‘A most puzzling case, Watson,’ said Holmes at our lodgings in Baker Street. ‘A young bride by the name of Katie Price has had her husband snatched from her in a strangely unconvincing kidnap plot.’

Holmes sucked on his pipe thoughtfully. ‘I suggest we hail a Hansom cab willing to take us to Mrs Price’s Tudor-style rented home in Sussex.’

*****

In her drawing room, Mrs Price related the distressing tale. It was impossible for any man not to be entranced by her innocence and natural beauty.

‘I’m worried f**king sick,’ she said. ‘We’d only just got f**king married and now he’s f**king been kidnapped and they’ll probably cut his f**king fingers off and probably his knob too what the f**k is it with me and f**king men?’ 

‘A grave predicament, I agree,’ said Holmes. ‘Or is it the case that you are a dissembling shrew engaged in outrageous falsehoods for cold pecuniary gain?’ 

‘You what?’ said Mrs Price, and I too felt compelled to ask tersely what he meant by this vile accusation. ‘Come with me, Watson,’ he said. 

*****

Holmes led me to Mrs Price’s bedroom, a nightmarish study in pink. ‘What strikes you about this house, Watson?’ ‘It is tasteless?’ I ventured. ‘Yes, but you will also note a complete absence of books, an indicator of low intellect. And where might such a weak-minded individual choose to hide themselves?’ 

‘The most obvious place…?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ said Holmes. ‘Come out from under the bed, Lee.’ 

At which point a shamefaced specimen I recognised as Lee Andrews crawled out pathetically. He soon confessed all: the whole scheme had been concocted to hide the fact that their marriage was a sham, and seeking out mindless D-lister publicity was the only course of action these wretches knew.

*****

As we climbed aboard our carriage back to London, a question still vexed me. ‘Another crime solved, Holmes, but I still don’t know what alerted you to it being a pitiful charade in the first place!’ 

‘A shitty podcast,’ Holmes replied. ‘When your beloved spouse is at risk of torture and murder, who would continue with their celebrity podcast, as Mrs Price did yesterday? A podcast so lame the only guest she ever has on is her sister.’

‘Of course!’ I exclaimed. 

‘Elementary, my dear Watson,’ said Holmes, as he completely fails to do in the books.

Naked Attraction

‘Base’, ‘animalistic’ and ‘taking civilisation backwards’ are fair descriptions of the naked dating show, in which contestants are dehumanised by being put in a box then exhibited like meat. It’s got that horrible Channel 4 ‘we’re so edgy’ vibe to it, and if indeed it was made by a bunch of real-life Nathan Barleys it would explain why no one said: ‘Wait, this is f**king horrible.’

There’s Something About Miriam 

On Sky One cisgender male contestants lusted after hottie Miriam, who turned out to be trans. It’s a better reveal than discovering your carriage clock is worth f**k all on Antiques Roadshow, but the risks are painfully obvious: one contestant turned violent and the show undoubtedly contributed to Miriam Rivera’s suicide years later. Also the whole thing was clearly just morally wrong, like devising a show called Who Wants to Be A Hospital Arsonist?

The Jenny Jones Show 

In 1995 Jonathan Schmitz went on this US show, where Scott Amedure, who he knew socially, revealed a crush on him. Schmitz later shot Amedure in the chest with a shotgun he bought the same day. Who could have predicted there’d be bad consequences to appearing to call into question the sexuality of a man you know nothing about on national TV in a country awash with guns?

Love Island 

Unedifying to begin with, because the premise is: put simpleminded humans in a confined space and wait for them to mate. Meanwhile contestants have claimed they were deliberately turned into hate figures, and many struggled with overnight fame, with two committing suicide. As if this wasn’t enough red flags, the show now requires contestants to have eight sessions of therapy afterwards and be monitored by a welfare team for at least 14 months. Strangely that doesn’t happen with Countdown.

