Cunt Of The Year 2010

Hi everybody, Nick Clegg here.

It's been a cunt of a year hasn't it? Tories back in power, massive cuts to vital public services, students rioting on the streets of London. And next year's shaping up to be a right cunt too what with the impending purge of the country's poorest people from social housing, massive public sector redundancies, draconian limits on much needed economic migrants from outside the EU, VAT rising to 20% and inflation going absolutely mental.

It really is all a bit of a cunt isn't it?

Now, I know what many of you out there will be thinking. You'll be thinking "that David Cameron has a lot to answer for. That plum-tonsilled, cock sucking, fox hunting, play-doh faced inbred cunt - he's responsible for all this. He's forcing open the bum cheeks of this great nation and reaming its arsehole with a croquet mallet. String him up. Cut his testicles off and shove them, quivering, into his wet-lipped mouth."

But I say to you, no! Cameron is not to blame. If you must blame anyone, blame me. If you must call someone a cunt, call me a cunt. After all, without me none of this would have been possible.

The day I walked out of 10 Downing Street shaking hands with my dear friend the prime minister, was the day I took millions of trusting votes and literally wiped my arse with them.

That's right, Lib Dem voters (whether you are long term partisans or simply had enough of Labour - and let's face it who wouldn't have with their record employment figures, lowest ever NHS waiting times and brilliant revamp of our schools) every ballot paper you ticked and put in that little box, I used it to wipe my faeces-splattered shitbox and then flushed it down the toilet. It was a long night and my anus became sore and chafed. At one point I looked over to my trusted colleague Vince Cable and noticed that his arse needed wiping too, so I handed him a wad of voting papers which he eagerly soiled. As he did so he smiled and said something noble but the gist of what he was saying was lost as everybody was too distracted by his symbolic act of defecation.

Whilst I agree that David Cameron has put this country on a course of destruction, social breakdown and unprecedented inequality over the next five years, we have to bear in mind that he's a tory. What do you expect? It's in his blood. I can assure you he's really a thoroughly nice chap. (He even likes The Smiths. Kudos Dave).

But I was supposed to be the one you trusted. I was meant to be a watershed moment in the history of British politics; a politician proudly standing up for his principles, disrupting the two party power monopoly and reforming the electoral system forever. I even had the fucking Guardian spunking over me like I was the new fucking Messiah!

Well, that's all gone to shit hasn't it?

You all deserve an apology and I wish I was able to give it to you. But at the end of the day, when I look in the mirror and see my own slightly embarrassed, nondescript face looking back at me I think "Clegg, you old cunt, whatever glaring, deceitful, cowardly mistakes you've made this year, you have at least acheived one notable success - you've got the Liberals back into power for the first time in decades. Sort of."

Oh who am I kidding? The truth is I hate myself. Every night, once all the politicking and debating is done and another section of the British populace has been shafted in the House of Commons, I go upstairs to bed and I take out the selected papers of Gladstone, Asquith and David Lloyd George and I have a little wank over them. And then I cry long and hard into the night.

People of Britain, I say this to you. I am a cunt of epic and legendary proportions. It's not going to be easy reconciling my conscience with all that I've done. To be honest, one of these days I'll probably kill myself.

But not right now. There's still work to be done.

The Christmas Cuntdown

By UNCUNT staff

In the shopping malls, on the radio, on VH fucking 1, you just can't avoid Christmas tunes. Some of them are brilliant. Some are cunt-ridden. Here's UNCUNT's selection of the best (and by "best" I mean absolute fucking worst)

Cliff Richard - The Millenium Prayer



Listen Cliff, if that is your real name (it’s not), why don’t you take your God, your daily bread, your 260m records sold worldwide and shove them up your leathery, fake-tanned, puckered, born again arsehole. You’ve shat on the beauty that is Auld Lang Syne and you’ve forced your God shit down people’s necks once too often. This single, quite incredibly, went to number one. Who the fuck went out and bought this? Oh, Christians. (And not the band The Christians with that bald chap, I mean actual Christians….you know, Catholics, Protestants, Baptists, all that shit…..yes they do still exist.) Well thanks Christians for ruining Christmas and for ruining pop music forever. If Jesus had an iPod he would definitely skip this track every single fucking time.

*Cliff's real name is in fact Harry

David Bowie & Bing Crosby - Little Drummer Boy



Having tired of entering Berlin, coked out of his walnut and sieg heiling like a good ‘un, David Bowie decided to devote the rest of his music and ‘acting’ career to being a cunt. There was that one exception, Labyrinth, but even then many people see that as a bit cuntish in its own right. Here, he teamed up with Bing Crosby; famous for the racist yuletide classic White Christmas. What’s so wrong about this is not the shit-yourself-cringeworthy banter or Bowie’s hideous south London twang, it’s not even his shite 80s haircut. It’s the fact that this song was never, EVER intended for the pop charts. This is what you sing in school assembly when you’re 6 years old (and even then it’s crap). What in shitting crikey were these cunts thinking?

Madonna - Santa Baby



Did she really need to do this? Did she? Did she really? Really?

New Kids On The Block - Funky, Funky Christmas



I’m going to warn you. Watching this video could be damaging to your mental health. It has literally nothing to do with the actual concept of Christmas and everything to do with cashing in on fleeting, superficial chart success. I’ll admit, I liked NKOTB. When I was 9. I also liked Bros. But Bros never tried to act like street-wise tough guys, with baseball caps on back to front did they? They were a decent, honest boy band. Not like this shower of cunts.

Smashing Pumpkins - Christmastime



After producing one of the 90s finest rock albums Siamese Dream, Billy Corgan made the conscious decision to become a weird skinhead vampire. He went in to talk to his PR agent and his record label and told them grunge was over and the kids of the future would much rather listen to a whining, self-pitying, angst-ridden, goth twat wearing leather trousers. In many ways he was correct. In many ways Billy Corgan invented Emo. And for that alone, his career will always be remembered as a shit-stained aberration. What his PR guys, and the rest of the world, weren’t expecting was a Christmas single. Surely it went against his moody image? I mean, Metallica never recorded a Christmas single did they? Slipknot never recorded a single with Ol’ Dirty Bastard on lead vocals did they?

No they didn't. Although a part of me really, really wishes that they had.

