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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.

WE reunite Carrie Ryan and the one who got away who she’s been trying to find for decades, Will McKay, who has no idea who she is. Is the magic still there?

‘It’s Oscar season, baby!’ you told your friend Oscar over the phone, so it’s weird he seemed surprised when you hunted him down and shot him later.

WAKING face down in the green by Salisbury Cathedral, spattered in viscera, I dimly put together the terrible events of yesterday evening.

FORMER and future prime minister Boris Johnson here, updating you on how I’m diversifying Brand Boris during my brief time out of office. Look out for these.

EX-SEX has a bad name. Understandably, because it’s the equivalent of swigging leftover wine from the recycling bin, but irresistible for the same reason.

THE non-linear timeline and sheer coolness of Pulp Fiction inspired Generation X to become lightweight film pseuds who never got round to Truffaut or Tarkovsky. Is it even any good?