Big Brother

The Shilpa Shetty incident on BB5 got all the attention, but viewers noticed the makers ratcheting up the aggro from BB3 onwards, mainly with ‘conflicting personalities’, ie. adding a load of annoying twats. At no point did Endemol or Channel 4 say: ‘Maybe we shouldn’t keep fomenting extreme personal hatred in a closed environment where any sane person would be justified in drowning any of these dreadful bastards in the hot tub?’

Embarrassing Bodies

Oh come on, this should be called Latterday Medical Freakshow, and illness ghouls were treated to everything from severe acne to the joys of bowel leakage. Unsurprisingly Channel 4 claims it destigmatises distressing conditions, but it’s still just a licence for office workers at the water cooler to say: ‘OMG! Did you see the guy with the weird bent cock?’ Or indeed for strangers in a pub to say: ‘OMG! You’re the guy with the weird bent cock!’

The ‘Hobbit’ box

If BBC presenters aren’t from London, they tend to come from the North or Wales. And while this is good for representation, the broadcaster has been lacking when it comes to hiring scruffy-haired yokels from the Shire. Widdicombe hits this diversity target and thanks to clever camerawork you’ll never know he’s three feet shorter than Emma Willis.

The ‘Zippy-voiced’ box

Most presenters have voices audiences enjoy hearing, but not everyone is blessed with the warm, earthy tones of a Wogan or Attenborough. By presenting a prime time family show, Josh Widdicombe has beaten those gatekeepers and proved the weirdly-voiced deserve the dignity of being listened to as well. His laugh is also a bit much.

The ‘annoys your mum and dad’ box

Every light entertainment BBC show must include at least one host that makes your mum and dad leave furious, misspelt screeds in the Daily Mail comments section. A clever move on the Beeb’s part, as angry parents will purposefully tune in regardless to boost their blood pressure and bump up the ratings in the process.

The ‘not Romesh Ranganathan’ box

Hard to believe, but a slim minority of BBC shows are not presented by Romesh Ranganathan. Often they’re scheduled in BBC Three’s graveyard slot so as not to disturb people with his troubling absence. To ease the general public into the weird notion of a mainstream show without him, there will be trigger warnings before each episode.

The ‘straight white male’ box

The rarest of all boxes. Contrary to popular belief, the BBC is charter-bound to hire a heterosexual white man as a presenter every now and then. Having listened to the mixed reaction to Josh Widdicombe’s announcement though, the broadcaster will make sure this box is never ticked again. It’s diversity hiring from here on out because that’s what the public wants.

Choose an abysmal song

The key to winning Eurovision is, surprisingly, entering a song that is fun to listen to. Difficult because music is subjective, but the United Kingdom has cracked the opposite formula: tunes that, year after year, are universally despised. And for a continent as diverse and fractured as Europe, bringing it together via hate is something to be proud of.

Refuse to be sexy

Europe is notorious for its debauched love of sex and tits and wrapping them in Bacofoil. Don’t pander to it. Impressing the judges with a buxom singer wearing f**k all but glitter would score points, but where’s the integrity? Scoring nul points may be embarrassing today, but all the best artists are unappreciated in their own lifetimes. Well, some of them.

Be a geopolitical pariah

As much as they claim otherwise, European countries vote according to historical grudges. Look at Ireland: never invaded anywhere and has won a record seven times. To come last, fight wars against the whole continent over 800 years and be ancient enemies with your nearest neighbour. Israel is the exception that proves this rule.

Never learn from your mistakes

After years of coming dead last, it might be tempting to switch up by entering a listenable song. It’s vital that you resist this temptation and stay on the right track. Persistence is key, and now Europe’s become accustomed to your terrible music and unlikable singers you cannot deprive them of a cherished Eurovision tradition.

Enter an even worse song

At Eurovision nothing makes sense, so it’s likely the continent will develop a deranged, Stockholm syndrome-like affection for your crapness. So innovate and plumb new depths of awfulness in order to come last year after year. Next year? Tommy Robinson singing football chants without a microphone while not knowing the words. Look forward to that.

Carrie Ryan, eyebrow threader: “By abandoning nationalism, letting all flags and ethnicities fade into the background and treating every act as the same old spangly shit.”

