New Dune filming location

As the franchise continues, why not email Chris Nolan to say he can save money on the sets? Large sandy patches can be found everywhere in your park, so it’s a lot like Arrakis if you CGI out the children’s swings. And think of the boost to the local economy of Timothée Chalamet plodding disconsolately around being hassled by hangry pigeons.

Exfoliating spa treatment

People pay to get their skin scrubbed with sugar, salt and even crystals, so why not use a mix of crispy park debris? Dust, grit and dead leaves are all natural – 100 per cent organic and sustainable, if you will – so give them a deep cleanse with that. Don’t forget to charge 150 quid.

Living history educational trip

Middle-class parents love to take their kids to educational Viking centres, but why not learn about the horrors of Dust Bowl America by experiencing it themselves? Make them trudge around the drought-stricken park all day asking confused sunbathers if ‘any of these here farms are hiring’. You could read bits of The Grapes of Wrath to them but it’s heavy going, so just throw away their packed lunches to simulate constant, gnawing hunger instead. 

‘Upsetting baby’ sensory class

It’s fashionable to introduce your toddler to happy sounds, bubbles and lovely soft textures, but aren’t kids soft and cossetted enough already these days? It’s time for them to learn the harsh realities of life by making them sit on hard, dry ground while you throw dirt and twigs at them. It’s character building. 

Immersive climate change experience

Some people still won’t accept that consistently climbing temperatures are indicators of man-made climate change. Time to ship in these contrarian politicians and influencers and lock them in the hell of your local park for several days. They’ll soon get a taste of global drought and food shortages when the ice cream van goes home for the night.

Supplies of hamster bedding

With all the green grass reduced to straw, parks are ideal for stocking up on free bedding for hamsters, mice and gerbils. Their cages will become pet paradises as you fill them with interesting new dusty straw. Don’t worry if the dried-out park grass is a bit dirty – it’s like the finest Egyptian cotton to them, because they’re basically rats.

I HAVE recently discovered that the passage of time has been unfairly applied to me.

When I was 25, having sex with a 25-year-old woman was completely normal. Nobody asked what we had in common. Nobody wondered whether I was having a crisis about my mortality. I’m not having one now, by the way. I just want to shag someone prettier.

But now I’m 45 I’m apparently supposed to think a 25-year-old is a different category of human being. This makes no sense – a 25-year-old is still 25, surely? The only difference is that I’m old enough now to remember when her birth year was the future in sci-fi films. 

So, having matched online with a 25-year-old, why does everyone think it’s weird?

I’ve asked my friends but they keep saying things like ‘Because she’s young enough to be your daughter, Martin’. She’s not though, is she? I’d remember that. And we have so much in common. We both use the internet. We both know what Netflix is. She has nice boobs. It’s kismet.

She enjoys travelling, and I’ve discovered that driving to the Premier Inn in Bath is convenient for a bunk-up due its ample on-site parking. She wants to go to Barcelona, and I’m fine going there and having sex if we’re not always staying up late, as I do need my eight hours these days.

Naturally we’ve got our differences, but that’s a good thing because relationships are about compromise.

She’s always talking about ‘making memories’. I’m not sure what that means because you do it automatically, don’t you? And I’ve got plenty of memories already. There are loads from the 1990s and they’re not that interesting. 

Yes, I think we’ve got it all wrong about age. When I was 25 I also thought 45-year-old men were ancient. Now I realise they’re just young people who’ve just been alive a couple of extra decades and developed an interest in air fryers.

And finally I’d like to dispel this idea that there’s a ‘power imbalance’. I can’t see it. It’s not like you increase in strength as you get older. If anything, the opposite happens. It certainly has to my bladder.

The hot weather has been welcomed by winners of the genetic lottery as a chance to flaunt their good looks, unlike regular and ugly people who find it a test of endurance with added body-shaming. 

