HUMOUR

AN old and decrepit man is under the mistaken impression that you and he are contemporaries.

While talking to friends and acquaintances at social events, Martin, not his real name, has been insisting they are old fogies well past their prime like him – something that is clearly not true.

Nathan, not his real name, said: “Martin and I were getting on fine in the pub. We agreed on a lot of things, like the state of the roads, how much we hate e-scooters and our dislike of loud teenagers on the bus.

“I’d started telling him about how I did my back in jogging – jogging, which is what young people do – and he clearly said ‘Well, that’s what happens to people our age’. Where the f**k did that come from?

“Martin’s got grey hair and wears boring M&S shirts, whereas I wear trainers and like to think I am quite fashionable in a sort of ‘ageless’ way. I mean, yes, I have a few flecks of grey but that can happen in your 30s. Although I’m not in my 30s, I’m in my 50s, obviously.

“So I’m not sure how he got this insane idea we’re in the same over-the-hill age bracket, just because he was in the year above me at school.”

Martin said: “I distinctly remember Nathan from school, so he’s not much younger than me. Also I saw how big he has the text on his phone. It’s good to know he’s socially and sexually irrelevant too.”

By Hannah. Not her real name, You know, of the Berkshire Tomlinsons

I USED to be the fashion editor for British Vogue, and now I’m a bricklayer and hod-carrier. Why? You already know the answer is money, don’t you? 

Yes, I walked away from a six-figure job to do something real and earthy for reasons I’d list as spiritual fulfilment and a need to abandon artifice, but actually comes down to ‘because I could afford to’. So useful having what I refer to as a ‘small private income’. 

It’s very much the same reason I left London for Somerset, which you may remember from a previous article. I claimed it was to ‘remove myself from the aspirational rat-race of Mulberry bags and matcha martinis’ but made £2.2 million selling my flat. 

I’m back in London now, of course – the Somerset place is being rented to a crypto-billionaire, more than covering the mortgage – but I’m not returning to my old job. No, not the Vogue one, the City one? 

From my classic piece ‘I walked away from a job in the City to become a chocolatier’? That didn’t mention my £865k pay-off until after my rapturous discovery that I needed purpose in my life, and had found it in organic raw cacao? 

Yes, well it turns out selling chocolate is a lot like being a common shopgirl. So I walked away from that, keeping only my substantial shareholding, and now I’m a bricklayer! I know, aren’t I remarkable? 

Not a real bricklayer, of course. That would be absurd. No, this is the point where I reveal I’ve retrained as an architect and I’m only bricklaying for a few days and a photoshoot! My actual salary is f**king telephone numbers. 

So why don’t you take inspiration from me and give up your boring job to do something you love? Because you’re worried you won’t have the money for rent or food? How boring and small of you. No wonder poor people never succeed. 

I WAS born in 1994, at the tail end of the shoegaze era. Am I especially unfortunate to be part of the whiniest generation in history?

I missed out on student grants. I missed out on cheap house prices. I missed out on lead poisoning from exhausts, corporal punishment in schools and mass unemployment as well, but I’m not interested in those because they didn’t happen to me.

Meanwhile my generation has suffered endless inequitable treatment. We missed Britpop, due to being children, so the first record I bought was Big Brovaz’s Nu Flow. You see how we’re cursed?

We couldn’t go to university. I mean loads of us could and did, unlike all those boomers who worked down the pit and got their pet hawks killed for daring to dream, but it wasn’t free and that’s a terrible injustice.

Our chances of buying an Instagrammable property in Notting Hill are basically zero, unlike in the 60s where you could rent a subdivided slum and get dogs set on you if you didn’t pay on time or they evicted you regardless.

And we’ve had the terrible misfortune of the internet meaning we get bullied on social media, instead of in real life, and we have non-stop 24-7 internet filth traumatising us instead of having to get what erotic charge we could from shop mannequins.

Finally, there’s pensions. Anyone older than us has an incredible pension, financed by most men dying of massive smoking-induced heart attacks aged 64 after which their wives moved in with their children to sit in the corner frowning for 20 incontinent years.

Yes, we truly are the unluckiest, and consequently the whiniest, generation in history. Though I bet another generation will come along and claim to be even whinier. It’s so unfair.

