The Rain Room

By UNCUNT staff

For months London has been agog at a piece of conceptual art at the Barbican. A room in which you can look at rain and even get rained on.

Why??? etc...

Creator, Hannes Koch (yes, Koch) describes it as a "social experiment" while co-creator Florian Ortkrass (yes, krass) claims it is "very different to having an umbrella."

Let's consider this. It rains about 50% of the year in this country. Any given week, sometimes for weeks on end, it's shitting it down. Often we have to stay indoors in our houses, like tagged offenders, to avoid getting drenched. Why, pray, would one want to leave their house, travel to the concrete bunker of the Barbican, queue for half a day only to enter a room and get rained on. You could just stay home in your own room and not get rained on.

What next? An overcast gallery? A room of slate grey clouds. A windy room, where you can experience an artificially created bitterly cold gale?

With prosaic Englishness in mind, we set about thinking of other humdrum, run-of-the-mill, everyday, non-descript facts of modern urban life that we might turn into cuntish art exhibitions. Things that basically occur naturally that mugs might find excitingly artistic.

Here's our shortlist:

The Pavement Room
An exhibition of paving slabs with chewing gum on them. Visitors are invited to walk around the pavement looking at the different wadded and matted bits of discarded gum and think depressing thoughts.

The Crane Room
A room full of cranes towering over an urban construction site. When you go to one end of the room you see the cranes from a different angle.

The Roadworks Room
Just a room full of roadworks that you can't walk through and nothing's actually happening in.

The Pigeon Room
Flea infested pigeons pecking about a courtyard. You go near them and they startle and flutter about.

The Overflowing Bin Room
Visitors are given a small piece of paper to put into a bin thats almost full.

The Taxi Rank Room
Taxis lined up in a room pouring out petrol fumes polluting the entire room while cab drivers sit behind the wheel reading copies of The Sun and using the N word repeatedly. Visitors have to find the corner of the room least polluted and where the cabbies are least audible.

The Doctors Waiting Room Room
A room with only one free chair, surrounded by coughing old people and horrible old children's toys and sticky golfing magazines. You have to wait for your name to be called. But it never gets called.

The Dual Carriageway Room
Similar to the Taxi Rank Room but more visceral. Visitors stand in the central reservation of a four lane motorway while simulated cars zoom past. Occasionally cars break down and children are sick out of the window. Watch out for the sick, you might get sicked on!

The Sunday Afternoon Room
An ambitious installation in which hundreds of yorkshire puddings and slabs of roast beef have been set out on plates with gravy jugs close to them. The Antiques Roadshow is streamed continuously on a giant screen and performance artists fall asleep in armchairs.

The Massively Long Queue for an Installation Room Room
You stand in a simulated queue for an installation while performers piss into bottles, complain to friends on their mobile phones, eat McDonald's, discard the rubbish and slowly get hypothermia around you. You keep thinking you're
getting to the front of the queue but you're not. Because the queue is the actual event. You have to queue for up to 3 hours to get into the "queue". It's like Alton Towers used to be. But there's no rollercoasters at the end of the
queue. Ironically, when you leave the exhibit you get actually rained on. By the actual rain.

A Season In Purgatory - The worst good book review ever

On my summer holiday staying at an old house in the remote countryside I'm perusing the bookshelves when my eyes fall upon A Season In Purgatory by an American writer called Dominick Dunne. On the cover a quote by Nicholas Coleridge writing for the Daily Mail offers a bold endorsement: "I doubt anyone this year will write a more satisfying or beautifully observed novel". I check inside and note the book was published in 1993. This book, according to Coleridge, is more beautifully observed than Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. It shits all over Sebastian Faulks. According to Coleridge.

Does the cover illustration perhaps contradict his claim, I wonder? A broken baseball bat, smeared in blood, propped up on the stairs of a porch. "Satisfying."? Surely some mistake here? But no. On the inside cover are more unbelievable quotes. "There isn't a single tranche of dialogue in this book that doesn't sound authentic." Not a single tranche, you say? Fucking hell. Tatler magazine reckons "people in the know will be reading A Season In Purgatory this summer."  The Daily Express simply states "a compelling read". Fair play, Daily Express. I believe you. Really I do.

This is going to be quite a holiday read, I think excitedly. Quickly leafing through to get an idea of whether the prose is my cup of tea the first passage I turn to is this: "he dropped to his knees. There in front of him on the ground was Winifred Utley. She was wearing the same pink dress she had on at the dance at the club, but it was pushed up on her so part of the skirt covered her face. Her panties were pulled down to her knees.  I reached out to touch her but her face and head were covered in blood."

Beautifully observed. Really fucking beautiful. Touching.

