I read a fantastic article in The Independent this week - the kind of article where you have to seriously consider the possibility you’ve stumbled into an alternative universe created by Chris Morris.

It was the most perfect little snippet of classic British oddness and the UK’s deep-seated fear of…sex. *shock, horror, avert your eyes children*

The article concerned a spat going on between the owner of women’s magazine The Lady and its editor (and Boris Johnson’s sister - euww I know), Rachel Johnson. For those of you who are under 80 I’ll bring you up to speed - The Lady is Britain’s oldest women’s weekly.

I can see you’re gripped already, but wait, it gets better.

It seems the owner, a Mrs Julia Budworth, has taken a dislike to her editor - commenting that Johnson (Rachel, not Boris) is cock mad.

Ok, those weren’t quite her words, but she is quoted as saying: “All she thinks of is sex. You can’t get her away from a penis. I think it comes from growing up with all those boys”. Err memo to Budworth - what do you think goes on between brothers and sisters??

Anyhoo. Mrs Julia Budworth is clearly your classic lie-back-and-think-of-England British battle-axe, and you wouldn’t want to mess, but Johnson’s retort almost made me choke on my WI butterfly cake. According to Johnson The Lady does NOT feature sex in any of its articles, as this is its unique selling point, and she’s feels so strongly about this she actually changed some of the raunchy words in an extract of Jilly Cooper’s Jump!

Johnson said: “I am unbelievably sensitive about having sex in the magazine, and in deference to the readers I rang Jilly Cooper and told her we would change the word ‘erection’ to ‘an Everest’, and we replaced ‘pubic hair’ with ‘lady garden.’”

WTF!

Everest? Lady garden? Please tell me these people don’t have sex! I just love the fact that this line of defense is supposed to make Johnson appear dedicated, when all it conjures up in my mind is her spending her days thinking up flowery alternatives for cocks and fannies. I’d love to hear what she’d come up with for ‘bum hole’ - maybe I’ll make up a list and email it to her so she can work her magic. Suggestions on a postcard please!

Urgh. I hope when I get to 80 I still find the word ‘lady garden’ as vomit inducing as I do now.

It’s amazing to see how some things never change, no matter how long you’re away.

The roads are still full of potholes, the UK weather is still crap, my car is still covered in bird excrement and, oh yeah, white fashion models are still blacking up.

My rant comes hot on the heels of yet another insensitive race debacle, this time courtesy of French magazine, Numero.

The good people at Numero decided that, rather than use one of the many stunning, young black models out there for their photo-shoot, they would instead use a white model painted to look black. And an afro wig. And voila! That’s all you need, apparently.

On its website Numero boasts that it features ‘both today’s icons and tomorrow’s master talents,’ exploring ‘contemporary culture, from fashion to architecture, via art, beauty, cinema, music and design’.

Well I guess that explains why they think it’s acceptable to feature a photo-shoot with a blacked-up model (who, in addition to the afro wig, also posed with this year’s must-have accessory: a likkle ikkle black baby). I mean, let’s not be silly, black women don’t feature anywhere in contemporary culture, cinema, fashion or music, right? Well, let’s tell that to:

Naomi Campbell

Liya Kebede

Alek Wek

Tyra Banks

Chanel Iman

Jourdan Dunn

VV Brown

Leona Lewis

Amber Rose

Noemie Lenoir

Kelis

Zoe Kravitz

Zoe Saldana

Halle Berry

Beyonce

Rihanna

Ciara

Nneka

I could go on but I’m getting bored now. Bored of the whole. Bloody. Thing.

Why oh why does the fashion industry, particularly the one located in Europe, STILL think it’s ok to parade white women round in their magazines in dark bronzer and afro wigs, like modern day minstrels? It was offensive then, and guess what? It’s still offensive now!

I guess their thinking is the black community should have stopped being so uptight about the whole thing by now, right? We have a black president so everyone can just chill, yeah? Well I guess after hundreds of years of marginalisation, discrimination, and castigation, chances are it’s still gonna piss those uppity blacks off. Who’d a thunk it!

Not only is blacking up immensely degrading to people of colour, who are sent the message they’re nothing more than the melanin in their skin and the fluff on their head, it’s also despicably racist and petty.

