Stay Home. Protect the NHS. Save Lives.#StayHomeSaveLives @NHSuk pic.twitter.com/AIN4AzwNcR

— Jack Grealish (@JackGrealish) March 28, 2020

Jack Grealish
IsAC regulars will be aware that, for my sins, I’m an Aston Villa supporter. Following in the footsteps of my dad and grandad, I attended my first game at Villa Park in 1958, a 3-0 win over Burnley. The programme from that match hangs in a claret and blue frame on my wall, and I’ve been to goodness knows how many games home and away since. We’ve occasionally hit the heights over the years, but for the most part, following the Villa hasn’t been easy. It’s been a labour of love, not about the pursuit of glory.
Having laid out my Villa ‘credentials’ so to speak, you’ll understand my pain with regard to this particular cunting, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I’m calling out Villa star Jack Grealish for making a twat of himself and bringing the club into disrepute (again).
Grealish recently put a post on soshul meeja, strongly urging his followers to adhere to government advice during the Coronavirus emergency; to stay home, only leave for essentials such as food and medicines, and observe ‘social distancing’. Good work Jack, you might think, that’s a responsible thing to do. However, what did ‘Brain of Britain’ candidate Jacko then do only a few hours later? Why, he went to what reports are calling a ‘late night party’ at the home of former Villa waste of space Ross McCormack. On leaving the party, he crashed his Range Rover, damaging two other cars in the process. I assume that in so doing, hypocrite Jack has broken club stipulations on player behaviour at the moment.
Grealish has since apologised for his ‘stupidity’. The word is that Villa are fining him £150k, which is going straight to charity. Now Grealish has shown this season that he’s a very fine player, with the potential to become an exceptional one, and it seemed that he’d matured, leaving his ‘Jack the Lad’ reputation behind. Now he’s gone and shot himself in the foot again, demonstrating that he’s another potential role model who just can’t quite step up. He says that he’s sorry for what he’s done, but is it a case of regret at being found out?
Made yourself look a bit of a cunt again, haven’t you Jack?

Nominated by Ron Knee

Self-isolation being a bit of a cunt, earlier today the wife and I decided to venture out for a little walk, which Government advice states is permissible. Common sense told us to limit the walk to half an hour, and not take the car to venture further afield. In effect, this led us to take a stroll around the local park, strictly observing ‘social distancing’ etiquette in the process, of course. Naturally enough, plenty of other locals had been thinking along similar lines, so it was a case of more people, equals more dog-walkers, equals more dog shit lying about the place.

However, the odd, even slightly bizarre factor in this, was that almost all of the crap left about had been put into little black bags by the pooch owners. So far, so good, but these bags of shit hadn’t then been disposed of responsibly – they’d just been left scattered about the park in their dozens; on the grass, on the paths, hanging like macabre decorations from bushes and railings, even in the fenced-off toddlers play area.

Now a pooch may well be a most amiable companion, but his social skill set is basically limited to guzzling, chasing sticks, sniffing other dogs’ arses, trying to hump any available leg and…shitting. He can’t pick up his own crap, even if his muttish mind could possibly conceive the need to, so it’s up to his/her owner to observe the niceties. Sadly, it seems that while many owners feel guilty enough these days to bag up their dog’s crap, their conscience and sense of responsibility does not extend to taking it away with them, even simply as far as the nearest bin.

You might think that as we are gripped by the greatest public health crisis most of us have ever experienced, people would display a heightened sense of awareness about matters of hygiene. Apparently not, and large numbers of dog owners continue to display the same sense of selfishness and lack of consideration for others that they’ve always done. They own the dogs, but not the mess. It’s left lying about in those ubiquitous little bags, festering away. It’s somebody else’s problem.

Anti-social dog owners are oafish cunts; thanks for what is literally a sack of shit.

Nominated by Ron Knee

That Mr Jones is a cunt of monumental proportions is well known and documented on ISAC, but the little poofter has hit a new low in the “hypocritical cunt” stakes with an article in The Guardian, in which, while licking the arse of Dame Kweer Charmer, he refers to his last crush, Magic Grandpa, as “an implausable left wing leader”:

https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2020/apr/04/keir-starmer-labour-leader-committing-policies-the-left

Come off it, Owen duckie, you have spent five years having wet dreams about Senior Citizen Smith. You have creamed your panties fantasising over giving him a blowjob. You drooled over the communist dictatorship Corbyn and McDonnell had planned, but now they have departed, so has your love.

A bit like that other arch hypocrite Jess Bulldyke Phillips, having spent years sneering at Starmer and his ilk now you can’t wait to get into bed with him (literally in your case you snotty nosed little bumboy).

It is a good job Smith takes himself so seriously, I doubt anyone else does, even his mum. As a penance I think he ought to be sentenced to a whole year of washing out Maggie Beckett’s shit and piss-stained knickers and changing the voluminous jamrags of Emily Thornberry, with his teeth.

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

OK I admit I am probably a fuddy duddy myself but that doesn´t mean I have to put up with other fuddy duddies.

I like fuddy duddy things like spending hours over a cryptic crossword, wearing a suit and tie on a special occasion although I am immediately ridiculed by wife and daughter for doing so, fountain pens, afternoon tea with scones and shortbread, bowls, playing the mouth organ and birdwatching. This latter brings out the worse in Ms P who accuses me of inventing species like the three-toed treecreeper or the blue-footed booby. Mrs P´s reaction when she sees me remove my harmonica from its case and wipe it reverentially is to put her hat on and leave.

However, other fuddy duddies piss me off. For example, I have a brother-in-law who thinks he is good at sculpting and wood carving and has filled his large house with his “works of arts”. He hasn´t realized after 30 years that he has no talent yet leaves these pieces of twisted junk everywhere. I once counted 80 pieces in his living room, ranging from a crumbling Eiffel Tower made from soapstone to a shaky “erotic” Kama Sutra carving of what looked like stick insects, before giving up.

I met another fuddy duddy a while back as I was about to reverse after taking a wrong turning. A cardigan came flying out of a nearby house and angrily pointed to a sign saying “No turning in this street. By order”. I let him rant on before I realized he was enjoying himself. So instead of arguing, I nodded sympathetically and told him I had the same problem in my street. I think this annoyed him more than if I had Dick Fiddlered him and told him to fuck off.

I had better stop now as I am beginning to enjoy this and will go on forever.

Nominated by Mr Polly