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LIFE is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get. Unless you look on the box, you thick bastard.

WAKING in a bathing costume in a giant vat at a whiskey distillery, I vaguely recall a late-night urge to emulate the feats of England’s Commonwealth divers.

I’M glad my new album got leaked early, as I can concentrate on Fantasy Football before Arsenal’s tricky season opener to Palace. Here are the selection headaches I’ve managed to overcome.

IT’S the school holidays and as every parent knows, the insatiable vampire parasites we call children will be sucking your wallet and purse dry. Luckily I’ve got some simple alternatives to costly summer holiday activities.

It’s not the one with the Bullingdon Club, it’s the one with the twat who burned £20 in front of a homeless man.

THERE are sexual experiences which are desirable and attainable, like orgasms, a finger up the arse during climax or getting a blowjob from a ghost.

If they did a glory hole for swiss rolls the line would be out of the door. But they won’t because nothing good ever happens does it.

WAKING in the gutter, my pillow an empty 1.5 litre bottle of Tesco Imperial Vodka, I surmise to my horror I have fallen back in time to the year 1985.

I AM owed a wedding. A proper wedding befitting a princess, which I effectively am, at a proper country house. Because that one last year was f**king shit.

IT’S been top of every popular movie ranking for more than a decade: for good reason, or is it shite? Warning: spoilers for a movie everyone currently living has seen 15 times.