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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.

WAKING with a hangover so intense dogs can hear it and their owners are wondering why they are howling uncontrollably, I sip several gallons of mineral water and reflect on an encounter with Mr Andrew Burnham. 

HELLO! It’s lantern-jawed striker, England icon and seafood sceptic Harry Kane here, fresh off the back of a true World Cup classic against Ghana.

SPERM meeting egg is outdated. Today’s teenagers, hooked on porn and looksmaxxing, need to know the truth about sex to put them off.

Not one reporter on the campaign trail asked Andy Burnham his view on the appeal of licking and smelling Carol Vorderman’s arsehole. The by-election result must be declared null and void.

WAKING with a hangover so severe brain matter is leaking from my nostrils and blowing my nose lowers my IQ by 15 points, I reflect on the week’s events.