Having wisely conserved energy by not keeping their carriages warm during the winter months, train companies have decided to treat passengers to nice, toasty journeys during the bank holiday heatwave.

Rail manager Martin Bishop laughed: “All our trains will be overcrowded and running late this weekend. So the warm, dusty air blasting out of the heating grilles is our way of making up for these inconveniences.

“The refreshments trolley won’t be running either due to a lack of staff, but that just adds to the effect we’re going for. That’s also why the windows on older trains will be locked shut until November. We wouldn’t want you to catch your death as we idle for no reason under the glaring sun.

“If for some reason you need to cool down, try peering into the first class carriage. You’ll see people beating the heat with the complimentary fans we hand out to our better-off passengers. That should do the trick.”

Regular rail user Nikki Hollis said: “This is peak bank holiday vibes. The only way it could be better is if the toilets are out of order and someone plays shit music without their headphones in.”

We – I speak for the gull population as a collective – are the downtrodden of the UK. 

Disparaged by everyone. Forced to live in deprived coastal towns and the victims of you putting your leftover chips in a bin rather than letting us equitably share them.

There seems no reason why. Rats, yes, I get why you’d hold the Black Death against them. But us? With our magnificent wings and our harmonious cries? It’s prejudice, pure and simple.

So for you to send an outdated representative of the discredited system of hereditary monarchy out here, to us? In Northern bloody Ireland, for God’s sake? That same King that recently cuddled up to Trump? No way, mate. Not letting that stand.

I took my proposal – namely, to swoop and eject hot guano at exactly the right trajectory to splatter his Anderson & Sheppard suit – to our action committee. We agreed this was no empty gesture.

‘They’ll recognise this is in solidarity with the Catholic population,’ Jerry said. ‘And against globalised capitalism and its environmental impact,’ added Conor. ‘Plus he’ll look a right twat with shit all up his back,’ said Sheryl, who’s not quite there yet with her Marx.

The motion was passed. So during his condescending little walkabout I commenced my low-level run and properly fired my excrement, with pinpoint accuracy, all over him. ‘That’s for the Boyne!’ I squawked though I knew the lapdog media wouldn’t report it.

A blow has been struck for the working gull and for all the oppressed peoples of the world. No way the British monarchy’s coming back from this. Has he abdicated yet? We don’t get the papers.

Chips for tea

If Manchester stands for anything, it’s chips for tea. Not every night, unless you’ve the misfortune of being vegan. Every Friday, usually Mondays, Wednesdays occasionally, Sundays if you’ve not been able to shift your hangover. Also we have chips for dinner. What you’d call lunch. 

Pints

You can get cocktails and the like up here but you can’t really go wrong with a pint, can you? And another pint after that. Followed by whatever you like but chances are it’ll be another pint once you’re two down. If anything else seems like the thing you’re not fitting in. 

Rain

Not sure how Andy’s planning to shroud the whole country in the beautiful rain we get 24-7 and 365 up here, but he’ll need to if we’re going to get everyone in anoraks. You can’t beat a good downpour. Makes the cobbles glisten. 

Gays

We’re very big on our gays up here, but they’re proper gays. Not these online queers you get down south. To claim an alternative sexuality down Canal Street you’re still required to pass the physical examination. Also, you have to eat at McTucky’s and survive. 

Curry

It’s not all chips, as I detailed above. There’s also the Curry Mile, a phantasmagoria of spices and neon signs that serves everything the Indian subcontinent has to offer. Your arse’ll be smoking like there’s a flare up it. 

Very specific musical nostalgia

All the best bands come from Manchester if you insist on an arbitrary cut-off point of roughly 1996. Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths, the Roses and the Mondays, Oasis, music ends after that. There’s the lad who does the rapping I suppose but he’s not on Factory. 

Hatred for your immediate neighbours

You’re no real Manc if you don’t despise Liverpool, loathe Leeds, look down on Birmingham and consider London beneath contempt. Personally I think anyone from Salford’s a twat. Should fit right in with Britain’s post-Brexit foreign policy.

