Colin Firth is long overdue for a cunting. Every time I’ve been to the cinema recently, the main feature and/or the trailers have featured this talentless cunt with his morose, hangdog face and dead eyes.

Firth’s screen presence is the cinematic equivalent of tumbleweed. He has negative charisma – whenever he’s on screen, the screen seems somehow emptier. What’s baffling is how the cunt ever achieved the kind of leading man status he currently enjoys. Personally I blame the female audience who swooned over him as Mr Darcy – although anyone who finds the idea of Firth in a wet shirt the least bit arousing must be the kind of frigid, sex-starved fat bird whose idea of raunch is a guilt-wracked rub to a Michael Bublé video.

Nominated by: Fred West