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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.

FOR women, having an orgasm is like trying to get a fly out of a window: for all the smacking and shouting you may still be defeated even if the window’s wide fucking open.

A sleepy little city nestled in Tory south-west England, Bristol is famed for its vibrant social life and creative atmosphere. Which roughly translates as ‘people constantly off their faces on a wide variety of drugs’.

Weird how in so many movies a big crystal is the key to unlocking the legendary lost city of Laputa or whatever, while in real life they’re cheap sparkly tat.