The Wicker Man (1973)

Folk horror about human sacrifice is not the obvious place to look for plank-spanking material. So stumbling across the scene with an alleged Britt Ekland cavorting naked against a wall is a marvellous bonus wank. It’s actually not Britt at all, but body double Jane Jackson, but does that bother you? Thought not.

The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover (1989)

Arty shite? Perhaps. Full of sex? Definitely. If shagging in a restaurant food storage room or getting a blowjob in the toilets is your kind of fetish, this one’s right up your street. There’s also torture, cannibalism and forcing a man to eat excrement, so let’s hope they all washed their hands afterwards. Otherwise their food hygiene rating doesn’t bear thinking about. 

From Dusk Till Dawn (1996)

Gory tongue-in-cheek vampire horror is another genre seemingly unsuited to grappling the leathery eel, but then up pops Salma Hayek. The seductive dance with a python draped around her neck culminates in Quentin Tarantino slurping tequila from her naked foot. Was it coincidence his character did that, or director’s perks? Either way there’s ample time to luxuriate in self-abuse. Just try to finish up before everyone starts getting their limbs ripped off.

Black Swan (2010)

A psychological thriller against the rather staid backdrop of ballet rivalry is unlikely to have many wankable highlights, right? Not when Mila Kunis and Natalie Portman start sucking each other’s faces off. Fast forward to the 69th minute, ironically, to avoid falling asleep from boredom and hey presto: girl-on-girl action. A favourite of men who are still virgins and believe such things happen on a daily basis for the sexually active.

When Harry Met Sally (1989)

Romcoms are rarely populated with scenes to merrily unzip to, and this one seems no different. Until when Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal are bickering while eating a sandwich, then suddenly Ms Ryan pulls the orgasm scene. It’s pretty hot, but you’ll need to get in quick as the rest is just classic comedy. You’ll feel pathetic when it dawns on you you’ve just got off to an actress pretending to climax, but in many ways that’s better than when it happens in real life.

Basic Instinct (1992)

Okay, the title should have been a giveaway in a film otherwise centred around the jolly hobby of murdering people with an icepick, but back in the day no one saw the leg-crossing-fanny-glimpse coming. Millions of VHS tapes globally snapped under the pressure of being paused in exactly the same spot so male viewers could crash the proverbial custard truck. Which was no great loss as the rest of the film is pretty shit.

Mini Milk 

Bland and unexciting, but that was a good thing because it taught us to endure hardship uncomplainingly. Rest assured Reform will be bringing back that Blitz Spirit. Nigel will personally launch a lolly called The Dunkirk, tasting of Spam and sand.

Cider Barrel

A relic of a better time when drink driving was socially acceptable and motorists weren’t terrorised by the seatbelt Gestapo. And where are Britain’s historic cider orchards these days? Chopped down to make space for wind turbines and asylum hostels. Laurie Lee would turn in her grave if she knew what had become of the land of Cider Barrel with Rosie.

Orange Maid

Banned now because ‘maid’ is gender-specific and therefore offensive to trans ‘women’. Under Reform it will be illegal for ice cream vans to discriminate in favour of transgender people. We are very keen on important policies like that.

The Fab lolly

The Fab lolly was a cornerstone of Anglo-Saxon culture, now all but extinct thanks to mass immigration and woke. Its three iconic tiers of strawberry, vanilla and chocolate with hundreds and thousands were as quintessentially English as Nelson’s fleet. You can still get them in supermarkets, so it’s unclear what our beef is here, but that’s often the case with Reform. 

The Zoom

No British summer was complete without a pineapple, orange and strawberry lolly vaguely shaped like a rocket. But how long before those refreshing fruit flavours are replaced by curry, jerk chicken and Eastern European sausage in the name of multiculturalism? Vote Reform before it’s too late.

