Matt Owen Freelance Writer

As told to Matt Owen JEREMY HUNT Speaking as someone who sounds not quite as mad as Boris, I implore Conservative Party members to think about what they really want from their party when they vote for the leader. As someone who has a tremendous amount of experience fucking things up in government, I would like to say that I am without a shadow of a doubt, more experienced when it comes to fucking things right up, not only for the party, but for the country. I would leave no s

As told to Matt Owen In many respects I’m what you might call a lucky geezer. I get to do what I love for a living, be it pretending to be the guvnor of a pub; hanging around with naughty geezers who like putting people’s lights out; and of course, wandering around with me hands nestled in the pockets of me Crombie, trying to look proper moody for the camera. However, every now and then something comes along to naus things right up. I was sitting at home in me drum when I get

People often come up to me in the streets and ask me, “Boris”, because they like to think they know me, and have some kind of real connection, but in reality, this isn’t true. They don’t know me at all. Anyway, members of the public constantly ask me “what on Earth is going on with Brexit?” Then they say “Why is that weak, useless, spineless woman Theresa May still Prime Minister? And why are you cycling to work when you’ve got enough money to buy one of your own daft buses?”

So, it’s with great sorrow and serious sad face that I today learned of the death of great revolutionary and champion of social justice, Fidel Castro, at the tragically young age of 90. He had so much more to give. At the same time, I was also filled with great sorrow when I learned of the life of George Galloway, who’d filled his Twitter feed with snaps of himself being all matey and crawling up Fidel’s glorious backside. Sadly, Mr Castro never had the pleasure of meeting me

When we look back at 2016, it will go down in history as the year in which all the so-called “experts” who write books and have qualifications coming out of their ears were finally proved wrong. The Guardian-reading, Ken Loach box set-owning elite sat in their metropolitan ivory towers, eating vegetarian Tofu or whatever it is they insist on calling food, have had their day - the voice of the common people has finally been heard. It all began on that fateful day in June when

In my first speech to conference as Home Secretary I wanted to leave my own personal stamp on proceedings by putting my foot down with a positive hand. I believe I achieved this goal and several other goals, of which I shall come to later when I can remember them fully. First of all I’d like to say that there’s been a lot of scaremongering following my announcement that there’s to be a crackdown on layabout scrounging foreigners who take up all the poorly-paid, 70-hour-a-week

Well I don’t know – what is a girl to do? You go out of your way to help your fellow overweight, working class man (or woman – they’re even worse – especially the awful ones who wear leggings and pick their grandchildren up from the school gates dressed in onesies) by pointing out on Twitter that what they're eating is going to put them in hospital - and not a nice private one with an a la carte menu and a daytime Botox clinic. Oh no, it'll be one of those ghastly places with

End of the day, when the final late tackle has put the opposing right-sided midfielder in hospital, I can say hand on heart that I am a man of principle. I’ve been England manager for 60-odd days now, and in that time people have actually stopped me in the street and told me “thank God we’ve got a proper patriotic, no-nonsense, larger-than-life, doesn’t pull his punches Englishman in charge of a dreadfully under-performing national team, once again”. I’m a simple lad with sim

In just two days, ladies and gentleman of this country I have the fortune of calling “Great Britain”, we have the opportunity of finally rectifying all the wrongdoings of the last forty years by voting for a Brexit, and at the same time ensuring I get to make my 479th consecutive Question Time appearance. The proof is in the eating of the pudding when it comes to days like Thursday 23rd June. When I say pudding, I don’t mean foreign sorbets and Italian ice creams with fancy-D

I wonder if the “so-called” Tory Prime Minister, or the “so-called” Tory Chancellor of The Exchequer have any idea how much a pint of baked beans is these days? Cameron and Osborne and their type live in a bubble (not a rundown, decaying working class bubble with a leaking roof - but a well-heeled, comfortable bubble, with it’s own parking space and three kitchens) - and have little or no compassion for the man (or woman) in the street. This heartless, compassionless Tory go

“Oh get over it you fucking losers!” I shout at the family who’re in their garden, burying their pet guinea pig in an old shoebox. To show my distaste at their faux sadness, I walk over to the Mother, Father and the two kiddy-winks and bellow “MAN THE FUCKING FUCK UP YOU PATHETIC BASTARDS! IT’S A FURRY LITTLE FUCK-FACED CREATURE YOU’RE PLANTING, NOT YOUR NAN, GRANDAD OR YOUR AUNTIE GEORGINA WHO LEFT YOU 500 GRAND IN HER WILL”. I am the grief law, and if you don’t like what yo

“ Like, talk to the hand dude “, is what I say when someone goes on about me being born with a silver spoon in my, like, mouth – I mean, “get a life and grow some you loser” is what I also say. Well, actually, I don't – it's usually the clever chap who writes the funny jokes on my Twitter account who came back with something like that. Actually I'm so from a normal, everyday background it's not true - you, know it's the usual kind of thing: Mummy was an actress, Daddy was Jud