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Index
Title Page About the Author By the Same Author Epigraph Next up on It’s an Arty Knockout – Chippenham’s forest of manhole covers Keep playing with your files, constable. Let us vigilantes handle this burglar Four words that could have saved the UKIP leader’s marriage: I hate classical music Before you lynch any Oxfam workers, remember the lives they’ve saved Keys, gum, corkscrew … ah yes, here it is. I knew I’d put my masculinity in my man-bag A proper lunch – that’s all millennials need to stop getting fat and miserable Use your loafers, with the right shoes you’ll beat the jungle, illness and Corbyn’s reign If you’re so happy you could die, I have a suggestion: move to Finland Ignore the Scandi-killer on the TV, there’s a real murderer just outside your window 45 litres of red from pump No 4, please – that’s how I want to buy my wine Hard cheese, Corbyn, you will never fly the red beetroot over No 10 Choose life, Scotland. Choose a job. Choose exquisite views. But forget independence Why the fuss about chemical weapons? The blowy-up ones kill you just as dead If this farm-supplies store folds, my pigs – and the Hamster – will starve Here’s the million-pound question – why have me instead of Stephen Fry? Ich bin ein Mancunian – Britain’s Berlin throbs with hot bars and fit bodies I’m sure you’ll be dying to hear about my plans for a population implosion Puffins or seals? Easy – let’s get clubbing the Labrador-faced swimming machines Real diamonds are clearly designed to ruin men. Give me a Didcot knock-off any day See the ruins of a lost civilization before the tourist hordes arrive – in Detroit A little gift I’d love to give the man who stole my TV – extreme police brutality I’d rather take another six-day battering in Mongolia than a World Cup penalty We don’t need no condescension – so, hey tweeters, leave that Trump alone Thunderbirds are go, but Elon ‘Brains’ Musk needs rescuing from himself Our holiday on the canals was a blast, but at one hotel my dad caused a stink Argue with today’s youth and they’ll call you a racist – then start blubbing The next arrival at Heathrow’s eco-haven is a million tons of concrete for the third runway The Very Old Bill – my pensioner police force will put the fear of God into baddies Lefties will love my West End blockbuster, Neil Armstrong – the Hip-Hop Musical In my house we go by my rules, whether we’re playing croquet, Scrabble or war For a petrolhead, bathing in crude oil was a must. But, ooh, it gave me the willies Ties? Rubbers? Five equals 11? Learning to play bridge left me vulnerable to a large glass of red Meghan the scarpering duchess could learn a trick about crowds from me and the Queen The past is another country, and if I ever think of visiting again, I hope they deny me a visa I welcome trouble at till for M&S and I pray it finally gives small shops a spark of hope I don’t care if these blasted abbreviations are MIA, AWOL, KIA or DOA. I just want them gone Enterprise, stand by to beam aboard Picard and his Oxfordshire nimbies I had my dream house all planned, and then it hit me – there’s nowhere to store the Parma ham Houston, I have a problem; it seems any old bearded fool can go into space these days Lasers, nets, eagles, jammers – it’s all pie in the sky. Our only defence against drones is luck I’m no irrational lover of dumb creatures but we must save Japanese whalers from themselves Hey, Tories, you can’t bleed all the rich like Corbyn would, so try a vulgarity tax This trendy new weight-loss tipple is not making me thinner. And it doesn’t even get me drunk How does my garden grow? With sickly twigs and a threadbare hedge … and no bees at all Anointed with Piz Buin and ordained by magical thinking. God save our royal family! Cheat, love, bray – let me put my ass on the line and tell you that the donkey sex scene was real Credit card, toothbrush – I’m off on my mini gap year. And on that bombshell … goodbye! What I did on my gap year Forget Chris Packham’s coup – we farmers speak the only language pigeons understand The Chinese take a wrecking ball to red tape. If only they’d apply it to our crumbling bridges We love reaching the places other car shows can’t. But thanks to Isis, we’re stuck with Slough Hook up the lie detector, then tell me the Jeremy Kyle affair isn’t about punishing poor Brexiteers Tie the model-railway vandals to the tracks and we’ll get this country back on the rails We turn up our noses at invasive species, but at least skunks are spicing up the sticks Higher truths are out there, and you don’t need crampons or a death wish to reach them Change sometimes feels like the big bad wolf, but at least it’s made tripe and onions extinct A splash of Pekingese, a dash of basset and, voilà, I’ve crafted a Crufts-conquering Frankenpooch Putin might not save Richard Hammond from a smash, but he’d get us all picking up our litter Leave the pointless promenading to the French. A walk is not a walk without a pub at the end Have I Got No 10 for You has a new guest presenter, and Boris better keep us laughing You take the £15 million yacht, Greta Thunberg, and I’ll fly. Only one of us is speeding towards a climate change solution Don’t worry, be happy. It works in every other nation that’s a thinly disguised walking disaster If cows protect my fields from ramblers and keep the grants rolling in, I’ll be over the moon For God’s sake, archbishop, get off your belly. We’re not to blame for the massacre of Amritsar Give McDonald’s a break, good burghers of Rutland. Your fortunes depend on the Big Mac Take those chocks away, Biggles – your noisy little plane’s a pain in the alpha, Romeo, sierra, echo The Beeb’s editorial police chief has always been a fair cop. It’s a crime to throw him under the bus He’s not around to beat me, so I’ll say it: Ginger Baker was only the world’s second-best drummer I want an old-fashioned shop with an old-fashioned sign – and a ban on newfangled billionaires Keep a stiff upper lip when all about you are losing theirs, and you won’t be a Yank, my son It gets birdbrains in a flutter that wildlife is booming on my green and pheasant land Private jet on the runway. Sweaty hand on your back. Say ciao to Andrew’s entitled Eurotrashers Mozzies, heat, upset tummies and all-day drinking – even Jeremy Corbyn’s taxes are better than life abroad Giant tortoises are slow of foot but quick of wit, while I struggle to keep up with my sheep I’ve some divan inspiration for hotels – you don’t need to stop mattress thieves, just the mattress Northerners are gagging for the Boris bounce, but who do they think will fill all the new jobs? It’s no wonder we can’t find the middle ground. Social media has stolen it Copyright
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