The crushing reality of Christmas has hit once again. Check out some of the, erm, special and heartfelt gifts we were given by loved ones this year while we go to the bathroom to gently sob.

One word to describe Wiley’s past year would be ‘mental’. But the same could be said about any of the years the grime granddad has been in the public eye since he is, without question, insane. His current weapon of choice for unleashing his schizophrenic stream of consciousness is his Twitter account, which he uses to bombard anyone who’ll listen with his own incomprehensible brand of half-baked witticisms and increasingly surreal threats of violence, often sounding like an old drunk bloke on the back of the bus who tries to grab at your groin. Regardless of his foibles, he’s definitely our favourite man ever, and to celebrate, here are his best tweets of the year.

A week last Tuesday I was at the checkout in Whole Foods – the Kensington branch – when something very much awry occurred. I’d like to point out at this juncture that I was just going about my very normal, everyday life – I was even wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Everything seemed fine until I handed the middle-aged lady at the till my Coutts Gold Card and I noticed her suddenly glancing at a message that had flashed up on the computer screen in front of her. Then she asked me the most bizarre question. “Would you like cashback, Mr Grant?” she said, trying desperately to effect an air of normality.

Boy Better Know Mobile? I’m envisaging lots of miffed middle-class mums in the suburbs if this takes off. ‘Jeremy, why has £10,000 been taken from mummy’s account?’

There’s nothing that gives me more pleasure when I come home on a cold winter evening than the sight of a fat, succulent bird splayed out on my kitchen table. (That’s not to say I’m a fan of coq au vin – that’s always been more Michel Roux Jr’s kind of thing, the fruity devil.) The mere thought of a piping hot lump of white (or brown) meat for me to devour is enough to send me into raptures. Sometimes it’s hard to stop myself taking a running jump onto the beast when I burst through the kitchen door.

We fought them in the fields of Flanders, we fought them on the beaches of Dunkirk, we fought them in the skies over Dover, we fought them in the sands of Egypt, we fought them in the jungles of Malaya – and this week, we fought our most iniquitous foe yet, in the FIFA headquarters in Zurich. And we won. Score!

I’m kind of, sort of, a big deal right now. National TV series – tick. Plenty of wonga in the vault – yes. Acres of fanny on my tail – naturally. And I’m fucking hilarious. Sucks to be everyone else in the world right now, losers. Only joking. Ha ha!

Mate, I’ve just heard that little Ed Sheeran’s had a type of peri peri sauce named after him by Nando’s. That’s made me want to work a million-and-one per cent harder to make it in this game. If a fat ginger – no disrespect, Ed, you’re a ledge, mate – can achieve that, then the sky is the limit for Frankie Cocozza. Just imagine: my own sausage roll at Greggs!?

A mere handful of people read this website regularly (which is understandable since it’s updated so infrequently) so most of the traffic comes from search engines. I, unfortunately, have access to the search terms used when people arrive here. Below is a list of the most inane, odd and depressing.