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As the Baddiel and Skinner song goes, ‘30 plus N years of hurt, where N = an even number of years since 1996 in a summer when England qualify for a World Cup or European Championship, never stopped me dreaming.’

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating I have to activate tiny, specially installed windscreen wipers on my eyeballs to wash away the blood, I look back on a somewhat sweltering week.

Every time a middle-aged man says ‘I still would,’ about Kate Moss she gets five minutes younger, so can have a fag.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating my head is emitting a sound akin to that of the Tardis in Doctor Who, I drink the contents of a goldfish tank including, I suspect, a quantity of poo.

SETTLE down, people. Save the excitement for Saturday, when the whole world salutes 250 years of America’s greatest hero, President Trump.

AS a modern woman living by time-honored values, I am of course subservient to men. After all, if left to my own devices, there is a high risk of a doily-related fatality.

This hot weather is in fact a metaphor. The trouble is knowing which of us is the protagonist.

WAKING with a hangover so intense dogs can hear it and their owners are wondering why they are howling uncontrollably, I sip several gallons of mineral water and reflect on an encounter with Mr Andrew Burnham. 

HELLO! It’s lantern-jawed striker, England icon and seafood sceptic Harry Kane here, fresh off the back of a true World Cup classic against Ghana.

SPERM meeting egg is outdated. Today’s teenagers, hooked on porn and looksmaxxing, need to know the truth about sex to put them off.