His driving experience

He was an avid Top Gear watcher and you’ve put up with years of him claiming Lando Norris is shit, so he should love this. Until discovering he now hates modern cars for not being diesel, thinks anything two-seater is for ‘show-offs’ and when he hits the tarmac drives like he’s manoeuvring a Ford Fiesta around Aldi car park.

Their tasting menu

When food isn’t labelled with Prince’s or Hellmann’s it’s already wrong. And this becomes an attempt to poison them when espuma sits on a page that reads like a GP pamphlet. Every fresh course is not gastronomic genius but a fresh humiliation for you, apparently proving the foul local chippie has been unbeatable since 1976.

Her night at the opera

Mum’s bragged about wearing her gladrags and going for a classy night out to all the girls at aquaerobics, but didn’t fully understand it would mean three hours of fantastical nonsense being shouted at her in German singspeil. She sits in complete silence throughout and will never mention it again.

Their murder mystery evening

The perfect gift for a dad who still does Morse impressions and a mum who treats Richard Osman as a religion. But for all the murder night’s pomp, because it isn’t real they’ll say there was too much try-hard over-acting and they thought the other man did it. Other relatives are briefed at length to ‘get us anything except that bloody murder’.

His clay pigeon shooting day

Dad loves war in all its forms, which is why there’s a framed painting of a Spitfire in the lounge and he corrects strangers about the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Does that translate to him enjoying a day shooting a gun? It does not. Apparently, you learn later from your sister, it was ‘nothing but bang bang bang. Space Invaders for idiots’.

Their hotel getaway

Luxury, staff, duck-down pillows and a complimentary high tea. Except first they moan about getting there because it’s miles from a motorway, then they feel the staff are looking down on them, then there aren’t any sandwiches they like, then they ‘couldn’t sleep’ because ‘someone had been in our room’, then they steal the slippers.

Sulking

Sulking is childish and annoying at the best of times, but worse if it’s over some trivial holiday thing like not wanting to buy a hideous souvenir donkey. If the relationship isn’t too serious you may even feel they’re a pain the arse you should split up with. Although you won’t be telling them immediately, because it’s nice to have someone to eat sardines with and shag on holiday. 

Total lack of basic planning skills

It’s clearly hot, so did they bring a bottle of water? No. Let’s go back to that shop you pointed out earlier which sold it. They didn’t bring sunscreen either? Well, it’s the last thing you’d think of when going to the beach. Their sunglasses are back at the hotel, so can they borrow yours? Of course, my sweet… and so the irritation builds until you’re scared to go up that historic tower in case you push them off it.

Unadventurous eating

It’s rare that food on holiday is wildly exotic – you’re hardly likely to be served a whole fried monkey in the Algarve. The problem arises when your partner hates food not totally sanitised like in Sainsbury’s, and is horrified and disgusted by a fish having a head. Don’t worry, you’ll speak to the waiter and get them to turn it into oblongs in breadcrumbs.

Pointless money-saving

On holiday you’ve got to accept a fair bit of unplanned expenditure in the name of spontaneity and having a good time. However your partner may feel a holiday you’ve already spent thousands on is a good time to economise on minor costs. And who doesn’t love debating at length whether your should purchase each individual ice cream?

Worthy interests 

It’s traditional on holiday to do worthy things you don’t do at home like visiting a cathedral. That’s probably why they’ve all got gargoyles – to alleviate the boredom. However there’s a limit, and you really don’t want your partner to suddenly discover a deep interest in wine production or local history. If they’re that interested in the Moorish conquest of the Iberian Peninsula they should have gone on holiday with David Starkey.

Personal habits 

Snorting, making a clicking sound with your tongue, picking your nose and other such habits are tolerable occasionally. However on holiday you’re with your beloved constantly so those little irritations are magnified to the size of Jupiter. Has a boyfriend ever been beaten to death with an espadrille because he kept sniffing? It’s likely. The Spanish courts probably don’t even consider it an offence.

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!”

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.

