Owen Croft Filth

Podkast av Owen Croft

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Les mer Owen Croft Filth

Born in the middle of 1970 in a damp, pokey back-to-back stone terrace house in Mossley, Greater Manchester – the sort of house where the toilet was outside, the wallpaper peeled itself in protest, and the front door opened straight onto a cobbled hill steep enough to give a mountain goat vertigo.School? Nah, not for Owen.He clocked early that it smelled like cabbage and stale farts, so he gave it a swerve. Instead, every morning he’d be at the gates flogging gingernuts, gobstoppers, flying saucers, and knock-off Wham bars to the same kids the teachers were trying to “educate”. Made more money before registration than the headmaster earned in a week. Considers that his proper education – supply, demand, and how to hide contraband in your socks when the dinner lady’s on the prowl.While other lads were doing detention, Owen was at home hammering out stories on a battered Imperial 66 typewriter he’d nicked off his uncle for a fiver and a packet of Jammie Dodgers. Poetry, filthy limericks, half-arsed sci-fi, shopping lists that turned into novellas – anything and everything got written down. He’s still got boxes of the stuff mouldering in his attic: spiral notebooks full of teenage smut, margins packed with doodles of tits and monsters, and one epic 398-page fantasy novel written entirely in green biro when he was fifteen.Life got in the way for a few decades – factory shifts, dead-end jobs, hiking the Pennine hills in all weathers just to stare at sheep and clear his head, the usual northern rite of passage. But he never stopped writing. The notepads piled up like unpaid bills. Typewriters gave way to knackered laptops that smelled of lager and joss sticks, yet the words kept coming.Now, finally, in his mid-fifties and with the patience of a man who’s watched too many sunrises over Saddleworth Moor, he’s dragging the best (and filthiest) of those decades-old manuscripts out of the cupboard, dusting off the sheep shit and the sarcasm, and actually publishing the bastards.First came the notorious BUMBLECOCK books – the ones your mum pretends she hasn’t read in the bath. More are stacked up behind them like planes over Heathrow.Owen still lives within spitting distance of where he was born, still walks the same accent you could scrape off a mill wall, still allergic to authority, still convinced school is a brainwashing factory (now with Wi-Fi). These days he splits his time between writing depraved comedy, trudging up hills in the pissing rain, and occasionally frightening tourists by shouting “NOW THEN” at them in the local Co-op.He has no qualifications worth mentioning, no literary prizes (yet), and no plans to start behaving himself.Just a lifetime of stories, a typewriter that still works if you hit it hard enough, and an industrial-grade contempt for taking anything too seriously – especially himself.Welcome to the mad bastard’s library.Mind the language. It bites. Owen Croft.. Don’t blame me! OWEN CROFT’S FILTHY DISPATCHES

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9 Episoder

SHITHAWK by Owen Croft , introduction to the book

This ain’t your grandpappy’s Western. SHITHAWK is a rancid, blood-soaked fever dream of the real 1878 frontier—the one the postcards burned and the songs forgot. No white-hat heroes, no virtuous widows, no noble last words under a blood-red sunset. Just dust, dysentery, and the kind of miracles that leave you bleeding, laughing, and questioning every life choice that brought you here. Follow Silas “Shithawk” McGraw: one-eyed, syphilitic ex-undertaker with a parasitic twin named Little Ezekiel sprouting from his shoulder like a filthy, talking tumor that rhymes dirtier than a dockside whore on payday. He’s dragging a crumpled map to “miracle gold” that supposedly cures everything—pox, bullet holes, broken souls, and the mutiny brewing in his own crotch. Along for the ride: Dolores “Leadheart” Ramirez, a Mexican prostitute so full of lead she pisses bullets and laughs harder when she’s bleeding than when she’s coming; Clarence “Two Mutts” Whitaker, a white conman in redface whose spirit-animal coyote (he calls it Grandfather) humps saddlebags and shits on clean shirts with philosophical gusto; and a rotating cast of lunatics, cannibals, exploding nuns, and defrocked preachers who fuck rocks and call it exorcism. They’ll ride through dysentery canyons, ghost-town orgies, hallucinogenic mines, and cannibal picnics where the only thing talking to God is the vulture overhead, waiting for the punchline. No redemption. No moral. No mercy. Just the West—cruel, absurd, filthy, and grinning like it already knows how this ends and you’re the joke. Explicit. Depraved. Disgusting. And the funniest goddamn thing you’ll hear all year. If you’ve got the stomach for it, saddle up. If not, close the feed now. The vultures are already circling. Visit https://owencroft.com/ [https://owencroft.com/] for updates on the release date of SHITHAWK and other books

