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WAKING with a hangover so searing the negative psychic energy causes my pet hamster Judas to expire, I reflect on another momentous week in ecclesiastical affairs.

THE BBC needs to apologise to Trump, meaning America. As it seems incapable of admitting it has been wrong about everything since 1929, I’ve drafted one.

SHORT king Oliver O’Connor, aged 29, neglected to mention his regal lack of stature to date Grace Wood-Morris, aged 32. Will she notice?

‘Ratajkowski? Now that’s one Emily I’d like to get my dick in, son!’ you say but, the lads being largely ignorant of 19th century American poets, not one of them gets it.

WAKING with a hangover so dehydrating I am forced to drink an entire fish tank of water, including the fish containing vital fluids, I reflect upon the events of the week. 

BONFIRE Night, what a load of fuss over something that never happened. Although God knows we could do with a modern-day Guy Fawkes to get rid of Starmer, as I cleverly keep telling people.

VIOLENT hatred and hopeless attraction can be hard to tell apart, as proven by both science and Killing Eve. 

In 1415 Owain Glyndŵr was defeated, and since then Wales has forever been under the iron grip of the Spar.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense that my head changes colour from green to amber to red at regular intervals, I take a few restorative sips of water and reflect on the week’s events. 

WAGWAN? Active J is hexhausted today, fam. Last night, crewdem busted da Halloween trick or treat ting round Active J’s hood. It woz da bare worst hidea hever, innit.