Rumours that this year’s magic mushroom season has been a let down are made of regret and the memory of socks from Bolivia, says a lamp in this giant spoon.

The story began once upon a time when Barry the Bigot said that he’d lifted every cow turd this side of Chadderton and not seen a nipple!

But your intrepid reporter reported reports of reporting… Where was I?

Cow tipping! I had totally forgotten it was a thing! Silly bovine bastards!

Big eyes though!

I stared into one and I felt myself being drawn in, deeper and down and deeper, like that Status Quo song, and before long its browniness was in my very soul!

Then I realised I had my face in a cow pat.

And then Mick the Nose biter appeared in the sky and it began to rain jelly that melted on contact with our lesser astral plane.

Later the very nature of existence went past in a big pink taxi and I realised that the secret of life was to avoid getting your jokes nicked by Twitter plagiarist and former Maggie mugger, Keith Chegwin whilst not actually being dead.

Not an easy tusk but there’s always a room in your elephant.

I tend to throw owls on a Thursday but that’s what closing the libraries caused, isn’t it!

Tory shitehawks! Get off round your own end or I’ll tell your ma you’re a camel!

Anyway. There’s none left. Shrooms not Tories.

Vademall.

That was me saying that I have had em all and not the baddie from them Harry Potter books.

I think I might be a bit sick acksherly.

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