It sends out the message that no matter how far women of colour climb in society and their professions, the world of fashion is one to which they continue to be strictly barred. They are seen as simply not good enough, not beautiful enough, not socially accepted enough to take a position on the front page, or hold their own in a fashion spread.

In an industry that’s seen such modern-day atrocities as Lady Gaga’s meat dress, it’s surprising the fashion business can be so backward about moving forwards. Come on Numero, it’s 2010. Would it be so wrong to feature an ACTUAL black woman in your magazine?

So far my Easter is going swimmingly! Not only have I spent the day hanging out in the company of friends, eating gratuitous amounts of Creme Eggs, I’ve also had the pleasure of indulging in my fair share of shit tv.

I speak mainly of, the perpetually perplexing, Toddlers and Tiaras. Already the title should have been ringing alarm bells for me - I make a point of actively avoiding any shows with children in because they…for want of a better word…REPULSE me. But I thought ‘hey, let’s throw caution to wind; maybe the little oxygen thieves have something useful to add to the world for a change’ - and I hovered. I instantly regretted it.

The televised freak show programme takes a look at the weird cult that is American ’child pageantry’. As the show attempts to portray the pushy mothers and dead-behind-the-eyes children in a positive light, the viewer is left aghast that there aren’t stringent laws against procreating if you’re clearly a bastard.

As a child enters the stage sporting the haunted look of a Vietnam vet - the damp squib that is her childhood swiftly extinguished in a cloud of Elnett - it’s hard not to feel sorry for her. We watch her turn, twirl, show teeth (sometimes this is called a ‘smile’ but this conjures up images of happiness, so I don’t think it applies to these children), then offer herself up to the judges like Little Red Riding Hood does to the wolf.

“Totally uninspired” one of the harridans barks through collagen filled lips, her freckly crepe-like decolletage betraying her real age. Later she commends a seven year old girl on her “abs of steel” - she better enjoy them while they last; that’ll all head south when she hits 10.

Sat next to her a Harold Shipman lookalike tuts like he has better things to do than watch such lacklustre tripe. He doesn’t. His sole job in life is to judge the appearance and ‘congeniality’ of make-up covered, swimsuit-clad pre-pubescent girls. Again I find this slightly toe-curling - if this were taking place in England The Sun would probably have had a petition out against him by now. But ho-hum.

When we later get to meet some more of the contestants, we realise the programme makers really are playing fast and loose with the term ‘toddlers’. The mothers that compete alongside their progeny can only be described as pathetic or, in the case of contestant Rebecca; terrifying.

Rebecca has the look of a woman on the edge; as she tears around the stage majoretting in a skin-tight onesie we pray to God she wins something, just so she doesn’t hulk out and trash the place. Later when she receives an ‘honourable mention’ and the vein in her forehead subsides, we breathe a sigh of relief.

I honestly don’t know which is worse for these little girls - winning against their mothers or losing. Either way, I’m guessing they’re gonna be getting burnt with hot spoons and made to catwalk at gunpoint when they get home.

Anyway the programme is simply fascinating. Fascinating in that Hiroshima-type way; it really opens your eyes, makes you think, but ultimately leaves you hating humanity. Check it out on Dmax, Mondays at 10pm!

And so we turn to the, somewhat inevitable, news of the ultimate unholy union of MacDonalds and Weight Watchers. New Zealand MacDonalds, that is.

Dietitians and nutritionistas are in uproar over WW’s latest decision to endorse some of Maccy D’s more ‘healthier’ menu options, as they’re seen to be low in ‘points’.

If you’ve ever worked in an office predominantly ruled by grazing thirty-something gals and menopausal harpies, you’ll have had the ‘points’ system rammed down your throat by now. Short story shorter: you get allocated a certain number of points per day, calorific/fatty foods are high in points, good stuff is low in points.

But what’s this I hear you cry? MacDonalds sells carrot sticks and salads now, so it’s all fine? Oh you poor misguided pup…why endorse that dross with the coveted WW seal when you can opt for McNuggets and a Fillet ‘o’ Fish instead! I guess what little fish actually resides in a ‘Fillet’ should harbour some Omega 3, although does it really count if it’s been diluted with pre-pubescent saliva?