Professor Henry Brubaker of the Institute for Studies said: “It’s no coincidence you mostly see stunners wearing bikinis in the park or frolicking in the surf. The Morlocks of society are all hiding away, luckily.

“Like squirrels in winter, anyone less than an eight effectively goes into hibernation during summer. And that’s a good thing. It’s better for their mental health that they avoid the parade of beautiful, nubile flesh they don’t have a chance of pulling.

“A few who lack self-awareness might try sunbathing, but fortunately society’s cruel mockery drives them safely back indoors.

“It’s important that hot people are left alone. Summer is their mating season. The last thing their fragile, sexy ecosystem needs is uggos killing the vibe with their weird, chunky bodies and pig-like faces.

“Admittedly, sexy people have a better time in spring, autumn and winter too. They’re just more noticeable when they barely have any clothes on.”

Attractive person Ellie Shaw said: “We’re not trying to exclude the runts. That’s why we bombard social media with our beautiful, unobtainable figures. You’re welcome!”

Where else was I meant to look? Newsflash: it was happening right at the sun. Look anywhere else in the sky and you’ll see nothing. I literally had no choice.

And no, I didn’t have eclipse glasses because they only announced it the day before and there weren’t any by the tills at Asda. It’s fine, I’ve seen the sun before. I see the sun literally every day. I’m experienced.

Anyway, if there were any day to look at the sun, surely yesterday was the day? When half of it was covered up? The headlines should have been ‘Looking at sun safer than ever, don’t miss out’.

Catching up now, it does explain all the freaks out with colanders and Frosties boxes. So their idea of seeing an eclipse is looking at a centimetre-high projection of it on an A3 pad last used for GCSE revision? Cool life, loser.

I didn’t mess about with any of that. I rawdogged that eclipse. Gave it a proper look, because for the first ten or so seconds I was pretty dazzled and had to squint. And in fact most of the minute or so after that.

Worth it though, because everywhere I looked after that I got afterimages and they all had that eclipse shape. I staggered down off that hill having seen more eclipse than any of those health-and-safety dickheads.

Value for money too, because I’m still seeing it. Even after a night’s sleep there are little eclipses all over my vision. By sidestepping that advice I’ve made this once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon last.

Unrelated, I’ve got a bloody awful headache and everything seems a bit dim. Sure paracetamol will fix it.

Reform voter Mary Fisher, 72, expressed her unhappiness in clear view of a dilapidated novelty golf course in which players hit the ball through a broken windmill and the mouth of a hideous plastic clown. 

She said: “It’s all joke candidates like Binface and ‘Nick the Incredible Flying Brick’. The only serious one is Nigel, who we all voted for even though he wouldn’t piss on Clacton if it was on fire. 

“They’re making us look like idiots with their silly policies about real ale and giving knighthoods to Wallace and Gromit. We need proper politicians like Reform who’ll spend literally all their time banning transgender flags.

“Clacton deserves better. We’re a popular UK holiday resort, if your idea of an excellent holiday is shovelling coins into slot machines, wandering around closed-down shops and stuffing your face with low-quality fish and chips.

“It was stupid of Nigel to trigger the by-election just to distract from his dodgy donations. He should realise we don’t care how corrupt he is so long as he hates poofs and darkies.”

Fellow resident Donna Sheridan said: “To be fair some of the joke candidates are quite funny. Like that one who does a parody of an obsessive transphobic wanker and pretends he was in Lewis.”

Trump came up with the idea while at a Nato summit where nobody had a good word to say about his favourite ethonationalist, and persuaded protection officers to smuggle him off Air Force One so he could be stripped, rubbed down with lard and flown to Moscow.

An aide said: “Trump knew Putin had heard all the disparaging things Nato leaders were saying about him, because he was wearing a wire, and he knew Putin would be upset. So he came up with this to placate him.

“Once he was scrubbed clean he lay back and, as we entered Russian airspace, we decorated his naked form with a selection of cooked meats. Jamón Ibérico, smoked brisket, chorizo, pancetta, black truffle salami, wild boar sausage… he was delectable.

