The papes were so full of shit today I’ve decided to include four (yes, four – count ‘em) of the fackers in today’s ‘The Corner’. And they are shit. To a mind-bogglingly stupid degree.
First up – The Bastard Bollocks Shitarse Express
The EU are planning to send food aid to the UK after Brexit. That’s how sound this arse-twat of a policy is. All Brexiteers can fuck the fuck off, you manky, wee-smelling bastards, because you feeble minded cretins have fucked it up. You goons. You fools. You Conservative, Rees-Mogg and Johnson backing twats. Kicking you in the bollocks for eternity would be just the start, you feckless buffoons. But, you know, that’s just my opinion.
Anyway, on a lighter note:
Wow. The Mail really hate Corbyn. They might as well have published ‘Corbyn Nazi Death Camp Baby Killing Puppy Punching Beardy Twat’. At the same time, the story wouldn’t have actually contained any actual news, but hey ho,- such is a journo’s life.
The Home Office have now become the Hunger Games:
Last, but not least, the cock-robins at The Torygraph.
Apparently hordes of terrorist Muslims are chomping at the bit to have a go at the band ‘Go West’. Disclaimer: I may have misread the headline. Another Disclaimer: The Telegraph is bucket of shit with a shit flavoured cherry on top. And it’s shit.
Fucking what?! Bastard, bollocks, shite, arseholes, big bellends and shite! The Daily Express have managed to out-wank themselves by combining a Brexit AND a Trump headline:
They truly are the arseholes of humanity. I don’t even care what the story is about because a) it’s bound to be shite, and b) it’s written by knobends. On to some proper news:
What Ant should have done was lock Piers Morgan in a room full of hungry tigers, and then we’ll see how ‘controversial’ the pudding-faced twat can be. On a side note, I’d just like to say that Piers Morgan has managed to be a massive bellend on 2 continents.
Wah! I am a massive twat! Wah! Those bluddy rotters in the Demolame Party have been flicking the V’s at old Trumpy once too often, the flippin’ sods! They have no concept about national security and should get with the ruddy program which says that billions of illegal immigrants – in fact, all of South America – want to come into the USA and get shot by our glorious police in an over-reaction to someone brown aggressively walking down the street and eating an ice cream, and so we HAVE to build that wall immediately or else we’re all up plop creek and I’m the only one with the paddle, which I’m using by letting Mrs Whiplash McBottyspank abuse me with for perfectly legitimate and presidential reasons.
Immediately, this puts me in a bit of a dilemma as I’ll be taking the moolah out of the defence fund, but my great showbiz mate Alex Jones at Infopricks tells me that the military are just part of the fascist Demoknob junta waiting in the wings to bring down my glorious empire and elect Hilary Clinton into power so they can lock up all gun owners and allow Muslims to run a free national health service, which all good Republicans know is the worse thing since a million Hitlers.
“You could have used that cash to make society better by doing big, girly things like helping people,” I hear all the snowflakes cucks whining, but they’re wrong, because I’ve got loads of cash (honest!) and all the tiny plebs out there in Paupland love the fact that I’ve got oodles of lovely money pouring out of my knob and they haven’t, because they wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyway. Probably spend it on food and clothes and heating, which is complete and utter boring shit when they could be spending it on golden toilet seats and trained orange squirrels which sit on your head.
Anyway, who’s the bluddy Prez around here, anyway? It’s me, isn’t it, and I’ve been the most popular and greatest Prez ever in the history of the United States and everything I do is great, like that time I got my head stuck down the toilet and all the White House staff tried to free me by kicking me up the arse for many hours until they got tired and just punched me in the bollocks for a bit.
The ruddy wall is bluddy well getting built whether people like it or not. It’s going to be a million feet high and be made of gold and have big pictures of me all along the side facing Mexico, and they’ll be a big speech balloon coming out of my mouth with ‘sod off, paup scum’ written on it and maybe a couple of fingers flicking the ‘V’s at all the terrorist rapists waiting there, and then everyone in the USA will feel better and safer and keep voting me in for life like what they do in that China place, and I can keep coming up with corking ideas like this one, which is almost as good as when I saw that cartoon Battle of the Planets and came up with Space Force, which is the next national emergency I’m going to declare. This bloke in a donkey jacket said he could get me a job lot of space fighters for a couple of billion if I was – and I quote – “Ready to hand over the moolah now, eh, ya big orange twat”. He said some of the space fighters may be damaged as they fell off the back of a lorry, but that doesn’t matter as I’ll do anything to protect the United States of… wherever we are.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the tabloids would react to the news that the pregnant British jihadi bride wants to get back into Blighty. The Scum sum up the ‘angry bloke in the pub’ mood in their usual delicate fashion:
If it was up to Murdoch he’d probably organise a public hanging, as long as it flogged a few papers, and after Brexit gets pushed through he probably will.
