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WAKING up with a hangover so intense I leave scorched footprints as I pad from my bed to vomit up copious amounts of purple and green matter, I reflect on my latest spiritual venture.

LET me say England should remember who came to its aid in 1939 when Hitler invaded you, okay? Fighting them on the beaches alongside Churchill? US troops.

AS you sit awkwardly through another gorgeously-lit sex scene with a partner you haven’t touched in months, don’t you wish you could have sex like they do in the movies?

This is the perfect storm, as I said when Halle Berry was cast in X-Men.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating that in desperation I bite my dog, as a dog’s hair apparently alleviates the effect, I masticate thoughtfully on fur and reflect on a momentous few days.

MY performance in One Battle After Another – the hit black comedy that had you holding in a piss for three hours – won me a BAFTA for Best Supporting Actor. But I'm also supporting vulnerable bridge jumpers in California.

IN my day dirty old men wore raincoats and leered. Like Touchy Terry down the butcher’s. Marie married him, but then she had to with her moustache.

The hardest part of being a beekeeper is coming up with names for them all.

WAKING up with a hangover so intense its menacing presence is causing all the dogs within a mile's radius to bark incessantly, I look back at the week and one annual event in particular. 

NOBODY does pageantry better than Britain. But there’s one bit of pomp and ceremony we’ve not indulged in for a while, and it would draw one hell of a crowd.