Julian Cook, poet: “My wife and I each draw a nationality from a hat and support them fervently, culminating in a drunken fistfight then making wild, passionate love in front of the television as the Norwegians say ‘nul points’. All five children have February birthdays.”

Norman Steele, sluice installer: “Oh, it’s entirely political. We vote depending on which European country has most pleased us the previous year on holiday. And they f**king know it.”

Hannah Tomlinson, member for Stevenage: “By backing Wes Streeting because he’s the right choice for Britain and also performing Küpsetatud Sink Tantsib for Estonia tonight.”

Will McKay, flying instructor: “By not being able to watch the bastard. I’m Irish.”

They contain scenes of a sexual nature

So-called sophisticated viewers spent years pretending they relished the social commentary of The Wire or the corporate satire of Severance, but compared to young A-listers f**king they’re boring old shit. Who cares what Euphoria is about – if anything – when Sydney Sweeney jumps a skipping rope in a swimsuit?

There have sexy people in them

Viewers like to watch sexy people do anything. Even picking out vowels or consonants can be erotically charged when Rachel Riley’s doing it. Shrewd producers have noticed this trend and exploited your human failings for streaming cash. Even your secret lust for unconventional sex object Danny Dyer is catered to, you rampant f**k.

The sexy people have sex with each other

A genius move. Not only do Euphoria and Rivals boast a cast of studs and babes, they all regularly get their kit off and shag. Hopefully the scriptwriters are well renumerated for typing ‘they f**k again’ every other page, because it’s got millions tuning in. No mean feat, considering the endless hours of explicit content available for free online.

The sex is more sexy than regular sex

Even the sight of sexy, sweaty actors pistoning away risks getting boring, but the producers of Euphoria are a step ahead. They’ve conjured a plotline where Sweeney bones a microphone and balloon up into a sexy giantess. Ask your dad if you don’t believe it, he’s conducted extensive research himself after reading about it in the Mail.

Sex is a universal desire that will never go away

Some shows alienate viewers with themes and characters that don’t have broad appeal. Euphoria and Rivals cater to anyone with even a faint trace of a libido, which luckily for them includes everyone. And high-quality production values mean future generations will be just as titillated, like we are by classic 70s productions like Au Pair Girls. 

Friends: Rachel and Joey getting together

Okay, they’re both attractive, and pleasingly unintelligent. And in a show where there are six heterosexual characters it’s inevitable they’re all going to do each other at some point. But this just felt wrong. Like, only one step above Ross and Monica getting it on, and you sure as hell wouldn’t want to see an incestuous version of the Princess Leia scene.

Scooby-Doo: Scrappy-Doo

It’s the late 1970s. You have a hit show. People like it but viewing figures are flagging. What to do? How about introducing an irritating, loud, arrogant puppy that clashes horribly with the laid-back, cowardly vibe of Scooby and Shaggy? And so was born a humorous animated character inspiring levels of hate not seen again until the dark times of Jar Jar Binks.

Dallas: It was all a dream

A twist so infamous it continues to haunt one of the behemoth shows of the 80s. In one sweep of a writer’s quill, an entire season’s events – three deaths, divorce, a car bomb and suicide attempt – were revealed to be nothing but the activity of a brain on standby. It’s the worst cliché a writer can use, although in fairness there was no way to bring back Bobby Ewing without something equally bad like Pam finding his secret cloning laboratory.

Red Dwarf: The return of Kochanski

Ah, Lister, condemned to a life floating through deep space pining for an ex-girlfriend he has no way of being with due to her, and the rest of the crew, being dead. And because three million years have passed. But wait! What’s this? Why, it’s series VII, where permanent sparring partner Rimmer leaves halfway through, only to be replaced by… Kochanski, through some interdimensional bullshittery. Gone is the hopeless longing, so important to Lister’s character arc, and it’s not even Clare Grogan playing her, in a crushing blow to all men.

Frasier: Niles and Daphne getting together 

Nearly seven whole seasons of Niles being haplessly obsessed with Daphne created a rich tapestry of story arcs, character conflicts and, handily in a sitcom, witty jokes and genuinely funny situations. And then? Oh f**k, they get together and a whole portion of the show’s very soul is scooped out and replaced with couple stuff. 

