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Cover Title Page By the Same Author No time for the stodgy bits any more, so scroll down to the bottom of the page I’m having another baby. But I can’t tell you what it will look like The only answer to the Med refugee crisis: unfold your sofa bed So what if Tom Cruise worships lizards? Lots of us have weirder beliefs Call me Jezza Slobovic – I’m fat, I have a tennis bat and I will win Wimbledon Money’s no object and men don’t count when a woman has a horse Smile, joke, sing about your ding-a-ling. Then Britain will rule again Dismantle Palmyra and rebuild it outside Padstow. That’ll fox Jihadi John Gotta get a job – then I can give up elderflower cordial and live again It’s a simple rule, PM: you stop my ration of sex and pork pies, I park for free Jo’burg turns to man’s best fiend – but he’s no match for my twelve-bore An Englishman’s idea to stop Mao Tse Sturgeon taking the laird’s land I’ll just run this up the flagpole: we’ve let the Union Jack go to pot Spare me the 57 varieties of Angela who think they make a better ketchup Before you make a fool of yourself, Mr Midlife, try this for a real buzz Splints, tick. Crutches, tick. Stuff health and safety, tick. Let the holiday begin This will relax you, said the prison yoga teacher as she pulled my leg off Chickens are safe, but Labour’s Ms Vegan will leave us ripped to shreds Dear hotel manager, get off of my smalls. Yours, Keith Richards Sorry to be a bore but we must drill a great hole through Blackpool Beneath the splinter in my foot lies the key to all human endeavour Vite, vite, Johnny French. We can’t wait much longer for a nuclear roast turkey Labour’s little leftie does not deserve the abuse. But I know a man who does The snooper’s charter is a danger to us all. A man in the pub told me Come on, Charles: put Frankenfish and bio bees in your world peace plan Officer, arrest that man – he’s all too easily offended by Fury’s piffle The signs said New York but it looked just like London and felt like hell Hallelujah, Reverend! This hymn hater has seen the happy-clappy light Pipe down, mudslingers. It was Frank, not Phil, that soaked the north Kim has a bomb. No need for panic – just fire up the Roman candles I stand before the Twitter Inquisition, guilty of not worshipping Bowie Transgender issues are driving me nuts. I need surgery on my tick boxes Utter even a kind word and the lefties’ digital vitriol is instantly fizzing Yo, kids, this morning’s anti-drug message is brought to you by ISIS If you want the Oscar, Ridley, better start shooting Blade Limper I’m aching like billy-o and dying for a fag. It’s a fat man’s holiday The NHS new towns are Nazi nonsense. We need Call of Duty garden cities Call up the paparazzi army to take Brussels – and keep us in Europe Sober Syrians we should let in; boozy Brits are too shaming to be let out Shave off the beards, hipsters. Or prepare for a long wait at Gatwick Picking a holiday is hard when Johnny ISIS beats you to all the brochures I refuse to dry my teabags for Osama Binman Coming soon to Amazon it’s … er … Cary McCarface For me, the war is over: let Germany run everything Reception? Help, I need a manual on turning the light off Sex is running riot on TV – and I fear Countdown’s next At last, a folly to love from the EU do-gooders Come quietly, Tiddles, or it’s jail for your owner I’m going to hell in a handkerchief and no one cares Our only hope is a second vote – and a truly rotten PM No bull, Miguel, you look nuts in that gold lamé Let Russia dope: I want to see the heroin hurdles Sun, seeds and squirrels – it’s hell in the parks police Blow a billion quid – only fatties and idlers need apply Pipe down and come with me on a tour of Trump’s Britain O Adrian, who will make me laugh now? For a healthier, happier you, just live like it’s 1617 My body’s a write-off in waiting, so why have all these repairs? Sure, you’ll get by on £85,000 a day – but the family won’t Our inner ape is released in a most inconvenient way Moove over, refugees. Militant vegans have claustrophobic cows to save Oi, Fatty! Join me in a little act of rudeness and we’ll make Britain normal again A licence to cull could be a lifeline for Prince Philip – and Mrs Tiggy-Winkle If Farron really wants votes, he must deal with our most grievous malaise: culottes Um … let me break the ice, Mrs May. Have you ever been to a lap-dancing club? Honestly, ladies, I do sympathize with you about the menopause – men get it too BA lands in the brown stuff over a power cut. Next we’ll blame it for turbulence You young people were jolly naughty on 8 June. Go to your rooms with no vote Wish you were being drizzled on: last week’s sun ruined my Riviera holiday School’s out of touch – kids must learn to wire a plug and embrace nepotism Centuries of male suffering inflicted by Croatian ragamuffins and French fops Clarkson on the horror of modern stag dos Living to 125 is a doddle: you simply get the government to make dying illegal When I went to hospital, I was at death’s door. But a far, far worse fate awaited me My foolproof recipe to kick the fags – chewing gum and a hideous chest infection Grab your hippie-hemp bag, the little shop of package-free horrors is open While CND was blowing up red balloons, nukes were keeping us healthy and safe Nab him, grab him, stop that pigeon – and let the homeless eat him now Some terrace chants are mean, but Manchester United fans are just bigging up their new hero Terrorists have put half the world out of bounds, and bedbugs patrol the rest of it The best art criticism is done not with words but with craft knife and spray can Oh blow, our star role in a hurricane epic has gone with the wind Wine bore’s red? Wide-awake white? No, I’ll take the vino in-betweeno Guy Fawkes was an amateur. You should have seen me and my friends blow up Hull Injured at school, the Famous Five go in search of a no-win no-fee lawyer Sorry, kids, but Britain will be the next Vietnam, with you as the cheap labour Stick to pretty fish, Sir David Attenborough, and stop blubbing about dead whales Eat your heart out, Dyson – the Surrey space cadets are hoovering the galaxy The girls, the gambling, the gin – I’ve gone galloping mad for horse racing I had fun with acids at school; now I want them kept under military guard Just remind me, please, why we think the world is becoming a better place Follow Penguin Copyright Page
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