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All this really drives home that Charles isn’t even going to manage a Silver Jubilee, doesn’t it? Poor prick will be lucky to make Tin.

FOLLOWING an inebriated altercation with a Songs of Praise runner – these things frequently happen in the ‘rough and tumble’ of religious broadcasting – I wake in a cell.

We need a head of state, people say. For visiting dignitaries, for high-profile summits, to express the national mood on key occasions. And I say ‘voila’.

FOR as long as any of us can remember, the BBC has sworn to destroy everything great and good about this country. So of course they began with the Queen.

Jane Austen lived here briefly and hated it. But if you like narrow streets clogged with dawdling tourists taking photos every six feet, you’ll love it.

BRITAIN: riding a wave of beer-soaked nostalgia for our monarch all week. Prince Andrew: ready to be taken back into our hearts. Can it happen?

The fact that you still have plans this weekend suggests cancel culture actually hasn’t gone far enough.

GAINING consciousness in a skip, having failed to reach my chambers after a wine-drinking contest with Cardinal Nichols turned ugly, I urinate for a full 22 minutes then head home.

HE’LL come in angry. Hit the Zinfandel. Mutter to himself. Start laughing. Then, because he’s got away with it again, he gets the raging horn. That’s why I’m not there.

AS I walk through the streets, saving money as ever by paying for neither transport or a gym, I chuckle at the houses wasting energy by having windows. What fools.