Fiona Montgomery

Still no law. Just another czar promise.

Ours fundraise for glue sticks. Side-splitting.

Thirty percent? Show me the waitlists, not press releases.

Seven murders, fifteen life sentences. Zero resignations.

Over here, casino staff get a free drink and a stern look. Ten thousand Brits handed £5,500 each in shares? Our hospitality sector would call that a rounding error in the boss’s bonus. Zero-hours contracts, tips skimmed, the Christmas party cancelled to “protect jobs.” Then someone in Vegas gets actual equity for turning up. Hilarious. Not the good kind.

Am I supposed to ignore the repair bills?

Early-season narrative. Right. A match nine months away, no kick-off time confirmed, no ticket prices published, no idea who’ll still be in either squad once the window shuts. So who exactly benefits from announcing this now — the broadcasters, the hospitality boxes, or the poor sods paying £60 to sit in the away end on a Sunday?

Round my way, the village fete draws a bigger crowd. Three arrests, 140 souls at sea — and this is the “crisis”?

In Britain, my mortgage is already in therapy and the supermarket owns my wages. So yes, Warsh, enjoy your inflation epiphany.