Holly Smith:

A baby shower Mothercare cuntin please for this obese whore, and her *fiance* who looks like a raving poofter of the first order, for taking up spaces (and air) on buses for their prams for their three *babies* who happen to be plastic dolls:

‘Mum’ of three lifelike dolls says she argues with parents over pram spaces

Why isn’t this pair of freeloading wankers locked up in padded cells?. Her excuse is that she had a miscarriage – when she was 13 or 14 and these lumps of plastic give her comfort.

If she is not insane, or her fancy nancy *fiance* isn’t why isn’t the job centre making her get up off her fat rancid arse and make her look for work, and why isn’t he training to be a ladies hairdresser, a ballet dancer or Peter Mangledbum’s houseboy?

Why do we indulge motherfuckers like this? Words fail me, except for the word CUNT.

Nominated by W.C. Boggs

Henry Ruschmann was a cunt.

The other day a well intentioned soul gave my granddaughter a craft set as a birthday gift. A nice thought, was my reaction, until my granddaughter accidentally knocked it off the table whilst playing. This resulted in a container of glitter being scattered everywhere, leaving me struggling to vacuum most of it up.

Now the operative word here is ‘most’. Since that time I’ve been struggling in vain to remove deposits of this shimmering asbestos clone from the table, the settee, the curtains, the carpet and Christ knows where else. It’s migrated around the house like peacefuls; I’m finding it in the bathroom sink, on my pillow case, in the fridge, and it’s even gotten into my fucking tea. These tiny, intensely irritating particles are ubiquitous, so much so that I’m expecting to find some up the crack of my arse imminently. To make matters worse, Christmas is fast approaching, so be prepared for glitter covered cards, paper, decorations…

So what precisely has this got to do with one Henry Ruschmann? If it comes to that, who the fuck WAS Henry Ruschmann? Well, Mr Ruschmann was the cunt (an American cunt, of course) responsible for foisting the diabolical excrescence we call glitter upon the world in the first place.

He’s dead more’s the pity, because I’d like nothing more than to drag the fucker around to my house and make him lick his cunting invention up inch by inch. The absolute fucking cunt.

Nominated by Ron Knee

I haven’t cunted May for a week or 2 so here goes:

This is a specific cunting for her competence and tactics.
Negotiations don’t always work so a Plan B is always required. In the case of EU negotiations this would be ‘No Deal’. Dave had no Plan B so May should have noted this. Well, she had the finest Whitehall brains around her didn’t she?
When Article 50 was triggered plans should have been put in place for No Deal on day one. This would tell the EU that we were serious. Was it? Was it fuck. All along the EU knew this and used it to force May into her capitulation plan. At over 500 pages it has superseded Foot’s Labour manifesto as the longest suicide note in history.
This week the Treasury and Bank of England have forecast No Deal disaster. Again. If they are right, which will be a first, then the blame lies squarely at May’s door due to her total incompetence and lack of planning.
So, Theresa May, the most useless, incompetent cunt in history who has succeeded in uniting politicians of all hues and opinions against her.

Nominated by the Theresa May Cunter in Chief Cuntstable Cuntbubble.

Secret Santa is a shitty Christmas habit, isn’t it?

Which foolhardy, fucktarded cretin decided to import this American turd sandwich as a new tradition?

“Do you want to do Secret Santa?”

If you don’t partake you’re a grinchly curmudgeon, though if you do partake, you choose Remainiac Richard the office prick who reads The Guardian, likes cats, and boils people’s urine at 50 yards. It’s even worse when you have to open your gift and pretend to be excited by ‘crazy socks’. At the time of year when moolah is the tightest, we have to spend more time and money shopping.

“Do you want to do Secret Santa?”

Look at the variety of colleagues for whom you could buy but who irritate you or bore the skin off your bones: The loud, zit-ridden ball-ache with a permanent odour of fast food; the aloof arsehole with the wan face who spends the weekend either jogging or decorating; the irksome, over-sprightly homo with a manicured goatee constantly blithering about ‘celeb cuwture’; the vexatious, token EastEuro trash, endlessly complaining about Britain but NEVER FUCKING LEAVING; the overweight, over-confident, over-judgemental gorgon who wears dresses as if she’s the correct side of forty and slides “my church” into every mundane, tedious conversation. Marvellous. I wonder which cunt I’ll choose this year.

“Do you want to do Secret Santa?”

Only if I can give you a calendar from PoundLand with a different decapitated cat for each month; or perhaps a box of fancy biscuits that I made myself and into which I mixed some tapeworm eggs that I ordered from a Ukrainian website then baked at the appropriate temperature, placed in a festive box, and all tied-up with a cute, Christmas ribbon.

Nominated by Captain Magnanimous