Jack just sits there, sits there in his own filth, barely covered up by an ancient string vest and soiled Y-fronts. Day in, day out, month after month and year after year, ever since that rainy afternoon just over a decade ago when he was made redundant from the plastics factory and his wife left him with their son and daughter. Two hours of sleep followed by a bowl of corn flakes saturated in Stella Artois is how his mornings usually began. A glass of Strongbow in place of fresh juice and a dram of Famous Grouse in his store-brand instant coffee.

He devours his lager cereal and wanks into the empty bowl at the sight of Charlotte Hawkins’ cleavage on Good Morning Britain. He is almost at the point of no return when Piers Morgan starts another one of his arrogant, morally superior rants on firearms.

He switches channels to the sports news. Jack thought to himself that Alex Hammond appeared even hotter than usual as she talked about yesterday’s horse racing results from Taunton and Doncaster. Beautiful short blonde hair, angelic smile with perfect teeth, and sexy reading glasses. Jack fantasised; he imagined Alex as a hot secretary from a cheesy 80’s porn flick and he was her “boss” about to get stuck into her.

He contemplated picking up from where he left off again as he knocked back a steady belt of Grouse. He started stroking his lethargic dick once more, getting into the rhythm of a morning jog. Then a segment began with a young male reporter lecturing the viewers on how sexist football supporters are because of the low attendance at women’s Super League matches.

“FUUUUUUUCK, can’t a guy just watch the news and wank in peace without getting politics shoved down his throat?” he yelled out as he guzzled down some more of his scotch.

I know: I will try RT. Kremlin propaganda, perhaps, but they’re still fairer than most, Jack considered as his balls began to ache.

He picked up the remote with his non-masturbating hand and switched the channel over to RT.

Simone del Rosario looked as stunning as ever whilst she talked about the week’s current events with her far less attractive colleague in the studio, who had dyed purple hair, a neck tattoo, and both nose and lip piercings. Now we’re talking. Simone is so fucking fit! If I was a younger man, I’d be into her like a rat up a drain pipe, Jack thought as he slid off his shit-stained underpants.

As the conversation on screen progressed, the topic moved on from celebrity bullshit to American politics. Simone went off on a tirade on Donald Trump’s “misogynistic” policies. “Oh, fuck this, enough is enough,” he exhaled in a sigh of frustration, both general and sexual.

Jack launched the remote control across the room in a blinding rage. “BASTARDS!” he cried as he took another strong gulp of his Highland firewater. Just as he put the bottle back down by his side, there was a loud knock at the door.

“Who the fuck is that? It’s not even 9am,” Jack grunted as he peeled his skinny bare arse off the roach0infested sofa.

Jack opened the door wide with bleary eyes and no underwear, yawning and scratching his naked ballsack. He was greeted by a portly, cross-eyed young man in his mid-twenties with a beard like a Viking and a clipboard in hand.

“Hi, I’m Andy…errrm, sir, you’re not wearing any underwear.”

“So?” replied Jack. “Look, what do you want? I’m a very busy man!”

“Yes, so…okay sir, are you Mr. Jack Watkins?”

“What do you want to know for, cockeye?”

“Ok, I will take that as a yes. Are you the main tenant of this flat, Mr. Watkins?”

“Yes, once again, what the flying fuck has that got to do with you, cockeye?”

“Well, Mr. Watkins, I work for a company called Capita on behalf of TV Licensing, and according to our records, you have not paid for a TV license for the past 11 years. We could issue you with a heavy fine if we find out you have been watching television without a license.”

“Could you indeed?”

“Yes, Mr. Watkins, we could.”

“Oh yeah, well, you’ll have to have me convicted before you fine me, cockeye.”

“How do you mean, Mr. Watkins?”

“Well, cockeye, it’s like this: according to the Bill of Rights 1689, all promises of fines and forfeitures before conviction are illegal and void.”

“I don’t know anything about that, sir.”

“Why not? You work for the TV license people, don’t you?”

“On behalf of them, yes.”

Jack hit the young man square between his cross eyes with a left hook Dillian Whyte would be proud of.

“How dare you charge people money to watch that crap on TV. Your implied right of access to this property has been revoked, now get your fat arse out of my doorway, you cockeyed prick!”

Jack slammed the door behind him, sat back down on his dirty old sofa, and opened a three-litre bottle of 3 Hammers. He gave up on the news and decided to watch Babestation Daytime instead.