Recent talk hereabouts of seaside resorts has put me in mind of amusement arcades, and the way they have changed for the worse over the years.

When I was a nipper I loved the pinball machines, the penny pushers, and above all, the coin-operated video games. I cut my teeth on such simple fare as Space Invaders and Pac Man before a few years later gorging the gore-hound in me on the bloody mayhem of such games as Operation Wolf.

Now the games are all carnage-free with nary a decapitated communist in sight, the pinballs have been stolen away to the basements of hipster wankers, and the penny pusher has been transported to television where it forms the basis of ‘Tipping Point’ – a show starring and watched by simpletons, scroungers and scum.

In their place have arrived dancefloor simulators where tosspot Travoltas thrash around like Joey Deacon with a cattle-prod shoved up his cat flap, and claw-grabbers with less grip than Stephen Hawking’s wanking hand. And the prizes on offer? Moth-eaten knock-off Spongebob Squarepants dolls where once you could have got your hands on one of those pens that if you turned it upside down, the girl’s bikini disappeared!

Okay, maybe arcades were never that good, but oh how the shitey have fallen!

Nominated by: Chimp Licker

This is a slightly niche cunting, but hopefully understandable.

Growing up in Ian Smith’s UDI era Rhodesia, we suffered very badly from sanctions meaning few countries would officially trade with us. But I really wanted a 1600 escort sport, so I traveled down to Pretoria and in February 1979 bought a brand new one all the trimmings and brought it back to Rhodesia.

I still have the car as it was shipped over (fuck knows why as I wasn’t allowed anything else). My beef with these enthusiast cunts is that recently I was looking to buy one due to their simple engineering and reliability to replace mine that needs a full rebuild and respray.

Could I find one for less than 10 grand? could I fuck. The reason is overgrown balding man-child types buy them for “customising” and racing round like cunts on dual carriageways. You know the types that go to Aldi for their food because they’ve spunked their money on a fucking Dixie horn like a 17 year old who’s just sniffed his first bag of Gorilla glue, thus depriving the good Captain of an opportunity for a cheap easy to drive motor of which I’m familiar.

Saw a “yooful” kaffir in one the other day, must of sold a lot of dope and “biatchees” to pay for it, cunts to man and beast, “shove you burn outs up you arse” fucking oafs

Nominated by: Captain Quimson

I’m on a five year mission fellow cunters, although with your help it won’t take that long to fulfil my aim. My mission is to get multi-millionaire champagne socialist Stewart to boldly go where he’s never gone before; namely, to his much deserved place on the Wall of Cunts.

Capn. Pickarse has always been the Remoaner’s Remoaner. Since being awarded his honorary ‘A’ level in International Affairs from the George Floyd Institute in Tower Hamlets (formerly the Islam Bros. Cash & Carry), there’s been no stopping the boring old fart. He loses no opportunity to bend any ear on the evils of Brexit, and on the stupid bigotry of Leave voters.

Here’s Sir Slaphead using his attendance at Comic Con last November (that’s right, a comics convention for fuck’s sake) to inform the audience of his ’embarrassment’ about the refendum vote, and how in fact, more than half the UK population actually wants to stay in the welcoming bosom of the EU;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEof4LqSeQ8&t=60s

Well ha fucking ha. Just a short while later, we embarrassing Brexiteers gave Old Knobhead a poke in both eyes with a sharp stick, of course returning a ‘Get Brexit Done’ government to office with a stonking overall majority of 80.

Unfortunately this hasn’t shut the gobshite up. He’s been busy endorsing BLM protests in LA, saying that he wished he could attend. Don’t let us stop you. In fact, why don’t you just head back permanently to La La Land and join the rest of your luvvy chums. You can virtue-signal there to your heart’s content. Even better, book yourself a one-way ticket on the Starship Enterprise and fuck off in any direction at warp factor eight. Please Captain, make it so.

Nominated by : Ron Knee 

(This klingon might take a different view if the BLM riots were happening in his neck of the woods! – admin)

Dotty old bag-ladies that put stupid amounts of birdseed out for urban pigeons.

Phew, sorry, a bit top-heavy that nom, but some old bat near me needs a steel-toecapped welly ramming swiftly and repeatedly into her arse, or front-arse. Fucking great piles of bird seed, with result that there are flocks of hundred of bloody flying vermin swooping around and cacking all over the shop.

What I like about Vienna and Berlin is that the council won’t hesitate to put down poison if any vermin infestation is suspected. If they ever caught the miscreants, it would be a free one-way ticket to a demo at Onkel Terry’s oven showroom.

Tom Lehrer had a catchy little number relating to this problem

Nominated by: HBelindaHubbard

It’s very simple, so maybe you can understand, even if you do seem to have lost your mind amid all the supposed death and destruction.

Now then. If you are scared of this virus, or any of the millions of other viruses out there, take precautions. But leave the rest of us alone. It’s not your business to worry about other people. That’s their business, isn’t it? Remember?

If I want to go to the gym, or the pub, it’s not your business. If I refuse to wear a mask, it’s not your business. If I don’t want to get tested, or vaccinated, it’s not your business. If I get too close to someone and you don’t like it it’s still not your business. You should worry about keeping yourself safe, and leave the rest of us alone to do the same. That is how civilised people behave, isn’t it? Do unto others, the Golden Rule, remember?

You can stay at home. You don’t have to come into contact with anyone else for the rest of your life if you choose. Stock up on hand sanitiser, get plenty of masks and protect yourself. But even your nearest and dearest will get sick of you eventually, and they will stop coming to visit. But at least you’ll be safe.

Stop complaining about other people doing normal human things. That has never been considered a nice thing to do. People might seem to agree with you if you ever get close enough to speak to them, but they may well be thinking “cunt” the whole time. I’m thinking that, when I’m talking to one of you. Stupid cry-baby, curtain-twitching, bed-wetting cunt. Mind your own business, you miserable cretin.

Nominated by: Paul McCuntley