Is it a coincidence that everyone suddenly finds the 'love of their life' when they’re 35, tired and desperate? 

PEOPLE suddenly finding love when they are 35, exhausted and unable to afford a house may not just be a big coincidence, experts have confirmed.

Those who are increasingly panicky about the approach of middle age and have just had a difficult meeting with their bank manager are more likely to magically fall head over heels in love with the next person they happen to set eyes on.

Tom Logan, 36, said: “Every man reaches the stage of his life where he’s had enough of playing the field and looks for that one special person he wants to share the rest of his mortgage with. As soon as Emma walked in the restaurant, I said excitedly to myself: ‘She’ll do’.”

Emma Bradford, 35, said: “The first time I saw Tom, I thought, ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing his two-bedroom flat in Walthamstow’. I couldn’t wait to get to know that cute apartment within convenient walking distance of local amenities. And he has such a big balcony, I gasped with pleasure when he whispered its length to me.”

Dating expert Donna Sheridan said: “As we enter our mid-30s, certain things become less important, like status, profession, humour, looks, sex appeal, personality and whether a potential partner is currently wanted for a crime.

“Two single people meet, share a moment of connection, and then whisper those three little words: ‘Yeah, fine, whatever’.”

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Donald Trump's guide to styling out a flatulence problem

IT’S claimed that Donald Trump’s long hours in the courtroom are causing him to emit a large amount of anal gas. Here he explains how to minimise the embarrassment in various situations.

At MAGA rallies

I have the best farts. Incredible farts. Crooked Joe Biden has no farts. He squeezes and squeezes but his ass is as useless as a nun’s pussy. At MAGA rallies I’ve started farting into the microphone. People are cheering, they’re going crazy, they’re asking to smell my ass gas. It’s beautiful. Very beautiful. Except when I follow through.

In court

In court it’s kind of awkward when everyone smells butthole and immediately looks at me. So I use distraction techniques. I stare at jurors, I make a show of using my phone, I ostentatiously pretend to go to sleep. Unfortunately I’m 77 and hopelessly unfit, so this often means I really do go to sleep and so does my sphincter. Then when I wake up my lawyer is trying not to puke in a wastepaper basket.

In the bedroom

Melania and I have vigorous sex at least twice every night, and she finds it a turn-on when I let rip in such a strong, powerful way. She says it’s like a wonderful orchestra with no instruments except tubas. This is absolutely true and Melania definitely does not sleep in a separate bedroom. And she also doesn’t start screaming if I try to enter the house before she’s opened all the windows.

At a party

Most people would be mortified if they farted loudly in company. But my parties at Mar-a-Lago – valued at $1,000 billion whatever Lyin’ Judge Engoron says – are only attended by sycophants and toadies. As they choke on my anal emissions I’ll say ‘Did you fart, Marjorie Taylor Greene?’ and she’ll say ‘Yes’. Then I’ll say, ‘What have you been eating, homeless people’s turds?’ So funny. I’m like Oscar Wilde, but not a goddam faggot.

At the doctor’s

A doctor, one of the best doctors, he said he’d never smelled farts like mine. He also said something about a red meat diet and cancer, but when you’re producing dozens of gallons of putrid gas every day that’s clearly a sign of healthy bowels.

On the golf course

I’ve noticed a particularly violent blast from my rectum can push a golf ball six or more inches into the hole. But I would never use this to cheat, because I never lose at golf. Never. I haven’t losed once. Tiger Woods said to me: ‘Donald, I would never play golf with you because you would make me look like a little bitch.’ True fact.

Bottling my farts

I’ve got a sweet hustle going on where I’ve always got a stock of glass jars to hand. When I feel my anus is about to erupt I adopt a dignified semi-squat and catch as much gas as possible in each jar before quickly screwing on the lid. Then I sell them online to MAGA supporters for $150 a jar. Patriotic Americans who’ll pay good money to own a jar of farts are what made me president in the first place, and they may well do it again.