Getting Old
John Denver once sang ‘it turns me on to think of growing old’. Really? All I can say to that is ‘get to fuck’.
I’m 70, and here to testify that turning into my dad is indeed a sack of shit. I got out of bed this morning and my knees creaked like a couple of rusty old hinges. I’d already been up twice in the early hours dying on a piss, thanks to a prostate which is now roughly the size of a coconut (a prostate biopsy, now there’s a fun day out at the hospital). Naturally my eyesight’s now shot to buggery, and as usual it took me ten minutes to find my specs as I can never remember where I left them the previous night.
Make no mistake; getting old is about as attractive a proposition as being Flabbott the Hutt’s knickers. No doubt I’m regarded by many as a grumpy get, but there’s good reason for the grumpiness. I’ve never been old before, and you don’t get a chance to rehearse. Old age creeps up on you insidiously, bringing with it a host of small indignities and humiliations. Well meaning schoolchildren say ‘here sir, take this seat’ on the bus. An attractive woman who might once have coyly glanced your way now looks straight through you. There’s the total inability to ‘do’ technology, when your ten-year-old grandchild could programme the CERN particle accelerator. I used to love dancing but daren’t risk it anymore; I’m terrified that if I thrust my hip out the fucker will stay out. Next time you meet up with your mates for a pint, you’ll spend much of the evening discussing who’s found the most effective remedy for piles. There’s the angst of having the hair that once grew so thickly on your head now sprouting profusely from your nostrils and ears, and from the crack of your arse. I dread the day when I look into a mirror and find that there’s a dewdrop dangling from the end of my nose.
When I was a young man I used to dream of voyages of discovery to exotic, far away places with strange sounding names, but I never had the time or the money. Now I’ve got the time and the money, I’ve lost all inclination, and just want to doze in my sunny spot in the garden. The other night my younger and still nubile wife suggested a trip upstairs for a bit of naughty fun, to which I replied ‘sorry dear, I don’t think I can manage to do both’. Tragically, I was only half joking.  My get up and go has truly got up and gone. The journey from acid rock to acid reflux is indeed one that goes down a long and winding road, and it leads to your door.
Ah fuck it. I think I’ll put ‘Revolver’ on the turntable and open a bottle of decent Rioja. The passage of time cannot diminish all pleasures and wither all things. I’ll close with the observation that… fuck, what WAS I just about to say?

Nominated by Ron Knee

Dating British hipster cunts – notes from a French female reader

Remember when, walking down the street strapped in your tight white pants, you would get deliciously wolf-whistled by construction men? When, on the tube, you would hear ‘I want you’ murmured in your ear and feel a hand against your thigh? When a man (an actual man) would come up to you in a bar and offer you a drink, then an another one, and another one until it all blurred into a sweaty night?

Alas, these days are long gone.

Now, your usual rendez-vous with privileged British white males will go as follows:

First, you will be asked to book a vapid vegan venue where all edibles have been grown within a 2 mile radius. There, the bearded cunt you met through a common hipster friend will avoid your cleavage for the entire evening like it’s some sort of devilish artefact. While he orders his matcha tea with almond milk, he will proceed to drown you in a numbing logorrhoea on meditation, yoga, and travels and after having asked what kind of music you like – probably in the hope of name-dropping his own pathetic spotify-induced discoveries, he will unavoidably lean in, letting a waft of the latest aesop essential oil fragrance tickle your nostrils, and say:
‘Did you go to Burning Man last summer?’
‘No, you wanky wimp, I spend my summers in another desert trying to clean-up the plague your mdma-cash finances’

After an endless hour of his inane karmic-jabbering, he will finally ask to fucking SHARE the bill because he is no chauvinist scumbag. And yes, on the way out, he won’t hold the door for you because being a feminist exempts him from the most bloody basic courtesy.

If tragically, you are weak enough to accept his lame invitation, you shall find yourself stranded in an Ikea demo-flat, with a fixie bike in the living-room, motivational posters on the wall, and one lonely self-help book on the shelf while the twat fiddles with his Bose speaker to play some agonising electronic ’sounds’. The last nail in the coffin of your sex drive will then be hammered when he asks for your consent before turning off the lights and by God shall you endure a very forgettable night with your Prince Cunting, waking up to his bird-chirping-natural alarm clock.

