On things not possibly getting any worse
Top TV comedy producer and blogger Mark Freeland asks, on farting in front of Princess Anne's son and visiting a rest home full of naked old men: "Can it get much worse?"
Yes, of course it can. And why does it always seem to involve my genitals?
While having an operation on my 'nads last year didn't hurt nearly as much as I expected, thanks to the miracle of loads and loads of drugs, there's not much worse than making small talk on your holidays with a doctor and two nurses while they carve away at your bollocks like it was a Sunday roast.
In fact, I've had far worse pain from far more innocent pursuits. True, I've been kicked in the bollocks by the unhinged kid at school, but then not even the teachers escaped Mad Paul's swinging Doc Martens. After the brief white flash of pain, and the minutes spent drooling and crying on the playground, you are free to go about your life, hoping beyond hope that they still work. Not so bad, then.
However, there is little worse than rubbing Deep Heat into my back before having a wee without washing my hands. It doesn't get much worse than that, not unless you're the kind of person to have a penchant for getting serviced by tramps. Tramps who have previously been cutting up chilis before getting down to the business in hand.
I would imagine that nothing is quite as bad as that. Unless, of course, you lot know better, you tramp-worrying filth-mongers.