Not to be outdone by the Scum, the Daily Mule have decided that she’s just a spearhead for hoards of pregnant Jihadi brides waiting to storm the UK’s barriers and champing at the bit to rush in and start marrying our jobs:
I like the way the paper puts quotation marks around ‘dozens’, which basically means they haven’t got a source and some copy editor has made it up to try and make the story more dramatic. I’ll be surprised if they haven’t suggested the brides are smuggling bombs in rather than babies.
But sod all that, because The Star, as usual, have got the scoop of the century:
They’ve got to the point where they’re now quoting the landlord down the local boozer. “Er, yes guv, the problem these fackin’ days is all the fackin’ non-alky millenials behind the bar just ain’t fackin’ markin’ ‘ard enough because they want to get ‘ome rather than ‘ang about and get fackin’ drunk, the fackin’ snowflakes. If we’re not fackin’ careful there’ll be no one fackin’ pissed enough to take on the Bosch when they invade, ya cant! Another Babycham, anyone?”
Finally, proof that they make it all up down the pub.
In which the usual kind of James Herbert hero punches a giant, mutated rat, has rudies with a lady, and then kicks the shit out of some more rats.
Second of three sequels to his tramp-knacker-chewing debut ‘The Rats’ (many peeps forget he did the graphic novel ‘The City’ after ‘Domain’) this one follows much the same format, although with slightly less apocalyptic overtones than his other books in the series. There’s mayhem alright, but a bit more subdued than we’re used to from one of Herbert’s gorier entries. In this one the rats have fucked off to Epping Forest after being driven out of London and have been living undercover, chomping on the odd squirrel now and then, before the blood-lust grabs them by the short and curlies and sends them hurtling out to the usual victims, which in this case is a cheating couple who are on for a bit of rumpy in the middle of the forest. After that we get the usual action scenes, all done with the sort of gut-splatting horror we’ve come to expect from Herbert before he decided to take himself seriously and started writing ghost stories.
I’ve read all of Herbert’s books, and I’ve only just realised why his action scenes work so well. He doesn’t just reel out one strand of linear action, where the hero has to overcome an immediate obstacle, but he’ll pile on several simultaneous action set-pieces within the main action piece so the hero has to fight back against several odds. Example: In one scene set in a Conservation Centre a giant rat leaps through a window and chomps on a worker’s face. Our hero – Rigid Bifftrousers (names don’t really matter in Herbert books as they all sound the same) – enters the scene with a cohort and they shove a table in front of the shattered window to stop anymore rats turning up. Then Biff goes to help the woman but – fuck my old jockstrap – his cohort is now getting attached by a rat that’s squeezed into the room. So now Biff has to rescue the woman AND his cohort AND try and seal the room long enough for everyone to escape. Three actions beats in one scene right there. It keeps the interest going, so you’re wondering how the poor bastard is going to get out of the current dilemma, and there lies the hook.
A bad writer will have a straight, linear series of obstacles, which is shite. You need to kick the shit out of the hero and stick them against almost insurmountable odds so they have to use their grit, ingenuity and wits to overcome whatever the scene demands. Also, we get no deus ex machinas, which – to get technical – only a massive shithead with no imagination would do. His actions follow a logical, linear progression so nothing feels forced or crammed in to help wrap a scene up or wrench the protagonists out of a sticky situation. Herbert also writes his action with a robust feel for the environment and situation, so every punch lands, rather than some of the mimsy shite you read in a lot of books where it feels like a couple of wet cabbages are having a scrap. And when it comes to the endings, he ALWAYS delivers, which is why his books are so great.
Recommended, as all of Herbert’s books are. Even ‘The Magic Cottage’, and there’s nary a whiff of any tramps having their bollocks mutilated in that one.
