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FEW of us have a high opinion of our own features at the best of times. When locked in a rictus of orgasm, contorted with explosive bliss, it’s worse.

Have loud sex at 3am on the cold, wet paving slabs where your wheelie bins are. That'll show those fox bastards.

WAKING up with a hangover the size of a former Soviet satellite state which turns out to be twice the size of Western Europe, I reflect on yesterday’s successful fight with a nun.

Cher’s doing a residency in Vegas and using her own tribute act to fill in gaps and cover costume changes. The show’s called ‘Cher and Cher-A-Like’.

WAKING up with a hangover whose throbbing vibrations cause dogs to bark across the Borough of Westminster, I read that fewer people now go to their parish church than attend a Catholic mass. 

WAGWAN? Active J is low, coz man is a criminal, fam. Man ‘as committed High Treason against da school an’ is servin’ him’s punishment in da bare cruellest way possible.

IN OUR age of content, I operate a three-screen minimum: TV, laptop and phone. How else can I keep up with the YouTubers, TV shows and podcasts I’m broadly indifferent to?

That etiquette expert bloke is basically a dominatrix for the middle classes. ‘Oh, tell me again how common I am for using liquid soap! So humiliating! I’ve come!’

WAKING up with a perfectly clear head, I take a light breakfast, attend to my correspondence and then take morning worship, addressing the theme of the Impiety in the Modern Age without a single use of the word ‘f**k’.

WANNA know how to walk into any garden centre from Minshull’s in Crewe to Coopers of Bishop Stortford and f**king own the goddam place? Learn from a Hollywood legend like me.