Any cunter who’s ever sat behind the wheel of a car will be familiar with the twattish young geezer referred to as the ‘boy racer’. For years this excrescence has caused untold annoyance to other drivers on the highways and byways of our great nation, driving high powered cars very fast and very aggressively. Now I’d like to give a bollocking to the female of the species, Chelsea Tractor Girl.

So there I was on this bright Autumn morning in my small but stylish Dacia Sandero, chugging along the road at 29.999 recurring mph in a 30 mph zone, being very law abiding as you can see, and minding my own business. About 100 yards ahead, the green traffic light at the junction changes to amber, and I touch the brake, slip into third, and begin a leisurely glide up to the red.

Suddenly all hell breaks loose behind me. There’s lights flashing, a horn blaring, and I look in the mirror to see a fucking Range Rover apparently in the process of trying to climb into my boot. And there she is at the wheel, nostrils flaring and hands gesticulating wildly; yes, it’s Chelsea Tractor Girl, and she’s not a happy bunny. It seems that I’ve prevented her reaching the red light a couple of seconds sooner, and foiled her plan to sit there revving the engine of her huge Chelsea Tractor wildly but impotently.

There’s obviously some dire emergency here. Could she be a minute late picking up the kids from their private school? Perhaps that meeting can’t start without her indispensable presence, or her nail technician has texted, threatening to close the salon if she’s not there in two minutes.

Anyway, as I trundle up to the light (still on red), CTG swings the Batmobile into the inside lane, designated left turn only except for buses and taxis. Here she sits giving me the Darth Vader death stare while a pulsing little vein in her forehead throbs and threatens to go *pop!*, a prospect which delights me inordinately. Then the light’s on amber and naturally she screeches straight ahead, cutting me up with a vicious outward swerve, then hammering up the road as the ’30 Slow Down’ warning flashes redundantly. I’m left eating dust, and shaking my head at the sheer bad manners and dangerous idiocy of this display.
What is it then about so many women these days that turns them into arrogant bullies the moment they get behind the wheel of some huge, fuck off 4×4? Does a sense of the vehicle’s power generate an impulse to inimidate, or is it some misguided notion of equality that tells them to show that they can be as big a twat as a bloke can be on the road? Perhaps it’s a bad attack of penis envy, with the tractor serving as a substitute dick to wave about, or in some cases maybe it’s just, well, that time of the month… Come to that, why does anybody drive one of these gas guzzling behemoths around in an urban environment anyway?

The great pioneering psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud once wrote ‘the great question that can never be answered is “what does a woman want?” ‘. Well I certainly can’t offer a comprehensive answer to that if Freud couldn’t, but I can tell you what CTG wants, and that’s to get her mini Panzer tank hurled into the nearest crusher asap, and if we’re very lucky, the little shit might even get heaved in with it. There’s always hope, even if there isn’t much in the way of expectation.

Nominated by Ron Knee

No, not the small fringe of retards that like swastikas and so on. ‘The Far Right’ as it is now applied.
Think immigration is a tad excessive. Far Right
Think the Burka is inappropriate, demeans women and looks ridiculous. Far Right and Islamophobic.
Don’t rejoice at the gay/trans bullshit that overwhelms us. Far Right. Unless of course you are a peaceful in which case it is ‘right-on’.
Suspicious of peacefuls and what is preached in their mosques. Far Right and Islamophobic.
I have even seen it to describe Leave voters.

There are many other examples that I am sure cunters can add.

The Far Right is another phrase from the Ministry of Truth.
Please note. This is a succinct cunting so that fellow cunters don’t wear their lips out reading it as I have on some cuntings.

Nominated by Cuntstable Cuntbubble

Nando’s is a cunt, isn’t it?

People love Nando’s. This is evident because what people who love Nando’s love even more than Nando’s is talking about how much they love Nando’s.

Enter the under lit world of this corporate South African restaurant, solely obsessed with their profit margin: The customers are the least discerning morons you’ll meet, a quagmire of cheap trainers, blubbing toddlers and couples eating peri peri sauce on baked cadavers while staring at their mobiles. You have to serve yourself drinks like a fast-food shithole yet you pay full restaurant prices. Chicken’n’chips for 13 Quid. Clever – unlike the corpulent, spotty families stuffing down corpses of fowl caked in sugary abattoir-flavoured sauce.

“Heyy, have you ever been to a Nando’s before, guys?”
“Fortunately, no. Could I order a wretched quality, previously-caged chicken with no value for money.”
“No problem. Pay before you eat so any posthumous complaints are meaningless and fetch your own cutlery and drinks. Enjoy.”

Nando’s is KFC for the lower-middle class. Too snobby to eat at a café but too poor or stingy to eat at a decent establishment.

The choice: Spicy enough that it’ll be the worst episode your anus will have ever experienced; or lemony enough that it tastes like an aeroplane wet wipe serviette.

Then there’s the smell. Even walking past makes you want to pebble-dash the pavement. Inside, the odour of a thousand sour farts hangs pungently whilst ugly hipsters with empty lives Instagram their sorry imitation of food.. Hopefully the awful stench repels any cockroaches/fruit flies/beetles, though not from the rumours I’ve heard.

▪

Let’s go for a Cheeky Nando’s!
No thanks. I’d rather have my fingernails pulled off and eyes gouged out with a rusty spoon than visit that over-priced, over-salted, over-hyped, over-rated purveyor of processed, battery-farm faeces.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

I used to happen to like Nandos on occasion. However as my old mate pointed out, they serve halal chicken. I looked into it. In certain restaurants they serve only halal as in Leicester. But they say they can’t guarantee not serving halal in restaurants in non peaceful areas where they have a supply problem. That’s why it’s a cunt. You wouldn’t know if your nosh was halal or not. Halal butchery is enough to make you go veggie. It’s a cunt.

Nominated by Alan Fistula

Like a lot of my generation (I’m in *cough* middle life *cough*) I have what could best be described as a love-hate relationship with my computer. When it works it’s brilliant. When it doesn’t work, or to be more precise, when I can’t get the bastard to work, usually I don’t have a scooby how to sort it out. After about ten minutes or so fannying about with it, I’ll be reduced to a quivering, raging wreck, ready to hurl the fucker through the window and send the bill to Toshiba.

This afternoon, I thought I’d have a bit of fun and a few laughs by getting on to my absolutely favourite website, the consistently brilliant ‘…is a cunt’ (note to admin; when it comes to trying to a nomination posted, I can brownnose with the best of them). To my chagrin (I can be a wordy cunt as well), the bastard screen had ‘flipped’, was upside down, and ‘locked’.

Mmmm…. sounds like a job for ‘Manual Access Man’. Now where did I put that bloody wedge of paper masquerading as a doorstop? In the bookcase? Down the side of the chair? Under the bed? ‘No dear’, said the ever helpful Mrs Knee. ‘You don’t get a paper copy now. It’s on the computer nowadays’.

What the fuck?? Let me see if I’ve got this straight. I’ve a problem with the computer and need advice about how to sort it. To do this, I need to access the manual. The manual is on the computer. I can’t access the fucking computer to get at the bastard manual…

As it happened, I was collecting my nine year old granddaughter from school. She took one look, heaved a sigh of ‘oohhhhhh grandad’, went takka takka takka on the keyboard, and problem sorted. The embarrassment of it all. It’s easy when you know what to do to get back on line, but when you don’t, don’t expect any help from the manual. It’s in the last place you’ll be able to reach it, about as remote and out of reach as Alpha Centauri, and as much use as a fucking one legged man in an arse kicking contest.

Nominated by Ron Knee