Oh the uproar though! Personally I don’t see the big deal - I rather marvel in the sluggishness of WW not to broker this deal earlier. Newsflash: WW needs fatties ‘nutritionally challenged’ people to make money. More precisely it needs the inbetweeners - those with a hint of ‘muffin top’ and low self esteem, which means they keeping coming back for more. Every week they take two steps forward then three steps back. Where would WW be if this lot all ate healthily, reached their goal weight and left??

The morbidly obese are just herded into the operating theatres on pain of death, but the plumper ones are the guys to aim for. Get them hooked on the old ‘these Mcnuggets are only 6 points now I can treat myself to a McFlurrie’ philosophy, and you’re onto a winner!

Aah you’ve gotta love the general public haven’t you?

Over 100 reactionary arseholes people have complained to the BBC about a dog-murdering storyline featured in last week’s Eastenders.To recap for anyone that actually HAS a life: resident murderer and bible-basher, Lucas has murdered his family dog, which has been trying to dig up a body he buried in the square before Christmas.

The dog murder was never actually shown, and actually follows two previous HUMAN murders that were shown in graphic detail earlier on in the year. The first was a rake impaling, the second a bludgeoning, yet neither of these attracted anywhere near the same volume of complaints. Still, dogs are just flufflier and more cute aren’t they? So I can definitely understand the outrage that an implied dog drowning would cause…

Why do people complain anyway? As if anyone’s gonna be watching at home going ‘aah so that’s how you drown a collie’. Trust me, no-one’s gonna be taking notes - Lucas’ murder cover-ups are piss-poor. Note to Eastenders’ producers: no-one except a complete moron would bury a body in the middle of a bustling square. He hasn’t even compacted the earth for God’s sake! Why didn’t he just chuck it in the canal?? And please, don’t get me started on Lucas’ first attempt at dog assassination: tying it up in someone’s shed. Yeah, ‘cause nobody will find or hear it there, you complete tit.

So, as I dip my toes into the waters of unemployment this month, I learn of two shocking truths about myself.

1.) that I have now cultivated an unfathomable obsession with Jeremy Kyle. Not the person, I must stress (although he is certainly a permanently outraged, shouty enigma), rather the televised prole dramas that ensue.

2.) that I am now completely OBSESSED with website comment pages.

There’s the Guardian for misogynistic, racist right-wing tripe masquerading as left-wing opinion, there’s the Daily Mail for unapologetic misogynistic, right-wing tripe. And there’s Heatworld.com, which is slowing turning me into somewhat of a misogynist.

See, girls are mean. I know 24 years of living as one should have taught me this by now, but I guess I’m still slightly flabbergasted by some of the women-hating-women action that’s still floating around out there.

There’s an old saying that’s always stuck with me: “women could rule the world if they didn’t all hate each other”…and I’m afraid it’s true. We have the brains, we have the skills, and we definitely have the highest pain threshold - but ultimately we’re too busy trying to crush each other rather than take over the world. Ok, I’m obviously joking (a bit) here but, honestly, all this in-fighting really makes us look bad.

On Heatworld.com the comments tend to range from outright insults (I guess stemming from jealousy/insecurity) to Old Testament-style judgement. Whilst at first I could find some humour in this bitching, it’s now left me wondering if I even like the female race. We can be our own worst enemies sometimes - just take a look at some of the comments I dug out today:

On Kelly Osbourne’s weight issues and being unfairly misquoted on Heatworld

“She can lose all the weight she wants but she’ll still be a nasty little c*nt.”

[hoopla]

 “A diet can’t do much about her shovel face though, can it?”

[AmazonGirl]

On former model-turned-prostitute, Sophie Anderton being stalked

“He obviously read that she is anybodies if the price is high enough.”

[Wiltsxx]

“That’s called drug paranoia Sophie. Seriously? Why does this woman even make the news?”

[AussieGirl71]

“Come on, someone actually fancied the old hooker coke snorter bloke in a dress - more like she was hysterical with flattery.”