17. mai 2026 - 4 min

Dive into the INTRODUCTION of Tarquin the 3rd: The Royal, the Corgis Refused to Lick

WARNING: Contains explicit language, royal filth, and zero smelling salts Dive into the INTRODUCTION of Tarquin the 3rd: The Royal, the Corgis Refused to Lick The darkest, filthiest "biography" you'll ever hear (because reading it might require therapy and a stiff brandy). Meet Tarquin Archibold Barnaby Wilfred the Third: dumped at birth in a black bin-liner because his face made the midwife scream, the Queen retch, and even the corgis back away, whimpering. "Too fucking ugly" for the palace, but perfect for orphanage beatings, council estate hustles, jizz-mopping in nightclub bogs, and a tragic OnlyFans wank in a royal-crested sock. Narrated in Tarquin's own foul-mouthed goblin voice, this audio snippet is just the royal dump – the full book gets even darker, twistier, and more depraved. If you laughed, winced, or reached for the bleach... smash that LIKE button, SUBSCRIBE for more ugly bastard storytime, and grab the book if you dare: Available soon from Indigo Ink Books (or wherever they hide the vulgar stuff) Visit www.OwenCroft.com [https://owencroft.com] and sign up for the latest releases and other filthy stuff. No corgis were licked in the making of this video. No royals were warned. Viewer discretion advised – especially if you're posh. #RoyalFamilyParody #RoyalReject #UglyBastard #CorgiNightmare #BritishRoyals #RoyalScandal #WorkingClassComedy #NorthernComedy #DarkComedy #BlackHumour #BritishDarkComedy #Satire #BritishSatire #RoyalSatire #AntiRoyal #DarkHumor #TwistedComedy #FilthyComedy

17. des. 2025 - 2 min

Tarquin the Third The Royal, the Corgis Refused to Lick : Afterword

Tarquin the Third The Royal, the Corgis Refused to Lick. By Owen Croft [https://owencroft.com] Afterword by Lady Arabella Featherstonehaugh-Cholmondeley, Viscountess of Lower Snodbury, Honorary President of the Society for the Suppression of Vulgarity and Authoress of The Proper Deployment of the Asparagus Tongs in Polite Warfare This book will be released in early 2026. For updates, sign up to Owen Croft's Filthy Dispatches [https://owencroft.com/owen-crofts-filthy-dispatches/]

15. des. 2025 - 4 min

Tarquin the Third The Royal, the Corgis Refused to Lick : Foreword

Tarquin the Third The Royal, the Corgis Refused to Lick. By Owen Croft [https://owencroft.com] Foreword by Sir Reginald Bentinck-Fitzmaurice, OBE, Royal Literary Patron and Occasional Equerry to His Majesty This book will be released in early 2026. For updates, sign up to Owen Croft's Filthy Dispatches [https://owencroft.com/owen-crofts-filthy-dispatches/]

15. des. 2025 - 2 min

BumbleCock - Chapter 2 : The Viagra Heist – Six Pills, One Cock, Zero Dignity [ FILTHY 18+ ]

BumbleCock: The Limp Legend of the Layby [https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1910861] A fucking stupid comedy by Owen Croft buy the eBook $1.50 on Smashwords.com [https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1910861] Darren "Daz" McFloppy has one dream: to be remembered for something other than his Greggs loyalty card and a Vauxhall Corsa held together by hope and cable ties. Unfortunately, the only one part of him ever gets remembered—and it's the part that refuses to stand up when it matters. Meet BumbleCock: Britain's most reluctant anti-hero. A flaccid folk legend born in the Dog & Duck car park when Daz's sad little worm flopped its way into viral infamy. What starts as a standard night of dogging, Tesco lube and crushing humiliation quickly spirals into a blue-pill-fuelled odyssey of Olympic-level wanking, industrial-strength erections, and a cock that eventually declares independence from its owner. From stealing his nan's Viagra stash to accidentally weaponising his knob at the inaugural Dogging Olympics, Daz's quest for respect ends in a Slough airfield, ten pills, one helicopter crash, and the most traumatic amputation the NHS has ever seen. Think Viz magazine shagged The Inbetweeners in a layby, then finished off on a stolen mobility scooter. Crude, outrageous, and wrong in all the right ways, BumbleCock is a love letter to broken Britain, broken dreams, and the one bit of broken Britain that just won't stay down. Warning: contains scenes of extreme penile misbehaviour, projectile semen, and a gear stick that will never be the same again. Not suitable for anyone with taste, dignity, or a functioning gag reflex. "Like Irvine Welsh writing Carry On Dogging after twelve pints and a fistful of knock-off sildenafil." – Definitely Nobody

30. nov. 2025 - 8 min

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