Oestrus Pudenda Creative Genius

Welcome to the Wall of Shame where all the cuntiest, most useless twats in the world gather to celebrate their irrevocable crapness.

Suggest your own and if the justification's good enough you could see it here, on the world's most insightful blog. Here are a few to get the ball rolling:

Name		Reason
Me		I started this wall so it's only right that I should top it. And admittedly I am a cunt, but that's just the price you have to pay for being intrinsically better than everyone else.
Christian Bale		Two strikes and you're in you pathetic, flouncing twat. Beating up your mum and sister does not make you hard. Neither does shouting at someone who has no power to retaliate.
Bianca Gascoigne		Useless, fame chasing, freak titted slapper neglects fuckwit dad in hour of need.
Jade Goody		For being one of the biggest, dumbest cunts ever to pollute the planet with her self absorbed drivel. Sorry about the cancer though.
Jackie Goody		For spawning the above.
Paris Hilton		For getting famous for sucking cock, then using that fame to hawk low grade pink shit to twelve year old girls.
Boris Johnson		Bumbling closet fascist with a haircut that looks like someone has just thrown up on top of his head, and for being an utterly, utterly useless cunt.
Vernon Kay		Everyone wants to bone his wife and he wants to bone unwashed Page Three slappers, the spack-haired knob.
Kraft		For selling out Cadbury's - whenever you go that deep in the chocolate it always causes problems.
John Terry		For losing the England captaincy for getting caught out shagging his mate's bird then trying to hide behind a super injunction. Pussy.

So, who else should be on the wall and why?

Well the world didn’t end today. It is a relief purely because there are still some hot birds out there that need to be ploughed by Oestrus, and it would be a tragedy for humanity to cease to exist without me hearing my balls slap against Jessica Biel's chin. I’m not too fussed about the geeks creating a black hole in Switzerland, in fact I think it’s a great fucking idea. I wish there was one in the UK, and no, I am not talking about the cultural vacuum that has sucked all the talent and creativity out of the entertainment industry (if you think Noel Edmonds opening an empty box is entertainment then fuck off right now).

I want a bin sized black hole in the corner of my office - the perfect spot for most of the myopic, uninspiring briefs I get sent, and for that matter any CV that doesn’t have a photo from the waist up coz if I can't see those jubilees girls I can't see any reason to give you a job.

Just think of the applications; you could put a black hole above every chimney, behind every car exhaust, any nuclear waste chuck it in the BH. Yes, I know it has to end up somewhere, but that somewhere is another dimension, so fuck them. If they haven’t had the courtesy to contact us after all the years humanity has been screaming blindly into the cosmos, but as soon as a little bit of nuclear waste pops up in their dimension they want to parlay, I say fuck 'em. And if they don’t have the technology to make contact, fuck 'em twice with a big stick coz that is Darwinism in its purist form.

Talking about Darwinism leads me on to my next gripe, fucking pensioners bitching about their fuel allowance or lack of it. Why do they need it? Hasn’t every geek and his godson spent the last ten years bitching about global warming and the fact that the Earth's temperature is rising? And yet these old bastards want more money to burn more fossil fuel, even though it's never going to be cold again thanks to their own irresponsible use of hairspray and fridges in the early 1980s.

Just the other day I was standing outside Oxfam laughing and throwing small change at all the gypos going inside when I spotted a jumper for a pound. Now, give a pensioner a hundred quid and he will spend it on increased carbon emissions, but catch one on the temple with a pound coin and he can be warm for the rest of his life.

What the fuck is wrong with some of the dumb cunt clients that approve the godforsaken ads that appear in between the piss poor, unimaginative, run of the mill TV programmes I occasionally have the misfortune to observe?

It's as if they are having a competition to see who could come up with the most unappealing, mind numbing shite for the public to consume or have to succumb to. The fact is that TV is on its way out, replaced by online viewing where the rules of their game don’t apply.

