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Six things ladies must never, ever do. By a sexist twat

I THINK I speak for all men when I say ladies should be fragrant, delicate creatures with a hint of the startled fawn about them. Here are my rules for the fairer sex. By Martin Bishop.

Get drunk

There’s literally nothing worse than seeing a woman drunk. It’s unladylike, common and deeply intimidating. What sort of man wants to spend time with an inebriated woman who’s laughing all the time and being flirtatious? Not me, I can tell you.

Wear trousers

There’s only one outfit a lady should be seen in – a pretty floral dress. Trousers are so ugly, and hide their lovely slender legs. Some would say it’s the only practical attire in certain jobs like policewoman. But it is really a good idea to have lady policemen in the first place, struggling to park their police cars properly and arresting innocent people because they’re on their period?

Say you are going to the toilet

In a restaurant, a true lady will simply say ‘Excuse me’ or disappear without saying anything. No man likes to imagine them performing vile bodily functions, so act at all times as though you lack a bladder, urethra and genitals. It’s the best way to maintain your feminine mystique.

Breaking wind

Even if a lady breaks wind by accident, they should immediately leave the social gathering and remain at home until the shameful incident has – hopefully – been forgotten, probably between four and six months. Obviously this does not apply to men, for whom breaking wind confidently asserts their masculinity and is hilariously funny.

Disagree with a man

A man will know what to watch on TV or the best sort of takeaway to get due to his larger brain. That’s simply evolution. And if he’s wrong about something it is a lady’s duty to back him up. If he says ‘Did you know the earth is actually a cube?’, say ‘Gosh, I hope we don’t slide off.’ Your relationship will be so much better if you force yourself to act like an imbecile 24/7.

Chew gum

A disgusting habit, for women. You look like a big filthy cow vacantly chewing the cud while shitting constantly. Scarlett Johansson could come round to my flat right now wanting sex, and if she was chewing gum I’d say no. Admittedly the chances of having sex with Ms Johansson are fairly low, which is a shame because I haven’t had a shag for eight years. I can’t think why.

What I did in my summer holidays, by Boris Johnson

IT’S a hard job being Prime Minister. You have to be all things to all men, including hospital employee, policeman, hard hat construction worker and fighter pilot.

And I got to be all of them over a summer in which we Brits enjoyed lovely hot weather and the Lionesses wining the Euros, which definitely only happened because the ladies were inspired by my triumphant tenure as prime minister.

But it’s important to remember that it’s not the person that matters, it’s the party. And that took place on July 30th at Baron Bamford’s Cotswold estate to mark the one year anniversary of my marriage to Carrie: my love, my rock, my tacky gold wallpaper chooser.

Anyway, I’ve had a tough year, what with being defenestrated from my own government, so I needed to take some time out to rest, recuperate and bitterly plot the downfall of my erstwhile colleagues, and my eventual return to glorious power.

First we went to Slovenia, which I thought was going to be some kind of ex-communist hellhole, but was actually very beautiful. And also quite cheap, to the satisfaction of whichever Tory donor paid for our stay at the luxury eco-lodge.

Then we popped home for a week or so, but the UK was full of doom and gloom about how people are going to pay the bills on their tedious little houses, so we said ‘Sod this’ and jetted off to Greece. Bloody brilliant. Souvlaki and ouzo all day, like one long party. Not that I like parties, of course.

Eventually Carrie persuaded me to stop dicking about in a giant rubber ring and return to Britain for a few days before Liz Truss nicks my job. The reason? A farewell tour to celebrate my greatest hits, such as hiding in a fridge and lying to the Queen.

I must admit I lost interest after most of it was spent in a field in Dorset with Nadine Dorries, so I went off piste with a weird speech about kettles, which really cemented my legacy as a great political mind, I’m sure.

It’s my last weekend as Big Dog, so I’ll leave you, my loyal subjects, with my personal motto: let the bodies pile high! Oh no, hang on, Carrie said not to use that one. I meant to say, ‘Peppa Pig World is my kind of place’. Not that one either, darling? Oh, f**k it. Bye.

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