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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.

WITH my husband busy breadwinning for our six-child family, what else is a woman to do but uphold feminine values like banging the postman?

Kevin Pork, Kevin Ham, Kevin Gammon, Kevin Bacon. There you go, done it in four.

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating my head feels like a timpani being pounded with sledgehammers by a 15-foot half-man, half-gorilla, I drink ten gallons of water and open a letter concerning a trust fund I set up.

WHILE I work on episode 29 of our series Steele: The Norman Steele Murder, sponsored by the Hot Honey Deluxe Chicken Wrap at McDonald’s, I thought I’d give you all an update on the investigation.

ARE you a perimenopausal woman in the workplace today? Then you’re disgusting. Sorry, ladies, but someone had to tell you the truth.

‘Yeah, I said I was down for short kings, not short emperors,’ you say leaving Napoleon, rejected again, weeping silently into his greatcoat.