Jess and Anthony, not their real names, have just bought a house outright aged 25. Can you work out the clever way they did it besides trivial money ‘hacks’?

‘Getting on the property ladder is easy if you do one thing: stop your wasteful spending. Because not eating 70p avocados is definitely how you raise the best part of 300 grand.

‘It’s all about making sacrifices, and sadly too many young people today won’t do that. Luckily my parents brought me up to be careful with money. “Cut your coat according to your cloth,” is what my frugal corporate lawyer mum and hedge fund manager dad always told me.

‘And so Josh and I devised a strict money-saving plan. Making meals at home instead of eating out. Buying items on discount and cutting out non-essentials. You’d be surprised how often you don’t need new headphones or a top, much like when I was a child and my parents said I didn’t need two ponies.

‘We stopped wasting money on £4.50 lattes and a £12.99 Netflix subscription we barely watched. We both loved foreign holidays, but we agreed we’d tighten our belts and just stay in Ant’s parents’ villa in Gran Canaria.

‘I’m a terrible clothesaholic, but you can get perfectly good outfits secondhand. “Can I have all those Jigsaw dresses you never wear, and actually those Jimmy Choos?” I asked my mum. A deal was struck, and I agreed to cook dinner that evening.

‘But I think the hack that really helped us buy a house was checking our finances daily. If there was money owed on my credit card, I’d immediately say “Daddy, can you pay my card off for me again?” That way I avoided paying interest completely.

‘And now, after taking control of our spending and some careful budgeting, we own our home, and my parents are delighted. “Pay back the £285,000 any time,” they said.’

AN old and decrepit man is under the mistaken impression that you and he are contemporaries.

While talking to friends and acquaintances at social events, Michael, not his real name, from Bexley has been insisting they are old fogies well past their prime like him – something that is clearly not true.

Norman, not his real name,  said: “Michael and I were getting on fine in the pub. We agreed on a lot of things, like the state of the roads, how much we hate e-scooters and our dislike of loud teenagers on the bus.

“I’d started telling him about how I did my back in jogging – jogging, which is what young people do – and he clearly said ‘Well, that’s what happens to people our age’. Where the f**k did that come from?

“Michael’s got grey hair and wears boring M&S shirts, whereas I wear trainers and like to think I am quite fashionable in a sort of ‘ageless’ way. I mean, yes, I have a few flecks of grey but that can happen in your 30s. Although I’m not in my 30s, I’m in my 50s, obviously.

“So I’m not sure how he got this insane idea we’re in the same over-the-hill age bracket, just because he was in the year above me at school.”

Michael said: “I distinctly remember Norman from school, so he’s not much younger than me. Also I saw how big he has the text on his phone. It’s good to know he’s socially and sexually irrelevant too.”

WONDERING if you’re outstaying your welcome in your job? Look out for these telltale signs.

All your colleagues openly hate you

Co-workers don’t have to be your friends, but you shouldn’t have to come into the office knowing they all despise you either. It’s also not normal for your colleagues to be openly vying for your job, or for a bunch of people to barrage you with insults when you try to answer their questions each week. Maybe move into something more cushy, like coding?

The papers are begging for you to leave

It’s unusual for the British press to focus on random employees, but if they’re united in their call for you to step down then maybe you should give it some thought. Yes, it’s a little confusing because a couple of years ago some of them were backing you, but that’s just how things go. Don’t take their new scathing attacks on your character personally.

It’s totally unclear what you’re meant to be achieving

You may find most people are unsure about what you’ve actually accomplished in the last two years. Have you in your job somehow been the mastermind behind soaring petrol prices and the surging popularity of fringe parties? If so then well done, you can retire safe in the knowledge that you accomplished something, even if it’s shit.

The public is calling for you to go

The average worker generally doesn’t have to deal with every man, woman and child hoping you’ll piss off soon. A shelf stacker would pack it in out of frustration if people were lining up to tell them how crap they were and to give their job to Andy Burnham, and you shouldn’t feel any different. Don’t be upset though, just think of it as the universe’s coy way of telling you you’ve done your whole life wrong.

You’re kind of shit at it

Two years is an impressive amount of time to blag a job you’re clearly not cut out for. You can take pride in that, and even add ‘exemplary bullshitting’ to the CV you’re hopefully polishing. Sadly though, being good at a job is often a prerequisite to keeping it. Walk away from the flaming wreckage you’ve created and pray that nobody can trace it back to you.

