HUMOUR

THAT sickly, ingratiating grin isn’t for everyone. It isn’t for you. It seems to specifically be for women employed to serve him, like these:

Waitresses

Over she comes, asking if you’d like more drinks, and there his face goes. His voice drops an octave, his mouth contorts into a strange shape and his eyes meet hers with full force. He knows you’re sitting there but can’t help simper about how wonderful the Aperol spritz he was just whinging about is. She doesn’t react. She sees this every day.

Flight attendants

Children are less needy for attention than boyfriends on long-haul flights. She’s forced to endure his requests for pillows and flight information and has to remind him to fasten his seatbelt every time because it means she looks at his crotch. He spends eight hours with an insincere smirk screwed to his face, swapping it for a face like a slapped arse the moment he disembarks.

Nurses

Nursing staff are under enough pressure without having to deal with a man with an unnatural beam fixating on them. You can’t visit an elderly relative without him flashing a sordid smile at every one that passes and boasting of his own good health which, given the circumstances, is pretty f**king tasteless.

Police officers

There’s a little back-and-forth going here: his soulless smile is acknowledging her power over him but finding it sexy, while she’d love to club him unconscious but isn’t allowed. You’re the witness to this unsavoury interaction and keep being glanced at as if the nauseating expression on his face is your fault, rather than a borderline sex crime.

Barmaid

The woman pulling pints is the female worker your boyfriend saves his creepiest smile for. Because he’s in a pub, he thinks there’s an extra level of sickly behaviour allowable. Fortunately an in-built resistance to pervy boyfriends is part of the job and she ignores his fixed grim becoming a little more grotesque with each pint. She isn’t paid enough.

A 45-YEAR-OLD who exclusively dates women in their 20s while claiming they are ‘emotionally mature’ does not seem to have any male friends of that age.

Marketing consultant Anthony, not his real name,  was explaining the 20-something women he dates provide ‘fresh perspectives’, ‘wisdom beyond their years’ and ‘a refreshing lack of emotional baggage and cellulite’ when asked why all his male friends are his age.

He said: “Young women are fascinating. Goddesses who introduce me to new music, new ideas and it’s so cute that they don’t remember 2004.

“But young men? They mature later. They’re still filming themselves falling off things. What would we even talk about? Football? I prefer more intellectual pursuits, like telling 22-year-olds about my Porsche while staring at their cleavage.

“A 27-year-old woman is an old soul but still refreshingly carefree and not weighed down by the cynicism of age. That won’t happen for another three years. But a 27-year-old bloke is a f**king moron.

“His brain won’t even finish developing for another eight years. A 25-year-old woman, meanwhile, has an original outlook on life and incredibly firm…opinions. Firm opinions.”

“Any young girl – sorry, woman – who dates me recognises that she’s too sophisticated for guys her own age. Though if she turns me down she’s too immature to realise what’s good for her.”

TRIED to spice things up with dirty texts and been rebuffed? Here’s how to move onto a much safer topic: the British weather.

Tell your partner they misunderstood

When you asked if she was wet, what you meant was ‘due to the downpour we just had’. If you requested shower pics, you meant her in a charming mac caught in an April shower. Sadly you have now condemned yourself to receiving and commenting on ‘adorable’ pictures of her whenever she gets caught in the rain. Get ready with those ‘likes’.

Show concern

You only wanted to know what he was wearing to make sure it was climate-appropriate. The same with telling him he was ‘hot’. You just were trying to persuade him to wear a sun hat and cooling lightweight clothing. How could you worrying about heatstroke and dehydration be misconstrued as sexual? Shore up this gaslighting by asking if he’s ever been treated for sex addiction.

Blame the seasons and your allergies

Alright, you were a bit forward, but it’s the weather. The warmer temperatures have caused the flowers to bloom and release pollen and it’s made you delirious with hayfever. So let’s talk about that and not that dick pic you sent. Admitted this is the first case of hayfever to have the same effects as malaria, but you don’t have many options. Maybe you can convince her you accidentally dropped your phone down your trousers? No, that’s just as bad.