Bees on shit

They only used to be on the bins, but this last 15 years we’ve adopted the bee as the symbol of our fair city and plastered them on everything. They represent Manchester because they work together for the good of all, they’re natty little bastards and if you mess with them, they’ll f**k you up. Alright? 

Jack the Ripper

Basically a bad man murdered prostitutes. Grim, but it happens. It only becomes interesting if you claim it was Queen Victoria’s grandson or doctor or Walter Sickert. As there’s no way of proving it, why not just say it was Victoria herself? ‘I will cleanse London’s streets with the blood of whores,’ she may have said, dual-wielding katanas.

The Mary Celeste

A ghost ship found drifting and abandoned, chances are because its cargo of ethanol caused a fireball. So the crew fled an industrial accident then drowned because they didn’t have radios or GPS in 1872? That’s boring. Far better if they were abducted by aliens, though getting anally probed on a UFO is a busman’s holiday for sailors.

The Baghdad Battery 

Clay jars that could be low-voltage electric batteries 1,800 years old, used to power who knows what? Though they weren’t because they were containers for scrolls. However, ‘They’re jars’ is boring compared to ‘History is a lie!’ so believe the latter. You’ll have the last laugh when they find the Baghdad iPhone.

The Dyatlov Pass Incident

How did nine experienced Russian hikers end up dead with many of their clothes missing? Aliens and a yeti attack are both incredibly stupid explanations, but without them all you’ve got is an account of people killed by an avalanche and hypothermia. Stick with a yeti eating their tongues and eyeballs. That’s much better.

The Hexham Heads 

A pair of two small stone heads, found in 1971 presumably when there wasn’t much else going on, claimed to move on their own, cause poltergeist activity and summon werewolves. There’s not a shred of proof but once you’ve invested 45 minutes in a paranormal podcast you’re the dick if none of it happened, aren’t you?

Lord Lucan 

Where did the nanny-murdering peer go? Does he survive to this very day? No. He drowned himself shortly after the murder. Or, if you want something more lurid for the pub, his aristocratic friends fed him to lions at a private zoo ‘to protect the Establishment’. A conspiracy with massive risks and no real benefit. Perfect second pint material.

Alien jellyfish

Aliens now appear as giant hovering jellyfish, most famously at a US airbase in Iraq. Terrifying, as long as nobody says ‘That’s a bunch of balloons’ or ‘It’s moving at windspeed as a bunch of balloons would’ or ‘Why is this video so low-quality? Nobody has an iPhone?’ The true mystery? Why you’re wasting your time on this bollocks.

I missed out on student grants. I missed out on cheap house prices. I missed out on lead poisoning from exhausts, corporal punishment in schools and mass unemployment as well, but I’m not interested in those because they didn’t happen to me.

Meanwhile my generation has suffered endless inequitable treatment. We missed Britpop, due to being children, so the first record I bought was Big Brovaz’s Nu Flow. You see how we’re cursed?

We couldn’t go to university. I mean loads of us could and did, unlike all those boomers who worked down the pit and got their pet hawks killed for daring to dream, but it wasn’t free and that’s a terrible injustice.

Our chances of buying an Instagrammable property in Notting Hill are basically zero, unlike in the 60s where you could rent a subdivided slum and get dogs set on you if you didn’t pay on time or they evicted you regardless.

And we’ve had the terrible misfortune of the internet meaning we get bullied on social media, instead of in real life, and we have non-stop 24-7 internet filth traumatising us instead of having to get what erotic charge we could from shop mannequins.

Finally, there’s pensions. Anyone older than us has an incredible pension, financed by most men dying of massive smoking-induced heart attacks aged 64 after which their wives moved in with their children to sit in the corner frowning for 20 incontinent years.

Yes, we truly are the unluckiest, and consequently the whiniest, generation in history. Though I bet another generation will come along and claim to be even whinier. It’s so unfair.

