The Sun

I know there's not supposed to be organisations on here, but I have to put forth The Sun newspaper as a candidate today.
That pun-laden rag of a toilet paper has taken the comparisons I did on here the other day between Justin Bieber and Michael Jackson, altered them to avoid any copyright infringement and then passed them off as their own. They even had the sheer brass balls to call it an exclusive.
The Sun really is a blight on this country. It appeals to the Jeremy Kyle set, and succeeds by exploiting the lowest common denominator - tits, gossip, crap puns and filth, while all the time proclaiming itself as the voice of the nation, as a fighter for human rights while habitually abusing the human rights of others who simply want some privacy.
This was the newspaper that supported the Tory party at the last general election. I don't see them standing up and saying how wrong they were, or attacking David Cameron and his posh-boy friends with the same kind of venom it has attacked others in the past. But one reading of The Sun will tell you why - it's run, and written, by the kind of people who sit around in pubs, lying about who they've had sex with, who make inappropriate comments and who pretend to be your friend while talking about you behind your back.
I contend that one of the job requirements to work at The Sun is a willingness to set aside any sense of morality or decency in the pursuit of selling newspapers.
I have no time for The Sun, and wish it would go the same way as the News of the World.
The Sun is to Britain what a pimple is to a teenage boy on a Saturday night.

Nick Clegg

For my money, one of the most despicable people of the twenty-first century. A little manchild who was instantly ready to throw away whatever false principles he had and sell the people who trusted him down the river just for a semblance of power that has cost him his credibility and any vestige of respect he may have had before.
Well, David Cameron's bitch, Little Nicky Clegg, the day before the Bedroom Tax kicks in, has gone on holiday to his parents' luxury 20 bedroom chalet in the Swiss Alps.
That's a lot of spare fucking bedrooms there, Nicky. How about putting up some of the overcrowded families in there? Or how about letting some of us escape the austerity for a week by staying there for a little holiday?
Come on, Little Nicky - what happened to us all being in this together?
Fucking stay over there in Switzerland, you pathetic limp-dick cunt. I hope somebody rogers you with a Toblerone.

Anjem Choudary

Tosser!!!
Sorry; I just wanted to clear my literary throat before I started this one.
This dipshit comes to the UK, claims £25,000 a year on benefits, and then tells his followers to blow the fucking place up. He laughs at our criminal justice system, thumbs his nose at our police, and preaches that radicals should be proud to call themselves terrorists.
Tosser!!!
Sorry; this literary cough I've got is really tickly.
Anyway, his latest act of bell-endery is flying over to Finland - paid for with benefits from the country he so loathes and derides. There, he attended a clandestine Islamic conference where he laughed at our justice system, told his followers to be proud and carry on the fight, and mocked the British police because they couldn't arrest him.
Tosser!!! Tosser!!! Tosser!!!
This nob-head recently said he wanted David Cameron dead. Now, I hate Cameron with every fibre of my being. I think he's a jumped-up, elitist public-school ponce...and a prick...and a wanker...and a cunt...and an arsehole...a bastard...and a twat.
But I don't want the little shit dead. Beaten the shit out of, certainly; knee-capped, maybe; and if someone wants to kick him in the balls in front of television cameras then I'll give that person fifty quid. But I don't want him dead.
So, ladies and gentleman, I present to you today's first bell-end nominee: Anjem Choudary.

David Cameron

The King of the Bell-ends. Everything this man does or says irritates me. Every time I see his face, I just want to punch it. I have absolutely no doubt that these pages will be filled with his name for the next few years while the spoilt little bastard hangs on to power. I just know that this man's bell-endary will bring him to the attention of bell-enders time and time again. Well how about that? Even since I originally wrote this entry, Prime Minister Dickhead Dave Cameron has indulged in more bell-endary, by appearing at Wimbledon just so that he could be seen among the faces because he knew most of the country would be watching. Get back to running (or is it ruining?) the country, Cameron. You're too busy to be watching tennis.