Lady Cuntly is at it again.

Fuck me she is getting a high opinion of herself isn’t she?. Full of piss and wind, with a face uglier than Keir Starmer’s ringpiece.

If the attention seeking old cunt really believes in the EU so bad, why doesn’t she do a Lady Godiva and ride through the streets stark bollock naked on a horse. I am sure if Blair offered enough cash she would be happy to show tits, fanny and arse so we can all have a good laugh. I am sure she is beach body ready

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

Fuck me. Gina Miller has more front than the National Gallery!

“I have no political ambitions and no wish to lead the Loberal Democrats” which is why I am addressing the Lib Dem conference and they have changed their rules so the leader doesn’t have to be an MP.

“I am only interested in repairing the cracks in democracy” which is why I reject the result of the largest plebiscite in UK history because they don’t agree with me.

Of course she wants to lead the Lib Dems. That’s why she’s denying it. Ironically the second part of the party’s name seems to be the bit she simply can’t understand.

What a fucking two faced idiot…

Nominated by Dioclese

The recent cunting of ‘Americanisms’ seems to have struck a chord, so in similar vein, I reckon that clichés in American cop shows deserve a bumming.

Previously on ‘NY Blue Homicide Squad’…

Detective McLain (or McLone, or McLeod) is having a tough time. His wife’s left him and he only sees his kids every other Saturday. He’s been hitting the bottle pretty hard lately. To make matters worse, he’s old school, and doesn’t mind bending the rules to make a collar, but he’s just been partnered with Det. McGarrett, a sexy, supersmart 17-year-old blonde with a Ph.D in Criminology. She’s ambitious, but strictly ‘by the book’. Sparks are gonna fly for the first few episodes, after which they’ll go through the fire or take a bullet for each other.
McLain’s under pressure. There’s a serial killer on the loose, and the heat is on. ‘There’s no leads’, says McLain to the Loo-tenant (a black guy or a hard looking bird in a sharp suit). ‘Then get me some’, says the Loo, ‘or ya off the case’. ‘Just gimme 48 hours’, says McLain. ‘Ya got 24’, says the Loo, ‘now get outta my office’.

McLain’s desperate. We know this because in the ‘washroom’, he splashes one handful of water on his face, then grimaces at the haggard features reflected back in the mirror.

Enter officer McLatino. You’ve never heard of him before, but McLain knows him well. They were at the academy together, and rookies on the street. McLatino promptly gets axed by our killer, leaving McLain to console the grieving family. After a brief ‘do you remember that time when…’, McLain leaves, pledging to get the son of a bitch, because now it’s personal.

Suddenly there’s a break. Using her incredible computer skills, McGarrett has cross-matched a part print from a crime scene. ‘Bring the perp in’, says the Loo. ‘Lets end this now’.

Cut to an interview room, where a sneering eye-roller, who’s ‘lawyered up’ with a stone faced bird, confronts our heroes. After 30 seconds of sparring (have to keep things moving along to accommodate the adverts) the perp says ‘they got nothin’ on me, let’s get outta here’, at which point the mouthpiece slams a folder shut with a snarling ‘we’re done here’. ‘It’s over’, says the Loo. ‘The Chief’s bringing in the Feds’.

‘We can still do this’, says McLain to McGarrett, as they begin the process of bonding. ‘Look how the previous 47 axe murders all took place within a half block radius of this mechanic’s shop on 23rd. Records show our suspect did a mechanic’s course while on rehab. It’s a long shot, but I got a hunch about this; let’s stake the place out’.

Several hours later, and it’s dark. Our duo is sitting in a car parked in front of a shabby building, reminiscing about how each other’s dad was a cop, and how they always wanted to be a cop, secure in the knowledge that they can’t be spotted from just across the road.

Suddenly a hooded figure enters the garage, carrying a violin case shaped like an axe. There’s a muffled scream. ‘Call for backup!’ yells McGarrett. ‘No time,’ says McLain, ‘ He’s got somebody in there. We gotta go in!’. With a shout of ‘armed police, freeze!’, they kick the door in, whereupon the suspect promptly legs it up the nearest fire escape and on to the roof. ‘Get round back’ yells McLain, and heads up onto the pitch black roof. He edges from shadow to shadow, before leaping out in an armed stance. Suddenly the killer’s in the open, swinging wildly. ‘Drop your weapon!’ yells McLain, but the killer keeps coming and then trips, pitching over the railing to land on the sidewalk with a satisfying *splat*. Cue sirens in the distance…

Back at the precinct office. ‘Ya done good’, says the Loo. ‘You two are gonna make a fine team. Let’s get a drink’. ‘Yeah, and you’re buying!’ says McLain. Cheesy grins and high fives all around, as the leads weave their way between the ethnically balanced, no dialogue extras on the way to the door. Fade to credits. Wash, rinse and repeat for the next 500 episodes.

Welcome to the world of American cop show clichés, cunters. You know you love it. Way to go.

Nominated by Ron Knee

I love Crunchies and Cadbury’s Flakes me, but I just won’t pony up the readies for them anymore, they’ve become such a rip-off. Anyone recall the time when a flake was worth eating? They used to resemble a baseball bat. Now they’re about three inches long, and look like an anorexic pencil. Two bites and it’s gone.
Remember the Toblerone debacle? The arseholes who make them tried to change the legendary ‘chunky’ shape by widening the gaps between the triangles. It ended up looking like a miniature bike rack. As if this wasn’t bad enough, the fucking chisellers then tried to rob the hapless consumer twice by going for a price increase to boot.