I turn back to page one. A quote read aloud in a courtroom has the defendant allegedly asking the victim on the night of her murder, "do you mind dancing with a man with an erection?" 

What a totally fucking authentic tranche of dialogue. I challenge anybody, ANYBODY, to suggest that tranche of dialogue isn't authentic.

The golden nuggets of written English just keep on coming. On page two, PAGE FUCKING TWO, we are told that the narrator is at the urinal when Constant (that's the main deviant's name...I'll come back to this later) was "standing there next to me when, suddenly, without speaking a word, he turned and aimed the strong steady stream of his urine in my direction, soaking my blazer and trousers."

A piss attack. On the second fucking page of this masterpiece. You might be thinking page two is too early for a man to be pissing on another man's suit. Well, fuck you. It's not too early. It's the  perfect point in the novel for that to happen.

Let me fill you in on the main plot so you don't think this book is just a urine soaked rape fest (it is that, but it's also so much more than that...) The narrator, Harrison Burns, begins the tale in 1972. Aged 17, he is best friends with a rich spoilt brat, Constant. This rich brat waits in the woods after a dance and batters a 15 year old girl to death with a baseball bat after attempting to rape her but failing to establish or maintain an erection. We later find out that both he and his father have dick problems which fuels their loathing of women and causes them to repeatedly make attempts at rape. Burns is bribed by the rich kid's father to help cover up the murder which he does for years before finally buckling to guilt and testifying against his former friend at a huge high profile court case. At which Constant is acquitted. 

Whoops I just ruined the whole book. But it really doesn't matter. You're never going to read it. 

Woah , woah, woah I hear you say. That's all a bit nonchalantly reeled off... There's some heavy shit in their, man. Well, yeah. The author is a master of nonchalance. Take the scene where the rich kid's dad is empathising with his son's dick problems…

 "'well, as we know, there's no anger like the anger of a soft dick', said Gerald. Gerald's enthusiasm for his favorite son never wavered". Soft dick? Anger? Just a second…. being abused as a child. Having a loved one killed in a war. Being born deaf and blind. Being autistic. Being born in the poverty of a Mumbai slum. Being black in the Deep South in the 1930s. THESE things are probably worthy of anger. A soft dick? Take some fucking Viagra. Surely?

"Pa, you're not taking this seriously enough"' the tranche of dialogue continues... "'I admire a man with a healthy appetite for pussy', Gerald said. 'I'm not sure how healthy his appetite is Pa, we might just have a sicko on our hands here.' Well, duh. The cunt's bludgeoned to death a 15year old girl with a fucking rounders bat. "'Constant's no sicko', said Gerald firmly, " let me talk to him." 

And, I don't know about you, but I find that passage both authentic AND beautifully observed. Just like Nicholas Coleridge of the Daily Mail.

Did I mention that the villain's name is Constant? Bit of a weird name right? A word usually used as an adverb or an adjective. Not a name. But it's just one of many, many stupid fucking names in this beautifully observed book. Here's a shortlist of the best ones...

Captain Quish ('chief Quish' for short)

Piggy French (the clue's in the name)

Bridey Nora (the clue's in the name)

Esme Bland (the clue's in the name)

Eloise Brazen (the clue's in the name)

Fruity Suarez (racist?) 

Puff Rooney (I shit you not)

Rupert Du Pithon (get the fuck outta here! No, honestly...)

Cleanie Cleanie (a household cleaning maid, go figure)

Fatty Malloy (is he fat? Yep, he's fucking fat alright)

Weegie Somerset (sounds like a ghost story set at a traffic lights in Yeovil)

Johnny Fuselli (a bit like the pasta)

I am not making these names up. The author made these names up. To be fair to him, there is currently a member of the Great Britain equestrian team called Piggy French. Coincidence or unbelievable artistic foresight? I think you'll find it's the latter. The man's a fucking visionary.

The book unfolds dramatically into a hornet's nest of debauchery and, basically, evil. But there's still time for a legitimate sex scene along the way. At one point a woman named Kitt drops to her knees in the living room of her elderly mother's house and takes Harrison's penis in her mouth. (Not my words). Her sister walks in and sees them. Disgusted she says "cover your breasts Kitt, how could you stoop so low?" 

Er...how else is she gonna suck his dick? Right? 

But now is not the time or place for semantics. It's an incredibly authentic tranche of dialogue. All the tranches of dialogue in this book are really fucking authentic. 

A beautifully observed scene in which Harrison, the hero, is pulled underwater by a man in a wetsuit is rounded off with our hero smashing his heel into the assailant's nose, breaking it and "clouding the water with blood". The action takes place at a location called Shinnecock Bay. Lovely stuff.