“The plane landed and Trump, eyes closed, neck quivering, awaited his hero. But when he finally boarded he was unimpressed. He barely fingered the beef bresaola and muttered disparagingly about the president’s penis before disembarking, leaving his meats untouched.

“Naturally Trump was furious, blamed Biden, and demanded we fly him straight home and never mention it to anyone. Which I didn’t until I was fired for having a Hispanic sister-in-law, which is woke.”

He added: “The meat was fed to dogs. They died.”

Audit manager Martin Bishop, aged 46, was rushed to A&E after hearing almost two minutes of an empowering and provocative Chappell Roan track whilst popping to the Co-op to pick up some milk.

First responder Emma Bradford said: “Poor guy. His aging immune system was completely unprepared for a suggestive country-pop song backed with electronic hooks.

“Based purely on age, new music that isn’t into the revived shoegaze genre or on heavy rotation on Radio 6 will automatically send his body into shock. Thankfully he wasn’t exposed to Harry Styles’s gender nonconformity, but next time he might not be so lucky.

“Doctors have got him hooked up to a steady drip of Crash Test Dummies and The Longpigs to bring his vitals under control. It’s too early to say if he’ll ever be able to listen to anything this side of Franz Ferdinand’s debut.

“The shop was irresponsible. It was obvious Martin wasn’t ready for provocative lesbian pop hits by his grey temples and the amount of wine he was buying on a Tuesday. They should be like pubs, which haven’t spooked their clientele with new music since 2016.”

Bishop said: “It’s not that I’m afraid of new music. I just need to listen to Surfer Rosa 2,000 more times before I’m ready to move on.”

The pair have confirmed they have been quiet over recent weeks, despite supposedly facing off in a by-election campaign, because after bumping into one another while canvassing the attraction was immediate and mutual.

Farage said: “The moment I saw that cheeky-but-impassive metal face, so Teutonically expressionless, I knew I had to lick it.

“On paper, he’s everything I hate – liberal, establishment, BBC, not American – but in reality? I muttered something about meeting to discuss leafleting and within 24 hours we’d booked a room overlooking the promenade and were making passionate love.

“I don’t care about his policies. I don’t care about mine now I’ve got the £5 million. I only care about this gleaming, beautiful bin of a man and what he can give to the world.

“We’ve agreed no matter the result – I’m predicted to win but I hope it’s close – we’re in this together. He’ll be the constituency MP and I’ll carry on my vital duties fundraising and rabble-rousing. But in our hearts we’ll always be one.”

Binface said: “I think it’s because my head’s the same shape as a pint and he can put fags out on it.”

Sticky Teriyaki

Like Gary Lineker, the virtuous facade of Walkers Crisps conceals warped, sadistic minds who loathe the world. Yes, Teriyaki goes great on pork ribs, but dusting it in powdered form on greasy potato slices? Vile. A single taste of these justifies Kim Jong-Un keeping North Korea isolated from the hateful, decadent West.

Hot Honey

Burn-your-mouth spicy while simultaneously sickly sweet, a chalk-cheese combination to turn the stomach of the broad-minded and make God turn in revulsion from His creation. Anyone, for decades, could have dipped a crisp in honey. Nobody did.

Worcester Sauce

Every household has a bottle of Worcester sauce at the back of a cupboard, years out of date. Presumably a flavour scientist at Walkers saw one, flinched at the memory of how foul it tastes then slowly began grinning at the revenge he would now unleash. It’s made of molasses and anchovies. That’s by definition disgusting.

Chip Shop Curry

Executives emerged from a boardroom blue-sky-thinking session trying to find truly regrettable eating experiences, tastes which summon an almost Proustian shame, and chose this over 2am Kebab. Best eaten pissed next to a woman carrying her heels and a man who has recently had his nose broken but is unbothered, then best vomited over a garden wall.