Valentine’s Day, when fluffy bunnies frolic amongst the roses and lovers wander down memory lane and shell out for some top nosh on the promise of a quick fumble if they’re not pissed enough.
We asked some immense celebs and top politicians what they usually did on Valentine’s Day, and the answers will surprise you! Actually, no – they won’t.
Wah! Fart! Belch! Masturbate! What I normally do for Valentine’s Day is pay a lady to spank my botty with a copy of ‘Orange Dickhead Monthly’, hopefully with a picture of my big, stupid face on the front cover. And then I’ll tweet some old bollocks about how my knob is enormous and my balls are made of tungsten steel. After that, I’ll stuff my cat’s-arse mouth with a few cheeseburgers and then fart myself to sleep under the impression that I’m not a dribbling, great helmet. Lovely.
I like to celebrate Valentine’s Day by stabbing some fucker in the back in my relentless quest for power. If the postman is delivering the one card I send to myself with ‘You’re not a duplicitous shit, Govey baby, no matter what everyone else says’ then I’ll pretend to be his best friend and then get him sacked. Sometimes Bojo pops around and we sit around and drink man-beer and talk about all the girls we’ve definitely had sex with, which is millions, because everyone knows all the chicks love a bloke with a face like seventies puppet freak-monkey ‘Pob’. I am great.
As the bestest person and hugest celeb in the world the amount of Valentine’s cards I receive is enough to kill an elephant. First of all, I’ll wade through the cards, sift out the ones that aren’t from Donald Trump asking to touch my bottom, and then write back to the rest and tell them they’re probably Remainers and should fuck off. Then I’ll appear on Good Morning, Plebs and act like a total wanker. And then I’ll stare at myself in the mirror and cry. And then I’ll just hang around and act like a prick for a bit, because that’s what all the hep cats do. GOD, I’M SO LONELY BECAUSE I’M A KNOB!!
I love jam.
I crave not the touch of a human woman, but feel the situation must be obliged for the sake of the press. Normally, what I like to do is spend time with my proper Valentines, The Elder Ones, who live on the far reaches of the senses, biding their time to seep into our world and make us their slaves. They like hobnobs. After they have supped on the souls of the damned (Brexiteers) and departed, I like to snuggle down with a good film and shove a pineapple up my ring.
I like to hammer a nail through my cock.
As a massive cunt I like to walk into poor areas and mock the downtrodden. After that I’ll push over some people in wheelchairs, shout outside abortion clinics that people should tie a knot in it, flick the V’s at people sleeping rough and then kick a beggar to death. After that I’ll give 1p to a charity just to show that I’m not the biggest wanker in the world. Then I’ll steal back the 1p because I am, actually, the biggest wanker in the world.
An interesting headline from the Financial Times for all those ardent Brexiteers who reckon dumping out of the EU without a deal wouldn’t be a problem at all:
The Netherlands have already benefitted from the threat of no deal, and the rest of Europe might as well if the UK doesn’t pull it’s finger out and try and make up their minds just what the ruddy hell they do want with a Brexit. The whole charade was built on a wall of racist and bigoted bullshit about sovereignty and keeping out immigrants, and now the cold, harsh reality is kicking the country in the bollocks the dingos in charge are running around like the clueless fuckwits sensible people know them to be.
But let us not be downhearted. Let’s look at some proper news:
I don’t want to be pedantic here, but is being a goalkeeper a ‘hero’, and is not getting a gong ‘no justice’. I thought heroes were people who went out a did heroic things, like rescue kiddies from a blazing orphanage, or help the poor, or bite the knackers off a hoard of invading enemy combatants. I also thought ‘no justice’ was things like the bankers not getting sent down for fucking the economy up, or people getting fitted up by the filth and jailed unfairly, or anything to do with Jacob Rees-Mogg. Obviously, I’m wrong.
Anyway, that’s not real news, because this is:
It looks like the X-Factor is finally on it’s way down the Suwannee. Once you start firing people and revamping the format that usually means no one wants to watch your shitty, crowd-baiting, gladiatorial event of a piss-pot show, and you might as well fuck off and spend your time wanking over the coins you’ve made because everyone thinks you’re a has-been. Which is my Valentine’s message to Simon Cowell.
Anyway, happy Valentine’s Day, The Corner chums! Don’t let the crushing defeat of sanity and the reality of a cold, bleak existence and your own inevitable descent into oblivion get you down!