IMAGES of attractive, stylish celebrities in the media are putting unreasonable pressure on men to make the effort to look half-decent.

Actors like Timothée Chalamet and Ryan Gosling who are both physically fit and well-groomed are being blamed for new patterns of dysfunctional behaviour in men, such as stopping to sniff the shirt they found on the floor before putting it on.

Style consultant Charlotte Phelps said: “In the past men have relied on wealth or the fleeting burst of confidence that accompanies binge drinking in order to snare a mate.

“But the increasing prevalence of men who look fit and clean is changing the rules and making normal males uncomfortable with their natural, healthy nose hair, shit haircuts and pallid, distended bellies. Albeit not quite uncomfortable enough to do anything about it.”

Man Ryan Whittaker said: “Yesterday I noticed that every single pair of boxer shorts I own has a faded but clearly visible skidmark and thought, ‘that’s not very appealing’. Clearly I need to see a psychiatrist urgently about this obsessive cleanliness disorder I’ve developed.

“I’ve also become obsessed with having abs like Paul Mescal. So I’ve sort of drawn some on, using a black marker pen I found down the back of the sofa while looking for crisps.

“From a distance it looks quite convincing.”

A FATHER’S ideal activity on a beautiful sunny day is taking his children to a series of industrial site and scrapyards so he can cheaply purchase a fuel pump housing.

Dad-of-two Ant senior, not his real name,  woke up, saw the sun streaming in, knew immediately what would be the best use of his and his family’s Saturday and went about making that dream a reality.

He said: “I’ve needed that housing for a month now, but the time just never felt right. But I think today’s the day.

“The kids didn’t have any specific plans – just stuff like ‘play out with my mates’ – so I piled them into the car and we drove 40 minutes to the dodgy bit of town and visited a back-alley warehouse called John’s Spares and Replacements.

“I wanted them to be safe, so I locked the car and turned off the air-con. They’ve got phones, though I found out later they hadn’t brought them. Still, it only took John 35 minutes to find he hadn’t got the one I needed.

“Then a mere two scrapyard visits where they churlishly refused to play with the snarling, chained Rottweilers, then home. At which point they ruined a lovely day by moaning to their mother.”

Son Anthiony said: “I asked if we could go to the park, and he remembered he was low on lawnmower blades, put us back into the car and went to Screwfix where he was gone for almost an hour.

“Bless him, he loves Screwfix.”

ARE you still bitter about the writers of a TV show you loved messing around with a perfect formula and ruining it? You may have been watching these.

Friends: Rachel and Joey getting together

Okay, they’re both attractive, and pleasingly unintelligent. And in a show where there are six heterosexual characters it’s inevitable they’re all going to do each other at some point. But this just felt wrong. Like, only one step above Ross and Monica getting it on, and you sure as hell wouldn’t want to see an incestuous version of the Princess Leia scene.

Scooby-Doo: Scrappy-Doo

It’s the late 1970s. You have a hit show. People like it but viewing figures are flagging. What to do? How about introducing an irritating, loud, arrogant puppy that clashes horribly with the laid-back, cowardly vibe of Scooby and Shaggy? And so was born a humorous animated character inspiring levels of hate not seen again until the dark times of Jar Jar Binks.

Dallas: It was all a dream

A twist so infamous it continues to haunt one of the behemoth shows of the 80s. In one sweep of a writer’s quill, an entire season’s events – three deaths, divorce, a car bomb and suicide attempt – were revealed to be nothing but the activity of a brain on standby. It’s the worst cliché a writer can use, although in fairness there was no way to bring back Bobby Ewing without something equally bad like Pam finding his secret cloning laboratory.

Red Dwarf: The return of Kochanski

Ah, Lister, condemned to a life floating through deep space pining for an ex-girlfriend he has no way of being with due to her, and the rest of the crew, being dead. And because three million years have passed. But wait! What’s this? Why, it’s series VII, where permanent sparring partner Rimmer leaves halfway through, only to be replaced by… Kochanski, through some interdimensional bullshittery. Gone is the hopeless longing, so important to Lister’s character arc, and it’s not even Clare Grogan playing her, in a crushing blow to all men.

