Richard Littlejohn - or, as he's know to decent, level-headed people, Dick Tinytoilet - claims you couldn't make it up. This is patently untrue, because most of what he writes, bubbling away like a sexist racist homophobic xenophobic intolerant self-important coffee pot made entirely out of the faecal matter of a former National Front member who's been shovelled into a suit, is made up. It's a fantasy of how Britain is as he experiences it from his beautiful middle England house in the Florida dells. He suckles from the teat of hate and then bashes out words so loaded with vitriol that we can only hope his blood pressure rises enough to make haemoglobin start squirting from his pores, leaving a flapping, lifeless bag of skin and a bile duct, just for a respite from his awful, awful existence.
From the cover it seems that he's put on some weight as well.