Dracula

We all know why you can’t get these wonderful lollies anymore. The menacing shape of Dracula and the raspberry-flavoured ‘blood’ centre would have today’s snowflake youngsters sobbing and demanding a safe space. Under Reform horror lollies will be sold freely, especially ones named after classic British films, such as ‘The Blood on Satan’s Cornetto’ and ‘Don’t Lick Now’.

Funny Feet 

Introduced in 1980, and as much a symbol of British greatness as Margaret Thatcher, the Falklands War and Daley Thompson. In what other decade could you have celebrated the sinking of the Belgrano while sucking on a strangely gelatinous ice cream foot? Truly the best of times.

The member for Ashton-under-Lyne will still be red-haired and bear a resemblance to her previous portrayal, but will have a markedly different chin and be an estimated five to ten years younger.

Constituent Thomas Booker said: “So that’s why they wrote her out of Cabinet on such a flimsy pretext, and why we haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since.

“Did they really think we wouldn’t notice? Literally six months away and we’d just be like ‘Yeah, she’s got red hair and blue eyes, I reckon that’s her’? She’s one of the main characters of this government, for f**k’s sake.

“That said I’ll give this new one a chance, but it’s still jarring. What will they do for flashbacks to the two months in 2024 when this government was popular? CGI I suppose.”

Angela Rayner said: “I am Angela Rayner, I have always been Angela Rayner, any memories you have to the contrary are false and should be disregarded. This also applies to any electoral promises to improve Britain you may dimly remember.

“It’s only because I’m distinctive anyone’s spotted it. We’re on our fourth Wes Streeting.”

The ‘special relationship’ between Britain and the United States has been permanently repaired unless President Trump has one of his regular changes of heart which has just happened and now it is ruined once more.

Foreign correspondent Martin Bishop said: “Things were looking pretty precarious there. Luckily you can rely on the King to… no. Forget it.

“I thought His Majesty’s charm offensive had won Trump over. However the president has just furiously attacked us on Truth Social. He must have remembered his bullshit case against the BBC or how we refused to join in the Iran disaster that’s entirely his fault. So it goes.

“Pity really. That was a new dawn of Western diplomacy while it lasted. No stupid split in NATO over an obvious aggressor, Russia, and we could have had sane trade talks not based on random tariffs Trump doesn’t understand himself.

“Now, none of that will happen. He’ll be back to posting deranged rants about sanctioning Marmite or nuking Kent. But for five seconds, historians will agree things looked pretty rosy.”

The King said: “I did you a solid but I’m f**ked if I’m doing that again. Get David Attenborough or Stephen Fry to talk some sense into him, I’m out.”

Financial manager Tom Logan believes those in his office who are sneezing, blowing their noses or have conspicuously sore eyes are suffering from a psychosomatic condition, and pities them.

He said: “Where is this ‘pollen’, then? Am I breathing it in now? Then how come I’m fine?

“I’m supposed to believe the whole world’s drowning in invisible tree spunk, but apparently I’m immune? Wow, getting big I Am Legend vibes over here, because that’s made-up bollocks too.

“I don’t know why you’re crying Anna, maybe a bad relationship? What I do know is blaming it on the bushes is only kicking your problems further down the road. Face up to it.

“Plants and flowers reproduce because of bees. Einstein said that and he was a genius. Sneezing in the office is unhygienic. I’m not seeing a bed of perennials in here, so give it a f**king rest.”

Logan is expected to entirely reverse his position after the garage informs him his Mercedes E-Class needs a new pollen filter, proving that it is science after all.

I should rule forever

Once the right guy’s in power, he stays there perpetually. Any successor should be his most favoured child who shares his born-to-rule DNA. As a monarch, the King believes this even more than I do. It’s the foundation of our special relationship. Two old guys exerting their privilege until the heat death of the universe; what could be more beautiful?

The Epstein files are a sick media lie

Everyone knows I’m not in the Epstein files. That’s why I’ve had to invade Iran to give them something real to report on. The King may not have said he agrees with me explicitly, but the awkward way he squirmed through any mention of them was confirmation enough. His brother? He has a brother?

