Last week I had to take a long taxi ride home at the end of an especially prolonged and exhausting day. It was late at night and the journey was set to last an hour. As the car pulled away, I slumped in the back seat and closed my eyes, enjoying the gentle rock and hum, drifting away to snug semi-consciousness almost immediately. The soft, welcoming arms of sleep began to embrace me.

Friends occasionally come to me for advice, which is odd, because one look at my shambling semi-existence should be enough to convince them I’m in no position to offer guidance on anything. I wouldn’t trust myself to tell someone which end of a cup to drink from. But still they come, writes Charlie Brooker.

Two’s company. Three’s a crowd. And whoever they are, I don’t trust them. Yes, in the ever expanding list of things I don’t ”get”, the most crippling entry has to be people. I don’t get people. What’s their appeal, precisely? They waddle around with their haircuts on, cluttering the pavement like gormless, farting skittles. They’re awful.