It is with a mixture of utter fucking rage and heavy heart that I cunt Last Night of the Proms after last night’s debacle.

I’ve attended the Last Night five times, and the preceding classical concerts in the Proms season on countless occasions. My first LNotP was in 2005 and was a snap decision to attend after a meal with a coulle of friends. We went there, dressed like fucking tramps, standing in the upper circle and barely able to see anything. But I fucking loved it.

Yes it is predictable. Yes it is silly. Yes it is a caricature. Yes many of attending are cunts. But it’s fun. It’s a second-half bit of overblown, harmless singalong patriotism, and most patrons leave the Royal Albert Hall afterward feeling a wee bit more proud to be British.

This year however saw the continued takeover of the quisling scumcunt. Proudly pushed by the Eurocentric BB cuntfucking C, a huge throng of protesting cunts sporting EU flags and berets stole the fucking show.

It didn’t surprise me and the anger, oddly enough isn’t completely to do with the lovers of the fucking EU. No, I am pissed off because this is yet another bit of harmless British tradition which has been infested with the inoperable cancer of left-wing politicking and posturing. Ruined by an utterly knifeable array of shameless fucking cunts, it is yet another hi g consigned to history now thanks to the undoubtedly irreversible platform for pro-EU protest.

It matters not that these EU flag-bearers are so fucking ignorant that they happily presided over the lyrics Rule Britiannia, all the while gleefully accepting their status indeed as slaves to the most undemocratic of shit unions.

These fucking absolute shitcunts deserve the most insidious of fucking ends, each and every one of them.

Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back

Never thought in a million years that it would come to this but the last night of the proms is a cunt.
I’m a patriotic cunt like the rest of you here I suspect. So when I turn on the tv to watch the wonderful tribute to British nationalism with expectant pride rising in my heart what the fuck is the first thing I see?

A sea of cunting Euro flags waved by even bigger cunts wearing fucking Eddie Izzard Euro berets.

The absolute CUNTS. Every last one of them!

Nominated by Cuntsville

I would like to cunt the person who supplied the flags at the last night of the proms shown on the BBC

Watching it was like a fucking rally for the EU more fucking flags for the EU than our own Union Jack this is a British event why fucking ruin it by waving a fucking EU flag? most of you there looked like cunts ,so why wave a EU arsewipe flag apart from the fact that you’re all cunts and prove it beyond all reasonable doubt by waving a EU flag

This event is a part of Britain’s history

Have just read some posts on twatter and shit on my face book, that Land of Hope and Glory and Jerusalem should be banned from the last night of the proms because they are racist. WTF are they on? Cunts the lot of them!

Nominated by Mr R Sole

After watching the Last Shite of the Proms, I must have been psychic when I wrote this back in my punk period (not one of my best and yes, it is embarrassing in hindsight) :

Rule Britannia

Nominated by Chas C

Sad gits wearing hopeless wigs need to be outed immediately. Speaking as one whose own thatch is sadly dwindling with the passage of the years, I can say that I’d rather end up with a ‘Jean-Luc Picard’ any day than walk around with something resembling a dead hamster perched on my bonce. A word to the wise, boys; you’re fooling nobody but yourselves, you deluded cocks.

Nominated by Ron Knee

How about this cunt:. The It’s the Biggest Oyster Found in New York in 100 Years.

So Big is a metaphor for New York City itself — which, as the author Mark Kurlansky explained in his 2006 book, “The Big Oyster,” had another nickname before it was the Big Apple. By some accounts, in the 17th century, New York Harbor held half of the world’s oysters. The city was filled with oyster stands before there were hot-dog stands or food trucks. A 12-course dinner in 1842 for Charles Dickens — who characterized old Ebenezer Scrooge as being as “secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster” — began with oysters, glorious oysters.

Big is a New Yorker, which means that Big is a survivor. Big survived being pried loose by a diver with the construction crew repairing Pier 40. Big’s people say dislodging an oyster is difficult; oysters attach themselves to objects underwater with cementlike inviolability. What happened to Big must have been traumatic, but was also its salvation. The construction workers “knew if they let it fall to the mud on the bottom, it wouldn’t survive,” said Toland Kister of the River Project.

The workers also knew Big wouldn’t survive the rest of the project, which will involve, in effect, power-washing the pilings and encasing them in cement, Mr. Kister said.

“It’s not as if people are diving down there to look for oysters all the time,” Mr. Kister said. “These were construction workers with a job to do, and it’s not research.”

Big’s people consider Big special, but they hope Big is not too special. “This oyster could be unique,” Mr. Kister said. “It could be the only oyster that was down there like this, but it would also be really, really cool if it wasn’t the unique thing down under there.”

Dr. Siddall said Big brought to mind oysters the size of dinner plates that were harvested from the Gowanus Creek in Brooklyn from the 1600s to the time of the Revolutionary War. “There was some dredging that was permitted in the late 1700s,” he said, “and after the dredging, the oysters were still abundant, but they were smaller.”

o how old is Big? Mr. Kister said the oyster could have been living on its piling for seven to 15 years — “which is a big spread.”

Dr. Siddall, after looking at photographs of Big online, said that 15 was probably on the low side. “I’m prepared to be more liberal in my estimate,” he said. “It’s probably twice that age.”

But Big could be even older, Dr. Siddall said.

“I was born in 1966,” he said, “so it could be as old as me, and I’d like to think that it is. It would be really reassuring if that were true, for both of us.”

What an oversized cunt.

Nominated by CaliAngel

Grief Thief (ɡriːf θiːf)
n. An individual, usually with a level of fame or celebrity inversely proportional to their talent, who proceeds to make a spectacular cunt of themselves in paying disingenuous public tribute to the death of a genuinely famous or public figure, all in an attempt to bolster the thief’s own social media standing.

One of the scourges of our times, I give you the celebrity grief thief or griefjacker. As with so many things wrong in the modern age, this is a particularly stubborn metastasis of the primary, incurable cancer known as social media.

I often wonder – do vapid followers of these grief-thieves really see genuine sadness from their faux-sad celebrity idols, when said celebricunts declare their profound shit-tributes to dead singers and actors they never even knew? Do the lobotomy outpatient tier fans of Katy ‘radioactive quim’ Perry not cringe when such a colossally moronic shitcunt like that pays tribute to Stephen Hawking, of all fucking people?

The recent, sad passing of Aretha Franklin has provided a wonderful opportunity for every black, every feminist, and every urban stammering cunt to show ‘deference’ to their ‘roots’ and all climb aboard the Challenger OV-99 Shuttle to the stratosphere of cuntitude. Most blacks – who usually are too wrapped up in a world of box-fresh Nikes, stabbings and wearing oversized trousers while ‘singing’ songs like “Blep Blep Blep” – know the grand sum of fuck-all when it comes to history; other than a popularly misunderstood conception of ‘muh slavery’. Yet now the Queen of Soul has left this mortal coil, all and sundry are weeping for a fallen sista. I suspect most of them couldn’t even name a single one of her songs, the fucking bandwagon-jumping cunts.

The act of making public declarations of grief is in itself rather cuntly, unless the individual paying tribute genuinely knew the person at hand. It would be akin to me turning up at some random funeral, opportunely taking to the pulpit and delivering a tearful soliloquoy on what a wonderful and hard-working father of three the unemployed Mrs. Jenkins actually was.

I despise this fucking insidious phenomenon so much. People falling over themselves to use the death of someone almost always infintely more talented than they are, all for a bit of fucking social media traction. At least here on ISAC, we have the good grace to merely nominate rich and famous individuals as the next to die, and wait in quiet anticipation for someone on our list to pop their clogs. Proper decency.

Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back