Essential advice for idiots

The number of blazes caused by disposable barbecues suggests idiots may still need advice on their use. Read this Q&A before you start randomly committing arson.

So what’s the problem again?
It’s all down to a thing called ‘fire’, which has a surprising tendency to ‘spread’ and burn things you weren’t trying to cook, such as fields, fences and your house. Curse those irresponsible barbecue manufacturers for putting deadly fire in them.

Can I use a disposable barbecue in the car?
Technically, yes. The barbecue can definitely be ignited on the back seat of a moving car, but most people choose not to because it’s mental and you might die horribly in a burning vehicle. If that’s too complicated a scenario for you to grasp, don’t do it because your sausages will keep rolling off and getting fluff on them.

Are they safe for my dog to use?
Not really. Dogs are likely to drool on the barbecue tongs and have a poor understanding of food hygiene generally. Why are you asking this?

Can I use it to dry my hair?
You probably could get your hair quite dry over a barbecue, but there’s a risk of burns and smoke inhalation, not to mention the huge amount of faff. That said, disposable barbecues are £5 cheaper than the cheapest hairdryer on Amazon, so some fuckwit will have tried it.

Where do I dump my barbecue when I’ve finished with it?
You’d think that the moment you’ve rammed your food down your gullet you’d be free to abandon a smouldering BBQ on a crowded beach, in a busy picnic area or in a litter bin full of paper. But strangely you’re expected to safely put out a fire hazard that is entirely your responsibility.

Why should I bother putting it out?
Good question. You’ve realised that putting a barbecue out properly doesn’t directly benefit you personally. We’d try to explain the Golden Rule and the social contract but that will be hard work. Luckily there’s the much simpler concept of ‘you might go to prison and get bummed’ to deter you.

If I forget the burgers can I use a cow from a field?
No, because the cow belongs to a farmer. There are other issues of practicality and basic standards of decency, but let’s keep it idiot-proof and just say Farmer Giles will be angry. Also it’s unlikely that a £4.50 disposable barbecue will cook a 1,200lb cow, unless you like your steak really rare. And horrific.

Can I use it on a garage forecourt?
If you’re peckish on the way to the beach it’s tempting to whip out the barbie and rustle up a burger while you’re filling up with petrol. But it’s generally better to buy a Twix. Just take our word for that.

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Manly-flavoured lollies, anyone?

Ice lolly manufacturers have responded to demand for a product that in no way resembles a cock.

A new lolly, the Ice Block Max, has been developed to meet the needs of male heterosexuals who want to enjoy a lolly without feeling they are basically eating a penis.

The new product is a grey cube on a stick resembling a building material, which tastes of bloody steak for a ‘more manly flavour’ and features a picture of Jason Statham on the wrapper.

A spokesman for manufacturers Walls said: “This lolly is so red-bloodedly male it can practically do 200 pull-ups while grunting ‘Hurr!’

“The unique, perfectly cuboid shape means that it doesn’t have a shaft. Research shows that anything taller than it is wide basically looks like an erection when being sucked.

“Of course we will continue to make the classic phallic lollies – Twister, Calippo, Mini Milk – but sales are likely to fall now men don’t need to look as if they’re well-practised at sucking cock.

“Usually when manufacturers try to make a hyper-masculine product it somehow ends up seeming super-gay. That’s why we’re thrilled to have Jason Statham promoting it.

“He’s straightness personified, especially the way he wrestles that other guy in 'The Transporter' in a big pool of oil, with his shirt off.”

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Big hair and bagpipe solos would end the Cold War

You're the Voice by John Farnham, and other dangers of rediscovering 80s soft rock

Everyone loves Bonnie Tyler belting out Total Eclipse of the Heart, but Gen Z should be warned that 80s soft rock is not a safe space. These songs are why:

We Don’t Need Another Hero by Tina Turner, 1985
Archetypal soft rock thanks to its dated keyboards, catchy nonsensical hook and being a blockbuster movie tie-in. Tina Turner was in the film, so knew full well their overriding message was that until society is rebuilt you absolutely do need heroes or you’ll be cruelly slaughtered by bastards like Lord Humungus.

