What I spent that two million quid on, by Tommy Robinson

BOLLOCKS. I seem to have £2 million in unpaid debts and now people are hassling me for their money. Here are some things I probably shouldn’t have blown the cash on.

Haircuts

You might have noticed I always have an army-style short back and sides, obsessively razored as if I’ve got some sort of hair OCD, and that means constant trips to the hairdresser. If it I let it grow even slightly I might look like a poof, not a decent, salt-of-the-earth football thug.

Losing libel cases

Apparently you can’t accuse schoolboys of attacking ‘young English girls’ with no evidence whatsoever. And you only have to deliberately go to a trial, make a f**king nuisance of yourself filming stuff on your phone, call the defendants ‘Muslim child rapists’ while the case is still going on, and they’ll do you for ‘contempt of court’. Unbelievable.

Sunbeds

Running a tanning salon is a pain in the arse. You’ve got loads of overheads and you have to wipe all the yukky dead skin and tanning lotion off the sunbeds every day. Intellectuals like me – I’ve written a book, Why Muslims Kill for Islam, it’s a cracking holiday read – are too brainy for boring jobs involving actual work.

Changing my name

Yes, Stephen Yaxley-Lennon is a wanker’s name, but on reflection I could have saved a few quid and just called myself ‘Steve Lennon’. It’s still got that Beatles association though and I f**king hate Yoko. She’s a… not-very-good artist.

Train fares to intimidate opponents

A return ticket to a legitimate journalist’s home to intimidate them is daylight bloody robbery these days. Don’t forget you’ll want a sandwich too. Come on, Boris, put a cap on rail prices and let’s make threatening Muslim-loving paedo scum an affordable day out for all the family again.

A massive house

My house cost an eye-watering £900,000. Luckily I received lots of donations from supporters, although none of them specifically mentioned me getting a hot tub. Let’s hope they don’t find out about me poncing around in an exclusive tennis club during my luxury vacations in Spain, because some of them look pretty hard.

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Why moving out of London was the best thing I ever did then the worst and why I regret moving back again

By Guardian columnist Fran Johnson

I WAS fed up of the rat race, the dreary commute, living in the armpits of sweaty businessmen on the 7.15 train, the tired cliche of unfriendly strangers rushing by without time to say ‘Hello’.

So I moved to the village of Heckwick-upon-Wold, near Doncaster. I traded in the converted garden shed in Peckham I’d paid £425,000 for and moved into a 10-bedroom mansion with stables and four indentured servants. Finally, I thought, a simpler way of life.

I bred chickens. I took up Morris dancing. I hosted a weekly coffee morning at the village hall. I grew so many vegetables that all my London friends would immediately say ‘F**k off, don’t tell me about the vegetables’ upon answering the phone.

But then it hit me. Apart from the rampant racism, this rural idyll was deadly dull. I missed London. I missed the ‘drill’ music everyone listens to and the four-hour traffic jams on a Tuesday that remind you it’s the most important place in the world.

So I moved back, trading in my mansion to live in a converted public toilet, now a £1.5 million studio flat in Lower Sydenham.

It was the best decision I ever made.

Until it was the worst.

I missed the coffee mornings, the village gossip, the friendly chats over the hedge about foreign thieves and rapists. I missed not being in an oppressively conformist white monoculture where everyone could have been played by Richard Briers or Felicity Kendall.

And so I headed back to Doncaster where I live now, leaving behind the soul-destroying hubbub of London and the cheques from the Guardian.

Although I suspect I might soon start missing London’s theatres and art galleries, its vibrant stabbing culture… well, you get the picture.

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