€ = MChammer

Not many people are aware that the early 90s classic choon “Here Comes the Hammer” was actually written for TV’s favourite child-beater Timmy Mallet. The lyrics, “uh-oh, uh-oh uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh, here comes the Hammer” were supposedly meant to represent “that feeling like when you can’t speak nothing and all that comes out like durr. Then you KNOW the hammer come!”

And, indeed, it did, when Mallet was later hammered by the hammer of a judge for being hammered with kids through copious gin-scoffs pre-Wackaday. He was sentenced to community service on a building site, where he hammered in the morning, hammered in the evening, got hammered, hammered his wife, and then began the whole process again for a period of 90 days. This marked the end of Mallet's somewhat bizarre status as being the UK's only man legally allowed to beat children with hammers.

Things were a lot worse by 1995, when Mallet attempted to use his Mallet’s Mallet for Mal( int)e(n)t, shifting cocaine to Brazil. Clasping to the memory of his once renowned fame, Mallet assumed that he was still held in high enough esteem to be able to smuggle £3m of snout-dust stuffed inside his stupid coke-Mallet with no questions asked. Funnily enough, his palm-tree glasses and wacky-placed plasters, plus the fact that he was plastered, got him off lightly.

Last year, Mallet’s hammer went under the hammer in Hammersmith, and fetched £300,000. The buyer? None other than Cheshire's own MC Pukestation.

A few things you should know about Trevor McDonald:

McDonald is renowned for having useless, spindly legs, despite his somewhat chunky frame. These were described by Peter Snow as being “completely useless in an emergency. Absolutely fucking useless”.

McDonald has three children. All of them are suspiciously black.

McDonald is rumoured as being a “foul-play fighter”, throwing dirt into the eyes of opponents and pushing a spectacled man’s (or woman’s) glasses up their noses into their eyes. Other tactics such as the classic “look over there” and the confusing “hold on, there’s a toad in my eye” are apparently favourites before launching into full-scale slap and scratch blind rage with screaming.

Trevor McDonald has, on three occasions in his career, delivered news before it happened. It is anticipated that he will report the death of Lady Thatcher a full seven hours before it occurs.

Due to a strange loophole in British law, and despite clearly being male, Trevor McDonald was technically never assigned a confirmed sex. As such, he was, in the eyes of the law, not classed as a fully fledged member of society due to his medical records being incomplete. Rendering him unemployable, this fact was then overridden by ITV’s recently placed laws against sexual discrimination, and so his job became even more secure, despite reports of gross negligence and improper staring.

Trevor McDonald delivered exclusives on all of the following stories:

• The world’s palest boy, Huddersfield. 15-year-old Sylvester Godthroat could only spend on average 3 seconds per week outside during summer. He was sent to a special home after frequently being lost in the bath.
• The strange case of Dr Robert Gratis, who was found both guilty and not guilty of third-degree rape, in one unanimous decision by a jury in Manchester. He was sentenced to 20 years in prison, and granted his freedom. He gave his interview to McDonald after being released for escaping from prison that same day.
• The infamous “women who leave their men for nachos” scandal, the report which McDonald rounded up with the inspired quote, “And so, it would seem, to keep your woman, you need to be a nacho, nacho man".

None of this is liez. It’s all bollix.

bogeys at one o'clock

Yesterday at work, I found myself daydreaming into a sort of waking slumber, much like the transition from coma to conscious, but reversaled. Before long, I had daydreamed myself into a subconscious nose-pick, which finds one’s forefinger in full insertion, accompanied by a kind of inane, snarly smile which reveals the toppermost upteeth, half guarded by the picking hand’s knucklefist. For what seemed like 50 years, I cleaned my nasal dumpyard, before I noted that I was being addressed from the door. I soon realised that I had clean forgotten about my other nostril, but that, since my name had been called thrice already, I had been well and truly exposed in mongish snoutrummage.

It was at this point that I faced two rather interesting options. Either I cease with my pickings, and attempt to re-establish decorum by initiating an invitation for the other party to knowingly pretend that neither of us had seen the nosepick or been seen conducting the nosepick, or I extend my already picturesque grimace. I decided, in the heat of the moment, upon the latter, turning my snarl into a sort of confrontational scowl akin to the expression of dogs on “BEWARE” signs. My free left hand raised itself to the air, and swivelled repeatedly, speedily yet controllably on its wrist axis, similar to the technique perfected by black and white minstrels. Releasing a loud and volumous noseblow, aided in part by my finger’s starving my nose of oxypassage, I rose up from my seat, and leaned towards what had now become my victim. Like some kind of savage native of Godknowswhere, there was something unspeakably understood in this new relationship which was being forged before my very eyes. Belter.