It pisses me off to think ordinary law-abiding car drivers and bikers have to take out extra insurance to cover themselves against the utter cunts that are uninsured drivers.

Why the fuck should I have to cover myself against the idiocy and purely selfish uninsured, while they seemingly get away with a) paying insurance in the first place; and b) when the shit does hit the fan they can just walk away and not have to worry (unless there’s a serious RTA and the Old Bill are involved)

And even when they’re arrested for not having insurance, they will end up with a piss poor fine (probably less than what they would have paid for having insurance in the first place), points and a possible ban. But will that stop some cunts from carrying on driving? Of course not, so they’ll play the risk game and carry on: while at the same time your insurance premiums go up and up and up!

Next on my shit list of the uninsured, are cyclists. Ride around like fucking maniacs on the road or pavement, having no idea what the Highway Code means, and expecting people to give way to these cunts. But if one hits you there’s fuck you can do because they’re not insured. Whereas you hit them and your life is fucking over!

Next…. cunts who don’t insure their homes. Yes, it might be expensive, but I don’t see why anyone should give a shit if that person’s home goes up in smoke and they lose everything; and then expect some “Go Fund Me” bollocks to be set up so complete strangers can bail them out!

Other cunts include those that don’t take out travel insurance, or car breakdown insurance or phone insurance etc. And again, when the unexpected happens they go into a flap, bleat, cry and then go on to blame everyone but themselves about why they didn’t take out insurance. And then expect to be bailed out by fucking strangers yet again!

Well they can all fuck off! I am sick and tired of bailing out feckless cunts while being stung up the arse with higher premiums the following year!

Nominated by Technocunt

You’re sitting comfortably, enjoying a film. Perhaps it’s a thriller, and the tension is building. The hero and heroine are on the run through the forest, with the bad guys in hot pursuit. Then it happens. The heroine trips and slides, screaming ‘arrrgh, my ankle!’. Or perhaps they make it to a track, where a conveniently placed car is conveniently open, a key conveniently located behind the sun visor. Our hero desperately tries to start the engine. Cough goes the engine, whirr, whirr, whirr… He pounds the steering wheel, yelling ‘come on! come on!’. You groan ‘oh for fuck’s sake’, and reach for your beer.

Perhaps it’s a western. The piano in the saloon tinkles merrily, and there’s a buzz of noise. The doors swing open, and in swaggers a lean, mean hombre, Lee Van Cleef style. The noise dies and the piano jangles uncertainly to a halt. ‘Whisky’ growls the black hat. Whether he’s given a glass or a bottle, he reaches into his vest pocket and produces a single coin, which he declines to hand to the barkeep; instead he throws it down on the bar. You groan ‘oh for fuck’s sake’, and reach for your beer.

Perhaps it’s a cop drama. Maverick cop is chasing the killer down an alley. The bad lot promptly climbs up the nearest metal fire escape, discharging twenty rounds from a revolver in the process, in order to allow himself to be cornered on the roof of the building. He falls off the roof in the ensuing fight and crashes to his death on the sidewalk, as sirens wail in the distance. You groan ‘oh for fuck’s sake’, and reach for your beer.

Now clichéd scenarios are bad enough, but clichéd dialogue is even worse. Maverick cop; ‘just gimme fordy eight hours, black lootenant!’. Black lootenant; ‘ya got twenny four, now ged outta my office!’. Here are a few other of my ‘favourite’ bits of worn out dialogue;

– None of this makes any sense!
– Get outta town by sundown (could you be more specific? Say by half seven?)
– What is it you want from me?
– Try to get some sleep now
– Everything’s gonna be just fine! (to dying character)
– You set me up! You set me UP!
– We’re done here (spoken exclusively by sharp suited female lawyer)
– I don’t have time for this!

Welcome to the world of the film cliché. Yes folks, you’ve seen and heard these tired, lazy contrivances on many occasions. They’ve done their best to ruin many an otherwise decent film, and the next time you see a fight on a train, you can bet your boots that the protagonists will end up on the roof, leaping from carriage to carriage. They’re the default option for the unimaginative scriptwriter and the plodding director, and they are indeed a cunt. Let’s get outta here.

*Addendum to bad guys in California*
Never, under any circumstances, lock up The A Team in a cluttered garage, on the understanding that you’ll ‘deal with them later’.

Nominated by Ron Knee

I am nominating the automated till machines used by Poundland.

According to Wales Online, “Poundland shoppers left in hysterics as self-service checkout feature the voice of Elvis Presley.”

This is an instance of cunts creating cunt automatic till machines to cuntishly take the jobs of human cashiers, and save the cunts money. The staff then have to attend to the cunt machines constantly, since it does not have either the efficiency or self-awareness of a human being:

Then add a way to personalise the audio features of the tills for Christmas, Easter, Halloween et al, and even have dead music stars provide the commands:

https://youtu.be/B0BHfLVxnpY

I already felt like a cunt for going into Poundland to buy a Birthday present (what a cheapskate cunt) in the first place. Then I got to the till to be greeted by the voices of Halloween as I try to scan my goods (irony redacted) it’s worse and incessant. Not even proper Halloween noises, like chainsaw-on bone, kitchen knife in skull. Lightweight cunts. Of course the till fucks up, requiring its services of a shop-worker it no doubt replaced. She appears as embarrassed about the ridiculous till as I as about the searing rage visibly on my face.

I don’t want to be ‘entertained’ while at the till, I just wanna pay and go. But if it is to be entertaining, make the cunting thing fucking entertaining, you cunts.

Clearly, though, this gimmick is meant for a different demographic of shoppers (what a cunt), but I hardly expect anyone is daft enough to want to return to Poundland for the fucking till entertainment.

Anyway, make your own mind up:

https://www.walesonline.co.uk/whats-on/shopping/poundland-shoppers-left-hysterics-self-15134357

Nominated by Don’t you cunt me, young man

The 1980s…

I mean for fuck’s sake, I thought the 70s were bad, but having just watched some old pop videos – including old Phil Collins of all people – and the ghastly taste in fashion and hair sense, one wonders what the fuck were people thinking?

I was born in the early 60s, and my yoof was dominated by 70s fashion of platforms, flares, kipper ties and other fucking disasters. However, come the 80s and OMG, rather than advancing forward to a better decade of fashion sense, we end up with ghastly perms, shoulder pads the size of aircraft carriers, synthesizers, samplers, shite New Romantic music, brick mobile phones, yuppies, Filofax, CND, Michael fucking Foot, unemployment and video recorders that didn’t have remote controls to name but a few.

Personally, I adored the 90s, but the less said about the 20s the better. However, the 1980s was a total wankpit of shite, other than for Jo Guest and Linda Lusardi getting their tits on Page 3.

Nominated by Technocunt

Lottery winners who say they’ll carry on working:

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-sussex-50559136

Such as these shitcunts who won the miserly sum of £105m on the Euro Millions this week.

So, its 6am, your alarm goes off for work, it’s fucking freezing, you are warm and snuggly as fuck in your bed. Are you telling me you are going to get out of bed and graft for your £100 wages that day when you have £105m dancing at you from your bank account, sneering at you, “well fucking spend me then, you cunt. I’m useless when you’re dead!”?

No, like fuck you are. So cut the sanctimonious shit.

If however you do continue working when you have that dosh in the bank, what is the fucking point in even winning?

People who claim such horse shit need shooting, limb by limb, until all their blood drains into a tankard for my dog to drink.

“Ooh, I’ve won GAZILLIONS, but I’ll carry on working!”

Cunt off, eh.

Nominated by GeneralZod