You’re the Voice by John Farnham, 1986
‘We’re all someone’s daughter, we’re all someone’s son. How long can we look at each other, down the barrel of a gun?’ sings John, in the typically impassioned plea for peace which made up around 40 per cent of all soft rock lyrics. It was generally accepted that big hair and bagpipe solos would end the Cold War. And eventually, David Hasselhoff did.

We Built This City by Starship, 1985
Musically it’s got every 80s cliché: synth stabs, power chords, boring anthemic chorus. While taking generic lyrics to a new level with pseudo-meaningful bollocks about ‘corporation games’ and the assertion that rock and roll builds cities, which it doesn’t. San Francisco, referenced in the song, was built on maritime trade and the financial sector.

Glory of Love by Peter Cetera, 1986
Pete pours his heart into it but the song is inextricably linked to The Karate Kid Part II, which is largely about a white boy travelling to Japan to kick ass. Colonialism and white American kids beating the natives at their own game are no longer considered the uplifting themes for a movie they once were.

Can’t Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon, 1984
You’re torn between liking the tune and hating everything else: the pompous piano intro, the teenage poetry lyrics, a deeply misjudged video about a baby growing into a middle-aged father and passing on his teddy bear. And singer Kevin Cronin’s 1980s mullet is something to behold. It looks as if he’s wearing an Ewok on his head.

Eye of the Tiger by Survivor, 1982
Weapons-grade cheese, with its highly effective riff and lyrics entirely composed of guff about tigers, being ‘back on the street’ and fighting being a rewarding experience. But went from the Rocky III soundtrack to ubiquity, used everywhere from real boxing matches to Dumb and Dumberer, so the vicarious macho excitement is gone and you may as well be putting on The Smiths.

The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and the News, 1985
Huey and the guys really perfected the art of utterly bland pop rock no-one can object to, the musical equivalent of comfortable socks. However it was written specifically for Back to the Future and since Marty’s girlfriend isn’t in most of the film it should really be called The Power of Your Mum Fancying You. Which today’s porn-addled kids are probably into.

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Blank faces and barely perceptible nods

The boss of a company has informed staff of his intention to do an endurance challenge and received no follow-up questions from anyone.

When chief operating officer Nathan Muir, aged 49, asked for a moment of his staff’s time he expected cheers, awe and promises of vast sums but instead got carefully blank faces and barely perceptible nods.

He said: “I’d been building up to the moment I announced I was doing the Swansea Bay Ironman Triathlon next year, so convened a special lunchtime meeting.

“But the big reveal got me nothing. I can’t understand why. It wasn’t from any lack of enthusiasm on my part, or the quality of the PowerPoint and spiral-bound brochures.

“I outlined the course: a mile swim, then biking out through Mumbles into the hills of the Gower peninsula, then a final 13.1k loop along the bay. I invited them along to spectate, but they were staring at their shoes and checking their phones. This is 70.2 kilometres! It is a big deal!”

Team leader Oliver O’Connor said: “So that’s a year of training, boring on about his hydration levels and telling the girls to prod his calves, frequent absences we’ll have to cover and he’s asking us to pay him £50 each.

“Sorry, it’s for charity. Though he didn’t mention which one, presumably because that’s beside the fucking point.”

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Just to get away from the fucking kids

The Princess of Wales has announced that if she has to climb three peaks in 24 hours just to get away from the fucking kids, that is what she will do.

Kate completed the challenge of summiting the three highest mountains in Scotland, England and Wales and described not being whined at by her children or husband for a whole day as the ‘most fulfilling experience of her life.’

The 44-year-old said: “It’s settled. I’m a climber now. They can’t get me up here.

