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.