Having long since established their dominance on the nation’s buses, trains and trams, dickheads who blare viral clips at maximum volume are pissing themselves at a proposed £100 penalty.

Headphone dodger Jack Browne said: “As if you’re going to grow a pair and hit us with a fine. As if you’re not too pussy to even roll your eyes in our general direction.

“If you wanted us to be quiet, you’d have hit us with a simple ‘shut the f**k up’ years ago. You didn’t. And what, now you’re going to go running to the bus driver? Like they’re up for a bit of a confrontation to break up their shit, underpaid day?

“Our antisocial bullshit is the new normal. These days you look like an uptight Karen for daring to ask for reasonable audio levels. Our arseholery is embedded as a normal part of British culture even though everyone hates us, kind of like Ed Sheeran.

“Truth is even we think we’re taking the piss. We’re actually pushing for you to grow a spine so we can stop watching YouTube and quietly read a book. Sad to see you sitting there with zero self confidence.”

Commuter Nikki Hollis said: “I don’t want a nanny state. But a couple of enforcement stormtroopers on every bus and train carriage wouldn’t go amiss.”

Southern Rail

The disgrace of Southern Rail’s late-running, extortionate service is so monumental that Britain simply cannot confront it. A Frenchman experiencing its knackered rolling stock would head straight to Whitehall with a can of patrol. Thankfully they’ve been deterred from visiting and witnessing our national disgrace by centuries of simmering hostility.

Meal deals

If you’re confused as to why the paprika crisps shelved right next to the sandwiches aren’t included in your lunchtime meal deal, think of our continental neighbours. If they were told the items in their hands were not part of the deal, the till would be through the window in moments and Boots awash with tear gas before ten minutes had passed.

Porn age-verification checks

Erotic imagery is every Frenchman’s God-given right. Every trip to the boulangerie, patisserie or tabac is enlivened by seeing at least five tits. The thought of scanning your face to gaze upon a fanny?  Their reflex for writing angry signs would kick in. They’d sooner surrender to the Nazis again than give up easy access to female nudity.

Axing the triple lock

Thanks to organised violence, the French people have kept their retirement age down to 64. And that’s after a lifetime of toiling through four-day weeks with two-hour lunches. Threatening the triple lock would be good for at least one head-of-state decapitation and a fortnight of looting, if our shite high streets had anything they’d want to steal.

Oat milk

Our calling the crap we cook ‘food’ has enraged our Gallic neighbours for decades, but at least it came from solid animal-cruel sources. To make milk, milk which masquerades as being from the cow, from oats? Paris would be in flames before the furiously-discarded disposable coffee cup had hit the cobbles.

Comparative lack of riots

Traditionally, the UK holds riots during the summer. This alone would have French people taking to the street to overturn bins. ‘No riots?’ they would cry, ‘But then how can this be called a functioning democracy? We riot… for the riots!’ Not that you’ll understand, because your entire knowledge of French is ‘Hello, my name is John, thank you.’

Finance manager Tom Logan told colleagues that he is just ‘in a bit of a mood’ when he is actually in mourning for a cherished part of his fantasy life which, because of stupid politicians, will be taken away forever.

He said: “I wish there was someone I could talk to, who would understand this sense of profound loss. But, for the very reasons this ban is being imposed, there’s nobody.

“Early November? That’s only a few weeks away. That’s how long we have left together. If I was sad Celebrity Traitors was ending, I’d find compassion. But choking porn, my companion through so many solitary nights? Oh, no one’s sad about that.

“Why? It was there when I needed it. It didn’t ask anything from me. It wasn’t hurting anyone, or so I pretend to believe. I’m bereft. Maybe I should invent a pet dog and then announce its death on November 6th. Maybe then people would have basic empathy.

“They’re also banning incest porn? Who cares? Those sick freaks should have had their deviant jollies taken off them years ago. They’re unhappy? Good.”

Colleague Mary Fisher said: “Tom’s definitely down about something. I told him this weekend he should spend some time in his happy place and he choked back a sob.”

THOSE French students rioting in the streets? That’s limbs, man. And we’re going to do the same because they’re right, school is boring and shit. 