As well as making light of disabilities ("if you weren’t a cripple I'd kick the shit out of you Jerry") not to mention HIV and AIDS in a couple of beautifully observed bits of dialogue, the book also deals with other heavyweight issues: Rape, murder, high school expulsion, theft, lies, adultery, bribery, more rape, sexual assaults on minors, more rape. Lots and lots of rape. This book is like Jilly Cooper's 'Riders' but without the riding and with lots of raping. He should have called it 'Rapers'. The publishing house might have objected to that I suppose.

If this novel were satirising traditionally hostile literary depictions of the vulgar, amoral American super-rich it might have worked, if only as a mildly amusing trite comic novella. But it isn't. It's serious and allegedly based on a true life case involving one of the younger members of the Kennedy family. The problem is it's written by a man who just might have got an erection while writing it, for an audience of readers who just might get an erection while reading it.

The final line is beautifully observed. The police finally discover the baseball bat murder weapon hidden in a plastic bag in a lake in Conneticut where Johnny Fuselli assured Burns it would be. Fuselli, now dead, is emotionally eulogised by the narrator. "Salvation at last. Purgatory behind him, I know now that Johnny Fuselli has ascended into the Kingdom of Heaven." 

And if that's not beautifully observed then, Jesus Christ, I don't know what is.

Eurovision Song Cuntest

Sitting on the tube yesterday I looked up at one of those Poems On The Underground. You know those things you imagine to be written by GCSE students or prisoners in the prison library. Turns out they're not. They're by actual poets. This poem was called 'Baku At Night'. "Hmm, I know where Baku is," I thought to myself "it's in Cameroon." It's not in Cameroon, that's the Baka rainforest people I was thinking of, so I'm the cunt there. Baku is in Azerbaijan. It's the city hosting this year's Eurovision Song Cuntest. Nobody quite knows how. Their 2011 winning entry was so catastrophically cuntish I thought I was having an emotional breakdown while watching it. I wasn't, it was just really, really cuntish. (I love how the singer says "thank you Europe" at the end. As if Europe was one single entity rather than a fragmented, multilingual, fiscally bereft collection of vastly diverse nations forced to abandon their old monetary currencies and adopt one single, slightly shitter, currency.)
  
If pop music wants to achieve a sustainable future, both culturally and economically, it should adopt Eurovision as its guiding vision. If Europe is to forge itself into the single EU state many progressive politicians feel is inevitable, then godawful pop is undeniably the key. Every year without fail this competition unites Europeans from Malmo to Munich in a smiling, flag waving frenzy of poorly produced europop bilge. 

"What?!?" You might ask. "What's happening here with this cunt?" you scream. "How is this good for anybody in the EU?" And, I'll freely admit, I honestly do not know... But it's happened, just like the collapse of the Euro, so deal with it. Yeah?

Eurovision is so epically shit it comes full circle and ends up being a work of unrepentant brilliantness. How it achieves this is largely due to the fact that most of the people performing the 'music' are cunts who would skin their own pet kittens alive to achieve any semblance of fame. This level of shamelessness makes for intense viewing. Hilarious, intense, ridiculously stupid viewing. Which is how pop music must be if it is to survive.

Look at these silly cunts Moldova, in the 2011 contest. Watching this with my mother she remarked that they were rather good. After I'd stopped choking on my Twiglets and dried my eyes I realised she had a point. What we were seeing was, essentially, a bad acid trip in which easy listening met shouty rap punk. In pointy hats. On a unicycle. With a trumpet. In broken English. It's like walking into a circus-themed gay bar in a scene from a Ken Russell film in the 1970s. It is so bad it is, in fact, good. That's the secret of Eurovision. It's so cuntish it essentially uncunts itself. Its disarming cuntishness peels away the facade of anything of any commendable quality and because of this we empathise with the poor fuckers on stage, making complete and utter cunts of themselves. This bare faced cuntishness reveals, perhaps unintentionally, a softer, humorous side underneath.

 

Paul Lester of the Guardian compared the Moldovans to Devo.  Fair play to him. I don't want to get into a debate here about whether or not Devo were cunts. So let's just, for the sake of efficiency, say that they were. 

(Sorry Devo, no offence. I'm sure you'd be the first to admit your career was generally based on arsing around.)

Enough about Devo. Forget I even mentioned them... 

Eurovision isn't a time to discuss artistic influences (there aren't any), it's a time for celebration. A time to freely and openly post xenophobic abuse on social media forums, to text your mates "look at these Icelandic cunts...lol :)", and to wonder what language the Bosnian entry is being sung in then realise it's in English.

Why are all the songs sung in English? The homegrown stars of Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Sweden et al don't sing in English when aiming for their national pop charts. So why here? Do they think the judges are such cunts they'll mark them down for singing in their own native tongues? 