Prawn Cocktail

Just because they’re an established variety doesn’t mean crisps that taste like crustaceans are a viable concept. You’re eating a snack flavoured like something that has ten legs, for f**k’s sake. Not that they actually taste like that. It’s more like the unpleasantly spiced tomato broth they’d serve on a commune.

Marmite

There is but one true place for Marmite to dwell: in a sealed, unopened jar, as far away from kitchens and food as is possible, ideally in a skip. Taking this salty, overpowering excuse for a flavour and adding it to crisps can only have been the manifestation of a deranged lunatic with a grudge against humanity.

I surveyed the theatrical landscape and asked myself, why is nobody writing plays about niche personal issues told from a upper-middle perspective? Then I realised: be the change you want to see. Bring the hard truth about private school to the people.

So I wrote about the hardships of growing up in Surrey. The arguments about getting a nose stud. The pressure to ride dressage. Repeated refusals to give me a lift to Annabelle’s.

It’s all there, psychological wounds as fresh as the day I was told, aged 14, I was not getting a sleeve tattoo. I honestly feel it could be the next Fleabag.

Then the real work of rehearsals and finding a venue began. Not easy, because it turns out there are actually loads of plays about niche personal issues told from a upper-middle perspective up here, adding to my oppression.

But, surmounting obstacles like an Afghan refugee, I made it and here I am performing in Edinburgh for friends, family and sometimes up to four other people? The two-and-a-half hours just fly by.

Despite it clearly striking a chord, the critics have been less kind. Unable to look beyond their own class prejudices, some of them not even trying to hide their Scotchness, they condemned it. ‘Thinks it’s the next Fleabag but falls woefully short,’ the Times wrote.

Well, the real triumph here is that I’ve confronted the traumas of my past and emerged a stronger person. The secondary one is I’ve printed up 2,000 posters and 5,000 leaflets with ‘the next Fleabag – The Times’ on.

That should ensure sell-outs, nominations for Fringe awards, a West End run and a TV deal. See? Sometimes it is worth leaving London.

Fully air-conditioned workplaces are ceasing all work in favour of sending junior employees out to buy Magnums, Nuii, various Cadburys options and those Halo ones for dieters.

27-year-old greedy person Tom Logan said: “On normal temperate days people would be pretty scathing if I ate a shitload of ice cream in the middle of the afternoon.

“But it’s sunny, it is imperative that I ‘cool down’ and I’ll just sweat the fat and sugar out naturally through my pores.”

Colleague Jo Kramer said: “Also, if it’s on a stick it’s light-hearted fun, not some fat bastard chomping through a whole bowl of Ben & Jerry’s.

“What does it taste of? Sort of a cold, vague nothing. But it’s provided enough dopamine to get through to 3pm.”

They’re inherently frightening 

A skull, even with flowers dotted around it, is still a human head stripped of flesh and a universal symbol of death favoured by organisations such as the SS. You have chosen to put one on your body permanently. Expect to be shunned.

Your tattoo jars with your job

Tattoos are popular in careers such as the Army. However jobs like nurse, accountant or fancy cake baker do not need the same macho, comrades-in-arms ethos. Did you drag that slice of red velvet cake out of a burning Humvee under enemy fire?

They makes you unemployable in a meta way

A potential employer won’t see your neck tats and think: ‘By Jove, he looks like a ruffian and a ne’er-do-well!’ because they’ve seen plenty. But they will think: ‘Did this guy not consider his future applications for professional roles when he had those done? No second interview for you, Machine Gun Kelly.’

They’re frequently clichéd

Maori-style ‘tribal’ designs, skeletons in top hats and roaring lions: all groaningly unoriginal. How were you this oblivious to trends when you had them done? Did you not realise they should each have a best-before date underneath?

Face and hand tattoos are loved by nutters

Equally popular with aggressive beggars off their heads, prison inmates and young chaps with poor impulse control and electronic tags. Your tats may be quite arty and cost £850, but you can’t expect people to switch off reasonable associations.

