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‘It’s Oscar season, baby!’ you told your friend Oscar over the phone, so it’s weird he seemed surprised when you hunted him down and shot him later.

WAKING face down in the green by Salisbury Cathedral, spattered in viscera, I dimly put together the terrible events of yesterday evening.

FORMER and future prime minister Boris Johnson here, updating you on how I’m diversifying Brand Boris during my brief time out of office. Look out for these.

EX-SEX has a bad name. Understandably, because it’s the equivalent of swigging leftover wine from the recycling bin, but irresistible for the same reason.

THE non-linear timeline and sheer coolness of Pulp Fiction inspired Generation X to become lightweight film pseuds who never got round to Truffaut or Tarkovsky. Is it even any good?

MAN who cannot believe his fucking luck Tom Booker, aged 34, finds himself going on a date with Margot Robbie. She’s a married celebrity and he’s a nobody. Will it work?

Tinder have been in touch. They say swiping right on absolutely everyone is in contravention of their fair use policy and you’re going to have to be single forever.

WAKING in a walk-in refrigerator, having mislaid my hotel keys, the hotel’s name and the name of the city I am currently in, I am joined by a visitor.

THERE’S a point at which it’s time to stop fixing and start again, and Britain has reached it with our woke BLM-kneeling gender-obsessed Marxist fifth-columnist teachers.

I haven’t had a first date in a decade so I’ve pushed the boat out, and you know what that means: French.