Turn your dirty talk into a weather report

For example: ‘After a warm front, things have turned rather chilly. There’s been a sharp drop in enthusiasm and earlier projections of heavy activity have now been downgraded to light drizzle at best. Conditions are tense but stable. Expect a long dry spell ahead.’ See, this is like a spoof weather report on a comedy show! Ha ha ha! Is he laughing? No, he’s thinking about dating someone less weird.

Never speak of what happened again

Like a sunny spell, your attempt at being sexy came and went and now you’re back to gloom and small talk. Both of you should bury this awkward memory and only talk about the weather from now on. It’s the British way.

IT’S only a matter of hours until office chat turns to what people are doing at the weekend. But probably keep these plans to yourself:

Passing out shitfaced

Besides being too revealing, the fact that you’ll be drunkenly falling to the floor in a puddle of your own puke is a given. You might as well tell your coworkers you’ve got a fun weekend of breathing lined up. No need to explicitly admit you’re a lush, so just give a vague impression and say you’re meeting friends for a drink. They’ll fill in the rest with their imaginations.

Gooning for 48 hours

Kink shaming be damned, embarking on a two-day wankathon is disturbing in and of itself. Telling your colleagues about it will only make things worse as you’ll have to explain what gooning is to team members who aren’t as online or perverse. They always wondered if you were a tragic, sex-starved loser, but there’s no need to confirm their suspicions in graphic detail.

Crying over the state of your life

Just because you work in an open-plan office doesn’t mean you need to be open about your emotional wellbeing. So what if you’re going to spend Sunday evening curled up in the fetal position sobbing over the terrible choices that have led to your shit life? Everyone else does it; they just have the decency to talk about some tedious film they’re going to watch instead.

Embarking on an affair

Keep this to yourself to protect the health and safety of your colleagues. The most exciting discussions they have are about the printer’s ink levels and KPI forecasts, so telling them that you’re planning to sneak off to a Travelodge to shag your mate’s missus senseless will cause them to pass out from excitement. Instead fob them off with some bollocks about going for a roast.

Spending quality time with your loving family

Not everyone in your office is lucky enough to have found love and reproduced, you inconsiderate bastard. Donna from accounts will put on a brave face if you talk about these plans, but she’ll scurry off to the loo for a massive cry when you’re not looking. Just say you’re going to watch the football, nobody really gives a shit what you’re doing anyway.

ALL homeworkers are completing their allotted tasks and attending meetings entirely naked, they have confirmed.

Across the country, anyone working from home is typing with their laptop mere inches from their exposed, perspiring genitalia and will not mention it if you do not ask.

Jordan, not his real name, said: “In a heatwave you should open windows at night and keep curtains closed by day. And with all the curtains closed only a fool’s wearing underpants.

“If you’re in an office? You’ve got air-con as reward for your sweaty frottering commute. I don’t have that luxury. I’m forced to use more primal methods.

“No, I will not be turning my camera on for the meeting. I think we both know why, and I urge you not to press the issue. It wouldn’t just be the background that needed blurring.

“I’m clocking in, I’m doing my job, there will be no complaints about the quality of my work. What does it matter to you I’m doing it as naked and unashamed as Adam and Eve before the serpent? ROIs are ROIs.”

Office manager Joanna, not her real name, said: “So you mean in the call with Sally this morning, she was nude? I’m not sure how I feel about that. She’s got massive tits.”

ONCE it was the next big thing, now you can’t even Freecycle it. Were you one of the visionaries who bought a piece of the future that turned out to be a dusty piece of crap?

VR headsets

We’ve only been hearing how revolutionary these are for 30 years or so. A decade ago you gave in and decided you wanted to venture into virtual realms and experience bold new realities. Okay, porn, you wanted VR porn. What you got instead was a boring rock-climbing simulation and a phenomenally severe migraine.

3D television

You watched Avatar in the cinema and were seduced by the possibilities. Okay, porn, you wanted 3D porn. But blue extraterrestrials plugging their ponytails into plants were the only 3D content available and it turns out Avatar isn’t as rewatchable as Titanic or Terminator 2. Also you kept losing the glasses.

