It’s called ‘snow’. But, amazingly, it is nothing new. In fact, it used to fall regularly. For those who can remember back that far, it actually fell in London in 2011. Doctors say there’s nothing to be afraid of and some Norwegians say it can actually be therapeutic.

In other more advanced countries, such as Antartica, snow doesn’t terrify people. Like us, Eskimos have over a hundred different words for snow. But their words are positive. Our words – such as Catastrophe, School-Closure, Train-Cancellation, Forced-to-Take-a-Holiday-to-Look-After-the-Kids and We’re-Fucking-Useless-in-This-Country – tend to reflect a more primitive, instinctive fear of the phenomenon.

This supplement will guide you through the snow and come out the other side, albeit wet, cold and several hours late for work.

The house has seen some of the most brutal battles of the divorce, with barrages of legal letters fired by both sides until their finances were reduced to rubble and both sides were bogged down in a quagmire of ill feeling and petty squabbles.

“When this thing started, I thought it would all be over by Christmas” said Joe, looking exhausted after spending six months living in the shed. “It all began over Franz Ferdinand. I accused her of not putting one of their CDs back in the right place in the rack, and she retaliated by complaining about my snoring. Things escalated from there and once the lawyers got involved it soon turned into a war of attrition. I gained access to the power tools, and then she made a lightning raid on the dinner service. Pretty soon we were at stalemate with both of us bunkered down in defensive positions over the bread machine and pension rights.”

For her part, Paula made some good initial gains over access rights to the house, but had to retreat when the light bulbs needed changing in the kitchen and the washing machine waste pipe became blocked. “I will admit to some initial weaknesses” said Paula “But since I met the plumber with the big moustache and ballcock I’ve been making advances on a few fronts.”

“For one day at least, it will be all quiet on the Western Front.” Quipped Joe from his shed.

With a Santa’s hat-tip to Jeni B

Head of the study group, Marcus Johnson said, “I first became aware of the phenomenon when two of my BMW driving colleagues expressed a downturn in their sexual prowess. However, once behind the wheel of their Series 5’s, X1’s or Z4’s they expressed ‘absolute orgasmic’ pleasure at sitting on the arse of the car in front and overtaking in inappropriate circumstances.”

Johnson expanded his research to include men from other employment groups, such as insurance men; banking professionals and chartered surveyors. He noted that orgasmic reactions were higher when driving black BMW’s rather than white models where the ‘vinegar stroke’ ratio was almost 10% lower. “Interestingly drivers of any BMW model with the word Coupé in the name became total ‘flat-liners’ after walking away from the car and applying the central locking system. “The sound of the locks coupled with the flashing security lights was more effective than an overdose of bromide.”

The research has indicated a psychosomatic reaction between the driver and the vehicle with social and behavioural factors affecting bodily processes. “In layman’s terms these guys just can’t get it up once they are out of the driver’s seat.”

Treatments are now being studied with the power of suggestion through positive thinking being the likely way forward. “In our carefully controlled arousal tests we used images of Pippa Middleton’s arse; Beyoncé’s shaking tush and a selection of MILF’s including Lulu, Twiggy and Harriet Harman but all to no avail. However when extreme close ups of rear bumpers were projected on to the screen in the BMW simulator it almost put our laboratory out of Kleenex.” Random images of Jeremy Clarkson also produced a similar outcome.

As tests continue female BMW drivers are also coming under scrutiny, so far results have shown a predilection for lank blonde hair, pin stripe trouser suits and permanent use of a mobile phone at speeds of over 60mph.

Johnson concluded, “If we can identify the adverse biological and psychological effects related to driving a BMW, then perhaps other road users will be spared the misfortune of having a sweaty faced individual sitting on their arses in search of sexual gratification.”

Dick Everyman

Tibby is in intensive care on a feline drip, but the minute she recovers any strength she attacks the tube with her teeth, wrestles it from her arm and tangles herself up in it, hastening her demise.

Today almost all cats are resistant to cat food in one or more of its forms, and Tibby’s story is disturbingly commonplace. The accidental discovery of canned cat food by research chemists in the 1930s ushered in a new era of well-fed cats for whom the only defence against starvation had previously been condescending to accept scraps of human food or disturbing their sleep for hours at a time to catch mice.

Indiscriminate cat food use soon led to acquired resistance and the need for ever-improved flavours and textures. R&D departments vied with one another to patent new blockbusters. Container solutions escalated from cans to foil trays and pouches. A proliferation of variants based on fish, meat, in jelly or gravy, and a whole parallel universe of dried food, flooded an unregulated market.

Campaigners failed to prevent the spread to third world countries where owners would starve so they could buy expensive cat food. Unrepentant sales executives said it was more than food, it was a lifestyle experience that people had the right to choose for their cats, but uncontrolled use led to candemics.

