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There’s no place like home. Except IKEA. That’s quite like it.

WAKING in Hyde Park on a scorching summer afternoon, I realise I am surrounded by not my customary empty rum bottles alone but also my discarded mitre and cassock.

WILL they not stop? Is no humilation enough until Boris is a tramp on the streets going through the bins for supper?

IT’S important to have an opinion. Otherwise how could you properly engage with a listicle ranking every Marvel movie from worst to best?

The high-glitz, high-glamour city of Dubai opens its arms to foreigners of any race, religion and nationality so long as they represent economic value.

I REMEMBER Charlotte Owen, or do I? Interchangeable Home Counties blonde? Now mysteriously a peer for life aged 30 or possibly 29? ‘Explain,’ I say.

I’m on the seagull diet. Every time I ‘see’ a ‘gull’ I smash my face into the chips you’re holding.

WAKING up in Lambeth prison, my customary Friday berth, I slake the thirst I have built up by drinking a bucket of my own urine in one draught.

I WAS expounding for the third time on Britain’s readiness to become the world’s AI hub when Biden says, ‘Oh, I get what’s going on here. You’re a goddamned robot!’

Letting Scotland call itself a country is like letting your daughter be a goth: regrettable,  indulgent, a bit pathetic but ultimately doesn’t do anyone any lasting harm.