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The difference between Ed Sheeran and an Ed Sheeran tribute act is negligible.

I AWAKE on my canal break in the Norfolk Broads atop a sunken narrowboat, a litre bottle of overproof rum by my side and effluent pouring into my mouth from a rusty pipe.

MEGASTAR Rihanna is performing at the Superbowl simply because everyone else has and she didn’t want to be left out. What else was she peer-pressured into?

THIS is the mole talking, Sir Keir. You know, your agent inside the Tories. Liz. Liz Truss. Anyway, stage one complete: pound devalued, economy ruined, job done.

The north of England’s biggest city is extremely up itself these days. Having left its industrial past far behind, it’s acting like it was always smart bars and never rough as f**k.

OPENING up about your sexual fantasies to your lover is the key to great sex, in theory, but nobody’s ever done it because what if your lover freaks the f**k out?

You didn’t mind all that fuss for the Queen. You’re just not prepared to go through it all again when Rupert Murdoch dies.

RETURNING to consciousness face-down on the pavement just yards from the front door of Lambeth Palace, golden key in my outstretched hand, I reflect on just what a bender that was.

DAYTIME baker, nighttime lothario, at both ends gentle yet firm with my hands. But when I throw a conquest onto the waterbed, what’s soundtracking our sexual odyssey?

THE polo shirt is an arsehole’s garment suitable only for liars, thieves and those trying to fool the world into thinking they’re wearing a shirt. Wear it like this.