I FEEL sorry for women.

Fat women especially, because the clothing labels they buy have such stupid names.

In New Look, the plus-size clothing is called “Inspire”.

A condescending, “well done chub-a-lub, butterballs - your chunky frame can still aspire to be fashionable in a plump, bulging, bulky way” kind-of-name.

And it’s separate from the other clothing too. Skinny people this way. Fat people? You’re in the corner over there. No more than two at a time please, it’s a small area of the shop.

Which I suppose is a good thing as the sight of a thin and slender girl trying a size 8 dress on might drive an ‘inspired’ fatty to doughnuts and pies.

A terrible spiral of self-loathing and depression would follow.

The only cure would be a Zinger meal from KFC to blot out the pain. And two double cheeseburgers from McDonalds.

I mean, you might as well call these clothing lines “immense” or “flourishing”. 

In Debenhams they call it “Gorgeous”.

A bit demeaning as well I reckon – the connotation, again, being “hey, don’t worry wobbly whale! Just get your thundering thighs towards our spacious shirts or distended dresses with copious amounts of fabric for your dumpy frame.”

Curvissa. This is an online shop for “real women” who fall into the “plus-size category”.

Emphasis being on the word “curves” in the name – alluding, presumably, to breasts. Boobs. Fun bags. Puppies. Baps. Bazoomas. Whatever.

But in reality, aren’t they just saying “hey, hide the chicken wing arms and floppy bits by the hips with these!”

Maybe I’m looking at this in too much detail. Maybe these words really do make larger women think more positively about their size.

I have a similar experience trying to find men’s clothing. But I don’t feel 'empowered' or 'happy' or 'free'. And I'm lucky, the Daily Mail concentrates on women in bikinis and women on new diets. The men don't really get a look in so I can pretend all men look like me.

If you go into Topshop or River Island or H&M (where clothes are generally quite nice) I can never find anything that fits. Waist sizes seem to stop at 32”, shirts are too tight around the chest, and shoes stop at size 10.

Maybe I’ve fallen out of the demographic – that being tiny, small-footed, and skinny men aged between 14 and 21.

Or maybe I’m just a massive portly, pot-bellied, jelly-belly lardy, destined to shop at Jacamo, the online shop that offers a big choice of big men's, big brand, big clothing, at great big value prices.

I look in the mirror these days, a bloated 27-year-old man, and see Jonny Vegas bouncing around in a t-shirt the size of a tent saying everything will be ok. I weep into a KitKat. I feel body-conscious.

A trip down the stairs becomes a nightmare. People press themselves against the wall to let me go past. We used to dance and I’d say “I’ll go that way” and we’d laugh. But not anymore. There’s no room.

Men’s plus size clothing has names to appease my sense of shame. “High and Mighty”; “Big and Tall”; “Big Fish” – all names that make me want to stand up proud and be seen by everyone. "Hello! I am high, mighty, tall - a big fish!"

And then I want to eat a Zinger meal from KFC to blot out the pain. And two double cheeseburgers from McDonalds.

HAVE you ever been stopped by someone asking for money?

Have they made up a long and elaborate story to convince you that handing over money to this person is the single most important thing of your life?

It happened to me today. A woman with a pram stopped off to discuss jerry cans with me. Painfully out of date, she said: “Have you got a jerry can?”

It was clear the last time she had watched the news was about two weeks ago when everyone wanted a jerry can. They were the must-have item. Like an iPad3. Or a flat with a tiled hallway.

Standing in the high street, no visible jerry can to hand, I replied “no”.

She went on to discuss how she needed one but was unable to locate the elusive plastic container. Like an iPad3. Or a flat with a tiled hallway.

As time went on I became bored as she discussed her desires. I stared off into the distance, thinking of all manner of things: squirrels crossing the roads dangerously; whether a steamer might be the answer to solving creases in difficult-to-iron clothing.

I’d recently seen one at the Ideal Home Show and was impressed at its ability to remove creases with a blast of steam. It would make ironing fun, not a chore.

Snapping back to reality I then heard: “Have you got £2?”

I thought about it and realised, yes, I did have £2. It was in my wallet, which was in my pocket, which was located on the inside of my coat. The coat I was wearing. I did indeed have £2. "I have £2" I thought, and celebrated it.

“No,” I said, sadly, looking to the floor feeling sad that I didn’t have any cash on me. I wondered whether I might win a Bafta for my performance. If only it were being filmed.

