Rising majestically like a well-struck one-iron, it's the only, I say only, guide to what's vital and what's shite y'all. The dearest of countdowns returns refreshed and reborn after a much needed February break spent soliloquising in secluded solitude.
(Makes drinky-drink motion).
A lovely Kapok tree.
The old boy pundit on the Arab football channel who looks like a roguish war criminal.
Running a lovely hot bath, tea lights akimbo, and chilling out to the sounds of a cast recording of "HMS Pinafore".
Watching endless documentaries about the Nazis.
Saucy office types, all aled up and photographing each other's décolletage.
Being a Fatman Scoop completist.
Attempting to accumulate your five-a-day via the medium of lime chunks in bottled lager.
Indulging in the noble art of pedantry.
Trying to recall whether it's The Young Knives, The Knives or The Knife whose music you enjoy, before remembering that it is, in fact, Def Leppard.
Upon being informed that no, she doesn't wish to go round the back for a knee-trembler, drawing yourself up to your full height, flicking a speck of dust from your cuff and saying haughtily "Madam, the loss is yours. I'll bid you good evening".
Talking to southerners in a ridiculous, exaggerated "cockney wanker" accent. They lahve a bit of it!
Taking really shit phonecam pictures.
Not being averse to a bit of bluegrass.
Getting an early inkling of an extra supermarket queue opening and skilfully nudging a leaden-footed fat lass out of the way to get there first.
Turning to aforementioned f.l. as your purchases are being scanned and telling her "Respec' the cock, sausage gut!"
Robinson's Fruit Shoots™
After being subjected by an acquaintance to an in-depth outline of some mawkish documentary or gruesome film they have recently watched, brightly asking them "Is that a comedy, is it?"
Possessing a table tennis serve that stays lower to the table than a fat rattler's belly.
The trading routes of the ancient Phoenicians. Those boys knew their stuff.
Worrying excessively about your carbon footprint. Carbon is natural, plants eat it.
Wassocks videoing a fellow when he has had one over the eight.
The Caspian Sea. Too effeminate by far.
Having a gnawing suspicion that one of your bitches is holding out on you, despite the fact that you aren't actually a pimp.
Grown men saying "I'm loving x" when discussing something of which they approve.
Pool table tubbyboohooing with respect to safety shots, revealing a hitherto unknown concern for "the spirit of the game".
Stick-wielding incapacity benefit type women who turn into fucking Flo-Jo when there is a danger of missing the (free) bus.
Waking up at 2am with a disctinct but mistaken belief that you have left the oven on.
Being overly familiar with tradespeople.
In a strange town, piling into the back of a cab and proclaiming "Driver! Take us to the titty bars".
Receiving "constructive feedback" after unsuccessful job interviews.
Behaving foolishly in late night fast food outlets.
Crushing your prey in your powerful mandibles.
Bothering all and sundry to do a round of shots, then being markedly less forthcoming vis a vis putting your hand in your pocket.
Eagerly planning an expedition to the nearest Tap and Spile to coincide with the interesting new "guest" they'll be stocking from Friday.
Beady-eyed, bus queue-jumping biddies.
Crawling into a bottle to forget your troubles, before remembering that you are a mouse. A mouse that's stuck in a bottle.
Feeling obliged to apologise for a solecism, despite not really knowing what one is.
The paucity of screen time given to BBC3's delightful comedy of manners "Two Pints of Piss and a Packet of Wanking".