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.

Louis Walsh

When god was handing out the cuntitude, the switch got flicked in the On position and he filled up Louis’ flaccid little carcass with it like a hose in a water balloon. Frankly, it’s a miracle he can function as a sentient being as there can be little room in his wizened leprechaun husk for anything else.

In the age-old conflict between music as an art form and as a commodity to be bought and sold, Louis spearheads the case for the latter with aplomb. Over the years he’s created an entire Who’s Who of innocuous musical pond life, churned out with sweatshop precision, destroying originality, sapping the strength and diluting the impact of real musicians. He’s the monster responsible for Boyzone, Westlife and JLS which is more than enough to hang himself with. 

  

He’ll say anything, and I mean fucking anything if it’s worth his while and ensures that the stars of his charges burn brightly for just long enough for him to make a heap of cash. He’s the sort of man who would desperately scramble monkey-like across the twisted discarded bodies of a hundred ex-boy-band members in order to get to the one who can make him a few quid. On arriving at his quarry, standing knee-deep in the rank and putrid remains of his previous acts, his spangly suit flecked with unmentionable and fetid decay, he’d brandish a shit-eating smile, a pronouncement along the lines of “You’re a future star, we’ll still be hearing you in twenty years!”, a toilet-paper contract and a pre-clicked ballpoint pen.

These promises of stardom exist only as they are financially viable, rendering him a duplicitous menace who can simultaneously tell someone they are the next big thing while simultaneously planning to drop them on a scrapheap of shit as soon as the public gets fucked off with them. And in the meantime, destroying music for everyone.

Chris Moyles

Chris Moyles’ cuntitude is set to a frequency so high that not even dogs could hear it. After seven years of fronting Radio 1’s Breakfast Show, he’s remains an odious and spectacularly objectionable übertwat who, mystifyingly, continues to be paid vast sums of money.

After nestling his grotesque wobbling bulk into a straining swivel-chair for the first time some time in 2004, the BBC continue to stroke his bulbous hairy ego. You can only assume he presents his back-slappingly self-aggrandising and unlistenable show from a lead-lined studio in the bowels of Broadcasting House so as not to infect the rest of the organisation with his oozing cuntishness.
The only useful purpose his show can serve is to get people moving in the morning, primarily by lunging for the off switch on the radio alarm as any more than five seconds of this overrated, overpaid and grossly overweight bully is enough to completely fuck up anyone’s day.

Moyles represents the lowest common denominator of comedy. Like the slow-witted fat kid in school who always seemed to get jokes a split second after everyone else; the sort of individual who couldn’t quite compete or wasn’t quite as funny so decided to make up for his shortcomings by talking really loudly, looking round with aggressive eyes and goading laughter out of people, probably finding time and time again that only the nervous and contrived variety was forthcoming.
These days he has a hand-picked, highly-paid crew of whooping cohorts to laugh heartily at his desperate offerings. In the thirty years twixt school and fame his inadequacy has morphed into unrivalled arrogance. His harassing interviewing style, where he verbally tramples over guests and humiliates members of the public, reveals a nasty streak which he’s doubtless forced to adopt for his dearth of actual talent.
Yet the simpletons he surrounds himself with laugh on. “I suppose it’s because we’re all a bit mad here aren’t we?” they shriek.
No you’re not. You’re all cunts. Fuck off.

Alexander the Meerkat

Let’s face it, car insurance is fucking boring – it needs personifying, hence Churchill the bulldog, Iggy Pop’s weird little Swiftcover puppet and even the cheery red mouse that races around to the distinctive “deet-deet, deet-deet, deet-deet” on the Direct Line ads. These are all efforts to put some pseudo-anthropomorphic pizzazz into what is essentially a mandatory gambling transaction that’s about as interesting as dragging a stick through shit.

Built on the weak (and endlessly-repeated-until-your-blood-thins-to-the-viscosity-of-turpentine-and-your-brain-starts-seeping-out-of-your-ears) joke that “meerkat” sounds a bit like “market”, Alexander tells us that the confusion between the two leads to all sorts of problems when users hoping to access a price comparison site end up on his instead. The distinction, he maintains, should be “simples” and hilarious consequences ensue.

Fuck off. It’s not funny. It doesn’t even make sense. “Meerkat” doesn’t sound like “market” and you’d have to a fucking moron to type the former when you meant the latter and any claim as to the excessive regularity of the mistake is bullshit. If I’d been living on the fucking moon all my life and, one day, came to Earth to buy a car and felt the need to scour the web (assuming I knew what that was) for inexpensive car insurance, and was verbally recommended a company by one of my Earth-dwelling friends called comparethemarket.com, I very much doubt whether I’d end up at Alexander’s place.


Of course, Alexander is just the fictional frontmammal for a coke-fuelled gaggle of advertising execs who thought this kind of shit would be cute and funny, so it’s them I should be angry at, not an aristocratic rodent in a smoking jacket who’s not even real. Fuck it, put the whole ad agency on the plane, along with the Compare the Market management and all the ‘simplestons’ sitting in their council estates who continue to guffaw at their feeble little offerings. There’s enough room for everyone. Cunts one and all.

Peter Jones

Look, I know the nature of Dragon’s Den is for the people with shedloads of money to be incredibly rude to the people with very little money. I also know that the current TV zeitgeist requires the public to be pitted against each other for the promise of a big cash prize, fame and fortune, or, in this case, megabucks of investment, and that this necessitates humiliation and nationwide belittlement. But it still doesn’t excuse Peter Jones from being a monumental cunt.

Sporting a look which suggests a tramp has just shat on his breakfast and a sneer which could turn milk into custard at a hundred yards, he sits primed like an insectoid millionaire, frowning at terrified individuals who, for some inexplicable reason, want to be like him. You half expect him to bolt up and launch his giant gangly frame at some unsuspecting entrepreneur, beating him violently to death with his swivel chair while struggling to see through a red mist with the viscosity of tomato soup, eventually being pulled off by the other “dragons” (and that weird fucker with the googly eyes who presents the show) with cries of “Peter, no! Not again! You're right, his three-year projection is fundamentally flawed with an over-optimistic estimate of supply costs but he’s not worth doing time for!”


His profile on the show's intro tells us that he set up his own tennis academy at 16. What sort of cunt starts their own tennis academy at 16? When I was 16, I was playing computer games, drinking Woodpecker cider and agonising about how I was going to get Katie Jones to fancy me.


Occasionally, his look of smugness and incredulous disdain dissipates when one of his victims descends the stairs with their dreams in tatters and a metaphorical size 14 shoe branded into the arse of theirTesco suit, and he delivers a little pun, typically something to do with the nature of the presentation he’s just witnessed. 'I hope he doesn’t reach boiling point,' he might quip to the other "dragons" after someone’s tried to flog their idea for a new range of saucepans.


Oh hardy-fucking-har, Peter. Maybe if you’d spent more time making friends in school and developing a sense of humour instead of setting up fucking tennis academies, it would have progressed beyond the level of a ten-year-old. Cock.