Only Fools and Horses: Grandad replaced by Uncle Albert

A portent of what was to happen to OFAH. Earlier episodes were rough and ready, genuinely moving at times, and Del and Rodney were young enough for it not to be concerning that a middle-aged man was following his pension-age brother around constantly. But then came Christmas special after godawful Christmas special, and crap visual gags such as a stretch Reliant Robin. Despite this, holding any opinion other than ‘it’s the best comedy show ever’ will earn you a smack in the mouth in any flat-roofed British pub.

Get dressed sans lighting

High fashion is often plainly ludicrous but you don’t have to be Anna Wintour to achieve similar results. Instead break into a local charity shop and, while the lights are out and the burglar alarm blaring, throw on every item you stumble into. The child’s tent you wear as a skirt may not be suitable for the office but will be a wow on the red carpet.

Experiment with household materials

Traditional textiles can only get you so far. If you really want to look as glamorous as Doja Cat, start sporting a chic Bacofoil crop top or an opulent train fashioned from a shower curtain you used to protect furniture when decorating. With imagination, even the recycling bin is a treasure trove of jewellery and you’re ‘making a statement about the environment’.

Mix-and-match Halloween costumes

The formalwear of a vampire, teamed with the rags of the living dead? The chains of an executioner mixed with the jerkin of Shrek? The mask of a werewolf over the lilac of some f**king character your kid wanted to be from Fortnite? It’s jarring, it’s powerful, it’s pure fashion and Colman Domingo would be jealous.

Shop at TK Maxx

Looking for comically unusual clothes that nobody with even a tenuous grasp on sanity would consider? Cut out the couturier and shop at TK Maxx instead. Nothing will fit, nothing will match, no shoes will be paired, but it’ll be worth it when you eventually that statement hi-vis Hazmat suit with matching zippered trilby.

Wear your normal clothing

Sneering at the stars? Look in a mirror. Your sauce-stained cargo shorts and last season’s Crocs would be so outlandish at fashion’s top event they’d be astonishing. If the theme is Costume Art, then you’ve come as the groundbreaking work ‘My Bed’ by Tracey Emin. Empty Smirnoff bottles? Model’s own.

Boyzone

Manufactured in 1993 to replace Take That, this Irish boy band featured five young men still emerging, blinking, from puberty. By their 20th anniversary they’ve been married, divorced, had kids, become grandfathers and have bad backs and buggered knees. Rising from a seated position now causes their voices to go up an octave entirely naturally.

The Pussycat Dolls

Stole their name from a celebrity burlesque troupe and now they’re stuck with it, aren’t they? Nicole Scherzinger’s brave break for solo stardom failed and now she’s back with the girls taking their PVC from city to city, trying not to notice their backing dancers being far more limber than they are.

Kid Rock

Actually was a kid when he started out, though as a rapper really should have called himself Kid Rap. Sadly, his career overcame this elementary error and he enjoyed several hits before turning to shit rock and becoming the court jester for the Trump administration. Was saluted by USAF troops in helicopters, in a clue as to where they will stand in the upcoming civil war.

New Kids On The Block

Formed in 1984 by the man forever known as Mark Wahlberg’s brother, they spawned a thousand boybands as it became clear teen girls would scream at anything because they don’t give a f**k. Remember that kid at your school who was acclaimed because he could do a 180 double peg grind on his BMX? Imagine that’s all he’d ever done and he was still doing it.

Boyz II Men

Forty years on, with not long before they transition from Men II Codgers, they harmonise their way around America’s corporate events and Las Vegas residencies. If they had the choice they’d be singing ballads about lawn care, the medications they take each morning and a moving number called No, Son, You May Not Borrow The Car. But they don’t.

Spice Girls

Not currently touring but it’s going to happen, as inevitably as the death of our sun. Baby Spice will be out there appreciating the irony. The audience will be there, wondering what the f**king hell happened to girl power now they’re all post-menopausal.

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.

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.

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.