Being shot at is a sign of huge affection

When you’re a beloved public figure like Charles and I, it’s only natural that fans get carried away in their admiration. According to our sycophantic yes men, bullets whizzing past your head are a sign of adoration of our immense wealth and power. We have a duty to amass more of both to keep our public happy.

NATO needs to invade Cuba

I don’t like Cuba, but I do like US troops and wouldn’t want them harmed. So NATO, which is Britain and some other countries, needs to invade it for me and put Marco Rubio in charge. I tell you, the King drove a hard bargain, only agreeing to this idea if we keep sending arms over to Ukraine, but he’s totally on board. He’s leading the invasion himself.

The Earth should be renamed ‘Trumptopia’

Dirt? Who cares about that, apart from farmers? Time we made Earth great again by naming it after the best thing that ever happened to it. We’ll paint all the trees, mountains and oceans gold so it’ll look even better from the next spaceflight. Chuck laughed and shook his head, which is his cryptic royal way of giving it his total approval.

While newspapers proclaim big busts have fallen out of fashion, the owners of big busts are still stared at in case their big busts fall out of whatever they are wearing.

Joanna Kramer, 36E, said: “About two years since Sydney Sweeney gave them their moment in the sun, then. Seems fair for a body part millions of women have and aren’t inclined to change.

“Unfortunately, the word about big tits being as outdated as skinny jeans hasn’t hit the streets, where they appear to still be the centre of f**king attention when the sun’s out. I should give those builders a copy of Italian Vogue so they can stop embarrassing themselves.

“I guess now every man on Tinder will declare himself boldly anti-fashion and that he’d love to put his head between them, getting so excited at the idea he follows it up with a dick pic. What daring iconoclasts. I should reward them.

“We already knew you didn’t like tits, gay men who design fashion. We knew because you wouldn’t lower yourselves to make us tops that fit them.”

Fashion journalist Francesca Johnson said: “It’s actress Margaret Qualley I feel sorry for. She’s just had a boob job and now they’re over! She must feel such an idiot!”

It’s American

To a certain credulous influencer mindset, the very fact the sandwich claims US origins makes it aspirational. The differences here are that it’s called a sub, is oval rather than demurely triangular, and reaches a level of artery-blocking health risk no British sandwich could every hope to. £15 is a bargain when you consider it could kill.

It’s horribly overloaded

Unlike when hiring builders, here stable, solid construction is cheap. It’s the messily overstuffed, mid-collapse and impossible to functionally consume sandwich that costs a premium. As the sides ooze out with every bite, as you litter toppings around you, as your hands are submerged in saucy slop you’ll delight in the wasteful, nasty luxury.

It’s artisanal

The sourdough starter was painfully reared by hand and is called Clive. The brazen bap carries a filthy price tag because it’s as original and irreplaceable as a Picasso, created by a chef whose life has been dedicated to creating sandwiches so marvellous they leave their consumers forever changed, and perhaps immortal. Which isn’t bad for the price.

It’s Instagrammable

This aesthetic bun comes in pretty wrapping paper sliced down the middle so you can easily reveal its insides, in case you need to check that your cheese is actually in there. With layers of filling that look like they’ve been delicately stacked by Marie Kondo herself, this is a delight to the lens and promises you 10,000 followers per bite.

It’s ethical

When a product can’t conceivably offer more flavour, volume, or exclusivity it’s time to turn up the spin. Want free-range highly-enriched beef? Kale handpicked by a niche order of nuns high in exotic yet also local mountains? Chickpeas from heritage breed chickens? This meal validates all your moral standpoints and confirms you were right all along.

The Strait of Hormuz

The financial storm caused by war and political idiocy are plaguing every restaurant, cafe, and weird pop-up snack cart that visits your office. The sandwich, at the very socioeconomic nexus of contemporary life, is no exception. What else are you going to do, eat the cold pasta salad you brought from home? Pay up.