Tom Logan, who changes his hair colour monthly, is tired of outdated social expectations suggesting a man’s worth should be measured by a wedding rather than personal growth, professional milestones and being just delightfully kooky.

Logan said: “For too long, men have been taught their ultimate goal is a wife. Why can’t I just focus on myself rather than be defined by who I’m with?”

“When a girl’s friends are slating me because we’ve been dating four years and I won’t talk co-habitation, I remind them I’m a feisty, confident man who isn’t just here to allow her to achieve life goals.

“Everyone – by which I mean women – are always asking ‘When are you going to settle down?’ or ‘Why didn’t you text me after sex?’ Never ‘Did you get that promotion?’ or ‘How’s your collage art project going?’ As if a man’s life is secondary.

“There’s no deadline, I won’t suddenly become invisible when I turn 40. I can freeze my sperm, I can get Botox, and if having a carefree love life gets me called a slut, then fine – because I reject labels. Especially ‘girlfriend’ and ‘monogamy’.”

He added: “I don’t know who my forever person is. But, you know what, she probably isn’t even born yet”, before taking a Polaroid and rollerskating away.

The Broughton interchange off the M180 near Scawby

Motorway junctions saw a massive surge in patriotic tourism recently when cheeky red-faced scamps shimmied up lampposts to hang England flags out of sheer love of country, and not any hatred of anyone. See hundreds here a stone’s throw from a highly-regarded truckers’ caff. What are you waiting for?

Essington, off the M6

Colloquially known as ‘the jewel in north-east Wolverhampton’s crown’, Essington is so close to the motorway that you’ll feel like you’re actually walking on it. Put aside a whole afternoon for the breathtaking sight of its famous disused water tower. Expect to queue for a photo.

The Silvertown tunnel

The crowds will rush to its more glamorous sister the Blackwall tunnel, running under the glitzy O2, but this Thames crossing has depth, charm, a toll, exhaust-stained tiling and no provision for cyclists. You’ll have seen the real London.

Swindon railway station

Sweeping through the streets in your rail replacement bus, you’d be hard pressed to find a more welcome sight than the office block-style façade of Swindon’s most famous and indeed only train station. Electrified in 2022, it’s now electrifying to visitors who find themselves unable to leave due to signalling issues at Wooton Basset Junction.

The currency exchange in Moto services at Dover Port

Lost your passport? You don’t need to cross the channel for that continental je ne sais pas pourquoi this season. Pop to the bureau de change located at the service station right on the docks at Dover for some of the highest rates in the country. Change back to pounds straight afterward and marvel at how much you’ve lost.

The Mountain Warehouse outlet at Gretna Green

For decades, young couples would flee together to Gretna, sometimes to wed, sometimes to buy gaiters and zip-off trousers without their parents’ consent. With the A74(M) breathing down your neck, you’ll feel something of the same frisson they did, grope a few water bottles and buy a collapsible stool you didn’t even need. Ooh la la!

Star Trek: The Motion Picture Weetabix cards

These were ‘action cards’, ie. drawings of the characters from the rather dull 1979 film you could fold at the bottom to make them stand up. Believing they in any way resembled proper action figures was a true triumph of the imagination.

Raleigh Choppers

Easy Rider would be a very different film if Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper had been riding Raleigh Choppers, making them look like wankers and forcing them to awkwardly pedal in a reclining position. Your own Chopper certainly didn’t lead to exciting adventures such as dropping acid with hippy girls; going to the newsagents for a Mini Milk was the extent of your thrilling road trip. 

Crossfire 

A version of table hockey with – supposedly – ball bearings flying across the arena at deadly velocities. They didn’t, you just mashed the trigger until the puck randomly went into your opponent’s goal. ‘You’ve got to be good with a gun!’ claimed the advert. Good at lying to yourself, more likely.

Atari Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back

Putting Empire on an 80s Atari 2600 console was a tall order, but Atari ‘succeeded’ by making the game consist entirely of shooting a blocky AT-AT walker and repeating it an infinite number of times. Any child imaginative enough to think this resembled the epic Battle of Hoth in the film surely became a successful sci-fi author, or was put on anti-psychotic medication.

