A nice cunting for those little penpushing wankers – the height of pomposity and self-importance, of overweening stupidity and delusion, who occasionally like to pretend they are making history when all they are doing is making an ineffectual noise. It looked ridiculous yesterday – Starmer and the rest of Europe with that daft looking Van Leyden woman, who looks like an alcoholic schoolmarm, who has just shat herself, getting together to discuss Ukraine with great war leader Zelensky, still in his fatigues, like Charlie Chaplin’s walking stick, a ridiculous overused prop. He must sleep in those clothes, a good job they are black as it hides the piss stains, for a war leader he spends a lot of time prancing round Europe, looking for photo-ops. Starmer and co looked like the Parish council at Little Widdling OnThe Green having their monthly chinwag, over weak tea and Rich Tea biscuits. Kweer Rodney looked like the treasurer, who spends his spare time as Choirmaster at St. Mandy’s, coaching the young boys to reach the highest notes and cottaging in the railway stations of nearby towns. All very little fish in a very big pool.

Britain, in particular, has no money to help the elderly or the vulnerable, and Rachel From Accounts is busy seeing how much more misery she can inflict with the help of Liz Kendall and Ed Miliband – to extract every last penny out of working people so they can support the illegal immigrants in their 4 star hotels and private health schemes for them.

But Europe as a whole is so deluded they think they can take on Russia and America – and win. They really should consult psychiatrists. Whatever you think of them, do they really believe Donald Trump and Putin give a fuck about what Europe “thinks”?. I imagine their view of the little minnows of the EU, is akin to what the bosses of Tesco think about Mr. Patel’s corner shop in Bradford. – nothing.

Like most of us, the USA and Russia probably regard the EU as a joke – an expensive joke sadly for it’s members and it is clear the toolmakers son is doing all he can to crawl back in bed with them and suck their collective dicks. Obese old men and frustrated flannel bloomered old virgins – that is the EU:

The Grauniad.

Nominated by : W. C. Boggs

My local Morrisons is selling the classic 70s fruit sweets, in their original packaging and their original flavours (Starburst my arse).

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love ’em. Always did.
But the wrappers are a pain in the arse.

The paper is stuck to each one, and opening them becomes a sticky and annoying mess. Opal Fruits. Made to make your hands sticky.🎵
(Bit like Mayfair & Penthouse then? – NA)

Mind you, they taste as good as ever. That lime one again after all these years.👍

Mars.com

Nominated by : Norman

Although it has scraped the barrel in recent years, the poshos cunt festival will plunge to new lows this year.

As Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Stone Roses and The Smiths have turned those Eavis cunts down yet again, Farquar and Jocasta will have to pay offensive amounts of money to watch something like a rock ‘n’ roll scrapyard.

Top of the bill? The nepo pussies and Greta-ite load of crap that is The 1975. Is this really the best they can do? I am no Oasis fan, but they tower over these cunts. Whatever our views on Oasis, they were massive. A festival is supposed to create a buzz of excitement. Hendrix, The Who, CSNY and Creedence at Woodstock. Or Dylan, The Doors, Free and Hendrix at the Isle of Wight. But, The 19 fucking 75?! One can imagine tumbleweed and a quiet whistling wind through a Western ghost town. I mean, for fuck’s sake. Is it the worst top billing of all time (after Stormzy, of course)?

And, the rest of the line up? The antique that is Neil Young. And a creaking croaking decrepit Rod Stewart. I have no doubt the upper and middle class tosspots and student bellends will not know one note of any classic Faces material, or anything off his first early 70s albums. Yet, they will think they are cool and postmodern as they sing along to ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy’ and ‘Sailing’. And I have no doubt that ‘The Killing of Georgie’ will be played to appease the LGBTQ Gestapo.

Needless to say, I hate ‘Glasto’ and all it stands for. But, even by is own dreadful standards, this year’s line up is the pits. And Alanis Morrissette as well? Jesus Horatio Hornblower H. Corbett Christ.

Glastonbury Festivals.co.uk.

Nominated by : Norman

The pure brass of the Labour party has been caught with her knickers down again – not this time to insert her jiggle balls and dildo, but, like so many others in that abomination of a political party, she has been lying about her work prior to her glittering political career. Not for her pretend soliciting, like that derelict Jonathan Reynolds, or pretending she was a “trained economist”. No, our Ange likes to do things the Kweer way, and play down her achievements, like Uriah Heep on an especially helpful day. She has always liked to give the she was a “home help”, no doubt to back up her claims that she was a poor but honest unmarried mother at 16, trying to earn an honest crust, wiping old ladies bums and putting the Mr. Sheen round the old dears commode (like Auntie Kweer picking up stones on a farm). In fact she was a Unison official (agitator?) and was sitting on her arse all day no doubt earning far more than the pittance that is the lot of a genuine home help.

Can nobody in that decrepit party ever tell the truth about anything?:

Guido

Nominated by W C Boggs.

American statesman Benjamin Franklin is credited with the statement that ‘in this world nothing can said to be certain, except death and taxes’. Ain’t that the truth.

This morning that latter excresence intruded into my life once more, in the form of a communication from HR Revenue & Customs which kindly informed me of my income tax coding for financial year 2025-26. As cunters will imagine, I’d been awaiting this document with a mounting sense of apathy for months.

This is routine crap from the tax man, the sort of bureaucracy we all have to put with in learning just how much of our money is going to be syphoned off this time to keep illegal immigrants and benefit loungers in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. It’s inevitable, I shouldn’t get worked up.

I shouldn’t have got worked up, but I did, and what caused this to happen was the legend inscribed on the cheap and nasty brown envelope, which stated ‘your tax service-here to support’. Now the word ‘service’ is defined as follows; ‘the action of helping or doing work for someone’. That’s right people; the Revenue’s now a ‘service’ that’s here to help and support you as it takes your cash.

This all makes me feel so much better, knowing that the Revenue’s got my interests and welfare at heart. I’m sure it’ll make you feel a lot better too when you see YOUR cash taken and poured down the drain of net zero, foreign aid, and migrant hotels. And the REALLY great news is that only death can free you from it. Be happy; the taxman’s here and he’s on your side.

Nominated by : Ron Knee