The 'C' Word

By UNCUNT staff

I'll be brutally honest (as always), I'm not sure whether to praise James Naughtie or cunt him off.

Why, you ask? Surely he should be the unoffical media spokesperson for this entire blog?

Well, the truth is I'm a bit annoyed. I've had this issue of UNCUNT prepared for weeks (if not months), saving it up for the right moment. If I'd written it last week I'd have looked like a prescient genius. Now, after his brilliant Today programme gaffe, I just look a plagiarising, opportunistic cunt.

But fair play to the cunt, he's probably been reading too much UNCUNT. He probably had the last issue up on his laptop at the very moment he was making his instantly classic Freudian slip about culture secretary Jeremy Hunt.

Naughtie's slip of the tongue had an important function in bringing the 'c' word back under the microscope of popular culture and mainstream media; a place where it should be. It re-opened a debate about the (un)acceptability of the word, its etymology as one of the oldest anglo saxon terms, the argument over whether or not it is mysogynistic and the enduring funniness of the word with its simple-yet-effective pronunciation.

The humour behind the word is why I write UNCUNT. It's simply a funnier expletive than wanker, tosser, dickhead or anything else. I have, of course, had to deal with the suggestion that the word contains historically sexist conotations. Well, we live in a post-feminist world and while I (the product of a feminist mother and a hippyish upbringing) found the word unsayable for much of my youth, as a progressive adult I find the idea of not saying 'cunt' because it might be offensive to women a far more sexist and regressive concept than using it freely and liberally.

I do not, however, condone its use to describe a woman. The traditionalist in me feels it is a word that should only be applied to males. You will note there haven't been any UNCUNT issues devoted to any female figures in film and music. Is that perhaps sexist of me in itself? Should I not call everybody a cunt regardless of gender? I suppose I probably should but I still retain an element of what Hadley Freeman described to me as "squeamishness" about the word. This blog in some ways is a form of therapeutic workout for my literary psyche.

I actually began to use the word freely and liberally only after hearing several women I know using it. One being my sister, another being a close friend who loved watching late night episodes of Prisoner Cell Block H and abusing the eponymous (all-female) prisoners. More recently, a female colleague at work, apropos of nothing, described Alexa Chung as a cunt. She said it in her northern accent (which alters the word to something perhaps more aggressive) and it was simultaneously shocking and hilarious. Now, in all fairness, Alexa Chung is a cunt, everybody thinks that. But the feminist part of me thinks that it's ok for a woman to call her a cunt but unacceptable for a man to do like wise. Weird huh?

The word is of course simply slang for the vagina and in that sense no different to its genitally offensive relations 'cock', 'pussy' and 'twat'. But there is something in its short, sharp shocking enunciation that elevates it to a higher plane.

While the word has had many airings in the film world - horrendously in Nil By Mouth, disturbingly in Taxi Driver, scarily in Sexy Beast - it has been far less used in the annals of music.

This issue is a dedication to those heroes of music who have uttered the immortal word on tape.

The Libertines - What a Waster

Banned by Radio One, most bands would have viewed this release, their first ever single, as commercial suicide. For the Libertines it cemented their reputation as serious, subversive, hedonistic, intellectual heroes of the UK underclass.

Alongside references to the bible, the Beano and James Joyce's Ulysees this sexual ode to a coke-addled waster girl contains the most glorious swearing ever put on record. Never have the words "what a divvy, what a fucking div, walking like a moron, talking like a spiv" sounded so poetic. But what really nails it of course is the majestic use of the 'c' word. "the city's hard, the city's fair. get back inside, you've got nothing on. No, mind your bleedin' own you two-bob cunt." The working class Victorianisms radicalised a whole new breed of young English pop stars of the future and I, for one, am eternally grateful to Messrs Doherty and Barat.

S*M*A*S*H - Lady Love Your CuntWho remembers the New Wave Of New Wave? (Or NWONW as the NME cleverly titled it). For those of you too young (or too old), it was a very brief musical movement in 1993 that acted almost as an unintentional segue between grunge and britpop. Many say it was the forerunner to britpop and they definitely have a point. Bands that fell into this category, as well as punk rockers S*M*A*S*H, were punk rockers Compulsion, glam-mod, eyeliner-wearing speed freaks These Animal Men and the indie Morrissey-endorsed Smiths-soundalike Echobelly. I loved all of these bands. Very briefly. Sonya Aurora-Madan was a bona fide role model for non-white indie kids; a British Asian woman wearing a Union Jack t-shirt. A decade after their demise I spotted guitarist Debbie working in the Notting Hill Record and Tape Exchange - how the mighty fall.

Not only did S*M*A*S*H accompany Oasis on their first US tour, they also released a mini-album, a full-length album and this non-album single.

Named after Germaine Greer's essay, this pro-feminist attempt unfortunately did not go down too well with the indie chicks of the day (the indie chicks of the day being largely affiliated with the contemporaneous Riot Grrrl movement). Upon its release I recall letters in Melody Maker from women saying (and I am paraphrasing here) "fuck off S*M*A*S*H, who the fuck do you think you are? Have you got cunts? No, we have and we'll fucking decide if we wanna love them or fucking hate them. You cunts." It was classic.

It's also worth pointing out that S*M*A*S*H were from Welwyn Garden City. Is there any town in existence that is less rock'n'roll? (It's a rhetorical question.)

Kurt Cobain's answerphone messages to Victoria Clarke and Lynn HershbergIn 1992 Kurt Cobain was becoming seriously fucked up. Now married to Courtney Love and with a new born baby Frances Bean, his fame and lifestyle were becoming all a bit too much.

Out of his gourd on smack he took exception to music journalists Clarke and Hershberg (the former being the long term partner of Pogue Shane MacGowan) and an article they wrote about how Love had smoked heroin while pregnant.

He rang up Clarke but instead got her answerphone. Not dissuaded, Cobain proceeded to leave a rambling abusive message (in two or three parts - answerphones were actual tapes back then remember). At one point he described the duo as "insane cunts", which at the time, for a grunger and a devout champion of women's rights like Cobain, was big news. Select magazine received the tape and published a transcription (which I read as a transfixed 12 year old).

Listen to part of his message here. It's quite funny. In a disturbing way.

Steve Coogan - Everyone's A Bit Of A Cunt Sometimes

Steve Coogan is widely regarded as a bit of a cunt. Despite his ample talent and comedic genius for character acting, Coogan himself has never been taken to the public's heart has he?

