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Put an NFT of some cheese on a mousetrap and guarantee getting the worst of those little bastards. 

You just reached deep up your arsehole and pulled out this shit about teachers and nurses. Your brain, that barely-functioning organ nesting somewhere in that fucking mess of spaghetti, didn’t get a fucking look-in, did it? 

The protesters are right: all coppers are bastards. And now, because the Met Police is institutionally misogynist, I’m a criminal.

There’s no better way to impress a lady than a romantic meal for two. Unless they’re sadistically playing with your feelings like a cat toys with a mouse, before ripping your heart out like some evil succubus from Hell. 

I could smell the animal fats leaking from his pores. He had that evil, greasy sheen I associate with people who murder and consume my animal siblings.

SIR Robert Peel’s legacy consists not only of founding the much-loved Metropolitan Police, but also the continuing excellence of his hometown, Bury. What other town has both a market and a limited range of high street shops? None, you’ll find.

It’s a thankless job being a bouncer. No one ever comes back and says ‘Good call not letting me in last night. I was far too hammered. And fair enough, that shirt was casual.’

The only reason you want to sell off Channel 4 is because Krishnan Guru-Murthy humiliated you  using the cunning journalist’s trick of allowing you to open your mouth and talk!

They’re just taking the piss now. Shepherd’s pie with baked beans slopped in. Still, I bet Marco Pierre White would say it was manna from heaven if Knorr paid him enough.

We are a nation of depraved, deviant pigs, wallowing in our own filth, begging for one more episode of Eurotrash.