“I considered a marathon, but Wills said they’d be there to cheer me on every step of the way so I immediately decided ‘fuck that’.

“Instead, in the name of charity or some shit, I shall be climbing every mountain in Scotland exceeding 3,000ft in height. Where I will encounter only taciturn men swathed in Gore-Tex also up here to avoid their families.

“God, the peace of standing on that peak, gazing at the horizon, thinking ‘Even if Louis wanted a biscuit or my husband wanted to bitch about his brother, it would be nine hours before they could get up here to tell me.’ It’s the greatest feeling in the world.”

Prince William said: “Wouldn’t it be nice to all surprise Mummy in a helicopter?”

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[The "real" story]

Your old pal Keir

Keir Starmer has performed one of his characteristic U-turns by walking back yesterday’s resignation, Downing Street has confirmed.

After thinking about it overnight, the prime minister has announced he is remaining in office and consequently that Andy Burnham can get on his little train and sod off back to Manchester.

He said: “If Starmerism is anything, it is making a hugely damaging announcement then changing your mind and ineffectively reversing it. Which is what I do here.

“Why would anyone be surprised? It’s what I did with winter fuel payments, the family farm tax, Mandelson. So I stand before you today to say I am resuming my position as prime minister.

“Your old pal Keir is going nowhere. I’m going to hunker down and weather the Makerfield win with my characteristic stubbornness. I may, in time, offer Burnham a junior Cabinet position and allow him to work his way up.

“You seem too stunned with excitement to speak. I’ve noted this reaction previously. I shall leave the room to reflect on my infallible political instincts but feel free to form a conga line in my absence.”

Voter Eleanor Shaw of Hereford said: “And we’ll do just as we did when he went back on those previous decisions, and ignore it.”

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Typing in 'Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness' gave me an embolism

None of the advances in technology of the last half-century have made it any easier to enter text via a remote control.

A technological black hole means anyone attempting to search for a film or TV show has to enter it letter-by-letter as if they were putting their initials by a Space Invaders high score in 1980.

Jim Bates of Congleton said: “I tell speakers to play music and they do so. I type a destination into my car and it shows me how to get there. But on my TV?

“There’s no slick user interface. To find a movie on Netflix I have to mash down flimsy rubber buttons while it brightly suggests movies that are not what I want or close to it. All the others are the same.

“Even on the PlayStation, a controller with at least 30 different inputs demands I do it one letter at a time. Why does all pretence of being user-friendly stop at the telly? Why has it remained in the Ceefax era?

“Every site online’s always checking I’m not a sophisticated bot buying tickets or logging into my bank account. They should get these fucking bots working on the telly. Then maybe I could watch 'Insidious 5' without first having to look up how to spell it.”

Technology expert Jack Brown said: “Now most of our technological agency is given over to machines it’s important to have such instances of human independence, even though typing in 'Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness' gave me an embolism.”

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What’s schadenfreude?

The Spanish tourist board is encouraging Britons to visit this summer for a good chuckle at all those miserable because they cannot be in Dubai.

As thousands of former influencers and the wealth-adjacent are forced to spend summers in a less glamorous location due to an inconvenient war, ordinary people are invited for a cheap holiday to wallow in someone else’s misery.

Holidaymaker Jordan Gardner said: “You can see them congregating in beachfront cafes, bitching about how low the skyscrapers are or that 30 degrees isn’t hot enough.

“My girlfriend and I settled in next to them, luxuriating in their complaints that you can’t get a decent gold leaf coffee anywhere. It’s so relaxing hearing them fall silent as a Mercedes S-Class goes by, swallowing their bitter regret they’re not in it.”

Susan Traherne, owner of Inspector Morse-themed bar One More Pint said: “We get them in here, moaning none of the hotel pools are infinite, disappointed their cocktails don’t cost three figures.