Peter Hook once described him as "the biggest cunt ever to come out of Manchester". Nobody knows exactly why but it was probably because Coogan tried to bang Caroline Aherne. It makes sense doesn't it? Aherne hosted the Mrs Merton Show. Coogan appeared on the Mrs Merton Show. Hooky played on the Mrs Merton Show. Coogan must have groped her or suggested a quicky in a seedy hotel. Hooky took exception and labelled him a cunt. That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

Underneath the "coke and strippers" headlines, the messy divorces, the arrogance, the alcoholism and the relocation to Los Angeles (where the very concept of being a cunt began) there has to be a lovable chap somewhere inside him. No?

Well at least he's able to laugh at himself. The 2009 stand-up tour, according to people I know who saw it, was utterly shite. But the closing song is quite good. I particularly like "I've had a life of plenty, does that make me a c-u-n-t?".

Have a listen. If you still think he's a cunt afterwards well, I can't really blame you.



The Auteurs - The Upper Classes
And so to my final, and favourite, use of the 'c' word in the annals of rock music. Luke Haines has never been one to mince his words. In his autobiography Bad Vibes he cunts off everybody from The The's Matt Johnson to Pulp's Jarvis Cocker. Saving a special, persistent, spiteful-yet-affectionate cunt-off for Lawrence Hayward - brainchild of the shit 80s/90s bands Felt and Denim.

That's the kind of man Haines is. The more he likes someone, the more inclined he is to call them a cunt. That's why I respect him.

On The Auteurs second album Now I'm A Cowboy, which I regard as their masterpiece, Haines sings about everything from Chinese bakeries to new French girlfriends. Every little Britpop gem on this album has an epic quality and contains an undertone of respectful homage mixed with a snidey cunt-off. He'd hate me calling it Britpop, but it is. It's more Britpop than Suede or even Blur. It's want Britpop was meant to sound like before the likes of Ash and Menswear came along, ballsing it all up.

On The Upper Classes, Haines does not hold back. It is one of the great underappreciated lyrics of our time. Slowly, creepingly, but surely he takes sarcastic aim at the aristocracy and their trust funds, inherited wealth and houses behind trees. Halfway through this protracted, bitter put down in which our protagonist steals clothes from an upper class lover then feels ashamed at being in cahoots with the landed gentry, Haines quite bizarrely refers to an unnamed person with the words "that cunt's really got it sussed. Selling wine, selling drugs. You can get so far with a perishing wit, but the money's in trust, isn't it?"

I'm still unsure what or who he is referring to but nevertheless it's one of those rare moments when pop lyricism transcends the mundane, makes you actually laugh out loud and the way he offers it up so off-the-cuff, almost as an afterthought gets you reaching for the rewind button just to make sure you heard it right.

I salute the genius of Mr Haines - the most underrated songwriter ever and a proper cunt to boot.

Cunts of Leon

By UNCUNT staff

When is something going to be done about Kings of Leon? They show no signs of voluntarily packing up their gear and fucking off, so surely it falls to us - the British public - to get the message home that their kind are not wanted here?

Well, so far, the British public have singularly failed to get this message across. In fact, like poorly little puppy dogs at Battersea Dog’s Home we’ve been metaphorically lapping up Kings of Leon’s vomit for virtually the past decade. We’ve been sniffing their shit and licking their balls like inquisitive dogs on heat. What is our fucking problem?

When these bearded cunts emerged out of Tennessee clinging desperately to the coat tails of the Strokes and the White Stripes like some kind of deranged maniacs the joke was rather droll for a time. But it soon wore thin….

‘Red Morning Light’? Doesn’t mean anything, can’t hear what he’s saying but it’s lively enough and I like how the drummer hits the cymbals.

‘Molly’s Chamber’? Doesn’t mean anything, can’t hear what’s he’s saying, it’s a bit less lively and the drummer’s not hitting the cymbal in the same way.

‘The Bucket’? Ok, he’s enunciating better here but what’s this shit about “18 and balding”?

King of the Rodeo? Lively enough. But what the FUCK is he saying???? Open your mouth you mumbling, clichéd fuckpiece.

By the time they got on to their ‘wanky rock star’ phase of 'On Call' and (somebody please rip off my ears with cheese wire then shoot me in the face) 'Sex On Fire', the warning signs had long been ignored. Their popularity went up, their sales went up, their marketability went up, their stadium tour bookings went up. The quality of the music went down. Strange that…

But it really is those stadium tours that irk us the most here at UNCUNT. Do they ever leave our shores? Clearly they’ve identified Britain as a weak, vulnerable spot they can exploit. To the point where some kind of regulatory body should step in and place a cease and desist order. They’ve never achieved success in their native America. Why would they? Americans aren’t impressed with bands whose main selling point is being American.

3-4 times a year these cunts come back over here with their American ways – stealing our jobs and raping our women. Playing the O2, Wembley or Hyde Park. No sooner have they got off stage from playing their traditional pre-Christmas show then their cunt of a tour manager is booking their next pre-Christmas show.

For their upcoming O2 shows, Ticketmaster have a special Kings of Leon Ultimate Experience deal. For the price of a mere £295 one can buy tickets to the borefest plus entrance to an exclusive pre-show ‘party’ (not after-party you understand) at which they might, just might be able to catch a fleeting glimpse of their hairy heroes. Possibly even talk to them. Definitely not touch them though, security would step in to prevent that happening. Ach, who are we kidding huh? The band will probably be in a roped off area refusing to make eye contact with the plebs. Like David Bowie in that episode of Extras. Also included in the price: an exclusive tour poster. What?? Like exclusive as in ‘only available on eBay’ exclusive?’ Presumably the lucky punters are allowed crisps and peanuts and a can of Lilt before being ushered away from the ‘party’.

But don’t blame Ticketmaster for this hideous corporate sell out. This has the Cunts of Leon hallmark all over it. They are here to demand your money (average £55 per concert ticket) in return for a sub-standard parody of Deep South rock’n’roll.

They’re not big, they’re not clever. They’re inbred and they’re very very ugly. Do something better with your lives.

Choose life, choose a career. Just Say No to Kings of Leon.