A red panda hot water bottle cover

For one of my earliest documentaries for the BBC, back in 1954, I was lucky enough to film a reclusive red panda which I shot and had turned into a novelty bedroom accessory. They’re one of the world’s most endangered species, so it really was a most fortuitous find.

A gorilla’s head ashtray

My time with mountain gorillas is perhaps the most famous moment of my career. As ever, I had my trusty hunting knife with me, so after befriending an adult male I decapitated the majestic beast. Now ‘Smokey’, as I christened him, takes pride of place in the spare room, reminding me of our noble great ape ancestors as I flick fag ash into his mouth.

An emperor penguin biscuit jar

Who can forget the landmark series Frozen Planet? Not me, thanks to this wonderful biscuit jar in the kitchen, whose head is removed to access the biscuits most wittily. I actually had around 30 of these made for family and friends. The beak opens bottles.

An elephant’s foot salad bowl

An elephant’s foot umbrella stand was too reminiscent of Britain’s morally questionable colonial past, so when I filmed Indian elephants in 1975 I opted to turn one into a dignified salad bowl. It took me forever to get the foot off with a hacksaw and by God the fuss it made, but worth it.

A stegosaurus urinal

While making Prehistoric Planet, we visited a dinosaur museum in Nevada and I cheekily stole a stegosaurus skull. A few alterations by a local plumber later and it became a urinal in my Richmond home. I never cease to be awestruck by the thought that I am pissing back millions of years into the Jurassic period.

A lion’s head door knocker

Bagging a Kenyan lion in 1993 with an AK-47 borrowed from a poacher was one of the high points of my career. Back in England its head became an oversized door knocker far more impressive than any wrought iron one. The king of the jungle may be dead, but he lives on as king of my envious neighbours.

A blue whale bouncy castle

At 25 metres long, this leviathan of the oceans makes an awe-inspiring garden inflatable. I’m a little too old for such antics, but when I see my great-grandchildren joyfully bouncing on its head I take pride in knowing I’ve shared my love of nature with future generations.

The president had taken the Royal party to see a hole which he was boasting would soon be an even greater ballroom than Hitler’s, when Charles replied ‘Of course, we have terrible issues rerouting planes around ours.’

The monarch continued: “You’d think the view would be wonderful a mile above London, but the diamond capstone on the top is actually in the stratosphere so it’s all clouds.

“Holds 1.7 million people, though it’s not been filled since George V’s inaugural ball because I’m afraid there aren’t enough aristocrats left. Nowadays we use its solid gold art deco interior for family get-togethers and charity events.

“It really is a magnificent edifice and, of course, owned by a real king. But yours sounds like it will be nice too. How large? 90,000 square feet? Ah, so the same size as the palace kennels.”

He added: “You should have seen his mean, crumpled face. He started bragging about 80s golfers’ dick sizes to recover, but of course Camilla has hands-on expertise there.”

Trump said: “I’ve checked on the internet and it’s all true. I fired the aide who told me it was AI.”

Internet user Martin Bishop is well aware of the shallow journalistic techniques used by hack writers, yet still feels oddly compelled to click an online article titled ‘Doctors Told Jennifer Garner It Was Irreversible. You’ll Never Guess Her Reaction’.

He said: “It goes against my better judgement as a savvy consumer of media, but goddammit I am curious. What happened to her? How did she defy science?

“Notice how the headline has drawn me in with a clever use of the second person perspective? The limits of my imagination have been challenged and I must defend them. Whoever wrote this knew what the f**k they were doing.

“Has she somehow reversed the aging process? Does she still look as good as when I fancied her 20 years ago? Which one is she, anyway? That one who went out with Justin Timberlake, or is that Jennifer Beals?

“I could be using the internet to educate myself about confusing geopolitical issues or to manage an investment portfolio. But no, I simply must read some utter nonsense about a woman who was in Dude, Where’s My Car?, I think, instead.”

