My wife has this incredibly annoying habit of shouting out answers when watching some dreary old quiz program on the box. Moreover, she also speaks out loud when we’re watching a mystery-murder whodunit film or show!

“He’s the murderer! It’s obvious. Look at his eyes: dead shifty. Why can’t the cops see that? It’s so obvious. …..” And on and on she yammers, only to find right at the end that it was someone else that did the crime.

But even then she’ll go on the defensive and say “Nope, they’ve got that wrong! It was never her. She couldn’t have done it!”

Admittedly she is not alone in this oddball behaviour because I too will shout at the TV when watching a football/rugby game!

The upshot of all this is totally irrational and ultimately quite pointless, because at the end of the day no one gives a shit, not least the people in the TV program/game; and certainly not the other cunts in the room who are trying to listen/watch the program in peace.

Then you get cunts who are listening to music with their headphones on, and then proceed to sing out loud, completely unaware there is no music to muffle their godawful “singing”, and that yet again it becomes a real pain in the arse having to listen to some squawking bint warbling on for hours on end!

Not much of a cunting in the grand scheme of things admittedly, but still fucking annoying for all that.

Nominated by Technocunt

So have just renewed my licence for another year of Lefty shite. In fact it’s not even for a year because apparently it expires end of June 2020 even though I renewed today (10.07.19)

For many years I have been debating whether to renew or not; and now I am seriously considering telling the licensing people to go fuck themselves next year.

I don’t watch live TV, and haven’t done so in a long time. And its not just the BBC that you need a licence for, but all the other channels, regardless of terrestrial, cable or satellite. And yes I have TVs, tablets and computers, but I don’t have iPlayer, Sky or Virgin. So basically I tick all their boxes for NOT wanting a TV licence.

So come the end of June 2020 and they crawl back to ask me to renew I will tell them to shove their licence up their shit-chute! And if they come back with a shedload of letters then they can shove those too.

Fuck the BBC and fuck the tax disguised as a TV licence – this is the 21st century, and we have far more choice what we want to watch!

Nominated by Technocunt

This cunt, a world renowned tiger tamer, has been given a practical demonstration that he wasn’t as good at taming as he thought.

During rehearsals at the Italian circus, ‘Circo Orfei’, four of the animals tore him to shreds and played with his remains for thirty minutes.
Medics were unable to help, and his fellow performers could not drive the tigers away.
Police were then called and have launched an investigation to try to recreate the events leading up to the attack.
Why? Do they want to see more people killed?
Bunch of stupid wop cunts.

Nominated by Duke of Cuntshire

Sod those who disparage Country and Western music. “Music for losers, by losers, about losers”, these tossers call it. They associate it with redneck hicks who get pissed on hooch, beat up their wives then fall into an abyss of maudlin self-pity. Of course all C&W fans are Trump supporters, racists, anti-gay, anti-women etc. according to these tone deaf fairies.

Bollocks to them. C&W is real music from the heart sung by real men – like Johnny Cash, Kenny Rogers, Don Williams, Alan Jackson and Waylon Jennings – and real women – like Dolly Parton (and what a woman), Tammy Wynette, Linda Ronstadt, Emmy Lou Harris and Rita Coolidge. No gays or trannies in there, although Willie Nelson´s pigtails had me wondering for a bit.

Songs about real life too like: “Lucille” where the hard working husband is abandoned by his ungrateful wife; “Stand By Your Man” which every bride should be legally obliged to learn before being hitched; “Remember When”, a teary look back on life and raising a family; and “I Recall a Gypsy Woman” about an innocent 17-year-old being seduced by a dark-eyed older temptress with “Silver spangles in her eyes/Ivory skin against the moonlight/And the taste of life’s sweet wine”.

Who can beat that?

Nominated by Mr Polly

I enjoy swimming; it’s good exercise and I find it relaxing. Conversely, I’m not fond of going for a swim at the local public baths.
There are a few things that piss me off about public swimming pools, most of them human. Yummy mummies for instance, ‘oohing’ and pulling silly faces as their progeny flop about in a blow-up ring about the size of a tractor tyre, looking as though they might piss in the water at any second. Yummy mummies fuss and hover like a mother hen, ready to strike out if you go within ten feet of their chick. Best avoided, but easier said than done in a busy pool.
Then there are the fuckwit lumps who hurl themselves into the water with all the flaying grace of a plane plunging tail first into the ocean, in spite of the ‘NO DIVING’ signs. Probably can’t read, the thick twats.
Don’t let me forget the orange-peel skinned old biddies strung out across the shallow end, yacking vacuously about last night’s ‘Corrie’ or the latest royal baby, while kidding themselves that they’re actually taking some exercise. And there’s Billy Big Bollocks, the twat using the changing room hair dryer to dry his cobs.
But the thing I hate most about indoor pools isn’t the cunts in them, or the horrible clammy atmosphere, or the uncomfortably chilly water and showers, or the shit coffee in the café. No, the thing I despise most is the unwanted gift which sometimes comes free with a visit, namely a fucking verruca. I’ve been fighting one of these little shithouses on my left foot for months to no avail, and I’m really becoming irritated with the sensation of walking about with a pound coin soldered to my foot.
Initially I phoned our GP surgery to ask for an appointment at the wart clinic, where they used to blast the bastards with a freezing spray. Sadly the clinic is defunct; a ‘staffing issue’ apparently. At our pharmacy, I was sold something called ‘Bazuka’ (extra strength no less), as in ‘Bazuka That Verruca!’. This, according to the box, is ‘guaranteed’ to sort the fucker.
Trouble is, it hasn’t. I’ve smeared on the gel and filed, and smeared on more gel, and after months of this, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m up against THE WORLD’S HARDEST VERRUCA. This is one tough bastard; harder than a bag of spanners. In fact it’s so hard that I’ve come to have a grudging respect for it, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want rid of it pronto.
If anyone out there in IsACland knows how to shift the cunt, short of taking out a contract on it or having my foot amputated, I’d be delighted to hear from you. It’s time to take off that verruca sock and start to fight dirty.

Nominated by Ron Knee