It’s been a while, so let’s cunt Phillip Hammond again because… Well, it’s Phillip Hammond and he’s a cunt.

However, my reason for nominating him now is because, thanks to the imminent demise of May’s less than stellar premiership, he’s being more than his usual, remainiac cunty self.

According to lefty shit stain rag, The Guardian, Hammond is planning to try and force May’s shitty withdrawal deal through parliament yet again (where it will hopefully, finally die its last fucking death). His words to try and sway Tory MPs?

“Let me remind them: the 2016 leave campaign was clear that we would leave with a deal.”

Unfortunately, it seems Spreadshit Phil is the one who’s has had a lapse in memory, so let me just remind him – the question asked in the referendum, both before campaigning, during campaigning, and on the fucking ballot paper itself, was: Should the United Kingdom remain a member of the European Union or leave the European Union?

Nothing on that ballot paper said anything having to have a deal in place, and certainly nothing about the rancid piece of dogshit May keeps trying to pass off as Brexit, when even Stevie Wonder can see it’s anything but.

The answer was a simple yes/no; and despite incompetent wankpuffins like Hammond thinking we returned the wrong answer, the majority of voters said “no”. Why is it so fucking hard for May, Hammond, The Guardian, Blair et al to grasp that? Just fucking leave already, you fucking cunts! And take that useless waste of jism Hammond with you. Christ, I wish his mother had insisted on anal the night he was conceived.

Nominated by Le Cunt Noir

This is a combination cunting by two of our esteemed members.

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