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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.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating its malevolent energy temporarily summons Lucifer, who glowers but then fades due to my holy countenance, or possibly my flatulence, I recall my most recent sermon. 

MODERN technology is remarkable. Thanks to the wonders of the printing press, I’m able to share the details of my lifestyle with a much wider audience than the village.

It’s a shame Tom Cruise is in all those films. It really distracts from all his brilliant work with Xenu.

WAKING up with a hangover the size of Leamington Spa, if Leamington Spa were the size of Greater London, I vomit up the majority of my stomach lining and take 18 Solpadeines. 

IT was a perfect moment. Me and Carney watching Everton bang Wolves out of the League Cup. Except even as prime minister I couldn’t get a pint of diesel.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Except the Love who’s the lead singer of Hole.