Mr Frosty

A wonderland of delicious slushie fun was promised. After endless grinding a tiny amount of ice was produced, which you could swallow in one gulp with some of the cordial provided. It came with ice lolly moulds, as if they knew how shit the actual Mr Frosty was. Is it too late to prosecute and imprison the liars at Berwick Toys? 

The Intruder

This low-effort Action Man enemy was some sort of alien barbarian, as Palitoy attempted to move away from war-themed toys and cash in on the 1970s sci-fi boom. A large button on his back delivered ‘a vicious bear hug’, more accurately described as ‘an awkward gentle grasp’. Still, it was probably healthier than indoctrinating children to hate Germans in 1977.

Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle

These must-have toys featured an Evel doll on a motorbike with a flywheel which sent him roaring off to perform amazing stunts. Or immediately fall over. They’re now notorious for never working, and required an almost hallucinatory level of delusion. Has that doll on a motorbike just toppled over pathetically for the 100th time? No, he’s doing stunts!

Pop guns 

Free on various comics, these looked excellent: some sort of gun with a mechanism that might fire a projectile, perhaps even dangerously? In reality they just made a cap come off the barrel with a ‘pop’, or would have done if they’d ever worked. A total disappointment, but they taught you that things that seem good frequently turn out to be shit. Could you ask for a more useful lesson in life?

Susan Traherne and Wayne Hayes, both in their 50s, were presented with a shirtless stranger ready to go in their room at 2am but instead of allowing freshness and excitement into their moribund love lives attempted to alert managers.

A Travelodge spokesman said: “Fortunately they were thwarted because there was no manager on site overnight. But what a pair of dullards.

“We read so much these days about going with the flow, embracing the chances life gives you, not allowing yourself to be ruled by fear, and then you encounter a pair of stick-in-the-muds like these two, holding society back.

“What’s wrong with them? Why, after their initial surprise, did they not beckon the shirtless, aggressive stranger over to their bed seductively while removing their pyjamas?

“They could have had a night of passion, of boundaries broken, an unforgettable evening of three-way love and soiled towels thrown in the bath for our staff to clean. Instead it was as unmemorable as the abstract art over the bed.”

Traherne said: “We would have only we had to be up early for the garden retail expo the next day. Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall was doing a talk.”

Thanks to his gregarious lifestyle of working in an office and monthly pub visits, Joe Turner has amassed a large, close-knit social circle consisting of three people he broadly tolerates.

He said: “Apparently there’s a male loneliness epidemic? I wouldn’t know. My magnetic personality has drawn three mates towards me over four decades, and I see them up to four times a year.

“I met Steve when we shared the same table at lunch, Jimmy is an old school friend, and the third is my wife’s best mate’s husband. We’re pretty close. I think he’s called Matt.

“We meet up once every few months to talk about films we didn’t enjoy and complain about the price of petrol. Separately, of course. All four at once would be overwhelming. There wouldn’t be time for any silences.

“Once I did try befriending a fourth bloke but realised it was too much. I barely had a month clear to myself. Also when he found out I already had three friends he called me a whore.

He added: “To be honest I’m thinking of scaling down to two. Better a couple of close pals than a load of superficial ones, and I think Steve might be a toxic fake bitch.”

Tom Booker had already meticulously planned the two-week family vacation by the river Garonne, and so was not about to let a suffocating inferno send him scurrying back to a caravan park in Dorset.

He said: “We’ve come this far and it’s too late to get the Airbnb refunded. Besides, witnessing a blaze firsthand will be character building for the kids.

“I’ll have a word with the firefighters and ask if we can drive through the flames. They may not understand a sentence like ‘Don’t worry, I’ve supervised loads of family bonfires’ but assuming it’s a man he’ll understand we’re not afraid of a few smouldering trees. 