“It’s just that I’ve got £7.50 but need another £2. I don’t come from round here so I don’t know where I can get a jerry can; I just come down to look at a flat you see,” she said. As though I could connect my life to that of a woman wanting a jerry can.

Interested in her life story, I proffered the suggestion of going to Wilkinsons, a place where they might stock jerry cans. And hopefully at a reasonable price. What world are we living in when a woman with a pram can’t get a jerry can for less than £7.50?

But she’d already tried there, she said. It was no use. Was there a baby in that pram, I wondered to myself.

Running away, I returned to the office where I work and recounted the story. Much to my surprise, two others had encountered the mysterious jerry can woman (I’m going to call her Jerry) the day before.

Who was she? What was she after? Why did she always only ever want £2? Why did she have sunglasses on her head when the weather of late had been so inclement? The questions were stacking up like a pile of old dishes covered in the remnants of beans on toast.

Back in my day it used to be “have you got 20p?” I clearly remember in 2001, I was asked by a man with a beard and a smell whether I had 70p. Clearly the world was changing. When 20p would once have sufficed, 70p had taken its place. It was an eye-opener.

But now in 2012 it’s risen. To £2. A huge sum of money for anyone in my position. Why, for £2 I could buy two lottery tickets. Or if I wanted to, I could go to the £1 shop and buy two sandwiches. I also noticed they have Transformers on DVD in there for just £1. This means I could have two copies.

Transformers is about a girl played by Megan Fox.

There's a scene where she falls off a bike and she’s not wearing many clothes, but she's okay.

She gets up to all kinds of adventures including at one point bending over a car and being a bit sweaty.

At the end Megan Fox and some robots are all okay.

The film stars Megan Fox and is rated 12.

EVERYONE knows smoking is bad for you. If you smoke, you’re a right twat.

As a smoker, the odd roll-up here and there - mainly there - I have fallen foul of the new government regime when it comes to purchasing tobacco.

It’s now a confusing, disorientating and daunting process - especially if you’re brand new to smoking (which brand should I go for? What’s the cheapest? Will this girl think I’m cool with Camels?)

Even if you’re a yellow-fingered dab-hand at it, your brand might be out of stock. Then you have to remember all the other ones that might be in stock.

The queues build as you light-headedly list off cigarette brands, asking how much they are. Children overhear and suddenly fancy a Mayfair. You cough up some phlegm and get your tissues out to get rid of it. Eventually you'll remember a packet you liked.

Coughing as I went into WH Smiths this afternoon I thought buying a 12.5g box of Amber Leaf would be easy - unlike walking up the stairs where I need to have regular rests due to getting out of breath.

The lady behind the counter was wisely unaccustomed with cigarettes and wasn’t sure what 12.5g of Amber Leaf looked like. Was it in a box, a packet? She checked her name badge for confirmation of who she was.

Surreptitiously peering through the magical shutters of necrosis - that now obscure cigarettes to the easily-swayed thick-headed general public - she looked. And looked, and looked and looked.

“Sorry, I don’t know your name,” she said to the bottle-blonde girl next to her, missing her name badge, “do we have any Amber Leaf? 12.5g.”

Joining in the hunt, she too looked. And looked and looked. “Don’t think we do Amber Leaf,” she offered, glumly, like a woman who thought she’d won the lottery but discovered she just had wind.

“No, sorry,” she said, turning to me, clearly delighted that she might save my life and lungs.

“Can I have a look at what you’ve got then?” I said, feeling feint.

“No, that’s not allowed. New rules. You can have a look at this price list.”

Browsing the extensive list I could see 12.5g of Amber Leaf. The Holy Grail. But they didn’t have it in stock. Though by this point, my faith in my server was waning. Had she really looked hard enough? Could I trust a woman who couldn’t spot a name on a name badge?

“Have you got 25g of Amber Leaf?” I asked, doubling my original request and increasing my chances of a coronary or not getting pregnant, as the pictures on cigarettes remind me.

She once more peered into the unknown, desperate to be rid of my hollow, toxic face.

“We’ve got a box of Amber Leaf,” she said, grasping at it and secretly showing me it under the counter like a terrorist browsing bombs.

“Yes, that’s 12.5g of Amber Leaf,” I said, furious at her lack of reading-prowess.
“It says so on the top. 12.5g. See?”

Unaware of the intricacies of measurements and cognition, she made me pay and I was on my way - namely to a bench to have a sit down as I’d been standing up for some five minutes or more.

