Signage for the UK government tax and customs department more commonly known as the HMRC in Whitehall, London.

Here is a French woman of African origin – she probably has an arse modelled on the boot of a 1951 Standard Vanguard Mk 1 – who is in need of a really good and painful cunting.

This monument to indolence started work with HMRC in 2019, and the following year she launches a campaign claiming “discrimination”, then the poor little thing went of work in 2021 due to “stress” (of course), and requested, with typical entitlement that she “wanted correspondence kept to a minimum – and only by email”.

Well,her employers sent eleven 11 emails over the course of the next month (that stress really lays you low honey child, innit), enquiring after her imaginary illnesses, then had the temerity to send her a birthday card – despite the lady’s strict instructions that she didn’t want to celebrate her birthday – so she did what any up-her-own-arse African woman would do and took HMRC to a tribunal, claiming “race and disability harassment” – and the stupid bastard judge AGREED with her claim saying sending that card “was unwanted conduct”.The old whore has now pocketed over £25,000 , £20,000 of which is for “injury to feelings”. If only ratings in the RN in my days at sea could have got £20k each time our parentage was questioned , for one example.

No doubt the old bag will be celebrating her win on donating the money to Oxfam or other charities which support de brothers and sisters back home. But she will probably gorge herself on Jaffa Cakes and dem red beans and rice.

Perhaps Reeves and Kendall should seek to make sure lazy cunts like her work, and don’t milk the tax payer, before they try to force white unemployed youths to fight in Kweer’s “coalition of the willing”, because they can’t get jobs because priority is given to trollops of colour, like Toure.:

Daily Fail

Nominated by W C Boggs.

Not so long ago, journalists would go to any length to get a story and always protect their sources.

Now we have nothing left but massive overuse of quotation marks, clickbait nonsense and the ones that winds me up the most, clearly paid comparisons along the lines of “I tried 6 dildos and one filled me up perfectly”, along with “I’ve never ate a kebab in my life but expenses let me try a local shop and I was stunned” kinda thing.
But what set me off just now is this.

The National.

The clown is not familiar with the concept of removing the plastic from black pudding which shows the calibre of journalist we have today, apologies for the dodgy “newspaper” in advance.

Nominated by : Cunt of the Isles

NOTE: You bunch of cunts haven’t nominated enough cunts, so we’re only publishing one nomination per day for the next several days. You know what to do – NA.

“Good afternoon. This is IsAC’s Home Affairs Correspondent Ron Knee reporting on the growing scandal concerning the travel expenses of Lindsay Hoyle, Speaker of the House of Commons.

Now as well-versed followers of this site know, the Speaker presides over debates in the House, determining which members may speak, and which amendments are selected for consideration. He is also responsible for maintaining order during debate. A very important role in the work of government we can agree, but specific; this is done within the confines of Westminster. You’d think that there wasn’t much call for the Speaker to venture any great distance in the performance of his duties.

But not so in the case of Mr Speaker Hoyle. Sir Lindsay has itchy feet and likes to get out and about, and by that, I mean further than the Commons’ tea room. Oh yes, much further; so much so that in just two years, he’s taken himself off to such exotic and distant climes as Gibraltar, St Helena and South Africa, Canada, the US, Australia and the Cayman Islands. Nineteen trips in fact, raking up a tab of a cool £250k. in the process.

Naturally we aren’t talking about economy rates here. We’re talking hotels at £900 a night, and swanning around in the likes of the Ritz-Carlton in LA. There’s a five-day knees-up in the Caribbean costing £23k. There’s £4.5k on cars during one visit alone. And let’s not forget the dolphin safari. Yes, we’re talking superior class travel and accommodation all the way. It’s roll out the red carpet for ‘Long-haul Lindsay’, and guess who’s picking up the tab? Why, it’s you and me of course, Joe and Jane Taxpayer. Ironically, the only train that Mr Speaker can be seen boarding is the gravy train.

Funnily enough, Sir Lindsay’s little excursions always seem to be to what might be regarded as highly desirable locations rather than less salubrious destinations around the globe. Funny that. They’re often termed ‘fact-finding trips’, which to me is just Whitehall waffle for ‘junket’. Nice work if you can get it.

‘Ordure! Ordure, Mr Speaker!’ This is Ron Knee, for IsAC, returning you to the studio”.

Daily Fail.

Nominated by : Ron Knee

I don’t know if it’s a side effect of my treatment. But spots have revisted the Norman fizzog for the first time since my teenage years.

Only. they aren’t your common garden traditional pimples. To get rid of one of them was a doddle. A heated pin from my mum’s sewing box and burst the bastard.

The ones that have plagued me of late are what’s known as blind pimples. They form under the skin and have no heads. The fuckers are usually on the chin or the side of the nose. Shiny lumps that don’t half bloody hurt.

And, trying to squeeze one is a nightmare. All you get is a bit of blood, then some clear water-like shit. Attempting to take them out only makes them worse.

Blind pimples are bastards.

Cleveland Clinic.

Nominated by : Norman

Regulars may recall me cunting HM Revenue & Customs recently, for describing their purpose of screwing tax out of us as providing us with a ‘service’. Gee thanks.

Well today I’m pissed off on a related theme, namely, Value Added Tax (VAT). Our roof needs some repair and maintenance work done, and the likely cost is the thick end of £4k if the first estimate is anything to go by.

Now that’s bad news in its own right, but what makes my blood boil is the fact that on top of this, I’ve got to fork out an additional 20% in tax, ie about another £770. That’s right; £770 to the fucking government simply for the ‘privilege’ of keeping a secure roof over our heads.

‘I’ll tax the street, if you try to sit I’ll tax your seat
If you get too cold I’ll tax the heat
If you take a walk I’ll tax your feet
Cos I’m the taxman, and you’re working for no-one but me’
The Beatles, ‘Taxman’

youtube

Great tune Ron and very true C.A.

I think we’ll just pop over to France and get on board a rubber dingy back, then the government will provide a roof over our heads for us, plus all the other things we’ll need to live into the bargain. No fucking worries.

I’m just surprised they haven’t brought a salt tax or window tax back yet. How about a tax on shagging or breathing? A couple of nice little earners there, you’d think.

Born free, taxed to death.

Nominated by Ron Knee.