Our grievances are many. Making young developing minds work until 3.30pm is cruel and inhumane. Maths is pointless because in real life there’s a calculator on your phone. The dehumanising ‘no trainers’ rule is designed to strip us of our identities.

Me? I am furious about the way Mr Wilson has banned us from studying human beatboxing in Music. He says he wants us to have good careers but won’t let us film TikToks?

Our student uprising begins in fifth period when, as agreed, we will smash up the classroom and break all the windows. Now is the time to act, because we’re at breaking point after five weeks of the new term and also we’ll get out of doing quadratic equations.

Then we will march on the most hated part of the school, the Humanities block where they force you to do double Geography. We’ll watch this symbol of oppression burn, sending out a powerful message to the authorities: you will never make innocent children study igneous rocks again.

If the police try to stop us like in France, we’ll fight them with a barrage of stones and whatever weapons are at hand. Though I might leave that bit to the rough kids because I’m shit at PE.

Yeah, today will go down in history as the day British pupils refused to take any more shit. I might make a list of reforms for the government to implement, like mandatory ChatGPT sio we don’t have to read the book or take notes.

Oh. Wait. Kaylee Jones has just looked up what the French riots are actually about. They want more teachers so lessons aren’t cancelled and smaller classes so pupils don’t get ignored. Serious? Because cool riots, but f**k that.

Visiting your partner’s family

“Look, you know how I was looking forward to seeing your mum and dad, and that dog they have that leaps up at you, and sitting there until well after 9pm when you know I’ve got work the next morning waiting for the end of an interminable anecdote about Uncle Roy disputing his council tax. But it’s just not economical.”

Taking the kids to cricket practice

“It’s an absolute tragedy that our nine-year-old will miss out on a full morning’s cricket this Sunday. After all he doesn’t enjoy it, I hate the cricket dads, and even if he were to turn pro it’s hardly a lucrative career. However it’s just not worth the £9.92 it would cost. Maybe we should never go back.”

Doing the big shop

“I would never voluntarily give up trailing around Tesco with you. That Sunday morning shop is the highlight of my weekend. However with the price of diesel it doesn’t make economic sense. We’ll give ordering online a go. We risk liking it so much we no longer sacrifice an hour of weekend to shopping, but we have no option.”

Going to the cinema

“God it hurts me, not going to see Digger on the big screen. I mean the reviews are lacklustre and the trailer looked bad but who cares? Now, though? The cost-benefit ratio makes it unsupportable. We’ll have to stay in and watch Netflix instead. I’ve poured myself a large gin, to cope.”

Attending work

“Sorry, I can’t make it in today. Why? Have you not seen the news? It’s 22 miles to the office, I can’t be doing that kind of mileage. It wouldn’t be worth me working with what it would cost. I’m afraid I’ll be working entirely from home until further notice.”

Leaving the house at all

“Yes technically we’re not using any diesel by going for a walk. But with the Mad Max-style fuel wars Herefordshire has been plunged into, leaving my car unattended on the drive is practically inviting roving gangs of leather-clad siphoners to take advantage. I’ll stay here. Yes this is another large gin. Well, because of diesel.”

Mention your dad was a roofer

It doesn’t matter what you’re discussing: Brexit, sushi, penguins or the novels of Elizabeth Strout, it’s relevant. It’s even better if you say ‘is’, suggesting he cannot afford to give up work even into his 60s. They don’t know he’s got his own firm and sits on his arse all day.

Explain your mum doesn’t get what you do

Unlikely, considering your job isn’t that hard to comprehend. It’s more a reflection of the fact she can’t understand why they pay you for that when you’re always pissing about at home. But it hints at the drama caused by your rise from a terraced house to the heights of digital services advisor.

Call school ‘the comprehensive’

Force it in even if it wasn’t in the school’s name. Act as though your perfectly pleasant state school was rife with guns, gangs and knife attacks. To be fair there was once a fight in the playground. Wait, no, a dog. There was a dog in the playground.