[Clairei]

On Cheryl Cole’s shattered marriage and her supposed indecision over whether or not to divorce Ashley:

“milliejo, asking for privacy at this difficult time? it’s a fecking seperation, not a death of a loved one, not even a death of the family cat! overdramatic. simples. Tsk.”

[Wiltsxx]

Nice. Let’s hope you never get stalked or cheated on eh, [Wiltsxx]?

Too often these days I see or hear of women hating on each other rather than addressing the common ‘enemy’, whether it be gender inequality, a weirdo stalker, or just a cheating douchebag.

Earlier on this month I was shocked to see just how retrograde women’s respect for each other had become, with the results of an online survey entitled Wake Up to Rape. The survey was taken by over 1000 individuals, the majority of which were women, and the results were sobering.

Depressingly it was the women surveyed that seemed to take the hard line, with a third blaming rape victims if they dressed provocatively  or went back to their attacker’s house. Ladies, if this is how you feel about a major threat to your own gender, how do you ever expect an archaic and patriarchal law system to give a damn?

I hate having to repeat this like a broken record but…there is NEVER an excuse for rape. That’s it. It doesn’t matter if the person was drunk, it doesn’t even matter if the person was wearing a skirt halfway up her arse, ultimately it was the rapist’s CHOICE to violate someone against their will and THEY must take responsibility.

But why are women so quick to blame other women, not just when it comes to rape but in the examples above where the woman can be seen to be the victim? There’s a theory (sorry, can’t remember the source) that women judge other women harshly in an attempt to protect themselves. By condemning or blaming a woman for a supposed fault or transgression, other women can then mark her out clearly as ‘bad’. Then by distancing themselves from these ‘bad’ behaviours in future (being drunk/sexy/a prostitute, etc) they can reassure themselves that the same ‘punishments’ will not befall them.

Unfair I know, but I’d like to think there’s at least some logical explanation buried behind the misogynistic bile spewed on the comment sections of women’s magazines.

Whilst I’m not naive enough to think that we women are all part of some fantastic sisterhood, I would hope that when it comes to empathy and compassion for our fellow man we don’t simply check these things at the door just because the ‘man’ happens to be a woman.

In terms of language 2009 was clearly the year of the mediocre - the year when people forgot how to speak. At least, forgot how to speak without sounding like a massive turd.

I’m not talking about swear words - I love swearing - but neat little meaningless sound-bites that could be rattled off again and again by idiots that can’t be bothered to think for themselves.

Below’s a run-down of the words or phrases that I hope will GO AWAY this year.

‘Tweeted’

A fake verb derived from the social networking site, Twitter. As in ‘he/she tweeted…’ – I kind of do a little bit of sick in my mouth every time I read or hear this phrase. I even did some when I wrote it myself just then. Whenever I see this word in a proper article in a proper newspaper I instantly judge whoever wrote it, as well as whoever thought that what some twittering twat wrote constituted ‘news’. I dread the day when it’s welcomed into the Oxford English Dictionary (if this hasn’t already happened). I believe there’s a special place in hell reserved for people who usher the likes of ‘tweeted’ and ‘bling’ into the dictionary as if they’re starting some sort of cultural revolution. You Catherine Tate-loving bell-ends are the same people who ruined the word ‘chav’.

 ‘Sexed-up’

As in ‘Alistair Campbell allegedly sexed-up the Iraq war dossier’. Every now and then the media latches onto a new buzz-word, and it infects all the newspapers and current affairs programmes like some sort of cultural STD.

Any sentence that juxtaposes the name of any UK politician with the word ‘sex’ is fundamentally WRONG. What’s wrong with the word ‘exaggerated’? Do you think that the majority of people in Great Britain are so ignorant they won’t read a news story unless the word ‘sex’ is in the headline? Oh, wait…fuck.

‘Claw back’, ‘the credit crunch bites/is biting’, ‘swingeing cuts’

Basically I’m singling out the phrases that have been used to describe this whole economic meltdown thingamabob. My hatred of the above phrases probably stems from the fact that I’m fucking bored to tears of hearing them on a daily basis, but part of me also thinks the media should expand its vocabulary.