As I write this the BBC News channel informs me Jedward have made it through to the final for the second year in a row (it never used to be a tournament when I was a kid by the way, that's a new cuntish twist... semi finals? What ever next, penalty shoot outs, using Sir Cliff Richard's head as the ball and Cheryl Baker's legs as the goalpost? Actually, that might work...) 

I actually thought Jedward were going to win it last year. And that's not something you're going to hear me say too often. I thought it had the right blend of vacuous minimalism, overt cuntishness and ludicrous haircuts to push it over the line. In the end all that got pushed was Jedward's own thumbs into each other's twin puckered anuses.

This year Jedward have turned up the Cunt-o-meter to absolute max. But, remember the rules of Eurovision - whenever a song is so utterly cack that you're forced, subconciously to exclaim "this has got no chance of winning in a million cunting years" - that's when you should get a bet on it to win. Seriously though, have you ever heard a worse song than this? Ever?

Wait, scrap what I just said about Jedward winning.There's worse. MUCH worse. Now, I'm not sure these Russian grannies could accurately be described as GILFs but... wait a moment... could they? Wait, maybe they... yes, yes they are! Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. Party for everybody? There's a party in my fucking pants my darlings and you're ALL invited. Genius. Fuck you Englebert, you might as well go home now. For you Mr Humperdinck, ze Euroz are over...

Cunt Tourism: A Day Out In London Fields

London Fields is lovely this time of year. One drawback though. It's absolutely teeming with cunts.

Armed with my camera, a notepad and a Thermos of minestrone soup I board the train heading east. I've planned a day of cunt tourism. Or cunt anthropology if you prefer. My reasoning is this: unless one gets amongst the cunts, tries to experience a day in their lives, observes them, studies them and perhaps even talks to them then one cannot fully understand what it means to truly be a cunt.

Inwardly I make a mental note: this day trip better be worth it, there were many better things I could've done today - stayed in bed hungover watching the lunchtime kick off, clipped my toenails, or simply masturbated all day. Instead I've dedicated myself to academic fieldwork. These cunts better appreciate my efforts.

The train pulls through the backs of terraced houses, occasionally crossing bridges with views of bleak litter-strewn streets. Rudeboys and rudegirls get on and off. Stamford Hill, Stoke Newington, Rectory Road, Hackney Downs, London Fields. No ticket inspectors, no barriers. Free journey. Fuck you National Express East Anglia.

I walk onto Mare Street. Not quite as fucked up as it was when I was a kid - when Hackney was a no go area - but still fairly fucked up. An Irish drunk and a stoned rastafarian discuss horse racing outside a betting office. I'm not having a good time yet.

I pass The Dolphin - great jukebox in there featuring Del Amitri's 'The Last To Know'. I pass The London Fields pub which the landlord has, perhaps unwisely, decided to decorate like a cross between a public library and a smack-ridden brothel. Turning the corner I see the large expanse of grass that Martin Amis once wrote about.... he's a bit of a cunt isn't he, Martin Amis?

It all looks quite pleasant. Quaint, Victorian, tranquil, well kept.

Then I see a cunt walking towards me...

At first I freeze, gripped by panic. How will I walk past this dick without chinning the cunt?

The cunt looks at me. Something deep inside me, something primal emits the words: "Don't look at me!!"

The cunt slinks away, possibly scared. I watch him walk away. Then another walks by, within metres of me. I recoil, fighting the urge to flee. He's wearing the season's Cunt outift of choice. Big sneakers, shorts just above the knee, a checked shirt worn under a chunky knit sweater with a dog's face on it, wide-peaked baseball cap (like this cunt has ever watched baseball) and thick-rimmed glasses. In his right ear, one of those big wooden circular things that cunts jam into their ear piercings, contorting the earlobe.

I feel afraid. A stranger in a foreign land. As Sting once said, I'm an alien, I'm a legal alien...

....he's a bit of a cunt isn't he, Sting?

Now I know how Conrad's Charles Marlow felt in The Heart Of Darkness. Or how Columbus felt upon first sighting an Amazonian native. This is The Heart Of Cuntness. I shiver.

Then something makes me get a grip of myself. I'm here to explore. This is a holiday. There's no point feeling afraid or alienated. They're not savages. They're just cunts. I have to try to engage with them.

"Excuse me" I call to a freak. "Yes you with the skin tight jeans....I'm not familiar with this place, I wonder if you'd be so kind as to show me around."

The cunt, whose name is Henry, turns out to be quite affable. He talks about The Old Blue Last and a mix tape he's putting together for VICE magazine. I tell him to shut the fuck up. He doesn't seem to mind.

