It’s not here yet, or shouldn’t be, but festive cheer is in the air…is it fuck.

I enjoyed a drizzling Saturday of 0.005% vol mulled wine at Winchester Cathedral Christmas market where I was kettled in a small square and forced to walk clockwise past sheds of shit (hand crafted and bespoke shit, I will have you know) with the odd festive temper flare up caused by the crush and demands of spouses. All in all it was arse. Coming home, I noticed that the family who celebrated Halloween a month in advance have erected a small Christmas tree on their front patch of mud. It has also been electrified to stop my dog pissing on it (cunts).

Why? Surely extending a one day holiday to over a month destroys the joy (or misery, whichever way you look at it).

I know for a fact that my Jolly Christmas is going to involve a slap up meal at an old people’s home with a number of people who have no idea who I am, or who they are, or what the whole thing is about. Then, just to spice things up, I will go over and visit my Mrs’s extended family and chat with the men (our only thing in common being the fact we have bollocks)

Oh shit. I will probably have a couple of old ladies with parrot-like tongues try and snog me too.

I am so looking forward to the coming shit fest and the disappointment of gifts that I neither want, or need (or can store) Oh yes, and buying presents. I have to buy for two teenagers…What the fuck can I get them? I am thinking butterfly knives or crossbows, but their parents and the Mrs will veto any such present.

Nominated by lord benny

A nomination for Joanne Smith, the head teacher at the Rudyard Kipling primary school in Brighton. She has banned children from playing ‘rough’ contact games.

Joanne Smith told pupils they had to play with ‘gentle hands’ – banning traditional games like ‘it’ or ‘British Bulldog.’

Instead, children are being encouraged to hold hands or clap with each other while in the playground. Mrs Smith wrote: ”To clarify, ‘Gentle Hands’ does not mean ”no touching.”
‘The children are of course allowed to hold hands or play clapping games with a friend should they wish to. Gentle Hands simply means playing games outside that do not need to be physical.This will ensure the playground is a happy, safe and calm place where everyone can enjoy their lunchtime running around and getting the exercise we know is important to them.’

One parent said ‘I’m going to teach my son about another game instead, that’ll really scare the snowflake headteacher – kiss-chase.’

Knowing that silly cunt head teacher, she’ll probably agree to that, but only same-sex kiss chase.

What a cunt, but are we surprised, given that Brighton is the fruit loop capital of the south? Expect this policy to be adopted by Islington very soon.

Nominated by Mystic Maven

BEATRICE BASS (WOULD BE M.P)

A sweet sickly Swinsonesque cunting please for this up-her-own-arse lass, who is upset that Brexit might spoil her skiing plans in January

The self-obsessed fuckwit, who has the same sort of shit eating smirk as her leader is obviously the role model of the modern MP – a complete shit-stain. I am sure she is pissing her Tena-ladies at the thought of all those lovely expense claims she will be able to put in – like so many others she doesn’t give a flying fuck about democracy or “the people” – it is just a nice easy well-paid job where she will be revered by the BBC and her pussy-whipped feminist male colleagues.

What a cunt!

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

Anomination for faddish foods, or food fads.

The one that comes to mind is pulled pork, or the facsimile of it, usually shredded crust in a sugary gloop.
Pulled pork is really the Southern US version slow cooked hog roast, where the meat is gently cooked until it is less pulled and can barely hold to the bone.

There are a few others, such as lobsters with ‘mac and cheese’, venison and chocolate, the ubiquitous nonsense of noughties pub menus, ‘hunters chicken’ – not chicken chasseur – consisting a chicken breast wrapped in rashers of bacon, then smothered in cheddar and more of that rich overpowering BBQ sauce.

Probably the noughties equivalent of the more recent obsession for BBQ ‘pulled’ pork.

Another ingredient that became far too frequent on menus and supermarket shelves was chorizo.

As for dinky donks (Frankie Howerd), everything and everyone is drowning in Prosecco, gin and grapefruit-infused craft ale.

Perhaps worst of all is the hipster cretins having ironic 70s dinner parties.

There’s nothing ironic about eating a Chicken Kiev, so fuck off.

Nominated by Cuntamus Prime