For example, I can remember those shabby Argos ads with Richard E Grant and Julia what’s her socks furnishing a mansion with the Argos catalogue. A few years, months, days, who knows, later in this convoluted, overexposed cultural vacuum called TV the ads are back - but no longer Argos, it's now Yell. Same fucking script, same story, just change the gender and ethnicity of the main characters and no one will notice.

It's such a shameless rehash of the commercial that I am compelled to bow down and salute the creative who managed to sell the same shite twice. What was it guys? Did you have pictures of the client fucking a dog, or have they just not read The Emperor's New Clothes, or maybe they did and the if it ain't broke don’t fix it attitude in the boardroom yet again surpassed common sense and creativity.

Why the fuck does Gillette keep on putting more and more razor blades on a razor? It just seems so fucking pointless. Is there a difference between running a single blade razor over your face four times or a four bladed razor once? Even writing about it pisses me off, not just the balls up of an ad made to go with the crock of shit product.

“OK, let's get three famous sportsmen from different sporting arenas, put them in the same suit and make them walk about a bit then cut to the four bladed razor.” At least the ad makes as much sense as the product.

If they had asked me do it I would have given Woods and Henry the four blade and Federer a Ladyshave, and whoever is left standing at the end gets the loser's fee. Hopefully Woods and Henry would carve up that pussy Federer and then go for each other Double Dragon style. Henry could even use his four blade to slice one of the arms off Federer's corpse and batter Woods about the head with it shouting 'fore' every time he connected. Not only entertaining, but culturally relevant as well, as all the teenagers in London would be reminded of the last time they walked home from school.

Or how about replacing the razor with a big sword so then you could just cut your own head off and never worry about shaving or their shit commercials again?

*not the kind where a bunch of cross dressing Jeremys mince down Tottenham Court Road with a hospital bed, but the shit one that comes round once every four weeks

Why is it socially acceptable for women to behave like cunts and then, a few days or weeks later, or whenever it is that they realise they are/were behaving like a cunt on legs (which in a sense is exactly what they are, except Heather Mills who is a cunt on leg), are they given carte blanche on account of fucking hormones?

I’m fucking hormonal right now. You can tell because my purple headed custard chucker is throbbing, primed and ready to unload. But can I pin down the first bit of fluff that tickles my fancy and release my pent up hormones? Is it acceptable for me to shout ‘cock hungry sluts’ to the nuns on their way to wherever nuns go? Can I smack the fucking head off the grinning idiot who didn’t put chocolate sprinkles on my cappuccino and play in the bloody, gooey brain mush that’s left? Can I even kick the fuck out of the cunt at Virgin Media who promised me 8 meg broadband and produced 1, leaving me custard chucker in hand and nothing to look at but half an Asian babe with 3 litres of jizz in her eye (ASIANBABEJIZZEYE.COM)?

No, because I am expected to be able to control my hormonal urges. So why the fuck can’t they? Maybe it’s because they are inferior. It seems the only plausible explanation. If man and woman are created equal, yet women cannot control their hormonal moods then they must be.

Imagine if God was a woman, and on the fifth day she didn’t create anything. Instead she sat in the corner crying and shoving chocolate into her fat gob between hysterical sobs. There would not be any fucking creatures. But that would be OK because, bless, her hormones were playing up. I think that settles the debate for me, the final nail, if God was a woman and periods are so bad why didn’t she make men have them?

I think the next time any bird blames anything on her hormones they should be locked up until they learn how to control themselves, as obviously they are incapable of acting with sound mind and judgement.

You wonder why there are so many miscarriages of justice? Just look at the menstrual cycle of any of the defence, prosecution or jury and no doubt you will find that someone was on rag week, behaving irrationally. If you think that’s bad, in America they have the death penalty. Imagine that you have just, quite reasonably, finished whipping your latest arrival from Poland with a coat hanger for not turning all the cash over to you at the end of the night and before you know it Judge Hormonal has sent you to the fucking chair.

