A Dodgy Curry
A couple of nights ago the wife and I fancied eating out, and took ourselves along to The XXXXXXX Indian Restaurant (name withheld due to fears of possible legal ramifications). There I partook of a seemingly excellent curry with all the trimmings, washed down by a couple of beers.
Observant cunters will notice my use of the qualification ‘seemingly’. By ten that evening, I was feeling decidedly queasy and took myself off to bed, followed shortly by the missus with her book. At this point my tripes were starting to tremble alarmingly, and I sent a number of putrid guffs rattling off to the boundary in rapid succession. The wife was having none of this, and ‘suggested’ that I might like to relocate, so that she could get some rest without fear of being gassed in her sleep.
Feeling very sorry for myself, I crept downstairs and brewed some tea. After a couple of sips, my worst fears were realised. My insides felt as though they’d turned to scalding liquid and I did the crouch and dash into the loo, where I furiously proceeded to pebbledash the toilet bowl as my arse erupted like Vesuvius with a real grump on. A right pan cracker and no mistake.
Thus began a night of existential misery as I alternated between shivering on the settee and squatting on the bog as the curry did its best to mangle my guts into a pulp. A couple of bog rolls and several Diocalm tablets later, I crawled back to bed as the dawn chorus started, and slept like the dead for six hours. Come the afternoon and I ventured out of bed to try a cup of weak tea. For the remainder of the day I hobbled about like a bow legged cowboy, thanks to a raw, ragged ringpiece which felt not so much wiped as abrased by industrial strength sandpaper embedded with aluminium shavings.
I’m recovered now, but take it from me, hell will have frozen over before I patronise that fucking curry house again. This was a true shockhorror experience; literally a thundering sack of cack. They say that if you’re feeling really down and depressed, it can seem as though the bottom has fallen out of your world. Well I say, eat a dodgy cunting curry and it really will feel as though the world’s fallen out of your bottom.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Wimbledon, that annual bore fest.
Need I say more, except I hope that Mr Dynamic gets eliminated quickly.

Nominated by Mystic Maven

A cunting please for Dame Margaret Beckett.

This turd in a dress has had it coming for a number of years, primarily on three cunts, I mean counts.

Firstly, she was one of the mongoloids who thought it would be a good idea to sponsor Comrade Jezbollah Compo’s leadership bid, all for the sake of having a proper leadership debate in the Labia Party, even though she did not intend to vote for him, the stupid bitch. Initially, Compo was struggling to get the required number of supporters, but with the support of Suckdick and Beckett, he just scraped through. Beckett has therefore directly contributed to Compo’s reign of terror.

Secondly, during the enquiry into Speaker Bercunt’s bullying of staff, Beckett agreed that The Bercunt was a bully and a dwarf cunt, but said it didn’t matter and he should stay as he was needed to thwart Brexit.

Thirdly, she is an evil fucking Uber-remainer whose latest wheeze, along with that Arch-Cunt Grieve, is to propose a motion that in the event of a no deal, all funding and tax raising powers for government functions like health and welfare will stop, thereby artificially making the effect of no deal so awful that no government will consider it.

This is easily the most evil piece of legislation ever proposed by a British Parliamentarian. For proposing it Beckett, along with Grieve and any other MP that supports it, deserve a special place in the hottest part of hell where they can enjoy the sensation of having red hot pokers inserted in their fundaments for the rest of eternity.

Cunts. Fuck off.

Nominated by Marvellous Mechanical Cunting Machine

WARNING! SCAM ALERT! Be on the lookout for this con-man. He’s been hanging around in television studios attempting to convince people to vote for him, promising all sorts.
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Jeremy Hunt is a cunt, isn’t he.

I nominated this oily turd last year when, like a road-to-Damascus-type conversion, he stated that Brexit wasn’t that bad really, a disingenuous transparent nod to later throwing his hat into the ring.

Here we are months after the leaving date, three years after voting, the decrepit dancing Hunchback has fucked off (job done EU bosses), all kinds of creepy wingnuts are out of a leadership challenge, and the Devil’s split of a choice between Bojo the Party Entertainer and this eel; as slippery and ambitious as a Shakespearean Roman, backstabbing that would make a London drug-dealing ‘bruv’ blanche.

His “Little England” slip was telling. He dreads the idea that the UK will run out of Dooshka-Dooshkas to maintain his millionaire-level standards. And no, I don’t believe the “self-made” myth as Hunt didn’t grow up grafting. Before Oxford he was head fag at Charterhouse!

Let’s not forget that Theresa-in-Trousers campaigned for Remain and has the same humourless lack of dignity that she had.

SCAM ALERT

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

Limit of human endurance discovered by Duke University, and pregnancy is very close to maximum, says today’s Telegraph.

Something else for da wimminz to bleat about endlessly.

No doubting that Duke University will transition to Duchess (as Bruce transitions to Catlyn) “in celebration” of this momentous announcement…

Nominated by HBelindaHubbard