî on disability benefits.

MySpace came and went, followed by Fakebook and other superfluous Soshul Meeja wank. Amazon wanted one, as did job sites, council cunts and a site on which I bought a railway ticket! My bank insisted on one, as did some shite site whenever I paid on visa.

We all know the story:-
“Password incorrect, please enter new password.”
[Captain M. enters new password]
“You cannot use your old password!”
[Captain M. enters the name of his favourite past girlfriend]
“Password must contain a number”
“Password must contain eight letters”
“Password must contain a capital letter”
“Password must contain a weird, unnecessary character.”


Moreover, May your God/Buddha/Invisible Friend have mercy on you if you are abroad and refused entry. Fuck’s Sake, it took months off my life sorting it out. I sometimes wish I could live off the grid and tell the internet to Shit Off.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

Speed Bumps

Speed bumps give me the right hump, the cunts.
Now I fully appreciate the original rationale behind putting these fucking miniature pyramids on urban roads; it was to ‘calm’ traffic, with the aim of reducing accidents and even saving lives. It was well meaning, right?
Well obviously I’m no expert on the subject, but I question whether they do achieve their goal to any significant extent, and I reckon that they may actually be more fucking trouble than they’re worth. As far as I can see, self-styled ‘real’ drivers of the ‘boy racer’ (and increasingly ‘girl racer’) persuasion see them as a challenge rather than a deterrent, and hurtle across them as though they’re on safari somewhere in a tank-like 4×4. On the other hand, your thoughtful, more responsible driver is mindful of the speed limit anyway, and if anything s/he probably finds the presence of these hulking obstructions every few yards to be a source of irritation and frustration, which might in turn lead to loss of concentration or even ‘road rage’. I’d also bet that humps are a factor in channelling traffic away from roads where they’re present onto those where they aren’t, just moving the speed management issue elsewhere, and increasing congestion in the process. It’s my view then that these lumps might not just be ineffective, but actually counter-productive.
In any case, any rational argument for speed bumps ultimately carries little weight with me. No, I readily admit that my loathing may seem pretty irrational; I just hate the personal discomfort that these cunts cause me. My Dacia is a sturdy little car, but let’s face it, it’s no BMW, and the suspension leaves, shall we say, something to be desired. Driving around my local suburban streets is like negotiating a bleeding obstacle course, and being constantly bumped up and down plays havoc with my aching back and joints (fuck knows what it does to the car). I can absolutely guarantee that I’ll be in a lot worse mood when I get out than when I got in, and I’ll bet I’m not the only one. Counter-productive, as I said.
If it was down to me, every one of these bastards would be ripped out tomorrow and consigned to the nearest landfill. Well, all bar one. This would be inserted up the arse of whoever came up with the idea in the first place, sideways.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Stephen Fry [5]

A roly-poly frightfully important duckie cunting for the portly old cunt who thinks he is as *important* as he is clever and funny.

How appropriate that at the tackiest royal wedding of the 20th/21st century this heaving oleaginous, coarse, dime store Oscar Wilde bugger should turn up with his *husband* thirty years his junior to prove that the Queen Mother is still with us.

He is surely the Hyacinth Bucket of modern times, the keeping up with the Joneses , slimy social climbing wankstain who thinks that no *important* event can occur without his obese presence, and is given a certificate of gravitas by it. He is the David Frost of his day, another up his own arse *entertainer* who thought he was better than he was – a minimally talented turd with the gift of the gab and a PHd in arse-licking

In a way I feel sorry for the *husband* half his age, half his weight, probably overwhelmed by Daddy Steve’s great sense of self importance. The poor little fucker will probably be squashed to death in an unfortunate face-sitting accident, when the elderly lavatory blocker takes his next Viagra (or whatever other pharmaceutical product he inbibes). Then again marrying a 19th century funster, a Poundland Wildeian in gaudy plastic, was probably only done for financial security. Even so, the poor little cunt has earned it, waking up next to that sweating festering rancid bucket of lard every morning. Looking at old slubberguts wobbling in his fancy waistcoat, let’s spare a thought for the poor Eastern European minimum wage bleeder that has to clean the lavatory after Fry has pebble-dashed it today following his over-indulgence in oily exotic food yesterday as he stuffed his cakehole at the tax payers expense. If he had farted yesterday the whole bunch of cunts would probably have been in danger. I would just like to feel assured that the bog attendant is offered breathing apparatus as well as counselling for PTSD.

Why can’t comedians (if that what Fry actually is?) be more down to earth like Sid James or Ken Dodd?. Fuck this posturing old pansy. The only funny thing he ever did was run away from a West End play after the first night because of *mental health problems*, the truth is the pompous old cunt had one moment of self awareness and actually realised what an untalented oily heap of shit he actually is. It must have been a fright for him to realise that a paying audience don’t clap when they are told to,
after one of his *hilarious* bon mots as he was used to with his TV shows. A pity his meltdown didn’t happen at the Glasgow Empire in it’s heyday. Many “fuck off’s” accompanied by hurling cans and other debris onto the stage might have made the motherfucker leave the stage for ever.

Nominated by W.C.Boggs

PPI Claim Adverts

Fucking PPI Claim Adverts need a colossal cunting. The adverts that appear on every cunting newspaper site. Always the same fucking cunts on the photos, holding up a credit card or a statement or whatever fucking else the cunts think they can cunting help you with for 35 cunting percent of your fucking money.

Jesus Christ in a Zeppelin, every cunt and their ancestral cunts know about PPI and the ease you can do a claim yourself. But no, these cunts home in on the fuckwits who probably had PPI on a fucking Wonga loan and because of the fucking interest rate are owed enough to buy Porsche and Brooklyn fucking Sunny Delight for the next decade.

If not the fucking adverts then the phone calls from Bryan who is obviously working from India and using an Indian accent to try and alleviate you of your fucking hard earned by going through the list of names he has on his fucking script in the hope you are one of them. Then for a nominal fee of 35% he can helping you claiming back your PPI.

All these cunts need whipping with a sock full of piss

Nominated by Dry Itchy Cunt

BBC Radio Comedy

I really have got the fucking hump now.
As a child of the Fifties I was brought up on a diet of BBC Radio Comedy which apart from The Navy Lark, Clitheroe Kid and the beloved Round The Horne followed me on to my pubescent days. By this I mean
I’m Sorry I’ll Read That Again,
on TV, At Last The 1948 Show and of course, Python and Fawlty Tires.
Fast forward and I am now an ex pat nearing 26 years in exile. BUT I still have the beloved wireles (radio for you cunts that do not understand)
So I am still able to listen to Radio 4 comedy via the internet. Happy me one would think. Am I fuck?
Its all been taken over by utter utter cunts.
I used to love The News Quiz, Alan Coren etc. Found it a bit dodgy when Toksvig started but still tolerable, plus the guest list were amusing even Trotsky Hardy. Miles Jupp is the latest offering as presenter with a string of unkown, unwanted and total wankbag untalented parts of the lady anatomy to entertain us.
Coming to my point, Mr Jupp is unable to fulfill his commitment this series as he is “off filming” so there will be guest presenters filling in. Who has just caused me to throw a total wobbler and draught this missive?
Susan fucking Calman. What a total waste of air. I get the impression that the audience are tittering out of politeness or a studio producer is pointing a loaded Schmeisser at them with a sign Laugh Futher Muckers.
The only saving grace is that it hasn’t mentioned its “wife” or their pussys (cats) yet. Can you imagine the fucking pong in that household?
I’m off for a Madras and a wank over Andrea Rosu. That should get the blood pressure down.
Have a good week y’all.

Nominated by Billy Cunter