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You could call anywhere the ‘land of the rising sun’. Lincolnshire, even.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense it spontaneously transmits false nuclear attack warnings, I gulp down water and reflect on an important ecumenical event that took place this week. 

THE libs just don’t get it. What President Trump must concentrate on now is not tariffs, hiding his cryptocurrency or the Iran war. It’s his arch and his ballroom.

If Hitchcock was such a master of suspense, why did he call it Psycho and give the plot away? He should have called it Nice Hotelier.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense that all my potted plants within a 50-yard radius of it also develop nausea and headaches, I decide to take a bath, during which I suffer an explosive bout of diarrhoea.

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.