Emphasise your lack of learning

You wish you could understand the world like the well-educated – things like quinoa, financial instruments, the plays of Sarah Kane – but you can’t, because of your schooling. Admittedly that was because you skipped lessons to smoke, but surely that’s society’s fault? To this day, it’s hurtful how little you know about Molière’s comedies.

Exaggerate your accent

Even if your area doesn’t have a particularly charming rural accent, you can put on a general Cockney lilt, like a child in a 1950s film. Your attempt to deploy it at the garage for a lower rate on a new exhaust is unsuccessful. He must have gone to public school.

Punch them hard in the face

None of it working? Resort to violence, then explain that was how people communicated in the harsh cobbled streets where you grew up. A clip round the ear was affection, a punch was an expression of camaraderie and being knocked to the floor and stamped on was a warm embrace from a beloved grandparent. That should get it through to them.

While Britain begins to cheerfully take the piss about the arrest of five men at RAF Fairford who were later released on bail, Americans continue to believe it must be still be all very serious like in one of their movies.

Whelford resident Ryan Whittaker said: “Yesterday we were all shit-scared of a major terrorist incident. Today we’ve accepted the whole thing was a blundering, hilarious f**k-up.

“Trump and Marco Rubio keep pretending this was a major international plot, and perhaps it was. It’s just when such things hit British soil they tend to get overtaken by irony, mockery and Gazza arriving with a fishing rod and a bucket of chicken.

“Iran? Al-Qaeda? Five Uber drivers out to nick some red diesel? We don’t know the details yet, but we can be confident that when they do come out they’ll be funny. I bet that Cobra meeting couldn’t keep a straight face.

“Meanwhile, we’ve got the short-term amusement of all the online bellends who insisted this proved them right in every detail now shouting shite about ‘two-tier justice’. Don’t they look like dicks?”

Reform leader Nigel Farage said: “I hope this ‘mirth’ does not extend to my article in yesterday’s Telegraph about this entirely justifying my warnings of the Iran menace. I am a very serious politician.”

Loughborough

The aristocracy have historically singled themselves out by naming their spawn after exotic locations like Delphi or Arcadia. As usual, the lower orders have corrupted this proud tradition with their own knuckleheaded interpretation. Paris and Brooklyn are bad enough, but proper rough kids are named after a Midlands university famous for sport science degrees.

Tiphanee

The working classes didn’t learn standardised spelling in school. They were too busy earning their keep on a barm cake factory floor, which has resulted in their own children being slapped with knock-offs of real names which haven’t quite got the vowels right. It’s different when posh parents do it, that’s personal branding.

Sports Direct

Why call a child Versace or Hermes or John Lewis when you can go straight to the source? Bearing the nomenclature of a high street sporting outlet has many positives: your name on a mug, guaranteed warehouse work when you turn 16, and everyone’s automatically affectionate to you because of their pre-existing love for the brand.

Pigeon

Animal names are a trend among the upper classes, with Mouse and Panda climbing in popularity. Less privileged parents can do the same by drawing on the world around them. Screeching Mid-Shag Fox is an inappropriate and something of a mouthful, but Pigeon works. One of those city ones that’s lost a half a foot and pecks at cigarette ends.

Tarquin

Once reserved for foppish scions of the baronetcy, it’s gone down society faster than Burberry and now appears regularly on council estates by parents trying to move upmarket. Expect flat-roofed pubs of the near future to be run by a thuggish dealer named Tarquin and his XL bullys Sixtus and Sevenus.

Robbie

A nice, normal name which has playfully taken the edge off the ending? Nothing could be more working class than that. You can practically picture his soot-covered face skipping to work down cobbled streets as he whistles excruciatingly. If he was a social climber he’d have a more aspirational name like Tesla or Joffrey.

Jeff Bezos

An appalling billionaire capitalist in a crowded field. Amazon is evil in so many ways: poor working conditions in its warehouses, tonnes of unnecessary packaging, drivers forced to wee in bottles. Whenever I buy new earbuds with next-day delivery, I feel like a Nazi collaborator in occupied France.

The Beatles

Like Ed Sheeran, remaining Beatles Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr refuse to speak out about the plight of the Palestinians. Or if they have I’ve not noticed. And despite amassing vast rentier fortunes from songs written decades ago they refuse to give back to the society they have benefited from, as they brazenly admit in the 1966 song Taxman.

