Remember me? I bet you do. I bet you keep thinking "He wasn't that bad, was he, that Tim Farron? Just a reasonable, level-headed bloke. Not flashy, not too boring. Dependable. Looks like a bloke who knows a joke (or two!) but also like a bloke who can make society a fairer place for everyone by changing as little as possible."

I know people are thinking this, because I overheard somebody say it in the line at Pets at Home. Although my wife really thought she heard "Tim Allen". She won't let me have anything! She might be right, though. He was great in Home Improvement, and I'm sure he's a wonderful father.

I've tried to keep a low profile after my defeat at the ballot box. I try not to think about the numbers too much. My girls think I'm a hero, and that's the only thing that matters to me. They're always asking "why wouldn't people vote for you, Daddy?" and "what is it that people dislike so much about you, Daddy?" I'll miss them when they go back to university, though I can't pretend I haven't asked myself those questions from time to time.

I must confess to you, I didn't expect the result. I don't think anybody did. Mrs May ran a wonderful campaign, yes. But Corbyn? I genuinely didn't think he would return a single MP. I thought it was our year, I really did. I now regret getting the words "prime minister" tattooed on my chest. Good job I always make love to my wife in a minions shirt. I remember telling my girls on the night of the election "when we wake up tomorrow, Daddy will be in charge of the entire country".

I like to think of myself as being "in touch" and "of the times". I've seen Breaking Bad. But apparently, regarding the electorate, when "I was the one knocking" nobody answered!

As Chandler (from "sitcom" Friends) might say: "I couldn't be more confused!"

But recently, as I settle down for the evening and switch on the news, I can't help but chuckle wryly into my mug (#1 Best Dad) of lightly microwaved milk (skimmed on weekdays). Them two, the Chuckle Brothers as I call them (I know they can't be brothers as one of them, Theresa, is a woman - just trying to illustrate how inept they are humorously) couldn't run a booze-up in a distillery!

"What blunder will be next?", I ask my wife and kids every single evening. Sometimes I'll even rub my hands mischievously to make them laugh. Inevitably there's some fresh new scandal for me to cluck at loudly, or roll my eyes at theatrically, or shake my head at enthusiastically while making guffaw sounds as I look around the room incredulously and ask "ohh, whatever next eh?" or "did you hear that, oh ho ho - clueless!"

Let's face facts. Corbyn is all flair and no substance, with his razzle-dazzle tracksuits and his designer stubble and his empty rhetoric about "the many not the few". Jeremy just doesn't seem to understand that ordinary people aren't bothered about the disparity between the rich and the poor! In fact, they admire the wealthy; the investment bankers, the landlords, the aristocracy.

They know that austerity isn't exactly a trip to Legoland (my daughters used to love Legoland, we'd go 3 times a year when they were young) but they understand that they must tighten their belts, and forego luxuries like profiteroles, fizzy drinks, and disabled relatives, so that we can get this country back on it's feet. The public aren't interested in Marxist wish-lists like investment in public infrastructure and the downwards redistribution of wealth, they want things to stay basically the same, except more so.

And that's exactly what a Liberal Democrat government would deliver.

My Encounter With Alex Jones in a Darkened Alleyway.

As I walked hurriedly home, anxious to make the most of a rare window of dry weather in an otherwise miserably wet day, I was accosted by Alex Jones, shirtless and grinning in a dark alleyway. Luckily, I carry a recording device, switched on at all times, ever since I was accused of threatening an elderly lady at a bus stop (full disclosure: I did, but we were both drunk and she gave as good as she got, so we both received a caution). What follows is a full transcript:

"Psst. Hey. You. Yeah, you. C'mere. I want to ask you something. Stay the fuck where you are! I'm sorry, didn't mean to swear at you there. Been eating a lotta meat lately. Lotta steaks. Had a big workout this morning so my testosterone levels are off the chart. Stay right where you fucking are. I'm sorry, sorry. You're not in any danger. At least not from me. Feel my arm. Feel it. Feel that muscle? Feel that pump? I can protect you. You just have to let me protect you.

See there's a war on. A war for your mind. You gotta protect your mind from them, you gotta get off the grid. What's that your drinking? Fucking Evian? No more Evian. You know what they put in Evian? They harvest the, the pineal glands from uh, babies. But they're not babies, they're hybrids. They're breeding women and goats together, to create Chimera. See the Bible, and I'm a god-fearing man. Not that I fear anybody, I fear fucking NOBODY. Pardon me. Been having a lotta sex recently, I'm not bragging, with multiple, beautiful partners, so my testosterone levels are just through the roof.