More boring songs 

Some songs are intrinsically boring, like Shape of You, while others become boring from overfamiliarity, like Rock DJ. I’ll be playing both. Ideally I’d just play one boring song for the entire show, but apparently three solid hours of Holding Back The Years can turn you into a vegetable.

Untaxing chat

On the Teatime Show I’ve asked listeners to tell me about times they’ve regretted not closing a container properly or childhood toys they had. So expect more stimulating chats like that. Listen out for:

● Things you keep in a drawer;

● Lessons you did at school; 

● Objects that are roughly circular.

More boring guests

On the Breakfast Show we have guests you don’t strongly object to, but have no interest in listening to either. Looks like James Martin, Jason Manford and Stacey Dooley will be getting calls from their agents!

No references to Scott

A few snarky comments about Scott Mills would liven up the Breakfast Show’s tediously upbeat playlist of Take That, Fairground Attraction and Supergrass, but I’m not allowed to do that. However if you’ve ever sat on some grass, text in and tell me. That should fill ten minutes.

Songs geared to middle-aged activities

All Radio 2 songs are chosen with middle-aged people in mind. I Don’t Want a Lover by Texas is unlikely to raise your blood pressure further during your commute, and you won’t suddenly get Trent Reznor effing and blinding during the school run. It’s a shame there aren’t any songs about mortgages and putting the wheelie bins out, but rock stars don’t seem interested in that. Can’t think why.

More ‘gold’ classics

I don’t mean actual rock and pop classics by The Byrds or The Jam, I mean a parochial selection of MOR tedium that’s less recent than Ed Sheeran: Spandau Ballet, Fleetwood Mac, Bryan Adams. Who wants to listen to Big Love again? You don’t care one way or the other? That’s what we like to hear!

A deep sense of age-related despair 

As you’re bombarded with jingles and me prattling on, you may experience a vague feeling of having wasted your life on mindless crap and now it’s all too late. But then you’ll be distracted like one of Pavlov’s dogs by the familiar sound of West End Girls. So everything’s fine. And if you’ve ever been to a pet shop, text in and tell me!

Kurt Cobain uses a nerf gun 

Kurt’s death is too upsetting in its real form. Instead he raises the shotgun, pulls the trigger and a foam rubber projectile bounces harmlessly off his chin. He and Courtney enjoy a pleasant, completely alive evening together, and there are no distraught audiences who might put other people off paying to see the film.

Led Zeppelin respect groupies as equals

The exact details are disputed, but it seems a Zep groupie enjoyed some fish-based bondage masturbation with members of the band present. In any biopic it will be substituted with Robert Plant et al hosting a feminist workshop for groupies, who leave with signed copies of The Second Sex rather than fish scales in their fannies.

L7 mistook a tampon for a mouse 

In the inoffensive version of the L7 story, lead singer Donita Sparks sees a small mouse’s tail in her pants at the 1992 Reading Festival. Understandably terrified because she’s a girl, she hurls the rodent into the audience, only then realising it is a used tampon. The fact that she shouted ‘Eat my used tampon, f**kers!’ will not be included, and men who are uncomfortable with periods will be spared permanent trauma.

Elvis stops existing in 1970

Elvis’s obese, drugged-up wanker phase is not going to shift many soundtrack albums, so the film will simply freeze on a triumphant live performance of Suspicious Minds in 1970. Yes, it will be a f**king insult to anyone vaguely aware of history, but that didn’t do Braveheart any harm. Or The Patriot, which somehow manages to be worse.

Eric Clapton was at an Enid Blyton convention 

Modern audiences are not going to like the guy who did Layla and Wonderful Tonight saying ‘get the wogs out’. Unless he’s at a 1976 Enid Blyton Convention and he’s merely impatient to see fellow fans cosplaying his favourite characters, the naughty golliwogs. Implausible? Yes, but not much more than claiming being a pisshead makes you into a card-carrying Enoch fan.

