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‘All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,’ as Liam Gallagher sang in 2002 after that fateful Munich hotel brawl.

WAKING up with a hangover the size of the French national debt, I reflect on the events of last Sunday, when my faith helped me enormously in my hour of need in a pub.

NEVER fancied Thailand. Too hot, scary wildlife that can kill you with a single poisonous bite, and most of the women are packing cocks. 

THE father of English printing, William Caxton brought the first printing press to our shores and was instrumental in coining the phrase ‘that f**king printer’s f**king broken again’.

You’ve staked out a ring, you’ve got baying crowds, an illegal bookie is taking cash bets. But these snowballs just won’t fight.

WAKING up with a hangover so malignant it has caused me to grow a third testicle, I switch on the wireless and learn that John Prescott has died. 

WAGWAN? At ease, fam. You is in safe hands. It was hanti-bullyin’ week last week and school recognised Active J’s bossness by awarding man to be da hanti-bullyin’ hambassador for man’s year. Gassed! Gassed! Gassed!

THANKS to 5G and Facetune, approaching potential romantic partners is easier than ever. On the internet. Anywhere else is inappropriate.

They mocked John Harvey Kellogg for inventing corn flakes as an anti-masturbation suppressant, but you rarely see someone have a wank whilst they’re eating them.

IT WAS the greatest day of the year, Remembrance Sunday, when the door was smashed down and armed police rushed the house.