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WAKING up with a hangover so horrible that my first act of the day is to shave my tongue, I reflect on a week which saw church and politics mix in controversial fashion. 

HELLO, I’m Ryan Gosling and you may be entitled to compensation. Yes, that’s the Hollywood heartthrob and star of La La Land. I earn a bit on the side making compo claim calls. Why not?

I CAN’T find Mary Berry anywhere. Her recipes, I mean. That book has been my Bible – albeit stained with jam which you wouldn’t do with the actual word of God – for years.

“And check out my new two-hop craft beer, Dua Lipa’s Dual IPA.”

WAKING with a hangover so hurricane-like in its intensity I am surprised the Met Office have not named it Hangover Jeanette or somesuch, I imbibe several gallons of water and ring for my clerk. 

TRUMP? Yesterday’s alpha. When it came to sacrificing the world economy on the white-hot altar of war, he pussied out. Not like my Benjamin.

I IMAGINED that honouring your marital commitments multiple times in a single evening was a lurid fantasy confined to correspondence to the parish newsletter. How wrong I was.

“And you say the horse was..?” “Piebald. You know, bald in the manner of a pie.”

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating it can only be quelled by ingesting medicine used by zoo vets to put rhinoceri in medical comas, I reflect on a private phone call I had this week with President Trump. 

I’M not merely a professional crime aficionado with an A-Level in Psychology. Growing up on the outskirts of Oxford made me all too familiar with criminals. I was only nine when I saw my first littering.