Be like Bob and forget about elf on a shelf

“a typical meme would show a photoshopped picture of say Jeremy Hunt on top of Jeremy Hunt, and the caption would read ‘Cunt on a Cunt’. Thats the basic premise.”

These shitty fads come and go faster than Lib Dem leaders. Yes we’ve fucking heard of elf on shelf and adopted it into British lore like racism and diabetes, and anything else shit that we see and like on American sitcoms.

2015: “elf on shelf. Eh? What the fucks that?”

2016: “Have you seen our elf on shelf? It’s been in the family for 6 generations!”

Fuck off.

Now. I’ve spent more column inches talking about elf on shelf than the lengh of the weapon of mass disruption hidden in Trump’s pants. Two. But I’m actually ranting about the ‘hilarious’ memes that are currently going viral, which take the concept and skewer it into something so clever it will blow you mind! They rhyme other shit!

If you don’t know what I’m talking about I’ll give you an example; a typical meme would show a photoshopped picture of say Jeremy Hunt on top of Jeremy Hunt, and the caption would read ‘Cunt on a Cunt’. Thats the basic premise.

Soon the masses will realise that this is funny for about 1.3 seconds, before it occurs to them that it’s just the same old shit, like the new iPhone.

Remember Bob? He did stuff for a day based on common sense and not being a twat, before disappearing into obscurity like Virgin Cola, or Theresa May in three months.

Be like Bob. Dissappear and stop sharing shit fucking memes that are as funny as bowel surgery.

Brexiters Are Thicker Than a 90’s Yellow Pages

“We’ve gone from being the biggest empire on the globe to an annoying fucking piss head who’s just glassed the landlord, needs to leave, wants to stay friends with everyone but won’t pay his fucking bar tab.”

Brexit. I fucking hate that word. Ironically it sounds like a cheap imitation Kit Kat from a fucking European super market. I can see the Aldi ad now; ‘Have a rest, have a Brexit.’

I wish we would have a rest, I mean, who’s fucking bright idea was this? Oh yeah, that loaded fucking toad mimicker, ‘man of the people’ tweed clad cunt. Only he had no power did he? Apart from the Brexit hating BBC giving the twat rolling 24/7 news coverage for 5 years, like he’s a fucking dead royal.

He didn’t instigate it though did he? So we can’t dump all responsibility on the prick. No, that was the fault of the balding lipless pig fancier, who assumed that the public would blindly and automatically do what a man who fucked the UK like it was the star of Babe instructed them to.

So here we are now. 1 vs 27. More fucked than Marilyn Monroe in the 50’s. Now I’m not getting all nationalistic and patriotic, that’s what got us into this fucking mess in the first place, we’re like the world’s shittest Nazis, I will point out however, that we’ve gone from being the biggest empire on the globe to an annoying fucking piss head who’s just glassed the landlord, needs to leave, wants to stay friends with everyone but won’t pay his fucking bar tab. We’re an embarrassment. A petulant 5 year old with its fingers in its ears, running around the play ground screaming Brexit means Brexit over and over again. Ner ner na fucking ner ner.

All the other countries know we’re fucked, all the economists know we’re fucked, but we’re still lying on the bed, foggy headed, post Miss. World after party, looking up at a topless grinning Trump and wondering.

It’s going to be great though, think of all the new trade deals! We can swap queuing and a sense of irony with America for Type 2 diabetes and poor spelling.

What exactly are we going to fucking export by the way? We don’t fucking produce anything anymore apart from self doubt and small talk. Our whole fucking economy is based on PPI claims. As soon as Irene in Peterborough realises she’s owed 8 grand from Barclays we’re fucked, the illusion will shatter quicker than an X-Factor finalist’s career.

Come on, you must regret your decision now that the novelty has worn off. Is it depressing? Like being the last kid in class getting his eagerly awaited fidget spinner, only to realise it’s just fucking rotating metal and there is no money for the NHS or any sense of hope.

Yes, the majority have spoken! Well sorry but the majority are thick fucking cunts.

Maybe if he made up more countries his talk of destroying them wouldn’t be so terrifying

“Just yesterday he stood in front of all the other countries and actually spoke about how cruel Kim Jong Un is to his own people, and that he’d fix it by completely vaporising them. That’s like Jim fixing it for some NSPCC kids without the the fucking cameras rolling.”

“Oh that silly old prick with the shit hair gone done another whoopsie.”

Let’s all laugh at how fucking stupid the senile old cunt is again.