UNCUNT Paedo Special

By UNCUNT staff

Let’s face it, we all like reading about paedos.
It’s one of those unifying things we can all shudder at and collectively hate; like the Nazis. Or Ashley Cole.
Back in April,The Sun published two front cover paedo headlines on consecutive days. Paedo headlines sell newspapers. Fact.

But whereas in real life paedos are imprisoned, electric-chaired, lethal-injectioned, even chemically castrated. In the music and film industries they’re virtually congratulated for it.

It’s a sick sick world. But let's make the most of it….

Jerry Lee Lewis
The seminal paedo and an American paedo (the worst kind). Lewis married his 13 year old cousin. Being a hillbilly hick he and his associates thought nothing of this statutory rape. When he tried to tour the UK however he was banned, stopped at the airport and sent home.


Nonce-o-meter: 6/10 (it was a different world back then)
Jonathan King
If a cartoon caricaturist was employed to sketch their idea of how a stereotypical paedophile should look, the end result would look almost exactly like Jonathan King. Look at his eyes and the lop-sided whimper of his mouth. A mouth that’s sucked on too many underage winkies.

This fat, misshapen dollop of shit buggered a lot of boys in the back of his Rolls Royce in the car park of the Walton Hop in the 70s, documented in Jon Ronson’s brilliant Guardian weekend investigative piece published after King’s trial – one of the best interview features the paper has ever done. It was 2001 and King had finally been convicted and sent to prison for 7 years.
One can only hope he was force fed semen and sodomised with a rounders bat everyday of his incarceration.
Nonce-o-meter: 9/10 (at the risk of sounding a bit Daily Maily...King makes me physically sick)

Michael Jackson
It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead isn’t it? Even skin-bleached, mentally damaged dead kiddy fiddlers.

“What’s wrong with sleeping with children? It’s a beautiful thing. Don’t be so ignorant, you’re ignorant” he said in that Martin Bashir exposé. (I’m paraphrasing…)

Probably the greatest pop star of all time turns out to be a nonce. Sort of like finding out John Lennon was a wife beater. Disappointing.

Nonce-o-meter: 7/10 (probably just touched them)

Pete Townshend
Oh, Pete. Why? Whhyyyyyyyy?

Oh...... For... research purposes? 'kay....

Oh, you were abused as a kid? Shit, sorry.

So, you logged on to child porn sites and put in your credit card details just to analyse what you went through as a kid?

Ok, yep I see your point, that all seems fine.

Sorry to have troubled you, carry on.

Nonce-o-meter: 5/10 (there are other ways to carry out research Pete. Ever heard of the library?)

Bill Wyman
When Wyman was 47 he started dating 13 year old Mandy Smith “with her mother’s consent”. WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?????

But, it’s not really the mother we should be mad at. It’s the leering, sleazy, ugly, millionaire bass player from the Rolling Stones. It’s astonishing how easily and frequently this sordid tale is overlooked. Everybody goes “yes but they were in love and he later married her when she was 19”. And????

It.is.illegal.to.have.sex.with.a.minor.

She would have been in the third year at school for christ’s sake!!! Apparently he waited a while until he started banging her. Waited until she was 14. You know, he wanted to make sure she was ready. Do the right thing. He was nearly 50 you see, he’d had a lot of experience and wanted to behave like a gentleman.

To put it into chronological perspective: Mandy Smith was born in 1970 the year of free love and Hendrix’s death. Bill Wyman was born in 1936 the year of the Nuremburg rallies. Not surprisingly they divorced by the time Smith was 21 and Wyman was 53. Wyman probably couldn’t get it up by then.

Smith went on to marry former Everton and Spurs footballer Pat Van Den Hauwe - a fate arguably worse than being molested by a paedo.

Nonce-o-meter: 8/10 (if there’s grass on the wicket eh Bill? You filthy paedo cunt)

Roman Polanski
In 1977 (the 70s were a prolific decade for noncery) Polanski was charged with “rape by use of drugs, perversion, sodomy, lewd and lascivious act upon a child under fourteen, and furnishing a controlled substance to a minor”. This charge was later changed to “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor.” As soon as he was physically able to flee, Polanski got the fuck out of America and back to the safety of France (where sleeping with underage girls is frankly de rigeur)
Mitigating circumstances? Polanski maintains the sex with Samantha Gailey was consensual. He also survived the Holocaust, his mother died at Auschwitz and he’s one of the most talented film makers of the 20th century. Give him a break yeah.

Nonce-o-meter: 7/10 (the Quaaludes thing looks bad and she did say ‘no’)

Gary Glitter
There are no words to describe this cunt. He should basically be killed.













Nonce-o-meter: 11/10 (the electric chair is too good for this cunt. I wonder if anybody…anybody…still has his records in their collection.)

R. Kelly
Pissed into a 14 year old girl’s mouth and filmed it. It doesn’t get more wrong than that.












Nonce-o-meter: 10/10 (hot and fresh out the kitchen)

We Nuh Like Elephant Man

By UNCUNT staff

For somebody who loudly professes his hatred of gay people, you have to say, Elephant Man is a bit, well……….gay?

Look at him dancing in this video. It could justifiably be described as mincing. Look at his hair. Dyed two colours, perfectly braided. Tight tank tops. Bling.



Look at this picture of him in a naval military style red jacket, look at his gold shoes and silver Michael Jackson-esque gloves. This really is a man who unashamedly embraces camp.


Look at him here sandwiched homoerotically between Chris Brown and Usher. This is a man in the closet screaming to get out. And yet he sings about murdering gay men. What an absolute cunt.


In all fairness, Elephant Man has drawn the short straw here. We could have picked any one of Jamaica’s leading dancehall acts; Beenie Man, Bounty Killer or the infamous Buju Banton. All of them have forged their reputations and statuses within the Jamaican music scene by pandering to the kind of gay-hating that, sadly, is a part of life in Jamaica.

Being half Jamaican I am saddened that homophobia is a cornerstone of dancehall music; a genre that is otherwise incredibly exciting in the way it challenges mainstream Western audiences with overtly sexual lyrical content and dance moves, flamboyant dress codes, simmering sub-culture, heavy bass and aggressive gruffly barked lyrics.

On a trip to Jamaica two years ago I attended a show at which Beenie Man played. The whole experience made the UK live music scene seem tame. Held in an outdoor car park, the stage boasted speaker stacks as tall as a house, the crowd openly blazed fat sensimilla spliffs. In between acts cars and motorbikes were stunt-driven around the tarmac with little regard for health & safety and, it being the rainy season, the heavens opened occasionally forcing people to run for cover under the Red Stripe shacks. It was a wholly edifying experience.