We walk across the grass to where some of his "friends" are sitting. I say "friends", really they're just some divs he met in The Dove, pissed out of his mind and high on ketamine three weeks ago. Henry's been hanging out with them ever since.

I look at the two girls and a guy sitting on a bench smoking thin cigarettes.

"You know these people?" I ask him, horrified.
"Yeah man, these are my mates and stuff."
"But that girl's wearing a bra as a top. And this one's got a pair of ripped stockings on with a suspender belt and corset."
"Yeah..."
"Are you sure they're not prostitutes?" I say
"No man that's like, they're look."
"They've got undercut hairstyles," I continue "that wasn't even a good look for Mike Patton in 1991"

Henry shrugs. I feel a moment of clarity and realisation dawning upon his rich, upper class, Hampstead toff brain. He looks at me, then looks back at his "friends". He utters something quiet, almost inaudible.

"You'll have to speak a bit louder" I say. I take out my notebook. Whatever he's got to say could be interesting.

"Am I.....am I.......am I a cunt?" Henry asks, looking down at his red braces and pointy brogues, fingering his handlebar moustache.

"Yes, Henry" I say "I'm afraid you are."

He bursts into tears.

I take a few photos of his "friends" and their associates (for the purposes of visual documentation), then inform them that they should a) put some clothes on if they want to avoid a sexual molestation and b) text their mums to come and take them home.

Take me away from these people Henry" I demand. "And stop blubbering, you'll be ok now, you've done the hard part. You're no longer in denial. Oh and text your mum. I'm sure she'll be pleased to hear from you."

In The Cat and Mutton I buy Henry a pint of mahogany-filtered pomegranate cider and peruse the menu:

- Fillet of Hedghog with a jus of Apricots -
- Confit of Magpie in a Bovril sauce -
- Deep fried Seahorses on a bed of Tulips -

For Dessert I order Henry an anchovy muffin in balsamic custard. He looks like he needs it.

He points across the road to a bric-a-brac shop. "That's where I bought an original 7" copy of Hall and Oates's 'Maneater' for £75."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because I thought it was cool!"

He bursts into tears again.

"And down there..." he sobs "...on those clothes rails that act as an outdoor jumble sale, you can buy second hand Gola tracksuits."
"I got beaten up for wearing those when I was nine."
"I wasn't even born then..." he weeps into his pint.

Taking out his phone he calls his dad in Tufnell Park.

A trio of dickheads cycle by the window on what appears to be a three-wheeled Tandem-cum-tricycle. A man in a silver-sequined jumpsuit gets off his skateboard smoking a rolly. A girl in a very expensive looking 1940s vintage dress made in occupied France sucks on a lollipop. Alexa Chung walks into the pub wearing wellies. It's not even raining.

"Dad..." Henry cries down the phone "...I'm sorry I've been such a cunt."
"Good lad" I say "tell him to come and pick you up, I'll help you pack your stuff."

Later I stroll past the bistros and the bookshop selling classic 1970s Dutch porn mags. A cunt wearing Speedos and a rain mac tries to converse with me but retreats when I threaten to call the police.

I survey the scene one final time with a wry smile and a sigh. "What.a.bunch.of.cunts" I mutter, to nobody in particular.

Then I bunk the train fare home to reality.



[All names and photos have been changed. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. ....They're still cunts though, obviously.]

Bands That Do Not Know When The Fuck To Quit

By UNCUNT staff

On the b-side to Morrissey's 1990 single Piccadilly Palare is a comic gem of a pop song called 'Get Off The Stage'. The composition is daftly buoyant and upbeat and the lyrics go "you silly old man, you silly old man, you're making a fool of yourself so get off the stage." Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend really ought to take note. Just look at the cunts. I hope they die before they get.... oh.

Morrissey delivers his cutting second line "you silly old man, in your misguided trousers, with your mascara and your fender guitar and you think you can arouse us", then goes on to accuse the unnamed OAP rocker of singing a series of songs that sound exactly like each other.

It's not entirely clear whether Morrissey is poking fun at a) himself, b) David Bowie or c) any generic pop has-been who does not know when the fuck to quit.

Now, I'm fully aware that the introduction to this issue of UNCUNT has inadvertently revealed the full extent of my geekish Morrissey fandom. But fuck it, we all have our skeletons in the closet. My skeleton is vegan, Mancunian and these days looks increasingly less like a skeleton and more like Desperate Dan after having consumed a significant number of cow pies. Or tofu pies. Or soy bean curd pies. Or whatever. What I'm trying to say is he's a fat bastard these days. Here's a before and after courtesy of The Sun...(thanks Murdoch, you cunt)


At the risk of being controversial (no! This blog controversial? Never!) it's becoming increasingly difficult to justify Morrissey's continuing presence either on stage or off it.

