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.