“I don’t see why my wife’s so worried. People travel to the continent because they want warm temperatures all the time. It’s not my fault Goldilocks there in the passenger seat can’t stand the heat.

“We’re going to the Saint Michel Basilica and the Place de la Bourse and that’s final. The locals have been driven out by the flames but that means it will be quiet. Hopefully they’ve not burned down, but you go to see ruins all the time.”

Booker’s son Oscar said: “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d gone to Disneyland like I wanted. But I need to stop sobbing with fear before I can mention it.”

Watch TV

There’s a big telly in your apartment you barely noticed when the sun was shining, but now it’s lamping it down stair rods you can resort to the great British pastime of vegetating in front of the box. Sadly for you, all the channels are f**king Greek and even the subtitles are incomprehensible squiggles. You stumble across a vaguely soft porn soap scene, but have to quickly turn off because you’ve got the kids with you. Bollocks.

Read a book

You’ve already finished the two paperbacks you paid a shitting fortune for at the airport on the way out, but good news is your hotel has a ‘book library’ comprised of novels others have either finished or stopped reading because they were shit. Unfortunately, none of the tatty selection of well-thumbed reads are in English so you find yourself trying to plough manfully through a copy of 100 Years of Solitude in Portuguese.

Sex

Theoretically brilliant. Shut the curtains, lock the door so the cleaner doesn’t stumble in, then hump passionately. Trouble is, your five-year-old and nine-year-old are in tow, so there’s f**k all chance. Make an excuse for needing a shower and knock out a rapid, guilty wank, while weighing the pros and cons of having children and discovering you’re really struggling to think of pros. 

Sightseeing

The beach and pool are non-starters since it’s pissing down, so isn’t this the perfect opportunity to explore the local history and culture you’ve been avoiding while there were better things to do? That olive oil museum looked vaguely interesting, but it’s shut in the afternoons. Head for the obligatory ruined 15th century castle overlooking the bay, only to find it’s slippy as a post-coital willy underfoot now it’s wet, and there’s no f**king roof.

Souvenir shopping

It’s like a wet bank holiday in the Lake District out there, or to put a positive spin on it: an ideal chance to snap up those holiday keepsakes you neither want nor need. Emerge from your two-hour tour of the local tourist shops with three tea towels, a fridge magnet with a badly painted church on it, and a huge ceramic bowl with lemons on that you’ll never fit in your case and end up leaving behind. And that’s before the kids start draining your wallet on shite made from plastic.

Write postcards

You’re beyond scraping the bottom of the barrel now, but your super-organised partner has brought her address book with her, so this is feasible, hooray. Pass an hour writing lies about how much you’re enjoying yourself then pop them in the postbox to eventually arrive in the UK a month after you do. Oh, and Gemma walked out on Tom the day after you flew away, so now you’re in the shit for addressing one to the pair of them.

With the summer weather causing more people to have outdoor chats, neighbours are finally confronting the problem by agreeing to pretend the other person literally does not exist. 

Tom Logan of Crewe said: “Every time I see Martin next door we have a weird, stilted conversation that neither of us enjoys. Now we’ve done the right thing and agreed to completely blank each other all the time.

“There’s no tension, just relief. I’ve always suspected Martin is a bit of a knob but I honestly can’t be arsed to find out if he’s alright once you get to know him or has had a difficult life so I should cut him some slack.

“I told him exactly this yesterday, and he said he’d always assumed I was the worst kind of Audi-driving sales wanker, which I very much am. So everything’s cool between us.”

Donna Sheridan of Ipswich said: “Sometimes Elaine next door and I chat over the fence, during which I’m thinking: ‘F**k, make this end, I don’t really know her, I sound like a twat because I’m not great at smalltalk and I’m so self-conscious now I’m struggling to think of banal shit about the weather.’

“Now we’ve agreed to never speak again and say ‘Shut the f**k up, bitch’ if one of us forgets. I don’t think I could ask for a better neighbour.”

Francesca Johnson, 38, no longer feels fulfilled by an upper-management role with a steady income and instead plans to stake her future on a niche, painfully bourgeois business idea.

