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WAKING up with a hangover so dreadful I throw up a kidney which I then have to dive after and swallow back down, I gently sip several gallons of water and allow my delicate system to settle. 

‘WE offered him security,’ Labour bleated. A bodyguard? A car? Pathetic. Do they not realise that, through not fault of his own, Nigel is the most loathed man in Britain?

WHEN considering the sexy areas of the body, the mind immediately goes to the big three: arse, tits and bits. But, amazingly, there’s actually more to human sexuality that those.

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.