Article writer Nikki Hollis said: “I’d like to personally thank Martin for clicking through. That’s 0.0002 pence of ad revenue straight into our account.”

On the third occasion in ten days where commentators are breathlessly hyping a ‘day of reckoning’ for Starmer despite the fact that it will not be, the only rational explanation is that it is getting a whole lot of people off.

Dr Helen Archer, sexual wellness consultant, said: “Politically, they must know a hundred Labour MPs aren’t voting for an enquiry when there’s an enquiry already going on. So it must be something else.

“And given the feverish quality, the desperate need it is clearly filling, the demand for more and more climactic events after the last one proved unsatisfying, there can be little doubt this is the Westminster equivalent of a late-night sweaty hate-f**k.

“They know it’s achieving nothing, they know it’s disgusting, they know they should stop but it just feels so good they can’t stop themselves. Then afterwards the only way they can handle the disappointment and shame is to schedule another select committee hearing.

“I keep saying, the healthy way to deal with these urges is to work on your own party and make them electorally appealing. They know that. But then they get rock hard at the thought of another ‘doomsday for Starmer headline’ and we’re back where we started.”

Parliamentary correspondent Mary Fisher said: “Sir Philip Barton’s just declined to answer whether correct procedure was followed when Olly Robbins was sacked. And I’ve come.”

Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols (1977) 

A feeble blast of faux-rebellion created as a vehicle for Vivienne Westwood to sell an overpriced aesthetic of youthful defiance to trendy Londoners, it’s painfully lame today. If only we’d not fallen for this we’d have been spared Oasis and John Lydon’s butter adverts. Save yourself the earache and listen to a Clash record instead.

Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols (1977) 

Once controversial, in the cold light of the 21st century the pinnacle of the punk canon looks like nothing more than an annoying novelty. Oh, it has a rude word on the cover and the bass player who barely features was a bit edgy, was he? Sadly this doesn’t mean the album bears listening to more than the mandatory once to say you’ve heard it.

Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols (1977) 

The throb of scandal still powers through, even though today you’d hardly look up if it were piped into Tesco. While you might not be tempted to skip tracks like Bodies or Pretty Vacant straight away, Anarchy in the UK is so overplayed that it’s now the antithesis of everything it originally stood for. A 70s novelty act without the Wombles’ authenticity.

Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols (1977) 

Still holds up after all these years, especially if you’re old enough to remember the summer when punk usurped the jubilee. Wasting no time at 38 minutes and 44 seconds, Never Mind the Bollocks is a must-have for any serious music collection that traces it back to where it all began. Plus the US vinyl release has an alternative pink cover, which looks pretty.

Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols (1977) 

There’s a reason this album is beloved by everyone from Noel Gallagher to your dad. Proving that The Sex Pistols were more than just a shocking interview with Bill Grundy, Never Mind the Bollocks is a searing indictment of British life delivered with a string of memorable hooks. Listen, buy the T-shirt, artfully distress it and sneer.

Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)

He was in a theatre box, but where were the bulletproof screens? Where was the Secret Service? When the gunman started shooting, why didn’t he just dodge the bullets like I did in Pennsylvania? And we shouldn’t rush to condemn Confederate assassin John Wilkes Booth. There were very fine people on both sides of slavery.

James A Garfield (1831-1881)

History has forgotten Garfield, rightly. He didn’t end any wars when I’ve stopped nine and have the FIFA Peace Prize to prove it. He only won one election and I’ve won three, counting 2020. Garfield was a total loser. Even the cartoon isn’t named after him. How pathetic is that?

Theodore Roosevelt (1858-1919)

They named the asshole after a teddy bear. No surprise he just stood there and took two bullets to the abdomen. He survived, I guess, but he was no hero. By contrast, when the secret service started panicking on Saturday I immediately took control of the situation and presented the smallest possible target by skilfully falling over.

