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Make an enemy of the C of E and we will come after you, take off your gonads with a clawhammer and make you watch as we crush them with a steamroller!

‘And what can they do?’ ‘Ask me questions,’ he said, biting both bars of a Kinder Bueno at once. ‘Ask for evidence, all the usual shit. If they conclude I’ve misled Parliament I’m meant to resign.’

Of course Boris – the political colossus who steered us through Brexit and a pandemic – must stay. Of course he’s done nothing wrong. Of course this is all a Remainer coup.

The main hub is the Crystal Palace triangle: three streets which feature everything from wanky pubs to wanky cafes to wanky pubs that do coffees to wanky cafes that sell beer.

UNFULFILLED divorcee Tom Booker has long lusted after Sophie Rodriguez, the hot barista he speaks to daily. She’s not keen. They’re on a date.

Put an NFT of some cheese on a mousetrap and guarantee getting the worst of those little bastards. 

You just reached deep up your arsehole and pulled out this shit about teachers and nurses. Your brain, that barely-functioning organ nesting somewhere in that fucking mess of spaghetti, didn’t get a fucking look-in, did it? 

The protesters are right: all coppers are bastards. And now, because the Met Police is institutionally misogynist, I’m a criminal.

There’s no better way to impress a lady than a romantic meal for two. Unless they’re sadistically playing with your feelings like a cat toys with a mouse, before ripping your heart out like some evil succubus from Hell. 

I could smell the animal fats leaking from his pores. He had that evil, greasy sheen I associate with people who murder and consume my animal siblings.