I don’t know if it’s just me, but there seems to be an unusually large number of loonies abroad at the moment. By way of making my point, let me introduce a few from the catalogue of grotesques who’ve crossed my path recently.

First up is a bloke I’ve seen on a few occasions. From a distance he seems reasonably respectable; it’s only when you get nearer that you realise that his hair’s matted, his suit’s thoroughly disreputable, and he appears to have pissed himself frequently. This poor sap wanders about, picking up a strange miscellany of objects, ranging from ring pulls and gobs of gum to fag packets and even a discarded johnny. He then examines these exhaustively, before putting them into a battered briefcase. As you do.

Next up is a batty old dame who got on the bus I was on; pencil thin and clearly mad as a box of frogs. ‘See ‘im at the stop’ she said to the driver, ‘tried to buy me coat he did. Told ‘im it weren’t for sale, but ‘e said if I didn’t, ‘e’d tek it, ‘e did. Told ‘im I’d get the bobbies, I did…’ etc etc. While this was going on, there was much dropping of heads and edging over in the seat from other passengers, until the driver told her to move down the bus so that he could proceed. She then plonked herself down next to an unfortunate in the priority seats for the disabled. ‘See ‘im at that stop, he tried to buy me coat he did…’.

We proceed onwards to a café in town, where I’d popped in for a coffee fix. In walked what can best be described as Mad Bag Lady, complete with riffy mac and Albert Einstein hairdo. She barged up and bawled to the guy behind the counter ‘oy! Stop playin’ with yerself! I want me tea. Stop playing with yerself! I want me tea!’. The manager appeared like a rabbit from a hat and ushered the miscreant unceremoniously to the door.

Last but not least is my personal favourite, an operatic fat lady lookalike complete with upward curling plaits, wearing a quilted jacket which appeared to have been slashed repeatedly with a razor blade. This apparition presented itself as I stood in Greggs, waiting to buy a sausage roll. The door was flung open and in she stormed, gesticulating wildly and yelling ‘shite! You’re all fuckin’ shite, that’s what you are! Shite!’. The woman serving said to her ‘get out you, or I’ll phone the police. I’ve told you!’. At which point the nutter beat a retreat, shouting ‘go fuck yerselves, ya fucking loada shites!’.

I must confess to feeling a bit of a cunt myself for this nomination, because even though you’ve got to sympathise with the poor bastards, you can’t help but chuckle as well. But I’m also left wondering precisely what is going on around here. Has somebody put something in the water? Is it a full moon, or is the warmer weather bringing them out? In closing, I can only say ‘watch out, there’s loonies about’.

Nominated by Ron Knee

The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona is a horrible cuntfest, isn’t it.

During the nine-day San Fermin fiesta, six bulls are run every morning in the city’s narrow streets and then killed in afternoon bullfights. Most tourists who go to the festival in Spain seem oblivious to the fact that these animals will be dead in just a few hours.

Each morning, a rocket is launched to terrify the six already anxious bulls so that they’ll charge onto city streets lined by drunken, screaming fuckwits who frequently hit them as they pass. The panicked animals slip and slide down the narrow streets and often smash into walls, sustaining broken bones and other injuries surrounded by the constant violent atmosphere.

The entire spectacle is really a death march.

Every evening, one by one, the bulls are forced into a bullring. The first cunts to lance them are the picadors; the second cunts are the banderilleros who also make the bull run in circles until, dizzy, disoriented, exhausted, and weak from blood loss; finally, the matador cunt enters. Not at all a coward, thus “courageous hero” stands over the bleeding, exhausted, dying bull and stabs him to death before demanding applause.

This execution of an innocent animal is called culture and entertainment

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

A nomination for Jonathan Van Ness. No I’d never heard of this fuckwit until just now. Anyway the story is this. Queer Eye star Jonathan Van Ness has said he identifies as nonbinary and “gender nonconforming”.
In a new interview with Out magazine, Jonathan described the gender binary as a “social construct” that, as he’s grown older, he doesn’t feel he fits into.
The 32-year-old explained: “It’s really cool! The older I get, the more I think that I’m nonbinary — I’m gender nonconforming. Like, some days I feel like a man, but then other days I feel like a woman.
Jonathan continued: “I just am either like gender-bendy or nonconform-y or nonbinary and somedays I feel like a boy and somedays I feel like a girl.”

The question though is this – Do you ever feel like the cunt which you undoubtedly are?

Nominated by Mystic Maven

In June ‘The Telegraph’ published a puff piece by one Charlotte Runcie, in which the author waxed lyrical about the many virtues of BBCunt interviewer Emma Barnett. According to Runcie, ‘the young, female, dazzlingly clever’ (of course, naturally, stands to reason) Barnett ‘is becoming the BBC’s most valuable interviewer’ etc blah.
Really? I don’t think so, not if this ‘dog with a bone’ approach is an example of her technique;

On this showing, she looks and sounds more like a dismissive, condescending, virtue-signalling, agenda-driven arsehole, the kind of self-important identikit libtard which seem to swarm around the Beeb like flies around a turd these days.
‘White privilege’ my arse.
Fuck off you smug ratbag (and take your sycophantic ‘sister’ Runcie with you while you’re at it).

Nominated by Ron Knee