Cunt hipster, give a French girl a break, breath in some toxic masculinity, order a whisky and for all our sakes, be a fucking man.

Nominated by MademoiselleG

Emergency cunting for Marcus Ball – traitor, fiend, welp and cunt.

Firstly anyone who’s name is MARK and yet decides that everyone should call him Marcus is a cunt and should get a slap.
This isn’t Roman times. You don’t sound sophisticated, you sound like a cunt.

Secondly, this is the cunt that is taking Boris Johnson to court to sue him for misconduct in public office, for comments made in the run-up to the EU referendum.
On a bus.
Yes, that fucking bus again.

Is there no depth that these desperate remoaner traitors will not sink to?

It’s somewhat heartening to know that the remainers have such a weak argument that they have to obsess over a fucking bus (that no-one paid any attention to during the campaign) with a SUGGESTION, NOT A STATEMENT written on the side of it. But it’s starting to wear thin and tbh, I’m getting a little sick of hearing about a sodding bus with a slogan on the side.

I’m looking forward however to him also taking Gideon Osbourne to court for the lies told during project fear, and I’m sure Barak Obama will be called in to explain his lies about sending us to the back of the queue….

…I won’t hold my breath though.

Nominated by Deploy the Sausage

…dinosaurs? Hmmmmm…

Israel Folau is a cunt, isn’t he.

This extremist has been sacked by the Australian Rugby board for recent comments, including a slating of gay people. Free speech experts shout that he shouldn’t have been sacked and I agree. Nonetheless …. God’s Tits, what a fundamental fuckwit.

His other comments attacked atheists, drinking alcohol, telling lies, and… “fornicating”. Christ on a hover board…. party like it’s the first century! Being preached and threatened the righteous, scrupulous way by a knucklehead who throws around an egg-shaped ball for a living!

Being a fundamentalist (having STRICT beliefs in the LITERAL interpretation of religious texts), he no doubt believes in talking snakes, plagues of locusts, people turning into salt, God murdering all mankind (except Noah’s family) in a flood, zombies brought back to life, no dinosaurs existed, etc.

Furthermore, a cunting within a cunting for the sheer irony of a ‘Rugger’ player complaining about homôs. A man who spends all day training/hugging muscley men, spends Saturdays playing against/hugging muscley men then has showers and reach-arounds with muscley men. Hmm.

Listen hammerhead, if you don’t like people shagging and boozing, which your God supposedly invented, why don’t you move to a small island off Tonga. Better still, how about Saudi Arabia?

Moralising, credulous cunt.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

A short-back-and-sides cunting for Barbers and hairdressers, please.

I utterly despise visits to get my fucking mop cut. Give me dentists, give me hospitals, give me any fucking medical ordeal going and I don’t fear anything. But trips to the barber genuinely fill me with a fucking unspeakable dread. No word of a lie, I always put it off for as long as I can.

The best barber I ever had never said a fucking word – a no-nonsense, no-talking Northern motherfucker who never even thanked me for tipping but that was just how I liked it. Now, I’m stuck with a mouth-breathing, bald Turk and I don’t have a fucking clue what he is saying 70% of the time. Without fail, when I tell him I want the usual trim, he cracks the same bastard joke – “not azz a-short den mine eh uh huh huh”. I’d just love to scream at him to fuck off and die, but this unhinged kofte-gobbling subhuman might just slash my fucking throat with the razor.

And not to mention of course the ever-present peroxidey-ammonia stench, the guaranteed blaring radio tuned into Magic FM, the uncomfortably close proximity to the cunts, the pointless litany of monochrome posters featuring models with that Morrissey-tier fucking quiff (seriously, why are they even there), the loud fishwives bringing in their scum progeny who always get served before you, the cuntly pricing of cuts designed to be an awkward sum which railroads you into tipping them an undeserving amount…

I fucking despise the whole experience and if my psychopathic tendencies were just that wee bit stronger, I’d just shave my bonce myself with a grade 1 at home and be done with the fucking cunts for good.

Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back