With the government planning on introducing plain packaging for cigarettes, I can only see things getting worse.

Soon, teenagers will not be able to gaze upon the magical colours of cigarette packaging – exciting black and gold boxes or blue and silver with go faster stripes on them. Things that desperately make people want to start smoking.

I know I started when I saw a blue Mayfair packet and became immediately aroused.

Soon, all that will be left are the exciting day-glo colour of alcopops and the allure of cans of Stella, just sitting on the shelves, desperate for you to drink them. At least they won’t kill you and leave the NHS with no money.

QUEUES. They’re everywhere. Like a kitten in a washing machine on a rinse cycle, they’re deplorable.

The reason for all the queues is the witless questions. The endless, incessant interrogation and the stupid list of stupid questions shop workers have been ordered they must ask.

Is that large? Would you like help with your packing? Do you have a card? Are you on our mailing list? Are you interested in receiving our newsletter? Do you want cashback? Would you like this Dairy Milk for £1? Do you like smells?

KFC is one of the worst offenders.

The perplexing prattle comes thick and fast: “Large? Tower burger? Beans, gravy, coleslaw? Large? Two hot chicken wings, 99p? Large? Tower? Five hot chicken wings £2? No? Eat in? Take out?”

You’ve never been in Waterstone’s and had one of them say: “Would you like this book in large print? I see you’re buying a biography, would you like this autobiography?”

As a human being with a brain, you have made a choice of what it is you want.

The electrical stimulus alerting your consciousness of what you’re doing (i.e. buying something) is whizzing around your head like a hamster with a nut.

You have no doubt weighed up the pros and cons of the optional extras that are available. You’ve come to a decision. After all, you’ve had time to consider whether you want that chewing gum or a Wispa whilst standing in the queue.

So why make life difficult? I don’t want choice. Why add to the misery of forking out cash for something? I’m miserable already, I don’t want to converse with you about a bloody store card.

And then you end up with old ladies going "oh yes, I've got one of those... hold on... it's in here somewhere... yes... I've definitely got one... hold on... hold on..."

I dread buying anything in Boots because I know someone will ask if I have their “Advantage Card”.

Once I’m over this horrific hurdle - and watching my Boots Meal Deal go into a bag that’s way too small for my triple sandwich, drink and yoghurt/oatflakes dessert - the dread quickly rears its head again. She’s going to say “would you like one?”

I don’t look like the sort of man that frequents Boots. Nor am I a man on enough money to regularly partake in the Boots Meal Deal. This is a treat. Don’t rub my nose in it.

Even in Iceland, where all they sell are frozen prawn rings and party food, they have the “Bonus Card”.

I’ve only ever bought milk from Iceland as it’s round the corner from our office.

“Have you got a Bonus card? Would you like one?” the lady of a certain age behind the till asks each and every visit.

I nod negatively and sadly as though I wish I did have one.

Actually, I did once have the work Bonus Card with me. For doing so I received a scratch card, the one bonus of having a Bonus Card as far as I can ascertain.

My prize was 50p off a frozen prawn ring.

DAVID Cameron has admitted to eating a pasty - but Number 10 has refused to reveal any further details regarding his proclivity for pie-eating.

The revelation came following Chancellor George Osborne’s admission that he was “unable to recall” the last time he had purchased a pasty.

Mr Cameron was quick to quell whispers that he too did not enjoy the palatable-pastry pickings, claiming to be a “keen pasty-eater”.

To prove it he showed a picture of his pasty cellar.

Mr Cameron, who wore a blue suit and a keen smile, went on to tell reporters this morning that he recently bought “a large one” from the West Cornwall Pasty Company's outlet at Leeds station.

“I love a hot pasty,” Mr Cameron added, keen to plug his pasty point.

Shares in the West Cornwall Pasty Company have since fallen sharply, with consumers and investors keen not to align themselves with Mr Cameron’s pasty passion.

Missing the point, Labour leader Ed Miliband held a press conference outside Greggs in Redditch, where he and Shadow Pasty Minister Ed Balls bought eight sausage rolls.

He told reporters: "There is a serious point here,” and ate a sausage roll.

There were shouts of  “do you know what a pasty is Mr Miliband?” to which he proudly held up his sausage roll and took another bite.

Shares in Greggs have since fallen sharply, with consumers and investors keen not to align themselves with Mr Miliband or Balls.