Happy Mondays were tiresome wellness fanatics

The only substance the Mondays abused was camomile and lavender tea, according to this bowdlerised biopic in which Shaun et al are drippy clean-living buffs droning on about the antioxidant properties of ginseng extract. The director will probably still want to show the bust-ups and fights, though, so Shaun can twat his brother Paul for borrowing his yoga mat.

John Lennon was wearing body armour 

A tragic incident that can be avoided with a movie trope. As Mark Chapman runs off, Lennon gets up revealing a heavy, pockmarked bulletproof vest while quipping: ‘Didn’t think of that, did ya, soft lad?’ This obviously presents a problem with Lennon’s subsequent life, but that can be fudged with a post-credits scene showing him happily doing a frog voice for Paul McCartney’s We All Stand Together.

OUTSIDERS could never understand how it feels to be in the warm embrace of a thoroughly toxic fandom. For example, myself and the Bargain Hunters. 

It’s hard to remember who I was before I became one of them. How I passed evenings when I wasn’t locked in furious argument online, going through that day’s show frame-by-frame looking for evidence of the showrunners’ vicious colonialism.

Today my whole life is built around it. Delivering smackdowns to the Dickensonians here, moderating comments by the Wonnacottites there, releasing my rage at the low price a chipped Lladro achieved onto subreddits. It’s so fulfilling.

It’s my passion, which is why it’s perfectly excusable for me to know the producers by name, stalk them on social media and send them abusive messages when Red are cheated of victory by an auctioneer who was so clearly a f**king plant.

After all, without me and the other Hunters the show wouldn’t have been running for 26 years. We’re the ones watching it every day. We’re the ones making GIFs of key moments and fan edits of every Golden Gavel. We’re the lifeblood of the show.

Yes, I have occasionally said ‘if they’re going to make such a f**king mockery of this they should f**king cancel it and if I see Eric Knowles in person he is f**king dead’, for which I was unfairly banned from Stafford Showground. But like I said, passion.

By ignoring us or putting us on watchlists, the BBC has shown its contempt for ordinary obsessed fans. Really it should be inviting us to act as consultants, apart from that dickhead ClockCollecta who knows nothing about the show and would ruin it.

So next time you hear of a toxic fandom, consider perhaps they’re the ones who are really right and the casuals are all wrong. Now I’ve got Mark Stacey-Raj Bisram fan fiction to finish. This chapter features a 1772 clockwork ivory strap-on.

As well as telling the King of Pop’s origin story, Michael launches a multi-movie franchise about rich and famous celebrity wrong ‘uns which is projected to come together for a thrilling crossover finale in 2031.

Film insider Tom Booker said: “Don’t worry if you’re not familiar with all the dusty old source material on these guys. The NCU will tell you everything you need to know.

“Michael eases you in with a straightforward tale about a poor black kid who grows up to be the world’s most famous sex monster. Sit through the end credits and there’s a teaser for the next film in the series, Andrew: Prince of Paedos. 

“That leads into the Woody Allen biopic, then we go back a couple of decades and see the roots of it all with Jimmy Savile, Stuart Hall and Rolf Harris in It Was A Different Time: The 70s Story. 

“Yes, we’ve had to be creative in scriptwriting to tie it all together, but give Michael a magic rhinestone-studded glove and I think audiences will be in their seats cheering as the paedos put their differences aside to battle a galactic threat only they can defeat.”

Cinemagoer Martin Bishop said: “I can’t wait for them to keep churning these movies out long after they’ve stopped being good.”

Saltburn (2023) 

Definitely delivers on its promise of Barry Keoghan prancing around with a big dangly cock, but the novelty wears off. The transgressive scenes, such as drinking spunky bathwater, are hardly groundbreakingly erotic. If you’re male you can do that yourself without adding to your catalogue of unfinished streaming movies.

Euphoria (2019-2026) 

Sweeney, Zendaya and Elordi make it tempting, but it’s essentially trauma porn and when the drama ramps up you’ll puncture your eardrums to make the screaming stop. Want to see terrible, degrading things happen to young people? Simply hang around your local bus station.

Don’t Look Now (1973)

Audiences famously thought the sex scene was real, but it’s not and is rather too arty for a good strum. It’s intercut with a montage of the couple getting ready to go out, so masturbators may find themselves climaxing over Donald Sutherland faffing around with a coathanger.

