A comment by admin tickled my interest and I started to look this up. The Internet is as about as reliable as the BBC when it comes down to this and I found many articles that gave me a reasonably informed brief on the subject and the issues.
Firstly I don’t want to marry my cousin (a shag would suffice) and that was not the purpose of my research (should you call it so) but the prevalence of birth defects amongst certain communities and the justification of them.

Are First Cousin Marriages Permissible in Islam?

This article is quite balanced but you will note the “refer to elder” on the end of it.
I was rather surprised that the BBC published this one,
https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-leeds-23183102

I also found a number of hard left/ right (its wrong/its right) articles on the subject; the rights stating a “possibility of mutation”, the wrongs stating the obvious plus mental health figures from a Scandinavian country that seems to have 30% of its nutters imported.

I also found mention that Holland, a rather liberal country, was against the import of cousin brides where as the UK its on the up.

What a bunch of cunts they are, and Brexit won’t save us because they are Commonwealth not European.

Nominated by Lord Benny

Comment from Chas C :
My great grandparents were first cousins which probably explains why I’m so weird. If really screws up family tree programs.
Also I married my 15th cousin. Does that count?

The Public Libraries Act 1850 gave local boroughs the power to establish free public libraries creating an enduring national institution that provided universal free access to information and literature. I clearly recall my introduction to the local library as a six-year old by my primary school teacher on a Saturday morning. She knew my love of reading and understood that the volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica were much appreciated on the estate as a source of firelighters and skins for roll-ups when the Rizlas ran out. My enrollment in the library was accompanied by her cautionary advice never to let others know I could read and always keep my books hidden from public view.

You entered the library through oak-paneled swing doors and were confronted by a high wooden pulpit above which was a notice bearing the command “SILENCE” and in which sat the chief librarian, a lady of indeterminate age, with a visage that could sink battleships. The wooden shelves were crammed with books of all sorts. There was a separate newspaper room where all the quality dailies and magazines were available to read. In here, during the winter months, you would find the poor homeless souls, reading the papers and enjoying the warmth. The librarian was a woman of steel, in the Thatcher mould, but she was also kind and compassionate to the deserving. There was a separate children’s room full of treasures by the likes of Arthur Ransome and Enid Blyton. Everyone was considerate of other library users. Nobody spoke above a whisper. It was a quiet, peaceful temple of literature ruled over staff who enforced the required standards of behaviour. I have seen the chief librarian physically eject, through the unopened swing doors, a man who smelled of alcohol. Gone before he could start causing trouble. This library gave me a haven for many years.

Then to the present. The chief librarian is long gone along with the newspapers and magazines and most of the book collection. There are now rows of computers, where people used to quietly sit and read books or newspapers. The occupants are eastern European or recently arrived culturally enriching persons welcomed to our shores by successive governments. None, probably, have ever paid one penny in council tax. It’s like the fucking Tower of Babel with the all the booshka-booshka, jabber-jabber, from the cunts using Skype or enlightening each other on the UK benefits laws. In one corner, sat on the floor, is a group of local intellectuals, hoodies pulled up, whilst they arrange their collection of the latest recreational drug over their mobile phones.

There are hardly any books left in the library collection. Notices are everywhere advertising coffee mornings, English language classes, zumba fitness sessions etc all available at the library. Anything and everything that should not be held in a library. And notices asking users for donations of their old books because the library can no longer afford to buy new ones. But of course they can afford a free translation service for Cantonese, Urdu, Portugese, blah blah blah speakers.

The Public Library. R.I.P.

Nominated by Fimbriations

Change UK.

“Ask yourself what time is it? Its time for a change …its time for Change UK ”

So said former Brussels Broadcasting Corporation wet and Scottish cunt Gavin Estler.

You couldnt make this shit up ….here we have a nascent political party made up of the worst scumbags in parliament calling themselves Change when their main policy is to keep Britain exactly the same as it was in 2015.

Should be called Stay the Fucking Same UK . Cunts .