Anyway, the Bible prophesied this. Says right in Corinthians, mentions goat-people, perversion and machines.  They're harvesting these babies, and they're born in agony and they're made to live in agony so that these sick, fucking, monsters! can harvest the pineal glands, so that they can put the chemicals in the water, and you drink it and you become slaves. You become, docile and weak and blind to what's really going on, so that these demagogues, and liars, and shills can easily convince you to buy yet more of this shit,  pump more of this shit into your body and you become listless and suggestible and absolutely incapable of thinking for yourself.

That's where my product, Super Vitality Whey Protein, comes in. You see, it's made using all-natural products. Not full of the mind-control poison these demons want to feed you. I personally approved the recipe myself and it's literally the only thing that can save you from becoming a slave.

Well, not the only thing.  I actually offer a range of essential products, all personally and painstakingly approved by myself - that the mainstream media, and the so-called medical "professionals" don't want you to know about. Because they know. They're all in cahoots with one another. They wanna keep you compliant, and malleable, and docile. They lie, they want us to live in constant fear, so they can divide us, and rule over us. 

You got kids, buddy? Cuz they want to take your children, they will take your children, and rape them dead, and eat them. You don't have children? I got just the thing. Super Male Vitality Testosterolls. Yeah they're like, sausage meat fortified with porcupine hormones, wrapped in a flaky pastry. Delicious, and they'll fix your dick problem in no time.

You look like you need some more convincing, I can see you've been brainwashed pretty bad. Programmed. You've had shit pumped into your head since the day you were born. You need to detox. 

You need my Alex Jones Fitness and Supplement Program. Engineered using 100% organically pure Paleo-Supernutrients, Mushroom Chaga and Organic Epozote by scientists in white coats, holding clipboards with 100% genuine data written literally all over them. 

You see, how these supplements work is, they bind to the harmful organisms in your blood and they force them immediately right to the surface of the skin, which kills these harmful organisms. A "doctor" (cough-cough, globalist shill) will tell you it's a "skin rash" and will most likely advise you to "stop taking these supplements immediately". Because they don't want you to rid yourself of these harmful organisms. They put them in there in the first place with these fucking vaccines and these asthma inhalers and fucking antibiotics. I'm sorry. Swearing at ya again. These phony, globalist, evil, shapeshifting, babykillers just. get. me. so. MAD!

Plus I've been working out a lot lately. Taking a lot of these other, special supplements, so I'm pretty charged right now. Feel like I could defeat an entire army. Brain working overtime, you know. Hearing voices and shit. 'Scuse my language again. 

Stop looking so fucking worried, coward. All I'm telling you is the truth. Or do you prefer being a sheep? Happy to accept what the establishment says, you passive little maggot, you make me sick. 

Excuse me. I'm a passionate man. Sometimes passion gets the better of me. You know I could probably kill a bear, right? Not bragging. If a bear ever came between me and my liberty, I wouldn't hesitate to beat it to death. I'm a peaceful man, but you get in my way and I won't hesitate to stamp repeatedly on your head. I'm a patriot. You could be a patriot, too. Here, take a sip of this. Don't be shy. Take a fucking sip, fa- 'scuse me- maggot. Sorry. Please just be and man and take a sip. 

Don't you fucking dream of spitting it out. You want to be a drone for the rest of your life? That's my Masculax Ultra-Detox Patriot Blend Coffee. It gently accelerates your body's natural flushing process, forcing the toxins and the unnatural, brainwashing chemicals immediately out of your system, while stimulating the area of the brain that makes you proud to be an American.

Why are you clutching your stomach? STAY THE FUCK WHERE YOU ARE. Sorry. I drink 4 pints a day of this stuff. My body is a well-oiled machine. You see how my skin is a healthy, masculine red? That's my body's way of warning predators what they would be dealing with if they were to try to attack me. I could walk through a pack of lions and they would know not to mess with me.

You look pretty desperate to leave. Kinda squirming a lot. Sweating. What's the matter, snowflake? I guess not everyone is ready for the red pill. Which I also sell. Those are just capsules filled with shark blood."

