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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.

I STEP onto that Paris stage like the ultimate diva. Before me stand thousands of fans ready for the night of their lives, and I’ll give it to them. But my mind is with the Tigers.

WAKING with a hangover so intense that I usefully throw up my appendix, I take on my customary gallons of water and am about to retire to bed when there is a knock at the door. 

HAVE well-meaning people tried to debunk the sex myths you grew up with? Throw their lies back into their rationalist faces, because each of these is an actual fact.

In our rural village scarecrow competition the judges are actual caged crows completely shitting themselves in fear. Keeps it honest.

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.