“We put an influencer on stage to bitch that she couldn’t hire a gold-plated Lamborghini anywhere so how could she make content and it was harming her hustle. The regulars were in stitches. Far better than the Chubby Brown tribute we’d booked.”

Former Dubai resident Nikki Hollis said: “How can it be a holiday without a Prada store? Why has this crowd gathered? What’s schadenfreude? Is it a German watch brand? Are they up for a collab?”

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Arseholes

An office arsehole has greeted the end of the May heatwave by saying ‘Hope you enjoyed summer,’ and the worst of it is that he may well be correct.

Martin Bishop, aged 44, has accosted everyone he meets with the one-liner he mistakenly believes to be the pinnacle of ironic British humour, but is more likely to be an entirely accurate forecast.

He continued: “Apparently summer’s on a Wednesday next year! Eh? Eh? You like that one? Why the sour face mate, only a joke.

“Three months of chilly drizzle’s only going to make you appreciate your holiday more. And my gag, which is as British as greasy fish and chips in soggy newspaper and will surely only get funnier as the grey weeks roll on.

“After all, you can’t get more British than complaining about the weather, can you? That stiff upper lip, battling through valiantly in the face of adversity. It’s a classic. Everyone here’s just a miserable bastard who hates to laugh.”

Colleague Emma Bradford said: “He’s right about us being miserable bastards, but it’s not laughing we hate. It’s Martin.

“Is there any kind of old pagan tradition about sacrificing a regional sales manager to the gods in order to banish the clouds and guarantee a good summer? Because if not I’m willing to start one.”

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[The "real" story? It's been pissing down, with thunderstorms, today.]

Keep chat hot and dull

Right now, everyone should be talking about the heatwave to the exclusion of all other topics. Here’s how to intervene quickly and safely if anything else is discussed:

Know the symptoms
Non-heatwave conversations involve words such as ‘Asda’, ‘smoothie’ and ‘Mandalorian’ rather than the prescribed ‘hot’, ‘boiling’ and ‘sweaty’. Once you’ve spotted the danger signs, swoop in to redirect with phrases like ‘Bloody hot, isn’t it?’

Administer hot weather clichés
All heatwave should be dominated with inanities such as ‘Too hot for me!’ Interlocutors should trade clichés like ‘Ooh, I wish I could climb inside a fridge’ and ‘It’s like an oven’. Do not dwell on the actual physical sensations of being forced inside an oven, as this may leads to digression. Simply agree.

Encourage a water fixation
Be obsessed with the idea that healthy human adults will pass out and die if they attempt to travel any distance without a bottle of water. This conversation will self-replicate like a malignant cell as they start badgering others with ‘Have you got some water?’, even if the person in question is only going to the recycling bin.

Quote scary numbers
It’s not a proper heatwave conversation without specific temperatures. Luckily most Britons are shaky on temperatures apart from 0 and 100°C and whatever the fuck Fahrenheit is, so feel free to throw in dramatic-sounding but made up stats like ‘It’s 93° in Bournemouth!’

Don’t prevent sunburn
Sunburn will keep the conversation on-topic for several days as the victim bemoans their stupidity and everyone vows to use SPF 50 religiously. Encourage it by persuading people to join you in the glaring sun and saying things like ‘Who fancies another round?’ and ‘You look really stupid in that hat’.

Watch for a conversational relapses
Idiots may try to talk about something more stimulating than the weather. Be prepared to throw any crazy nonsense out to stop them, for example ‘You know they’ve had to close Heathrow because the planes are dripping molten aluminium onto Kent?’

Take inspiration from the media
The news is a great help at forcing the heatwave into conversation. Whether Guardian hysteria, Telegraph climate change denial or the BBC with its many regional reporters writing non-stories like ‘James and Donna plan to spend the afternoon in the garden’, to cite just one real example, it’s full of pointers to keep chat hot and dull.