Johnson said: “This will be my last month at Barclays as head of systems strategy. Instead I’m going to use recycled textiles to make eco-friendly clothing for cold water swimming.

“The idea came to me at Hampstead Heath Ponds when I saw all these other posh ladies doing lengths. I realised then there was money to be wrung out of them and I cared deeply about the environment and those things.

“My first collection will be out next spring, with prices starting at £499 for a bespoke wetsuit. No one’s thought of this particular idea before, so there’s clearly a demand.

“My friends have been really supportive. Tilly quit her job in publishing to start growing heritage leeks and Zara packed in management consultancy to build book-themed gingerbread houses. I must ask how those businesses are doing.

“Luckily I can do this because my husband Hugh is a hedge fund manager. I explained that when the company’s gone global I’ll hire him as CFO on even more money, but strangely he just sighed and looked sad.”

Joe Turner, 27, was on holiday in Magaluf when he realised he could not apply sun cream to the whole of his back himself, necessitating a shameful homoerotic experience with one of his mates.

Turner said: “We’re lads, I can’t let one of them give me an intimate rub-down. I just had to suck it up and get painful burns that increase my risk of skin cancer. There was no other option.

“It’s not just about looking gay, although that’s bad enough. What if I actually enjoyed it? Frankly that’s a door I don’t want to open. 

“You think you’re normal, then a man touches you and before you know it you’re having promiscuous gay sex on Hampstead Heath and joining Stonewall. It happens all the time.”

Friend Wayne Hayes said he would have reluctantly applied the cream, on the condition that Turner allowed him to buy him a pint afterwards, thus rendering the act fully heterosexual.

Turner’s lads’ holiday also included comparing penises in a hotel room, streaking through the lobby and a full-contact wrestling match that ended with him pinned naked to a sun lounger squealing with excitement. 

However Turner maintained all of this was “just a laugh”.

LONG-TERM unemployment means playing the long game. And while all you suckers have been buying houses, cars and holidays, my grift has paid off big-time. 

Yep, benefit claimants like myself kept our eyes on the prize through years of subsistence incomes, and guess what? We’re exempt from hosepipe ban fines. You pathetic losers with decent incomes are kicking yourselves now.

Sure, I’ve been through tough times since I was laid off from the Nissan factory 22 years ago. But now? Now they can’t hit me with a £1,000 fine as I live it up on my £76.96 a week Universal Credit and unlimited water.

Don’t think I won’t be exploiting this loophole. I’m up watering the garden of my council flat at 4am, then on the hour every hour until midnight. It’s a swamp! While alarm clock Britain watches their herbaceous borders wither and die!

So what if the kids haven’t had Christmas presents since Bratz dolls were in? Who cares if regular DWP errors mean my payments are cut off for three months? My lawn’s green while those of big detached houses are yellow, so I win. 

For decades I endured the taunts of ‘scrounger’ and the petty rules of Jobcentre Plus. It was worth it. I told my family: ‘Our problems are over. From now on you can have anything you want, so long as it’s watering the lawn or standing under a hose.’

I even got a call this morning offering me a job. Couldn’t stop laughing. ‘Stick your capitalist wage slavery up your arse,’ I said, ‘for I am the Water King.’ 

It’s no wonder the tabloids hate people like me, able to water our lawns all day if we want, the police standing by impotently. Truly, we have beaten the system. Until it rains.

Tom Booker of Coventry will happily purchase T-shirts, tickets, or trainers on his phone but believes that booking a flight, buying a car or renewing insurance requires ‘the big computer’.

He said: “I know that, in theory, the phone does the same thing. It’s just that’s where I watch videos of dogs falling into ponds. I can’t use that to buy a fridge.

“No, for a three-figure purchase it has to be at the dining table. I need a mug of tea, reading glasses, at least four tabs open and my email ready to receive a six-digit verification code. Also a notebook I write numbers in then never consult.

