Piers Morgan

I must admit to being not unbaffled by Piers – he’s a fascinating creature. I’m not entirely sure how it’s possible for an individual to be so freakishly dislikeable.

Nobody’s perfect of course. Each of us are a jumbled mash-up of our best and worst selves – a veritable  Bombay mix of good and bad aspects of our multi-faceted personalities which either appeal to, or repulse, others to varying degrees. But with Piers, it’s like he has a congenital condition. The good stuff’s just missing. In the same way that some people are born without a limb, or bone marrow, or a chromosome, so Piers is devoid of the smallest hint of anything that might in any way render him pleasant.

This superabundance of odiousness makes him profoundly difficult to like. I suspect his own mum has to deploy a heavy dollop of diplomacy each Christmas in order to let him across the threshold. He’s cunty through and through, like layers of an onion (a ‘cunion’ if you will) – one layer is peeled back to reveal another identical layer underneath. I suppose he’s nothing if not consistent.

On screen he peddles a supreme arrogance and a rudeness that’s unsurpassed. The list of people he’s offended is vast: mental health sufferers, celebrities (who’ve boycotted programmes he appears on), women in general. He’s a phone hacker, a slimeball, a muckraker, a right-wing imbecile with an antipathy for minorities and a world view so small and insular it’s a miracle he makes it out of his front door in the morning.

Ironically, given his odious traits, he’s also indirectly responsible for some genuinely uplifting moments. He’s been roundly ridiculed on panel shows (HIGNFY), routinely torn apart on Twitter (JK Rowling, Gary Lineker, Jeremy Corbyn) and trolled by his fellow presenters on live TV (Susanna Reid). Footage of him in a state of discomfort or mockery are so common, it’s almost a national sport. Sympathy is, quite understandably, never forthcoming though and no one’s ever on his side. Everyone loves to see a bully being bullied.

Incidentally, the video of him falling off a Segway and crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs is a tonic to the soul and frankly, should be prescribed on the NHS. Go on, You Tube it.

Michael Gove

Tough draw this one. Not because Gove is nothing less than entirely objectionable, but because he’s the target for so much derision and ridicule already, frankly it’s difficult to come up with something that hasn’t been said before.

With miniature jowls wobbling like pockets of loose change and the meatiest of bottom lips, Gove sports the sort of face where every feature looks disproportionate to the other. Nothing appears to be anchored to anything underneath and is left free to wobble erratically about the front of his head like a water balloon made of human flesh.

Strange, gnomish qualities aside, there’s an undeniable runtiness about him. He’s a diminutive hanger-on, a yes man, an arse-licking parasite who would merrily ram his bulbous chops firmly into the sprawling anus of whomever might further his career, clinging barnacle-like to his more successful host, tongue wedged into their winking sphincter, feeding off their status and success until either he's bled them dry or someone better comes along. A human ‘cuntipede’.

Secretly he knows he's incapable of being taken seriously. He's eminently dislikeable; a bandwagon politician without an ounce of credibility or compassion; a sycophantic weakling who, try as he might, will never be one of the big boys - a Richard Hammond for Westminster.

Dappy

This little chap is perhaps the most richly undeserved of his Warholian 15 minutes of fame. Looking like Sméagol after looting JJB Sports, Dappy is primarily known for his choice in headgear, inability to string more than two words together and general cuntish unpleasantness (including spitting in girls’ faces, beating up his partner and sending poorly-spelled threatening text messages to Radio 1 listeners who object to his shitty little pop songs).

He’s a tiresome little twat who looks like a Spitting Image puppet that’s failed to set properly in the mould, and often sports one of those crap, wispy pencil moustaches unique to the juvenile criminal fraternity. Amazingly, he boasts as much as B in GCSE music and exhibits all the swagger of the class spanner at a school disco that everyone avoids because he's just a little bit creepy.

Wikipedia mentions he’s also a good friend of Chris Moyles, and indeed has been interviewed by the fat twat and less-than-comedic Dave on The Breakfast Show on numerous occasions. The Cuntometer must have been off the scale in the studio, the straining needle bending dangerously in an effort to register beyond the danger zone to accurately reflect the levels of cuntitude in the room.

Jon Bon Jovi

Jon Bon Jovi’s life is so built on weary cliché that you have to assume he smells permanently of cheese. He must be fucking infused with the stuff after a life spent peddling it. He’s a bit like one of those maggots that live in casu marzu (the fausty cheese eaten by Sardinian villagers and plucky tourists in which flies are encouraged to lay their eggs, their maggoty offpring burrowing through the stuff, subsisting on their surroundings and in the process, becoming “living cheese”). If one of these maggots were to grow to around six feet in length, sport a bubble perm and a black vest, and make ladies go weak at the knees with a flash of its pearly whites, it would be Jon Bon Jovi.

The epicentre of thousands of buttock-clenchingly embarrassing formulaic ‘rock’ moments, the immensely popular JBJ has spearheaded the radio-friendliness of the genre for almost three decades, in all this time managing to contribute nothing new, exciting or groundbreaking to it. Rather than push the envelope, he’s firmly sealed himself inside it. It’s almost as if the young Jon Bongiovi Jr. sat down when he was 15 and read an encyclopaedia on how to be a rock star, producing singularly unimaginative song after song, performance after performance. Being the finest exponent of cock rock in the business is nothing to be proud of. It’s rock by numbers.