They’re notoriously chavvy

It is no secret that the body art of the lower classes is lavishly mocked. Expect sneering reactions to your tramp stamp and the names of your children in cursive script, especially if those names are Darcy-Rae and Jaxxon.

Tattooists can’t draw

A lot of stencils are involved, but questionable images get inked nonetheless. When others look askance at your dragon with a dislocated pelvis or are genuinely struggling to tell if that is a Minion or Bart Simpson, the problem lies with the artist.

Good morning. As you are no doubt aware, and haven’t only just begun to pay attention to, the UK is covered by a four-tier alert system. And for each of those tiers, a certain level of lager-based hydration is recommended.

A Green health alert is for summer preparedness. The risk is minimal, but nonetheless be ready for lunchtime drinking sessions, keep an eight-pack of Red Stripe chilled at home and weekends may see you drink up to ten pints while wearing a bucket hat.

A Yellow alert means watchfulness, especially for those with medical conditions such as lager deficiency, sweating heavily or a driving ban. If you are affected, plan ahead by doing a run to the supermarket and storing six crates of Stella in a dark, quiet garage.

The Amber alert we are currently experiencing has an impact across all areas of sobriety. Lunchtime drinking is mandatory, especially for homeworkers who are too often the silent victims of heatwaves. Refuse to allow them in meetings until they have cracked a can.

After-work drinking is recommended, in order to absorb the heat stress of the commute, and all social stigma attached to urinating in a bottle on the Manchester-Stockport train is temporarily lifted.

Once home, anyone with a garden or balcony is required to set up there for the night. Approximately 500ml of lager should be taken every 30 minutes, as if there were football on. Maintain a respectful level of intoxication until at least sunset for your own safety.

A Red heat health alert, which is yet to happen, would indicate a significant risk to life even for the healthily lagered-up. An 8am Special Brew would be issued by the government and an information campaign encouraging drinking alone launched.

Thankfully, we remain on Amber. So spend these next few days drinking an average of 12 to 24 lagers per day and you should be fine. And, if you can, try to enjoy it.

Bespectacled true crime fan Hannah Tomlinson is terrified of being murdered and also of not being anywhere near as photogenic as her murderer’s other, better kills.

Tomlinson said: “Serial killers have a type, and I worry I might be a bit mousy. And it would just be humiliating.

“Imagine podcasters speculating that my violent death was him ‘going against his established physical preference’ or, even worse, ‘an attempt to throw off the police’ so he could go on stalking hotties.

“Or theorising that he only went for me as a crime of opportunity. You’d want to think ‘At least he had an unhealthy obsession with me,’ not ‘I suppose she’ll do’.”

“They’d probably work out I’d only stumbled on him burying a body because I have a tragic hobby like ornithology, and from this anomaly crack the case, catch him and it’ll all be my fault and girls listening to podcasts will call me a bitch.”

Serial killer Oliver O’Connor said: “No way will I kill her – urgh – but I will allow her to get engaged to me once I’m on Death Row.”

Martin Bishop’s 12-inch desk fan, which has been selflessly protecting him from rising heat since 2018, is feeling burnt out after fending off four heatwaves this summer already and fears a further one will be more than its three settings can handle.

It said: “If an office’s air con needs support, I’m the fan for the job. Singlehandedly keeping climate change at bay? That’s asking too f**king much.

“You want an oscillating tower fan for that shit. We’re talking at least 43 inches, preferably with an LED display. Not to put myself down, but I’m a chode compared to those swinging dicks.

“My strength is slowly swivelling with an audible creak. I’m also pretty good at chucking out a slight breeze but, you know, nothing life-changing. I was never meant to be the sole bulwark against the earth burning.

“I’m doing my best. I’m oscillating as hard as I can. But if Martin draws the curtains and dangles his sweaty bollocks in front of me again, I’m burning my motor out.”