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"Personally I think anyone from Salford’s a twat"

Manchester [read more about this image] [click to embiggen]

Drink pints and eat chips: Manchesterism in practice, explained by a Mancunian

Andy Burnham is all about Manchesterism. And, what with living in Ardwick, so am I. Let me tell you how it works here on the ground:

Chips for tea
If Manchester stands for anything, it’s chips for tea. Not every night, unless you’ve the misfortune of being vegan. Every Friday, usually Mondays, Wednesdays occasionally, Sundays if you’ve not been able to shift your hangover. Also we have chips for dinner. What you’d call lunch.

Pints
You can get cocktails and the like up here but you can’t really go wrong with a pint, can you? And another pint after that. Followed by whatever you like but chances are it’ll be another pint once you’re two down. If anything else seems like the thing you’re not fitting in.

Rain
Not sure how Andy’s planning to shroud the whole country in the beautiful rain we get 24-7 and 365 up here, but he’ll need to if we’re going to get everyone in anoraks. You can’t beat a good downpour. Makes the cobbles glisten.

Gays
We’re very big on our gays up here, but they’re proper gays. Not these online queers you get down south. To claim an alternative sexuality down Canal Street you’re still required to pass the physical examination. Also, you have to eat at McTucky’s and survive.

Curry
It’s not all chips, as I detailed above. There’s also the Curry Mile, a phantasmagoria of spices and neon signs that serves everything the Indian subcontinent has to offer. Your arse’ll be smoking like there’s a flare up it.

Very specific musical nostalgia
All the best bands come from Manchester if you insist on an arbitrary cut-off point of roughly 1996. Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths, the Roses and the Mondays, Oasis, music ends after that. There’s the lad who does the rapping I suppose but he’s not on Factory.

Hatred for your immediate neighbours
You’re no real Manc if you don’t despise Liverpool, loathe Leeds, look down on Birmingham and consider London beneath contempt. Personally I think anyone from Salford’s a twat. Should fit right in with Britain’s post-Brexit foreign policy.

Bees on shit
They only used to be on the bins, but this last 15 years we’ve adopted the bee as the symbol of our fair city and plastered them on everything. They represent Manchester because they work together for the good of all, they’re natty little bastards and if you mess with them, they’ll fuck you up. Alright?

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[The "real" story]

A Petri-dish with hot tubs and a climbing wall

All that positive hantavirus publicity got you thinking of booking a cruise? Before you set sail like a carefree, ocean-going Zack Polanski, consider these reasons not to:

The passengers
You’re trapped with them. Vacuous, boring bastards in pink polo shirts with wives in their 50s made up to be in their 20s. There’s no escaping the twat who’s immensely proud of setting up the most successful tyre supply business in East Renfrewshire, not on this trip, and keelhauling is sadly outlawed.

The food
Food is included in the price, or the permanent buffet of shite in the prison-like canteen is. They make it as tasteless as possible to drive you to pay for meals in the very costly restaurants. And if you want a drink? You’ll be ordering it from the barman on every single occasion you need liquid. Yes, there will be a queue.

The entertainment
No entertainer worthy of the name would sign up for three months in a windowless cabin at sea. Plenty of entertainers not worthy of the name will. Given an audience of tossers who believe an Elvis impersonator who can instantly switch to Robbie Williams is astonishing, they will pander to them. Night after night. And you’ll be there because that’s where the gin is.

Seasickness
Seas get rough, and once your lavishly-appointed ship runs into a storm and begins lurching around like a drunken hippo with labyrinthitis everyone will be throwing up. You’ll be confined to your cabin and timing vomiting to when the toilet isn’t slopping water all over the bathroom floor you’re kneeling on.

Viruses
And that’s when the metal container you’re locked in with thousands of strangers doesn’t become an incubator for an exciting new virus, keen to work its magic in this Petri-dish with hot tubs and a climbing wall. All while many, many nautical miles from the nearest hospital. You begin to realise why ghost ships were such a frequent phenomenon.

