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“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.

LARGE pores are a natural part of aging, and if anyone sees them you’ve failed and should lock yourself in a hut for the rest of your life, like women used to.

You can lead a horse to water. Two, even. But lead 500 and suddenly you're facing a long, complex, financially ruinous trial for ‘horse stealing’.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense I leave scorched footprints as I pad from my bed to vomit up copious amounts of purple and green matter, I reflect on my latest spiritual venture.