Mark Twain once asserted that it’s ‘better to keep your mouth closed and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt’.

Anyone seeking evidence to back up this assertion need look no further than Birmingham City FC ‘fan’ Paul Mitchell. IsAC regulars will remember this charmless lout being cunted a while back. He’s the twat who ran onto the pitch during Shitty’s derby game against Aston Villa on 10 March and launched a cowardly assault on Villa’s Jack Grealish. Mitchell was promptly hauled up in front of the beak and jailed for fourteen weeks for his trouble.

Now most reasonable minded individuals would, I think, expect this idiot to reflect on his transgressions while doing his porridge, hopefully to emerge showing some embarrassment and contrition for his actions. Well not so Mr Mitchell. Having served just four weeks of his sentence, this cretin (who still refuses to apologise for his actions) bragged ‘it was the best month of my life. Everything was good’. No remorse at being a jailbird then; rather pride, if anything.

What a credit Mitchell is to his family and friends. No doubt he also sees himself as some kind of folk hero to his fellow supporters, many of whom will probably stand him a pint for having punched the captain of their bitter rivals in the head from behind. Mitchell is an utter fool and a complete cunt. The tragedy is that he and his ilk are utterly incapable of comprehending the fact.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Pathetic pop lyrics

I have just heard the opening bars of “While my guitar gently weeps” on the radio and instantly switched off. However, it has put me in a bad mood because I hate the pitiful lyrics that are so typical of wishy-washy George Harrison who went into a sulk during the recording of “Abbey Road” because he didn´t like Paul McCartney telling him off. Read on and puke at this:
“I look at you all see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping
Still my guitar gently weeps.”

Here are some other lyrics that are so criminally bad that the people who wrote them – and those who encouraged them by buying the crappy records – should be suspended by their testicles with piano wire until they become sopranos. I know they are all dated but so am I. In fact, I am so dated that I hanker for the good old days of lyrics like “By the light of the silvery moon”.
“Your Song”
I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well a few of the verses well they’ve got me quite cross

“Eleanor”
I think you´re really groovy
Let´s go and see a movie

“Lady in Red”
I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight
I’ve never seen you shine so bright

“MacArthur’s Park”
MacArthur´s Park is melting in the dark
All the sweet, green icing flowing down
Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don’t think that I can take it
Cause it took so long to bake it
And I’ll never have that recipe again.

“I´m not in love”
I keep your picture
Upon the wall
It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there
So don’t you ask me
To give it back
I know you know it doesn’t mean that much to me.

“Happy to be on an island in the sun”
Mothers with their children waiting in the cool of the shade,
And thirsty people coming from the fields to drink, tea and lemonade,

Nominated by Mr Polly

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