Wow! That escalated quickly. Last time I filed my supposedly funny column, only two weeks ago, Los Angeles wasn’t on fire; Facebook’s Mark Zuckerberg hadn’t abandoned the guardrails that restrict neo-fascist lies, or “free speech” as they are now known; the US hadn’t threatened to invade Canada and Greenland; Elon Musk and Jordan Peterson hadn’t declared the sniff-conked sunbed fraudster Tommy Robinson the new Nelson Mandela; and the next US president, though already an adjudicated sexual abuser, wasn’t actually a convicted felon who would have been in prison were he not in the White House. Jesus! I only popped out for some (oat) milk.

Twenty or so years ago, I had a friend whose flat was clearly infested by hundreds of rats that she never saw. We’d come in, put the Happy Shopper bags on the kitchen table, go to the loo, and return to see the sacks shredded and everything attractive to rodents disappeared into the cavity walls. Either that or there was a really hungry flatmate who was usually out whenever my friend was in. And wasn’t paying any rent. And left tiny oblong droppings under the units.

But the rats have been in the walls of the world all along it seems, just waiting for us to go to the bathroom for a quick number two. And now the Jacob’s Crackers of truth are stuffed up the chimney stack of our shared certain doom. Or something.

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