The stops on land
After what feels like months trapped at sea but has actually been three days, you get the chance to escape. Bliss. Three hours in the most touristy harbours the world has to offer, where every shop is geared to selling you expensive jewellery you won’t notice the flaws of until you’re back on board your floating prison with that twat from the tyre business again.

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Of course, owned by a real king

I told him my ballroom is a mile high just to see his face, says King

The King has admitted claiming to own a domed ballroom a mile high in conversation with Donald Trump to see his crestfallen reaction.

The president had taken the Royal party to see a hole which he was boasting would soon be an even greater ballroom than Hitler’s, when Charles replied ‘Of course, we have terrible issues rerouting planes around ours.’

The monarch continued: “You’d think the view would be wonderful a mile above London, but the diamond capstone on the top is actually in the stratosphere so it’s all clouds.

“Holds 1.7 million people, though it’s not been filled since George V’s inaugural ball because I’m afraid there aren’t enough aristocrats left. Nowadays we use its solid gold art deco interior for family get-togethers and charity events.

“It really is a magnificent edifice and, of course, owned by a real king. But yours sounds like it will be nice too. How large? 90,000 square feet? Ah, so the same size as the palace kennels.”

He added: “You should have seen his mean, crumpled face. He started bragging about 80s golfers’ dick sizes to recover, but of course Camilla has hands-on expertise there.”

Trump said: “I’ve checked on the internet and it’s all true. I fired the aide who told me it was AI.”

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The Nonce Cinematic Universe

The new Michael Jackson film is the first instalment of an interconnected cinematic universe of celebrity sex offenders, its producers have announced.

As well as telling the King of Pop’s origin story, Michael launches a multi-movie franchise about rich and famous celebrity wrong ‘uns which is projected to come together for a thrilling crossover finale in 2031.

Film insider Tom Booker said: “Don’t worry if you’re not familiar with all the dusty old source material on these guys. The NCU will tell you everything you need to know.

“Michael eases you in with a straightforward tale about a poor black kid who grows up to be the world’s most famous sex monster. Sit through the end credits and there’s a teaser for the next film in the series, 'Andrew: Prince of Paedos'.

“That leads into the Woody Allen biopic, then we go back a couple of decades and see the roots of it all with Jimmy Savile, Stuart Hall and Rolf Harris in 'It Was A Different Time: The 70s Story'.

“Yes, we’ve had to be creative in scriptwriting to tie it all together, but give Michael a magic rhinestone-studded glove and I think audiences will be in their seats cheering as the paedos put their differences aside to battle a galactic threat only they can defeat.”

Cinemagoer Martin Bishop said: “I can’t wait for them to keep churning these movies out long after they’ve stopped being good.”

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[The "real" story]

Warm fuzziness

New research has found making a train journey in Britain can be survived and even enjoyed if the passenger has drunk enough.

A study of the UK’s trains, from rural routes to commuter trains, shows that once eight or more units of alcohol have been consumed it becomes a magical ride of stimulating new destinations, mysterious announcements and meetings with strangers.

Professor Henry Brubaker, of the Institute for Studies, said: “There’s nothing wrong with our overpriced, antiquated rail network that can’t be fixed by the warm fuzziness of aluminium-wrapped alcohol.

“Once lightly pissed, being in a long box fired randomly across the countryside becomes a mellow experience. Your slumped face can vibrate against the windows in a happy haze, just as the Victorians intended when they built them whacked-out on laudanum.

“Stations drift past cheerfully. The couple you’re unwillingly sharing a table with become fascinating. Even the toilets are fine when you’re urinating as freely and erratically as all their previous users.

“Whether the night train to Aberdeen, the 4.35pm to Didcot Parkway or a 6.30am commuter train into Liverpool Street, it’s just like mother said: booze is best.”

Market analyst Helen Archer said: “I drank a bottle of prosecco on the way to work in Leeds and woke up in Llanelli. So same as normal, but with prosecco.”