Since then, concerns about the "complexity" of the pie tax and the sun-cloud ratio to heat on the streets have been raised.

In simple, plebby terms, temperatures outside the confines of a shop counter dictate whether VAT is added to a pasty.

“A lukewarm pasty from Greggs is not VAT-able because the ambient temperature outside is the reference point,” said some Labour politician, adding: “It is an extraordinarily complex situation.”

The MET office later confirmed that it was able to measure temperatures ensuring VAT added to pies would be done correctly.

Sales of thermometers rose sharply with consumers keen to measure temperature to ensure they were being charged the correct price.

But what does this latest pie tax mean to the people of Kent?

Isn’t it time that all district and county officials revealed whether or not elected representatives of us - the people - have ever eaten a pasty?

I for one would be extremely keen on finding this information out and everyone has the right to know whether KCC leader Paul Carter knows what a pasty is and whether he has eaten one.

I would also urge Number 10 to release a full list of all pasties eaten by Mr Cameron, his cabinet and MPs across the country. Including the Lords and especially John Prescott.

CELEBRITIES. Look, look, look, Kim Kardashian is pouring her curves into a dress.

Look, look, look, Kelly Brook is pouring her curves into a dress.

Look, look, look someone else better than you is having a better life than you. Mark Wright is eating a sandwich in red chinos. You’re rubbish and don’t have enough money for chinos. Kill yourself.

Celebrity culture is a massive business and a massive pain up the backside pipe. It takes the inane, makes it acceptable and makes you depressed. Natasha Giggs is wearing geek-chic glasses.

There's magazines in their hundreds, solely devoted to what they're doing, what they're wearing, what they're eating. Who they're having sex with, who they're not having sex with, whether they push their cuticles down.

Lindsay Lohan looks older than 25 with her pale skin. But she’s probably having more sex than you and her cuticles are perfect. Shut up podgy fingers, it’s true.

One of those pushing celebrities into every conceivable orifice of the nation's consciousness, like some disgusting sandwich paste, is Max Clifford.

That well-known celebrity-loving, grey-haired bloke who takes up the cause of those in need of a career boost. Frankie Sanford is wearing a patterned scarf. Buy one you idiot, you look drab and dull and will never find a husband.

So it was with much shock that when Mr Clifford, who looks a bit like a badger with a sun tan, appeared before the Leveson inquiry into press standards on Thursday, he told the committee that it was unhealthy that celebrities have such an influence over young people. Natalie Cassidy has had a haircut. She’s a great mum. You’re terrible and your hair looks drab.

Anyway, it's sad, he said, because so many celebrities are famous when they clearly have "no talent at all," adding that celebrity culture is "much to do about very little".

Max’s clients included:

Stacey Solomon: Fast-talking, incomprehensible girl from Essex who wants you to buy frozen chicken from Iceland in case your family comes round and wants some chicken for dinner. Let’s have a party, I’ve got mini quiches.

Lauren Goodger: Sometimes fat, sometimes thin. A girl from Essex whose main skill is being mundane and sometimes fat and sometimes thin. Talking about being fat or thin openly and honestly in magazines and on chat shows.

Kerry Katona: See Lauren Goodger but add a public battle with drugs to the mix (add Stacey Solomon to Kerry when *she* was the mum who went to Iceland). Numerous reality shows where she talks about battling drugs, her weight, her depression. Blah, blah, blaaaahhhhhhhh. Let's have a party, I've got tiny frozen cakes.

Rebecca Loos: Tossed off a pig and wore a bra for photographers. Sometimes cries about David Beckham in magazines and on television. Appears on "top 100" programmes saying words like: "Yeah, I mean 2011, who can forget it? It was like, a year."

Imogen Thomas: Was on Big Brother, got her jugs out for the boys, had an affair with Ryan Giggs and is now pictured frequently doing some kind of fitness thing or not wearing clothes. Sometimes she talks about her fears of going bald through stress.

So what have we learnt?

Tossing off a pig, having an affair, giving birth, being fat, doing drugs, being thin, smiling at mini quiches and selling frozen chicken is the future of popular culture. Anyone with an ounce of talent can go swivel, while those who can't even solve Iggle Piggle's "10-piece puzzle conundrum" take over the world.

Their every waking action, reaction and stupid comments and lives are beamed into our eyeballs, slowly melting our brains into a mush that looks like a pile of peas covered in the contents of a dog foul bin.

Now go and sit in a chair and think about what you've done.