The trouble is that if you really think about it it’s not funny at all is it? Be honest. We’re all laughing at his fucking Narnia gaff because if we didn’t, we’d probably polish off that Christmas brandy from the cupboard and drive the family estate into a brick wall With the little ‘uns in the back.

His gaffes are about as funny as a fucking Lisa Riley era episode of You’ve Been Framed, and they’re wearing thinner than a Brexit NHS promise.

Just yesterday he stood in front of all the other countries and actually spoke about how cruel Kim Jong Un is to his own people, and that he’d fix it by completely vaporising them. That’s like Jim fixing it for some NSPCC kids without the the fucking cameras rolling.

This geriatric fixident advert is the most powerful man in the entire fucking world, and he’s slinging out nuclear holocaust rhetoric like a parady Bond villain whilst we’re all talking about how silly he is for making up a country.

I wish he could actually make up countries, that way his talk of destroying them wouldn’t be so fucking painfully terrifying.

How a Labour party gamble still ruining lives

“It involved us each putting £20 into a pot and wandering over to the nearest resting den of the damned. A one stop shop for the terminally self loathing dregs of society, banging illuminated screens and cursing them”

I never was a gambler. I bought the odd scratch card of course, regularly paid my idiot tax with dreams of winning 5 grand just like the next cunt. Sometimes I even won a pound so I could swap it for another fucking misery token.

Then came the day that ruined my life. As a manic depressive with a so far pretty fucking dire existence, I’ve got a very addictive personality. If it gives me any form of pleasure I’ll eat, drink, smoke or snort it. I’ve got more vices than a fucking B&Q warehouse.

I digress, I was in my local about four years ago drinking away my pain with a couple of mates. One said “let’s go for a spin.” I was so naive back then where gambling was concerned. I wish I still was.

“A spin” involved us each putting £20 into a pot and wandering over to the nearest resting den of the damned. A one stop shop for the terminally self loathing dregs of society, banging illuminated screens and cursing them, when in actual fact they were cursing their own inability to retain a modicum of self control. This was hell on earth and unbeknown to me, I’d soon be one of those dregs.

We won! Not huge but enough to entice. Our combined £60 meant we left with a healthy £260 each. £240 profit for standing in front of a machine, pressing numbers and waiting for a virtual wheel to spin. Piece of piss. Or so I thought.

Twenty minutes later we were back. I laughed at my mates as they each squandered their cash. They were mugs and I was clever. Bored, I put a tenner in the fourth machine, the other three were occupied by my friends and an angry drunk. There’s only four allowed in each shop. Each can take £80,000 a hour since Gordon Brown relaxed betting laws to make way for a super casino which never transpired.

I won! Another £270. Piece of piss! I lent my friends money so we could carry on drinking. I was smug and they were losers.

That week I went back every night and every night I won, until I didn’t.

A tenner here, fifty quid there. It added up quicker than the Trump border wall cost. I was fucked. Each pay day I fed my hard earned cash into a virtual roulette machine quicker than an ex PM fucking a pig at an initiation ceremony.

I got more payday loans than UKIP in an election campaign. I was living in my dad’s spare room and every ‘night out’ resulted in 1 pint, a five mile walk home and me contemplating throwing myself off the nearest railway bridge.

Long story short I got my act together. Certain circumstances forced me to and an inner strength I always had but hadn’t realised prevailed. Than fuck!

Occasionally I crumble. I go back to square one and revert to form, and each time I do I fall into a dark cloud of depression. This shit never leaves you.

Most aren’t so stong. Most with this affliction spend every day of their tortuous lives cramped up in these high street prison cells, desperately trying to ‘win big’ and set themselves free. That never happens of course because they give it all back to book maker.

It’s a disease and it’s ruining lives and our towns.

 

Stop lumping us older millenials in with the entitled younger ones

“We’ve experienced the joys of playing out, going on bike rides or staying up to watch Friday night comedy at our nan’s house for a treat. We’ve de-winged daddy long legs because there was bugger all else to do for fuck sake. We were the last actual kids.”

Millennial is a pretty broad term for describing a whole generation. It covers everything from life weary thirty somethings like me, to spotty little cunts who see more daylight than a fucking vampire.

I’m not saying older millenials are better than anyone else or even that we have had it harder for that matter. In terms of education, inheritance and housing then yes, we’ve been fucked more times than Katie Price before a book launch, but in comparison to the young men and women around in 1914, we’re pretty fucking privileged.

My dad’s generation had the last of the real men. And no, I don’t mean that wandering handed misogynists who took cues from On The Busses cliché. I mean hard working, make do and mend giants amongst today’s blokes. Don’t get me wrong. It’s good that guys can talk, express love and occasionally fucking cry but we’ve lost a certain grit and determination.

