Janet Barker, the CUNT Greenpeace activist who Mark Field ejected from the Mansion House. Where do I fucking start ?

First, she’s a cunt who just strolls into someone elses property and thinks she “can just have a chat” FUCK OFF, if she walked into my house uninvited she’d be lucky to get out with all her teeth still in her face the dumb CUNT.

The fact that she’s a WOMAN seems to be a big factor here, well fuck off, take the rough with the smooth, if she’d been a bloke there wouldn’t be half the fuss, you want to be equal, there you go CUNT.

Ohhhh she’s not pressing charges….seriously. have I just gone down the fucking rabbit hole ??? The cunt should be arrested, charged and banged up herself.

Nominated by AdamBlake

People that wear sunglasses indoors are cunts…
I used to have a couple of mates that did it …. !?!
I went to a club a couple of years ago (the last time, I’m too old for that shite now) and there were cunts all over the place wearing sunglasses. IN A DARK FUCKING ROOM!

How vein do you have to be to wear sunglasses in in a dark room? Stumbling around, not being able to see a fucking thing just so you can look “cool”.

Well you don’t look cool, you look like a cunt.

I hope you fall down the fucking stairs…..

Nominated by Deploy the Sausage

Circumcision
I´d love to take a blunt scraper to the prick who first thought of circumcision and give him a taste of his own medicine. The idea of whacking a bit of skin off a newborn baby´s tiny dick is horrendous yet it continues to be done all over the world. No wonder Moslems are always angry. They have had their dicks shortened by a bloodstained penknife and can´t even have a drink to compensate. The Jews have the same torture inflicted on them but at least they can turn to drink (although I´ve never known one who does) or Woody Allen jokes about his mother.
I had to be circumcised when I was in my 50s after suffering from recurring lesions on my prepuce that made peeing an agony when the urine came in contact with the cuts. The doctor promised that removing part of the foreskin would solve everything. When I saw my poor little dick after the operation – hacked to pieces and stitched together with cable wire – I almost cried. It took five weeks before I could walk straight and now I gaze mournfully at my mutilated member that was once a pleasure pole to comely wenches and nymphets. Alas no longer. Woe is me.

Nominated by Mr Polly

A Dodgy Curry
A couple of nights ago the wife and I fancied eating out, and took ourselves along to The XXXXXXX Indian Restaurant (name withheld due to fears of possible legal ramifications). There I partook of a seemingly excellent curry with all the trimmings, washed down by a couple of beers.
Observant cunters will notice my use of the qualification ‘seemingly’. By ten that evening, I was feeling decidedly queasy and took myself off to bed, followed shortly by the missus with her book. At this point my tripes were starting to tremble alarmingly, and I sent a number of putrid guffs rattling off to the boundary in rapid succession. The wife was having none of this, and ‘suggested’ that I might like to relocate, so that she could get some rest without fear of being gassed in her sleep.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I crept downstairs and brewed some tea. After a couple of sips, my worst fears were realised. My insides felt as though they’d turned to scalding liquid and I did the crouch and dash into the loo, where I furiously proceeded to pebbledash the toilet bowl as my arse erupted like Vesuvius with a real grump on. A right pan cracker and no mistake.
Thus began a night of existential misery as I alternated between shivering on the settee and squatting on the bog as the curry did its best to mangle my guts into a pulp. A couple of bog rolls and several Diocalm tablets later, I crawled back to bed as the dawn chorus started, and slept like the dead for six hours. Come the afternoon and I ventured out of bed to try a cup of weak tea. For the remainder of the day I hobbled about like a bow legged cowboy, thanks to a raw, ragged ringpiece which felt not so much wiped as abrased by industrial strength sandpaper embedded with aluminium shavings.
I’m recovered now, but take it from me, hell will have frozen over before I patronise that fucking curry house again. This was a true shockhorror experience; literally a thundering sack of cack. They say that if you’re feeling really down and depressed, it can seem as though the bottom has fallen out of your world. Well I say, eat a dodgy cunting curry and it really will feel as though the world’s fallen out of your bottom.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Wimbledon, that annual bore fest.
Need I say more, except I hope that Mr Dynamic gets eliminated quickly.

Nominated by Mystic Maven