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

Like Basic Instinct, entertaining nonsense that isn’t really worth the bother of pausing the muff scene even in convenient digital format. By contrast you get ample time to take in Jonah Hill frantically masturbating in public while off his head on Quaaludes, and it will stay with you.

The Singing Detective (1986) 

If you were drawn to this series for the sex you’ll soon discover a nine-year-old boy being traumatised by seeing his mum have an adulterous shag in the woods isn’t particularly hot. If Joanne Whalley applying vaseline to psoriasis victim Michael Gambon’s penis makes you aroused, then you’ve hit the jackpot.

Wuthering Heights (2025)

Among director Emerald Fennell’s various edgy anachronisms is Cathy wanking on the Yorkshire Moors. Even if you’re powerfully in favour of watching Margot Robbie get off, she looks cold and you wish the poor woman would go indoors.

The Substance (2024)

Plenty of titillating shots of Demi Moore and Margaret Qualley in lycra, but as it’s a scathing parody of the male gaze and the objectification of women you’ll going to feel incredibly guilty throughout. The equivalent of watching Pornhub if the actors kept turning to camera saying ‘God, you disgust me!’ Which for some would make it hotter.

The band have been recognised for their insipid back catalogue, their milquetoast live performances, their cloying lyrics and for surviving almost 30 years in a music industry where the bigger boys would like to beat them up.

Steven Malley, a member of the Hall of Fame board who crocheted his jumper himself, said: “We’ve been discussing their admission for years without coming to a conclusion because we’re so non-confrontational.

“But last week Simon stormed out apologising profusely and we finally decreed Coldplay’s massive success shouldn’t be held against them because spiritually they’re releasing limited edition 7-inches with hand-painted sleeves on Sarah Records.

“When we told them the band cried, obviously, but said they were very honoured to be joining the likes of the Field Mice and Starsailor, and it makes their decades of never allowing their music any edge whatsoever worthwhile.

“The ceremony will take place in Simon’s parents conservatory because we’re not allowed to hire the local Scout hut anymore after we complained their urn made undrinkably strong tea. It’s invite-only and you don’t seem sensitive enough.”

Coldplay’s Chris Martin said: “Yes, I do wet the bed. Gwyneth loved it.”

Actors improvising

Improvised films rarely make much sense, so if actors are making up the dialogue as they go along, do something more entertaining like having a root canal. Imagine if David Lynch’s Inland Empire had an actual script; it might have been less confusing than being trapped inside someone else’s nightmare for three hours.

It’s in black and white

The technical limitations of old films are an acceptable reason for them to be in black and white. However, the only explanation for a lack of colour in anything made since 1970 is that the director lives up their own arse. Monochrome does not automatically mean a movie is a masterpiece, as anyone who’s seen Frances Ha knows all too well.

It won the Academy Award for Best Picture

Nothing says ‘bland’ more than a major Oscar win. Why should you sit through films like Forrest Gump or The King’s Speech with their hackneyed plots, overt sentimentalism, and people pretending to be disabled? Make a point of shunning such middle of the road fare in favour of your Tarkovsky box set.

It received National Lottery funding

If it was any good, it wouldn’t have needed a charitable donation to get made. The producers will claim that this depressing slice of kitchen sink realism is a story that badly needs to be told and a huge international audience is out there waiting to be found. If that’s the case, why hasn’t Ryan Gosling asked to be in it?

It stars Jennifer Lopez

What a world. Jennifer Lopez continues to make movies, and sewage keeps being pumped into our rivers and seas. It’s utterly baffling why nothing has been done about these things, and it also means that you probably shouldn’t go cold-water swimming. Unless the alternative is watching Monster-in-Law.

Your partner loves it

The biggest indication that you’ll absolutely detest a movie is that the person you share your life with considers it to be one of their favourite films. Let’s face it, you’re about as interested in the works of Vanessa Hudgens as they are in early sixties Hammer Horror. Stop pretending you have stuff in common and just buy a second television.