Example: The other day I watched my 66 year old dad spend 3 hours finding something called a ‘front hub’ from a scrap yard, then changing it on my car at his house because mine had something called a “fucked wheel bearing”. I watched him struggle in awe like he used to do when I programmed the VCR for him. I felt 10 years old again. Making him brews and finding spanners. I felt less manly than Louis Spence. Impotant. Dejected. I felt fucking shit.

My generation have led different lives to the younger millenials though. We’ve experienced the joys of playing out, going on bike rides or staying up to watch Friday night comedy at our nan’s house for a treat. We’ve de-winged daddy long legs because there was bugger all else to do for fuck sake. We were the last actual kids.

We’re from a time when our uncles were unashamedly racist, when TV shows were on the verge of being, and we’ve seen the world around us change for the better and then eventually go too far.

The younger ones were born with fucking iPads in their hands. They’re scared of actual conversation and terrified of debate. They are coddled and they do need a safe space. They’ve only ever known this new Orwellian world through, and they’re fucked.

So. Pease stop comparing us. We’re not the same.

 

We used to help people standing on bridges but now we goad them into jumping

We used to help people standing on bridges but now we goad them into jump

We’ve hit rock bottom as a society. We’re more devolved than fucking Scotland after a paddy, and it’s all because of the thing you’re reading this shite on. The ironically named smart phone, a device invented to enhance all of our lives and to make the acquisition of knowledge instant.

At least that was the idea. In reality two things the smart phone does absolutely guarantee are bad necks and fucking masturbation on the go. Quite fitting really, when you consider that its turned us all into fucking callous, socially inept wankers. Steve Jobs isn’t spinning in his grave. I’d know if he were because there’d be some cunt filming it.

We walk around, ear buds in, with our slack jawed faces lit up like fucking Queen in the Bohemian Rhapsody video, paying no attention to our environment like some sort of fucking techno zombies from a dystopian future turned real;

“Grandad, why didn’t you protest the government burning all the poor people?”

“Because I was tending virtual sheep Johnny, on my virtual farm, like an actual fucking dick head.”

The collective consciousness has deteriorated so much now that we’re like the Borg with fucking learning difficulties. On social media and in actual reality, we’ve been reduced to a vicious pack of mentally stunted morons, who attack anything they don’t understand, like the fucking English Defense League.

I say we of course, but most of us are silently watching on in horror as no one gets that Barry Gibb joke on Twitter, or everyone on your friends list shares an obviously fake news story about a baby surviving a fire two weeks after it happened. It would be funny if it weren’t so fucking depressing.

People used to help each other in trouble. Now they just film it, separating themselves from the horror unfolding in front of them by viewing it through a 5″ screen. Recenty people have even filmed other people getting raped for fuck sake. What is wrong with the world?

And when did we allow our children to be bullied online? When we were bullied the bully was fucking there, in front of us! For Christ’s sake teach your kids to leave the virtual room, close the lid on the laptop or even close down the social media account. Boom. Problem solved. No more fucking bullying. We need to teach them that non of this shit here is important. Non of it.

Remember this though. When it does all get too much for you, when you’ve lost all hope in civilisation and you’re standing on that ledge ready to jump, take a deep breath and smile, because as you hurtle to your death, the last thing you’ll see are hundreds of goading, gawping cunts, filming it all on their smart phones.

BoJo is a scruffy isosceleyed walking aftermath

“He’s a shaved shit haired albino ape. A fucking human hangover. He’s a Two Fat Ladies secret love child, the fucking blonde haired Eton Mess.”

Is he going for a leadership bid? Does he want to get sacked? Is he going to resign? These are just three of the many questions that no one gives a fuck what the answer is.

He doesn’t fucking care! Think of it this way. If he isn’t an in Parliament tomorrow, he’s not going to be worrying about getting fucking sanctioned in a fortnight.

One thing is certain though. Like anyone with half a brain, he probably wants as little to do with the impending cluster fuck that is Brexit.

“Oh, you want to drive the Reliant Robin with the shit Union Flag paint job, the fucked engine and no breaks into Hades Treeza? Be my guest. Here’s the fucking keys.”

The only thing bigger than the £350 million sum that BoJo insists on repeating more than Only Fools and Horses on Gold is his own fucking ego.

He’s a shaved shit haired albino ape. A fucking human hangover. He’s a Two Fat Ladies secret love child, the fucking blonde haired Eton Mess.