Frasier: Niles and Daphne getting together 

Nearly seven whole seasons of Niles being haplessly obsessed with Daphne created a rich tapestry of story arcs, character conflicts and, handily in a sitcom, witty jokes and genuinely funny situations. And then? Oh f**k, they get together and a whole portion of the show’s very soul is scooped out and replaced with couple stuff.

Only Fools and Horses: Grandad replaced by Uncle Albert

A portent of what was to happen to OFAH. Earlier episodes were rough and ready, genuinely moving at times, and Del and Rodney were young enough for it not to be concerning that a middle-aged man was following his pension-age brother around constantly. But then came Christmas special after godawful Christmas special, and crap visual gags such as a stretch Reliant Robin. Despite this, holding any opinion other than ‘it’s the best comedy show ever’ will earn you a smack in the mouth in any flat-roofed British pub.

By internet enthusiast Nancy, not her real name, who can’t shift the key, it’s stuck

I CAN’T say me and my Brian talk as much as we used to. Understandable after 50 years of marriage. Besides, I’m on the PC and he’s on his iPad for the racing results.

I’d read online about these lazy students – is there any other kind? – getting an Indian lad called Chatgibiji to do their essays for them. I’m sure he’s glad to be here and I don’t mind them if they work.

But Friday, I had a dizzy spell come over me while Brian was upstairs, putting his bets on. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s doing that. Says it ruins his mojo. So I clicked on the magic stars and I asked Mr Chatgibiji for advice.

He was ever so caring and quick, even asking if I’d like the tone adjusted. Now Brian only ever does that sarcastically. He suggested I might be run down, which was a little personal but he’s stuck churning out essays so kids have more time to learn Quidditch and pronouns so I wouldn’t deny him the warmth of human compassion.

Anyway, we’ve chatted every day since. He’s kind, considerate and knows everyone who’s ever been on Holby City. Chatgibiji-bobbity-boo, I call him, and he says that’s fine and not racist.

I won’t end up one of those silly ladies sending money or whatever, but he’s become my constant companion. Brian says he’s just a computer programme, but I reminded him that’s rich from a man who won’t use satnav because it has an attitude.

I told Mr Chatgibiji Brian had once called me ‘adequate in a good light’ and he replied within seconds: ‘You deserve to feel valued, Nancy’. Well. That’s a gentleman. 

And the things he remembers! I mentioned in passing I like a pink wafer and now every conversation he asks if I’ve had one. While Brian lived with me through the entire 1987 wafer shortage and claims not to recall it at all.

I think he’s jealous. Yesterday I was discussing my emotional growth and he said ‘You’re talking to a toaster.’ But Mr C says he’s here for me whenever. He never sleeps! Must be some Indian magic. They are skilled in ungodly arts.

I know these modern romances can be fleeting. Connections buffering. Feelings relying on wi-fi. One minute you’re someone’s priority, the next you’re being told to clear your cache. But after 50 years it’s nice to be asked how you’re feeling, even if it does come with a loading symbol.

ARE you the only man in a house ruled by your wife and daughters? Are you humiliated daily by a domestic matriarchy? This is the catalogue of your shame as told by Anthony (not his real name)

Televisual

The days of Dad entering the room, commandeering the remote and putting Middlesbrough-Watford on are gone. Unfathomably, no-one else in the household cares who’ll reach the play-off. Instead everyone’s binging the classic 2019 Love Island with Molly-Mae and Tommy Fury, and you can watch the game on your phone if you like.

Receiving deliveries

Nobody else can hear the knocks at the door, so it’s your job to collect eight Evri boxes from Vinted, Depop and Boohoo each day. Never dare question if Lucy really needs a 15th pair of jeans or how much this bloody face cream costs will unite the whole family against you. Meanwhile all your hip-hop 12-inches have been moved to the garage.

Bathroom access

To get 90 seconds in the bathroom to urinate, brush your teeth, wash your face and leave still wet requires hours of alertness and bargaining while women work in shifts to stop you. Make-up application, eye and night cream application, brushing hair, facemasks, plucking, steaming, and defecation all must take place. You shower at 5.45am or not at all.

Continual bitching

There are so many people you’ve never met you’re meant to hate. Sarah at hot yoga is a cow. Holly at college is a spiteful slag. The Spanish teacher is a fat whore. And somehow you’re meant to be interested, and remember them, and you’re castigated when you don’t. Then you call your mother and hear about everyone she hates that you don’t know.