OP

Wow, I am awesome. Thanks to my great advice the girl from Ask Oestrus #1 dumped her loser boyfriend and got together with her boss. Soon after that she blackmailed him into giving her a promotion, dumped him as well and is now working on one of the directors. Touching stuff, I’m so proud that my words have helped transform a young life.

Inspired by this success I’ve decided to use my gifts for the greater good once again to change the fortunes of another useless wanker. This young man’s foolishly gone looking for help from Dr Catherine Hood of The Mirror:

Why am I still a virgin at 27?
I’m a 27-year-old virgin and I just can’t seem to break my duck with women. I started worrying when I was 15 and, 12 years of rejections later, I can’t believe I still haven’t had sex.

I try to understand where I’m going wrong but can’t put my finger on it. Chat-up lines that work for mates have the opposite effect when I try them.

None of my friends know I’m still a virgin and I’m so depressed I don’t want to go out any more.

CATH SAYS: It’s easy to assume everyone is getting lucky apart from you. But you’re not alone in being a virgin in your late 20s.

It’s true most people first have sex around 17 but a significant number wait longer, perhaps because they don’t meet the right partner, for religious reasons or simply because they haven’t struck lucky.

Don’t let virginity be a weight on you and don’t throw it away cheaply - hold out for somebody you really want to sleep with.

Keep going out where you can meet women - your lack of experience isn’t visible and won’t scare them off.

And forget other people’s chat-up lines - they never work. Just be - yourself and get to know the women you chat to. When you finally find someone, don’t take things too fast. Slowly build your confidence before jumping into bed.

OESTRUS SAYS: Why are you still a virgin? Maybe it’s the stink of cunt that emits from your pathetic weasel persona. What the fuck are you thinking, 27 and you haven’t ploughed the fishy field once? You know, I might even fuck you myself as you sound like a sweet pussy little bitch to me.

Twenty fucking seven. Fucking hell.

Have you never been to a club and spotted a really drunk bird in a mini skirt? Or, if that’s too much like hard work, get a job as a mini cab driver - then you save money on drinks and a cab home but still get the benefit of all of the aforementioned.

I am assuming you’re happy to make an eight legged beast with any old bit of fluff, and right now you are probably built like Hellboy, but believe me women can smell the stench of stale spunk and desperation from fifty yards so you, my twitchy lil one armed bandit, have got to start somewhere and fast.

If you’re too much of a geek to ride some intoxicated punny until she wakes up why not try a menopausal MILF? They have permanent wide on’s and would happily give up a week’s HRT for a 27 year old V reg - still it would probably mean going to a jazz club or some kind of local community meeting. Or better yet, grab any bird you like and whisper firmly in her ear, “do as you’re told and you won’t get hurt,” and the night is yours. Might be a while until you get balls deep in anything else but the fags in D block after that one though, so maybe try a return ticket to Amsterdam and get three or four pros to break you in at once. You have waited so long you may as well pop your cherry with a bang, and I would also stop calling you a fucking weasel cunt who should know better.

OP out.

Because I’m so great and insightful people often ask me for advice. It’s generally much better than the pathetic drivel those useless agony aunts dole out, so for the benefit of the nation I will looking at some cases from the papers, reappraising them and providing practical solutions to the problems. If you have any problems that you’d like my expert advice on let me know and if I can be bothered I might solve them for you.

We’ll kick off with this sad case from The Sun:

My sick boss demands sex
My boss keeps trying to get me to have sex with him. I’m worried he’ll find a reason to sack me unless I give in.

I am 19 and it’s taken me over a year to land myself a new job after being made redundant. I was over the moon that at last I could get back into work and start saving up so me and my boyfriend can move in together eventually.

I love my job, and my boss is really nice to everyone. He’s a good-looking guy and there are plenty of other girls working here who would be willing, but he’s singled me out for his attentions.
Every day he finds excuses to get me to go up to his office, or stay after the others have gone home so we can be on our own.

