Annus horribilis

2018 may have been almost unrelentingly grim, but it's meat and drink to Frankie Boyle - even if he does begin his Guardian review of the year by complaining about the plight of the satirist. The article is stuffed with zingers, some of them as dark as they come.

Here he is looking ahead to our proud nation's glorious post-EU future: "Paradoxically, I think Brexit will actually lead to less nationalism: economic collapse meaning that borders lose all their current toxicity, as they're constantly redrawn in a never-ending struggle between regional warlords, antibiotic-resistant microbes and organ-harvesting cyborgs. Our children will have less inclination to dwell on skin colour as they'll be preoccupied with appeasing the whims of some pitiless, scab-encrusted Cyclops waving a horse's hoof nailed to a broomstick, roaring for fresh meat as he plays his three-note national anthem on a ribcage xylophone."

On Saudi Arabia: "Our government was angry about Khashoggi and sent the Saudis a strongly worded arms invoice."

And on Brett Kavanaugh: "There's an argument that the very last thing you want to hand to any man accused of sex crimes is a hammer, but then again maybe we need his hands where we can see them. Still, it certainly is a very scary time for young men in America. Especially the ones aged 10 that Trump has put in cages."

As is often the way with Boyle's articles, the piece comes to a conclusion that is powerful and surprisingly serious and poignant.