Debenhams. Do It All. PC World. The Gadget Shop. Binns. Carphone Warehouse. All gone now, like my wife, who has been infected by the woke mind virus. Only Rupert Lowe can save the day now. Only he, king of normal blokes, can conjure Britain back into its old, persuasive light.

There was a time when this image didn't offend - when blokes could be blokes, before my soon-to-be ex-wife was possessed by the woke mind virus. Now it's all suspicion and scorn, and I am left clinging to these images, angry, alone, yet comforted by Rupert's patriotic machismo.

I long for the halcyon days of Frufoo - that yoghurt treat that came in a UFO-shaped pot, a toy alien entombed at its core, as if joy itself required excavation. Now my wife has been taken by the woke mind virus, I scrape the remnants of sweetness from memory, the centre empty.

Cracking on to birds, pint in hand, laughter thick as the smoke, no apology required. Britain felt loose and alive then. Now I sit alone, wifeless, with nothing but the ghost of that thirst, scrolling rage into the small hours because even memory has been declared problematic.

I think of the Cheltenham & Gloucester advert: the choral tune of Adiemus filling the room, my wife beside me. It sounded like promise then. Now it echoes differently, through an empty house, as I sit awake, body failing, replaying a life that no longer belongs to me.

I pine for Berni Inn - the ceremonious arrival of gammon and chips, a floater coffee, my wife beside me. Now she has taken the home, I am left pacing the dim corridors of memory, determined to crush the woke mind virus that convinced her to leave me.

This is Mick Lynch, not Billy Corgan. The poster is clearly very confused. Let's all tell him that he's wrong.

Easter once meant something: patriotic chocolate eggs as sugary sacraments to the Son of God, packaged in boxes with "EASTER" proudly on them. Now even that has been hollowed out by woke, just like my marriage, leaving only the vomit-like taste of private equity chocolate.

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Back in the 1990s men dressed like this. No hoodies, no slobby tracksuit bottoms. Proper clothes, real men. I refuse to answer to the woke mafia. I don't care what my wife says. I will always dress like this.

Who remembers before woke when British lads looked like this? No more.

Yowies once promised that inside something sweet there would be a small, perfect surprise. But like my marriage it was all a lie. Now I sit on X, consuming tweet after fuming tweet, searching for happiness. But each one is hollow. Each one contains only pain.

I miss Jamster ringtones - Crazy Frog shrieking through a life that still had noise, colour, my wife calling from the next room. Now the phone is silent, she is gone, and I sit on X, mainlining outrage into the small hours, waiting for a sound that will not return.

I miss Phones 4u - those glowing high-street shrines to possibility where a man could upgrade his handset and still believe his life might follow suit. My wife beside me, future fully charged. Now the shop's gone, she's gone, and I'm left with signal but no one to call.

I endure, sustained by nostalgia and Clarkson's Farm, my wifeless flat echoing like a dissused service station. When I watch Clarkson, I feel the pain briefly anaesthetised. One day the farm will spark the revolution and those who have wronged me will be punished.

I remember London as a child - well dressed men wearing suits and bowler hats. Women wore dresses and everybody was happy. Supporters of West Ham and Millwall were best friends. Children played on space hoppers. WHAT ON EARTH HAS HAPPENED I HATE IT!

I pass the shuttered ghost of Miss Selfridge and feel the full autumn of my life. Once my wife drifted through those bright racks while I waited, hopeful, outside. Now the shop is gone, she is gone, and Britain itself seems to be clearing the rails of everything beautiful.

I miss Dixons - standing under those harsh lights, comparing kettles while my wife drifted beside me, still mine, still real. Now she is gone, the shop is gone, and I cradle a boxed toaster like I once cradled her, livid at what woke has taken from me.

I miss Bravo - the low, flickering glow of it after my wife went to bed, the faint promise of mischief in a life that still had shape. Now the nights stretch out, joyless and overlit, and I sit alone scrolling Stop The Boat memes on Facebook, wishing my wife was still here.

My swollen prostate has been fully colonised by the lefty doctors. Adorned with rainbow lanyards, they judgementally survey me, turning every dull throb into another sermon of guilt. Only AI union flag lions soothe my pain and placate my loneliness.

When Britain was safer and cleaner and my wife slept beside me in our big bed. 🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧

The Gadget Shop! Those glittering altars of man trinkets. We did not have "mental health" then, only keyring digital cameras and wives. Now it's gone, she is gone, and I lie awake angrily scrolling X like a man waiting for a message that will never come.

Britain used to be simple. I used to be happy. Now my wife has left me for my views, and all I have is Facebook rage and protecting Thomas Skinner from strangers as I await yet another Just Eat delivery. Him, my contempt, my dreams of her returning, are all I have left.