Earthlings, please attend carefully for the following message is of great importance.

As supreme leader of this county you call “Kent”, I wish you a new year and happy Easter. Klomdifsalvo!

Looking back on 2011 from my palace in this town you call “MadeStone”, I say to you that yes, it’s been demanding and tough - particularly when Cllr Exotron of Nubos VIII attempted to oust me.

Fortunately I have special powers, which is why I am the supreme leader and can drive a car.

I know all of you reading this are uncertain. Is the Euro going to fold? Will a bread that lasts longer than five days be invented? Do we need an economic hub? Will I have a job this time next week? All I am certain about is that I will still have my job. For I am supreme leader. Ommmmm.

But let’s look back at the challenges I faced, and how I overcame them.

There was the perceived failure in delivering certain services. Nonsense I said. And it was so. We had sandwiches to celebrate.

There was a financial challenge because the government of your Earth decided not to give me as much cash as last year. Using an electrical prod and a battle station capable of wiping out the entire universe, I was able to restructure staffing numbers saving cash, for you, the people of “Kent”. We had sandwiches.

There are, of course, still enormous challenges ahead. My enemies, the evil Classocks of Nubon Five still wish to take over my kingdom, but I will not allow it. Restructure, restructure.

With my ambitious delivery programme and generic competency framework for 2012, the momentum of successes will not stop. Soon I will have a database of underpinning skills and attitudes that will allow me to take full control of the weather and bus passes.

Finally, what of my new year’s resolution? Well, it’s to do with the local press of Nubon Five. Those pesky broadcasters and writers seek to undermine my supreme power, something which threatens hard-working dinner persons.

Did you see that story about me restructuring staffing levels to create a battle force to take on the evil Classocks of Nubon Five? Nonsense. It was a non-qualification training day.

My frustration and fist-slamming-on-desks is that, despite the reality of supreme control and the ultimate destruction of the evil Classocks of Nubon Five, this constant sniping about my robes and alternative views on gritting roads, impacts on morale.

If these “journalists” are not careful it will have a knock-on effect for front-line service delivery of libraries and painting road lines.

If these changes are not forthcoming within the next 24 hours I will be issuing all front-line troops the straight bat of Kelxon 4. Then we will have sandwiches and laugh heartily.

Ommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

I’ve just read a blog by a man who won the Orwell Prize for political blogging and has now written a review of this year’s Doctor Who.

The Daily Telegraph’s Graeme Archer said the only person who enjoyed the Christmas Day episode was Labour’s bloody “women are cool” deputy leader Harriet Harman, as the story was pro-Labour in its plotting – indeed it was “politically predictable”.

He was also extremely worried that little boys watching it might have got the message: “men are weak and women are strong”.

This could lead to some kind of weird reverse timey-wimey malfunction where women have jobs or are managers or have careers. Bloody women.

Or, more worryingly, those boys might grow up and not get jobs or be managers or have careers, because of a terrible inferiority complex brought about by Doctor Who needing the help of a bloody woman to save the world.

Yes, Mr Archer says we have a culture that “bends over backwards to transmit a message about the supposed inadequacy of men”.

He goes on to say: “When one of the most-watched children's television characters becomes a cipher for Harmanism, then I object.”

What a load of old cock and balls and cock. (Just because men’s unmentionables are slang for ‘rubbish’, it doesn’t mean we’re rubbish, kids. Men are cool.).

Anyway, Harriet Harman says really boring things like “Listen plebby peasant, the unilateral embolism of this socio-economic field of working group, climate change, quango-misdiagnosis, is extremely worrying in a period of economic uncertainty when everyone up and down the country is sitting around a table carrying out discussions that are ongoing and binge drinking.”

No one wants to listen to that. Especially men. Yawn. We’re down the pub and watching football and making executive decisions about stuff.

The Doctor (a man) says exciting things like “Quick, there’s a rip in the space-time vortex and the Daleks, Cybermen, Zygons, The Master and the Quarks, are all coming through and will destroy the entire world and universe. There’s not only going to be an explosion but an implosion all at the same time. Lucky I’ve got my Sonic Screwdriver.”

And then a spaceship explodes or something.

