WALKERS CRISPS

Do me a flavour?

A review of the new Walkers range, in full, without a picture as i feel ill.

BUILDER'S BREAKFAST:
You know when you've had a fried egg sandwich, and four hours later you belch and it tastes of sulphur? Well combine that with the distant memory of an unclean rimmed anus. That's them that is.

CAJUN SQUIRREL & HOISIN DUCK:
Dear Mr and/or Mrs Walkers.
I have been a career crisp eater for my entire life, i have only previously failed to finish one bag of said comestibles in my entire thirty eight (almost) years. That was a packet of lamb&mint Tudor specials in 1993, they tasted like toothpaste and vomit. These two flavours were worse, you may aswell have come up with ringpiece & babyshit and dogg egg & corpse flavours. You cunts.

Yours sincerely
C Coxall Esq

CHOCOLATE & CHILLI:
One bite brings potential, there's something more to these! The second brings disappointment at walkers for succumbing to the kind of whacky shitehouse idea that timmy mallett would rule out for fear of looking like too much of an aching bellend. The crisp equivalent of a novelty disney tie.

ONION BHAJI:
I am hideously addicted to these and daily see the look of disgust on the face of the man in the corner shop as i shamefully buy two bags when i get my tabs in.

FISH & CHIPS:
Like being spoken to by a friend you don't like who has no idea of personal space. He breathes into your nose, you can smell the distant lingering aroma of your own sainted mother's mimsy. Deeply deeply unpleasant.

These are the votes from the Hitchin jury.

MARTIN CLUNES

I will hunt you down Dumbo you mingebracket!


There's been a bit of a cock up on the casting and scheduling front!

So Big Ears Clunes is going to be Reggie Perrin is he? If this fat lipped dribbling gormless lumpen talent vacuum thinks he's got the chops to pull it off, then i am the most incredibly macho man you've ever fucking seen. BBC, i will hunt you all down for this*, luckily for Clunes, even at my most stealthy and ninja like, he'd be able to hear me coming from about twenty kilometers away. Utter, utter cunts! Every man jack of 'em!

This has made me too angry to do anything at all yesterday, normal service will resume tomorrow, and lengthier, better, ranting skillz.

as you were


*obviously, i didn't get where i am today by making idle internet based threats and ACTUALLY carrying them out. I'm far too much of a lazy fucknut!

BERNIE ECCLESTONE

Pint sized pisspot motorsport despot!

Doughnut shown, actual size. Serving suggestion.

You've even stolen Anne Widdecombe's hair you microscopic myopic mentalist.

as you were pissflappers

GARY RHODES

Flat topped food rapist and theramin voiced titbush!


Must......stroke.....foods.....inapropriately!

Dear Mr Rhodes, kindly refrain from showing the kind of sexual attention that should be shown to your wife, to lettuce leaves, porcini mushrooms and langustines. This kind of creepy food rapery is not what i'm pressganged into paying my license fee for! Next time you're unfortunate enough to see the Kid'n'Play/Ray Reardon cross pollination haired whiney fingernails on chalk voiced kitchen poltroon, watch his hands. It's almost Nosferatu like the way he caresses and places the food on the plate, he doesn't want to eat it, he wants to fuck it, HARD! It just puts appalling images in my already weakened mind of Rhodes with his slender elongated member sliding forcefully in and out of a potato salad. And as for that hair! What the christing jebus is that? Is it a Kid'n'Play homage? Does he secretly want to cater for appalling 80's Harlem house parties, doing the running man with a selection of forest fruits crammed under his foreskin and drizzled with a raspberry couli?

Please make him stop before he bums my fridge and sucks off my fruit bowl.

as you were clambakes

CRISTIANO RONALDO

Step over, step over, step over, flounce, flounce, pout!

Smugness thy name is Cristiano.

Oh noes! Football! Yes, yes, stop your whining you maggots, not everyone on the internets masturbates over the wire and battlecock galacticanus you know, other things exist! Once in a while a footballer comes along who is so unashedly smug that punchable is simply not enough of a description of their face. I could build a glove made of lead, filled with mercury, with claw hammers, awls, syringes full of hydrochloric acid and panda piss, frag grenades, porcupines and chainsaws attatched to the outside, and it would still not have enough punching power to do enough damage to the chinless pock-marked show pony's charmless pouty fizzog. Not even the legendary George Foreman Cuntpuncher has enough clout!Is it the fancy Flatley-esque footwork, making him look like a riverdancing baby giraffe, or the petulant huffing and puffing when things don't go his own way? Is it the diamond fucking earring? Is it the swaggering sub Cantona goal celebrations? (well, no, in that case, what makes Manure's celebrations so fucking irritating is that you can guarantee that within secomds of a celebration starting Rio "face out of the simpsons" Ferdinand will pile ontop and gurn like a fingered simian into the camera, the cunt!) Then surely it must be something to do with the modelling, the hollyoaks lingerie model girlfriend? NOPE! It's the fact, at this particular moment, that he can write off a ferrari, and still fucking live! Where's the justice in this world? There is no God!