Far more depressing was the night at a club in Montego Bay frequented half by tourists and half by locals. Until my trip to Jamaica I had assumed the homophobia inherent in dancehall culture was exaggerated by the media. However halfway through a night of really good dancing the DJ suddenly put on Boom Bye Bye; the hateful 1992 hit by Buju Banton that fundamentally set down the blueprint for all the homophobic hatred that has followed since. I stopped dancing and was shocked to see that for the rest of the club this was the tune of the night. The whole place went nuts with the youths (men and women) sticking there hands in the air in the gunshot symbol singing along to the words:

Boom bye bye in a batty boy head
Rude boy nah promote the nasty man
Dem haffi dead



The song is incitement to murder gay people and led to Banton being banned from performing in most European countries as well as in America.

In the club I turned to the Jamaican girl I’d been talking to and asked her is this really what people in Jamaica think? And she proudly told me that yes being gay is not accepted. I explained what London was like and that most people in England considered homophobia in the same way as racism, i.e. unacceptable. I asked her what would happen to a Jamaican man if he was openly gay and she told me there are no gay men in Jamaica, any that there are get killed.

But, while Buju Banton is pure hatred, I find Elephant Man somehow more offensive. Kind of like the kid at school who hangs around with the tough kids and copies what they do so as not to get battered.

He’s cottoned on to what he’s supposed to say in his songs and this leads him to record absurdly cuntish songs like We Nuh Like Gay.

We no like gay, we no like gay
Well ah just how Jamaica stay
From you no like batty man
Well we wan see your gun right away
Cause we burn dem and we run dem
Batty man and bad man can’t be friend

Simplistic, infantile, cunt-heavy nonsense. What the fuck is this man on about? Who goes out of their way to actually spend time and money recording a song about killing gay people? A song that will be taken literally by your thousands of fans and further entrench discrimination and encourage violence towards gay people. I mean, there’s the right to freedom of speech, and then there’s abuse of that right, and Elephant Man has abused it like a proper cunt.I wonder if Elephant Man has ever met any gay people. It strikes me, from outward appearances, he might get along with the gay community. As long as he kept his dumb fucking mouth shut. Perhaps, as an experiment, a headline slot at G.A.Y might be in order – a meeting of minds, a coming together of cultures. It might introduce him to a whole new world. He might find he likes a bit of cock every now and then. Who knows maybe his next single might be We Really Really Like Gay.

Seriously, Elephant Man, do you really nuh like gay? Methinks the lady doth protest too much.

The Cunt Factor

By UNCUNT staff

I have a recurring dream in which Simon Cowell has been found brutally murdered in his country mansion.
In the dream, I am at home alone and every news channel on TV is showing images of the murder scene. Cowell’s body is covered by one of those tent things the forensics use. Reports suggest his head has been irrevocably cunted open with a golf club. (An 8 Iron, if you need that level of detail).
I open the curtains and look out the window where a small huddle of people are gathering in the streets outside, laughing and chattering excitedly. Slowly, more and more people begin to gather until there is quite a throng, and the mood becomes buoyant. People begin to unfurl banners saying ‘Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead’ and ‘RIP Cuntface Cowell’. Ticker tape and balloons fill the air, strangers dance and embrace, somebody turns on a ghetto blaster and I hear the refrain “fuck you I won’t do what you tell me” ringing out loud and clear across the neighbourhood.

Amazed, I run to fetch the newspaper. The headline screams ‘Millions Celebrate Cowell’s Murder’. On the TV I see that all over England, street parties are taking place. David Cameron emerges from Downing Street with an effigy of Cowell and sets fire to it. Cut to Buckingham Palace where The Queen reads a statement declaring a national holiday “to see that Cowell cunt orf in style”. Scenes like this haven’t been seen since VE Day 1945.

Suddenly I hear police car sirens in the distance. I look down and see my hands are bloodied. I am clutching an 8 Iron. I panic. I try to scream but nothing comes out (it’s a dream remember). I try to run but my legs turn into jelly. I hear the commotion outside people shouting “that’s where he lives, up there in that shitty bedsit” (I don’t actually live in a bedsit. But in the dream I do, so fuck off).

The police begin hammering on the door and finally break in. I am led outside. As I step out into the street a small child yells “there he is mummy, there’s the man that killed Simon Cowell!” and I cover my face and wait for the crowd to begin kicking me to death.

But suddenly a roar goes up “Hip hip, hooray!” “Well done sir, about time too!” “Such courage, such….decency!”

All around me are beaming faces and people patting me on the back. I’m overwhelmed. The police lift me onto their shoulders and I am paraded above the crowds as people scream my name. Piers Morgan, Louis Walsh and Amanda Holden arrive and whisk me off into a private jet saying “thank, god. Thank GOD. It’s a miracle, A MIRACLE!!!” “Ok, ok”, I say, “but just don’t touch me. No, you can touch me Amanda, I was speaking to these cunts; Piers and Louis”. Louis pretends not to hear. Piers goes into a sulk, but I don’t care.

I’ve killed a national icon and instead of being imprisoned I am a national hero. This is the happiest day of my life.

….Then my alarm clock goes off and I stumble out of bed.

Downstairs in the living room somebody has put on ITV2 to watch the Sunday morning repeats. I stare at the screen as the X Factor theme tune fades and the camera pans across the studio. And there, in the middle of all the tone deaf cunts, divorced housewives, teenaged boys with Jedward haircuts and pregnant teenage mums sits Cowell on his eunuch throne, a half smirk etched on his botoxed face, his haircut an insult to modern civilisation, his jeans pulled up to his sternum, his emotionless eyes staring at his latest victim.

And I realise he is still alive.

I try to scream but nothing comes out.

I look at my golf bag and see the 8 Iron shimmering in the sunlight that is now pouring through the window……..

Festivals - 900 acres/3.6km² of cunts

By UNCUNT staff

Stepping out of the UNCUNT offices into a beautiful summer's evening we spot some cunts milling around outside the train station - fouling up the place.

Observing their beards, vacant stares and shifty body language we naturally assume them to be rapists, gathering to attend a sex offenders rehabilitation session.