Call me politically naïve, but when a mum loses her two kids on an alien planet that they’ve travelled to through a Christmas present under a magic spinning tree, in a mansion that dispenses lemonade through a tap, and she's faced with acid rain killing her and her family before she wears a special crown given to her by a living tree, that looks like a king, that then ciphers the spirits of trees - that are alive and can talk - into her head so they won’t die... before she then pilots a spaceship through the time vortex to get back home where, fortunately, her husband, who had died over the English Channel a few weeks’ beforehand, spots the spaceship and follows it, landing safely, and more importantly alive, back on Earth – well, I just don’t get how that’s very Labour Party.

The only part of Doctor Who that resembles the Labour Party is that Cybermen have a speaking voice extremely similar to Ed Miliband.

And anyway, women have been portrayed as inadequate for decades. Doctor Who shows this more than anything – in the 1960s his female friends were called “assistants”, they didn’t understand words or colours, they were told to make coffee for the chaps and often fell over, spraining their ankles, and then crying about it.

They couldn’t drive cars or write with a pen, and they never had husbands because they were so useless at everything. Yeah, some of them thought they were hip and cool and could do stuff like walking without the aid of linking arms with a man, but they weren’t, they couldn’t. They were women. Bloody women.

But I of course fear for little boys now who might think women are better than them. Don’t worry boys, men are cool. We’re the best. Go men!

Harriet Harman was once quoted as saying: “Would I go back in time? Not as a woman. All those unwanted pregnancies and women having to defer to men? No thanks.”

See boys? Even Harriet Harman (a bloody woman) wants to be a man. Go men!

Let’s re-brand everything to make things assuredly male though. Just in case.

Spice Girls can become Spice Persons;
Brown-eyed Girl needs to become “Brown-eyed Cleaner Where’s My Dinner?”;
Girl Guides needs to be “Not the Boy Scouts”;
And Secret Diary of a Call Girl needs to become “Secret Diary of a Woman Who’s Got the Right Idea, Yeah, That’s a Job, Now Where’s My Dinner?”

And if you see a woman out and about today, ask her why she isn’t at home. And does she have a husband? If she’s ugly or wears trousers she probably doesn’t. These ugly, trouser-wearing women need to be working the fields, getting potatoes for my dinner.

And if she’s good-looking, and wearing a skirt she’s probably got too much confidence. Probably thinks she’s funny and intelligent too. Can walk and use a pen. Stupid woman. Give her a slap and ask her whether she’s made my dinner.

Anyway, whatever political party you belong to, you’re rubbish and I hate you because I’ve always had a problem with figures in power. Like Hitler and men who were in the Bullingdon Club. I think it’s probably a working-class thing.

And Doctor Who was pretty drab and dull this year, so I imagine Harriet “I was Solicitor General” Harman enjoyed it.  

I’m either jealous or a realist but “My Week with Marilyn” seems somewhat far-fetched.

The new film, all about Marilyn’s visit to England to film The Prince and the Showgirl, looks at the relationship between her and third assistant director Colin Clark.

Colin’s memoirs, which became a book, claimed that he kissed her full on the lips after a swim in the Thames, and Marilyn’s exclamation of “Four hours!? Aren’t we going to make love? Will that give us enough time?” at Colin’s suggestion of going to sleep for four hours when he popped into her bedroom one night after she locked herself in demanding to see her Colin.

Instead of making love for hours they just spooned for four hours, by the way.

Anyway, this new film, also starring Kenneth Branagh, Emma Watson and Judi Dench, follows Colin on his journey from rich man, looking to break the shackles of privilege, and follow his dreams to working in films.

In between the reality of shooting a picture at Pinewood, Colin and Marilyn get up to the aforementioned spooning, skinny-dipping in the Thames and being surprised by her appearance in the back of a car under a blanket, because even the policeman guarding her thought there's was a love made in Heaven.

Then there was the kissing on the lips, running through fields, laughing, and getting an exclusive tour around Windsor Castle because his uncle-or-something happened to work there.

But how much of this film is true? Can I REALLY believe Colin, younger brother of the well-known MP Alan Clark, and everything he says? Is it fiction or fact? Like aliens and ghosts and Vernon Kay.

I’m working on my own memoirs at the moment actually, about the time I saw Emma Watson in a picture in a magazine and we started going out.

We spent nine magical days together, running through fields and laughing, before she had to go and shoot a new film.

It all began so easily.

“Thom,” Emma’s voice whispered, “will you stay with me tonight, I am so sad and afraid.”
“Of course,” I said, strongly, breaking an iron bar with my muscles, “I’ll be here for you forever and always and forever.”

