Emergency cunting for the Newcastle Grooming Gang, convicted of the trafficking and sexual exploitation of schoolgirls between the ages of 13 and 16, in a reign of terror that lasted for an astonishing seven years.

Oh – and what a fucking surprise: they just happen to be Kurdish immigrants exclusively preying on white British girls. Yet another case of “misogyny” then since we’re repeatedly told by the PC brigade that despicable crimes like this are definitely nothing to do with race.

These nonce cunts need dousing in petrol and setting alight – four real live Guys on  Bonfire Night: Palla Pour, Ribas Asad, Soran Azizi and Saman Obaid. In fact one of their defence counsels should be cunted as well for offering in mitigation the fact that the defendants had problems with alcohol on account of being so worried about the fate of their relatives in Iraq. Very plausible indeed – . I’m sure we all know people who deal with stress and anxiety by getting drunk and raping a fourteen year old…

Nominated by Fred West.

The (Sweeney) Stasi,
The Stasi!
Dah, Dah dah-dah daaaaa, dah du dah dah!

——

“‘Ere you, scroat!?!” (BOP!)

2hrs later in Flying Squad HQ…

“Waaaa, waaht happened?”

“You’re nicked sanshoine! We was towld you ‘eld a door open forra bird and she’s grassed you ap as pervert sex offendah!”

“But, but, but…”

“Worra you? A fackin’ Indian! We got you banged to rights and you’re goin’ darn and forra lorng toime moy san!”

4hrs later in a Brixton surveillance unit…

“Ere gav! Wots this?”

“Wot!?!”

“Two blokes wiv’s shootahs.”

“Naaah, Carter you plam! That’s jast Mr Khan and Mr Mohamed. Are you radio-facking-rental!?! You won’t find two more stand-ap geezers than those two!”

“Bat gav, the shootahs?”

“Jast toys.”

“But the van full of fosgene gas?”

“Well maybes they’re doing sam paint work or sammink!”

“Rental van?”

“So!”

“And the twelve year old girl who looks stoned?”

“…a niece…”

“…in ‘ahhhnd-caffs?”

“Jast fan and games Carter you nonce!”

“Sorry gav.”

“It’s alright Carter, it’s good to be keen. No need forra report.”

—-

“OY! Wot’s this!”

“What!?!”

“This fence YOU CANT!”

“Er, well, it’s a picket fence…?”

“Yes, bat, worts wrong wiv’ it?”

“Er, is it too high?”

“Naw! Troy again.”

“Er, the chevrons too pointy??”

“Naw, naw, naw! You mast troy ‘arder san! Wort calah is it!”

“Er…white…?”

“Ahhhnd wot ovah calah?”

“Well, er, it’s all white, it’s a picket fence you see and…”

“Shat it! You’re nicked! Carter send this one darn for a long time on the race relations act 1984!”

—-

“Gav? Reports of a sex offender in Dulwich!”

“A nonce! Right let’s gaw!”

…

“OY YOU! NONCE CANT!”

“Are you speaking to moi?”

“Yes oy am! So wots your story feeling up the women in these swimming baths changing rooms then?”

“I beg your pardon!?! I am a woman today! And therefore when I say it, it’s true!”

“Well, er, I don’t know if that’s right but I…”

“Oh you DON’T do you! Well why don’t you ask your boss Cresida?”

“Cresida Dick?”

“She prefers ‘Cresida Strapon’ darling. Not too worry. She was just in earlier in the sauna having her bean flicked by that naughty young Polish pool attendent filly.”

“Er, she was was she?”

“Yes she was Inspector Reagan.”

(GULP!)”You know who oy am?”

“Of course dear. Cresida has a soft spot for you as you’re so right-on!”

“Aw…well in that case. Sorry to ‘ave disturbed you mam.”

“Not to worry inspector. Now can I have my camera back as there’s a woman just gone into cubicle 2 who’s got the most delightful fanny just like a boxer’s nose, and I’d like a few snaps for when I decide I’m a man again.”

“Er, yes, of course mam. Carter! Give the – er – lady her camera back with the telephoto lens.”

—-

Next week: Reagan and Carter help a traveller community ransack a small village in the Cotswolds for quite clearly being racist…

Nominated by Rebel Without a Cunt

So Parliament once more is fingered for “inappropriate behaviour” and alcohol is made the culprit. Have staggered meself from function to function and can confirm the joint floats on a subsidised booze filled haze. The Mother orf Parliaments is a gin soaked old whore now setting the standard for national behaviour. Have motored after midnight through this fair land steering me old Bentley around groups orf slaughtered fillies, knickers doine, arses in the air and puking in the gutters, their ardent swains legless and incapable.

We now have bred an inebriated and knackered Blighty that cannot hold its liquor and that is a national tragedy.

Nominated by Sir Limply Stoke

I would like to nominate amnesia for a proper cunting, as it seems that if you are a woman born any time in the last 50 years or so you suffer from a rather debilitating version of selective amnesia in which you all of a sudden remember hideous sexual abuse and harassment when your memory is remarkably jogged by either an Al-BBC reporter or a lawyer.

It seems that 67% of women have suffered some form of sexual harassment and then “got on with their lives” completely oblivious to the fact that it actually was abuse until the witch hunter comes a knocking, at which point, sometimes many years later, they suddenly remember the trauma and abuse and start blubbing and claiming a ruined life for something they previously hadn’t given much thought about, the poor souls.

There was a time when we used to be able to say anything to each other in the pursuit of chasing the opposite sex, flirting it used to be called. It was innocent and both ladies and men used to do it in the hope of having it off with someone eventually. Now it seems any kind of historical chat up lines can be brought to bear as harassment and sexual abuse. Amazing that something only matters when its given a label and a price tag.

With flirting and sex now off the table it appears the human race is doomed to die out, good fucking riddance i say, cos a world without paying compliments, flirting and, gulp, sex isnt worth saving.

My overriding worry in all this is that in primary school in 1977 me and Mary Smith played “you show me yours and ill show you mine”, so its only a mater of time now…..

Nominated by Detective Sergeant Cuntstubble.

Daytime TV needs a good cunting in my opinion.

Using up some holiday and I have to say what a fucking horror show daytime TV is.

Endless repeats of ancient Top Gear, Police Interceptors and Can’t pay, We Won’t Take It Away are the HIGHLIGHTS. When you did deeper the torture that can be found is amazing.

Move To the Country is a fine example, insufferably smug middle age cunts selling their 700k townhouse and sniffing at a huge country mansion, cunts. There’s also a version where the cunts are buying holiday homes in shitholes like Spain and Portugal where they’re not sure if it’s “quite right”….it’s Spain you thick as shit cunts, stray dogs and more dog shit on the streets than you can shake a stick at combined with British pensioners and chavs smelling of cheap perfume and chip vinegar.

Then you can move onto the ultimate terror…..daytime advertising, it comes on like every thirty seconds and all channels show adverts at the same time so there’s no escape.

I don’t have PPI so fuck off cunts.

I’m not injured so you can all fuck the fuck off too.

I’m not stupid enough for utter dross like the “Postcode Lottery” where council house mongs leer at you from the screen with their oversize novelty cheques.

The very worst though are those fucking Clear Score ads where the cunt continually checks his credit score and talks bollocks to his dog while his wife looks and speaks like she’s taken a massive does of Ketamine. Look you cunt, there’s no such thing as a credit score in the UK so take your dog, junkie wife and your shitty website and shove it up your arse.

No wonder there’s so many untaken days holiday if this slack jawed dross is all you have to watch.

Nominated by Spanky Mc Spank.