On closer inspection we note the tents, sleeping bags, acoustic guitars and crates of Stella. With a weary sigh, I realise it's that time of year again when every cunt in England (including you and everyone you know) gets their pills and weed supplies sorted and heads off to a festival (where you'll have a shit time, get robbed, sunburnt and trenchfooted then come home and pretend it was really, really good).

Festivals are bad places and we've got our fair share of horror stories. Only a few of which are printable.....
The first time I went to a festival (Reading '96) we put up our tent on what was effectively a river. It rained consistently all weekend until the river effectively became a lake. The only other abiding memory (apart from the overt sexuality of Kim Gordon's bass playing during Sonic Youth's feedback-heavy set) was not doing a poo for four days. Humans are not meant to go four days without doing a poo.

The second time I went to a festival (Reading '97) we accidentally put up our tent next to some Nu-Metal cunts who played obscure German goth-thrash-punk until 5am every night. We tried to fight back with our tape cassette of OK Computer, it didn't work. Our weed was stolen on the second day. Even though we'd hidden it under the tent.

The third time I went to a festival (Reading '98) I ended up with cocaine psychosis so bad that I didn't leave the tent for 36 hours. It was only a two man tent and it was a hot weekend. From around 3am on the Saturday night (following an immense headline show from the Fat Of The Land era Prodigy) until 3pm on the Monday afternoon (when many people had left and the farmers were coming back to reclaim their land) we were too freaked out to face the outside world. All we had was the interior of the tent, some coke, a bag of skunk, Irvine Welsh's hateful novel Filth and the sounds of Garbage and New Order in the distance playing the main stage. We've never really been the same again.
Every year at least one person dies of a drug overdose at a festival. It's normally at T in the Park (obviously), but if you're planning on overdosing somewhere this summer, there's an array of festivals to choose from. Here's a quick run-down of the options:

Bestival - Never been, never will.
Lovebox - Never been, keep saying I will, never will.
ATP - If I ever go to All Tomorrow's Parties, I'll know my life has gone off course. It's held at fucking Butlin's for christ's sake.
Wireless - Been several times. It's a fake festival. You can't have a proper festival in London. The local Kensington & Chelsea council ensure the decibel levels are really low, making for a shit sound. I did once see an M.I.A set in the dance tent with bass so loud you could feel your internal organs vibrating in your chest. That was good. But the general rule of thumb is don't go to any kind of event in Hyde Park. It will be shit and full of cunts.
Latitude - Looks good on paper. Is probably shit. Want to go one year. Never will.
Isle of Wight - Fuck off.
V Festival - Been about three times. Truly appalling festival. If you ever feel the need to surround yourself by Essex cunts of the very worst kind in a space too small for so many cunts, policed by cuntish Essex police at a site in the middle of cunting Essex, then go to V.
T in the Park - The best place to OD on smack. But be warned: if you're English you'll be savagely headbutted and robbed of your possessions "yer wee fookin' radge English cunt".
Download - For the past 10-15 minutes I've been sitting here trying to think of a place that fits my idea of hell more than the Download festival (formerly Monsters of Rock) at Castle Donnington. I can't think of one. If you can, please write in and let us know. But, if you like people with tattoo'd faces, if you like the guy in front of you's hair in your mouth, if you like sweaty men pissing in cups and chucking it in your face, if you like body piercings, if you like bands with singers that go "ROOOAAAAARARRGGGGHHHHH". Basically if you like the bands Machinehead, Slayer, Pantera or Sepultura. Then, this is the festival for you.
1-2-3-4 Records - In Shoreditch Park. If you have a shit haircut, a pair of skinny jeans, a stupid cap, silly NHS specs and a severe mental handicap you'll fit right in. This is the only festival UNCUNT regularly attends. Do the math(s).
Benicassim - Inebriated British cunts messing up a small part of Spain. As if it's not bad enough at home, we have to export our cuntishness abroad. Apologies to the people of Spain.
Hop Farm - Never been, never will.
Big Chill - Looks quite good. If a field full of pilled-up IT programmers on holiday is your cup of tea.
WOMAD - you can't really slag off WOMAD. That would be racist. On the upside: the line-up is usually brilliant. On the downside: the food stalls only serve chick peas.
Secret Garden Party - Never been, never will.
Glastonbury - Been to Glasto once. I was two years old. So that would have been 1982. My mother, a hippy at the time, tells me it was during the years when men would walk around naked - their hairy cocks and balls swinging in the wind. We went with the hippy-ish 'right on' Kentish Town nursery my mum took us too. Our nursery minibus had animals painted on the side. When we got to the festival approach road the van was nearly breaking down so, instead of queuing in the stationary traffic, my mother drove down the wrong side of the road right up to the entrance to the site. Taking one look at the animal-painted minibus and the assortment of kids, feminists, hippies and lesbians inside, the security guards manning the gate assumed we were some kind of festival act and ushered us all in without paying. Cash back. Those were the innocent days of Glasto. Those days carried on right up to about 1997-ish. Before they erected fences, thousands of people would just pile in for free. Now it's a festival charging £180 a ticket, requiring photo ID and pre-registration six months in advance. It is a huge money spinner exclusively aimed and marketed at affluent, middle class cunts who like Elbow, Flaming Lips and Muse. Oh, and there's mud. Lots of fucking mud.
Reading Festival - The last time I went to Reading I ended up scaling two 30 foot fences to escape the sound of Razorlight on the main stage. I'm never going back. Ever.




*There are no UNCUNT offices, we made this up. If someone wants to provide us with an office we promise we won't cunt it up.

Which of The Strokes Are Cunts?

By UNCUNT staff

A little disclaimer before we begin: we actually love the Strokes here at UNCUNT. Really, we do.

Not to go into too much arse-kissing detail but this band saved indie music from a fate worse than death in 2001 (aka Travis, Stereophonics, Coldplay et al). For anybody of our age the dirth of anything decent between 1994 era Oasis and The Strokes in 2001 was difficult to take. A time when shit eaters like the Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim 'caned' it up and trance-filled Ibiza dance floors were seen as the place to be. Fail. You spandexed Manumission cunts. Massive fucking fail.

