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Enjoy railway lines, disused power stations and sprawling new housing developments? Then Didcot is your kind of shithole.

SEXUALITY? Straight as a die. No changing teams for me. Until I spent one afternoon with Penny Mordaunt, and now I’m her lesbian love-slave.

Now he’s gone, it’s clear that Boris Johnson’s greatest achievement was giving homeworkers the phrase ‘go to the fridge and hack off a piece of cheese’ as a euphemism for wanking.

I AWAKE dangling from a spire atop Westminster Abbey by the belt loop of my trousers, my cassock over my head, my garters visible to all below as I slowly rotate.

GOOD afternoon family. It is clearly the will of your mother that she should be the new head of the household and effectively your new father.

TWO children, the oldest a toddler. A young, beautiful mother who could be left homeless. ‘And divorced,’ said Dorries, who’s been on the Pinot.

Iconic 60s concrete office blocks, the Fairfield Halls, Ikea and a big dual carriageway; what hasn’t Croydon got?

There’s a party in your pants and everyone is yet to RSVP – apart from an old colleague of yours from way back when, who politely declined.

WAKING in an alley behind a kebab shop, robes covered in vomited meat, head pounding like Dutch gabba techno, I make a note not to join a sherry soiree with Aled Jones on an empty stomach.

YOU can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. And you can’t deliver a revitalised, youthful, radical Downing Street without sucking dick.