‘Wildcat strikes’

Makes them sound immensely more interesting than they actually are.

‘Broken Britain’

A phrase coined by that oily, wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing, David ‘Dave down wit da kids’ Cameron. Used to great effect to highlight any of Labour’s perceived failings, and deflect attention away from the fact that the Tories don’t actually have any half-decent policies themselves.

‘Broken Britain’ is supposed to summarise how this country’s going to the dogs – apparently we’re all at the mercy of single mothers (those well-known terrorists), criminal feral youths, and a rampant ‘unnecessary’ welfare state. However, considering the economic and social quagmire we were left with the last time we had a Tory government, I’m surprised they have the cheek to conclude that things would have been any different had they been in power the past 12 years.

Frankly, I don’t think things are much worse. Don’t worry; you have as much chance of getting ‘jooked up’ on the top deck of a bus as you always did. My car wing mirror was kicked off the other day, but I didn’t go running around mourning the demise of common decency. This is because people are arseholes, and they always have been. No surprise.

In fact I’d say the only thing ‘broken’ about Britain today is the catastrophic way in which the youth have been sold down the river by our older, ‘wiser’ forebears. After benefiting from a reasonably priced housing market, an abundance of cheap council housing, non-repayable university grants, and final salary pensions; the older generation have successfully set about dismantling each and every one of these things to the detriment of the young.

Now that’s criminal.

‘Mickey Mouse degrees’

A favourite amongst the right-wing, broken-Britain, Daily Mail-reading trolls – this phrase has been given a decent airing since the government announced a proposed £2bn worth of cuts to universities. All across the message boards of liberal, right-wing and red-top newspapers, rejoicing can be seen – ‘Good, this will put a stop to all those students doing worthless Mickey Mouse degrees’ they rant.

Yes, I guess your blinkered view of this country’s higher education system is a reason to welcome the demise of one of the few good things Britain has going for it. To hell with all those ‘waste-of-time degrees’, which basically translates as ‘any degree that I, the ranter, didn’t do’.

Yes, down with humanities – we don’t need history or philosophy – I mean, God forbid we learn from our past or expand our tiny fucking minds. Booo to anything that ends in ‘ology’ but doesn’t start in ‘bi’ – these are definitely useless. They’re nowhere near as useful as knowing what Russell Brand ‘tweeted’ to Katy Perry the other day, or who won X Factor.

It all boils down to ideas of worth and personal bias, which is why I resent this phrase and the way it’s used (mainly by right-wingers) to vent their bile on some undeserving student target.

It astounds me how screwed up we have our priorities these days – we don’t seem to value thought, knowledge, problem-solving, the ability or need to question everything, or the simple joy of education. We instead seem to respect avarice, ‘blagging’, luck masquerading as effort and hard work, and above all, we cherish empty numbers on a page.

Don’t tell me a degree in sociology or zoology is worthless – last time I checked it wasn’t a bunch of zoologists driving Britain to the brink of financial destruction.

‘Nanny State’

A phrase used (again mainly by right-wingers) to oppose any sort of state intervention in people’s lives. A great example of the idiocy of this phrase is what followed after the smoking ban was introduced. Whilst most saw this as a way of protecting the health of those who’d chosen not to smoke, elsewhere there were great cries of: ‘we’re living in a nanny state!’.

Yes, certainly, because the right to rot not only your lungs but the lungs of others is way up there with free speech in terms of God-given rights.

The fact is the sort of people that use this phrase will bemoan state intervention and the ‘prying eyes’ of government, until such tragic cases as Baby P come to the fore. Then they’ll look for someone to blame or scapegoat, and wax lyrical to all and sunder about how the useless government didn’t intervene enough. Either you want the state to look after you, or you don’t – make up your freakin’ mind rather than hopping on the next blame bandwagon.

Last week on Question Time the Labour party were pilloried for class discrimination, relating to a comment Gordon Brown made about the number of Old Etonians in the Tory party. The matter in question was whether it was right for Labour to highlight class differences in the run up to a general election.

