TV Chat Shows

Last night I broke the habit of a lifetime and actually watched some terrestrial TV. But since it was New Year’s Eve and I was with the wife at her parents’ home, I really didn’t have much choice other than to piss off down the local boozer (nice idea but not good for family bonding)

First up was some entertainment show called Jane McDonald’s New Year’s Eve Show, or some such shite. Basically it’s about 40 minutes of her belting out cover versions while also having guest appearances from one-ht wonders and some old git called Tony Chrstie, who has spent his entire life ramping out some bollocks called “Is This the Way to Bognor Regis?” or summat.

And then after these cunts have finished singing she comes on stage and asks them some inane questions, but also the most telling “So what have you got lined up for the new year then?” And they come out with bollocks about their new book, single, album …. just a fucking plug basically, before they’re kicked off the stage for some other cunt to take a turn.

After that it was Graham Norton’s “chat” show. I say “chat” because it was about 45 minutes of the same old shit questions as before, but this time from guests like Tom Hanks, Anthony Joshua, Mel C and 4 other cunts I’ve never heard of. But again it was just another plug-fest for latest films and gigs etc. and the studio audience seemed to lap it up (probably on pain of death if they didn’t laugh!)

Chat shows have always been complete wank, even going back to the 70s and one of the grand-masters of folksy chat in Michael Parkinson. All these guests come on with one thing in mind – to plug their latest shite. And if they’re not plugging their shite they’re taking a pop at Brexit and Gammons and all the usual bullshit we’ve had to tolerate over the last 4 years.

If I had my way if I had a guest on my show that kept on plugging their latest album/film etc I’d press a button so their chair would disappear through the stage floor, dropping the cunt into a tank of sulfuric acid or a school of piranhas!

Nominated by Technocunt

Most people in this world go about their business without deliberately causing trouble and do their best to be respectful of others, their property, and the rules which underpin an orderly society. There are a minority of truly anti-social cunts who spoil things for everybody else and Mr Shakeel is one such cunt. He attacked a Picasso painting at the Tate museum and the thing I’m asking is, what’s the fucking point? You’re just a cunt pure and simple ruining other peoples enjoyment of art, a purely selfish pointless act of destruction upon something rare and refined from the creative efforts of another. It’s because of one cunt with a bomb in his pants we have to have security invading our crotches at an airport, one cunt in a white van that our once welcoming high streets and public spaces have to have crash barriers clogging up the pavements, one chippy cunt who despises culture that other people would simply like to have the right to enjoy that classic paintings will all have to be now kept behind perspex instead of being viewed in it’s natural state. Fuck Massey and every cunt who ruins it for everyone else.

Nominated by The Return of Rev. Shagga

Wardrobe malfunction,

Which cunt coined that phrase? For fucks sake, a wardrobe malfunction is when the door falls off or a handle comes away, or if your rich enough the light in your walk in wardrobe doesn’t come on, not when some young bint singer’s bra shows a nipple or her camel toe is visible,

Jesus wept, another stupid Americanism that blighty seems to have adopted, well you can take your Americanism phrases and fuck off back to Cindy Lou and Chester land, cunts,

Nominated by Sidthesexistsforeskin

Diarrhoea.
It’s not bad having an attack of it when at home.

But I was out walking. It taking me longer than usual to walk home because one of my legs is broken and has a plastic boot on it. I wrote a nomination about being run over.
I can’t run. I’m limping home with pain in my leg whilst my tummy feels as though tied in knots and making gurgling sounds.
It’s taking me forever to get home. The thought of just relaxing and letting it go in my pants enters my mind.
Then I realise I’m wearing white pants with little holes in. The kind that keep me warm in winter and cool in summer. It would be like sieving chocolate milkshake.
As I get closer to home my tummy grumbles and gurgles. I’m trying not to relax my arse but a little fart escapes then several one after the other. Oh god.
As I climb the curbs of pavements my muscles squeeze. More farts.
I finally see home.
I get my key out ready. Once inside I drop my shopping, pull off my coat, making my way to the toilet, undoing the belt of my jeans. Come on come on! I tell myself. Then undoing the buttons, I pull my jeans and pants down, go to sit on the loo. I can’t sit properly because the big boot. I’m tearing at the thick velcro. Please! Please!
I finally get the boot off, wiggle down my jeans and skidded pants and then finally release. Ahh! Such relief.
I go to wipe myself.
Where’s the loo roll? For fork sake!

Nominated by Spoonington

I’d like to nominate ‘Baby on board’ badges – available from London Transport, so that every up the duff bird can announce to the whole world that she’s expecting.

I don’t need to see this badge to know that someone is pregnant, or to prompt me to give up my seat to an obviously pregnant lady. Although maybe I won’t bother, as it might be seen as sexist and demeaning, in which case, fuck off and stand in the crush.

Nominated by Mystic Maven