Dearly beloved, I would like to gather your attention to perhaps the ultimate shrine of cuntishness the petrol station.

To be truthful there is so much to cunt from entry to exit, so we will start our journey 30ft up the road behind the queue of traffic trying to get in due to some of the following factors.

1, a few people choose to wait until a petrol pump on “the right side of their car” is available un aware that the hoses do reach over their vehicle.
2, a Chelsea tractor is parked a meter away from the pumps now blocking both isles.

So let’s imagine that we have managed to get to the pump, we now have the wait for the attendant to activate the pump (however he or she is making a coffee for someone) and you stand nozzle in hand hoping to make telepathic contact with them

Petrol stations have metamorphosed into something out of purpose, trying to find rational automotive items (fuses, oil, anti freeze) is futile, however should you require something hot from the deli or a designer coffee you have come to the right place, they even have seating for you whilst your car blocks the pump

Alternatively you could also do the weekly shop whilst you are in it browsing the vast shelves of over priced items perhaps picking up one of those exclusive offers that have been discounted by your fuel purchase.

As I write this I find myself becoming more and more agitated as I relive my 45min visit to my local petrol station where the customer to staff ratio was at least 7 to 1 with the counter blocked by one person ordering a three course meal from the “Deli” and another person (who didn’t even have a car!) insisted on examing every available cold cure and remedy from behind the counter mistaking the attendant for a pharmacist!

All of this was so unnecessary, just sell petrol, I will forgive the automated car scratcher and the extortionate car vacuum just quit the other stuff.

Nominated by Lord Benny

I’d like to cunt Madison Marriage, the FT Reporter who cleverly decided to to cause all this uproar about The Presidents Club.

So the deal was that women were employed as hostesses. They had to send in a photo to make sure they were pretty enough. They were told to dress sexy, they were told before the event that they were expected to flirt with the men and there would be some touching. They were all given free drinks before the event.

So how the fuck can it come as such as shock to her, and supposedly a few other snowflakes, that some guy puts his hand on her arse.

Stupid cunts. Most of the 150 hostesses were clearly prostitutes earning their money, many were sitting on the guys laps and disappearing into bedrooms with them. So well done Madison your cuntery stopped them all from earning a few quid.

Next she will be getting a job as a stripper and then being horrified when a man is looking at her tits. Carry on with much more of this and we’ll end up with all women dressed in Burqas and ISIS-style bans on any form of entertainment, I think this is exactly what most of our media wants.

Nominated by Snowflake Hating Cunt

We surely cannot let this evening pass without a heartfelt cunting for Burns Night.

As we all know, our friends in the north will welcome any excuse to shift a few drams and get royally – or should that be republically – pissed. Lets face it, you have get pretty pissed to bring in a sausage stuffed with offal on a silver dish to the accompaniment of catawalling bagpipes and read it a fucking poem!

Don’t get me wrong. I actually like haggis, but this is just bullshit excuse for a piss up.

Mind you, what do you expect from a nation that elected one as a leader?

And that Rabbie Burns wrote shit poetry too!!

Nominated by Jock Strap

How this cross-eyed cunt ever became famous baffles me. A face like a crushed bag of cement, exactly the same wooden performance in everything, and the miserable fucker’s “angsty” schtick always makes him look and sound half-pissed.

Fuck off, Neeson – you’re a massive cunt.

Nominated by Fred West