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WAKING up with a hangover whose throbbing is so intense it disrupts satnav systems across central London, I take a sip of water and reflect on another momentous week. 

I DON’T know if anyone will ever read this. But if you do, PLEASE send help. I'm hiding in the pantry of the house Meghan pretends to live in. And I can't get out.

CAN fat fetishist Joshua Hudson, aged 31, persuade 28-year-old Sophie Rodriguez they’d have more fun if she was two ton?

Oh great. Now my f**king robot hoover’s eloped with Sir Killalot.

WAKING with a hangover whose vibrations are so intense they are causing dogs half a mile away bark to incessantly, I review the events of the week, including my decision to become a ‘tech bro’.

IN last week’s and multiple previous columns I have described Trump as our one true Caesar and the saviour of freedom. That stands, but with a few notes.

YOU’VE curated your dating profile to give an entirely inaccurate impression. These are the entirely accurate conclusions everyone draws in one glance.

Neighbours got an England flag up? Shin up the pole at night, replace it with the flag of Papua New Guinea and enjoy the muddled racist frenzy as they try to work out who did it.

WAKING up with a hangover almost, if not quite, the size of Rotterdam, I vomit in an elegant plume and reflect on my contribution to the betterment of mankind this week. 

I BLOODY loved the 1970s. I was in my prime and we had entertainment like Carry On films and Love Thy Neighbour before the wokerati banned good-natured banter like ‘spear-chucker’.