A finger-wagging, side-of-the-nose touching cunting for Armchair ‘Experts’, please.

You know the type: watched a few war films, played ‘Tour Of Duty-Cunt Ops’, suddenly an expert on all subjects warfare. BA pilots strike, they’re experts on flying ‘cos they’ve never crashed their PC’s flight simulator. Grenfell fire? If they’d been there, everyone would have got out alive and they’d have put the fire out with a CO2 extinguisher. Nursing? Anyone could do that. Ambulance pulls up, they crawl out of the wood-work. Found on newspaper forums and ‘phone-in shows fucking EVERYWHERE. The Daily Mail breeds the cunts. One or two, possibly one, using different logins, even frequent this fine site, (you know who you are, you cunt), until Admin catches up with them.

Best case I’ve had recently was an ‘expert’ at a sudden death we went to. Obviously deceased, hypostasis, pupils fixed and dilated; in pops the neighbour and comes out with “I’ve been a first aider for years, why aren’t you starting resuscitation?” We’re a paramedic crew, for fucks sake!!! We were (almost) lost for words, as he was shown the door.

Funny how all ‘Experts’ don’t do the job they’re ‘experts’ at, isn’t it? Cunts to a man/woman.

Nominated by DCI Gene Cunt

A nomination for Benjamin Butterworth.

A tiresome, soyboy twat who has written for the Grauniad and the ‘Independent’ – this alone makes him worthy of a cunting, but the actual subject of this nomination is his appearance on breakfast TV, where he was given a good roasting by Piers Morgan. Apparently, some ‘expert’ in a BBC video has produced a list of 100 different gender identities, which this twat Butterworth is endorsing, even though he doesn’t even know what most of them are, as Piers pointed out. See the exchange here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDT-Yj5n6zE

There are two possible identities for Butterworth, Cunt, or CIS Cunt, either one will do.

Nominated by Mystic Maven

Hold the front page and read all abaht it please, for pretty but batty journalist, Charlotte, who has suddenly remembered 20 years after the event, and on the first day of the Conservative Conference, that Boris allegedly had a fuddle-duddle under the table with her one day in 1999.

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-49877508

Of course, Justine Greening, the lovely lezzie (well she is prettier than Angela Eagle) and Amber Dudd – two wimmin soon to leave Westminster – are outraged, along with Steptoe’s sisterhood.

I have no idea why her memory went into limbo for 20 years…could it be that Ms. Edwardes is another desperate Remoaner? Did Dame Keir or Gaylord Adonis – or even Granny Grieve (perish the thought) put the wench up to it?

I have one piece of advice for Ms. Edwards: hush, hush sweet Charlotte, or shut the fuck up.

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

Wimpey Homes!

Buying up plots of greenfield, brownfield and commercial land on the outskirts of a village or small town near you.

These shareholder pleasing profit driven cunts are raping the local landscape down South and rapidly changing the local landscape in the name of profits, whilst labouring the already pressed local infrastructure. All ably assisted by the powers of local councils’ who under their gov sanctioned ‘Local plans’ are swiftly approving all such developments as fast as the planning board can stuff the well packed brown envelopes into their back pockets…

Wimpey have bought out local businesses here and swiftly bulldozed the entire plot, levelled it and prepped it for building, even delivering bricks to one site, all with no planning permission yet granted. Local business gone, jobs gone, high volume commerce site gone. Wimpey are just sitting on the now wasteland site waiting for planning permission..

Bunch of cunts, should have stuck to the burgers!

Nominated by Cuntry Cunt

Ahhh. Here we are, first day of our holiday in Gran Canaria. We’re on the beach. The sun is blazing down out of a cloudless azure sky, but my lovely lady and I are cool under a huge fuck off umbrella. Kids splash happily as the warm surf sifts through the shingle. All is peaceful, all is calm. Until…

HE comes tearing into the bay like a demented hornet on his waterborne motor bike, shattering the tranquillity. Fucking Jetski Jimmy. Or Juan, or Jurgen, or whatever the bellend’s name is.

Shit. Beside me, the wife senses my agitation and stirs. Stroking my arm, she says drowsily ‘relax sweetie, you’re on the beach. You have to expect this’. Bah. Fucking rats’ cocks. The poseur’s got the entire bastard ocean, from here to Florida, to ponce about on, but what does he do? He races up and down a hundred yards offshore, making a thorough bastard nuisance of himself. Being an absolute cunt, naturally he’s completely sure that his reluctant audience is as pleased with his performance as he is with himself. Take care, Jimmy. See those big rocks over there? Well we’d hate it if you inadvertently slammed into them and deep sixed it straight down to Davy Jones’ locker, you and your infernal contraption both.

A pox on the makers of jet skis, and a full blown plague on the fucking tosspots that arse about on them.

Cunts, the lot of them.

Nominated by Ron Knee