I appreciate that many people think I am a twat. And I can see why. My whole career has been founded on people believing that I am a twat. But I am not a twat. Honestly. If you were to meet me in person, you would probably think I am not as much of a twat as you thought I would be. The bar really is that low.

Vagina. Women don’t say the word vagina nearly enough. I am proud of my foof. A vagina is empowering. Too many women go through life playing the victim card. There’s no point moaning when a man puts his hand on your knee. Rather, you should take it as a compliment. Unless the man touching you up is a Muslim. In which case he should be thrown in prison or deported.

You’re probably wondering how I became like this. The simple answer is that I have a narcissistic personality disorder that makes me say any offensive rubbish just to get some attention. Are you still reading? Well get off your fat arse, then. I can’t stand people who waste their lives munching their way through supersized fast food while reading books. Get a job instead and stop moaning like a bleeding-heart liberal. So you’ve got a mental illness and a hyperactive thyroid problem? Big deal. I’ve had epilepsy. Spare us the tears and just get on with your life.

I had loads of jobs before I became a professional gobshite. Security guard, barmaid, sex therapist. And what I learned was that it is always the chubsters who are the problem. The first to fall off their mobility scooters they have been given by the state because they are too fat to walk to the shops. That’s another thing. Why do supermarkets always situate the mother and child parking spaces so close to the entrance? Most mothers of young children are hideously obese and could do with more exercise. So do them a favour and make them park as far away as possible.

Don’t get me wrong. I like children. My children, at least. That’s because my children aren’t fat. It’s not a matter of genetics, it’s a question of discipline. If I ever catch India or Poppy wolfing down a couple of extra biscuits, I yell at them: “Stop that, you useless fat moron.” More people need to be fat-shamed. And name-shamed. There’s no bigger giveaway that your parents are thick and overweight than being given a name like Charmaine or Destiny. And don’t get me started on Mohamed. I won’t let my kids play with anyone who isn’t called Margaret, Nigel or Donald.

Politics and religion. People often compare me to Hitler and I take that as a compliment. At least people remember Hitler. So here’s where I stand. Contrary to what is often said, I am not Islamophobic. Islamophobia is an irrational fear of Muslims. My fear of Muslims is entirely rational, as they are all out to kill you. I don’t much like Germany or Turkey either. I do like Israel, though. There’s a country with the guts to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Britain would do well to take a leaf out of their book.

Rude by Katie Hopkins (Biteback, £9.99)

Brexit. The best thing that’s ever happened to this country. By voting to actually make itself poorer, Britain has ensured that fat people won’t have so much money to spend on food. So all those chubbies who now gorge themselves on eight litres of full fat Coke and a family-sized bucket of chicken nuggets will just have to learn to go a bit hungry. Think of the advantages of not getting held up by huge blobs getting stuck in doorways. Hopefully, a lot of old people will also die of hypothermia. Most old people are a waste of space and the country could do with a bit of a cull.

Other things I hate. The BBC. What a useless, deadbeat organisation that is. Imagine a broadcaster that can produce a show like The Apprentice that merely acts as a springboard for any third-rate gobshite to get a national platform. Gingers. All people with red hair should be put down. Men with small penises. A waste of space in the bed and invariably a sign of an inferiority complex. In my experience, all men who voted to remain in the EU or who work in the voluntary sector have micro-penises. People who got me sacked from LBC for tweeting we needed a final solution after the Manchester bombing. Get a sense of humour. If Hitler had one, so can you.

Me. Most of all, I really hate me. The more offensive I become, the more inadequate I feel. Please don’t go. Without you, I’m nothing. Are you there? Is anyone there?

Digested read, digested: You’re fired.