John’s prescription for success runs thus: Big hair? Check. Leather jackets with tassels? Check. Bombastic singalonga choruses? Check. Loud guitars for the boys and a smile and a wink for the ladies? Check. Referring to a motorbike as a “steel horse”? Fucking check. He’s spent half a lifetime producing music for mongs and is so outdated, he’s even coming back into fashion again. He’s the ultimate conservative rock star. While true artists bare their souls and bleed for their music, Jon has nothing more than Dairylea running through his veins. And Dairylea Light at that.

Jeremy Clarkson

I find it difficult to state precisely what I hate about Jeremy Clarkson because there are so many cunty elements to him that it’s difficult to choose which of them takes top billing. As if being in possession of the most eminently punchable face evolution has ever bestowed upon an individual weren’t enough, his multitude of odious faults collectively add up to a mind-blowing totality that’s far greater than the sum of its parts. It’s fair to say there’s not a single perceptible element of his being that remains untainted by the most incredible cuntishness.

Where do you fucking start? The wiry bubble perm perched atop his enormous asymmetrical head like pubic candy floss; the look of arrogance and world-weary disdain; the torturously contrived delivery of his tiresome observations on Top Gear; his notorious blokey statements which have Sun readers dancing in the streets; his inherent racism masquerading as “straight talking”?

On the latter, I must confess to not being entirely sure whether he actually holds these views or they’re merely said for the benefit of either raising his profile (or for selling copies of the above-mentioned tabloid whose readership lap this shit up like dogs eating their own vomit). I suspect it’s the latter, but whichever way, it’s cuntitude.

Clarkson exhibits a boisterous, no-nonsense, machismo usually reserved for the RSI-addled, myopic readers of Nuts magazine and stands for all things “blokey”, though most notably, cars. Top Gear is fucking unwatchable and delivered with more stunted deliberation than a school nativity for special children. The well-rehearsed exchanges are about as spontaneous as a narcoleptic Steven Hawking. It’s imbecilic and retarded, with a core demographic of comedically-challenged petrolheads who used to beat up fat kids in school.

“He says what he likes, he just doesn’t care!” they cry. “Ooh, he’s a bit close to the bone isn’t he?” they gasp. No, he’s just a sad old man in high-waisted, boot-cut jeans and Cuban heels who drives cars very fast and is paid to be controversial while most of what he actually says is said for effect and the rest of the time actually makes fuck-all sense.

Mr Blobby

This pink and yellow abomination represents the slime-ridden crud on the bottom of the comedy barrel that even Stephen K. Amos refuses to scrabble at with his desperate fingernails.

Seemingly conceived in five minutes by a blind man with rudimentary sketching skills after a night down the pub, the brightness of Blobby’s poorly-made costume was in stark contrast to British comedy’s darkest hour. Anyone with even half a comedy brain should look upon this pitiful creature with disdain and I can only hope the people that have sweated into his pink polyeurethane shell over the years hang their collective heads in shame, or better still, kill themselves for their contribution.


During a ten-year reign, Blobby made The Wombles look like fucking Newsnight. The hideous creation of bearded Crinkly-Bottom dweller and all-round twat Noel Edmonds, he amounted to nothing more than a squealing pink ogre who basically assaulted people, with crashingly unhilarious consequences. The unexpecting retards who were knocked floorwards however, considered these attacks to be side-splitting, having been chosen wisely based on their tabloid readership and quality of tattoos. This was countered succinctly by Jonathan Ross at the British Comedy Awards who, when Mr Blobby bounded onstage to inexplicably present a gong, said “I don’t care who you are in that suit. If you come anywhere near me, I will deck you.” echoing the thoughts of that percentage of the population who didn’t watch Noel’s House Party, eat Micro Chips for tea and wear tracksuit trousers with slip-on shoes.

John McCririck

John McCririck is the equivalent of a hairy road accident: unpleasantly fascinating to behold, yet at the same time singularly horrifying. Whenever I feel a little bit sick but am unable to open the floodgates of my stomach to purge it of its burbling and unwanted contents, I try to imagine him eating soup.

For those viewers who weren’t horse racing enthusiasts, John exposed himself (unfortunately in more ways than one) in Celebrity Big Brother some years ago as a creature of unconventional habits and not insubstantial disgust. Sat around in an enormous pair of white pants – his barely clothed, barely human frame resembling that of a Sumatran orangutan rather than his own supposed species – his regular nose-picking and archaic views he espoused on women were shocking even to those who didn’t subscribe to bra burning and gauge their feminism by the length of their armpit hair.

At one point during the series he threw a massive strop and refused to talk for three-days: the reason being that he didn’t get a can of Diet Coke he’d asked for in the weekly shopping. On the assumption that his verbal utterings are directly proportional to the amount he imbibes, it begs the question why his fizzy pop isn’t permanently withheld.

Run a Google Image search on him. Go on. In the vast majority of photos you’ll ever see of him, he’ll have his mouth open and eyes twinkling in “wacky” mode, giving the impression he’s one of the country’s loveable oddballs – a fixture of our TV screens that is as synonymous with Sunday afternoons of yesteryear as Grandstand and the smell of over-boiled sprouts. Scratch the slightly orangey surface though and he’s revealed as a thoroughly unpleasant individual. In other words, a cunt.