The bitch had left him. What was he to do? Who would look after him, care for him, clean the house, iron his shirts, cook his dinner and pamper to his every sniffle?

How dare she! Didn’t she know she was replaceable? Everyone is replaceable, why didn’t she see that?

Silly cow. The only trouble is that she has gone. So he phones the replacement services. He explains, in his own strident way, just what he is used to and what he expects.

Seventeen bloody pounds an hour. 24 hours a day. Couldn’t he manage with less they ask – what planet are they on, he needs someone at his beck and call whether he is asleep or awake, don’t they realise how important he is? And they are the cheapest service in the area. That’s £408 a day. £2,856 a week. £11,424 a month. £137,088 a year. And that doesn’t include sex.

Bloody hell. So he tells the care service, in his own strident way, where to stick it as he starts trying very hard to get a flattering selfie of himself to stick on Tinder. He knows, from experience, that some poor cow (his words not mine) will be grateful to get a crap bunch of flowers from the local supermarket, and if he plays his cards right, she won’t even complain when he leaves the ‘reduced’ sticker on them.

And so it goes on. Until some bitch stops him.