Experts recommend a strict protocol, starting on supermarket own brands and only graduating to stronger ranges as resistance develops. With sparing use, the available range of foods will cover any cat’s natural lifespan. But unscrupulous manufacturers get them young. Owners of kittens as young as six weeks approach suppliers when their cat seems a bit picky and insist on a pouch. Once kittens eat specialist gourmet food, they can progress to food for senior cats before the age of one, with catastrophic results.

Scientists say fears that the malaise could cross the species barrier to humans are unfounded. They have yet to encounter a human who could resist chips, even when fruit and vegetable intolerance is complete.

*

My loyal subjects,

One understands from one’s advisers that there has been some bother with money this year. Ordinarily such trifles would not trouble one, but it seems that the small screen may now be a luxury that many of my subjects cannot afford, so this year one has committed one’s regal musings to paper the better to communicate with the commoners.

It has been another eventful year for the Windsors. One’s highlight was of course William and Kate’s wedding. It was a wonderful day: William looked regal and Kate was divine, although her sister’s arse caused a bit of a stir. Poor Philip got a crick in his neck craning to get a better view. One wishes William and Kate every happiness for the future, but William is his father’s son so we were sure to set up a cast-iron pre-nuptial agreement – and Philip has a contact he can call if ever things get out of hand.

One’s eldest granddaughter Zara Philips also married this year. Her husband is a sportsman of unique looks, but sadly one nearly had cause to call on the SAS to offer him advice after he committed an indiscretion in New Zealand. However, one has been given to understand that dwarf throwing is a long-established tradition among those who work for a living, not to mention an excellent form of preparation for the catching and throwing skills required at the highest level of rugby union.

We just now need to marry off young Harry. However, like a finding a backer for a corgi at the dog track, one fears those particular royal goods may only appeal to a niche market.

There have been no funerals this year, but Charles is keeping his spirits up.

One is afraid to report that Andrew got into a spot of bother again this year, but then he’s always had a weakness for improper relationships. Over the years many have criticised the royal family for being out of touch, but we are just like every other family in the UK and accordingly have the misfortune to possess one child that brings us nothing but disappointment and embarrassment. And for someone who travels the globe as UK trade envoy, one would imagine that Andrew could be a little more inventive with his Christmas gifts than to give us a BAE fighter jet each year stuffed full with unmarked Saudi banknotes.

For William and his grandfather Philip, professionally it has been a year of contrast. William’s work in the RAF saw him saving foreigners by plucking them out of the sea, while Philip took a turn at throwing them back in when he volunteered to check passports as a stand-in immigration officer at Dover during the recent strikes.

This year we have holidayed in a number of delightful places. In Dublin one took the opportunity to express regret for incidents that had taken place in the past between Britain and Ireland, and they seemed to buy it because there was not a single mention of potato on the menu. We also travelled to Australia, our 16^th visit since 1954. The media described it as one’s ‘farewell tour’, and in truth one will be glad to see the back of those uncouth beer swilling natives. One made sure never to let one’s handbag out of one’s sight the whole trip.

During May we had the Obamas to stay at Buckingham Palace. Philip had forgotten they were coming and there was one awkward moment when he returned to see them examining some silver in the banquet room and called the police. After that he was always chaperoned during their stay and blotted his copybook only once with an unfortunate remark about ‘mid-tan boot polish’.

Unfortunately my horse was beaten in the Derby by that whipper-snapper French jockey. How Nicolas Sarkozy has time to ride horses and govern France one can only wonder.

Next year one celebrates one’s Diamond Jubilee. How those 60 years have flown. One is 85 now but with public sector pensions coming under fire it seems one will have to continue working for a while yet. Though one won’t be striking because one doesn’t want to give Charles a sniff.

Wishing all one’s subjects the very best for a divorce-free and anti-republican 2012.

Elizabeth R.

By simonjmr (with a hat-tip to waylandsmithy)

‘Scamp has never looked back since,’ said Anthony, ‘but that’s because he can’t. You can see from the look in his eyes when I’m making him do J-turns, burn-outs and wheelies that he loves every moment of it. Admittedly he’s had problems getting on with other dogs and there’s been one or two drive-by shittings, but it’s all been worth it to be able to ‘walk’ him without leaving my chair by the window.’

Although Scamp doesn’t enjoy the same freedom that he used to before his operation, his owner insists he’s a whole heap faster. ‘When we play fetch in the park he’s just like his old self. Of course, I have to throw the stick and then operate the remote control to get him close enough to pick it up, but he loves it and it’s much less boring for me. I’ve also set up an agility course for him – he can actually beat able-bodied dogs, even when he’s asleep.’