Boots

Rennies, Panadol, Gaviscon – all vital medications sold at a hefty mark-up instead of being available to the unwell at cost. Meanwhile their Meal Deals fuel the capitalist machine by providing lunch for oppressed wage slaves. Why not just sell whips and cattle prods, Boots? Also boots are what Mussolini wore.

Bruce Wayne

I’m sick of our society hero-worshipping billionaires like Bruce Wayne. Does he ever set up creches for his staff or improve workplace safety? Meanwhile in every film he’s in we see Batman working tirelessly to help the people of Gotham City without reward while Bruce ignorantly quaffs champagne on rooftops. What a contrast.

The Apprentice

Disgusting propaganda that tried to pass off capitalism as entertainment. Though if you did want to bring down the capitalist system, the quickest way would be to put knobheads like Saira Khan and Ruth Badger in charge.

Albert Arkwright

The ruthless business owner Arkwright in Open All Hours built his wealth on the back of the proletariat, Granville. And like so many wealthy men, he believed he was entitled to women’s bodies, going so far as to non-consensually place a ladder below Nurse Gladys’s bedroom window. Should we call him Arkwright, or Trump?

Hamsters 

These arch-capitalists hoard wealth as assiduously as any billionaire, just in the form of seeds and nuts in their cheeks. I’ve tried to shift their consciousness to egalitarian socialism but instead they run in wheels all night and used the copy of Das Kapital I left in there as bedding. Bloody useless.

Adopt a nonplussed expression

When Jenna Jameson comes up, seem vaguely confused as if trying to place her. Was she in the RSC production of Antigone? A non-verbal lie but it’s the safest option, even if last night you were on a retro pornographic odyssey that merited its own Christopher Nolan film.

Say ‘I’ve just never really felt the need’

Suggesting your sex life is so vibrant and fulfilling that self-abuse was left behind years ago. Implausible, relies on your never having been single for more than a fortnight and condescending to everyone else, who you insinuate are nothing but wanking chimps.

Raise an eyebrow at descriptions

When a colleague describes interestingly depraved porn, look horrified. Implausible that a 45-year-old man familiar with the internet has the sexual knowledge of an 18th century virgin bride? Yes. Will they say ‘Oh, you must see European Cum Bath 4? Here, borrow my copy?’ No.

It’s fine to know what MILF means

Though yet to be recognised by the Oxford English Dictionary, it’s part of the lexicon. Pretending naivety will fool no-one. Let your extensive familiarity with the genre, with those the most worn four letters on your laptop keyboard, go unnoticed. Don’t remark that shagging a teenage stepson is surely the worst domestic decision you can make short of a pet tiger.

Guard your browsing history assiduously

Don’t allow anyone access to your computer, because pretending to be above sordid wanking over porn fails when your last search was ‘office cougar loves hot jizz’. Saying it was ‘research’ is actually worse than saying ‘You can’t beat a good anal threesome’.

Shrug ‘It’s just not something I’m into’

Doesn’t stand up to scrutiny. Are you saying you’re indifferent to sex? Attractive naked people? You’ve never even been curious? Chinny reckon.

Maintain total ignorance 

Pretend not to know the names of famous sites like Pornhub, referring to it as ‘Porn-what-was-it-called?’ And obviously you don’t recognise names like Angela White or Adriana Chechik either. Which is actually pretty disloyal after all they’ve given you.

Achieving orgasm

The orgasm gap exists as women’s pleasure is tricky and offers nothing to men who would prefer to ejaculate and move on. Yes, it would be nice if he did something for her after she gave head for 20 minutes, but no problem, she gets that he’s tired. He could use the vibrator? Oh, he doesn’t like the noise? Okey doke.

Requesting a pay rise

It would be lovely to not lay awake nights worrying about the mortgage, but yes, her boss is right, times are tough right now. He’s still driving a 2025 Audi, he is embarrassed to point out. She nods, ashamed of her horrific, selfish needs that render her a burden to a kind and caring employer.