He’s a lie spitting bollocks tornado, chaos personified. A fucking tubby unhinged makeupless clown who no one laughs at anymore. He’s a suited unkempt hyper cunt, the fucking walking demic.

Paul Goulding is a piece of shit

“Cheers for ‘protecting’ Britain by the way. Harassing innocent Muslims in their place of worship makes me feel really safe at night, you chubby fucking balloon faced fleece model.”

“You ain’t no Muslim bruv” became immortalised words not so long ago when uttered to a nutter on the Tube. Well you aint no Christian you fucking fat rabble rousing cunt.

You and Jayda Fransen are like a shit racist Bonnie and Clyde tribute act, only you don’t use guns. You just hijack pictures of soldiers, and paste faux ‘patriotic’ statements over them so that our fucking grannys, who’ve been on online for exactly 3.5 seconds unwittingly share your vile Britain First page, spreading it hate fucking cyber AIDS and carrying your racist rhetoric with it like an abandoned copy of The Daily Mail on a train.

Using images of actual patriots though, real British heroes who’ve faught for Queen and country. Thats fucking lower than you’re IQ. Especially considering that the only thing you fight is online arguments, poorly, you fat ginger twat.

Cheers for ‘protecting’ Britain by the way. Harassing innocent Muslims in their place of worship makes me feel really safe at night, you chubby fucking balloon faced fleece model.

In fact you were doing that just the other week weren’t you? Harassing Muslims, whilst other Muslims, along with everyone else in the tight knit community surrounding Grenfell Tower banded together to help survivors and their families with food, warmth and love. The very things you want to tear apart like a fucking Subway wrapper.

You and your kind won’t win here. When will that sink in?  Your brand of thick as pig shit fascism ALWAYS collapses in the UK, like one of your deck chairs you fucking red faced, whiskey cheeked, pre diabetic cunt.

 

World runs out of fucks to give after tyrancunt threatens rocket cock for millionth time

“Leaders used to treat the Kim Jong dynasty like the nutter on a bus. Granted he would shout random threats every now and again, which could be pretty scary, but after two miles you realised that if you didn’t make contact and ignored him, he was pretty fucking harmless.”

How can the impending mutually assured destruction of everything we hold dear become so fucking boring?

We’re all going die in the most horrific way. Your fucking fillings will melt before you’re vaporised, and worst of all, you’ll never find out what happened to the Night King.

Are we fucking away our final days in an orgy that would make the 60’s blush? Telling our bosses to do one before smashing up our laptops and looting B&M’s?

Are we fuck. We’re watching Dr. Foster on catch up and just eye rolling about it all like someone having a fit, or tutting like a ukipper at a market.

“Have you heard what that cunts gone and said now?”

“Which one? That psychopathic meglomanic or Kim Jong Un?”

“Trump. He’s threatened to destroy North Korea!”

“Didn’t he do that yesterday?”

“Yeah”

It’s boring. Normalised. We’re sick of it. It’s fucking duller than an episode of Flog It! Until it’s not, that is. You see, we’re all repeating our comfort statements; “they’re both mental”, “It’s all bluster”, “neither of them will actually do anything”, there’s safe guards.”

There were safe guards once! Leaders used to treat the Kim Jong dynasty like the nutter on a bus. Granted he would shout random threats every now and again, which could be pretty scary, but after two miles you realised that if you didn’t make contact and ignored him, he was pretty fucking harmless.

The trouble now is that there’s two nutters on the bus and they’re pretty fucking close to the steering wheel, they’re making eye contact, and they’re definitely not ignoring each other.

Piers Morgan blanked Jeremy Corbyn by speaking in fluent cunt

“Listen. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of a million celebrities flicking through the pages of their old GCSE Spanish text books, or cunt deterrents as they’re soon to be rebranded.”

Ok, it was the other way around. Corbyn snubbed that toe faced cunt Morgan by speaking in fluent Spanish. Who knew it was that simple to perplex a twat?

Listen. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of a million celebrities flicking through the pages of their old GCSE Spanish text books, or cunt deterrents as they’re soon to be rebranded. All of them swatting up just so they don’t have to engage that male fucking Hopkins in conversation again.

Go on Jezza! Just when everyone thought you were about as funny as an episode of Miranda which she doesn’t fall over in, you go and pull that blinder out of the bag like an excited dealer with a new batch of E’s.

I’d have loved to have witnessed the expression change on that anchor eyed motor mouthed turbo bollocks preacher, as he sat impotantly and tried to decipher your Spanish bants.

Well played Jezza, well played my son.