Jack Browne paid the extra for a first-class journey from London to Carlisle and is still coasting on the feeling of looking down on the hoi palloi from a position of pampered, exclusive comfort.

He said: “It began the moment the platform was announced and the herd began rushing and pushing to get their seats in cattle class, laden with bags, stinking of fast food. While I calmly strolled to my carriage, conveniently situated adjacent to the concourse.

“I had a table seat, obviously, amid a sea of peaceful emptiness. I was brought complimentary water. My phone charging, my legs outstretched, I was served hot porridge. On a train. Imagine such luxury.

“As we pulled into each station, the commoners on the platform would realise they were standing in front of my first-class carriage and hurry along to a more affordable location. That’s right, I thought. Away you go.

“The conductor passed deferentially through and I glimpsed the hell below, a nightmare of teens, backpackers, babies. Four laptops to a table. I raised my glass of Rioja to them as the doors closed again. Poor souls. Poor, standard souls.

“I arrived at my destination 49 minutes late but as a pre-eminent member of society perusing my complimentary Daily Telegraph. Not my normal paper, but its columnists really make a lot of sense.”

With the handover arranged to take place in a warehouse on an industrial estate in Essex, Steve Malley is worried about the correct etiquette for what might well be a fairly expensive holdall or sports bag.

Malley said: “I’m just wondering, and this is a valid question, if I’m allowed to keep the holdall, or if I’m expected to provide my own bag. I don’t want any awkwardness.

“It might belong to the gangland figure delivering the cash, and if it’s a decent Adidas or Nike one he’s paid 40 quid for he might think I’ve got a bloody nerve chucking it in the back of the Range Rover and just driving off.

“It looks simple in the movies, but in Heat or The Dark Knight they completely gloss over who the black bags belong to. Sure, I’ve got something I can put the money in in the car, but it doesn’t scream ‘hardened criminal’ if I get out a Waitrose Regular Shopper bag.”

Malley was also concerned about the counting process, saying there was no way he could guarantee that dozens of bundles of cash were the full amount by quickly flipping through them in a dark, tense environment. 

He said: “It took me ten minutes to check the cash when I sold my Mazda CX-5 last year. And that was just some bloke off Facebook Marketplace who hadn’t killed 11 people.”

Garstang

Also covers five other regions and has the ‘Hidden gem’ seal of misery. Lists three local attractions, but if you’re not into farms, fishing, or flogging yourself over fells, you’re f**ked. Does have a Booths, a posh North-only supermarket chain the very existence of which would be unfathomable to Southerners. But not so much they’d want to check it out.

Batley

Like many other towns in the region, Batley’s attractions are something old and once industrial. There’s a museum, an interiors design outlet called Redbrick Mill in an old mill, and a place called The Mill that isn’t in an old mill. Expecting the Fox’s Biscuits Stadium to be the Yorkshire equivalent of the Wonka factory will lead to disappointment.

Accrington

Boasts the usual Northern tourist magnets: parks, an art gallery in an old house and a shopping arcade in an old mill. Accrington Stanley, one of the twelve founder members of the football league, has has survived by being on land not interesting enough to develop into a retail park. When said in Scouse, the town’s name conjures phlegm.

Northallerton

Located in a car park, Northallerton’s Tourist Information Centre provides visitors with fantastic reasons to leave Northallerton. Determined to stay? There’s an old house with gardens that isn’t yet a David Lloyd health club. Rishi Sunak’s the MP here. Tourist Information doesn’t know where, or if, he can be located.

Bolton

Is it in Lancashire, or Greater Manchester? Bolton doesn’t know. Largely empty, as most of its inhabitants populate mainstream TV and radio, visitors can hang about on Le Mans Crescent to be in the background on the latest Maxine Peake detective drama, or pretend to be Paddy McGuinness by going to Park Cake Bakeries and feigning interest.

