I have a nomination for two dickheads that most of you will probably have never heard of. Paul Taylor of the Independent, and Tim Bano of The Stage. They are paid to review theatre productions and other luvvie shite, but that hasn’t stopped them from branching out into the Cuntland of anti-Brexit bigotry.

In a review of Othello at the new Globe Theatre, starring uber luvvie cunt, Mark Rylance, Taylor wrote;

“The moustache belongs to the kind of bar-room bigot who will, of course, have voted for Brexit. It’s not Othello’s race but the fact that Andre Holland is foreign – an American who speaks with the accent of the deep South – that eats at Iago.”

And Bano’s review was similarly disapproving of Brexit voters;

“He brings a kind of Brexiteer vibe to the character, a Middle England reactionary who hates Othello because he’s foreign – here, American.”

Bar-room bigots who hate foreigners? As I’ve said before, I have no problem with people disagreeing with Brexit. I do however have a massive problem with ignorant, arrogant pricks like Taylor and Bano, who make sweeping, and incorrect, generalisations about Brexit voters. Taylor and Bano are the type of person I despise on sight. University graduates, who consider themselves to be intellectuals, and therefore superior to us poor plebs, simply because they can put letters after their names. Well, as it happens, I can put letters after MY name, MM and MC. I don’t do it very often, but I have that right.

They’re the kind of patronising shits who claim to stand up for the working classes, but seem completely oblivious to the fact that it was the working who predominantly voted to leave the EU, and it is the working who are they are writing off as nothing more than drunken, small minded, intellectually inferior racists, who voted to leave the EU simply because we hate foreigners. I explained in a previous comment why I don’t hate foreigners, so I won’t repeat it here.

If you want to disagree with Brexit, that’s entirely your business. I’ve had some interesting and good humoured debates on the issue with friends who are against it. What you do not have the right to do though, is slag off 17.4 million people who democratically expressed their wish to leave an organisation that we saw as taking far more from us than they were giving back. And what they did give back was generally a pile of shit. And while it’s true that very small number of Brexiteers do seem to hate foreigners, they are very much in the minority. The vast majority of us are decent, hard working, honest, law abiding, taxpaying patriots, who simply want our country to be governed by people who WE elect, to able make OUR OWN laws, and most definitely to negotiate OUR OWN trade deals.

We do not need, nor to deserve to be sneered at by overeducated, self-righteous, superior minded, self styled ‘intellectuals’. All they do when they sneer and insult us, is show us what ignorant, arrogant democracy hating cunts they are. I’m going to bed with my Nigerian princess now, I hope you all have as good a night as I will. And I hope Taylor and Bano fall straight down from the top of the superior tree.

Taylor are Bano are not superior to any of us.

Nominated by Quick Draw McGraw

Feel free to file the following under ‘bigoted British cunt ranting’ – because that’s exactly what I am and exactly what this is.

Yesterday, for what may be the 1,513th time, my VirginMedia broadband service went on the fritz. Being a customer of such a cuntly organisation is bad enough, and even at the best of times, the VirginMedia shit-services makes me want to repeatedly smash sand-filled Coke bottles against the shins of bearded deitycunt Richard Branson; but once you take to calling the helpline, then the real suffering begins and your pissboiling temperature is ramped up by a few fucking hundred degrees.

*Dials the VM customer helpline, goes through the eternal automated fucking security Qs, eventually hears the queue music and starts to chant to himself*

“Please let it be the Welsh call centre.”
“Please let it be the Welsh call centre.”
“Please let it be the Welsh call centre.”

*dial tone kicks in*

“Hello there Mr. Gunt be Strikeeng Back, you are speaking to Billy, how may I be of serwice for helbing you doday?”

Part of me wonders whether the out-sourcing of customer helplines to Indian call centres is actually a calculated move by companies to offset the time and manpower spent in dealing with genuine customer complaints and issues, knowing that a fair percentage of punters will give up after 30mins arguing with a scripted bot with zero nous or common sense. The agents at these tenth circles of hell employ infuriating tactics such as putting you on hold for fucking ages with no holding update or apology; repeating back every fucking sentence which you have uttered on the call and trying to convince you that you are speaking to the only indigenous ‘Billy’ in the whole of India.

Let’s be clear – I don’t really fucking care about the ethnicity of the staff. I used to be a customer of BE Broadband and their call centre was somewhere in Eastern Europe – those Balkan fuckers though at least compensated for the difficulty in speaking the language by being a pro-active and helpful bunch.

Needless to say, the Broadband service was fine this morning and has been all day, despite our man in Bangalore Billy Kartakashar arguing the toss that I needed to wait hand-on foot all day sometime this decade for one of their glorified repairmen to come and fuck about with my router. These call centre operatives may not actually be bad people, but they certainly are cunts.

Any thing else I can be cunting for you today, sir?

Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back

In the words of the Urban Dictionary:

The way of showing the world you are a twat without having to speak. Also known as Douche Donut

The full horror of these has just been demonstrated to me by the twentysomething ‘mate’ of the dismal eighteen year old living with his flaccid parents across the road, stepping out of his badly-parked car, and, with the high probablity of such visitors being a county line operation, presumably bearing a selection of chemicals for distribution by said dismal youth.

Why in the name of fuck does anyone want to look like a carelessly shaven terracotta warrior from the Quin Dynasty? Who or what are they trying to impress, and how? What possible kudos can attach to a cunt who in all other respects resembles a Super Mario addict, who is topped off by a bundle of unwashed hair modelled on an old-fashioned dishmop rendered useless by falling into the chip pan during the lard era? Does this cunt live on quinoa or heroin? Impossible to tell.

A blight on any pleasing prospect, far uglier than an equivalent volume of fresh air, I know this cunt is a cunt without having even to speak to him. Thank god for that, anyway. Supreme hermaphroditic cunt, because simultaneously a massive knob.

Nominated by Komodo

I need to nominate holiday scrotes.

I’m currently on holiday and been rudely interrupted whilst perusing ISAC by some butch, pre-op tranny looking chav bitch yelling across the pool in her equally repulsive Scouse accent at her benefit scrounging rabble of a family from her balcony.

Now I’ve nothing against people who have a hard background, I grew up on a council estate but consider myself as far from a chav as it’s possible to be. These cunts have clearly come on holiday on the back of some whiplash compo, and give not one fuck as they embarrass themselves, single handedly lowering the tone of this place as well as every other gaff in a two mile radius. I have nothing but contempt for cunts who seem to think that just because they weren’t born with a silver spoon shoved up their arse that they have to behave like a bunch of feral fucking cats. Manners really cost fuck all.

They can all get to fuck

Nominated by The Ghost of Glauber Berti