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WHILE flicking through the parish newsletter, my eye was caught by the strange term ‘cucking’. Surely this was a misprint of the foulest word in the English language? Intrigued and aroused, I reached for the dictionary.

Bought my Alsatian an ‘I Love My Chihuahua’ water bowl. And he’s drinking out of it, the dumb f**ker.

WAKING up with a hangover the size of a small, green planet only just discovered by scientists in the solar system, I look back on a momentous week for the Church of England and DJing.

HEY, I remember 2018. England in the semis, Greta Thunberg, marching for climate change. But it’s as over as the shimmering dream pop of Beach House.

Personally I feel her third surname was the best, because you can sing ‘itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny Cheryl Fernandez-Versini.’ And she is quite small.

WAKING with a hangover so bad it is as if the late John Bonham and Keith Moon are having a drum-off in my skull, I consume four gallons of soluble Solpadeine and recall the TV idea I had last night.

HELLO. I’m luvvie and Oscar nominee Richard E Grant and I’ve spent the last six months trying to infiltrate an Eastern European drug and people-trafficking gang. Care for a glass of bubbly?

IT is the fear we all share, pushing dying into second place – is everyone else having more sex than me? And do they know, and point, and laugh?

You misread the sign. There isn’t a toll on the Dartford Crossing. There’s a troll and he shall ask you riddles three.

WAKING up with a hangover so piercingly acute that several of my potted plants wither and die after being exposed to its radiation, I reflect on another tumultuous few days.