Oi, fatty! Join me in a little act of rudeness and we'll make Britain normal again (April 30)
Now that we have Mr Trump in the White House, and Mrs Hitler on course to take France out of the EU through a hole in the fence made by the elderly folk of northern England, many people are wondering what has gone wrong with the world.
Well, for an answer we should look no further than an announcement made during the FA Cup semi-finals at Wembley last weekend. The gist of it was: if you are offended by someone's behaviour, you can text the person's seat number to God-knows-who and he or she will be given the full United Airlines treatment as security men hurl him bodily from the stadium.
This worried me greatly because I know that over the years I have caused a great deal of offence to a great many people: vegetablists, socialists, the French, the Americans, short people, fat people, bicyclists, football referees, public sector workers, the Koreans, people who drive Peugeots, people who are left-handed, people who wear stupid shoes, traffic wardens, Highways England traffic officers ... The list is endless, and so there was a good chance my seat number would be texted to the thought police, and shortly afterwards I'd end up in a skip with a loose tooth.
Causing offence has somehow become the nation's No 1 crime. Which means that if you live in the public eye, your No 1 rule must be: grin and be medium.
The result of this on television is Matt Baker, who hosts The One Show and Countryfile. He would host everything else if they could clone him in some way, because Matt is the sort of man you'd want your daughter to marry. Matt has never looked at pornography on the internet or put a stickleback down a waste disposal unit. Matt has great teeth and a range of jumpers that are lovely. Also, he speaks with one of the regional accents that we find cute (not Birmingham) and, I bet, writes long and brilliant thank-you letters.
On Newsnight we see that the acerbic Jeremy Paxman has gone and in his stead there's a small, bald man who smiles a lot. At home the small, bald man wears weird clothes, but at work he wears a suit and an open-necked shirt and is polite to his interviewees, all of whom wear burqas and turbans, so they don't offend anyone who's watching.
And it's not just on television. You may not be noisy any more when leaving a pub, in case you cause offence to the neighbours. You may not smoke within half a mile of a child. You may not roll your eyes at the post office counter girl, no matter how stupid she has been, because abuse of staff will not be tolerated.
Only last week we were told in an Oxford University newsletter that if you avoided eye contact with someone, you could be guilty of racism. But that's OK, because these days everything is racist, except all the stuff that is sexist as well.
All this makes life virtually impossible for politicians. Because if they don't establish eye contact with Emily Maitlis when they are being interviewed, they are being racist, and if they do, they are being misogynistic bastards.
And things are even worse when it comes to answering an actual question. Last weekend Jeremy Corbyn, who leads the Labour Party, was asked if he'd drop a bomb on the head of the man who runs Isis. Well, that's impossible for the old goat, because if he says no, he will offend the Daily Mail, and if he says yes, he will offend everyone in Isis.
It's the same for the Tories. When asked about the NHS, they can't say, "We really should shut the bloody thing down", because that will cause offence. So they have to pull a serious face and make noises until the reporter is bored, or reports them for being racist.
This means no politician can say what he or she is thinking. And neither can they tell the truth. They know, without a shadow of doubt, that badgers transmit tuberculosis to cattle. But if you say, "Do badgers transmit tuberculosis to cattle?", I guarantee that not a single one will say yes.
At home we know this. We know, as they waffle on while staring at the bridge of the reporter's nose so as not to be thought either racist or sexist, that they are lying, that they are spinning a yarn designed to keep Paul Dacre and Gary Lineker and the Twitter hordes off their back, and we are fed up with it.
Nigel Farage, by contrast, offended vast swathes of the population with his red-telephone-box, Morris Minor, Love Thy Neighbour vision of Britain. But people liked him because they could see he was talking from the heart. And it was the same story with Trump. And it's the same story with that mad Frenchwoman whose name I can't be bothered to spellcheck.
Sensible, centrist politicians must start taking note. They've got to stop trying to please everyone, which is impossible, and say what they think. And we can help them by agreeing not to be offended quite so easily.
We can start at the FA Cup final next month. When the announcer comes on the loudspeakers asking you to report anyone who's being offensive, report him to the number on the screens. Because unless we clamp down on this sort of nonsense, we are going to see the rise of a new Hitler.