Nutribullet

A purchase you believed would make you a smoothie-guzzling Adonis which, with hindsight, you should have asked Amazon to deliver direct to the back of your kitchen cupboard. Nothing but a messy ballache which produced unpleasant tasting drinks with disturbing, slimy textures. Also you’re not all that keen on fruit.

Segway

Slow, difficult to ride, dangerous and deeply uncool: the Segway was a compilation of all the ways in which a vehicle can be bad. It didn’t revolutionise getting from A to B. It’s now exclusively associated with obese Americans travelling between urban tourist sites that can be walked around if you haven’t breakfasted on links in syrup.

Peloton

You were never going to get fit when the gym was a 15-minute drive away. Exercise classes in the spare room? Perfect. Then came an astonishingly fast transition from cycling while watching a class, to cycling while watching Netflix, to lying on the sofa while watching Netflix. The subscription’s lapsed. The Peloton remains, silently judging you.

Robot vacuum cleaner

It seemed such a wonderful solution; you go to bed, set the little fellow running and wake up to a lovely clean room. Until you get one and discover waking up means growling ‘Where’s the f**king hoover?’ before retrieving it from whatever corner or sofa it’s stuck under. You’ve gone back to your Henry and you swear he looks smug.

THE sun is shining, out-of-office is on, it’s a perfect time to read a good book but you don’t want to. Use one of these excuses to squint at your phone instead:

‘The text’s too small’

After several attempts to use a two-finger gesture to zoom in, you irritably decide that with all its densely-packed words in daunting paragraphs, lack of tabs and unwillingness even to impose a comforting pop-up, this book is refusing to meet you halfway. What are you meant to do, get your glasses? They’re all the way inside. F**k that.

‘Too many pages’

The comforting endless scroll of social media means you have no idea how much you’re reading, even when you’re an hour deep into a Reddit thread about Heated Rivalryships. Books, on the other hand, can’t even be held without revealing an intimidating number of pages and exhausting you before you even start, so you don’t.

‘There’s no comment section’

When you come across a villain online there immediately follows a long comment section where hundreds agree on what a monumental arsehole they are. Bad guys in books require you to make your own judgement and then stick with it all the way to their eventual comeuppance. Justice is delayed too long when you’re ready to condemn now.

‘It’s too slow’

Page after page of description of some bloody Victorian workhouse. Can’t they just jump-cut between one paragraph and the next? Include explanatory captions? Couldn’t this be condensed down to a 15-second Instagram reel? What was Charles Dickens thinking, not pivoting to short-form video?

‘There’s no tits in it’

Social media these days has, like all other media, discovered the lowest common denominator and it’s boobs. Novels? You’ll struggle to find one which has an actual picture, even in medical textbooks. Compare that to any app. Even LinkedIn has tits these days.

THE grovelling sentences a man comes out with when writing a covering letter disgust him to his core, it has emerged.

Self-hating jobseeker Rubin, not his real name,  can barely look at himself in the mirror after typing out sentences like ‘I am a proactive self-starter with a commitment to excellence and growth’ in a professional covering letter.

He said: “I would never sincerely say something like ‘my goals are in alignment with your corporate values’. No self-respecting person would.

“But thanks to the sick capitalist society we live in and my inability to win the lottery, I’m forced to churn out ridiculous word salad that even ChatGPT would be ashamed of. I’m only applying for a minimum-wage position, for Christ’s sake.

“Each cap-in-hand, jargon-stuffed sentence is an assault on my worth as a human being. I hope to God my wife and kids never read it. They’d move out, change their names, and never contact me again. And that would be the right thing to do.

“I shouldn’t even have to write a sodding covering letter anyway, all of the relevant information is in my f**king CV. Maybe if I just write that they’ll admire my balls-to-the-wall honesty?”

Employer Martin Bishop said: “The worst part is we won’t even read it. The job ad was merely a formality and we’ve already hired internally.”

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?’