A Day In The Life Of Mr Cunt.
Mr Cunt wakes to the sound of the his newspaper hitting his
doormat, the crunch of the paper boy’s footsteps on his gravel drive a
forewarning of the teeth gnashing shite the paper specialises in.
After a demonic shit and a cursory wash of his hands, Mr
Cunt walks downstairs to the kitchen. He puts the kettle on. He gets two slices
of bread and places them in the toaster. He farts the first six notes of God
Save The Queen.
He picks up the paper. On the front is a story about
children in Calais being 63 years old. On page 3 there is a picture of Kate
Middleton with her two small children. The picture gives him an erection. The
toast pops.
Mr Cunt gets the butter out, gets the marmalade out. He
still buys Golden Shred in the hope that collective sanity will prevail and
they will once again have golliwogs on the tin. He makes his tea and returns to
the newspaper.
Page 4 is a story of a sex change Nigerian family of health
tourists who have been put up at taxpayers expense in a purpose built mosque
made from the wrecked Mercedes Diana died in. It costs £100,000 a day to house
them. On Page 5 a BBC presenter is being
called a shithouse by a veteran of four World Wars for not wearing a poppy
whilst presenting the Goal of the Month for August.
Mr Cunt chomps away at his toast, growling in between
mouthfuls, harrumphing at every news story his eyes feast upon. “We’ve got our
country back, fucker” he belches at a picture of a Polish woman who’s been beaten
up outside a Wetherspoons.
On Page 26 there is a review of a film called Death of A
Sponger. It is a film made by Mr Cunt’s hero, Leonard Cock. The story is about
a man who has never worked a day in his life, living on benefits of £800 a day
in a luxury yacht off the Isle of Sheppey. A brave civil servant heroically
brings a stop to this nonsense and, on his first day in work at a Burger King,
Mr Cock’s protagonist accidentally falls (or is he pushed) into a deep fat
fryer and is eaten by his fat kids. The review is by an old classmate of Mr
Cunt’s and is given 5 stars out of 5.
Mr Cunt applauds this review. He punches the air. He walks
to the lounge and gazes upon his beautifully manicured lawn and weeps for what
this country has become.
He gets dressed, smart shirt, suit and tie. Polished shoes.
He recycles one of last year’s poppies and buttonholes it to his jacket. He
kisses his wife goodbye.
It is about 800 yards walk to Mr Cunts office but he doesn’t
walk. Why buy a Bentley if you’re going to use your legs. As usual, he is immediately stuck in
traffic. He phones his secretary and
advises her that he’s going to be late. He does this whilst steering the car
with his knees and turning up Born To Be Wild on the radio.
To be fair to Mr Cunt, the cyclist he knocked down thirty
seconds later was exactly the kind of hipster arsehole that unites us all in
hatred against him. He was stupid enough to be listening to his iPod, when Mr Cunt’s powerful motor car, freed from the ignominy of
first gear, excitedly bumped the cyclist fifteen feet into the air.
Mr Cunt phones for an ambulance. Police come. Statements are
given. The whole thing takes up all of Mr Cunt’s morning. It’s an absolute nightmare. People are
gawping, filming the frantic CPR on their mobiles, staring at Mr Cunt as he
explains to the policeman exactly what happened.
A gust of wind sends various bits of crap tumbling out of an
overfilled bin. The green plastic stem of a dropped poppy sticks to a dog turd,
straining to be free.
Mr Cunt thinks about his friend the Chief Constable.
Everything will be fine. It always is.