Seeking a divorce

She’s had enough. The snoring, the flatulence, the affairs she’s sure happened but can’t quite pin down, the looting of the joint savings to invest in rare 90s trip hop vinyl. But, when confronted, he’s fine with the way things are. No problem, just an idea, just a suggestion born of several dark nights of the soul and years of misery. It’s fine.

Getting the vote

We all remember the suffragettes’ hunger strikes – on diets to look nice for their husbands. most likely – but there were also non-violent suffragists who wrote lots of letters asking if politicians would mind terribly giving ladies the franchise. When they received replies declining, they were ever so politely worded and on such nice paper.

Booking a restaurant

A table not adjacent to the toilets or bins and which the family can have for more than 35 minutes would be ideal, but we can’t have everything, can we? Even if what arrived isn’t what was ordered and is inedible. A lady enquires if anything can be done, is informed the kitchen is busy, and is positively radiant in accepting it all as her due.

Seeking a refund

The zip on the £140 trousers she bought yesterday is already broken and she has the receipt, but she doesn’t want to be one of those awful influencers who’s always returning clothes, nor does she want to be a Karen who calls the manager, and so she takes flat and unfair refusal as the final word. Maybe having your minge out will catch on?

Research showed that while being more cowardly, bitching is a safer way of venting your frustration than telling someone how awful they are to their face, which could get you punched or fired.

Professor Henry Brubaker of the Institute for Studies said: “Evidence suggests bitching is an evolutionary advantage. None of our ancestors ever got mauled for secretly slagging off a predator.

“Bitching is probably why humanity learnt to talk in the first place. Not to express needs or abstract thoughts, but to mock the sabre-toothed tiger skins the neanderthals in the cave next door are wearing. Civilisation as we know it has these snide comments to thank.

“However confrontation escalates until one side backs down or dies. The only risk associated with bitching is when someone grasses you up. And even then you can lie your way out of it if you’re a nasty little creep.”

He added: “Plus you can bitch from the comfort of your sofa with a big bottle of wine. What more proof do you need?”

Researcher Nikki Hollis said: “We’re confident our findings are accurate. Unless Donna f**ked up her data again, but what do you expect from a lazy cow like her?”

Not fancying you

While wilfully being attractive, the nice girls suddenly surrounded by are annoyingly sensible about who they sleep with, and how long it takes them to decide to. Is it too much to ask that universities are required by law to include ‘ease of getting laid’ in their prospectuses?

Having oddly-named friends 

Hang out with middle-class-verging-on-posh girls and you will discover a social circle filled with Arabellas, Octavias, Harriets and maybe even a Jocasta. Worse are the nicknames: Minty? Cheski? Boodie? Were they made to swap names with their horses?

Making the most of university life

Nice girls fling themselves into activities such as rowing or the debating society, tempting you to follow. But nobody, however lovely, is worth getting up at 6am to sit on a cold, wet, miserable river for. Or worth listening to smartarse debates by 18-year-old twats who want to be Tory MPs for.

Questionable music taste

Uni has always been about being into cool bands, but trying to pull a girl devoted to an artist who was her favourite at her Gloucestershire grammar school is work. After your third Idles gig, you’ve been preached at so much you’d rather go to f**king church.

Having privileged existences

Young women at the upper end of the middle-class affluence scale do not realise it. It’s disconcerting when they say ‘You mean you’ve never been to Santa Fe?’ totally aghast, as if you’d just admitted your family lives in a sewer pipe.

Their alternative lifestyle choices

All students explore alternative choices at uni, not least middle-class girls finally free of their parents. Typically that means veganism or New Age woo, both equally hard to put up with. Eventually you will say ‘No, Olivia, I am not going with you to the Cornwall Festival of Druidism.’

Already having boyfriends 

It’s disappointing in any circumstances to discover someone you fancy is attached. However at least at university this is the smallest romantic challenge you face, because as everyone knows sixth-form boyfriends last until mid-October.

“We will shakily livestream them on the beaches”

When Churchill stood up in parliament after Dunkirk to assure the nation that the British people would never surrender, what he intended to convey was that men without custody of their children should film themselves wading into the sea to bellow about Muslims.