Julian and the boys came along, straight out of their Swiss boarding schools into their daddy-bought apartments in the East Village and made the best debut album for a decade or more. In doing so they made guitars, leather jackets, converse and ripped jeans cool again and basically ushered in the new era of youth culture which bands like The Libertines and The (short lived) Vines thrived in. Even our brightest young things a decade on (the MGMTs and Crystal Castles) still owe a debt of gratitude to them for breaking the ground.

And yet, as all things must pass, the Strokes' star burnt out quick. The music press cunted them off after their second album and by their (brilliant) third they were consigned to the dustbin. It hasn't stopped them being the best live act around or dampened the enthusiasm of their legions of fans. But what has become apparent over the years is that they really do act like a bunch of pricks at times.

It's not as much what they do as what they don't do. During the Bush era for example not once, EVER did they speak out against his bullshit war mongering. Their interviews border on clinical depression um'ing and ah'ing their way through prosaic half sentences about next to nothing. Generally, disappointing on the rock star front.

More recently the band have begun falling out with each other to the point where it's quite clear they hate each other (or at least, they all hate Julian). All of the Strokes have been involved with solo or side projects and it's half a decade since they were in a studio together.

So, in the light of their first live shows in four years and an imminent fourth studio album in the pipeline, we thought it a timely moment for a much needed critical appraisal of each Stroke, rating them on their inherent levels of cuntishness.

Julian Casablancas
Our glorious leader. A man so musically talented and yet so immersed inside his own anal passage it's becoming difficult to wipe away the faeces and identify his actual face.

Arrogance: 32% - scores fairly well on the humility stakes, not one to blow his own trumpet. His own cock maybe...Social ineptness: 85% - "fuck going to that party" sums Julian up these days since he went tee total. Certainly NOT a party animal
Twatishness: N/A - he gives so little of his true character away it's impossible to say
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 25% - He doesn't need to throw his toys out of the pram. He doesn't have any toys. Except sex toys. And he likes to keep them in his pram for later use.
Haircut: 55% - Meh...
Amount he contributes to the band: 100% - Basically writes everything
Most likely to say: "errrrrrrrrr.........i don't know, you know."
Overall Cunt rating: 60% - Teacher's report: Julian is only saved from an almighty cunt rating because of his undoubted natural songwriting prowess and musical ability. Still, you wouldn't want to go for a pint in the pub with him. You'd end up glassing him. out of sheer boredom.

Fab Moretti
All drummers are spasticated in some way, and Mr Moretti is no exception. But is he a cunt?
Arrogance: 12% - Unless you count his obvious, some might say arrogant, disregard for the law prohibiting the smoking of marijuana - something he clearly does every minute of every fucking day - Fabrizio is one of the least arrogant Strokes. He'd have to be, he's only the fucking drummer.
Social ineptness: 5% - Easily the most affable member of the band, he even managed to snag a celebrity date before the others (usually a common turning point for musicians on the verge of becoming a complete cunt)
Twatishness: 89% - Being a posh-boy stoner it comes with the territory.
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 10% - He could get arsey about having to play 'Hard to Explain' over and over again, he could piss on Julian's face as he tries to programme a drum machine. But he doesn't. He knows his place. He's only the fucking drummer.
Haircut: 75% (Long and curly) 5% (Cropped)
Amount he contributes to the band: 26% - he receives extra points here for fucking Drew Barrymore and raising the band's profile. Take away the Drew Barrymore factor and he gets about 3%. (Remember, he's only the drummer.)
Most likely to say: "errrrrrrrrr.........uuuhmmm...."
Overall Cunt rating: 32% - Teacher's report: A low cunt rating for Fab. He is probably the closest the Strokes have to an 'everyman'. Well, as close as you can get for a privately educated New York scenester who spends a lot of time snorting lines of coke off of A-List actresses' breasts.

Nikolai Fraiture
Is the awkward bodied, square jawed bass player with the blank stare of someone with special needs a cunt? It's hard to say. So let's get out the old cunt-scale for Nikolai and see how the big fella measures up.
Arrogance: 10% - At UNCUNT, we like to play a game called 'Which Stroke Has The Biggest Penis?' where we guess the size and quality of each Strokes' manhood. Nikolai has the biggest penis in the band. But he doesn't brag about it. Kudos.
Social ineptness: 94% Says nothing. Does nothing. If you made eye contact with him he'd probably dribble piss down his leg whilst nervously rocking backward and forward.
Twatishness: 50% Went though a brief period of wearing a tennis headband on stage.
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: N/A - That would involve doing something other than hovering in the background reading a novel.
Haircut: 21% - Long and lank. Sometimes cuts it into a girly bob that accentuates his oddly square shaped face.
Amount he contributes to the band: 15% - Came up with the bass riff to 'Juice Box' around which the song was written. Other than that all he has to do is turn up and be consistently punctual.
Most likely to say: N/A - Has never said anything to anyone ever. It is likely that he is a savant.
Overall Cunt rating: 15% - Not a cunt in our eyes even if his wanky side project, the cuntishly named Nickel Eye is pushing it a bit. Keep an eye on him though, the quiet ones are often the cuntiest...

Albert Hammond Jr.

The first Stroke to go solo, releasing two shit, radio-friendly albums with the help of cunty chums Sean Lennon and Ben Kweller. Supported super cunts Coldplay and Bloc Party on tour. Hammond Jr is the unfortunate offspring of 70's song writer Albert Hammond who wrote 'The Air That I Breathe', later covered by arguably the biggest cunts of all time Simply Red.
Arrogance: 54% - Thinks his solo material is superior to that of The Strokes. Stupid prick.Social ineptness: 13% - Friends with many of New York's scenester cunt elite. Including Ryan Adams, Har Mar Superstar and prodigious cunt Adam Green. Hammond had a 'high profile relationship' with vapid English model Agyness Deyn who later dumped him. Possibly for being a cunt.Twatishness: 67% - We've judged this purely on physical appearance. He was born with a twattish face.Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 49% - When Julian rightly refused to humour Albert with his initial piss poor songwriting efforts he went and used them on his piss poor solo project. Also complained that Casblancas was dominating the band. Duh.Haircut: 15% - Tight Afro. It was funny at first. Now it's just stupid. He recently shaved off his locks. Unfortunately he looked even more of a cunt.Amount he contributes to the band: 30% - Has rustled up a few non-shit guitar solos here and there, has also contributed some nifty 3-piece suits to band photos.Most likely to say: "Yours To Keep is what Is This It Could have been, man".Overall Cunt rating: 78% - A high cunt rating for the guitarist, he is definitely one of the band's biggest cunts.
Nick Valensi

Nicknamed 'baby cock Valensi' (for obvious reasons). The youngest Stroke; what Nick lacks in life experience he makes up for in cuntiness. Married to former presenter of The Word Amanda De Cadenet, he features candidly in her book of photography, Rare Birds, looking blissfully cuntish. Now married with a family that includes an inherited 17 year old step-daughter (fathered by one of the Brummie fuck-bags from Duran Duran), he is the only band member without a fully fledged solo project.

