A typical Monroe video manipulates archive footage for ‘comic’ effect by adding swearing and crude sexual references; it’s puerile humour for a misguidedly nostalgic, insular demographic. He is also responsible for the regrettable resurrection of an atrocious 70s sitcom called ‘Buggernation Street’, which he and like-minded reprobates have passed around like illicit contraband for years without any regard for the amount of people waiting to be offended by this grossly offensive old programme - of which I myself am one.

His blog, which is known as ‘The Winegum Telegram’, is frustratingly hard to pin down because it isn’t partisan. How can you trust a man who is as critical of the Left as he is of the Right? You have to be either the Observer or the Mail on Sunday, not hide away in imaginary shades of grey. And his frustrating inconsistency means he’s often guilty of expressing the wrong opinions as much as the right ones, which is especially problematic. The fact he occasionally wastes time on the Telegram waxing lyrical about irrelevant pop cultural topics also adds to my confusion by provoking thought. And at the end of the day, I don’t want to read someone who challenges my opinions; I want to read someone who confirms all my prejudices in one nice, neat, narcissistic package.

This annoying habit Monroe has of not sticking to the approved script also extends to his third outlet, his books.

Novels, short stories, poetry collections, non-fiction, literary fiction, genre fiction - I mean, why can’t he be happy with one? Why does he have to try his hand at so many? Why can’t he be content with a label for life that keeps him in his designated lane? I don’t believe it’s dawned on him yet that this century is not the place for a Renaissance Man like him.

Despite the biased preconceptions I was determined to resolutely stick to, I have to admit I liked Monroe - though I did my best not to show it. There was no way I was going to let him know I’ve laughed at one or two of his videos (and felt agonising guilt afterwards) or enjoyed several of his books or agreed with something he wrote on his blog. But I realised he was employing the same psychological techniques to charm me as professional interrogators probably use on the impounded Uyghurs at the Xinjiang camps. The experience for me was chillingly similar, but I showed courage by refusing to smile whenever he made an admittedly witty quip. That must have sent out one hell of a signal to him, though I used this tactic sparingly. If I’d been too blatantly rude, he might have concluded that my antipathy towards him was born of envy and that his talent was highlighting my own creative shortcomings, making me feel like an inadequate charlatan whose media career was solely down to privilege and nepotism. The bastard.