Michael Heseltine [6]

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The decrepit old cunt has written yet again for George Osborne’s comic (The Standard).

This old wankstain has as much reason as Mangedbum to fear leaving the EU (in his case his private vanity project arbortoreum) , Mandy’s is his EU old age pension.

Heseltine is a cunt of the first stripe he never shuts his 84 year old mouth up. George Osborne’s Standard is almost the equivalent of the wank mags beloved by teenagers, he is forever tossing himself off over the EU and for him to see the stumbling shambling drunken Junker, is as big a thrill as a 13 year old looking at the centrefold of Big and Bouncy.

Heseltine was instrumental in getting rid of Maggie which was unforgivable – we so need somebody like her now. But that the old motherfucker continues his hypocritical rantings and that makes him a 24 carat boring cunt.

When Brexit comes Osborne will go – the useful idiot editor will have lost his usefulness.

Nominated by W. C. Boggs

Tim Wonnacot [2]

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Tim Wonnacott aka Tim Whatacunt.

A fucking disgraceful waste of BBC licence payers money, this would-be toff is a cunt of the highest order.

This gap-toothed cunt is paid handsomely to say “orf” in the worst example of RP accent I’ve ever heard. His cuntiness is only enhanced by his fucking country cunt wardrobe.

This fucking wretched antique should orf himself and do us all a favour.

I bet he’s a cunt in real life too – just like that creosote faced cunt he deposed David Cuntinson.

Nominated by Mark E Smith Lives

Julian Assange [4]

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It must be about time to cunt Julian Assange again, and add one to his surprisingly low score of cuntings (3). The pallid shitstirring Australian phony has shafted his friends, stolen data and is still evading justice in plain sight. It’s not as if his release of gigabytes of mildly sensitive classified material has actually changed anything other than get him the odd headline, though perhaps it did contribute a little to Trump’s election victory by adding a small turd to Hillary’s bouquet of shite. For all the publicity, and for all the adoration of the flaccid-left snowflake tendency, he’s been pretty fucking useless at doing what he says he’s trying to do.

And there he is, still squatting in the Ecuadoran Embassy – the only place that would have him after jumping bail (not his money, but his friends’) and running for cover. The Swedish rape case has been dropped, but the fact remains he broke UK bail conditions while it was current, and while he was being detained with a view to extraditing him. So the police have a legitimate interest in feeling his collar.

To cut to the chase…or in this case, the stay-put. After having been treated very honourably by the Ecuadoran staff, given apparently rent-free accommodation, Internet connection to pursue his self-aggrandising schemes, and even a cat, the Embassy decided that it really couldn’t permit a political propagandist to operate from diplomatic territory, cut off the internet and later made some rules for Assange to follow as a condition of its restoration. These included not behaving like a 14-year-old in a tantrum (admittedly Assache always behaves like this), keeping his room clean and looking after the fucking cat, por el amor de Dios.

At which Assange announces that he is going to sue his voluntary hosts (six bloody years, they’ve had to put up with him) for breach of his human rights. Apparently, he’s in captivity, and not being accorded the respectful attention to which he is entitled.

But he isn’t. It’s entirely his own choice that he’s there. He is absolutely free to walk out of the front door. Granted, he’ll be captured within seconds, and possibly imprisoned (genuinely) for the bail offence, but I am quite sure the Met will observe his human rights to the letter, and what happens later, if he is right about the US wanting a little chat with him regarding its state secrets, is no concern of mine. He’s a cunt, and a cunt’s just desserts are long overdue to him. Which might well involve karmic rape.

And it would save us several million in policing the cunt.

Nominated by Komodo

Self serving celebrities

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Self serving celebrities are cunts…

Whenever some piece of celebrity shite acts the cunt, gets criticism, or caught out they always engineer some sickening stunt to divert attention away from their immense cuntish behaviour….

That lobotomised cunt John Terry: Calls Anton Ferdinand a ‘Clack Bunt’ and is caught doing so… He then conveniently bumps into a ‘lost’ and ‘crying’ brown baby in a toy shop (with photographers at the ready)… Suddenly ‘JT’ is redeemed in the eyes of the tabloid scum and snowflake fannies…

Madogga: This noxious old slag shamelessly condones and incites terrorism, by saying the White House should be bombed… Next thing we know old Sladge is buying more Brown Babbies from some African shitheap… The media lick her crabby cunt and forget that she wanted to assassinate the US President…

Skanklett Johansscunt: Gets questioned about her ‘association’ with Woody Allen, Roman Polanski, and Uncle Harvey… So Skank-Jo gets a dyke haircut and milks the ‘Me Too’ and ‘Powerless Woman’ bollocks… She also deliberately slurs James Franco… The press go for Jimmy and forget the slag had her tongue in Polanski’s lughole at an awards ceremony….

Serena Williams: Acts like Mandrill with tourettes while abusing a match official… Also allegations of illegal coaching from the stands… Pulling the ‘Racist’ and ‘Sexist’ cards doesn’t quite work this time… So she decides to strip naked (For the love of God, NO!) and all for ‘charidee’… Of course the diversity loving snowflakes wet themselves and conveniently forget what a cunt she is…

One of these days one of these celebricunts will grow a pair and say, ‘Look, I admit it… I’ve been a cunt/slag/thug/knobhead and you’ve caught me!’ Fat chance though, eh? And I have no doubt that Beckham cunt already has a stunt lined up so people will forget his despicable and cuntish fine dodging antics… 99% of celebrities are self serving vermin and total cunts….

Nominated by Norman

Deep Fried Mars Bars

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I write from the grand auld toon of Edinburgh, a place richly steeped in culture, history and legend. It boasts superb vistas, charming streets and gardens, fascinating sights, and pubs brimming with character in which to enjoy a refreshment, all offered in a genial atmosphere of hospitality.

It’s also a great place to sample traditional Scottish dishes, such as stovies, Arbroath smokies (delicious!), cullen skink, charachan, and Scotland’s greatest contribution to the culinary arts, the, er, deep fried Mars Bar.

Now the very notion of a deep fried Mars Bar has always struck me as dubious, but when in Rome… Anyway, while out and about, I chanced upon a chip shop advertising this strange yet exotic delicacy, and curiosity drew me in to make a purchase. It turns out that they can be bought on their own or as a ‘supper’; that’s with chips, add salt, vinegar or sauce to taste. Cleanse the palate afterwards with a can of Irn Bru, ‘your other national drink’.
What’s it actually like then? Well, it resembles a crispy turd. It has the consistency of chewing gum left on the bedpost overnight, and each bite settles on the stomach like a golf ball. The matter of how it tastes is something I’d prefer not to go in to; let’s just term it ‘rich’ and leave it at that.

All in all, I’d say that the deep fried Mars Bar is an acquired taste. Given that most of mine ended up in the nearest bin, it’s a taste that I for one am unlikely to acquire any time soon.
Scots have long been admired for their powers of invention, but let’s face it, it takes a mad as a box of frogs type of genius to come up with the idea of taking a confection made of chocolate, toffee and nougat, dipping it in batter, and tossing it into a deep fat fryer.
‘Here’s tae us. Wha’s like us? Few, an’ they’re a’ deid’. Yes, a good few of them after consuming this wannabe shit sandwich, I’d imagine. Land of the high endeavour all right, just not where deep fried Mars Bars are concerned, you barmy cunts.

Nominated by Ron Knee