Arrogance: 84% - Exudes arrogance on a massive scale, probably writes hate poetry about the other band members whilst jerking off to pictures of his 17 year old step-daughter.
Social ineptness: 85% - Has a bitter, ungrateful attitude towards interviews and pretty much everything else that comes with being in a successful band.

Twatishness: 75% - Has a fondness for shit 80's hair metal bands. Stupid cunt.
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 56% - If asked to play a guitar part more than once he'd pull out his baby-cock and piss on the mixing desk.
Haircut: - First album 65% Second Album 70% Third Album 2%.
Amount he contributes to the band: 30% - Often cited as the best musician in The Strokes by the other members of the band, Valensi contributes a lot to the guitar sounds and arrangements on record, aside from this he mainly contributes a surly attitude and a bambi-faced glare.
Most likely to say: "I fucking hate having to do stuff an' shit..."
Overall Cunt rating: 90% - Let's face it, Nick Valensi is a massive cunt. Even Nick himself knows he is. But there's still hope for him. If he keeps his head down, puts his baby cock back in his pants and starts enjoying being in the world's biggest indie band maybe his cunt levels will gradually decrease with time.

Eric Clap-cunt

By UNCUNT staff

Eric Clapton murdered his own son just so he could write a song about it. Fact.

Ok, maybe not fact.

But it’s something that at least warrants further investigation. Because if anybody is capable of murdering his own son for money, it’s Clapton.

In fact, when Clapton found out Lory Del Santo was pregnant with Conor, their four year old son who died tragically in New York in 1991, he asked her to terminate the pregnancy. Via his manager. When she refused Clapton tried to hang himself from a tree. But failed. After the death of Conor, Del Santo said “I never saw Eric cry, but people grieve in different ways.” Clapton probably grieved with a fat line of cocaine and a bottle of whisky.

In 2004, he ceased playing Tears in Heaven at his live shows. When asked why he said “I didn’t feel the loss anymore. The feelings are gone and I really don’t want them to come back. My life is different now.” Cunt.

A lot of people have died after coming into contact with Clapton – his guitarist Duane Allman, bass player Carl Radle, Stevie Ray Vaughan (and two of his road crew whilst on tour with Clapton) not to mention Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones. He probably murdered them all.

Born in Surrey (home to many a cunt), Clapton is undeniably one of the mid 20th century’s important musical figures. A peerless guitarist in the 60s his career elevated from John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers through The Yardbirds peaking with the supergroup Cream whose psychedelic rock blues style was revered by a generation and influential on many young musicians.

Throughout the 60s, Clapton repeatedly attempted to seduce and steal Pattie Boyd, the wife of his best friend George Harrison. After she knocked him back in the 60s he dated her sister for a couple of years just because she looked like Pattie. When she knocked him back again in the early 70s Clapton became a smackhead. On top of his cocaine habit and rampant alcoholism, you would imagine the smack would make him even more of a cunt. But in actuality it probably took the edge off him.

Finally, two decades on, after Boyd and Harrison’s marriage was over, Clapton moved in predatorily and married her. Later he wrote the song ‘Wonderful Tonight’ for her. It remains to this day, one of the cuntiest love songs of all time. Harrison wrote ‘Something’ for Boyd – one of the greatest love songs of all time. George wins, you lose Eric, you unbelievable cunt flap.

Midway through his marriage to Boyd in 1986, he had a child from an extra marital affair with Yvonne Kelly. He kept the child a secret from everybody including his wife for six years. If you haven’t recognised the pattern yet – Eric’s basically a cunt.

Musically Clapton’s career has produced some considerable turds. The self indulgence, the 12 minute guitar solos and the onstage posturing have all gotten out of hand. He’s worked with some massive cunts (Phil Collins, and Roger Waters for example) and recorded soul-destroyingly boring albums of cover versions. Yet his earlier career produced some gems. How? Well, mainly because Clapton stole the music of black America’s greatest blues artists; Robert Johnson, B.B King, Muddy Waters et al.

Taking this into account, as well as the massive worldwide hit he got from murdering another black artist’s song ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ by Bob Marley, you would have thought Clapton would owe a gratitude of debt to the black community? Apparently not. In 1976, at the very peak of his career Clapton took to the stage at the Birmingham Odeon and launched into an unbelievably racist tirade which can only really be fully appreciated by publishing it in its sickening entirety:

"I think we should vote for Enoch Powell. I think we should send them all back. Get the coons out. Keep Britain white. I used to be into dope, now I’m into racism. It’s much heavier, man. Fucking wogs, man. Fucking Saudis taking over London. Bastard wogs. Britain is becoming overcrowded and Enoch will stop it and send them all back. The black wogs and coons and Arabs and fucking Jamaicans and fucking (indecipherable) don’t belong here, we don’t want them here. This is England, this is a white country, we don’t want any black wogs and coons living here. We need to make clear to them they are not welcome. England is for white people, man. We are a white country. I don’t want fucking wogs living next to me with their standards. This is Great Britain, a white country, what is happening to us, for fuck's sake? We need to vote for Enoch Powell, he’s a great man, speaking truth. Vote for Enoch, he’s our man, he’s on our side, he’ll look after us. I want all of you here to vote for Enoch, support him, he’s on our side. Enoch for Prime Minister! Throw the wogs out! Keep Britain white!"

I’ve just turned on the Sky Arts channel and seen a documentary about Clapton (they can’t get enough of him on this channel). Clapton’s sitting in his vast country estate telling us about the influence of black artists on his career, about how he likes shooting and hunting animals with the Countryside Alliance and how turning to Christianity cured his addictions.

Oh Eric, you sad, confused, hypocritical cunt, why don’t you just fuck off and die?

There is no heaven, you child murderer.