Time for us admin wallahs to wish all you cunters out there a Happy Easter. Feel free to stuff your faces with overpriced, egg shaped, shitty chocolate. Enjoy your overpriced fruit buns that cost an extra quid for the cross on them. And if you own a card shop, sing three choruses of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” and then fuck off to the Med for a nice expensive cruise.

Yes, this is the spirit of Easter. Hence the expression “Christ on a cross! What the fuck is all this crap about?!?” Oh! Of course! It’s the marketing festival that comes between Valentines and Mother’s Day – except that this year they fucked up by getting the date inconveniently late.

Anyhow, here’s an image of Easter I’m sure you cunts will be happier with :

I’m sure you can think of one or two more women you’d like to nail up there as well……

Farmers are cunts, aren’t they.

Most farmers are social misfits who can’t do a thinking job. You often hear these grumbling bumpkins spewing their cheap, hillbilly logic, “Oo-aah, yow townie folk don ooderstaand the ways of the coun’ree an should leave well alone.” The Yokel mentality. Alright if that’s the case you leave the ways of the town alone which includes trading: You don’t sell any of your overpriced produce and we won’t discuss murdering foxes.

Most of these backward, beetroot-heads are pro-EU; not for the good of the UK but for the benefit of their own bottomless pockets. Cheap EastEuro trash picking fruit’n’veg for cash whilst claiming benefits and there’s Farmer Cuntcarrot sitting astride his hill of money; the only loser is the tax-payer.

Many of these turnip-munchers attempt to prevent people walking on public bridleways knowing full well that their cunty farmer selfishness is illegal. Those are the fields where I accidentally leave the gates open.

It tickles my mind when I read about another of these sheep-worriers taking their own life because profits were low. Let’s hope 2019 is a bumper year for bumpkin suicides.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous

Emergency cunting! Colds are a complete cunt.

Saturday morning I felt a bit off colour. By the late evening, the concomitant shivers and drowsiness hit me. After a shit night’s sleep, I tried to pull myself together on Sunday. I even managed a light lunch. By the evening, my temperature had risen to almost 40 degrees C and I spent the evening in a state of alternate shivering/sweating and drowsiness on the settee.

Yesterday I woke up with a temperature again and had to skip work. I felt shit all day and slept most of the afternoon. I slept very little last night due to the continual coughing up of prairie oysters throughout the night. Fuck me, I should have bought some lemon and pepper.

Feeling shit again this morning but my temperature has dropped down to 38. I even managed to have a shower. Isn’t it odd how illness affects the old gentleman vegetables. Whilst showering, I noticed my helmet had turned into a dark purple, lifeless Richmond Sausage, whilst my knackers hung low and somewhat apologetically like Homer Simpson’s face.

Colds are a real cunt.

Nominated by Paul Maskinback

That bearded vagrant posing as an entrepeneur has been opening his fucking mouth again:

A hard Brexit would be bad for Britain the old wankstain avers “worse than the second world war” and “it will be bad for Virgin companies”.

Surely the old motherfucker has accumulated all the money he can use this side of the grave. I suppose though at least he is being honest in that he doesn’t give a fuck about “the people” only his bank balance, and his stinking companies. A pity the baldy cunt “Lord” Adonis can’t be honest as well, and then both of them should take a long walk off a short pier.

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

Some sick in the head cunt who calls itself a grime rapper, he she or it is undergoing transformation from female to male and is now complaining on tv that other artists won’t want to work with ‘him’.

Well I know something else other people won’t be doing with you, you cunt. Or should I say lack thereof. No cunt to speak of, and you won’t be getting any either.

So what’s left is your cuntish music, and your cuntish appearance.

Come to think of it where do you get a dick from other than the one on the top of your neck.

Nominated by Duke of Cuntshire