A few on the panel, and many in the audience, thought ‘no’. Kirstie Allsopp (why was she there?) managed to push my contempt for her to an all time high, with a pathetic comment about it being ‘rude’ to point out one’s class or background. The general consensus (from the Tories at least) was that it didn’t matter where you came from; it was what you did that counted. The class issue is, apparently, old hat; let’s move on.

Whilst I don’t wish to defend the Labour party - and the cynical way in which they’re only now embarking on a class war – I really have to take issue with this viewpoint that class, especially the class of our MPs, is irrelevant.

Class is alive and well in this country, and it’s just as rotten to the core as it always was.

Just ask the average debt-ridden graduate who’s struggling to find his/her first break, whilst a moneyed and well-connected Oxford graduate walks straight into a position in the Tory research dept. (I’m looking at you Cameron).

Or speak to the countless youngsters looking to gain access into middle class-dominated fields such as journalism, law, or fashion, but failing because they can’t afford to do the lengthy unpaid internships (also known as slavery – but that’s for another blog), which their richer counterparts can.

Or read this 2005 report by the Sutton Trust, which says that even though only 7 per cent of the wider population attends private school, former private school attendees account for nearly a third of MPs and almost two thirds of the House of Lords.

I’m afraid it’s incredibly naïve to believe that it doesn’t matter where you come from. Of course what you do is important, but when this is largely influenced by the type of person you are, the way you have been raised, the background you have experienced – this is when you realise that your past really does count.

How can a person who has grown up surrounded by lords, ladies and minor royalty; has been born into vast wealth; has never had to struggle or want for anything; has never been blocked from a path they wanted to follow; presume to know anything about the lives or experiences of the average minimum wage slave?

People such as David Cameron or Allsopp will disagree with this of course, but that’s because they genuinely believe class doesn’t matter. They have, more than likely, never seen class as a barrier, never experienced its pernicious effects – to them it is non-existent. Their views are similar to those that believe race is no longer a barrier to success or opportunities. To them I would say try living your life from start to finish as a black or Asian person; try witnessing the subtle and not-so-subtle ways in which you are regarded by society. Then see if you can still stand by your original assumption.

The public’s trust in UK politicians has hit rock bottom, and this is largely due to the fact that they’re seen as out of touch with the very people they claim to serve. And it’s not just the Tories that are made up of Eton and Oxbridge millionaires; the number of private school/Oxford/Cambridge educated Labour frontbenchers is staggering. Journalists in the nationals (often from very privileged backgrounds themselves) seem to have got bored with this issue - anyone that does dare to speak out is told it’s a moot point or that they’re inverse snobs.

But I’m afraid we just can’t ignore the fact that Parliament is stuffed with the rich and upper middle class (as well as being unbearably white and male); and so bears no relation to vast swathes of our society. Do you think George Osbourne, he of the gag-inducing ‘“we’re all in this together” speech’ fame, gives two figs about single mothers or struggling pensioners? Do you still think he believes in the sentiments of that speech when he allows his multi millionaire non-dom friends, such as Zac Goldsmith (also a cabinet member), to avoid paying tax?

Probably not, and this is why privilege and class - especially that of those who rule over us - is far from irrelevant. This is why the class divide is a dangerous thing to overlook.

This isn’t about hating the rich or envying the upper classes – this is about recognising that large sections of society are still being denied access to the upper echelons because of their poor backgrounds. And, more importantly, are still being denied a powerful political voice.

When I was a student I never believed that we lived in a meritocratic society. I did however believe that, though class still existed, it was not as pervasive as it once was. But since entering the ‘real’ world (and, yes, becoming slightly more cynical) I’ve realised that it is almost a greater blocker to equality or opportunity than race or gender.

It’s a decaying, stagnant society that doesn’t allow for change. England is positively six feet under.

Is it just me or are cinemas becoming the most unbearable places on earth these days?

I only ask because yesterday I struggled through watched Paranormal Activity whilst trying to block out voices in my head telling me to murder the person next to me.

Before you start thinking I’ve gone all ‘Amityville Horror’ let me just point out that had I murdered her I could have got off on a manslaughter charge for provocation. This was down to the fact I was sat next to a dribbling oaf, with a bullet-to-brain inducing ’Watford patois’ that she happily showcased throughout. It feels like people are either getting ruder, or stupider – or both!

