There’s a lot of twaddle at this time of year about what a great time of year it is, the Earth getting ready to rest and regenerate in Spring, blah, blah, blah. Bollocks. It’s a hateful time. As a one-time avid gardener, all I saw was death. Lovingly nurtured plants turning brown, then black, and needing to be dug up and disposed of (composted, natch. I had three compost bins.) Some plants were survivors, but even I don’t get aesthetically turned on by thriving sprouts. They just don’t do it, much as I like them to eat.

Then there’s the sodding wasps. The nest has gone, they have nothing to do, they’re aimless, and they’re all pissed from eating rotting fermenting fruit, and wasps are mean drunks.

Rotting fruit means this is prime time for wineflies/fruitflies/barflies. Bloody hell they’re irritating.

It’s getting colder, there’s teeming rain, it doesn’t get light till too late, it gets dark too early. Seriously, what is to like about piles of wet leaves concealing dog turds? On the upside there, adolescent trick-or-treaters get shit in the treads of their Skechers.

One thing I used to like was the knowledge that it was coming up to November Fifth, noted for gunpowder, treason, and plot. When I was a nipper I’d be wandering about with a box full of tuppenny bangers blowing things up. If at the age of six you’ve never dropped an AirBomb fizzing-end down in a milkbottle and legged it for your life, you haven’t really lived, have you? Now you have to be eighteen to purchase fireworks, which makes little sense given the mental age of your average teen scrote these days.

Now even the simple pleasure of blowing things up is under threat. Sainsbury has decided in its wisdom to become a secondary police force and stop selling fireworks to the public, as a means of avoiding social disruption. Gimme a break. They’re still selling petrol, and look at the social disruption, not to mention death and injury, caused by cars.

Scrotes will be scrotes no matter what. Then there’s the whole ‘frightening pets and other animals’ canard. Don’t have a dog and assume that gives you the right to impose your arbitrary restrictions on the rest of us.

By the way, you know my views on anecdotal evidence, but I’m going on with this anyway. The legendary feline Snotbag adored Bonfire Night. She’d be back in the catflap about two in the morning, reeking of smoke and with burns in her coat like mini cropcircles where’d she’d got a bit close to festivities.

Now you know why I don’t like Autumn, and I haven’t even mentioned bloody Americans and their tedious seasonal obsession with ‘pumpkin spice.’ Listen. It goes with pumpkins, hence the name. It does not go with a skinny soy decaff latte.