Ok a juicy cunting for Owen Jones.

My reason for yet another cunting for this horrible shit is this video:

Watch it, but you need to make it past 5 minutes and his pathetic little piece where he seems totally unaware that calling everyone who disagrees with him a fascist is a childish argument. However he loves childish arguments as the rest of the video shows. He goes on about the rise in fascism (his word for honest people not what you and I would call fascist), and how the Conservative Party somehow created it all, because of course nobody apart from him can think for themselves etc.

It’s a This Week video; Portillo, Neal and guest proceed to make him look stupid by speaking the truth, nothing new there then.

But look at the way the oily tick conducts himself. He’s like a frustrated teenager at college constantly interrupting the class because he’s delusional. It’s embarrasing.

But even more, and a point I have made many times, he is so much like the parody character Ollie Plimsolls from the League of Gentleman series that it’s amazing. Just have a look at this video, just the first in a google search.

His mannerisms, the way he speaks, the underlying resentment and bitterness, it’s all there!

Owen Jones is so much of a cunt that a parody of a cunt is accidentally and frighteningly highly accurate.

Nominated by Cunting Rank Wags

Another day, and another non-political nomination, that also happens to be local to me. This time, I’m nominating miserable cunts who take offence at the most irrelevant shit, and phone plod to complain. Just read in the Daily Fail about a pub a couple of miles away from my house called the Sportsman. This pub has a Cuban restaurant, apparently because the pub’s landlord is married to a Cuban woman. In one of the windows on the first floor, the have, or rather HAD, a Cuban flag with an image of Che Guevara printed on it. I say had, because they recently had a visit from aforementioned plod, (a licensing officer no less), because some nappy wearing miserable cunt phoned up to that they were offended by the sight of Che on a flag.

Now, unlike a lot of people, who consider Guevara to be a revolutionary hero, I consider him to be an evil, homicidal psychopath. I don’t particularly agree with seeing his image plastered all over t-shirts, mugs, posters, etc. And I often wonder how many are aware of how many people Guevara and his chum, Castro, murdered in the name of their own idea of a socialist utopia. And how many would actually care? That said, despite the fact I hated seeing the image of that cunt every time I drove past, I never once considered phoning plod to complain that it offended me. Instead, I accepted that the landlord of the Sportsman and his wife were expressing their right to freedom of speech and freedom of expression. That’s because I’m what is commonly known as, ‘a rational adult’.

2018 especially has been the year of the snowflake, but this kind of shit has been going on for years. People complaining about England flags and Union flags being racist, people complaining about gollywogs, fucking dolls, being racist. People complaining that someone with sense took the piss because the offended cunt thinks biology is a lie, and that there are actually five thousand genders. And that males can have periods. I really hope that 2019 will be the year that people with common sense will get into power and tell all the snowflakes to shut the fuck up, and grow the fuck up. Unfortunately, that won’t happen, because the vast majority of our political class are snowflake cunts too.

Nominated by Quick Draw McGraw

DOMINIC GRIEVE

Does this puffed up ball of stinking shit never give up trying to cause trouble?:

https://www.express.co.uk/news/politics/1072882/brexit-latest-news-theresa-may-commons-defeat-eu-reaction

Two more fucking bites of the cherry to try to stop Brexit. Why don’t his constituency party just bin the cunt. Deselect him.

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

I’d like to Cunt the Parvenu.

I attended a drinks party at the home of a couple who recently bought the Manse in a neighbouring village. I, of course,wore a dark grey suit (old but smart),a tie and black shoes. Upon arriving I was greeted by what I took to be the butler from some Edwardian-era Agatha Christie adaptation holding the hand of an overdecorated Christmas tree. It did cross my mind that perhaps I’d overlooked the “Fancy Dress” code on the invitation,but no…it was mine host and his painted-lady wife wearing more jewellery than a fairground Gypsy. After recovering from the sight of this seizure-inducing vision of over-indulgence (in every sense of the word), I introduced myself. The “butler” proceeded to shake my hand in a manner of a Thai prostitute rushing a “Happy Ending” and then the damned female lent in and kissed me on both cheeks….I was fucking aghast…I’m not some fucking foreigner nor am I her “fitness coach”.

After disentangling myself from the attentions of the over-perfumed, over-permed and over-familiar Lady of the House, I was invited to join the other unfortunate guests in the “lounge”…. a fresh assault on my sensibilities that dwarfed the greeting assailed my senses. Something that resembled a “mash-up” between Ikea and the Hall of Mirrors at the local fairground greeted me. An eighteenth century house decorated like a French tart’s boudoir. A veritable monument to bad taste capped only by the massive television that seemed to take up most of one wall.
Luckily I knew a few of the other guests and once my power of speech had returned, I joined them to marvel at the sheer bravado of the “interior designer” who had managed to convince anyone with even a modicum of sanity to furnish their home thus.
I then spent a couple of pleasant hours with my friends watching, and sneering at, our hosts. They spent most of the time braying about their holiday home in The Algarve (or some some such place), how much they’d paid for a pony for their daughter, how they wanted to put triple-glazing in the house etc.
However, the final straw for me was when the “butler” (as we were calling him) clicked his fingers at one of the young girls waiting-on, and announced that he was about to open some £300 bottle of champagne. It was the finger-clicking that did it for me…revolting habit. I was hard-pressed not to point out to him that I’d assumed that he was the staff, but contented myself looking at the equally appalled faces of my friends.
I quickly made my excuses and left, although I must say that I was surprised that the gruesome twosome didn’t try to give me a “goody-bag” or something equally plebian on the way out. Dreadful, truly dreadful.

Get Fucked.

Nominated by Dick Fiddler