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WAKING up with a hangover that causes me to emit several small pieces of my brain when I sneeze, I realise I have had a nightmare in which I dreamt I was an insipid, bespectacled fellow called ‘Welby’.

HI. Sorry for calling you 17 times from an unknown number. It's former heavyweight champion of the world ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson here. Can I speak to you about your internet provider?

CAN Ryan Whittaker, Now TV and Apple TV, and Hannah Tomlinson, Netflix and Disney Plus, forge a meeting of minds despite the gulf between them?

Let’s play rock paper scissors, best of three. Rock. Rock. Rock.

Waking up with a morning head that feels as if I have eaten a pair of dead man’s soiled trousers dumped outside the door of a charity shop, I turn on the radio to hear the grimmest of grim news.

TO make America even greater? Make it larger. I plead with you, President Trump, to end our socialist misery and annex the UK.

FEW of us have a high opinion of our own features at the best of times. When locked in a rictus of orgasm, contorted with explosive bliss, it’s worse.

Have loud sex at 3am on the cold, wet paving slabs where your wheelie bins are. That'll show those fox bastards.

WAKING up with a hangover the size of a former Soviet satellite state which turns out to be twice the size of Western Europe, I reflect on yesterday’s successful fight with a nun.

Cher’s doing a residency in Vegas and using her own tribute act to fill in gaps and cover costume changes. The show’s called ‘Cher and Cher-A-Like’.