John F Kennedy (1917-1963)

Frankly if JFK was dumb enough to drive around in a convertible with the roof down he deserved to have his brains blown out. I’ve never understood the hype about that guy. If he was so handsome, why didn’t he ever host NBC’s top-rated Thursday night show? His assassin did America a favour. I’m changing Martin Luther King Day to Lee Harvey Oswald Day.

William McKinley (18343-1901)

A loser who got shot by an anarchist, survived, and – get this – died weeks later from an infection. A totally stupid and pointless death when he could have just injected disinfectant.

Ronald Reagan (1911-2004)

I hate to say it, but when Reagan narrowly survived being shot he should have quit. Either take the bullet face-on or dodge it. No half-measures. Anyway, I guess I should ask about you, Charles, they told me to do that. Have you been shot recently or is Britain full of pussies?

King of New York: The Puff Daddy Story

Ideally this one draws to a close in around 2001, when the mogul is on top with his record label making millions, his clothing line still growing, his legacy not yet defined by decades of serious sexual assaults, his name not yet changed to P Diddy. Audiences who prefer a nice sanitised story with no messy child abuse (Jackson) or AIDS (Mercury) will love it.

The Playboy Prince

Ah, the happy 1980s of Prince Andrew, shagging around while cheered on by the tabloids, flying helicopters for the Navy, marrying a racy redhead with a brothel-frequenting father. Back then he was a British hero, or so we were told. End it in 1990 and leave audiences wondering what became of this dashing figure. Tell them Googling will ruin it.

Spaceboy: The Life of David Bowie

Not because of any scandal, though there was an underage groupie because this was the 70s, but because everything after Let’s Dance is hard to defend. Nobody wants to see a biopic which includes Tin Machine. Fade to black after Modern Love with the caption ‘33 years later Bowie released Blackstar, which most critics agreed was alright’.

The Hedgehog: Being Ron Jeremy

Sadly a long and storied career in pornographic film was besmirched by multiple credible accusations of sexual assault, blackening the good name of one previously thought destined for sainthood. Ending things with 2013’s My Dad’s Best Friend 4 should iron out any bumps for mainstream audiences who want to celebrate, not condemn.

Shagger in Downing Street

Back in November 2021, Boris Johnson was the hero of Brexit, the Vaccine Vanquisher, happier than he’d ever been in love, a seventh or possibly eighth child on the way. Then came Partygate. As the audience for this biopic don’t believe that happened anyway, why not end it there with him on top and three more terms as PM to come?

Pip: The Philip Schofield Story

From the CBBC Broom Cupboard to the King of Daytime, a remarkable story of blandness, premature greying and media ubiquity. Who wouldn’t thrill to the recreation of Have I Been Here Before?, the 2005 show where David Seaman was regressed to a past life as Richard the Lionheart? Ends in 2020, before Schofield comes out and ruins everything.

Sabastian Sawe, who made history by completing the London Marathon in one hour, 59 minutes and 30 seconds, credited his achievement to being faster, because he is a professional athlete.

He said: “Pacing yourself, staying hydrated, and having friend and family cheer you on? Not, it turns out, as important as putting one foot in front of the other repeatedly lots of times really quickly.

“It’s weird so many marathon runners leave this out. Instead it’s all about training, energy gels and plasters over your nipples, which aren’t nearly as effective as running faster over this distance than anyone else in recorded history.

“Other useful things to keep in mind if you want to smash the two-hour barrier like me are not stopping, and making sure that you’re running in the right direction. Oh, and check there’s actually a marathon on, otherwise you’re just a man in traffic.

“Having two legs, being young, and not being dead are all helpful as well. But I really can’t stress that it all comes down to going fast. Maybe write it down so you don’t forget.”

Marathon runner Tom Booker said: “I don’t know. I still reckon endlessly droning on about running a marathon to everyone in the office plays a crucial role.”