‘You learn something every day’, they say. Well today I learned that multiplexes are cunts.

Things started badly early doors, with rain putting paid to my gardening plans. Not having been to the pictures for ages, we decided to take in a flick, and that’s when the problems really started.

I waded through the programme (mostly Yank shite) trying to pick the bones out of-
* ‘animations’ (cartoons to you)
* another bastard superhero
* a musical with that horrible smug cow Streep in it
* something with her off that shitty ‘Ghostbusters’ retread in it
* yet another fucking shark film (done to death, or what?)
* corporate franchise money trees of the ‘Mission Impossible 27; Cash In’ & ‘Star Wars; The Next Fast Buck’ variety

Amazingly, I found a gem buried in this slag, a low-key, 50s set Brit drama called ‘The Book Shop’ (recommended), so off we went to get our tickets. Easier said than done. Nowadays, you can’t simply buy a ticket. You have to turn up an hour early and stand in a queue with all those who also want to buy teeth rotting popcorn, a bucket of cola, or a trough of something called ‘nachos’. The latter appears to consist of microwaved horseshit with bits of card stuck in it, all smothered in elastic ‘cheese’ sprayed from a can, would you believe. This abomination can actually be taken into the ‘screen’, where it reeks the place out like a particularly ripe fart. Then I finally reached the counter, only to shit a brick when told by the spotty faced, minimum wag oik ‘serving’ that even with a concession, it would cost the thick end of twenty notes for me and the missus to gain admission. Fuck, we wanted to see a film, not put a deposit down on the dump.

So, we finally got settled in to await the film, only to be tortured by a barrage of ‘aspirational lifestyle’ adverts. Very persuasive in my case as it turned out, as I couldn’t wait to get out to buy the latest must have top of the range smartphone and a fucking BMW.
At last, the main event, preceded by a plea to ‘switch off your phones, finish your conversations, and enjoy the film in peace’. No fucking chance. As the credits rolled, some cow opened a huge bag of cellophane wrapped sweets which she then rattled for the next hour.

Meanwhile two ‘Mrs. Brady Old Lady’ types chuntered on (‘my Sidney had a coat like that’, ‘…coat like that, yes’) until hushed by a shout of ‘be quiet, you silly old woman!’. Then some cunt’s mobile phone went off… Finally, I had to lurch out half way through for a leak, missing a chunk of the film (the prostate, now there’s a fucker that needs a cunting if ever there was).

Well now I know. If you actually want to enjoy a film, the last place to see it is in a multiplex. Next time I’ll wait until ASDA’s got the dvd for a fiver, and I’ll enjoy it in the peace of my own home, with the added advantage of being able to pause it if I need a piss.

‘The Multiplex Experience’, coming soon to a cinema near you, and it’s a right sack of cack.

Nominated by Ron Knee

Time was when Shano was a typical Oz bloke. Ugly as a goanna’s arse and skin like Kylie Minogue’s cunt (allegedly) – sun dried, wrinkled and flaking. Then he started sporting multi-coloured stripes orf heavy duty sunblock orn the field and was seen drinking poncy cocktails without 4X chasers. Worrying rumours he had shacked up with alleged actress and aging celeb Liz Hurley. Within months the poor cunt is transformed into an androgynous Mr Spock baby doll. Cunt cut dyed barnet, brow surgery, tattooed eyebrows and fillers, mascara and eye liner, lip fillers and gloss, facial fillers, acid skin peels, botox, plus a full set orf tombstone teeth all topped orf by several coats orf oily skin gloss. Almost fancy him meself – not to forget a bottle orf arse parfum from Gai Paris. In short Ms Hurley seems to have guinea pigged oit on him whatever she was contemplating for herself. Bugger me what the Waltzing Matilda has had done below the waist.

All manliness nipped, snicked, glossed and suctioned oit orf him, the shiny capon has now been given the old heave-ho to cruise the minor celeb circuit while endorsing hair thickening products and the like. “You too can look like me”. Yerssss.

Similar thing happened to a mate orf mine. Silly old cunt got hooked by a Romanian tart who proceeded to pimp him up all at his own expense. After a coupla months she showed him the door while he was still in a great deal orf pain from the “procedures” until he remembered it was his own fucking door. She was most put oit at his lack orf gratitude, she had transformed his life. He is now poorer but not much wiser.
Point is slags and cuntos nationwide have a new notion of “the look” taken from the selfie pose and online trends. Fuck Me! is now the new normal.

Nominated by Sir Limply Stoke

The French.

I was going to qualify this with “French Fishermen” but fuck ’em, the shruggy cunts all need a doing.

French fishermen have a grievance with UK scallop boats so what do they do? They start ramming our small boats with their larger ones, that’s what.

The French have form with this type of disproportionate response. In the 90’s, their farmers protested against meat imports (specifically, lamb). They stormed government buildings, attacked riot police with weapons as diverse as bottles, rocks, metal objects and shit (presumably not their own but who can say with that lot). They set fire to one truckload of British sheep, killing over 200 of them, poisoned 94 on another truck and slit the throats of fuck knows how many on another.

On both occasions, we – the UK – were adhering to the law but the frogs kicked off and turned to violence to get their own way.

How the fuck are you supposed to negotiate with cunts like that?

Next time the UK boats set sail for the disputed scallop beds, we should send a couple of Type 23’s with them. At the first sign of trouble from the Pastis gargling snail botherers, they should strafe the cunts and/or stick a Sea Wolf down their funnel.

Nominated by Thirkleby Spunktrumpet