I write this blog because someone’s gotta say it: Britain’s turning into a cesspit. You’ll find me in the corner booth of the last pub in Essex that hasn’t been turned into a yoga studio for “mindful asylum-seekers,” nursing a pint of bitter and wondering when exactly we all agreed to play extras in this woke dystopia. I’m the bloke your Auntie Marg calls “a bit much” at Christmas dinner because I’ve got the audacity to ask why Nan’s waiting 18 months for a hip op while some fella straight off a dinghy gets a free MRI and a therapy dog. “Compassion fatigue,” they call it? Nah, mate—I’m wide awake. You’re the one napping through the invasion. Now. Who’s with me? Or d’you need another decade of decline to finally get it? —Freddy “Still Standing (Unlike British Values)” Whitcombe PS: If you’re offended by this, congrats—you’re part of the problem. Now pass the HP Sauce.