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YOU’VE achieved the unachievable, defied the limitations of your body and personality and found someone willing to f**k you regularly. Well done.

Would you break a bufferfly on a wheel? No. No, in fact you can’t imagine how that logistically would be achieved.

WAKING in a chair in a TV studio I realise with a start that I am seated opposite a grotesque gargoyle that is, I soon surmise, an open-mouthed Piers Morgan.

IT’S a diplomatic triumph. Ursula from the EU said so. ‘Well done,’ my wife says. ‘You mended the thing that everybody bloody hates.’

NEVER trust a Mexican, my uncle used to tell me, and he was a cocaine importer so knew of what he spoke. He’s still serving time at Winson Green for ignoring his own advice.

Nestled away on the south coast and ready to form its own separatist state the moment the revolution comes, Brighton is a progressive utopia that couldn’t be more embarrassed by its parent country.

THE Matrix: literate, postmodern action movie or portentous load of shit that spawned an incomprehensible franchise? Was it shite the whole time?

Save money by buying fewer Faberge eggs.

WAKING in a small boat in English waters beside a slumbering Suella Braverman, surrounded by empty gin bottles, I recollect how I arrived at my present pass.

IT’S taken months of tough negotiation to fix the broken Northern Ireland protocol. Boris doesn’t care. ‘Shove your tawdry compromise up there sideways,’ he suggests.