I love my boyfriend very much and I wouldn’t dream of being unfaithful. I’ve told my boss how I feel about my boyfriend and that we’ve been together for over two years.

He just laughs and says I can do better.

It doesn’t really bother me that he chats me up. I can handle that, and I’ve no intention of giving into his wishes. I’ve made it clear I’m not going to have sex with him, now or in the future. At first he seemed OK but over the past week or so he seems to be getting a bit annoyed when I refuse him.

What’s really worrying me now is whether he’ll find a reason to sack me unless I do what he wants. He’s said as much in the past.

I really can’t afford to lose this job. There aren’t many around where I live, and it would be so unfair as I know I do my work really well.

DEIDRE SAYS: Your boss may be feeling irritated now he’s realising you really mean no but, if you stay calm and clear, he’ll probably soon give up his pestering. Flattering though it is, don’t let him even get to the point of flirting. Say firmly, “I believe in keeping personal and business relationships separate.” Just be careful to do your work as well as you can so he’s no excuse to pick on you.

However, if you get the feeling he really is going to turn ugly, don’t wait until you’re in crisis. The law protects you against such bully tactics. Get advice on your rights from Equality and Human Rights Commission (0845 604 6610, http://www.equalityhumanrights.com/).

OESTRUS SAYS: You selfish fucking bitch. Why the fuck do you think you got the job in the first place? You haven’t had a job for over a year, this guy practically gives you your life back, and you wont even play the gluey flute a couple of nights a week after work. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend if he will still love you when you’re destitute and homeless, smelling of piss and shit, begging for change? Will he fuck, so don’t even bring him into the equation. If you had half a brain you would have already done the deed and now be kicking back, happily blackmailing the cunt with various stained items of clothing or even photos, but like you said you were unemployed for a year so you obviously don’t have the nous to actually get out there and make a buck - you have to wait for some office saddo to think if he gives you a job he can play hide the fingers in your stinkhole and so he should.

This is my main problem with society, people just don’t know how to say thank you. So get on your knees and thank the man the way you should, it won’t take long and you will get a flat.

I was surfing the box with my regular bit of minge when she forced me to watch some ladyboy from Leicester dress up a middle-aged housewife from Derby. Sounds like another wild night for Max Mosley, (who, as the courts have proven, most definitely isn’t a Nazi fucker) but no, this is Gok Wan and he’s my new gay hero.

There have been a few occasions in my life when I have felt a twinge of jealousy for our fairy friends - like J Lo’s nipple tweaker or the dress maker who had to hold Kelly Brook’s tit while it was taped into an outfit. But nine times out of ten I am more than happy with the pink tardis.

After watching Gok for half an hour I couldn’t have more respect for the guy/gal/whatever. Gok’s a fucking pimp. When my truck load of Estonian girls finally arrives I thought it was going to take me a week to break em down and pimp them out, Gok did it in half an hour and without beating them with a coat hanger. The GGW goes up to them, grabs their boobs, says ‘let’s get these out’, makes them wear lingerie that would put Jodie Marsh to shame, and they fucking love him for it. To top it all off he even got them to stand in a shop window naked, made Oxford Street look like my favourite part of Amsterdam.

Just tried the same action on my squeeze and you can guess the result, yes I am writing this rather then being balls deep in my new pimped out ho.

Hail to the Gok dirt track riding pimp.

It is a dark night indeed when one of Hollywood’s most celebrated talents dons a latex suit and (allegedly) beats the living shit out of his mum and sister or is it? Perhaps the bitch had it coming, I had to slap my gran only last week.

I for one have met my fair share of pushy parents at castings and the pound signs that ping in their eyes when little Tarquinii jumps through hoops are thinly disguised, just as the thunderbolts shot across the room if Tarquinii fails to perform send shivers down my spine.

I remember when I was eight and all I wanted to do was play in the dirt and throw stones at girls. Poor young Christian Bale, through no fault of his own, was being dragged round studios to hawk overpriced crap to Middle America. Just watching American commercials makes my skin itch so being forced to work in them must be close to a living hell.