Mystifyingly, the wider UK public having succeeded in ignoring the zenith of his breathtaking solo career circa 1987-1997 has somehow taken it upon itself to fall in love with him now that he's beginning to lose all the things that made him so brilliant (a lovely singing voice, brilliant agile dance moves, a sharp-tongued wit, genius lyrics and a floppy quiff.) But that's the music industry for you. Become shit and you'll be rewarded with record contracts, mass marketing campaigns, front covers and the adoration of a sheep-like bunch of fawning gutless spastics wearing a t-shirt with your face on it.

While I've rambled on about Moz for a good few hundred words now I'm astonishingly doing a reverse and not including him in this list of pop stars who should really start thinking about fucking off.

Mainly because he's the greatest living human being and it would be blasphemous to do so. I would however like to see him retire very soon before his position becomes untenable. Just put the mic down and become a novelist Stephen, you know you want to.

As for this other bunch of cunts, the gloves are off....
1. The Rolling Stones.
On TV you'll see Mick Jagger bounce on to the stage in his Nike trainers and jeans and you think to yourself 'Nike trainers and jeans..? Have you lost all sense of self-respect? Are you mocking us?'

And in a way the Stones ARE mocking us. They're laughing to themselves going 'no seriously Keef, how long can they go on lapping up this dogshit act we trundle around the world year in year out? [Titter] can't they see we're wrinkled, crumpled grandads, I mean look at me I'm wearing fucking NIKE TRAINERS AND JEANS!! [guffaw]' and then the freak show rolls on to another town and they rake in another oooh.. £100k per show? These are long old tours. You do the maths...

Friends often ask me, when the freak show rolls round again 'come and see the Stones with us Josh, you have to see them', and I'll say 'fuck off you silly cunts' and they'll go 'no man, this is like history.' And I'll say 'will they be performing Let It Bleed in its entirety?' And they'll say 'no they'll play a lot of stuff from their new album it's really good' and I'll say 'right, and where are they playing?' And they'll say something like Twickenham or Milton Keynes Bowl or Murrayfield stadium. And I'll punch them repeatedly in the face until they're concussed and walk away whistling Street Fighting Man.

2. R.E.M
This band are as old as me. And that's pretty fucking old. They defined the terms of what alternative pop music could achieve in the 80s. Out of Time and Automatic For The People were two of the best albums of the 90s. Why not quit there while they were ahead? They had a good long spell at it. Why not walk away before they embarrassed themselves?

They recently recorded their 15th studio album. Fifth-fucking-teenth. That's too many albums. That's like sitting on the toilet and doing a large and satisfying poo and then getting greedy and trying to poo out more and more and more. Until eventually you get piles. And piles are hard to shift. Just ask Michael Stipe. He's got them.


3. Sir Paul McCartney
Sir Paul McCartney's not done a lot wrong in his life but, sadly, he's beginning to show signs of taking the fucking piss.

Let's examine his list of achievements...

He's my favourite Beatle: check. He's one of the nicest men in rock'n'roll: check. He's seen his share of tragedy - one time best friend and songwriting partner John Lennon dead, wife Linda dead: check. He's survived the other Beatles save for Ringo: check. He's consumed a lot of acid, a lot of weed and a lot of amphetamines (remember Hamburg right?): check. He's campaigned tirelessly for animal rights and vegetarianism: check. He's married a one legged ex-page 3 Geordie slag: check. errr.....wait he's done fucking WHAT now?

Yep, sorry about that. Let's carry on... He's performed on ITV's the X Factor: check. WHAT.THE.FUCK????? Yeah, soz. There was pyrotechnics and everything. It was properly fucked. Oh, Paul. You let Simon Cowell demean you. You were 10 metres away from him and you didn't knock the cunt out. Shame on you Paul.

Macca's losing the plot and when you lose the plot it's best to do it at home on a farm not in public. Not on world tours with shit session musicians. Not marrying new chicks just for the sake of it. Here he is with his latest, Nancy Shevell...

Wait, wait, wait....this blog is turning into the Daily Mail. Look, fair play to the cunt. She looks like she's worth the £85m divorce settlement that will be landing on his doorstep five years from now. Let him enjoy his retirement. Oh, he's not retired? Ohhhhh....

4. Manic Street Preachers
The Manics - as their affectionately known to their fans - could have quit when Richie Edwards jumped off the Severn Bridge. They could have quit after their 1996 album Everything Must Go became a mainstream chart hit and they became stadium rock stars. They could have quit when they got fat. They could have quit when everybody started to hate them. They could have quit after they released a song with a title involving the words 'tolerate' and 'children' in it. They could have quit when they began to hate themselves.

