Feel free to file the following under ‘bigoted British cunt ranting’ – because that’s exactly what I am and exactly what this is.

Yesterday, for what may be the 1,513th time, my VirginMedia broadband service went on the fritz. Being a customer of such a cuntly organisation is bad enough, and even at the best of times, the VirginMedia shit-services makes me want to repeatedly smash sand-filled Coke bottles against the shins of bearded deitycunt Richard Branson; but once you take to calling the helpline, then the real suffering begins and your pissboiling temperature is ramped up by a few fucking hundred degrees.

*Dials the VM customer helpline, goes through the eternal automated fucking security Qs, eventually hears the queue music and starts to chant to himself*

“Please let it be the Welsh call centre.”
“Please let it be the Welsh call centre.”
“Please let it be the Welsh call centre.”

*dial tone kicks in*

“Hello there Mr. Gunt be Strikeeng Back, you are speaking to Billy, how may I be of serwice for helbing you doday?”

Part of me wonders whether the out-sourcing of customer helplines to Indian call centres is actually a calculated move by companies to offset the time and manpower spent in dealing with genuine customer complaints and issues, knowing that a fair percentage of punters will give up after 30mins arguing with a scripted bot with zero nous or common sense. The agents at these tenth circles of hell employ infuriating tactics such as putting you on hold for fucking ages with no holding update or apology; repeating back every fucking sentence which you have uttered on the call and trying to convince you that you are speaking to the only indigenous ‘Billy’ in the whole of India.

Let’s be clear – I don’t really fucking care about the ethnicity of the staff. I used to be a customer of BE Broadband and their call centre was somewhere in Eastern Europe – those Balkan fuckers though at least compensated for the difficulty in speaking the language by being a pro-active and helpful bunch.

Needless to say, the Broadband service was fine this morning and has been all day, despite our man in Bangalore Billy Kartakashar arguing the toss that I needed to wait hand-on foot all day sometime this decade for one of their glorified repairmen to come and fuck about with my router. These call centre operatives may not actually be bad people, but they certainly are cunts.

Any thing else I can be cunting for you today, sir?

Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back

In the words of the Urban Dictionary:

The way of showing the world you are a twat without having to speak. Also known as Douche Donut

The full horror of these has just been demonstrated to me by the twentysomething ‘mate’ of the dismal eighteen year old living with his flaccid parents across the road, stepping out of his badly-parked car, and, with the high probablity of such visitors being a county line operation, presumably bearing a selection of chemicals for distribution by said dismal youth.

Why in the name of fuck does anyone want to look like a carelessly shaven terracotta warrior from the Quin Dynasty? Who or what are they trying to impress, and how? What possible kudos can attach to a cunt who in all other respects resembles a Super Mario addict, who is topped off by a bundle of unwashed hair modelled on an old-fashioned dishmop rendered useless by falling into the chip pan during the lard era? Does this cunt live on quinoa or heroin? Impossible to tell.

A blight on any pleasing prospect, far uglier than an equivalent volume of fresh air, I know this cunt is a cunt without having even to speak to him. Thank god for that, anyway. Supreme hermaphroditic cunt, because simultaneously a massive knob.

Nominated by Komodo

I need to nominate holiday scrotes.

I’m currently on holiday and been rudely interrupted whilst perusing ISAC by some butch, pre-op tranny looking chav bitch yelling across the pool in her equally repulsive Scouse accent at her benefit scrounging rabble of a family from her balcony.

Now I’ve nothing against people who have a hard background, I grew up on a council estate but consider myself as far from a chav as it’s possible to be. These cunts have clearly come on holiday on the back of some whiplash compo, and give not one fuck as they embarrass themselves, single handedly lowering the tone of this place as well as every other gaff in a two mile radius. I have nothing but contempt for cunts who seem to think that just because they weren’t born with a silver spoon shoved up their arse that they have to behave like a bunch of feral fucking cats. Manners really cost fuck all.

They can all get to fuck

Nominated by The Ghost of Glauber Berti