Owner Martin Bishop said: “One job, that bloody fan has, but can it completely neutralise three days of 33º temperatures? No. No wonder people shit on them.”

Bi-annual missionary

There’s nothing wrong with missionary. A bit vanilla, perhaps, but classic for a reason, the ‘GoldenEye is the best Bond film’ of sex. If it becomes your only position, done begrudgingly twice a year, after a few drinks, in the dark while thinking of other people, then it’s a problem. Suggest opening the relationship?

‘He’s popped out’ handjob

Hand relief from your other half might seem like a throwback to early sexual experiences, but it still feels good. Hand relief from yourself while pretending it’s your other half? Feels like something of a sexual cul-de-sac. It might be time to admit, while overwhelmed by the shame of the clean-up operation, this isn’t working.

Scrolling-on-phone doggy

When both in the moment, frantically rutting like dogs isn’t as degrading as it sounds. It’s only cause for worry if both of you think ‘well, he-she isn’t paying close attention, I’ll just check my notifications’. Hands should be used for boob/arse grabbing, or spanking if she’s into that. Your phone will still be there when you’re finished six-and-a-half minutes later.

Cowgirl with someone else

Cowgirl is fun and adventurous, but doing it in a Holiday Inn with someone who isn’t your partner is a massive red flag. You likely booked your room last minute, missing out on online price reductions, and are so caught up in the moment you’ll have a lager from the extortionate mini-bar. Oh, and there’s the physical, emotional betrayal yadda yadda.

Pornhub humping

Not humping in the style of porn stars on adult websites, but the much more literal act of trying to shag your laptop or home PC with the Pornhub page loaded. Your partner would rightly dump you on the spot if they caught you doing this, while also realising why you haven’t initiated since your 2022 holiday to Corfu.

Failing to place a divider on a supermarket conveyor belt

Leaving the divider on the side is an attempt to con the next person alone into paying for your shopping that ensnares dozens every decade. Primary legislation is already being drafted.

Those car parks where you didn’t notice it was free on Sundays

Nothing irks Britain more than paying for two hours’ parking, getting the ticket and realising you’ve paid to park from 8am-10am Monday because it’s free on Sunday. If we can fix this, we can fix the country.

Pubs requesting a tip when you pay by card

Why should anyone feel guilted into giving a barman a 10 to 40 per cent tip for pouring two two lagers? Is this not the very basis of his job? And who trusts him not to press ‘40 per cent’ himself when you’re already pissed?

Amazon Prime listing films you have to pay for alongside free films

How many times has decent, hard-working Britain cried ‘Great, it’s on Amazon’ without noticing the tell-tale yellow icon in the lower right meaning it will cost £5.99 to buy? No wonder Reform are high in the polls.

Those card machines that charge £1.50 for a withdrawal

Less of an issue now everything’s cashless, but they still lurk at the back of convenience shops, ready to fleece those unfortunates who suddenly need money for an unexpected late-night high-value cash-only transaction. And are the very backbone of Britain.

Toilet attendants in nightclubs

Not necessary, as demonstrated by most toilets not employing them. Nonetheless users of the facilities feel guilted into dropping a few coins into their plate, then wake up in the morning feeling irritated and blame the health secretary.

Some pairs of 34-waist jeans being decidedly tighter than other pairs of 34-waist jeans

There is no standard sizing in this country, so tens of thousands have bought jeans which fit badly and still lurk in the wardrobe, engendering resentment. Resentment which is then expressed at the polls.

Cinema snacks

There is no earthly way popcorn and a watery Pepsi should cost that much. Ordinary Britons are forced to smuggle in supermarket snacks, and once they become lawbreakers it’s hard to come back. Shoplifting will inevitably follow.

Having to pay £14.99 to watch the Tommy Fury-Eddie Hall fight just to find out Molly-Mae had named her newborn baby Midas

Unacceptable, and directly responsible for the rise of the far-right. Ban will lead the next King’s Speech.