Turkish barber shops.
I live in between two small towns; there are six Turkish barber shops within three miles of where I live. Fucking six. I know it’s the biggest, most obvious drug/human trafficking laundering front ever. The one I drive past most days always has the owner(?) outside next to his £100000 Range Rover, smoking and on the phone. This cunt is not cutting much hair. At £8 per crop and various other options does not afford to pay for his fucking awful choice of a shit car. Don’t get me wrong, I know of a lot of hairdressers who have made a very good living operating shops where there was a need. But fucking six within six miles?. And fucking Turkish. I’m calling fucking shenanigans on this. Fucking nefarious cunts all of them. Are the police just finished with everything now apart from hate speech?. Fuck this utter shit hole.

Nominated by W.A. Anchor

I nominate the omnipresence of beards / unshaven men, on the mong box and in the mainstream media for a thorough cunting. Having a face resembling hirsute female genitalia, as illustrated in vintage publication ‘The Joy of Sex’, is far too commonplace nowadays. Beards were once only seen on porn stars, teachers with BO and blood pressure problems and fucking vagrants.

Soy boy, beta male, fashion victim, hairy growler faced fucks. Have a shave you scruffy cunts.

Nominated by Bertie Blunt

Hipster Beards, better known as WANKER BEARDS. Grown by wimpy doormats as compensation for the fact that most couldn’t get laid in a Thai brothel, trying to assert or rather remember what masculinity meant before being guilt-tripped and pussy-whipped into submission by the coloured-haired snot-hanger nose-ringed, usually overweight leftist “feminists” who’ve taken a leaf out of the Australian Cane Toad fashion look.
TV ads are filled to bursting with these emasculated dickless cunts, the VW Tiguan advert with the wimp-faced wanker-bearded “father” clearly way down the pecking order to the daughter who was probably fathered by the local roofer as said bearded wanker looks like he had his dick chopped off 30 yrs previously.
Then there are the Dunelm ads again with the heavily wanker-bearded, meal ticket, beta-male doing as he’s told by his “empowered” harridan.
Lastly for now, the Karcher advert, with a bloke sporting a beard that looks like he’s spent 5yrs on a desert island, with no mirror, razor or deodorant. A scruffy unsightly cunt who looks like he could do with a good hose down with said Karcher pressure washer and industrial strength carbolic.
An extra special, megaton cunting for the fair-trade, usually Corbynista, ashamedly middle-class, “hipster” castrati who, in trying to reclaim their masculinity, have in addition to the Wanker-Beard, that fucking stupid looking “man-bun”, coathanger sized ear piercings, often one of those god awful snot-hanger nose-rings or a hanging metal bogey “septum piercing”, and let’s not forget the armful of tattoos making them all look identically “individual”
Buy a fucking RAZOR and grow up…. UTTER, utter, cowardly, wimpy, masculinity-void, CUNTS.

Nominated by Sheikh Anvakh

Mark Twain once asserted that it’s ‘better to keep your mouth closed and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt’.

Anyone seeking evidence to back up this assertion need look no further than Birmingham City FC ‘fan’ Paul Mitchell. IsAC regulars will remember this charmless lout being cunted a while back. He’s the twat who ran onto the pitch during Shitty’s derby game against Aston Villa on 10 March and launched a cowardly assault on Villa’s Jack Grealish. Mitchell was promptly hauled up in front of the beak and jailed for fourteen weeks for his trouble.

Now most reasonable minded individuals would, I think, expect this idiot to reflect on his transgressions while doing his porridge, hopefully to emerge showing some embarrassment and contrition for his actions. Well not so Mr Mitchell. Having served just four weeks of his sentence, this cretin (who still refuses to apologise for his actions) bragged ‘it was the best month of my life. Everything was good’. No remorse at being a jailbird then; rather pride, if anything.

What a credit Mitchell is to his family and friends. No doubt he also sees himself as some kind of folk hero to his fellow supporters, many of whom will probably stand him a pint for having punched the captain of their bitter rivals in the head from behind. Mitchell is an utter fool and a complete cunt. The tragedy is that he and his ilk are utterly incapable of comprehending the fact.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Pathetic pop lyrics

I have just heard the opening bars of “While my guitar gently weeps” on the radio and instantly switched off. However, it has put me in a bad mood because I hate the pitiful lyrics that are so typical of wishy-washy George Harrison who went into a sulk during the recording of “Abbey Road” because he didn´t like Paul McCartney telling him off. Read on and puke at this:
“I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps.”

Here are some other lyrics that are so criminally bad that the people who wrote them – and those who encouraged them by buying the crappy records – should be suspended by their testicles with piano wire until they become sopranos. I know they are all dated but so am I. In fact, I am so dated that I hanker for the good old days of lyrics like “By the light of the silvery moon”.
“Your Song”
I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well a few of the verses well they’ve got me quite cross

“Eleanor”
I think you´re really groovy
Let´s go and see a movie

“Lady in Red”
I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight
I’ve never seen you shine so bright

“MacArthur’s Park”
MacArthur´s Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
Cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again.

“I´m not in love”
I keep your picture
Upon the wall
It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there
So don’t you ask me
To give it back
I know you know it doesn’t mean that much to me.

“Happy to be on an island in the sun”
Mothers with their children waiting in the cool of the shade,
And thirsty people coming from the fields to drink, tea and lemonade,

Nominated by Mr Polly

Time for us admin wallahs to wish all you cunters out there a Happy Easter. Feel free to stuff your faces with overpriced, egg shaped, shitty chocolate. Enjoy your overpriced fruit buns that cost an extra quid for the cross on them. And if you own a card shop, sing three choruses of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and then fuck off to the Med for a nice expensive cruise.

Yes, this is the spirit of Easter. Hence the expression “Christ on a cross! What the fuck is all this crap about?!?” Oh! Of course! It’s the marketing festival that comes between Valentines and Mother’s Day – except that this year they fucked up by getting the date inconveniently late.

Anyhow, here’s an image of Easter I’m sure you cunts will be happier with :

I’m sure you can think of one or two more women you’d like to nail up there as well……