Since pimping his pooch, Anthony has discovered a market for motorised animals and has gone into business. ‘Almost all pets are suitable for our high-speed mobility scheme, though I’ve given up working with fish,’ he said. ‘In fact I’ve just finished fitting an arthritic tortoise with the tracks from a Tamiya Tiger Tank. He’s surprisingly manoeuvrable. When we took him for a test drive over a see-saw, the little chap really came out of his shell, so I’ve put some glue in his leg holes to stop it happening again.’

However, animal rights campaigners are horrified by the trend for souped-up spaniels, claiming that some unscrupulous owners are modifying perfectly healthy pets for cosmetic reasons. ‘There’s no doubt the look of any animal can be improved by a set of off-road tyres and an aerial,’ said Anthony, ‘but this is about helping pets in their hour of need, and a brilliant new sport. We always promote safe and responsible driving, and that’s why we’re in favour of bringing back dog licences.’

‘For many years we have been giving advice to internet users for free, but it’s about time we started to monetize our service,’ said founder David Mikkelson today. ‘Sadly most people are still too eager to believe something a friend of a friend reposted on Facebook, rather than information that comes from a reputable myth database such as ours. Perhaps we’ve devalued our content by giving it away for free all these years. Maybe if people have to pay to be told that they’re wrong, perhaps then they’ll start to understand that their naivety is being exploited.’

Inevitably some internet users have reacted by claiming that the introduction of an ‘invisible paywall’ by Snopes is a hoax, but internet advocacy groups have verified the plans. ‘Many people have started posting links online to a Snopes page that claims that it is impossible for a website to charge a visitor’s credit card via their ISP without the customer knowing. This is of course false, and this Snopes page, like all others, will soon cost $4.95 to read.’

But for those unwilling to pay the new charges to have truths verified and falsehoods exposed, there is apparently a loophole. Federal internet laws mean that users who post as their Facebook status, in block capitals, ‘SNOPES TO CHARGE $4.95 A TIME’, will continue to be able to use the service free of charge in perpetuity.

Look at it this way: if you were running a marathon, would you just pitch up on the day with some trainers and a sense of enthusiasm? Not unless you want some career-ending blisters and roadside CPR, you wouldn’t. Any responsible athlete will tell you to prepare for it with a long-term training programme that culminates in several lengthy practise runs. Several exhausting, acrimonious, spirit-sapping runs. You’ve got to build up for the big one, and with the hard yards of marriages one to four in my legs, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Of course I didn’t realise that when I was getting married the first, second, thrid and fourth times. With the confidence of the rookie, I thought I had what it takes for the long haul. But looking back today with the wisdom I have now, I can see those early-season outings could never have ended in success. And thanks to a closet lesbian, a back-stabbing best friend, the vigilance of the staff at the Vietnamese embassy and another lesbian, that’s exactly how things panned out.

What’s important, though, is not falling into the trap of being too hard on yourself. It would be all too easy, with the benefit of hindsight, for a lesser man to blame himself for the recurring marital themes of profound sexual inadequacy, consistently unreasonable behaviour and prolonged professional failure leading to intractable financial problems – especially if this is topped off every time by in-laws and spousal friends prone to rushing to unfavourable judgements. That would not only be wrong, it would be oversimplifying things. And where would it get you – certainly not down the aisle for a fifth pop at the cherry.

Life is a complex business, and so you mustn’t underestimate the role played by downright bad luck. There’s only a one in three chance a marriage will end in divorce. Those are pretty good odds, so you can imagine what a run of bad cards you need to end up with a royal flush of four consecutive decree absolutes in your hand. That’s a one in 81 chance! I thought I’d had my fill of bad luck at the roulette wheel where I spent much of my second marriage, but it turned out not. Little did I know that Fate had lined me up with eighty other guys, marked me out for special attention and then let every other single one of them walk away before wife numero quatro could take their home, their car, their pension and their masculinity.

But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. (Nice try though, Cathy, if you’re reading this.) The important thing is always to learn from what life throws at you, and you don’t get hitched a third of a dozen times without picking up a few pointers along the way. There are simple lessons, lessons like it’s always worth making an effort to scrub up on your wedding day and not drink till after the service because you can count on some joker bringing along a camera. Lessons like make a note of the date you get married because you’re expected to remember it next year. And lessons like never suggest an ex-wife as a bridesmaid. These are little things you can only learn from experience, and I’m more than happy to share them with you.

But there are also bigger lessons, lessons like it’s important to have shared interests (but not your best friend Geoff), like you should always show each other respect (even if one of you has just sold an irreplaceable family heirloom for £50 or made an obviously ironic pass at your sister), and like – and this is crucial – not marrying evil, manipulative bitches who thrive on your misery like a vampire on your blood and will screw you for every last penny you have.

Most of all, though, as I approach the altar with hope in my heart for another honest shot at marital bliss, what four marriages have taught me is this: if things don’t work out you can always try again later with someone else, so you mustn’t put yourself under any pressure to succeed. They tend not to make a big deal of this on the day, but it’s well worth remembering for future reference.