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‘No show without Punch,’ they say. Well I’ve just watched Les Miserables and he wasn’t in it once.

WAKING with a hangover so intense it raises the room temperature from 33 to 38 degrees, I sip down several gallons of water and reflect on another notable week in my pastoral career.

HI folks! Sir Paul McCartney here. Beatles legend. Affable Scouser. Macca to his mates. I'm doing my famous thumbs up with my mouth open. You love that, don't you? Well it is bloody iconic. 

We’re always hearing of Tyson Fury but rarely his other emotional states Tyson Melancholy, Tyson Introspective and Tyson Horny.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating my eyeballs are hanging from their sockets, I drink a tank of water, spitting out the goldfish, and check the progress of my recently released single.

‘NET migration has fallen!’ trumpets this desperate, collapsing government. As if it matters. As if that were ever an electoral concern for anyone.

THERE is no such thing, post-Delevigne, as ‘too much eyebrow’. Ideally they should take up around 85 per cent of a woman’s face.

Today’s men can’t tell a teddy from a negligee. Boomer men could list every item of feminine underwear like they were engine parts.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense that half a dozen migrating geese drop dead and plummet from the skies into the gardens below my window, I look back on another tumultuous week. 

I UNDERSTAND that a lot of you are curious about my long-distance partner in the US. ‘How did you meet?’, ‘What prison is he in?’, ‘How long until he’s executed?’ you ask.