A hand wringing, virtuous cunting for Antony Gormley. A sculptor, apparently:-

‘Sculptor Sir Antony Gormley has joined calls for London’s National Portrait Gallery to end its sponsorship with BP.

BP has sponsored the gallery’s annual Portrait Award for 30 years, but the oil company has faced growing criticism over its environmental stance.

Sir Antony said BP was “using culture to make us all feel this is a company that cares about the future of mankind, but it very clearly doesn’t”.

Here we have an arty farty cunt who has never done a day’s work in his life suddenly (along with a bevy of other arty cunts) deciding that BP is the anti Christ.
BP is a petroleum business. It employs 70,000 people. They have been doing this for a long time. Without such business we would be living in rural settlements, shagging relatives and voting for Magid Magid or Caroline Lucas.
BP contributes to the world, whatever arty cunts think. Arty cunts do not.
These shows of virtue and principle are spurious, pseudo and unconvincing.

Nominated by Cuntstable Cuntbubble

I give you that great pile of genuine horseshit, The Northern Powerhouse:

8 of the 22 partners have London addresses.
The chairman is that great champion of the North, George Osborne.

Achievements:
Improved road and rail infrastructure in the north? Er, no.
Airport investment in the north? Er, no.
Transport subsidies to upgrade commuting across the north? Er, no.

In fact, precisely fuck all has been achieved apart from some very agreeable expense accounts, vital non-jobs and general hot air. Still, it kids us dull cunts who live in the ‘north’ that we matter.

Nominated by Cuntstable Cuntbubble

Here’s the scene.
It’s about half eleven a few nights ago. I’m curled up in bed contentedly breathing in the scent of my wife’s soft, dark curls (and they say romance is dead). Suddenly there’s a strange grumbling noise followed by an alarming ‘thump’ from the general direction of the kitchen downstairs.
The wife tenses, and mutters uncertainly ‘What was that?’. ‘No idea’, says I sleepily. ‘Go and have a look’, she whispers, and ready to play the poor little woman card when it suits her, adds ‘it might be a burglar’.
‘Don’t be bloody daft’, I mumble, and get an elbow in the side for my trouble. Now I’m the first to admit to being a very lucky man. The wife’s pushing sixty, but still bears an uncanny resemblance to the actress Rachael Weisz, throw in a soft Edinburgh burr and sexy specs. But at times she can drive me to bloody distraction.
‘Alright’, says I. ‘I’ll go and risk my life. You just stay there warm and cosy’, and muttering and mumping, I go downstairs. Going into the kitchen, I find the fridge/freezer wheezing and groaning like a set of asthmatic bagpipes. Bastard.
Going back up, I inform m’lady that it looks as though the fridge is buggered. ‘What are you going to do?’ she enquires helplessly. ‘What do you mean, what am I going to do?’ I snap. ‘What do you expect me to do? Dial 99 fucking 9 and get them to send the paramedics with a bastard defibrillator? It’s nearly midnight, you daft sod’. ‘Huh’, she harrumphs, ‘the older you get the worse your language becomes’, and rolls over in frosty silence. Luckily I well know how to get round her by now, and a couple of quick tickles soon have her giggling like an overgrown schoolgirl. Normal service is resumed (at least until morning).

Fast forward to about half seven.
I find myself shaken awake to be told ‘there’s a puddle on the kitchen floor’. ‘Shit’ says I groggily, ‘is there any tea in?’. Cursing, I stagger into the kitchen to find that our now incontinent appliance is leaking like, well, the proverbial fucked fridge, and a pool of something vaguely unpleasant looking has indeed gathered. ‘I would’ve cleaned it up’, advises the wife, ‘but it looked funny and I thought you should see it. Anyway, you can do it now you’re up’. For a brief moment I think about trying to play the ‘I’m a fragile old age pensioner’ card, but fuck, it cuts no ice and I know when I’m beat.
Anyway, I barely get time to have a shower and grab a bite before I’m marched off to John Lewis’s to look at new fridges. Here I’m forced to endure an eye glazing indoctrination on the merits of various appliances from a very camp young man who, it turns out, is from Iran of all places. About an hour and a half later, I stagger out craving caffeine, and with a wallet lighter to the tune of 460 notes, not to mention the cost of a freezer full of now useless food. To add insult to injury, there are four days of inconvenience to put up with until the new bastard gets delivered. What a cunt.

Friday morning.
Well it’s finally here and installed, and is purring away like a kitten. There’s just one little sting in the tail. I ricked my back getting the other fucker out the kitchen door so that the council can cart it off to the knacker’s yard. Oh well, at least the missus is mollified and happy, and I’m no longer getting earache from her going on about it. I reckon if I play my cards right, there’ll even be a bit of soldier’s comfort going later . There’ll be a pain barrier, but I’ll struggle manfully to overcome it. I reckon that I’m due a bit of sympathy and consolation for my efforts.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Days are cunts aren’t they. Weeks for that matter. Utter cunts the lot of them.

International Friendship Day, Apple Day, Hug a Tree Week, etc. etc.

Every day or week now does not seem to pass by without some #cabw or some other snowflake witted catchphrase, or increasingly a “rule of three” dreamt up by some marketing department who have too much time on their hands coming up with this shit.

Then tirelessly repeat these phrases ad nauseam so people ignore them, and in some cases, in the example I’m about to mention, end tragically.

Take last weeks Network Rail National Safety Week. What the fuck are people supposed to do differently from any other week? Then ironically the following week, two railway workers lost their lives.

Its meaningless claptrap drivel pushed out by meaningless generational driven marketing departments who have no idea of what a real job is, because they have got a “degree”.

#cabw as you all know is catch a bus week, and I could go on with more pointless crap dreamt up by these millennial, libtard voting, brainwashed remainers who feel justified in making everybody’s lives phish peddling this rubbish.

I’ve got a named day for them, it lasts all year. Fuck off Millennial Snowflake Day. Hashtag #FOMSD.

Cunts.

Nominated by Speakyourmind

Political ‘Victims’ are cunts.

Let’s single out all those professional victims who infest the lower ranks of politics. All right, Trump’s gone off on one telling 4 of them to ‘go back’ to somewhere else, another country, but there is a deeper point to all this.

It’s about whether you’re on the team or not and whether you generally support what you claim is your own country. If not then it is quite fair that you should be robustly asked whether you ought to be there.

That’s true for anyone. If someone really doesn’t seem to like living within the freest system in the world, is constantly carping about how badly done to they are and are even openly supporting enemies of the state (thinking supporters of ISIS and Shamima Begum here) then it’s right at some point someone should tell them to think about fucking off elsewhere.

It’s tedious to then see them fall to the ground clutching their face in fake-agony after they’ve only been given a slight brush on the arm. It’s not mass internment without trial, rape or torture, something which is routinely given to dissenters of other regimes elsewhere. It is a simple question: ‘In a world full of dangerous enemies whose side are you really on?’

The anti-racists here are the first to scream like stuck pigs and overdramatise Trump’s comments. The hysterical response is now predictably well-worn. It has become laughable how overused and meaningless the term ‘fascist’ has become from their mouths. They should really learn a little history.

Trump is actually a gobshite who should have more gravitas as president than to pick petty squabbles with nobodies and grievance makers. He’d be better off leaving the argument to someone far more articulate, such as Brigitte Gabriel:

I love her clarity and sense. Imagine a BBC Question Time panel like this. I fucking wish…

Nominated by Zippy