I’m sick of people who take swings at easy targets. Everybody should lay off Jeremy Kyle. The man makes everything better. There’s a fuckswing in my basement that would be better with Kyle in it. There’s the boot of a car that I’ve backed up to the edge of a swamp that would be better with him in it. It works for everything: a volcano; an acid bath; the polar bear enclosure at a Chinese zoo. The guy puts a lot of work into finding his guests – firing tranquilliser darts into branches of Farmfoods, digging pits covered with leaves outside Cash Convertors.

There have been some great episodes: ‘Daddy, Are You My Nephew?’; ‘You Broke My Mother’s Arse And Then You Broke Mine’; and the BAFTA-nominated ‘My
Mate Carrie Thinks You’re A Cunt’. The guy is just a staging post towards the logical end-point of our culture: a show where the unemployed are raped by a bear while Patrick Kielty’s grinning, idiotic face is projected onto the moon.

The same goes for Heather Mills. Born in 1968, partially died in 1993. I adore what remains of her. She’s a good looking woman. Who cares that her leg is missing? It’s her face you’d be finishing on. She’s actually the perfect partner. I’ve always fantasised about making love to an evil pogo stick. She’d be really flexible: ‘Do you want me on all fours tonight, or all threes?’ she’d say. She could do things with that stump that would make your eyes water. ‘Fuck me with your leg.’ That’s what I’d say if I ran into her at a famine fundraiser. ‘Fuck me with your leg.’