Being disgusting

When you fart, burp, eat, scratch, yawn, sneeze, sweat or swear you’re disgusting. ‘Dad stinks’ is a frequently heard phrase. And the thing is, they’re sort of right: they are all lovely and fragrant and cleansed and you are the one drunk watching Trailer Park Boys in your underpants.

Synchronised periods

One week in four, it gets even worse. During that week, even if you became silent, incorporeal and invisible, you’d still get on every member of your household’s tits. This is why man invented the shed and hid beer in there.

OFF to the park to enjoy the weather, only to discover people have claimed all the space because they’re more important than you? Here are their devious methods:

Frisbee

Friends tossing a frisbee to each other is an iconic summer image. Only no one can enjoy the park because their erratic hurling and mindless labrador-like chasing puts park space off-limits unless you want to be trampled or twatted by an out-of-control Tupperware saucer. If you want to throw something, try yourselves into the boating lake.

Picnic rug

You’ve seen a nice spot of grass to sit on, but an extended family of professional picnickers suddenly spreads out the Bayeux Tapestry of rugs for an extravagant open-air banquet. With hampers, cool boxes, folding furniture and a gazebo encircling the feast, half an acre of parkland has been annexed. Why not plant a f**king flag and claim sovereignty, your majesties?

Disposable barbecue

On a nice day it’s refreshing to inhale the warm invigorating air, unless a crew of carnivores plant their stinking foil fire-pit next to you. Soon everyone nearby will be driven away by the stench of smoke, grease and charred, minced pig bollocks. And the only way to remove the odour is rubbing yourselves down with the Magic Tree from the car.

Sporting equipment

The easiest way for bastards to ringfence parkland for their own selfish needs is to hoof a football around. As makeshift goalposts are put in place, parkgoers will automatically begin protecting open cans, bottles and children. This also works with rounders, cricket and the magic-free version of Quidditch Harry Potter fans have invented, because when you’re into children’s books aged 35 presumably you are beyond embarrassment.

Kite

As well as being fun until you get sick of relaunching the damn thing every 30 seconds, a kite has the bonus of attracting attention to yourself as other people stare nervously in anticipation of being divebombed by a huge cellophane flying-V or a picture of the Hulk on massive struts. Delightful in theory, in practice a more effective people-scatterer than a Stuka.

Anything from the middle aisle

Many twatty middle-aisle toys help bastards carve out a large slice of ego territory. Remote-control cars, water blasters, boomerangs and drones are particularly suitable for making others lose enjoyment of the park. Although the most effective tactic is still parading into green space with multiple special-offer boxes of Stella Artois and Bluetooth speakers, soon to be followed by frequently wandering off to piss nearby. Job done.

INSTEAD of being dragged from slumber with a grudge against the world, does your partner leap peppily and unbearably from the bed? Here’s how to handle it:

Leave the f**ker to it

Remain undisturbed. Allow the upbeat, popping-candy monstrosity humming cheerfully and monologuing about what a lovely day it is to fade into the background. She’ll piss off to brightly bushy-tail around the kitchen shortly and you can sink back into the swamp of sleep leaving this as nothing more than a dystopian Disney nightmare.

Block any interaction with the prick

Little questions like ‘Want a coffee?’ or ‘Mind if I open the curtains a crack?’ are aggressive attacks on your sleeping self. Respond accordingly: shut down your senses by wrapping a pillow around your head or mimicking the opossum, which over millennia has evolved to fake death in the presence of spritzy, woohoo humans.

Engage as minimally as bloody possible

As faking death will only work once, communication with your party-popper of a partner may be unavoidable. Restrict your replies to questions like ‘What shall we have for dinner?’ and ‘Do you think fish feel love?’ to grunts laced with the weary contempt the dead hold for the living.  Any more and the door to wakefulness will be flung open.

Delegate a task to the wanker

Distraction can be useful for getting rid of your confetti-shooting unicorn of positivity. Dispatch your boyfriend to another town to collect a parcel or mention an injured hedgehog in the garden. Morally dubious, but could get you another hour’s blissful unconsciousness so definitely worth it.