But they didn't. They're still here.

At some point surely the Welsh Assembly will have to bring in act of Parliament to force them to quit.

Where's Neil Kinnock when you need him?

Probably dancing to La Tristesse Durera in front of the mirror wearing a dress, eyeliner and wielding a bass guitar.

And fair play to him. I love Neil Kinnock. I'm not even being sarcastic. I fucking love him.

Radio Cunt FM

By UNCUNT staff

The other morning I was woken up by the harrowing sound of Chris Moyles on BBC Radio Cunt FM. ‘Fat Cunt’ Moyles as I like to call him.

Fat cunt Moyles and his little team of helpers are wittering on about something ‘hilarious’ and ‘random’ that’s keeping them all considerably ‘amused’. Though I get the general impression that the producer could walk into the studio with the sad news that Comedy Dave’s grandmother had passed away in the night and they’d still be amused. Moyles would probably describe it as ‘totally random’ and they’d all break out into giggles. Including Comedy Dave. Whoever the fuck he is. To be honest I’m not even sure if he still works on the Chris Moyles Breakfast Show. But if he does then he’s a cunt.

“How can you listen to this every morning?” I ask my girlfriend, gobsmacked. “He’s funny” she replies. “No,” I say “he’s a fat cunt”. “Well he must be good at his job, he’s been doing it for 15 years” she says. Which is a fair point I suppose. But then, when you think about it, Adolf Hitler did his job for 15 years too didn’t he? Quite competently as it happens. So did Goebbels. And Himmler. And all the other Nazis. Including that fat cunt Hermann Goering. Who’s probably the Nazi who most closely resembles Chris Moyles isn’t he? Physically speaking.

So I’m ‘listening’ to the show and eating cornflakes (another thing my girlfriend has got me doing). I say ‘listening’ to the show, but actually it’s more like having a surgical lobotomy without anaesthetic, performed by a doctor who informs you during the pre-op that he fully intends to shit in the cranial cavity where your brains once were before he removed them.

I’m enduring these halfwits and trying desperately to block it out with semi-lucid thoughts about the day ahead and my forthcoming holiday. Things like that. Normal, mundane thoughts. But these normal, mundane thoughts are repeatedly blocked out by the even more normal, even more mundane thoughts being vocalised on national radio by this bunch of feckless cuntstables. (I got that one off The Shadowline. Not sure if it works in this context but hey….)

Tina, one of the crew, has made up a pop quiz and a jingle to go with it. It’s about Glastonbury. It’s called ‘Tina’s Glastonbury Tunes’. Tina has pre-recorded some tunes that will be performed that weekend at Glastonbury and Moyles and the other braindead prick have to guess what these tunes are. It’s as simple as that.
“Shall we hear the jingle again?” enthuses Moyles in his mock racist Leeds taxi driver drawl. The lyrics to the jingle consist of three words repeated loudly, ad nauseum: “Tina’s Glastonbury tunes”.

Yes, Chris. Let’s hear it again and again and again. (Said jingle ends up being stuck in my head all day. I can even hear it now. The fucking cunts.)

Just as I’m beginning to seriously wonder whether the producer has been replaced that morning by his 8 year old child who’s brought in a scrapbook of his ideas that he wrote down for his school homework last night, the torture is interrupted by Moyles playing a record.
I say a ‘record’, it’s more like having a surgical lobotomy without anaesthetic, performed by a doctor who informs you during the pre-op that he fully intends to shit in the cranial cavity where your brains once were before he removed them.

Then my girlfriend switches off the radio and we leave the house, her smiling and happy, me twitching and traumatised like a gibbering nervous wreck.

And to think Moyles, the fat illiterate cunt, demanded a pay rise of £1m per year for this shit. And then threw a strop when he was told he was only worth half a million a year. If I’d been Andy Parfitt, the controller of Radio Cunt FM, I’d have castrated the cunt, sacked him on the spot, gone round to his house, burgled all of his expensively acquired tat to sell later on eBay, burnt his house down, tattooed ‘I AM A FAT CUNT’ across his gormless fucking face and had him deported to the Faroe Islands to present a daily breakfast show to the meagre indigenous population of the Arctic Circle. In Swedish.

Radio Cunt FM likes rundowns. So here’s a rundown of the top 3 biggest cunts ever to have presented on 97-99FM BBC Radio Cunt. It’s a bit like the Top 40. But better…..

1. Bruno Brookes

Remember Beat The Teacher on Children’s BBC? Well the cunt that brought you that also battered his girlfriend (Anthea Turner), wore a mullet and cunted up the airwaves daily for 9 years from 1986-1995.

Those are years of my life I’ll never get back.....



