robyn wilder!

Build a sleazy love fort out of cushions, jump up and down on loads of bananas, blandly pick your spots while naming different types of fabric softener at each other, actually be Jedward…it’s great.

David Attenborough, usually so hushed and respectful, lets his guard drop. “Oh GOD” he cries, “Not this shower of cunts again”.

Borough Market isn’t a real market. It’s a bellend magnet. It’s a writhing mass of black-rimmed spectacles and polonecks and deliberately shit haircuts and people called Jeremy cooing and nodding at pieces of chard.

When I left the house this morning I was half expecting to skid about on a thin layer of fox jizz like a baby deer on a frozen lake.

Womens. What do they think? Why do they do? Where do they think, and do? These are just three of the questions Loose Women answers every single day. Is it on every day?

Hey, have you ever had sex sooo casually that, at the precise moment of climax, you yawned, looked at your watch and started mentally preparing your dinner?

And then we’ll fill the gap between every single paragraph with a seizure-inducing banner ad for erectile dysfunction treatment or mail-order brides. And then we’ll tone our content down to a beige homogeneous mush in case swearwords upset the advertisers, but we won’t care because we’ll be rich. And then we’ll get a fucking book deal or something.

You’ll see hundreds of couples there, trudging along - some hollow-eyed and beaten, others juddering with barely-contained rage - pushing trolleys that don’t work up and down satirically huge corridors full of identical cardboard boxes in a hopeless search for one specific code.

After he kills someone, he has to go and cry in the shower with all his clothes still on, the girly old bellend. Instead of shagging women, he lets them stroke his face and monologue about how he’ll always be trapped inside the prison of his own mind, the effete tit. Sometimes he even wears cardigans.