A nomination for Alfie Howard-Hughes and his twat of a mother.

I read about him in The Times today – he has hair all the way down his back and has been told that he must get it cut if he wants to enter Colchester Royal Grammar School. His mother has said that if necessary, he will wear it in a plait, a bun or a hairnet, because he ‘absolutely does not want it cut.’

Alfie has said it is “a part of him”, and is determined to turn up on his first day of school with his hair still intact.

“It’s never been a thing in my mind.. it has always been there. My hair is a part of me. I don’t just want to do it so I can keep my hair but I want to do it for other boys who have long hair.”

His mum, Katy Cox, 33, has called the policy “ridiculous” and accused the school of making “carbon copies” of the children.
She said: “Rules keep our children safe and that’s important but some rules need to be challenged otherwise we would be living in a cave.

His mum added: “I think I remember watching other children screaming when they had their hair cut and I thought I would never do that to my child. I wanted to leave it up to him when and if he wanted his hair cut and that never came.
“It’s not my hair it’s his hair, it’s part of who he is.” etc etc etc….

Well fuck off, the school dress and appearance code is set and if you don’t like it, then he can go to the local comprehensive and probably get the crap kicked out of him for looking like a twat. His parents will probably take legal action for breach of the spoilt little bastard’s yoooman rights, and sadly, will no doubt win.

Nominated by Mystic Maven

MENSA is a weird cult of cunts, isn’t it?

Recently I had an invitation to a MENSA pub gathering in London and, as I always found those daft tests unchallenging (which shape is next, foodstuff anagrams, doable maths), I went along. Perhaps they sat about getting pissed, discussing football and telling filthy jokes, I pondered.

Alas, no.

A gaggle of overweight, middle-class academics sat about readying to outdo each other. An olfactory cocktail of halitosis and urine-stained kecks informed the air around a committee of pompous, autistic singletons capable of endless talk of electrons or semiotics, though unable to sew on a button or make an omelette.

Some had beards and wore trainers, most had noticeably ill-fitting trousers, refusing to notice their slowing expanding girths. Avid Guardian-readers, avid Antiques Roadshow-watchers, avid Remainiacs, these elitist eggheads had the social skills of farmers and were just as unhygienic, opinionated, and smelly. One large, mildewed man even began opining about God’s love. Another said he hated books; a spidery woman said she hadn’t seen a film in a decade.

From the very few women, there was one actual looker in her 40s but she obsessively talked about textiles, didn’t stop twitching, and smelt of ham.

These dreary, highfalutin stiffs had no fight about them yet could weaken any opposition with their droning on about geology, the history of the Popes, or 11th century bannisters, whilst occasionally spraying the listener with warm spittle.

Why are they determined to satisfy the stereotype? Why the pride in a deficiency of social interaction? Why the unpleasant, belligerent bouquet, an odour of spoiled food, urine, and sewage?

I made my excuses and left.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

An at death’s door cunting for aging Tory MP and EU lover Ken Clarke.

This old doddering twat was quietly shuffling off in to the ether, until teeth and tits leader of the liberal undemocrats Jo Swinson name dropped him as a potential caretaker PM, based only on the facts that he’s a remainer and he’s old (sorry experienced*). Droopy face Clarke had three times been knocked back in his attempts to be PM in the past, mainly because of his love affair with the EU.

Desperately trying to take this slither of possibility that he might be relevant again, he’s now been on every media outlet there is, quite inconsistently telling the public how he’s going to “sort brexit out”. Clearly he’s not exactly sure how though, as he admitted he doesn’t actually know what’s going on at the moment, as he hasn’t been in any meetings with anyone important for some time.

Like all other remainers, there’s no actual plan, apart from inevitably stopping brexit altogether. Even though Swinson is adamant her stance is to destroy brexit, her aging recommendation says he will seek an extension to the brexit deadline to allow more negotiation time. I think he’s just picked up the Theresa May handbook on how to deceive the public and opened the bookmarked page.

Ken Clarke, fuck off, there’s a reason you never legitimately became leader, you’re a cunt yes, but the wrong kind of cunt. You might as well jump ship to the limp dums now, Swinson might even let you fuck her as a reward for being a wanker.

Nominated by elboobio

Christ on a bike – just when you thought Westminster politics couldn’t get more fucking ridiculous along comes Ken Clarke to prove you wrong.

Apparently our Ken has graciously agreed to allow himself to be shoe horned into the top job in what amounts to a Coup d’Etat orchestrated by Magic Grandpa, Swinney the Loon and a bunch of Tory traitors.

Two questions come to mind…

1. Isn’t this called “treason”?
2. Why are these cunts still allowed to take the Tory whip?

Just asking…

Nominated by Dioclese.

Some years ago I learned to my cost that sunburn’s a cunt.
In the early 80s, the wife and I took a holiday in Ibiza, then a hedonistic paradise offering many sensual delights, one of which being the freedom to sunbathe ‘au natural’. We spent many happy, idle hours on Playa d’en Bossa beach, slowly turning a beautiful shade of deep mahogany.
This experience was not however without incident. I should say at this point that I am fair skinned and have blond hair (Himmler would have loved me). I’m extremely sensitive to sunlight, second only to ginger nuts, and have to be careful to smother myself in high factor sun screen to avoid sunburn.
Unfortunately I made a costly first day error in Ibiza, and neglected to ensure that absolutely every bit of me was covered. Consequently by ten that night, my balls felt like a couple of well roasted plum tomatoes, which left me mincing about like Julian Clary’s houseboy for a day or so.
I learned a lesson which stayed with me; well, it did, until a very hot day last week. The wife had gone out to meet an old friend from uni, leaving me with the day to myself. I took off for a long walk, then came back to lounge about in the garden. About five o’clock, sipping wine, I began to be aware that my face was feeling a bit sore and itchy, and it dawned on me to my horror that I’d forgotten to apply sun screen.
As evening drew on, my face began to resemble a very red sweet pepper. Lying in bed feeling miserable, I made the mistake of seeking solace from Her Ladyship, reclining with her book next to me;

Me; (shuffling about) ‘my face isn’t half sore’
Her; (heavy sigh) ‘well don’t look at me. I bought you that beautiful Panama hat, cost me an arm and a leg. Do you ever wear it? I go to the trouble of making sure you’ve got factor fifty cream. First time I’m not here to ‘nag’ you as you put it, you forget it. It’s your own fault’
Me; (wheedling) ‘I fully acknowledge my ineptitude in your absence, my flower. I just wondered if you had any suggestions’
Her; (deeply exaggerated sigh) ‘actually I’ve got two. Firstly, on the dressing table you’ll find a tube of E45 cream. Stick some of that on it. Secondly, bastard well keep quiet, I’m trying to read’
Me; ‘as ever, ma petite choupette, you’re my one constant source of comfort and consolation when…’
Her; ‘oh haud yer bloody wheest!’

Well readers, you’ll be in one of two categories. Either you’ve already learned about sunburn the hard way, or it’s an experience waiting to happen. Take the advice of someone who’s almost certainly older and uglier than you. Wear a hat when in the hot sun, and smother every exposed area of skin with high factor screen. Even a mild case of sunburn’s a cunt. God knows what a really bad case would do to you. I hope I never find out.

Nominated by Ron Knee