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NOBODY does pageantry better than Britain. But there’s one bit of pomp and ceremony we’ve not indulged in for a while, and it would draw one hell of a crowd.

WITH my husband busy breadwinning for our six-child family, what else is a woman to do but uphold feminine values like banging the postman?

Kevin Pork, Kevin Ham, Kevin Gammon, Kevin Bacon. There you go, done it in four.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating my head feels like a timpani being pounded with sledgehammers by a 15-foot half-man, half-gorilla, I drink ten gallons of water and open a letter concerning a trust fund I set up.

WHILE I work on episode 29 of our series Steele: The Norman Steele Murder, sponsored by the Hot Honey Deluxe Chicken Wrap at McDonald’s, I thought I’d give you all an update on the investigation.

ARE you a perimenopausal woman in the workplace today? Then you’re disgusting. Sorry, ladies, but someone had to tell you the truth.

‘Yeah, I said I was down for short kings, not short emperors,’ you say leaving Napoleon, rejected again, weeping silently into his greatcoat.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating that when I urinate onto the pavement below my chambers a small, black, hissing crater is formed, I shut the window and reflect on another week in the interface between church and politics.

LEAVITT: Okay, everyone sit down, settle down. Any liberal media in here? You’re already wrong and what you write about this is lies. Good? Good.

EVERYONE deserves love, and everyone deserves the battery-powered plastic love aids that come with it. But spending £100 only to discover you don’t like it up you? Painful.