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WAKING in a police cell, cassock stained and mitre askew, reeking of baby oil, poppers and papaya-scented lube, I piece together events.

‘CRACK the Pouilly-Fumé if you want,’ my wife said. ‘I get it, you’re excited. Finally a world leader even shorter than you are.’

CHILDREN are ostensibly the point of sex while being expert and dedicated boner-killers. Your once-adventurous fucking is halted at every turn by their constant, invasive presence.

I AM an ethical man, and that does not come cheap. My employers are currently accused of financial misdealing and I have warned them: with no money, I am not here.

HAPLESS Tinder user Nikki Hollis goes for a candlelit dinner with the 8,468 horny men who have swiped right on her profile in the last year. Will any of them find love?

You can barely call those things that horses wear ‘shoes.’ Get them some Jordans.

WAKING in a field, find myself in the position so terribly endured by our Lord Jesus Christ; propped against a wooden post, my arms to either side across a horizontal beam of wood.

‘“I’M reading a lot in the media about a man I don’t recognise. A bully, a boor, a petty tyrant. But this cannot be my friend Dominic Raab.” That kind of shit,’ Raab confirms.

GREECE? Philosphers in robes, few fancy gods, completely fucked their economy joining the EU. Notice there’s nothing about food in there, don’t you?

THE Season of the Puffer is on us, and everywhere crowd humans swaddled in so many inflated compartments they look like they’ve pulled the string on a fucking liferaft.