Premium

WAKING with a hangover so bad that portions of my brain have died and I have no recollection of how to ride a bike or what one is, I reflect on an important week in the church/politics interface.

I STILL remember the awful chill, a sickening deadening feeling running through me, as I passed it. I cried whenever I saw the boat-shaped collection box of the RNLI.

The only two Hooters locations in the UK are in Nottingham and Newcastle, yet scientists refuse to launch studies into why the women of both areas have such fantastic tits.

WAKING up with a hangover so severe I feel it merits a 1973 24-part series narrated by Sir Laurence Olivier, I vomit into a ceremonial trough and am returning to bed when there is a knock at the door. 

I’m like Marmite: I come in a jar.

They were expecting a dull politician when I hit them with Rusholme Ruffians. Now that’s Manchesterism. You could tell they were into it.  

SEX should only take place in two locations: the marital bed, or beneath the very heavens as the rapture approaches. Everyone who chooses to live as a God-fearing housewife knows that.

Congratulations, it’s a buoy. Would you like to cut the mooring line?

HOLA, football fans! Your top turtleneck-wearing Catalonian here. Fresh from prowling the touchline with the symmetrical bald head that makes your wife quiet during Match of the Day.

The real monster in The X-Files is government bureaucracy and overreach of the state.