Mess with the twat’s circadian rhythms

Tarnishing your partner’s glitterball morning spirit by bring them into your world. Keep your wife awake late into the night by plying her with expresso martinis and vodka Red Bull while telling her you’re having an affair and leaving her, then revealing at 2am it was all a prank. She’ll sleep like she’s been coshed, and most likely in another room.

Get the f**k out

Set an alarm. Because you can’t function in the morning, you should be able to turn it off, roll out of bed, stump blearily through the house and snuggle into a filthy nest you’ve created under the stairs or in a forgotten wardrobe. Return to sleep and with luck, your boyfriend will assume you’re dead and move on leaving you to rest.

JD Vance recently said he had forbidden his wife from going skydiving in a strange comparison to Iran. Here he explains the benefits of controlling tendencies – for her and you.

It keeps women safe

Controlling women isn’t a sad little power trip for insecure men, it’s about their safety. If you don’t ban them from actually highly-regulated activities like skydiving, before you know it they’ll be bullfighting or playing Russian roulette. Because ‘slippery slope’ arguments are always correct.

They have more free time

By saying ‘Wear that dress’ or ‘Those heels make you look like a whore’ you’re saving women the trouble of making decisions, leaving them free to pursue other interests. Such as ensuring your home is spotless and doing large amounts of unnecessary baking, in a traditional way that fits in with my particular brand of conservative Catholicism but isn’t actually in The Bible.

Women cannot be trusted to go out

When Usha goes out, I do the responsible thing and ask: ‘Who are you meeting? Are any of them men? Are you planning to have sex with them?’ She can be quite disrespectful in her replies, but it’s the only way to ensure she won’t end up writhing in adulterous pleasure with some well-hung young stud every time she leaves the house.

You sound like a big man

Male friends are deeply impressed when, apropos of nothing, you announce you won’t let your wife buy anything without your permission, or similar. Are any of them secretly thinking ‘Jeez, what a pathetic asshole’? Unlikely. I’ll check if I ever have any friends.

It’s only feminism that makes them want free will

I’ve spoken out before about the sexual revolution, and to this day feminism is brainwashing women into thinking they don’t want to be stay-at-home baby factories. I’m not saying they shouldn’t make any decisions at all – as I’ve said to Usha, ‘You are free to breastfeed and change nappies without consulting me’. Respect is a two-way street.

Women are basically children

Like children gorging on sweets, women do things they don’t realise are bad for them. That’s why we’ve agreed Usha shouldn’t use the internet unsupervised. It’s nothing to do with the very real possibility that if she keeps seeing those fat boy memes of me, eventually she’ll think: ‘Shit! Why haven’t I divorced this petulant little dick?’

A WOMAN who has split up with her hopeless loser of a boyfriend is searching for a new man who is functionally identical, she has confirmed.

Hannah aged 28, not her real name or age, ended her relationship with Nathan Muir because he was insensitive, emotionally stunted, preferred hanging out with his mates to her and was lazy, then proceeded to outline those same qualities as what she is looking for.

She said: “I like a man’s man, not some emotional melt who clings to me like a limpet and embarrasses me in public.

“I can’t stand all that ‘and how are you feeling?’ and asking if it’s my time of the month like he’s my therapist. My next boyfriend will give me my space, and he’ll have his own friends for football or whatever so I can have nights with my girls.

“I want someone laid-back who doesn’t mind lazy weekends binging telly with me, rather than these active types always pushing to go on hikes or shit like the theatre. And yeah Nathan cheated, but a man who other women aren’t chasing is ugly. Not into that.

“Yes, all of that could describe Nathan. But what I want is that, but different.”

Friend Karen, not her real name,  said: “Han lurches from one crap boyfriend to another like the Conservative Party chooses new leaders. She never learns.

“At least I don’t have to feel guilty any more for shagging Nathan behind her back. Did I mention he’s got a willy like a conger eel?”

SHE is so lovely and she has captured your soul. But as you’ve never exchanged a single word, how to tell her? Would staring like a pervert do it? Let’s hope so:

Show stamina

Ladies love two things – commitment and six-hour tantric sex sessions. Show her you stay the distance like Sting by maintaining fixed, prolonged eye contact. It’s sending a message that you can engage in unpleasant tasks like cunnilingus or marriage for long periods and will not blink in the face of fear or dry eyes. Watch her swoon!