Ok, so it’s chocolate, a ‘luxury’ item I suppose, and nobody forces me to buy. But what about when the ‘principle’ (and I use the word ironically here) extends not just to ‘luxury’ foodstuffs but necessities? The portions continue to dwindle, prices continue to rise, while wages stagnate.

The bastard faceless, multinational corpocunts responsible think we’ve all got ‘Idiot’ tattooed across our foreheads, and they can really see us coming. Somebody somewhere is doing alright out of this, but it ain’t the longsuffering consumer, that’s for sure. Is it too much to hope that one day soon these fuckers will get theirs? Burn baby burn.

Nominated by Ron Knee

The European Court of Justice is in the news because if the Chequers “deal” goes through, the EU will STILL have binding jurisdiction over our courts and laws. Consequently, it requires a jolly good cunting

At a general election in Britain, the voters choose who makes the laws that govern our lives. If governments capitulate or fail to fulfil their promises, and often the sly fuckers do, the electorate are able to throw them out. This precious right may sound simple, but it took hundreds of years of struggle and sacrifice to secure (The Chartists’ movement, the Reform Acts 1832, 1867, etc).

In the dreadful EU, the unelected European Commission creates laws for us and for the last few decades, our parliament can only rubber-stamp them. The whole system is overseen by the Court of Justice of the European Union (ECJ) in Luxembourg, which has ultimate jurisdiction over our parliament and law courts.

Two examples this year of these Tyrants’ bias against Blighty:
➡ It delivered a ruling that genome-edited crops have to be treated to expensive and unfair regulation. In defiance of advice from its advocate general but encouraged by Jean-Claude Juncker’s allies, more pesticides will be used in Britain, our farmers will be less competitive and researchers will leave for North America. It was described in The Times as “scientifically absurd” (Matt Ridley).

➡It also ruled against Dyson in the company’s row over EU vacuum cleaner energy efficiency labels. The British engineering group had claimed that its rival Bosch-Siemens had misled shoppers by exaggerating how efficient its vacuums are and is disappointed that consumers will continue to be misled about the true performance of this product.

?

The court has powers over EU member states. Is it right for a non-UK based court to have such power? (*_*)

Regarding the sell-out, BRINO Chequers deal, Jacob Rees-Mogg said, “This paper sets out that the UK will be subject to EU laws while having no say in their creation. The Common Rule Book will not be Common, it will be EU law, interpreted by the EU Court with the UK subjected to EU fines for non-compliance.”

This is not what we voted for and would be a filthy compromise by lacklustre cunts. The ECJ is not merely an arbiter of justice. Its stated role is to advance the cause of European integration. If we’re to be truly independent, these fuckers can kiss our piss.

By the bowels of the Duke of Wellington, will we ever escape the claws of these cloying, rapacious gangsters.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

The sight of people grinning inanely and taking photos of themselves has become a familiar sight since mobile phones first got cameras bolted on to them. These geeks can even get a ‘selfie stick’ to add to this life enhancing experience.

Still, ‘selfies’ are a pretty inexpensive pastime; or so I thought until I opened my paper earlier to find one sent by (wait for it) the Mars rover ‘Curiosity’. This shows, in fascinating detail, a collection of wheels, gears and cables, against a stunning backdrop of, well, nothing much really. A cost of a cool $2.5 billion makes it the most expensive ‘selfie’ in history by a factor of a very large number.

Now if the American government wants to spend its taxpayers’ dollars on these mobile tin cans, that’s their prerogative. But ‘Curiosity’ is just the latest in a line, and I’m buggered if it will tell us anything that we don’t already know about the Red Planet, to wit; there’s NOTHING there beyond an arid wasteland of rock, dust, and rubble for mile upon endless mile in any direction. Zippo. Nada. Rien. $2.5 billion? I could have told NASA that for the price of a decent bottle of malt and a couple of tickets to the Villa (on second thoughts forget the tickets; Villa are gash under Steve ‘I don’t do tactics’ Bruce’). For an appropriate fee, I’ll make them up a dandy certificate on my computer, something along the lines of;

To Whom It May Concern
This is to certify that there is the thin end of the square root of fuck all on Mars
Signed
Ronald Knee (‘O’ level physics and chemistry, 1966)

Okay, I understand that need to ‘boldly go’, to push the boundaries of scientific endeavour. But in this particular case, just how many rock samples do we need to confirm that Mars is indeed nothing but 50 million sq miles of utterly barren and hostile wilderness? Apparently Europe is now planning to get in on the act, with a rover scheduled for launch in 2020. The Chinese probably have ideas as well.

Just a thought, but couldn’t we spend the money on something that might be of a more tangible benefit to the people down here on planet Earth who actually foot the bills, maybe environmental or health care projects, or cheap, safe energy alternatives? Ah, but I suppose this would turn off the gravy train of dollars, pounds and euros, and the nice big pay cheques these yield. There are vested interests to be defended here, so the tin cans will continue to scrape up dust at inordinate cost, leaving Joe Taxpayer to wonder what the fuck’s actually in it for him.

C’est la vie.

Nominated by Ron Knee