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I really must apologise for this week’s content in advance and suggest that if you are offended by swearing you should look away now. It’s my own little tribute to the new Doctor, and it’s prompted by the weather.

(When I predicted that summer would end at 3.15pm prompt on Friday, July 19, when the kids broke up for the holidays, people laughed. Well, like TV producers who reject my comedy scripts, they’re not laughing now. Royalties will be paid to the estate of Bob Monkhouse for that line, by the way. The only thing that’s cheering me up is thinking of all those people who said, during the all-too-brief two-week summer we’ve had to accept as our lot for seven years of waiting, “look, the weather’s lovely – let’s go to Cornwall for our summer holiday!” Big mistake. Huge.)

Oh, and the following was a quick way to cut and paste some funny jokes, because I’ve got lots of history stuff to get on with. Sorry about that.

Anyway, on to the agenda and firstly, let me again warn readers of a nervous disposition that as the following snippet deals with the TV character Malcolm Tucker, there will be adult situations and language. And probably flash photography too, for all I care.

I couldn’t be more pleased that Peter Capaldi, evil foul-mouthed spin doctor Malcolm Tucker from the truly outstanding The Thick Of It, is the 100^th – or whatever it is – Doctor.

I can even forgive the BBC their ludicrous half-hour waste of licence-payers’ money for the ridiculous announcement, so long as we have a marriage between the finest political satire of recent times and the Beeb’s sci-fi icon.

The Dr can tell a particularly repellent baddie he or she has “a face like Dot Cotton licking piss off a nettle”.

He can threaten: “I will tear your fucking skin off, I will wear it to your mother’s birthday party, and rub your nuts up and down her leg whilst whistling Bohemian fucking Rhapsody. Right?”

Or perhaps best of all: “You get sarcastic with me again and I will stuff so much cotton wool down your fucking throat it’ll come out your arse like the tail on a Playboy bunny.”

All these things, and only these things, would ensure I tuned in to Dr Who.

Secondly, let me warn readers of a nervous disposition that as the following snippet deals with the chancellor George Osborne, there is a danger of strong feelings of revulsion, spontaneous vomiting, adult situations and language. And flash photography.

Osborne has been suggesting, wilfully ignoring the sub-prime mortgage farce that got us all into this mess in the first place, that the taxpayer underwrite first-time property buyers. That’s going to end well, isn’t it?

Now he tells families like mine – where one partner chooses to be a stay-at-home ‘housewife’ to provide stability, food, play, a home to the children – that we’re, in Malcolm Tucker’s words, “as useless as a marzipan dildo”, for the taxpayer will hand over vouchers for child care to families where both parents are working, and for families like us will do… nothing. Genius!

He will do this while presiding over a tax system that is harassing hard-up families like mine for repayment of tax credits from up to six years ago – the tax credit scheme that was supposed to support families caring for their children  has become an excuse for HMRC to try to extort hundreds of pounds from people who can ill afford it.

He will do this while cutting child benefit for families where just one parent works.

And it will be meaningless: working parents will be able to claim 20 per cent of childcare costs up to a limit of £6,000 per year per child, meaning up to £1,200 could be claimed for each child. The average cost of a part-time nursery place for a child under two in the UK is more than £5,000 a year. Show me a job I can get that will enable me to clear £3,800 for child care before I start earning. Come with me to the depressed parts of this benighted country and find a minimum-wage zero-hours contract job that has a cushion of £3,800 a year.

Truly, the Chancellor is the politician who could turn every human in Britain into a living, breathing Malcolm Tucker – who wouldn’t want to say to George Osborne: “Allow me to pop a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up your shitter with a lubricated horse cock.”? And then do it?