Thirsk

The World of James Herriot, who wrote books about vets putting their arms up cow’s arses, is here. Cow not included. Otherwise you’ll be directed to the war memorial, a supposedly cursed and but to appearances very ordinary chair in the town museum, and to f**k off 36 miles south to York where there’s something to see.

Eleanor Shaw, aged 34, accepts there could have been properties sold at less than the current floor for housing, decades ago, but cannot believe the rest of the country is that far behind.

She said: “A four-bedroom house with extensive gardens for £370k? Come on. Even in Sunderland they’re not that out-of-touch with reality.

“Even the properties available for half a million are nightmares, like someone’s had a breakdown and accidentally priced a cupboard as a home. The best you’ll get is a mould-stained studio in Tottenham where the rats are listed as existing tenants.

“It’s weird, because RIghtMove does seem to believe there are homes priced less than that if you’re not within commuting distance of London, but does it really? Can it be said to be living if you’re more than 100 yards from a Pret?

“This one’s £250,000 and described as ‘spacious’ so that can’t be true. Is it actual British currency? There must be a catch with these places. Are they haunted? Are they about to fall in the sea? Do I have to become the Mayor?”

Shaw briefly considered relocating before remembering she would then be the sort of person who says ‘it’s only two hours on the train’ and immediately closing the tab.

Oliver O’Connor admitted he volunteered to work on the bank holiday for the immense sexual satisfaction it affords as he gets to live out his deepest fantasy of ticket denial again and again.

He said: “Jesus, we haven’t even reached Stoke yet and I’ve got flat nuts. With a host of day-trippers who haven’t paid close attention to the terms and conditions yet to board.

“You don’t choose your sexuality, and it’s not my fault I get off on telling people their £85 ticket was actually for the service that left nine minutes later than the one they boarded, from the same platform, with marginally different branding. And get off hard.

“It’s just their faces as they go from dismissively showing me their QR code to realising they’ve got to pay out £110 there and then, no argument, no recourse. My cock’s twitching thinking about it.

“Of course, in my fantasies I shout ‘You thought you were so bloody clever with your Trainline and your SplitSave and your Delay Repay, but I am your master now!’ I don’t say it, though. Even on Avanti West Coast, we have limits.”

Passenger Julian Cook said: “He thinks we’re not in on it? If I wasn’t into submission and humiliation, why would I be on the train?”

Wayne Hayes of Colchester, who firmly believes in sending them all back unto the third generation, cannot believe the senseless hatred being directed at Britain’s Jewish community just for their religion.

He said: “It’s not like it’s even a bad religion, like Islam. How can people be so blind and evil?

“We’ve lived side-by-side with Jews for decades. Our businesses next to theirs, their synagogues by our churches. How can fellow residents of our great country turn on them? I’m so angry I could burn down a corner shop.

“Even if you think Israel’s doing bad stuff which it isn’t, there’s no excuse for punishing innocent Brits who happen to be Jewish for that, so every Muslim must be deported.

“And the lies they tell about them are disgusting, all that Elders of Zion nonsense which even an idiot could see through. While over in Bradford they’re sacrificing white children to Allah, Craig’s seen proof on YouTube.”

He added: “Me and the lads are going down to that Golders Green this weekend to wave flags, throw shit at the police and shout ‘kick the bastards out’. Because we want their community to feel safe and protected.”

Mini Milk 

Bland and unexciting, but that was a good thing because it taught us to endure hardship uncomplainingly. Rest assured Reform will be bringing back that Blitz Spirit. Nigel will personally launch a lolly called The Dunkirk, tasting of Spam and sand.

Cider Barrel

A relic of a better time when drink driving was socially acceptable and motorists weren’t terrorised by the seatbelt Gestapo. And where are Britain’s historic cider orchards these days? Chopped down to make space for wind turbines and asylum hostels. Laurie Lee would turn in her grave if she knew what had become of the land of Cider Barrel with Rosie.

