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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.

DOWN with the 2SLGBTQIA+ revolution? You f**king bigot. How are you keeping yourself so ignorant that you’ve missed the new sexual identities?