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Shit my cassock, how thick, lumpen and out of ideas about how to exist would you have to be to want to buy an album by that poxy, rat-faced fuckwit Liam Gallagher?

MOURN Britannia, for she is no more. The colossus which once bestrode the globe has been murdered, her country dead, its natives doomed. The murder weapon? Rishi Sunak’s budget.

Neil seems absolutely lovely, charming, funny and handsome. But, given that I’m heterosexual and said so on the form, that’s by the by. Was no woman available? Would none of them date me?

Make an effort to really impress your guests, even if they are slavering human dustbins who drink you dry then bitch about you behind your back.

Stoke-on-Trent is a city made of six towns, all of which are shit individually before they form together to be shit collectively, like a shit Voltron.

This week you decide to cut out the middleman, put glasses, a moustache and a little hat on your cock, and set that as your Tinder profile picture.

Fuck me till the Saints rise from the tombs and tell me to keep the fucking noise down, what boss-eyed, windy, misty-bollocked fucking verbiage is this?

‘The beheadings threw me off,’ he said. ‘I only went along to be polite. You know what they’re like about hospitality. And, well, I couldn’t eat my partridge on the plane home.’

Anyone taking in a Ukranian family – they’re as genuine as Sylvanian Families, and five times the price – is a fool who deserves everything they get.

Once a quiet, semi-rural shithole, Stroud has lately been elevated to a shithole packed with quirky Londoners convinced they’re doing it a favour by moving there and adding a whole new strata of twat.