Orange Maid

Banned now because ‘maid’ is gender-specific and therefore offensive to trans ‘women’. Under Reform it will be illegal for ice cream vans to discriminate in favour of transgender people. We are very keen on important policies like that.

The Fab lolly

The Fab lolly was a cornerstone of Anglo-Saxon culture, now all but extinct thanks to mass immigration and woke. Its three iconic tiers of strawberry, vanilla and chocolate with hundreds and thousands were as quintessentially English as Nelson’s fleet. You can still get them in supermarkets, so it’s unclear what our beef is here, but that’s often the case with Reform. 

The Zoom

No British summer was complete without a pineapple, orange and strawberry lolly vaguely shaped like a rocket. But how long before those refreshing fruit flavours are replaced by curry, jerk chicken and Eastern European sausage in the name of multiculturalism? Vote Reform before it’s too late.

Dracula

We all know why you can’t get these wonderful lollies anymore. The menacing shape of Dracula and the raspberry-flavoured ‘blood’ centre would have today’s snowflake youngsters sobbing and demanding a safe space. Under Reform horror lollies will be sold freely, especially ones named after classic British films, such as ‘The Blood on Satan’s Cornetto’ and ‘Don’t Lick Now’.

Funny Feet 

Introduced in 1980, and as much a symbol of British greatness as Margaret Thatcher, the Falklands War and Daley Thompson. In what other decade could you have celebrated the sinking of the Belgrano while sucking on a strangely gelatinous ice cream foot? Truly the best of times.

Carolyn Ryan of Croydon claims to have used seven different forms of transport to reach her central London office during a Tube strike because, as a senior onboarding manager, they would collapse without her for even a single day.

She said: “Outsiders from the provinces wouldn’t understand. Most of them live next door to the factory they work at. They’d never have our resourcefulness.

“I began by walking for 45 minutes, then I caught the tram, and from there I got an overground train which is completely different from a normal Underground train no matter how much my mum says ‘they’re the same’.

“My second train terminated early so I got a bus the wrong way until I spotted a discarded Lime bike, hopped on and cycled to the cable-car which took me to the Uber boat up the Thames. Then a quick scooter ride and I was there.

“It just shows how ingenious and adaptable we Londoners are and what a wealth of transport options we have. I’m actually prouder to live here than ever. And it only cost £835.90 on my Oyster card.”

Tube driver Bill McKay said: “You can’t even massively inconvenience the f**king bastards without it becoming an opportunity for one-upmanship.”

North West: pillock

A fairly lame term for a stupid person, but the main problem is that it feels very dated. They say it in Last of the Summer Wine, if further proof were needed. Ideal if you want to sound like a comedy Northerner, otherwise say ‘you stupid bastard’ and retain your dignity.

Yorkshire: minger

An unattractive person and a word overused by comedians and Radio 1 DJs because it’s amusingly juvenile, or was. It’s hard to know what’s worse, sounding like an annoying 14-year-old girl, or Chris Moyles. Actually it’s obviously the latter. Apologies to pain-in-the-arse teenage girls.

Cumbria: mayglem

What even is this? A truly obscure term meaning ‘simpleton’, it should rank far higher, but nobody will know what you’re talking about. An insect? A trade name for some construction product? Keep your weird Cumbrian ways to yourselves, thanks.

Midlands: daft apeth

Regional bollocks writ large. Repeat this term meaning ‘foolish person’ and people will assume you’re a twat who thinks coming from the Midlands makes you somehow gritty and authentic, like the MP Jess Phillips. You may also be in the habit of wanking on about ‘cobs’ which are no doubt ‘bostin’. Don’t. Shut up.

Scotland: numpty 

A word meaning dimwit popularised by Billy Connolly. It’s one of those words that was once quite fun but is now an ancient relic from the 90s. Saying it makes you as on-trend as excitedly asking colleagues at the water cooler: ‘Oh my God, who saw This Life last night?’

