Male aggression caused by chafing

STOCKY men are aggressive because their clothes are constantly chafing.

The Institute for Studies found that thick thighs and wide necks rub against fabric, causing relentless irritation which finds its outlet in violence.

Heft commentator Tom Logan explained “For years, we’ve thought that aggression was linked to the testosterone that comes with muscle build up, when really it’s connected with being unable to buy properly fitting outfits.

“Now we know why Arnold Schwarzenegger is so disappointing in nude scenes.

“We long to see his raw power and fury in an erotic context, but when he gets his kit off he’s insipid as a five-year-old boy’s chai latte.”

Former violent criminal Tom Booker said: “I thought I was beating people up because of repressed homosexuality or psychological issues relating to my emotionally-distant father.

“But now that I think about it, my jeans were absolutely killing me.”

Norman Steele, an eight-stone anxiety expert said: “Next time a bigger man fronts up to me, I shall just tell him to remove his clothes.”

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Mrs Phillips in room seven

I PRESSED that little button at least an hour ago.

Where have you been? Smoking one of your bongo cigarettes outside the kitchen and talking about your ‘knob-ring’, I shouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, I need my blankets tucking in, not that you care.

You’re probably not even English. I suspect you only came here so you can marry your boyfriend and then be handed a nice English baby by some bloody social worker.  And then they’ll give you a thousand pounds a month to turn it into a whoopsie.

What’s for dinner tonight? Fish? Is it English? WAS IT CAUGHT IN ENGLAND? I’m not being fobbed off with Spanish haddock, I’ll tell you that.

Used to be there was only English fish in the shops. My friend’s daughter said she was in Tesco and they had fish from China! What are they doing having fish from China in Tesco?

Move the telly round a bit, I can’t see it properly. Now where’s my Radio Times?

Would you look at this: BBC2, nine o’clock, ‘The Fisters’. ‘A three part minidrama about Soho in the early 1970s when the age of sexual liberation was in full swing’.  I shall watch that and then write a letter with my good pen. The Fisters, indeed.

This tea tastes funny. Did your mother never teach you how to make a decent cup of tea? Did you even have a mother, or was she just some trollop who left you outside the town hall and then went back to her drunken intercourse with a Hungarian raspberry picker?

Oh, I’m starting to feel a bit woozy now. Can’t keep my eyes open. Oh dear. Think I better just lie down.

Do try not to fiddle with me while I’m asleep. Wouldn’t put it past you… you bloody weirdo….