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Just like that there London

The sight of a single takeout pizza van has caused villagers to think their town is now on a par with London, it has emerged.

Having grown accustomed to their Nisa and a chippie that takes half an hour to drive to, residents of a Gloucestershire village believe they are about to become the new Shoreditch thanks to a van that sells overpriced pizzas.

Local Donna Sheridan said: “I thought food trucks were something MasterChef made up for the telly. Yet there it is, in all its dazzling, gentrified glory for a pleb like me to enjoy.

“I phoned my kids who live in Camden to tell them I tried something called 'fior de latte' on my Margherita. They already knew what it was thanks to their swanky university education, and suggested I try an anchovy topping next. It’s all very cosmopolitan.

“The young lad who runs it says you can’t move for food trucks like this in the big city. Apparently they even sell Asian-fusion tacos and curried lentil dishes. Sounds a bit extravagant for our tastes but each to their own.

“Maybe if the novelty of pizza served out of a van catches on we’ll be treated to other London perks like a Gail’s and unaffordable housing. We can only dream.”

Pizza cook Jack Browne said: “A place like this is perfect for entrepreneurs. I could serve these hicks reheated Pizza Express ready meals and they’d never know.”

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War against motorists?

A Dad is furious at his local council about potholes in roads and is apoplectic at the roadworks needed to fix them.

Martin Bishop, aged 61, regularly shares his fury on local Facebook groups about the local authority letting streets run to rack and ruin, but his blood pressure really spikes when stopped by temporary traffic lights.

He continued: “Am I paying my council tax for these jokers to sit on their arses all day, while potholes ruin lives and suspensions?

“Then they turn around and close a main road for two months, adding five minutes to my journey time which adds up. Put it together and over a year I’d be twelve hours late for squash. Is that in any way acceptable?

“People say ‘you’re retired Martin’ and ‘chill out Martin’ and ‘you don’t need to immediately drive to Asda every time we run out of nutmeg Martin’ but that’s not the point. The point is this council has taken up arms in a war against motorists.

“It’s all right for councillors with their free eco-friendly helicopters, but pensioners like me need to use our BMWs to get places. Don’t even get me started on their lunatic policies like ‘bus lanes’ and ‘school zones’.”

Council spokesperson Eleanor Shaw said: “We recognise that potholes and roadworks are a common source of frustration for residents, and invite them to use their fucking brains for two fucking seconds to connect the two.

“Also, we welcome and value Martin’s feedback.”

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Both at the same time!

An outbreak of decent weather has inspired truly heartbreaking levels of joy across the UK.

With temperatures bordering on the pleasant, Britons are scampering in circles like over-enthusiastic termites, hardly knowing what to do with themselves.

Sales co-ordinator Emma Bradford said: “I’ve bought a straw hat and a Summer Fruits Oasis in anticipation of the first beam of sunlight penetrating the dense wall of grey cloud which has been overhead for five months.

“Let me just check out the window. Here it comes. Oh my.”

Office worker Tom Logan added: “It’s warm and sunny! Not just warm or sunny, but both at the same time.

“I’m going to eat my lunch outside with my sleeves rolled up to my elbows. And you can’t get much better than that.

“Everything’s going to be alright forever.”

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[The "real" news]

Critical journeys..?

War with Iran is disrupting fuel supplies worldwide, with the RAC urging Britons to drive less. Unfortunately impossible when you have to make critical journeys like these:

Impressing non-existent girls
Young men driving around small towns to impress hot girls is a key mating activity, though hot girls often refuse to line the streets staring at cars for hours and you may encounter none. Nonetheless, groups of four men in a 2007 Citroën Saxo will continue because it works in Fast & Furious films.