Manchester: bobbins

Rubbish or poor quality, but not particularly biting or memorable as a pejorative. Peter Kay uses it in his stand-up routines, but you don’t have to copy everything Peter Kay does. Unless you’re at risk of a heart attack.

Scotland: glaikit

Another term that will baffle non-locals, broadly meaning ‘vacant’. Not as entertaining as other Scottishisms like ‘wee radge’ or ‘scoobied’, so frankly you may as well just say ‘vacant’.

Portsmouth: dinlo

Yeah, definitely go around saying this Portsmouth word for ‘idiot’ no one else in Britain has heard of. People will be forced to awkwardly say ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that’. Or, more likely, nod politely and then avoid the loony permanently.

London: muppet

Well-known London insult meaning foolish or incompetent person, now more associated with Danny Dyer, Gordon Ramsay and Guy Ritchie. Which makes it impossible to say without sounding like a twat of some description. 

Nottingham: mardy git

God you sound like a moron using this ostentatiously regional term for someone who is moody or sulky. People will assume you live on a diet of pies and didn’t go to university. And they’ll be right.

Yorkshire: wazzock

Provincial, juvenile and not used for decades. Imagine saying this in a grown-up context such as a work meeting. You’ll sound like a total idiot, and co-workers will be wondering what bizarre, hopelessly outdated insult you’ll come up with next. ‘Wally’?

Attendees at the Prince of Wales in Ramsgate were expecting Roy Hobbs to include varied topics such as science, literature and sport, but he chose instead to focus exclusively on the life, works and shoe size of the star of The X-Files.

Trivia buff Norman Steele said: “There were a few hoots of laughter when we got to question four and it was still about her. And how were we supposed to know what she said was her favourite brand of lingerie in an interview in 2003? 

“By question 18 I was beginning to suspect this wasn’t a quiz so much as a Gillian Anderson appreciation society with a scoring system. The winner should get a restraining order.

“By the second round we’d covered her entire filmography, her childhood pets and what Roy insisted was widely believed to be her preferred flavour of crisp. I wrote ‘plain’ but he got angry and said I’d insulted an actress of her calibre. 

“The thing is, we’ve done Beatles nights and Harry Potter, so just Gillian Anderson isn’t impossible. But when Roy started asking about her role in a 1997 all-nude production of Hamlet that clearly existed only in his head I felt it was no longer a bona fide trivia quiz.

“He wouldn’t let us keep our team names either. We wanted to be ‘The No Hopers’, but he kept calling us ‘The No Hopers with Gillian Because She’s Out of Our League’. Which is too long to write on the paper.”

Hobbs said: “I did write a science question. It was what element Gilly would be on the periodic table. The answer was clearly ‘unobtainium’, so I don’t know why everyone struggled.”

Greggs

Tourists are likely to be unaware of our true national cuisine. Show them proper British grub by queuing up for a so-so sausage roll or a molten steakbake. You’ll be spoilt for choice as every street in Britain appears to have three branches, all waiting to serve you soggy potato wedges at an admittedly excellent price.

Poundland

As well as sounding like an actual country to confuse parochial Americans, Poundland has a wow factor in the sheer randomness of things on sale that mostly cost a quid, from multipack crisps to superglue via Hot Wheels and incontinence pads. Steel yourself though, as even a quick visit will bring back painful memories of the far superior Woolworths.

Toby Carvery

Forget traditional English pubs with their fancy roast dinners. If someone wants to see the food that really fuels the nation, drag them to one of these soulless establishments with smelly carpets. When they’re not marvelling at dry, tasteless Yorkshire puddings simmering away under heat lamps, tourists will be able to observe families forced to eat here by the cost of living crisis. Primarily an educational, rather than culinary, experience.

B&M

Homebase is a polished fabrication of British life. But B&M, with its warehouse-like stores, depressed staff and garish lighting, offers a true insight into what living on this shitty little island feels like. It can also act as a highly cost-effective souvenir shop, with tourists able to pick up off-brand disinfectant and discounted dog treats. Family and friends back home will love to receive these as gifts.

