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“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.

LET me say England should remember who came to its aid in 1939 when Hitler invaded you, okay? Fighting them on the beaches alongside Churchill? US troops.

AS you sit awkwardly through another gorgeously-lit sex scene with a partner you haven’t touched in months, don’t you wish you could have sex like they do in the movies?

This is the perfect storm, as I said when Halle Berry was cast in X-Men.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating that in desperation I bite my dog, as a dog’s hair apparently alleviates the effect, I masticate thoughtfully on fur and reflect on a momentous few days.