Bring back the good old days of the cinema usher, I say! And when I say ‘bring back’, I also mean tweak the original formula a bit. No spotty teenage oiks that are only bothered about getting their mates in for free and pocketing a bit of beer money. And no old people that will either be too scared to intervene or will get abused when they try - nobody wants to be confronted by their own typically English cowardice when they don’t help the octogenarian getting pelting with nachos.

No, when I say ushers I actually mean bad-ass former bouncers/boxers/marines/murderers. I want them to be built like brick shit-factories (shit-houses just aren’t big enough) and to have a severe intolerance to iPhone owners. I want them to be bald from headbutting out all their hair follicles. I want them to have tattoos on their bloody eyeballs! In fact, sod the eyeballs – they shouldn’t even have eyeballs - their empty sockets should just be filled with radioactive daggers, which they can use to impale that oxygen thief in front that keeps checking his Facebook.

The best thing altogether, of course, would be to have some sort of moron filtering system - preventing them from even dragging their knuckles through the doors. You should have to fill out a small personality test beforehand, with basic questions such as: ‘are you able to eat popcorn without sounding like a hog hoovering truffles up through its arse?’ or ‘do you know where your phone ‘off’ switch is?’…’do you know what ‘off’ means?’

That would mean an end to that moment of tension any reasonable person feels just before the trailers start. You all know that moment, you’ve all experienced it: that feeling of anxiety before the lights go down when you try to scope out potential…for want of a better word…tossers. But it doesn’t matter where you go – because something magical happens when you enter a cinema in England – you become a Tosser Magnet.

Once this transformation happens it’s pointless to even try and get comfortable. But just in case, here’s a handy guide to the type of tossers you should look out for, and the tosserish tendencies they display:

Phone Tossers

Typically these people are teenagers, and they seem to have this belief that the world will be fundamentally wrong if they’re unattainable for a few hours. The infuriating thing is that every time they check their phone – subsequently blinding anyone close by with the glare – no-one’s ever fucking contacted them anyway! Take the hint: you’re not special, you’re not loved, and your friends don’t like you (or are presumably in the fucking cinema with you!).

Considering most people’s teenage years were largely a miserable gauntlet of awkwardness, embarrassment and loneliness (mine included), I don’t see why these little shites should think they’re any bloody different. Why are they even at the cinema?? Get back to your rain-sodden bus stops you little bastards!

Chatty Tossers

These people presumably have money to burn because they’ll happily pay a tenner (at least) just for the pleasure of having an extra dark place to talk in. Go to a pub ffs – they’re free to sit in! Or are you so hideously malformed that even bars and nightclubs are too ‘revealing’ for you? I’ve got a suggestion – don’t leave the house. Ever. In fact, just kick the stool away – thereby removing yourself from the gene pool altogether, and saving this country from further degeneration with your (assumed) hideous features and odious personality.

Sherlock Holmes Tossers

Obviously this is irony – these are some of the dimmest people you’ll ever have the displeasure to meet. I’d love to live in their world for just one day, and see what it’s like to dribble out the endless stream of crap that’s on my mind:

‘Dog…cat…tramp…walking to bus stop now…swerving to avoid a turd…ooh steamy windows…drawing a cock…(gurgling)…man with mole on his face…(more gurgling)…’

These are the type of people that will happily sit and point out the frigging obvious to the rest of the cinema, or explain events AS THEY’RE OCCURRING. The insult is double-edged: on the one hand they’re implying you, and the rest of the audience, are too stupid to comprehend what’s on screen. On the other, they themselves have the attention span of a goldfish, and the likelihood that their ‘moments of clarity’ would have any bearing on your actual understanding had you been confused, is slim.

Any scene that requires even a modicum of concentration or a change of pace to, y’know, drive the plot forward - they can’t handle it. Fidgeting, chatting (see above), yawning, sighing, whining about how bored they are. To quote the lovely Dobby from Peep Show: ‘fuck off and shut up and die.’ People like this should just be given an activity sheet and ferried off to their nearest Wimpy.

Phew! I think this list just about covers everything you can expect. Any more suggestions then add them below.