CeX

Where better to get a taste of British culture than these dumping grounds of our greatest artistic achievements? Guarded by acne-ridden wardens, the treasures in CeX put the loot in the British Museum to shame. Tourists have likely watched Gavin & Stacey or Mr Bean on TV, so what could be more exciting than seeing the DVD boxsets in person?

A flat-roofed pub

Community establishments are back in fashion, so now’s the perfect time to see which locals-only place will despise you most. After necking generic lager and an unpleasant vinegary snack of cockles sold from a cooler box out the back, it’s time for the main event: painfully out-of-tune karaoke that will cause the bloke at the fruity to kick off. Be sure your tourist friends embarrassingly take loads of photos of this wonder of the world.

Kelly Howard, radiographer: “I’m pushing a barrel to the top of a hill in a wheelbarrow to watch a sunset together. Even in these final days you can make beautiful memories.”

James Bates, plasterer: “By spilling industrial quantities of it into the sea for old times’ sake. Plus it gives those animal rescue dossers something to do.”

Bill McKay, stockbroker: “Enjoying it while it lasts. I’ve oiled all the hinges in our house, last night my wife and I had a romantic bath in petrol, and on Sunday we’re taking the kids for a fun-filled day at diesel-fired Lerwick Power Station.”

Lucy Parry, unemployed: “I’m in denial. And when it’s finally gone I’ll get into a toxic rebound relationship with nuclear energy.”

Francesca Johnson, florist: “Oil will never truly be gone. It will live on in our hearts and the irreparable damage we’ve done to the environment.”

Be sure to say ‘You could not make it up’

Sacking someone for tackling a shoplifter is clearly lunacy of the most deranged kind, so definitely use the worn-out cliché made ubiquitous by Richard Littlejohn: ‘You could not make it up!’ You’ll sound both perceptive and incredibly witty. To morons.

Do not look at both sides

It’s not unreasonable for supermarkets to have strict rules about dealing with shoplifters, even if it’s largely about avoiding legal action, and that staff should adhere to them when explicitly instructed to. And what if the Waitrose employee had been injured, or perhaps even stabbed? Do not in any way consider these alternative viewpoints. It spoils the fun.

Bask in sanctimonious anger

Being sacked for trying to stop a crime is, at a basic level, pretty unjust. Which means you can enjoy the buzz of being both furious and in the right as you rant about the sickening mistreatment of this heroic Waitrose martyr whose name you forget. 

Weirdly make it into a class issue

Fellow supermarket Iceland quickly stepped in with a job offer for the sacked employee, Walker Smith. Clearly this is about the middle-class ponces who run Waitrose and shop there sneering at decent working-class people, while the authentically proletarian frozen food giant Iceland has their backs. It’s definitely not just a bit of good publicity.

Join in right-wing newspaper comments

The Mail, Express and Telegraph’s comments are seething pits of fury about the Waitrose One, and it’s exciting to join a mob, even just an online one. Of course it suits these newspapers for people to think Britain is a woke, lawless hellhole as it makes them vote Conservative or Reform. You could consider whether you’re being subtly manipulated, but you’re too busy typing ‘BRING BACK HNANGIG, NIGEL!!!!!!’

Firmly believe this is everything wrong with modern Britain

It is! Shoplifters running amok, no respect for authority, you never see a bobby on the beat, cat litter trays in schools, young people too soft for D-Day… the list goes on. Obviously an isolated case of someone being sacked for breaking clear company rules doesn’t prove any of this, but it’s more gratifying to feel Britain is doomed and you’re one of the few people clever enough to see it. 

Abruptly move on to the next confected outrage

After droning on to anyone who’ll listen and boring for England down the pub, suddenly forget about poor Mr Smith when you find a new grievance. Perhaps there’s an unmarried mother in the Mail who has the sheer f**king nerve to go on holiday despite claiming benefits? Yes, of course there is! You’re starting to get the red mist again! Lovely!