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WAKING up with a mouth as dry and desiccated as the remains of Mother Teresa, I sweep away the empty bottles strewn across my bed and ruminate on the events of last week. 

BARBIE was amazing, perhaps not to actually watch for two hours, but as a phenomenon. But now the dust has settled, it’s definitely got problems you don’t have to be a bitter misogynist to notice.

UNTIL now, no one has ever doubted Mary’s account that she was literally a virgin impregnated by a divine spirit, but new evidence is making experts think having a baby may require sex to take place.

I'M off to a traditional Irish pub that does food in Birmingham's Irish Quarter. Just hoping my English accent doesn't get me blindfolded and executed.

Cosmopolitan couples have migrated from London, displacing the indigenous racists. These days the only residents to be viewed with hate and mistrust are those who don’t have bifold doors.

You believe you would rebel in a totalitarian society, but you also don’t like upsetting the DuoLingo owl.

WAKING in a stupor, struggling to recall what room I am in (my own) and who I am (the Archbishop of Canterbury), I recall last night’s reception at the National Portrait Gallery.

I SPREAD the headlines out in front of me like a teenage boy with his pornographic magazines. Praise, praise, praise. ‘Net migration’s up,’ says Cleverly from behind me.

Face facts – I’ll piss Strictly. It’ll be 10s across the board and waltzing off victorious with the Glitterball trophy, all wounds of Brexit healed. This is how events will unfold.

Pies are to the residents of Wigan what pasta is to Italians, if pasta was sure to kill you. Bakers in Wigan are like Starbucks in Seattle or Prets in London; there’s one on every fucking corner.