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I AWAKE dangling from a spire atop Westminster Abbey by the belt loop of my trousers, my cassock over my head, my garters visible to all below as I slowly rotate.
GOOD afternoon family. It is clearly the will of your mother that she should be the new head of the household and effectively your new father.
TWO children, the oldest a toddler. A young, beautiful mother who could be left homeless. ‘And divorced,’ said Dorries, who’s been on the Pinot.
Iconic 60s concrete office blocks, the Fairfield Halls, Ikea and a big dual carriageway; what hasn’t Croydon got?
There’s a party in your pants and everyone is yet to RSVP – apart from an old colleague of yours from way back when, who politely declined.
WAKING in an alley behind a kebab shop, robes covered in vomited meat, head pounding like Dutch gabba techno, I make a note not to join a sherry soiree with Aled Jones on an empty stomach.
YOU can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. And you can’t deliver a revitalised, youthful, radical Downing Street without sucking dick.
WARM weather sees some get out the paddling pool or barbecue. But to me, it’s a time to stop paying through the nose for gas when the sun is right there.
Ah, bonny Glasgow, recently voted one of the worst cities to live in Europe due to violence and gang turf wars.
IN 1977 a really good space action film came out. In 1980 it had a great sequel. 42 years later, it’s time to put the franchise out of its misery.