“Never in the field of human stupidity was so much owed by so many to so few.”

In paying tribute to British airmen, Winston well knew that one day, a nation of 69.5 million would someday owe the same debt of gratitude to a couple hundred of porky blokes with nothing better to do than turn up outside the Daily Mail offices to make unrealistic demands on behalf of Tommo’s mum.

“I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat, and shoplifted steaks sold cash down the pub.”

During his maiden speech as prime minister, Churchill set out his stall as a man intent on dedicating his life to public service. The same is said of the brave patriots like Tommo, by Tommo, who shun normal employment to protect the nation and thus must earn money by alternative means.

“This was their Violentest Hour.”

The fall of France meant that Britain was Nazi Germany’s next target, and what came next would be remembered as Britain’s finest hour. Inaccurate, because he was unaware that one day a racist Border Control officer would tip Tommo’s team off about a hotel that actually has asylum seekers in it.

“This is the lesson: never give in to logic”

Danny Tommo attended private school, because Britain demands certain standards from its political leaders, so the speech Winston gave at Harrow really hits home. He has sworn he will never relent in the face of facts, court orders, worried texts from mum, or cease and desists from the estate of the late Winston Churchill.

118 118

Before the internet, directory enquiry providers were the alternative to scouring phone books. 118 118 did that and charged you for it, but by 2010 they were in serious decline thanks to easy internet access and smartphones. This was a good thing because the two runner guys in the advert were fairly annoying twats and nowadays the idea of ringing a phone number to get another phone number feels utterly insane.

0898 550055

Late-night TV viewers in the 90s had the number for Chatback drilled into their brains permanently, or perhaps Party Line (0898 21 21 21) or Yakety Yak (0898 22 66 22). Ring them and you could have a stilted conversation with random persons, and the only reason anyone did so was the incessant adverts. These usually had an annoyingly catchy jingle, a picture of a pretty blonde girl, or actors fake-chatting or dad-dancing. It didn’t matter that the ads were dogshit, their audience was lonely and captive. They may as well have just called themselves ‘Sad Bastard Number’.

3.142

Everyone remembers Pi, it’s a number at the heart of mathematics that has something to do with circles, the exact details of which were drummed into you at school but you instantly forgot as soon as the bell rang. These days you’re more likely to find some internet New Ager ascribing mystical significance to Pi, but f**k that. It’s just a Greek letter denoting a ratio. You don’t think ⅓ is mind-blowing cosmic magic, do you? 

88

Film geeks will never forget that Marty McFly needed to reach 88 miles per hour to return to 1985 and trigger a strangely depressing sequel. It’s also the calibre of a famous German WWII anti-aircraft gun put to effective use against tanks. Knowing either of those facts is largely pointless.

01 811 8055

The number, of course, for Swap Shop, and you have to retroactively pity all the poor parents badgered to ring up with millions of other people trying to do the same. If you did get through you could swap some shit, win something, or speak to Suzi Quatro. It’s a number now tinged with sadness, because Cheggers is dead and you never did win a Millennium Falcon. 

58008

Arguably the best number because when turned upside down on a calculator it spells ‘BOOBS’. Or you could input the longer and more formal 5318008. Calculator words got even sadder, with ones like 71077345 (‘shell oil’) proving fascinating to people of the 80s. What could be more romantic than impressing a girl called Debbie by typing 31883007734 on your Casio FX-7000G? Quite a lot actually, especially if she was called Rachel but you were constrained by the limited upside-down calculator vocabulary.

Tom Wooton, Mayor of Bedford

We get very little tourism, due to there being nothing to do or see in Bedford, so a day spent here remains a perfect blank in the mind. However, millions drive up the M1 which has signs for Bedford and they’re looking at those yet contributing nothing to our town. So from now on it’s £6.70 per look, to be paid online before midnight the following day.

Ros Jones, Mayor of Doncaster

As a national joke, we’ll establish a new social media monitoring unit and every time anyone makes a disparaging reference to Doncaster it will be logged and a £40 fine levied. And when those people pass through the region our police, famous for their corruption, will detain them until the full sum is paid. If they can’t pay it they’ll just have to live here.