“A phone? That’s for finding out what else that actress has been in, or checking the time, or ordering an eight-pack of drain hair clog removers from Amazon. You can’t buy a used Volvo on that. The mind revolts.”

Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “To young people, a phone is a small computer. To the old, it’s for accidentally taking extreme close-ups of their nostrils. The laptop is where Serious Things happen.”

Son Ryan said: “I bought a £2,500 e-bike on my phone. At a gig, between the support and main act, while holding a pint in my other hand.”

The problem – which I’m not going to reveal immediately – happened when I got back on the dating scene after my divorce. Imagine that, my MILFy self, starved of sex, ready to try out new stuff with different guys. See, it was a good idea to click.

Anyway, I’d been on a few dates which were pleasant enough, but none had ignited my passions. That was until I met Steve. Confident, successful, muscular, he was just my type and soon I invited him to spend the night.

So there I was, in my sexual prime, lying on the bed in lingerie, gagging to be banged until I was screaming with pleasure, which is what you clicked for. But then it all went wrong. Horribly, hideously, salaciously wrong.

Steve was wearing tatty old boxer shorts with holes in them.

‘What the f**k?’ I hear you shouting. ‘That’s a really stupid problem, and not very original either. You can easily solve it by buying a f**king £20 pack of boxer shorts! I subscribed to Daily Mail+ for this! It’s £9.99 a month after the trial period ends, you f**king deceitful cow!’

True, but after seeing Steve’s moth-eaten pants with unmentionable stains I couldn’t go through with sex and the evening was ruined. You expected something way freakier, like him being an adult baby or my discovery I’m into being spanked, but I’m afraid that’s it.

I think we can all agree dating in middle-age articles are a minefield. But will you ever stop clicking? Unlikely. I’ve written one for next week that implies it’s about anal but disappointingly turns out to be vaginal dryness. See you there.

Andy Burnham’s plans to establish a No 10 North in Manchester have prompted outcry from Londoners who feel their much-neglected city has a lot to offer, like a palace the King does not like enough to live in and a few parks.

Tom Booker of Islington said: “The media’s calling it Manchesterism. I’m calling it for what it is: more bullshit northern bias.

“Yes, it’s got the most successful football teams. Yes, it’s got bands like Oasis when all we’ve got is long-forgotten Britpop act Suede and a niche grime scene. But newsflash, guys, there is a world outside the M60.”

Emma Bradford from Hackney said: “What more does Manchester want? HS2?

“London actually has a lot to offer, not that you’ll read about it in the biased Manchester Guardian or the rest of our Northern press. We have galleries, we have theatres, we have culture. There are even a few trendy bars serving cocktails!

“But unlike Mancs, we don’t let it go to our heads. They could learn from our humble London ways. We don’t brag, we don’t lord it over our neighbours. We’re simple, Hobbit-like folk dwelling in peace in our Shire, apart from all the knife crime.”

Wayne Hayes of Manchester said: “London? Yeah I had to change trains there once.”

Mystic Nikki Hollis shocked Fran Johnson by revealing, on no more than a turn of the nine of swords, that Fran is actually concealing terrible anxieties and fears which she thought were known only to her.

Fran said: “People say tarot is nonsense, but how else could Nikki have known I’m desperate and feel I have nowhere else to turn?

“She told me that I struggle to maintain romantic relationships – true – that I haven’t been able to hold down a proper job – true – and that I often turn to drink when I’ve had a bad day. And I’m so good at concealing that, especially from my dates.

“My cards were the ten of wands, the five of pentacles and the empress, which together reveal that to find true happiness I need to stop f**king men from the apps, quit weekday wine and start taking care of myself, both mentally and physically.

“Now tell me how else would she have known that? She couldn’t possibly have. Also somehow the cards were able to intuit that I, a 32-year-old woman, secretly yearned for a mortgage and a baby.”

Hollis said: “The cards are such an incredible divination tool. Amazing how frequently they divine that getting smashed on white wine spritzers and going on 2am Vinted sprees isn’t a viable future.”