are cunts.

The Chamber of the House of Commons has long had an unfortunate reputation for unseemly, raucous and unpleasant behaviour on the part of sitting MPs. That much is news to no one.

However of late I detect a particular pattern of cloddish behaviour among Members towards the small nucleus of Reform UK representatives. When a Reformer gets up to make a statement or ask a question, a cacophony of howls, jeers, insults, gabble and babble immediately breaks out, often making it all but impossible to hear what the Member has to say. It’s like listening to a herd of braying donkeys.

Now this display would be ill-mannered and disrespectful enough if it was merely random. But I suspect that in fact it is orchestrated and concerted, a deliberate crossbench tactic aimed at disheartening the speaker, drowning them out and in effect, denying Reform a voice in the House . It’s devious, nasty and worst of all, undemocratic.

Of course some of you may think that my view is a conspiracy theory too far, but I believe it’s true. In my view this is a tacit pact between those who see the old ‘your turn, our turn’ LabCon hegemony as under an implicit threat, and they want to create the impression that Reform is a discredited and unworthy component of the Parliamentary discourse.

There’s irony in the situation at any rate. Far from belittling Reform, these numpties belittle themselves before the British people, and shame Parliament before the world. The irony is that they think they’re being clever, but they’re too doltish to see how stupid they actually are and how childish they appear.

Best of all, they’re afraid; scared shitless by the prospect of losing their cushy sinecures at the hands of an emerging Reform. The stink of fear hangs over the House. You can smell it from here. Yes you cunts, be afraid. Be very afraid.

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Nominated by Ron Knee.

A light hearted but painful cunting for piles, or pile in this case.

Having never exerienced such rectal delights until today, but taken the piss whenever someone has mentioned them, Imagine my horror waking up feeling like I spent my first night in an American prison with big bobo as my cellmate.

A quick bath and check, and just to be sure, a look with a mirror to find a big (big to me anyway) fresh new pile sat there.

Got some anusol on way to work and had self service tills existed here, I would have used it for once but no, served by the usual woman who is usually chatty and smiley but not today, so asked her if the anusol and my massive arse grape was the reason which did raise a smile.

Had some fun looking for a youtube link, a lot of them seem to be Indian videos, are piles more prevalent in Indians? I would have thought the lack of toilet paper and the type 1 and 2 on Bristol stool chart would mean they were less likely candidates, but what do I know on day one of a hopefully very short sore bum journey.

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Nominated by Cunt of the Isles.

The day started very nicely weather-wise, so the wife and I decided to go for a stroll in the local park. Bad decision as it turned out.

There we were, ambling happily along, when suddenly out of the undergrowth to my left burst this fucking hound, and before I could react, he took one look and leapt straight at me. I went backwards, instinctly trying to keep my balance, and collided with the missus, who went sprawling onto the path, bashing her head off the tarmac with a resounding ‘crash!’, and hurting her back.

As if the presence of this fucking great mutt wasn’t enough, up then comes its cunt of an owner, uselessly yelling ‘down! come here!’ at the bastard as it leapt about. Needless to say, I was absolutely livid, and yelled ‘can’t you control your bloody dog, you idiot?’ at the top of my voice. ‘Oh I’m soooo sorry’ the cow whimpers lamely. ‘Sorry?’ shouts I, ‘what bloody good’s that, you twat?’. Then the look came over her face; that ‘this horrid man’s being toxic to poor me’ look. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she simpers. ”Yes’ says I. ‘Piss off, and take your stupid mutt with you before I kick the bastard into the pond!’. And off she crept, for all the world the injured party in the exchange. How could the horrid man positively not adore sweet Wolfie? He’s SUCH a pet.

Well you can probably guess the outcome. Several hours spent in A and E, while the medics did their excellent work of checking the wife over good and proper, patching her up and administering morphine before saying that she was okay to be discharged and taken home. Here she remains well shaken up and in considerable discomfort.
(Sorry to hear that, Ron. How’s she doing? – NA)

As for Barbara fucking Woodhouse and her calamitously behaved mutt, it was (and it remains) my earnest wish that the pair of them should go back up to the main road and promptly get run over by a truck.The only thing that could possibly have improved on this scenario would have been my presence there to witness it.

Cunts.

YouTube. (Link by Sam Beau)

Nominated by : Ron Knee

The UK is run by cunts from the King down. The Donald’s state visit is to be timed for September so that the establishment scum can avoid having to do him the normal courtesy of having him speak to Parliament.

The pathetic woke twats are too scared that they might be made to look like the whimpy, piss-pant, lefty, immie loving, anti-free speech, climate con artists they really are.

If I were the POTUS, I would pretend to have a prior engagement in fucking Hungary rather than have to shake hands with the bum boy in chief, and take the knee to old King Chaz.

Sly News.

Nominated by : Twenty Thousand Cunts Under the Sea