Who remembers asphyxiwanks? All the rage in the '90s. No longer. Banned by the woke brigade. I just want my country back.

Britain used to be the best country in the world. What happened?

I only started getting these after my wife left me. It's plainly obvious that the holes are the the result of woke spores attacking the fabric.

Stars In Their Eyes once gave ordinary people a chance to become someone else. Now that dream is dead, hope is dead, and my wife has left me. Alone, I sit awake refreshing X like a man waiting to hear his own name called by Matthew Kelly. He never will.

Remember Cookie Jar, the '90s chain? Well, Millie's Cookies bought it, sanded off the charm, corporatised the sweetness, made it woke. Now my wife has left me, just as Cookie Jar did, and I am left here dreaming of sweetness and warmth, fuming at what has become of Britain.

Who remembers Britain's great slag heaps? They're all gone now, replaced by flats. 😡

Only one bloke has what it takes to get the job done. Rupert Lowe.

Start used to sustain our nation. It nourished our people. It fuelled our legendary athletes. No longer. Now the country is broken, my heart is broken, and the only thing I start in the morning is breaking down as I contemplate where it all went wrong.

Head bags used to mean something - proper stitching, stubborn zips, built to carry a life that felt like it might hold together. Now it's all flimsy, throwaway, like the country itself. Broken Britain, broken marriage, and me left carrying what's left in something that won't last

Swingball in the garden. That bright, circling orbit of plastic certainty - a game you could win, a day you could hold. Now the pole is gone, my wife is gone, and I spin in place instead, wound tight by memory, watching everything I had unwind into nothing.

This is the kind of content that the woke brigade don't want you to watch. 😡

Kasabian were the sound of a country that still had a pulse - proper guitar music that spoke to normal men like me. Now music is crap, my wife has left me, and I stand here in the afternoise with my Weller haircut and broken dreams.

There's nothing more British than having a few pints with lunch while you're at work - whether you operate heavy machinery, drive a lorry, provide health care, or run the country. That's our culture. And we will never hand over our pints.

A proper British telly: thick-backed, softly humming, the picture blooming into life like it meant it, my wife beside me. Now they're all thin and woke, and she is gone. Bushell on the Box isn't the same in HD.

Our country was built on licking the spoon. Now even that is gone; the bowl is scraped clean, the house is silent, and I stand there, wifeless, with nothing but the aftertaste of something that will not come back.

Pick ’n’ Mix: warm paper cups, sugar-dusted choice, my wife laughing as we overfilled beyond reason. A life that felt abundant in small, bright ways. Now the bins are gone, she is gone, and I sit alone measuring out my evenings in careful, joyless portions.

I just want my country back

Generation X was the last hard generation.

You can't get brandy snaps any more. We've got the EU to thank for that. But despite what the woke say, they were good for our health and they'd feed a family for a week. Nothing and nobody can eradicate the unrelenting fury I have inside of me.

Britain used to rule the world. What happened?

The Great British trough urinal once represented Britain at its best. Now, like our once-mighty empire, it has gone - replaced by European urinals festooned with woke P-waves. And so here I stand, pissing into the sink as I contemplate where it all went wrong.

Simply Red on stage, that red halo and velvet voice filling the room, my wife beside me - a night that felt like proof of something lasting. Now the singer is dead, she has flown, and I sit here listening to the song that we once called ours.

Crisp packet condoms: the furtive ingenuity of it, foil and salt-and-vinegar alchemy, a country that made do and carried on. Now nobody dares talk about them. They belong to a bygone age of Blitz spirit and - like my relationship with my wife - will remain forever in the past.

A cuppa once nourished me - my wife beside me, life seeming more complete with every sip. Now the tea goes cold untouched, she is gone, and I sit awake at 3am, dunking memory into nothing, watching it all collapse.

There's only one man who can loosen Great Britain's cock cage.

Well, since my baby left me I found a new place to go Sharing memes on the internet Of Rupert Lowe I'm so angry, so lonely, baby Well, I'm so angry I'm so lonely, I could die

A proper roast once meant something - steam on the windows, my wife commanding the kitchen while I orbited in useless contentment. Now the oven is cold, the house hollow, and I pick at memory like scraps, hungry for my life before she left me.

I've paid £500 to go bowling with Tommy.

I just want my country back

Love. We used to have that in Britain back when Britannia ruled the waves and Queen Lizzy was calling the shots. Not any more. It's all gone, just like our respect as a country - done away with by the woke stasi. You can't even say love any more without getting arrested.

My heart aches for the lost days of cash machines - stood there, wallet in hand, listening to that gentle whirr. Now the machines have gone - gone like me wife - and the only thing I withdraw is myself from society as I spend more time on here.

Fish & chips in newspaper - the vinegar bleeding through ink, my wife beside me as if such things might last. A life wrapped tight, complete. Now it is all unwrapped, gone cold. She has left, and I am left picking at greaseproof memories that taste of nothing.

I JUST WANT MY COUNTRY BACK!

This is what this country needs right now.

There's only one bloke who can sort this mess out. One bloke, our lodestar, who will guide us back to Britain's glorious past.

You would not get away with Snooker Loopy now - too offensive, too patriotic. I had it on single once, spun it like a man with time ahead of him, my wife laughing in the next room. She took it when she left. Of course she did. Now even the chorus feels forbidden.

I once watched the Focker films with the woman I used to call my wife - proper films with common sense, British values. Now, like her, the laughter has left me, and I am filled with hatred for what this franchise has become - woke, left-wing, disdainful of normal men like me.

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.