Andrea Jenkyns, Mayor of Greater Lincolnshire

As a Reform zealot who formerly worshipped Boris until the scales fell from my eyes and I realised Nigel was the one true messiah, I plan to redefine ‘the tourist’. Anyone who has been resident in our flat, cabbage-growing region for fewer than eight generations is now classified as a tourist and pays quintuple council tax and a mayoral enrichment surcharge.

Zoe Garbett, Mayor of Hackney

We welcome tourists here in Hackney, but a Green mayoralty cannot entertain those with incorrect attitudes on climate change, Palestine or the trans struggle. So all prospective tourists must complete an examination costing £80 and if they pass they can enjoy our attractions unhindered. Don’t miss the Clown Museum.

Andy Abrahams, Mayor of Mansfield

We welcome all tourists and will impose no extra taxes, but we’ll come down bloody hard on anyone confusing me, Andy Abrahams, former civil engineer, with Andy Abraham, former binman and Britain’s 2008 last-place Eurovision entrant. It’s just ignorant. We’re not even the same race, and it’s not f**king funny shouting ‘nul points’ at me. Two grand fine.

Bev Craig, Mayor of Greater Manchester

£300 per person if you’re on a stag do, £800 per person if you’re on a hen do. We will wipe out this scourge devastating our cities. Piss off to Prague and leave Mancunians to savour our bleakness, our rain and the backdrops to group photos by miserable indie bands who broke up decades ago. You don’t deserve them.

For example in Portsmouth, where we smashed the windows of police cars to stop buses of asylum seekers, I joined the chants of ‘Christ is King’. Just our way of saying we’re not Muslim immigrants? Of course not. Christ and his teachings guide all our lives.

Certainly God hates those of opposing faiths, which is why he commanded St George to go on the Crusades from a burning hedge. Why he didn’t provide air support is beyond me, but he moves in mysterious ways.

But suggestions I’m just pretending to be a Christian because I’m a thick racist is ridiculous. My faith is a source of comfort to me in difficult times, like when Chelsea lost to Arsenal at the weekend. I only twatted one bloke because I knew it was God’s plan.

What do I most value about Christianity? The rules it provides on how to live an ethical life, such as ‘love thy neighbour’ meaning the white ones you already have, and not lying with mankind as it’s an abomination, and destroying Sodom. Good ethical shit.

When me and the lads mask up, that’s Christianity in action. Vicars wear all black, don’t they, apart from the collar? They intimidate their flock with threats? That’s all we’re doing, but on the streets and in a rather more literal sense. These fists are His instrument.

So as you can see, Christianity isn’t just something racists have appropriated in a superficial way. Do I actually go to church and do good deeds and so on? Yeah, I went to a wedding in 2022 and I always buy a poppy. I reckon that ticks the f**king boxes.

So the pigs can f**k off banging my door down at 8am and arresting me for throwing a bottle at a copper. I’m pissed off that an omnipotent being didn’t wipe the CCTV footage and save me a lot of aggro, but then God does move in mysterious ways.

The men of Patriot Platform announced their arrival on the UK’s entertainment scene with a short blockade of the A20 which achieved nothing, and would like Britain to know they are now taking bookings for celebratory fascist events.

Organiser Danny Tommo, whose very surname proves he is the man of the people aloof elitist Tommy Robinson could never be, said: “Bang. You can’t buy publicity like that. Now visit our website.

“You’ll find you can book us for birthday parties, for retirement events, for weddings, and for corporate get-togethers. Not bar mitzvahs. Some of the lads have got previous.

“Imagine the buzz when you announce Kayden’s tenth birthday and our men march out, all clad entirely in black, only their eyes showing, and stop all traffic on the A511 while you sing ‘Happy birthday to you’. He’ll be the envy of all his classmates.

“Subsequent fighting with the police comes at no extra charge. Nor is it cancellable. I’ll be honest, once their blood’s up they’re going to twat someone.”

Roy Hobbs of Burslem said: “This would be marvellous for mine and Audrey’s 50th anniversary. A National Front riot is how we got together.”