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Gareth Hunt

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About Gareth Hunt

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  1. On the Beeb website, they invite questions on Brexit. I duly wrote my question in the box, but nothing back. Zip. Nada. I would not have thought that my question would have been too challenging for the lefty cunts: "Could Boris offer to drink a chalice of semen to win favour with opposition MPs and thereby get his deal passed?". Yet another example of BBC bias, in my view. Gareth.
  2. My mate Rob has always said, in a quality northern accent, "The dirty bastads aren't born that way; they're fetched up that way". Who'd have thought that he was, scientifically speaking, bang on the money?
  3. Seriously? Have any of you cunts here seen this shit? https://www.bbc.com/pidgin/world-47005323 I'm pretty sure that if I set up a site like this, plod would be paying me a visit for a hate crime, asserting that I was taking the piss out of funny foreign accents. Gareth.
  4. Probably a nice enough fellah, for a bender, but fuck me, his inability to pronounce "R"s pwoperly does my nut in. In fact, what is it with nature pwesenters and gweenie types, genewally, that makes the cunts unable to pwonounce their "R"s? It is an amazingly common defect with these cunts to the point where I'm starting to think it must be part of the job spec. Well, call me old school, but I hold the view that if your job is to communicate, you should be able to do it without coming over all mong. Gareth.
  5. Arrived at Leeds station this morning with 30mins to kill, before a meeting. Decided on quick visit to the station Wetherspoon's, for a piss, then a coffee. Entered the bog antechamber, with door to bog proper just ahead. Fuck me, the smell. Like Meatloaf's cludgie on Boxing Day. Enter the bog proper and the miasma was palpable and stomach-churning. Ahead, a cubicle door open and the seat, floor and walls spattered with semi-liquid shit. Then, some poor cunt from the bar comes in to do the clean up. No gloves, just bare hands and a rag. Jesus. Barman spends 60 seconds smearing the shit more with his grubby rag, then gives the rag and his hands a 5 second rinse under the tap and returns to duty. Then, when I head to the bar to get a coffee, the same barman is delivering plates of food to the tables. I'm feeling pleased that I swerved the £3.50 full English and stuck to coffee. Pity the poor saps on the receiving end of plates carried by those hardworking, multitasking hands. The origin of the problem, though, is the dirty, bestial cunt that hasn't learned how to use a shitter properly. Gareth.
  6. That Dennis McCann off of Minder is proper knob and fully deserving of a cunting himself. Same goes for Winchester Club Dave's goitre. Daley was an alright bloke, though, despite the occasional touch of the Chalfonts. Gareth.
  7. I fully appreciate the valuable service that these chaps provide to virtue-signalling lefties, who delight in ostentatious displays of their caring nature. We've all seen such bell-ends, squatting by some "unfortunate", oozing sympathy and offering hot coffee and snacks (but never money, because they've read the guidance from Shelter that tells them that the feckless sleeping bag tenant will put it to ill use). What seems to be a problem in my neck of the woods is a huge proliferation of pseudo homeless, producing market saturation. The virtue-signallers are over supplied with unfortunates to fawn over and so the baggies are now pestering heartless cunts like me. I can't walk 10 yards in the vicinity of my local rail station with being asked for various "spare" items that I might have about my person. Gareth .
  8. After numerous recent discussions down the pub, I have been dismayed to note how prevalent these types are, especially in boozers of the "micro pub/brewery" niche. It seems that some people will only be happy when there are no borders, no nations, no differentiated races; instead, the dream appears to be a world full of coffee-coloured people, roaming the planet at will, all bumming each other and stuff. C.U. Next Tuesday is what I say. Gareth.
  9. I fit the bill for this nom, but I eat Warburton's, not French shit bread. I think I will have difficulty shoving the loaf of Warbo's Toastie up my backside. Maybe a shoe horn would help. In a similar vein, I don't drive a crappy Frog or Kraut motor; the Allegro is the girl for me. Off the road at the moment, though. Hydro-spastic suspension playing up and the contact breakers need a good grind. Can you give me a lift to Beachy Head? Gareth.
  10. Look, if anyone gave a shit, they could have miked the nuts of the last few males, harvested some eggs from the females and frozen them for the time when the world decides it needs some new Northern White Rhinos. It ain't rocket science and has probably been done, so we can all relax. Extinction ain't what it used to be, as some cunt once said, or sang, or something. Gareth.
  11. In fairness, the Southern White Rhino is pretty similar to the Northern White Rhino and there are plenty of the former cunts about. I suspect that you're just racialist against the Chinks and their clever medicine. Gareth.
  12. "I performed a public service"- yes, in demonstrating your hopeless impotence and profound stupidly. While you were blowing off steam, I bet your face was red, your lower lip trembling and your utterances beyond comprehension (but plenty spittle flying about, like a proper spacca). The reason you weren't sacked is because no cunt could understand what you were saying and thought it was a seizure. So, back to work on Monday with your tail between your legs, you poisonous little pipsqueak.
  13. "I fantasised that I literally exploded on the cunt, in front of nearly 20people. His habit of back-biting and shitcuntery ended in that moment." There, fixed it for you. Now don't be too upset about the nasty people at work, sweetie. One day you might be promoted to head tea boy and really have some power. Suck it up, buttercup.
  14. What kind of honest toil do you do to earn your pennies, then? Are you the Warwickshire Wank Nurse, or something equally edifying?
  15. Some Nips do a passable Elvis. I suspect the OP is bearing a grudge after his Datsun Cherry let him down once too often in the 1970s. That or a bitter memory of having selected used male underwear, instead of female, from one of those perv, pantie-sniffer vending machines the Japs are so keen on. GH.
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