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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.

THIS is not a drill. The winner of the 2026 series of Celebrity Traitors is revealed at the bottom of this very column. Why? Because the BBC must be destroyed.

Tommy Robinson isn’t his real name. He’s actually called Stephen McCartney-Lennon.