2. Jo Whiley

[I take no credit for this description, my mate Chris texted it to me during the BBC coverage of Glasto the other week.......]

“Jo Whiley’s a fucking idiot. I mean Zane’s a daft kiwi cunt but I think that his enthusiasm is reasonably genuine, whereas Whiley just spews faint praise on EVERTYTHING. She would have you believe that she likes all music in the world. There is no music that she doesn’t like. David Gray could walk on stage and rape a seagull to death and then take a dump on its dead, rotting carcass and she’d say something like “that was lovely stuff from David Gray there”.

3. Zane Lowe

A “daft kiwi cunt” without a shred of musical taste or human decency. Indiscriminately bigs up anything from the Klaxons to Lady Gaga to Biffy Clyro to Goldie Lookin’ Chain; praising them like they’re The Beatles in the immediate aftermath of having recorded The White Album. Zane Lowe would literally place his open mouth at the bottom of a funnel while Chris Martin of Coldplay lowered his gaping anus over the top and proceeded to shit dysentery down it - a bout of dysentery contracted whilst staying at a Buddhist yoga retreat in the Himalayas. Lowe would drink it all down then look directly into camera and say “WOW! Words cannot describe how excited I am about this new Coldplay material.”

He’s a cunt of unimaginable, almost indescribable levels and I hate him more than any other celebrity figure in the entire history of the world ever.

Anarch-cunts

Anarch-cunt 1: “Hey, Oscar. Let’s, like, go and smash up some shops and stuff maaaan.”

Anarch-cunt 2: “But Sebastian, like, why maaaan?

Anarch-cunt 1: “Because, you know, like, anarchy and stuff. Maaaan.”

Anarch-cunt 2: “Oh yeah, maaan. Yeah. Do you have like any specific targets in mind, maaaan?"

Anarch-cunt 1: “Yeah, maaaan. Like, Topshop and stuff."

Anarch-cunt 2: “Yeah maaan. They’re like totally evil maaaan.”

Anarch-cunt 1: “So like, when should we do it maaaan?”

Anarch-cunt 2: “Like on Saturday man. There’s this big protest happening anyway. It’s like the perfect time to do it maaaan.”

Anarch-cunt 1: “What if we like get arrested by the police maaaan?”

Anarch-cunt 2: “Ah maaaan, like, fuck da police, maaaan. Getting arrested is like cool, maan”

Now the thing is, if you want to go round smashing up Topshop and Abbey National be my guest. If you want to fight the police, be my guest (you will lose obviously, and then complain about it.)

But do it in your own time you posh student cunts.

Don’t hijack a legitimate TUC march of a quarter of a million people, most of whom are facing redundancy from their jobs. Their livelihoods. (Jobs and livelihoods being things the ‘anarchists’ have never really had to think about. Living mostly in squats on mummy’s regular trust fund instalments)

The crucial point here. These aren’t anarchists. What we saw on Oxford Street weren’t acts of anarchy. They were childish acts of wanton vandalism.

Throwing balloons full of paint? Well done. Ramming wheelie bins into shop windows? Slightly unimaginative. Abusing policeman? We’ve all had the urge too, but what goal does it actually fulfil? Unless your main objective is getting clubbed round the face with a retractable truncheon. Or teargassed. Or better still, kettled. “Hey, Oscar, let’s like get fucking kettled maaaan. It’s like the new thing.”

Real anarchists would shoot David Cameron.

Real anarchists would plant a bomb in the headquarters of Visa.

Real anarchists would hack into the local government council tax computer systems and fuck them up irrevocably.

They would do things that had resonance and meaning. They wouldn’t do ineffectual things just for the sake of attention.

These hooded student cunts (who clearly shop in Topshop, and all have bank accounts) shamed the Socialist movement on Saturday. They embarrassed Ed Miliband. They embarrassed every trade union organisation and workers collective who were demonstrating against public service cuts. They turned it into a G8 style riot farce.

Yes we can blame the media. “why are they focusing on the violence???” we scream.

Well, because students with masks over their faces chucking light bulbs full of ammonia at police officers is a more exciting news story than 250,000 slightly geeky people walking down the road.

The media have some culpability and they abused their responsibility for sure (there was football violence in Cardiff on Saturday for example and every single Saturday at the Den or Britannia or Elland Road. 'The media' have made a decision not to publicise football violence anymore. Because they know hooligans just want to get on telly or in the newspapers.) That is responsible journalism, ignoring pointless acts of unrest.

But when people occupy and smash up London’s busiest street you can’t really ignore it can you?

The anarch-cunts really fucked me off on Saturday. This was the first protest I’d been on since 1994! And they stole my fucking limelight!

UK Uncut?

More like UK UNCUNT you dipshits.