Buying a single tin of tomatoes
You’ve committed to making forgettable spag bol and you’re fucked if you’re going to spend 90 seconds rethinking your food plans, so driving to a shop 500 yards away is unavoidable. Offset the wastefulness of this journey by picking up a few other things that would facilitate easy meals in the near future? Nah. You’ve got a car.

Collecting a takeaway
Sure, the takeaway does deliveries, but them you’ve got to either pay a £3.50 delivery fee or take your order up to £20 with stuff you don’t want, the leftovers of which will look disgusting in the fridge the next day and make you doubt the wisdom of getting takeaways three nights a week. Better for everyone you collect it.

The school run
Non-parents can’t understand the joyous convenience of getting rid of all the little bastards in one roundabout journey, rather than trailing along while they marvel at the wonders of nature and shit. Explain you only have one life and you can’t spend it waiting for an eight-year-old to get bored of looking at dew on a bloody spider’s web.

Listening to techno in a supermarket car park
Not the activity of the average Volvo owner, but but if you’re a 17-year-old with a modded hatchback you absolutely will drive to a deserted car park at night to listen to music in the cold. Donuts may be involved, but it’s still a miserable activity that would be considered unacceptably cruel if the state made petty offenders do it.

Taking your kids to activities they hate and will give up
If middle-class, transporting your progeny to lessons they hate is 80 per cent of every evening. Whether piano lessons or gymnastics, whether Scouts or tap dance, it’s pointless and necessary. A longitudinal study of what proportion of children made to learn the violin play it in adulthood should be carried out. The economy of north London would collapse.

The Daily Mash

Of course.

At an undignified age?

Pete Tong, once the Pied Piper of the rave generation, is now 65 and still doing it. And DJ isn’t the only job it’s tricky to be old and wizened in, as these celebs have learned:

Tamara Beckwith: it girl
Being quite pretty, reasonably posh and going to parties isn’t the most solid basis for a career, and Tamara’s has gone off the boil somewhat at the age of 55. Could she have a second coming as a glamorous elder advertising Saga holidays, walk-in baths and bedside commodes to the Met Bar set, or will the All Saints steal those jobs?

Pete Tong: DJ
Clubbing is inherently a young person’s activity, due to the lateness and Ministry of Sound not doing ‘pie and a pint’ nights. Pete seems to be coping but you know as he spins the latest Afro house tune that inwardly he’s muttering ‘in my day music had a bloody tune you could whistle, like DJ Misjah & DJ Tim’s Access.

Harrison Ford: action hero
Action roles are a problem for geriatrics, and Harrison neglected to cultivate a long-running role where he moves around sedately like Patrick Stewart as Professor X. He broke a leg filming The Force Awakens and tore a shoulder muscle in the last Indiana Jones, and in both films the expression on his face made it abundantly clear it was not worth it.

Pamela Anderson: Baywatch babe
Sex symbol is a tough career post-menopause. The media loves to shame female celebs who refused to halt the ageing process almost as much as those who did. Pammie’s brief, fake relationship with Liam Neeson was treated with the same condescension as when eldsters shack up in the nursing home. Not great when you’re only 58.

James Brown: lad guru
Loaded editor James Brown was central to laddism in the 90s. Now he’s forced to constantly relive those years in every single interview, like some hellish Groundhog Day where he has to talk about trainers, football and Jo Guest in an unending loop.

John Lydon: punk
Ideally punks die young like Sid Vicious or Johnny Thunders, because the alternatives are becoming a sellout with a mortgage or continually trying to shock others at an undignified age. John chose the latter, but is supporting Brexit and Trump shocking from an old white man? The only thing stopping him becoming a golf club bore are his fucking stupid clothes.

Zoe Ball: ladette
Zoe was dubbed a ‘ladette’ in the 90s and to this day the media refer to it constantly despite her now being mumsier than your mum. Unfair to expect a 55-year-old to lead a party lifestyle when hangovers do not seem survivable and the entire bill at Glastonbury is less alluring than your own soft bed.

The Daily Mash

Of course.