A great rant from a friend: “I don't know who's running the British newspapers at the moment, but I reckon somebody's accidentally given the editorial jobs to a bunch of fucking doomsday preppers. Have you seen the absolute state of the news lately? World War Three. Nuclear Armageddon. Russian cyberattacks. Chinese hackers. Emergency survival kits. How to prepare for the end of civilisation. Every bloody newspaper seems to be running the same story. You'd think Vladimir Putin had been spotted at Dover services with a tank and a packed lunch. And apparently, the most important thing we can do to prepare for all this is go shopping. Seriously. We're being advised to stockpile food, water, torches, batteries and enough toilet roll to survive the collapse of Western civilisation. Do they genuinely believe we're all going to read these articles, leap off the sofa and charge down to Asda like there's a fucking trolley dash on? I reckon somebody's looked at the Christmas retail figures and thought, "How can we get these bastards to spend another two hundred quid?" "Tell them the Russians are coming." "Brilliant. We'll shift those seventeen pallets of corned beef we've had sitting in the warehouse since Easter." And what exactly am I supposed to do with all these emergency supplies if there's a nuclear attack? Imagine it. You're sitting in your living room, minding your own business, when suddenly there's an enormous flash outside. The windows explode. The roof comes off. There's a nuclear shockwave tearing through the city, flattening everything in its path. And there you are, crawling across the kitchen floor, desperately trying to get the fucking tin opener out of the drawer. "QUICK! SOMEBODY GET THE BEANS!" What fucking difference are beans going to make? You're about to be vaporised at several thousand degrees. I don't think the nutritional benefits of baked beans are going to be particularly relevant. But the politicians are the funniest part of all this. Angela Rayner was asked what she'd be stockpiling. Sauvignon Blanc and mascara. Sauvignon Blanc and fucking mascara! I love that. The world's coming to an end, millions could die, civilisation might collapse, but Angela's making sure she's got a decent bottle of white and her eyelashes done. Then Andy Burnham comes along telling people not to stockpile alcohol because they need to keep a clear head. Well, thank Christ we've got that sorted. One politician's preparing for the apocalypse like she's going to an all-inclusive resort in Tenerife, and another's telling everybody to drink responsibly. And apparently Andy's emergency supplies include Twiglets. Fucking Twiglets. I mean, at what point did the national security discussion turn into everybody comparing what they've brought to a children's birthday party? We're supposedly facing the possibility of World War Three, and our political leaders are having a conversation that wouldn't sound out of place in the middle aisle of Aldi. And then there's the cyberattack warnings. Apparently, Russia or China could launch a massive cyberattack and bring down our communications, electricity supplies and essential services. Right. And what am I supposed to do about that? Unplug the kettle? Put the laptop in a biscuit tin? I can just imagine some highly trained Russian cyberwarfare specialist sitting in Moscow, surrounded by millions of pounds' worth of sophisticated computer equipment. "Comrade, we have penetrated the British national infrastructure." "Excellent. Shut down their electricity." "We cannot, sir." "Why not?" "Some bastard in Ellesmere Port has wrapped his Virgin Media router in fucking Bacofoil." It's a good job Churchill isn't around to witness this. "We shall fight them on the beaches. We shall fight in the fields and in the streets. We shall never surrender." "Unless we've run out of Pot Noodles, in which case we're absolutely fucked." What a fucking pantomime.”