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​​WAKING with a hangover so intense I have my secretary make inquiries with the Swiss authorities as to whether they provide assisted decapitation, I recall my recent run-in with Elon Musk.

WHO is Keir Starmer protecting so steadfastly, with his refusal to grant the inquiry requested by Elon Musk on X? Jeremy Corbyn? Prince Andrew? No. Himself.

LIKE the high notes in the Wicked soundtrack, some feats are best left to professionals. But if you’re chasing a blast of bedroom self-loathing to kick off the year, try these.

It’s quicker to ask which TV presenters WON”T be outed as nonces in 2025. Attenborough and Cunk. That’s it.

WAKING with a hangover so intense my brain is making an audible analogue noise similar to the stylings of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, I begin my New Year’s resolution: to observe Dry January. 

IF you ask me, New Year resolutions are just an excuse for the fun police to suck the enjoyment out of life. It’s like living in Nazi Germany, apart from the war, death camps and entirely different society. 

In Scotland they call New Year ‘Hog Money’. It’s a time when they give all their hard-earned cash to a massive, threatening pig called Hamish.

IN every nativity play, shepherds tending their flock are informed of Jesus’s birth by ‘a multitude of the heavenly host’, as it was written in the Gospel according to Luke.

“Alexa, would you like to join my girlfriend and I in the bedroom? We’re feeling adventurous.”

WAKING with a hangover that has turned my blood quite green and my faeces purple, I reflect on the sermon I delivered yesterday and my remarks upon the festive season.