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WAKING in a stupor, struggling to recall what room I am in (my own) and who I am (the Archbishop of Canterbury), I recall last night’s reception at the National Portrait Gallery.

I SPREAD the headlines out in front of me like a teenage boy with his pornographic magazines. Praise, praise, praise. ‘Net migration’s up,’ says Cleverly from behind me.

Face facts – I’ll piss Strictly. It’ll be 10s across the board and waltzing off victorious with the Glitterball trophy, all wounds of Brexit healed. This is how events will unfold.

Pies are to the residents of Wigan what pasta is to Italians, if pasta was sure to kill you. Bakers in Wigan are like Starbucks in Seattle or Prets in London; there’s one on every fucking corner.

I’ve tried to keep an open mind even about changes I’ve disagreed with, like motorways and the polio vaccine, and I’ve heard about this new invention called OnlyFans. Are you familiar with it?

It’s not just Santa, you can tell kids that anything’s not real. I’ve just done it to mine about hedgehogs.

WAKING at the crack of dawn to splashing and a tangy scent, I open my eyes to see I am lying in a grubby tent being urinated upon by Suella Braverman.

A YEAR into the job. Inflation halved thanks to my bold efforts. Braverman finally ditched. And here I am, still trying to make Boris’s bullshit work.

WAGWAN? You cannot hear man, even wiv your hairpods out. Man has been silenced by da hoppresive hauthorities crushin’ man’s freedom to speech an’ swag about.

If Wales’s capital Cardiff has the atmosphere of a giant open-air pub, its second city is the pub toilet; damp, dark, pissy and full of cocks.