Let him fuck off to Real Madrid, the join the dots faced rubber necked spazzpanel.

as you were flesh pittas

NIRVANA FANS

Specifically the txt spk pissflap nadbuckets on youtube.

I just wanna feel his pain, Curt rocked you fagit!

Those who are unfortunately familiar with the shite i churn out will probably be aware of the short and shite animation, "Kurdt Kobain in 10 seconds" that i made a couple of years ago or so. Ever since i threw it onto you tube (and thanks to a B3ta newsletter link) it's had a stupid amount of hits, mostly it would seem, from 13 year old omnitards from backwoods america who worship the slack brained loose jawed bag of suicidal self pitying cackjuice that was Kurdt Kobain. If you've seen it, then go back and have a look through the comments, if you haven't, then ignore the waste of 14 seconds that is the "film" and have a browse through the minds of malcontent septic (predominantly, judging by the spelling and homophobia) youth!

Browse the opinions of children with obsessive cuntpulsive disorder!

The main dipshit nonces love to repeatedly offer death threats or the offer of money for my death! It's fucking hilarious! Every morning there are at least 3 fresh frenzied illiterate keyboard mashes from kids who should be playing with toys rather than the concept of their place in the universe through the medium of a dead smack bag, and i fucking love them all for it! Infact their ramblings are so hilarious i don't even have to bother to try and write anything, just have a look, it's a mindfuck of brain wrong on a superb scale.

I'd be worried, but i don't think their mums will let them out after 5pm, and all sharp objects are locked away so they can't play noughts and crosses on their forearms.

Go feed on the minds of imbecilic pre-pubescent self loathing and dead junkie worship!

as you were

JEREMY CLARKSON

But he's so funny!


No he's not, he's a potato headed, pube haired belm conduit who mistakenly believes that preposterously ill informed opinions are facts. Blustering wankhatted shitboxer.

as you were

RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS

Blood Sugar Sex Fuckwits.

The Thunder Thumbed smack bucket and posterboy for rebels in Burton's suits everywhere, "Flea".

Oh where to start? Weak soft rock funk version of Level 42, but look they've got tattoos and dress all cool! Pitiful old men desperately trying to cling to their fading youth by making dreadful loathsome MOR dadrock with the weakest of shitty funk piss backing. I would gladly urinate on them if they were on fire, especially if i could substitute the word piss for pour more fucking petrol on them. As bad, if not worse than Robbie fucking Williams. Stop giving them your money, they only deserve your scorn.

There's something about this band of tedious pumped up waxy ballbags full of testosterone and heroin that makes by ears become sentient and desire a Michael Ryan style rampage. Let's look at "Flea", now i'm sure he has a proper name, but i am too lazy and disinterested to look it up, it would also involve me having to see another picture of the gurning smack dwarf's face, ravaged as it is by years of funk rock grimacing and earnest balladeering gurn. Now i'm no spring chicken, and admittedly on shaky ground as a man approaching 40 who is often seen dreesed in clothes a 25 year old woman would consider too young, but, will you please grow up you pisscloth! I get infuriated by the likes of RHCP and Slipknot et all, old men churning out "youth anthems" from their expensive studios, arriving in their ludicrous cars and on their custom choppers (you know the ones, built by that lardy beardo and his two retarded sons that run purely on jism and pheremones), and telling the yoot how they really feel inside. I think it's important for the kids to know how they really feel, from the perspective of a mid 40's junkie who thinks that the Status Quo waistcoat is a clothing essential. Not that i give two fucks about the kids, if they lap this shite up then they should contract earn nose and throat herpes and spend the rest of their lives paying for their lack of taste by seeping gangrenous fluid from all their upper head cavities. Funk rock! Funk Fucking rock! Why? Please Jebus, tell me why! It's Level 42 for oasis fans, the kind of people who say, i like hed kandi, bit of r&b, nut i really like indie music, y'know, like The Chilis, Oasis, The Kooks.....aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

One day a rain will come and wash you scum from the streets.
Although it's more likely to be a bit of light drizzle, in the form of one aging unhinged tranny waving a couple of claw hammers with 8" nails welded onto them squealing incoherently and flailing like a wonky windmill.

They have done this to me, i now have veins on my forehead like a relief map of the mississippi delta. CUNTS!

as you were.

MAX CLIFFORD

I bring you the epitome of hateful turdery that is Mr PR!


Max Clifford, bouffant haired gobshite wideboy and turd polisher extraordinaire!

There's so much about this snivelling shitehouse that makes my brain hurt, explode a little bit and dribble out of my eyes and ears like the result of a particularly accurate bukkake party for ear and eye fetishists. Whilst looking about for a list of fame hungry, publicity craving walking errors of genetics that have used this conduit of fail i was unutterably saddened by the list of crimes against basic human brain thinking that Clifford has gilded and sold under the guise of interesting fact. Here are some choice efforts, i shall try to keep my blatherings to a minimum so you can draw your own conlusions....


1. FREDDIE STARR ATE MY HAMSTER!
Oh joy! Why did the involvement of the slithering walking helmet in this old classic not surprise me at all? All the elements are there, past it wrong 'un desperate for attention, bullshit story and tabloid mong fodder!


