This is the kind of content that the woke brigade don't want you to watch. 😡

Who remembers being angry because just wanted Brexit done but then we got Brexit done and now we're all angrier than we've ever been?

Can't believe it. @YoungBobRB filmed me setting fire to a wheelie bin. Now I'm facing charges of arson, arson with intent to endanger life, criminal damage, and violent disorder. You little bitch Bob!

Who remembers asphyxiwanks? All the rage in the '90s. No longer. Banned by the woke brigade. I just want my country back.

Britain used to be the best country in the world. What happened?

I only started getting these after my wife left me. It's plainly obvious that the holes are the the result of woke spores attacking the fabric.

Stars In Their Eyes once gave ordinary people a chance to become someone else. Now that dream is dead, hope is dead, and my wife has left me. Alone, I sit awake refreshing X like a man waiting to hear his own name called by Matthew Kelly. He never will.

Remember Cookie Jar, the '90s chain? Well, Millie's Cookies bought it, sanded off the charm, corporatised the sweetness, made it woke. Now my wife has left me, just as Cookie Jar did, and I am left here dreaming of sweetness and warmth, fuming at what has become of Britain.

Lovely day in London yesterday. I've not smiled so much in a longtime. The music, the graphic design, the spelling, the pints - a complete tour de force. This is what Britain can accomplish when we put our heads together.

Who remembers Britain's great slag heaps? They're all gone now, replaced by flats. 😡

It's the remix to Reform Cold and wet like a storm Rupert's body be shaking While Reform they be faking Sippin' pints of real ale I'm like: I'm male and I'm pale You've got some freakin' cheek If you think that we ever gone fail

Start used to sustain our nation. It nourished our people. It fuelled our legendary athletes. No longer. Now the country is broken, my heart is broken, and the only thing I start in the morning is breaking down as I contemplate where it all went wrong.

Head bags used to mean something - proper stitching, stubborn zips, built to carry a life that felt like it might hold together. Now it's all flimsy, throwaway, like the country itself. Broken Britain, broken marriage, and me left carrying what's left in something that won't last

Swingball in the garden. That bright, circling orbit of plastic certainty - a game you could win, a day you could hold. Now the pole is gone, my wife is gone, and I spin in place instead, wound tight by memory, watching everything I had unwind into nothing.