The next day, as I was buying a sandwich and Fruit Shoot, a car pulled up with a policeman driving it.
“Get in,” he barked like a dog angry at being on a lead, and I got in.
“Surprise!” exclaimed Emma Watson, hiding underneath a blanket. And I was.
“Can you take me to Asda? I’ve always wanted to see the George selection of clothing,” said Emma Watson, looking deeply into my eyes with wonder and excitement.
“Of course I can,” I smiled, wistfully, drinking my Fruit Shoot in one gulp, “my mum-or-something works there, and she can exclusively get us 10% off.”

I was warned off Emma Watson by former co-star Daniel Radcliffe who said she might break my heart. But I was young and impulsive and I refused to believe him.
We fought in mud and as I twisted his arm behind his back, I told him he was “no Rupert Grint”.
Then he was all like “OK, OK, please let me go Thom.” And I did.

Soon though, Emma Watson had locked herself in her room in her hotel, refusing to come out unless I arrived. I arrived and she let me in.

I suggested we sleep but she became furious and began to rip the shower curtain down in a fit of rage. I suggested we sleep as it was 3am and we needed to be up for 7am because breakfast was served between 7am and 8am and I didn’t want to miss it.

It had been fun while it lasted but I didn’t want to lose my job as a superhero. Nothing had happened, we’d just spooned for four hours and then I had egg on toast, but I felt desperately sorry for Emma Watson. She was trapped by her own fame and longed to be my wife.

Sadly, as protector of the world, I could not become romantically involved. We kissed sweetly one last time, on the lips I might add, and then I flew away to Pluto to restore my Vorgon energy supplies which let me fly.

TONIGHT BBC1 might air the worst show since Noel's HQ.

It's called “That's Britain!” and has an exclamation mark to emphasise the sometimes quirky ups and downs of modern Britain. (8pm if you want to go and eat some pins).

Apparently it's a cross between That's Life and... actually, no, it's not a cross, it is That's Life - but with Nick Knowles instead of Esther Rantzen. Oh, he is awfully handsome.

And it's going out LIVE which means anything can jolly well happen! What a riot.

Of course, it isn't just irrepressible Nick Knowles in charge, there's jovial Julia Bradbury, who you might have seen in a field for her work on Countryfile. Golly gosh she is wizard on agricultural issues.

And it gets bloody Blighty better and better.

Grainne Seoige, who worked on hot-bed of breakfast programming Daybreak, tackles junk mail in this first episode. Simply smashing.. HOW annoying is junkmail!? I bet Grainne agrees with me. And all of you at home. Bloody junkmail.

Then TV funnyman Shaun Williamson (that's right... Barry from EastEnders, haha) tries to bring back bus conductors. What a quirky country we live in.

Fellow TV funnyman Adrian Edmondson follows the journey made by luggage as it travels through the airport system. Brilliant. How DO they get bags from the plane to my hand? I ca-ca-ca-can’t wait to find out. Bet it’s funny.

And then “the team”, as we'll come to know them over the next four weeks, tries to find the worst pothole in the country. What a bother potholes have become. Ahhhhh Britain! Bet it’s well big that pothole.

And the show is interactive. Got a gripe? Let the team know about it. “Tell us what’s driving you mad” says the BBC, “we’ll be taking a look to see what annoys Britain the most LIVE in the studio.”

What annoys me are these warm-hearted, stolid programmes with boring and irreverent looks at dull subjects normally amply covered by the One Show. And if I wanted to know how Velcro works and how it can be utilised to save the whale, I'll Google it.

Anyway, in a bid to attract BBC producers and get a top exec job, here are some ideas for future shows which you can use:

TV babe Cat Deeley investigates how a frozen pie goes from inedible to edible after being in an oven for just 25 minutes. And is a pie really a pie without a pastry base?

Reggie Yates tries to bring back hanging and speaks to some Britons who are stubborn, stoical and indignant at the perceived injustice of the legal system. And should jurys be made to wear a green uniform?

The boys from One Direction take an irreverent look at art and culture and meet artist Jimmy McThimble who has created a piece in situ on top of a dead seagull in Margate. Taking on a performative and animated stance, the piece is diagramming the relationship between the economy and the ephemerality of site-specific sculptures. The boys eat ice cream and ask "how many flavours are there?"

TV presenter Christine Bleakley contemplates whether a sofa can present television better than her. Later she looks at sofa fabrics since 1754.

And TV funnyman Les Dennis tackles speed cameras and asks “should they be yellow?”