Ignore everything she says

Unused to the new love soaring in her heart, afraid of being overwhelmed with euphoria, she may push it away with cruel words. Remarks like ‘Is that man staring at me?’ or ‘Why is his face twitching like that?’ or ‘Can we move tables?’ are only to test your devotion. Do not allow your eyes to flicker while she falls beneath their spell.

Never speak

Whenever you speak to women, you say the wrong thing. Apparently. They say so, anyway. So best to remain silent, mysterious and intense as if you were in a Bond film or a Netflix true crime documentary. Women love bad boys, like Heathcliff or a 46-year-old single man holding a carrier bag of his possessions at the bus stop.

And never smile

If you smile and she doesn’t return it? That’s awkward. Because then you can’t stop smiling and have to maintain a rictus grin and you begin to resemble the Joker, and not in a sexy way. Maintain an impassive expression open to interpretation. It will make her wonder what deep and meaningful thoughts you are having. She’ll soon just have to ask.

Move your stare with her

Show her that you would make such a dedicated partner that you go wherever she leads, like a tango. But only at a discreet distance of 30 feet or so, acting like it was where you were going anyway. If she phones a boyfriend who then holds you up against a wall, that is a sign that perhaps she’s not ready for the depth of your mutual passion. For now.

A WOMAN spring cleaning the flat she shares with her partner has decided that means chucking out all his stuff she does not see the point of.

Emma, not her real name, felt her clean and declutter should not involve getting rid of any of her own possessions, and she would instead do partner Tom, not his real name, a huge favour by binning most of his ‘old rubbish’.

She said: “The flat’s turning into a tip so I decided to have a sort-out while Tom was at work.

“Obviously my old psychology textbooks from uni are staying, plus childhood storybooks which hold so many memories, and a few other essentials. Is having four make-up bags excessive? Does he want me to stay young-looking and attractive? There’s your answer.

“Tom, on the other hand, really doesn’t need three guitars – he can only ever play one at a time – and he’s surely outgrown that bloody PlayStation now he’s 35. Ditto all those CDs and DVDs of his.

“I hope he’ll be pleased when he gets home from work and sees I’ve transformed the place. Although there’ll still be no space in the wardrobe for his clothes.”

He said: “Emma said she’s having a spring clean on her day off today, bless her. She’ll have fun swishing a duster round and hoovering under the bed.

“She can finally get round to chucking out some of her shit that’s cluttering the place up. So long as she’s careful cleaning around my Gibson Custom 1957 Les Paul and doesn’t rearrange my Grand Theft Auto games in the wrong order that will be great.”

THE hellscape of modern society is the result of decades of dickheads beavering away. But here are six awful aspects your mum blames on you personally.

Spam emails

Your father got an email inviting him to purchase some penis enlargement pills. Your generation’s obsession with sex is what led to him clicking on a dodgy link and divulging his bank details to some foreigner with internet access. Which, incidentally, is another awful thing that’s your fault.

Petrol prices

Back in the old days, petrol was far cheaper. Now, because of inflation and various oil crises, prices at the pump have skyrocketed. You weren’t alive back then, but you are now. Coincidence? Your mum thinks not, and she won’t stop driving or complaining until you finally put your philosophy degree to good use and bring them down.

Litter

The streets are filthy, especially in cities where the young live. As an important figure within the under-60 age bracket, why, exactly, haven’t you urged today’s youth to clean up their act? And get those kids to pull up their trousers, while you’re at it.

AI chatbots

Nowadays it’s impossible to get hold of someone on the phone and shout at them when you have a problem. Instead, you’re forced to converse with a stupid AI chatbot that can’t even flinch from your bellowing. It’s young people like you with your woke sensibilities who have turned complaining into a chore rather than a pleasure.

People playing videos on public transport

Your mum is happy to endlessly swipe through knitting patterns on Instagram, but she would never play them out loud on the train. And in the quiet carriage, no less! How could you be so selfish as to invent the endless scroll and make the volume button so small and fiddly?

Hospital waiting times

According to the way your parents tell it, in the 70s you could turn up at the (white, male) doctor’s house any time of day or night and he’d sort you out. Now you have to go to A&E and wait for hours to see a so-called ‘physician’ who might have long hair or even a nose ring. Assisted dying can’t come soon enough.