I’m sure young Christian was a prodigious and ubiquitous talent, he did after all land the starring role in Empire of the Sun aged just twelve. but just as Citizen Kane spent a lifetime trying to find that crappy sledge, is it possible all the attention, pressure and roids finally erupted into a long overdue (alleged) ass kicking for a childhood lost in the lights of one of the most vacuous, intensive and intrusive industries in the world (I know air traffic controllers are under a lot of pressure but they don’t start aged eight).

So, next time Young Tarquinii says he would rather go and play than take instructions from the fat bearded paedo in a baseball cap maybe his parents should listen, as who knows what might be standing at the bottom of the bed ripped and roided to the max, looking for payback on a childhood thrown to the wolves of marketing. If, however, your son is keen to join a dance and theatre group aged eight, by all means take him along and while your there resign yourself to the fact that you won’t be getting any grandkids from that one as he is undoubtedly gay.

OP out.

Well, I’ve watched it over and over again, but I still can’t find any redeeming feature in the Dairy Milk Trucks advert. As you’re no doubt well aware, it is the long awaited follow up to last year’s brilliant Gorilla TV and viral ad. Like Gorilla Trucks is beautifully filmed, with lavish cinematography. Like Gorilla there is no particular link with the product (although the Gorilla was sitting in a purple, gold and white studio), only the ‘moment of unmistakable joy’ that eating chocolate brings. That, unfortunately, is where the similarities end.

Even when he was just sitting waiting for about thirty seconds at the beginning of the ad, Gorilla demanded your attention. He oozed character and there was something about him that was captivating not just on the first viewing, but every time the ad was aired. Gorilla was deservedly a critical and viral sensation, and even though Dairy Milk was not an important part of the commercial, everyone knew what was being advertised and remembered the product.



Trucks, on the other hand has all the character and joy you would expect from something set in an airport. According to the marketing boys at Cadbury:

We’ve brought the high speed excitement of a Hollywood car chase to these
slow-moving airport trucks. It’s a magical piece of film designed to bring a
smile to your face. The production is set to make unlikely stars out of the
humble airport trucks much as we did with our drumming gorilla.

Yeah, if you say so lads. The only thing it has in common with Hollywood is that it is so tedious to sit through it feels like an overlong feature film. it is the kind of slick, soulless dirge that is so bland it easy to ignore and forget even while actively watching it. But unlike Gorilla, there is no reason to watch it at all. Apparently they spent three weeks pimping the trucks, used 140 crew members and 240 lights to create the effects, but instead of spunking millions on an ad that looks like it was made with CGI or toy cars they could have achieved the same effect by spending a fiver on a pack of Hot Wheels or filmed what goes on at most Sainsbury’s car parks on a Friday night.

If you don’t believe me see for yourself, you can’t say you haven’t been warned:

I had the misfortune to witness Tottenham’s truly pitiful capitulation at home to PSV last night and my eye was repeatedly drawn to the following slogan rotating on the electronic advertising hoardings:

Like football? You’ll love the army.

Quite how some twat in a Soho office managed to make that association is beyond me, but I know I’ve never come home from a game in the park and thought ‘oh, I really enjoyed that kick around, perhaps I’d enjoy getting shot in the face even more’.

I can’t even say I’ve ever turned off the TV after watching France v Brazil and felt a strong yearning to watch my friends’ limbs get blown off at close range.

Funny that. Why not extend the anology a little further:

Like chocolate? You’ll love being gang raped.
Like flowers? You’ll love being mauled by a pack of pitbulls.

Wankers.

I’ve decided to start imparting my vast knowledge of advertising to useless plebs like you. Consider yourselves very, very lucky.

I’ll update this blog whenever I’m not too busy being brilliant or shagging some gorgeous bird.

If I can be bothered that is.

Laters.

OP