Is it hot, or too hot? Take the Mash test

IT’S SUMMER, the sun is blazing down, and it’s nice and hot. Or is it too hot?

Take our simple test to find out if you should be ‘loving’ the sweltering heat or complaining bitterly.

You’re walking down the street. Are you:

A) Smiling, cheerily greeting strangers, enjoying the warm tingle of the rays and the dappled shadows of the plane trees.

B) Sweating like a bastard, swearing at the chugging diesel engine of an idling taxi, and fanning yourself with a copy of the Metro.

How do you get to work?

A) By taking a bus or train, either is fine and you can read a book on the way.

B) Through an eternity of suffering in Hell.

You work in:

A) An ordinary office with colleagues that perhaps can be a little annoying but mean well, and you all enjoy a laugh together.

B) An unbearable slow-roasting oven with only the company of other melting, red-faced mutes and their overactive sweat glands.

What do you have for lunch?

A) Something light, perhaps a salad, and an iced coffee sitting outside soaking up the sun like a flower.

B) A box of ten rocket lollies.

Your partner touches their bare skin against yours. Do you:

A) Lean into them, enjoying the closeness, and perhaps share a lingering kiss.

B) Swat their filthy, sticky flesh away while screeching “Stay on your fucking side of the sofa, imagine there’s a line in the middle”.

How do you sleep?

A) Like a baby, nestled under the duvet with a loved one, cosy and cuddled all the night through.

B) From 4am to 6am, sitting upright on the sofa, staring at the flickering television screen with the haunted eyes of the lost soul.



Mostly A’s: It’s lovely and hot, perfect weather for a barbecue in the garden or bottle of wine on the balcony. Anyone complaining about it is a miserable killjoy.

Mostly B’s: It is much too fucking hot. Fuck this.

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Cameron: Am I the only good, selfless person left in Britain? 

OVER the last year, I have been left aghast by the selfishness of Britons politicians and people in their wilful, egocentric behaviour. 

After I nobly stood down, having delivered Brexit to a grateful public, I expected no plaudits. I knew that, humbly and without thought for my own gain, I had served my country well. 

But since that day – the last of a golden era in British politics – I have been horrified by the toxic self-interest displayed by those who question the majesty and wonder of austerity. 

Whether critics are thinking of their own careers, like Boris Johnson, or unable to see past their own stomachs, like nurses who believe they are too good to enjoy the simple charity of food banks, they’re all looking after number one. 

I had no thought of myself when founding austerity. That I, and my investments, and my family and their investments, and coincidentally everyone I went to school with, did extremely well out of it only proved it was the right course. 

But now that great policy which has brought so much to so few is in danger. This towering monument to my own modest humility could be demolished. 

And as I sit here in my lowly bespoke £25,000 writing hut, preparing my memoirs as a gift to the nation, I despair for the England I love, and the other bits, to ever find a man as selfless, as moral, as altruistic as I. 

This is exactly why the Big Society failed. You’re nothing but a bunch of grabbing bastards.