You, sitting at home, in work, in your car reading this on your iPhone as you bomb down the M50, you are stupid. How do I know?

It’s because you’ve got a big, stupid looking head. Like Richard Dunne crossed with Corky from Life Goes on. I, being not stupid and far too busy anyway, can no longer take the time to tell you what’s stupid because you are too stupid to understand it anyway.

So, this is Fannywaters signing off (until something really stupid comes along).

Basically one of God’s most hideous mistakes, right up there with the Spanish. And girls.

Girls are smelly.

What sane woman starts off with a boyfriend from Big Audio Dynamite then moves on to the lead singer from Simple Minds only to ditch him for the scruffy lead singer of Oasis? Let’s face it, that’s a bit like going out with the keyboard player from Hipsway then shacking up with Stuart Adamson from Big Country before leaving him stranded at the altar of life while you run away with Cathal Coughlan from Microdisney.

Whatever you look at it, it just doesn’t make sense.

Why? Everybody knows that. It’s a commonly accepted wisdom. I’m a journalist, I don’t need facts.

Shut up. I SAID SHUT UP.

Not that I have any great problem with women politicians, per se. They can be quite entertaining. Witness Mary O’Rourke’s hilarious racism or Mary Robinson’s fine attempts at stand-up in front of the UN. I just think men are better able to decide things which matter.

For example, do girls play war when they’re growing up? No, they do not. Little girls play with dolls and play dress-up and make-up, whereas boys are playing sports or with soldiers. That kind of tactical thinking becomes ingrained and no amount of political experience can ever teach a woman how and when to move a battalion of troops.

To even think about becoming president without that knowledge is stupid. Therefore Hilary Clinton is stupid.

Q, E and D, Eurovision lovers.

He sits under trees, his glorious mane a symbol of his virile manliness and casts his eye on his dominion. Flies do not bother him. He worries not about the trifling trivialities of life. The only thing that is important is that he is the master of all he surveys.

And this is where society today can learn from this majestic beast. When he is hungry he dispatches his lionesses to go hunt, to chase down prey and to bring him back the meal he so richly deserves. Nowadays the average wife, girlfriend or hideously named ‘life partner’ rarely has the dinner on the table waiting for her man when he comes home from being the master of his own domain, no matter how small that is.

Can we link the problems in society these days with the below-par, self-righteous, lionesses bleating constantly about equality and so-called rights? If you can’t see exactly this is why we have such a disparate culture compared to the good years, when our fathers were the Kings of the Jungle and our mothers the lionesses who weren’t too proud to follow the course that nature intended for them, then I fear you may be stupid.

Our lionesses, quite literally, need to get back in the kitchen but I fear that we lions will have to suffer their pretensions until something quite drastic happens. And when it does I shall roar.

I remember when I was a child I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d put my Sunday best on (short pants, grey socks with green garters, shirt, tie and blazer) and we would go to church. I suppose it was there that I first understood the greatness of the Pope. Whether it was John Paul, John XXII or Pius IV – This time it’s Papal, the sheer brilliance of the man shone through.

Who else could get his fellow man to appear on stage in a dress and then dispense stale parts of Christ’s body to willing supplicants? Truly a man beyond words.

But now Sunday is no longer for the Sunday best, the roast dinner or the quiet contemplation around the fire. It’s about Liffey Valley, Harvey Norman, McDonalds for lunch and fat, sweaty knackers in their tracksuits with their four tubby offspring from five different fathers (one of them being half-mulatto) carrying plastic bags full of rubbish they don’t even need.

You can put it down to the world being more advanced, our hunger for 24 everything taking control, but personally it’s simply obvious that Sunday has gone from being not stupid to stupid, and like a child who has spent too long with oxygen after falling into a swimming pool, there’s no going back.

I have to admit a curiosity about the game. These fine athletes, muscles rippling, fathers to children who aren’t smothered with feminity by sickly women, bound about the field with seemingly endless endurance. From a purely phsyical point of view it is quite impressive, however pointless the whole exercise is.

One man stood out today and that was a lanky African named Adebayor. Twice he netted a goal for the Arsenal Gunners of London and each time only highlighted his stupidity. Somebody should tell him the game is called football, not headball.

The thought that this man earns in a week what your average Irish Times columnist is lucky to scrape by on a year for is thoroughly depressing.

I know I say some mad things sometimes but can you honestly tell me that the idea of Kathleen Turner, the embodiment of womanhood (that being a seductive, available siren) in Body Heat, as a serial killer with the perfect all-American family is anything other than the height of stupidity.

And that’s leaving aside the predilection for overweight drag queens who, of all the queens that exist in this world, from bees to monarchs, are the most stupid of all.

Speaking of hell, I commissioned one of my numerous photographers to take a couple of snaps of the internets today, which I had turned into, what I’m told is, “downloadable desktop wallpaper”.

Last time I checked, wallpaper was for walls. Of course, it would take an idiot like Bill Gates or Steve Jobs to shift that particular goalpost.