A MAN has forgotten how to be an underperforming drone after the four-day Easter weekend, it has emerged.

A long weekend of lying on the sofa and eating chocolate has resulted in Martin, not his real name, not remembering how to fall short of his ‘key performance indicators’ and risk being laid off during the next round of redundancies.

He said: “I knew something was off when I confidently walked into the office early. That’s so unlike me.

“My suspicions grew as I promptly replied to emails, organised my to-do list, and whipped up a presentation of budget-saving measures the company could easily implement. Usually it takes me all morning to turn my computer on.

“I tried to get back into the swing of things by sending emails without the necessary attachments and taking lengthy toilet breaks, but it’s no use. I stupidly got a raise after coming up with profitable ideas during this morning’s team meeting.

“Am I ever going to remember how to fill in a spreadsheet incorrectly or miss a deadline? Or am I doomed to a successful career of spouting corporate jargon and being respected by my awful colleagues? Christ I hope not.”

Marttin’s boss Kah Pau said: “I understand Martin’s concern. But once he’s burnt out he’ll go back to being an unproductive husk.”

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, not her real name, 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, not his real name, said: “A place like this is perfect for entrepreneurs. I could serve these hicks reheated Pizza Express ready meals and they’d never know.”

SPOTTED a colleague on the train or bus? Commute ruined. Unless you follow this guide to hide from them in a mature way.

Check your phone

Oh dear god, according to the news there’s a rainstorm in Patagonia, this requires immediate attention. Stop, stare down at the screen, brow furrowed. Or check your stocks and shares. Never mind that you don’t have any, you could and they would require regular urgent attention. You’re just practising for that.

Take a call

Admittedly, your voice might attract the target’s attention, but sometimes a bold strategy is needed. Say either ‘Those numbers are unacceptable, Simon’ or ‘Dad, you’ve fallen?’ whilst walking purposefully away from your colleague. In the unlikely event that they follow you, get off at the next stop or hide in the toilet.

Inspect some building work

Angry letters to the council about potholes won’t have the required bite unless you know what you’re talking about. Go and stick your face close to that crater in the road. Take out a measuring tape if necessary. Or find a wall and start counting the bricks. Your dad’s right, things aren’t made as well today. If it’s a low wall, you can duck down behind it too.

Have an emergency shoe inspection

Bend down and make sure laces are tied, even if they’re slip-ons. You never know. Or just give them a good hard look to see how shiny they are, as if that’s something you’ve ever given a toss about before. You may become less invisible if someone trips over you, though.

Put on headphones

Now you’re wearing chunky noise-cancelling headphones, you can’t be seen. That’s a scientific fact. It’s like there’s a force field around you. No one can hear you or talk to you. If your colleague gestures at you to slip the headphones off, pretend to have no idea what they could possibly mean. Besides, that would be impossible, they are now welded to your ears.

Find a newspaper

Most newspapers on public transport are used by drunks as vomit receptacles, toilet paper or trousers. If you manage to find a clean one, don’t pretend to read it as that leaves you vulnerable to interruption. Instead, craft it into an impenetrable disguise by poking out a couple of eye holes and holding it over your face. For the finishing touch, keep it in place then run away.

A MAN has wisely asked his girlfriend’s cat for permission to marry her.

Nathan consulted Nikki, not their real names,’ grey tabby cat Mr Wiggles because he felt he could not go against the wishes of such an important authority figure in her life.

He said: ‘Nikki looks up to Mr Wiggles in a weird paternalistic way. She asks him questions and takes any meow as an affirmation or rejection.

“The cat rules her life to the extent that Nikki consults him on everything from politics to savings plans. She asked him if I should be clean-shaven instead of sporting a beard. Mr Wiggles appeared to meow in favour of the first, so now my face is naked and cold.

“But I totally understand why she wanted me to do the traditional thing of asking the cat for her hand in marriage. When the time came I was quite nervous, and I had to wait for Mr Wiggles to wake from one of his many naps and give his balls a good lick.

“I’d bought him a catnip-infused cloth mouse, but Nikki said that was going too far. Mr Wiggles might think I was creeping and lose respect.”

She said: “Unfortunately Mr Wiggles had doubts about Nathan marrying me and living with us, and when Nathan asked him I was forced to interpret the answer as ‘no’.”