They are thick cunts too ….because they are splitting the remain vote between Labour …the Lib Dems …Dr Spock’s wife/Green Party and SNP..whereas every rightminded person will vote Brexit Party…so fuck em …cunts.

Nominated by A Cunt for All Seasons

Now I’m calling them imposters….I may be wrong and there really are genuine. However,if they are, I must assume that the SAS has the equivalent membership to the Chinese army. Over the years I must have heard dozens of them blasting off about their derring-do,and strangely they always seem to believe that a public bar is the best place to share their tales.

A few years ago I had the rather dubious pleasure of being friends with a tree-surgeon. I was aware that he was some kind of an army reservist but he never really encouraged anyone to ask him about it,and he wasn’t the kind of man to push. It wasn’t until he died that I discovered that he actually was something to do with the Special Services..still no idea what exactly. Now considering that he was a grand craic when he’d had a drink and could tell the finest tales about when he played rugby at a high level, felled dangerous trees etc.and yet never felt the need to even mention his military career,it just makes these pub blowhards look even more pathetic.

I’m happy to admit that I can sometimes “gild the lily” when in full flow, but how fucking sad must you be to claim that you were a member of the SAS when,in truth,you probably got no further than the cookhouse at Aldershot Barracks?

Fuck them.

Nominated by Dick Fiddler

British Customer Service deserves a cunting, doesn’t it?

You go for a meal. A huffing zombie with a Tuesday morning toothache face barely enunciates “What can I get you?” Dirty plates and cups festoon the tables You hear her colleagues effing and geoffing drunken stories of shagging and drinking, punctuated by profanities and “so”s while somebody needlessly bangs a nail into a nearby wall. A stale odour informs the air.

Your order is plonked in front of you; what was once food is either uncooked on the inside (your stoic Britishness prevents you from complaining) or now drowning in oil. Your order of water is met with a sigh. There is no “bon appetit” in English so your horrifically disingenuous waitress mumbles, “en-joy!” like a command, though it might be a dare.
If you’re fortuitous, you might receive the obligatory, “is everyfing alright wiv de food?” scowled at you, not out of care but to satisfy the chain restaurant’s regulatory seven-minute rule.

If you’ve been abroad you’ll know what proper service is. The UK is the second worst in the World. Only France, the haughty Horse-eaters, the undisputed World Champions of Vulgarity, are worse than us.

Yes, yes, nobody likes the unctuous Yank “Hi I’m Brett and I’ll be your server tonight” and “have a nice day” facade, especially when it’s linked to tips. Furthermore some customers can be ill-mannered arseholes.

Nonetheless, our service is appalling. Whether you’re natives or tourists this ghastly Fawlty Towers experience is woeful. At best the workers in the service industry are entitled and incompetent; at worst they’re crude, crass, and act as if they’re doing you a (very unpleasant) favour.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

Is anyone else getting pissed off with over friendly service?………..I ordered a brew in McDonalds from the screen (so I dint have to engage with the mongo staff) and went and sat down with my number (133). Fucking right they can fetch my cuppa over!
This tubby twat waddles over having clearly eaten his morning equivalent of his own body weight in McMuffins and plonks my tea down “Have a good day”………..No milk. I shout over as he struggled back to the counter out of breath “Where’s me milk son?”. He brought me two sachets of milk “Have a good day” he mumbled again…Does he fucking know sommert I don’t? Am I gonna die tomorrow?
Marks & Spunkers and Wanktrose are even worse. The servers, although clearly better educated than McRabbles, try and make friends with you before instructing you to ….”Have a good day”……..

“Up to anything nice today sir?” asks the slimy, post-modern, liberalist rug muncher. “Well, yes Brenda, I am actually. I’m going to kill my neighbour’s cunt of a dog that barks all the time and shites everywhere” as I grab my change and reduced-price sandwich.
“Oh….Have a good day” she says………..”It’s ten to fucking eight at night love!!”.

Nominated by DAz Wud