Everyone’s talking shite. I’m just breathing it in.

I listen to radio phone-ins the way some people go to therapy. Not because I expect answers, but because I’m fascinated by the faith of those who do.

There’s always a rhythm to it. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with this country, Nicky…” and off we go — like lighting a firework in a bin. By sentence two, we’ve left evidence, nuance, and reality somewhere behind.

They quote stats they’ve half-heard, memories that didn’t happen, and, inevitably, “my auntie on Facebook says—” which is the modern equivalent of citing a peer-reviewed journal, if your peers are racist and own a mobility scooter.

The host stays calm — the ringmaster of the national circus. “Well, Dave, that’s certainly a view,” they say, as the producer silently prays for an ad break before the word “woke” detonates on-air.

Then there’s the football phone-ins, the purest form of British delusion ever broadcast. Grown adults shouting that a £90 million striker “doesn’t want it enough” from their sofa, while eating crisps in a replica shirt.

The callers argue like philosophers — “He’s not world class, he’s Championship at best” — and within minutes they’re diagnosing the emotional state of an entire squad through vibes alone.

What unites the political ranter and the football philosopher is the same thing: certainty. Glorious, misplaced certainty.

The conviction that if only they were in charge — of the country, the team, the traffic lights — the world would make sense again.

But that’s the beauty of it. For a few minutes, through static and jingles, we’re all part of something. A nation talking shite in unison. Angry, passionate, ridiculous — and, in some strange way, alive.

So I keep listening. Not for enlightenment, but for the reassurance that everyone else smells it too — loudly, proudly, and on speakerphone.

— Tom Kite.