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The only two Hooters locations in the UK are in Nottingham and Newcastle, yet scientists refuse to launch studies into why the women of both areas have such fantastic tits.

WAKING up with a hangover so severe I feel it merits a 1973 24-part series narrated by Sir Laurence Olivier, I vomit into a ceremonial trough and am returning to bed when there is a knock at the door. 

I’m like Marmite: I come in a jar.

They were expecting a dull politician when I hit them with Rusholme Ruffians. Now that’s Manchesterism. You could tell they were into it.  

SEX should only take place in two locations: the marital bed, or beneath the very heavens as the rapture approaches. Everyone who chooses to live as a God-fearing housewife knows that.

Congratulations, it’s a buoy. Would you like to cut the mooring line?

HOLA, football fans! Your top turtleneck-wearing Catalonian here. Fresh from prowling the touchline with the symmetrical bald head that makes your wife quiet during Match of the Day.

The real monster in The X-Files is government bureaucracy and overreach of the state.

WAKING with a hangover that has left me so parched my body has declared an official water shortage and a hosepipe ban, I look over my typically busy schedule.

AS I gazed out at the yellow grass, the parched rhododendrons, the merciless sun yesterday I had one comforting thought: so much for climate change.