I oft enjoy the BBC staple Room 101. With Skinner’s acerbic wit and the unpredictability of items to be banished to the back yonders of hell, it is a televisual rollercoaster leaving me feeling empathetic with the irks of an array of C-list celebrities.

Inspired by the torture room in Orwell’s 1984 which contained the ‘worst thing in the world’ (which surprisingly wasn’t Citizen Khan or Gemma Collins), the show was originally Radio 5 fare, back in 1992, and hosted by Nick Hancock. The first guest was Bob Monkhouse who, never a bastion of political correctness, cast ‘The French’ to eternal damnation. He stated: "I would like to tilt the Channel Tunnel downwards and turn it into a sewer."

No issues were made by the French and even back then stereotypes were widely accepted. A few years later Anne Robinson subsequently placed the Welsh into Room 101 and was accused of xenophobia. The standards commission found her comments were ‘bordering on racism’ and Robinson has since been placed down the chute twice by other C-listers, boyo.

Ricky Gervais placed telethons into the room, citing a friend who allegedly, to raise funds, made a rice pudding with her breast milk. Piers Morgan was refused entry as he was deemed too toxic and Mel and Sue deposited Leighton Buzzard into eternal damnation, despite the town taking umbrage.

I put the question out to friends and was shocked by the unabated fury directed at certain things. I realised dislikes are a window to the psyche and it was fascinating: Cousin Tim has an unhinged disdain of cling film and the first sheet of toilet roll as they "don’t work!". Poor spelling on social media (I concur), ring pulls (as they break fingernails), Lycra and adverts that say ‘399’ instead of £399. My sister-in-law simply said "you", which destroyed my first item of predictable in laws.

Others were equally as fascinating with cyclists, Jim Carrey and Katie Hopkins being mentioned on more than one occasion, although no one said Hopkins and Carrey on a tandem. Jeremy Corbyn, low budget prime time game shows and some type of tap set up was cast dreckly into the abyss by Mitch, the Cornish sparky.

As inspiration, they were useful, but I struggled to whittle down my list to three. The aim was to have one item, one event and one celebrity. I have spent a couple of weeks labouring gamely but believe my final runners and riders would be the following: The item would be sports exhausts on crap cars. I can’t help but stare as a 1.0 Vauxhall Nova 1991 edition, value: £50, comes haring past the house, windows down with Stormzy blaring, before misfiring out of the Cobra Sports exhaust system. I literally stand in disbelief before mouthing (so the driver can see me) disparaging remarks relating to various male body parts.

For an event, I entered Victoria Coren’s Only Connect. I class myself as fairly wired intellectually, but I watch that show and I have not, through the smug guffaws, got a Scooby what they are talking about. It may as well be spoken in an ancient tribal dialect and leaves me feeling pretty darned disconnected.

For my celebrity, I have chosen a collective. It is one that I have aimed fire on in this column before: TV chefs. The smugness, the outdoing of each other with ever more unpronounceable foodstuffs and the contorting of their bodies as they sprinkle herbs into a pan as they practice their ‘art’ appals me. Added to that I cannot cook and hate to see people undertaking menial tasks masquerading as ‘art’.

When all is said and done, as a fan of the wind up, one good thing has come out of this futile exercise. I now know how to grind the gears of friends and family. I think I may spend next weekend around cousin Tim’s, cling filming his living room, before a drawn-out visit to my sister in law, Jo. To cap the perfect 101 day off I will wind down by riding around the village in Lycra wearing a Katie Hopkins face mask whilst pulling unfunny Carrey-style body contortions.