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WAKING up with a hangover almost, if not quite, the size of Rotterdam, I vomit in an elegant plume and reflect on my contribution to the betterment of mankind this week. 

I BLOODY loved the 1970s. I was in my prime and we had entertainment like Carry On films and Love Thy Neighbour before the wokerati banned good-natured banter like ‘spear-chucker’.

REGARDED as one of the 20th century’s great composers, Stravinsky is pivotal to modernism and the bloke your dad guesses for all music questions on University Challenge.

Always odd, the obsession medieval artists had with creating memento mori. Was an infant mortality rate of 30 per cent insufficient to remind them of death?

Waking up with my head pounding to a Burundi rhythm, my tongue akin to a sofa left out in the desert for six weeks, I take a moment to reflect on the events of the past seven days.

FIFTEEN-year-old Active J, known in his detached home as Joshua Hudson, has been told that if he doesn’t sell his old clothes they’ll be given to a charity shop.

LEFT-wing social justice politics is so Biden. Edgelord is the new woke. Right-wing extremism is blowing up in Europe and America. I had to get involved.

It’s nice that Judas is still counted as one of the apostles even after everything that went down.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense that anything I stare at turns bright green and melts, I reflect on the turbulence of the last few days.

I’VE held my tongue for too long. But I refuse to be silenced. It is time to speak my truth. And my truth is this: is it just me, or are KitKat Chunkys getting smaller?