Dick Turnip, writer for the Rochdale Herald, has been left unable to write a single humorous thing commenting on, or parodying the day’s news.

“It’s 24°c outside, 28°C in the Herald office and roughly 200°C in my crotch crease,” said the profusely sweating satirist.

“Dick Turnip? I should change my pen name to Betty Swallocks. I literally can’t think of anything else other than my need to get home and teabag my self into the chest freezer.”

The dashing handsome and modest writer leaned back into his chair and fanned himself with the wads of metaphorical cash he’d like to receive from advertisement revenue.

“I’m sweating harder than Theresa May having to speak to a survivor of one of the handful of tragedies that’s happen since the snap election was called; not that she feels this heat, being a cold-blooded reptilian.”

19th century vegetable highwayman/ satirist. Likes: the sound of a solitary house fly loitering hectically around his ear and the feeling of a warm toilet seat. Favourite topic: writing about political intrigue involving biscuits.