Fuck Philip Schofield

Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck him. Fuck him and his hair. Fuck him and his trustworthy, inoffensive face. Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck him for being born. Fuck him for existing. I curse every individual atom that comprises the bastard.  Fuck absolutely everything about him. Fuck everything he represents, namely; blandness, cleanliness, common-sense, status-quo. Fuck everybody who likes him. Fuck the insipid wastes of space who cling on his every word. Who wouldn’t miss an episode of This Morning, as though it were some life-saving treatment. Fuck Philip Schofield and fuck This Morning. They’re apparatuses of the regime. Their goal is to reinforce and perpetuate the aversion to and distrust of critical thinking so endemic in our society. Their goal is the destruction of measured response in favour of kneejerk populism.

But wait! Mama-mia! Here-a come-a Gino with a recipe for you, ah? A little wink for the camera, a little saucy banter with the guests. A-try, a-try – you like-a that a-don’t you? A-good-a fucking pig a-you are.

Enough. Gino would dump a full bottle of Domestos into your Puttansca, prancing and kissing his fingers all the while. Molto bella, he whispers into your ear as you convulse, foam spewing from your locked jaw, your rapidly bluing lips. Fuck Gino and fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck that other numbskull whose name I can’t remember. Fuck Keith Lemon. Fuck them all, but most importantly, fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck him with something big and jagged and smeared with fresh dog shit. Fuck him and his manufactured, cynical charm. Fuck your gran. She’s never had an opinion she didn’t first hear on that grotesque fucking show. Your granny is wanker, and so is your grandad. So is your mother. So is your dad. Fuck Philip Schofield. He has skeletons in his closet. He uses the slender ribs of dead children to pick morsels of their raw flesh from his teeth, which become gnarled and sharp when there aren’t any cameras around.

He has skeletons alright. Acts of unspeakable horror. He could tell you things that would make the most ardent and unrelenting of sadists vomit with despair. He would have Gilles De Rais rending his rosaries. Fuck Philip Schofield.

Remember that mob of fuming cretins who burned down the home of a pediatrician? I lay the blame for that squarely at Schofield’s cloven hooves. He is the figurehead of that culture of shrieking idiocy. It emanates from him. His job is to stir it up. He is here to encourage mindlessness. His banality is a truly dangerous banality. His banality is the syringe, filled with unthinking, outraged acquiescence, that hangs from the cortices of his slobbering audience.

It’s not their fault. It’s his. He doesn’t want what’s best for you.

Spread the message. We are to be watchmen in this blackest of nights. We must work tirelessly if we are to depose his tyranny. We must strive to usher in a new dawn of enlightenment. Tell your friends and family; Philip Schofield is not your friend. Philip Schofield means you harm. Philip Schofield exists to make you unaware of your chains. Philip Schofield grows fat, like a lamprey, gorging on your misery – misdirecting your frustrations, offering the illusion of discussion via premium-rate call-ins. Dangling shriveled, poisoned carrots before your obese, but somehow malnourished face. Offering you cash prizes and holidays through insults to your intelligence. He wants to fuck and eat your children. He perches like a Baphomet on a throne made from screaming, bleeding babies – their limbs broken and re-set at agonizing angles. He shits their own digested blood back into their permanently wailing mouths.

Philip Schofield is consumed by his contempt for you.

The goal of This Morning is to soften your minds into putty through sheer tedium. To render you malleable. To confect extreme responses that bypass reason. To ask the wrong questions of the wrong people. To manage your expectations. Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck Dom Littlewood. Fuck Vanessa Feltz. Fuck anybody who has ever been a guest on his horrible show. Fuck Ant and Dec. Fuck Shane Richie. Fuck that other cunt I always mistake him for, whose name I don’t know.

Fuck his charity work. The harm he has caused, and continues to cause, far outweighs the handful of ICU’s. Media charity events are a disgrace. I’d like to take out Pudsy’s other eye and torture him to death. Pudsy is a devious, lying shitbag. When nobody is looking, Pudsy places shards of broken glass into the food of the terminally ill. Schofield, giggling all the while, encourages him. He put half the kids in these wards, sprinkling pellets of polonium into pots of Petis Filous with one hand, stroking his scabby, gnarled dick with the other. Philip Schofield sows pain and humiliation wherever he goes. 

Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck Pudsy Bear. Fuck Dawn French. Fuck Red Nose Day. Fuck Noel Edmonds. They are abscesses on the gums of starving children, ejecting balls of stinking pus and growing like evil fruit. 

They are agents of fascism. They are the prison guards of soulless, blank-eyed tabloid hysteria. They are Snow Patrol. They are Keane. They are Coldplay. Philip Schofield wants you to think he speaks on your behalf. 

He is the malevolent force that guides the angry mob.

He is Big Brother. 

He is atrocity in the name of “justice”.

Fuck Philip Schofield.