2. TONY MARTIN.
Remember the Norfolk farmer who became a Daily Mail poster boy for "right thinking British tax payers"? Well guess who represented the man who so bravely blasted a traveller in the back with a shotgun in the name of self defence!



3. JADE GOODY.
Let's just applaud the abilities of Clifford for a moment. There is clearly no one who's money and pitiful grasping publicity lust isn't too low or sordid for him. Goody? I can't go on with this one, i might pop a fucking vein.


4.GILLIAN MCKEITH.
Scatalogical charlatan and food bully, beloved of stand up comedians for the brilliant joke about being you are what you eat....usually something hilarious like a lizard or the witch from rentaghost. For these gags alone both McKeith and Clifford need a public stoning, but preferably with malformed pooh and a trestle table of iceland's finest.

OTHER CHOICE IMBECILES AND EMOTIONAL CRIPPLES.
Rebecca Loos.
Derek Hatton.
David Copperfield.
Simon Cowell.
Pamella Bordes.

Just look back at those names, then picture the cunts parade that's involved. Now, if you are a connoiseur of old skool pornography like myself, imagine them as a Razzle Stack. Arrange them in the following order....cunt/areshole/cunt/arsehole/cunt/arsehole.....etc. This, we shall call, The Clifford Tower, a kind of monument to the efforts of the bouffant thunderbird's efforts to get rich and die dumbing down and degrading! Well done Mr Clifford you really are an odious pissflap.

Why do people pay this aching priapism of a human being to make them famous so that a year later he can get paid by some other loathesome fame hungry cock-knocker to bring them down again? Someone needs to sort this uber fucknut out.

Time to hit the semi darkness again (this is not a euphemism for bout of "on the soft" crying and masturbating, that's for special times).

as you were jizzbeards.

DARTS!

Yes, that's right, DARTS!

Generic darts player, note the sweat, the ludicrous tattoo of their preposterous nickname and tassled loafers.

Now you may be thinking "Oh yeah, another moan about how crap darts is, fat blokes, not a sport.....blaaaah". Au contraire fucko! I love darts me! It's the ultimate battle of mind over repetetive wrist action, more so even than giving 10s across the board*! There is, however, a dark spectre being cast upon my favourite sport. That shadow comes from one man, his name is Phil Taylor.

Yesterday Taylor won his 14th world title, and he did it with a leering, sweaty, shit eating smugness that made me want to rip my teeth out, bung them into an envelope, send them to his Stokey lairage and have them bite off his glutinous face chops in a frenzy of enamel, decay and pasty flesh. Or should that be pastie flesh? There have often been rumblings in the darts world about the arrogance of PT, most notably a bust up on the oche with Chris "Mase the Ace" Mason (also a terrible cunt, but that's by the by) that ended with PT pretending to almost quit the sport in the post match interview, for being shown disrespect! What a pompous self important dough faced child that man is. His arrogance is only over shadowed by the bizarre proportions of his tiny wee pea head (ironically) to his gigantic barrel chested flesh bauble of a body. He looks like someone's balanced a particularly punchable smug pea ontop of a spacehopper full of chips and chops.

This is of course fact, and we know all these things already. My point is, during the final of the PDC world championships last night Sid "increasingly more like a geordie helium filled senile miner bird" Waddell called PT "The quintessential Englishman, the one to whom we all aspire". WHAT THE SHITTING FUCKING CRIKEY? The day i aspire to be a waddling bag of effluent braggadocio who once compared his omission from Sports Personality of the Year to the struggle (and i quote) "the coloureds" had in the sixties. Claiming that The civil rights struggle was akin to his appalling hardships in trying to convince people that darts is a sport. Effectively, PT believes that he really is a Martin Luther King figure for what is basically a pub sport! "I have a dream, a dream where overweight white men with dubious political views and a questionable attitude towards women will be able to say they are sportsmen, and sit at the front of the bus with the footballers! Snooker players and ten pin bowlers can fuck off up the back though, the lazy cunts!".

Take a look at Raymond Van Barneveld, the man is a class act, he's humble, modest, thoughtful, intelligent and one hell of a fucking dartist. The 9 darter against Jelle "Are you ready for the gabba housin' clog music intro" Klassen deserved the title in itself, and unlike PT he didn't say that if he got a 9 darter he'd give the money to charity, then pocket it anyway, like a pie filled cockmonkey. So next time, forget your national rivalry, do the right thing, support the bloke who isn't a swaggering chimp faced titbox and root for the good guy. "There's only one Phillip Taylor" indeed, one less and i'll be a happy bloke in a frock.

Oh the point has come, the very reason for this....i have become tumescent with rage and can now hardly type, as my head is throbbing like PT's stagnant fetid member as Helen Chaimberlain inexplicably puts up with his inappropriate touching and leering in a pre match interview.

Hurry up and retire you terrible terrible wankhat.

I need to have a lay down in the semi darkness.

as you were.


*Worst, yet favourite obscure euphamism of the moment.